archangel

whelve

It's a relatively easy job. It's a lot of instant calls off the fly, like how doctors are. I'm called at 4 in the morning if there's an emergency. I don't want to walk into work tired - so on most days, I don't sleep. I don't see the point of it.

Most days, I get two hours, give it three of sleep a day. Cavemen slept three hours and twenty minutes after sunset and woke up before sunrise. I'd follow the same schedule if my life were a little nicer. The way I start my day is standard. I dunk my head in cold water. Give a quick wash to my hair in the process. If I don't think it looks too good, sometimes I'll tie some of it. I rarely do. I don't like it tied up. I don't necessarily wash my face since the burns haven't cleared since they've come. It might come with the job. In my room sits anything anybody would have in my position - a pistol under my pillow, a boxcutter in my drawer, a pipe I picked up (and liked) ages ago… you get the idea. I get it. It's weird to have so many fuckin' weapons in your house. But when you're me, you should have them.

I brush my teeth. I don't take morning showers 'cause I typically take ice baths. If I've got the extra time, I'll take a few swings at a beat-up punching bag I've hung in my apartment. I don't make my bed, I don't pray to a god, I don't write in a journal or set alarms. I don't have anyone to call in the morning. I don't do anything that doesn't apply to me because this isn't about me. This is about being a person in the wrong type of way.

Today, there's a call about needing to take a trip to New Mexico. The report suggests that there's been a disturbance around San Ysidro. The place isn't populated at all; it's dry, empty, and not my first thought for a vacation, but it's a place I faintly remember visiting once before. Not for anything special. Just as a kid.

Farmers report seeing their goats shredded apart. A mother - through choked sobs of an interview, says that she thinks her daughter went roaming one day, and the beast - la bestia - shredded her darling Araceli into viscera. She says that the cops couldn't recognize her past her dental records or what could remain of her fingerprints. She says that she would've known if it were a coyote that did this. This was no coyote, she repeats through tears, this wasn't a coyote, I swear - I know what I saw. I swear I know what I saw.

So after animal experts and forensic experts examine the body and go through their good few weeks of the process, we're called in because it seems like the situation's elevated. They report that each corpse shares similar features. The throat is torn, crushed, and beaten before brutal shreds are taken into the chest. The innards are torn away, yet most of them only miss their livers. The intestines are usually dragged far from the body like they're trying to make a line.

Typically, I'd attribute this to a serial killer trying to feed his dogs. But I know that's not the case. As of 7:40 PM, the report is that people are hearing a loud ringing in the area. They've been evacuated by now, but I'm in there to sweep the area. I'm sitting in the backseat of this car with a bulletproof vest strapped onto me. I'm not describing myself; you can fill in the fucking gaps. I'm geared for this job. I'm not special compared to the rest of my team in terms of gear because I don't want to be - and besides that, I don't need it. I'm no less than the kid squeezing the pistol grip of his rifle with a dead stare at the dust cloud ahead. I'm no better than the woman smiling beside him with her hand coiled around the grab handle, smoking a cigarette she knows damn well could set fire to a bush. We're all the same type of filth in our unique ways.

When we arrived at 8:23 PM, that's when I heard it. The San Ysidro Church houses la bestia. From the top of the roof sits two white eyes staring directly toward me - and from a process of elimination, yeah, the noise is coming from it. Its bones protrude from its skin like branches trying to poke out of a balloon. It's not scared of me, and I'm not scared of it. It creeps close to the roof's edge with a gargled growl - and that's when I see a small body painting the top of the surface. It plummets off the side of the roof and cracks. That's another missing kid, torn the same way. A squash hits the ground.

I point my flashlight upwards. It's candid in form, patchy fur prickling its back. Large whiskers puff from its snout. It has a rat-like tail that snakes along the arch of the roof and crooked teeth that look like they might break at any second. The way it moves isn't organic at all. Funnily enough, it's got raccoon-like hands and fingers lined with black, overgrown talons. It hisses in response to the light. In response, more pairs of white dots blink through the gaps of the Church. The low hum amplifies.

The next few moments are a blur. From what I can recall, I remember teeth shredding into my arm and loud gunshots forcing the loud hum into shrieks - piercing through my brain like needles. When my fist connects to the maw of one of them, there's a distinct crunch. I prod the barrel of the gun into its jaw and fire a few shots - and through the piercing pain in my head, I don't know what it is about it, but I keep fighting. My subordinates feel like they fade into the darkness.

By the time they're all dead, the hum is gone. My body throbs with fiery pains across the bitemarks. I rip the magazine off my rifle and prod it at the bellies of these creatures and fire. From how they all protrude, that could be dinner settling in or new spawn. It's 12:34 AM by the time the scene's cleaned up. I rock back into the car seat and flip my mask upwards - just a quick smoke. Nothing special. The kid next to me hugs his sides. The girl to his left nudges him.

"What's the matter with you?" I squint.

"Nothin'."

"I see you smiling under there," The girl with the drapey black hair comments. "It's his first big one, you know that. I thought he did pretty well."

"As good as he could've. Started spraying the place with bullets, almost thought he was gonna shoot the gas." I retort. "I read a lil' into you, kid. You're Ezekiel."

"Yeah. That's me."

"Find a workaround on those glasses. Can you see without them?"

".Haha, uh… nope."

"Next time, go without your glasses."

"Don't be like that," The woman protests. "Then I'll have to cover him!"

"You already do."

"Uuugh. Zeke, you got contacts?"

"Yeah. I don't have them, though."

"We'll just get you another."