Angels of Vengeance

to Cesky, we’ll be in a much better position to turn it back on him. But we’re going to need to grab whoever he sends after you.’

Jules cocked one eyebrow at him. ‘Presumably before he puts a bullet in the back of my neck.’

Pappas smiled. ‘Well yeah, that goes without saying.’

31

TEMPLE, TEXAS ADMINISTRATIVE DIVISION

‘I’m sorry, I can’t get you any closer to the Federal Center,’ said Cindy French. ‘But it’s not too far up that a- ways.’

They were both standing beside Mary Lou, underneath the chrome Aphrodite hood ornament, stamping their feet and moving around to maintain some body warmth. Cindy pointed down an avenue running east. Dawn was probably three-quarters of an hour away, but already the sky in that direction was noticeably lighter. In a few minutes, Sofia knew, she would be able to make out a band of pale pink behind the skyline of the dead city. It was still cold outside, but merely a notch or two above freezing as opposed to the Siberian misery they’d left behind to the north. The snow petered out altogether a few hours after they’d crossed the Texas-Oklahoma border, and the convoy finally split back in Waco, with the drivers saying their goodbyes and wishing Sofia the best before peeling off towards their respective destinations.

‘I have my street map,’ she said, patting the folded-up sheet of paper in her back pocket. ‘I won’t get lost.’

‘You hurry straight on down there,’ Cindy told her, ‘and you’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about bandits or low-life of any kind in Temple. There’s only a couple of hundred people living here, if that, and they’re all feds. Army maintains a small force down here - the real army, by the way, not those TDF misanthropes. They keep the place well policed. Matter of fact, you’ll probably run into one of their patrols on your way over to Main Street. Just tell them you’re waiting for the shuttle bus to the Hood, and that you’re going over to see Father Michael at the chapel. Tell them you have family business, but don’t tarry over there any longer than you have to. And don’t wander around on your own more than is absolutely necessary, got it, hon?’

Sofia nodded and hoisted her small backpack to settle it more comfortably on one shoulder. ‘Thank you, Cindy,’ she said, smiling with real warmth.

The trucker reached out and hugged her. Sofia allowed herself to relax into the hug, returning it in kind. She knew she wouldn’t have made it this far without the help of this kindly woman. It was a shame she’d had to mislead her the whole way, but having done so made it easier to soften their passing with one last lie.

‘I shall write to you in Seattle when I have my sister home,’ she said.

And then, not wanting to prolong the farewell any further, she thanked her again before turning her back on the study in blue that was Cindy French, tossing a wave back over her shoulder, and striding away in the direction of the federal government outpost. She didn’t look back, even though it seemed like a long time before the Kenworth went into gear and pulled away, gradually building up speed as it disappeared down I-35. The deep growl of the massive eighteen-wheel semitrailer was audible for another minute or so afterwards.

Temple was not a ghost town, but apart from the federales stationed here because of the Mandate, there was no other activity to be seen. The avenue down which she walked was clear of the sort of wreckage or debris that inevitably choked the streets of any settlement larger than a hamlet or small village. But Sofia could see that many of the side streets were still impassable, with great piles of burnt-out automobiles and, in one instance, a twin-bladed military helicopter. Here and there, she passed the shells of buildings that had gone up in flames after the Disappearance. Sometimes whole blocks lay in ruins. But for some reason, Temple had been spared the heavy-handed destruction that had fallen on so many larger towns and cities. She had no idea why, and did not much care. She supposed that the authorities in Seattle had chosen this place for the outpost because its centre needed relatively little cleaning up before they could move people in; and because Temple was convenient to Blackstone’s headquarters, but still far enough away from him that it didn’t feel as though his boot was on your neck.

Wary of being spotted by one of the patrols Cindy had mentioned, Sofia ducked into the next side street she passed. It appeared as though an old school bus had collided with a refrigerated truck when the drivers and all the children had Disappeared. She felt sad about the kids and hoped they’d been unaware of the horror that fell upon then. Not like her brother and sisters. The intersection was completely blocked by the wreckage, which snaked away down the street in a concertina of mangled steel and rusted flame-ravaged car bodies. Weeds and thigh-high grass, course and wiry, choked the pavement and covered most of the road surface. The ruins of small commercial buildings she’d passed near the junction with the highway now gave way to a more suburban setting. The small houses and bungalows, many of them with broken windows and slumping roofs, looked as though no human being had set foot in them for many years.

Her flesh crawled as she carefully picked her way through the thick carpet of vegetation. The ghosts did not bother her as they had her father, but there would be snakes. And possibly packs of feral animals. The army patrols probably shot any they came across, and laid bait for the others, but still, with no way of defending herself, the teenager felt terribly vulnerable. That was why she had to push on. She stopped when she reached a bare concrete patch of driveway in front of a large church. The area was big enough that it hadn’t been colonised by the vegetation like elsewhere.

Checking the old pre-Wave street map of Temple she had picked up in Ardmore, Sofia located herself near the intersection of Avenue L and South 49th Street. She frowned, not really sure of her bearings. It was always like this in the ghost towns - so easy to get turned around and lose your sense of direction. At least it wasn’t dark now.

Sofia planted her feet as though she meant to take root in the concrete. She held the map in both hands, angling it so as to catch the faint grey light leaking into the day. After a short while looking from the map, to the crossroads, to the steeply pitched roof of the Heights Baptist Church, she was reasonably sure she needed to backtrack two or three blocks, west and south. She really could’ve used a machete, and resolved to get one as soon as possible. There had been a rack full of them in the federal depot at Ardmore, but she’d had no plausible story to explain why a fifteen-year-old girl might need one in Fort Hood.

At least this car park beside the church was relatively open ground. She jogged across it, her progress slowed as she hit the next avenue and another catastrophic confusion of decaying wreckage. The vehicles were piled up so badly here that she wondered whether the federales had used this particular road as a dumping ground. The obstruction forced her another block south, where she got lost for a couple of minutes before backtracking along George Drive and up into West Avenue North. There, she found what she was looking for: the store-front of JM Firearms.

It was obvious this had been a small, single-operator gunsmithing business, and not the sort of big-box artillery warehouse to attract the attention of looters or the authorities. Papa had taught her to seek these places out while they’d been running north to escape the road agents. At establishments like this, inventories often remained completely intact, and weapons and ammunition were almost always stored properly. And she was more likely to find the singular sort of item she needed in a small, bespoke gunsmithing house than at some haunted Walmart store.

*

The .357 Magnum was identical to the handgun she’d trained with back in KC, save for the burnished redwood inlay of the pistol grip. Sofia spent so many hours on the government firing range with that weapon, that to hold one again felt as though she’d just rediscovered a part of herself that had gone missing. She would’ve been so much more comfortable on the drive down from Kansas City if she’d had her own pistol. Like all the truckers, Cindy French kept a shotgun in the cabin of her rig, and it had been reassuring to look up and see the weapon there as they rolled through the American wastelands. But it was not the same as having your own piece. On the trail north, she had never been more than a step away from a firearm, even when bathing with the other women.

She took her time, sitting at the kitchen table of this downtown apartment on South Main Street, radio on softly in the background, while she stripped the protective coating from the revolver, fresh from its packaging. One of the great benefits of a revolver was that it was a relatively easy weapon to maintain. She found the familiar movement and rhythm soothing. Concentrating on this task, which felt as natural to her as breathing, she could lose herself, forgetting for just a short time all that had happened to those she loved.

The apartment was a few blocks away from the Federal Center, but even with the windows closed against