“Does anyone know where they came from?” Simon asked.
Flynn shook his head. “A mothership, I suppose. Though nobody’s saying.”
“Why invade England, that’s what I want to know,” the heavyset man sitting next to Simon said. He was black and had a German accent. “They wanted to cripple the planet, they’d go after the United States.”
“The United States is too tough,” Flynn said. “You know they’d go nuclear over something like this. It’s a wonder they ain’t done something already. Mark my words, those aliens make a move to cross the Atlantic, them Yanks will put every British Isle at the bottom of the North Sea.”
Simon didn’t doubt that. The U.S. had involved themselves in a lot of wars and hadn’t won much international support. But they had to be respected. Or feared. Simon still wasn’t sure which way he’d call it.
In the tri-dee presentation, a British fighter plane battled a flying demon that Simon recognized from the ancient texts he’d been forced to study. They’re real. That thought kept slamming into Simon over and over again. They’re real. That’s a Blood Angel.
On tri-dee, the demon looked bigger than Simon had imagined. Its wingspread was huge and bat-like.
The demon landed on the jet’s nose and began tearing through the metal shielding. A few seconds later, it shattered the canopy and reached inside for the pilot. Arms wrapped around its hapless victim, the demon leaped into the air and unfurled its wings only seconds before the jet ripped across the top of London Bridge in a shower of sparks. Chunks of stone tore free under the impact, then the aircraft went down in what Simon believed were the India Docks. An explosion immediately erupted, throwing flames and debris high into the air.
The scene shifted back to the anchorman for brief commentary, then moved into another scene of street carnage that Simon had seen before. This time, a huge demon strode through the gates at Buckingham Palace. One of its arms was withered, while the other was massive and had a huge fist.
Tanks rolled to attack, firing on the go. The shells burst against the demon’s chest, knocking it back, then it lashed out with that huge fist and tore the turret from the top of the tank. It breathed acidic vapor into the crew compartment, killing anyone who might have survived.
A pack of blood zombies, looking like they’d been flayed alive so that muscle and bone stood out in sharp relief, trailed after the great demon. They devoured all the fallen soldiers that tried to protect the palace. Bullets had little effect on them and hardly slowed them.
“Can you get in to England?” Simon asked.
Flynn looked at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. “Whatever would you want to go to that place at this time for?”
Simon sipped his beer. “I’ve got family there.”
Without a word, Flynn reached under the bar and brought out two clean glasses. He poured two fingers of Bushmills in each one. Hoisting one of the glasses, Flynn said, “To the saints what watch over us and them far from us.”
Simon clinked glasses and sipped the whiskey. “Can I get to England?”
“All the commercial flights into Great Britain have been held up,” Flynn answered. “They’ve declared a quarantine over the whole area. Something about alien bacteria. Even got stories about the dead rising up and walking.” He looked at Simon and his normally hard gaze softened. “Sorry, mate.”
Glancing at the tri-dee, Simon watched men, women, and children running through the rubble-strewn barriers that had been set up long ago. The demons chased them, running them down in the streets.
It was horrible to watch.
But more than anything, he needed to be there. He sipped his drink again, feeling the burn at the back of his throat. Then soft fingers touched his neck. He turned and looked up at Saundra.
“Hey,” she said.
“They let you go.”
“Finally.” Saundra grimaced as she looked up at the tri-dee. Worry tightened her eyes as she looked at him. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Just tired is all.” Simon glanced back up at the nightmares taking shape on the tri-dee. He wasn’t just tired. He was feeling scared and guilty. He should never have left London. He should never have doubted his father.
Saundra pulled on his arm. “I’ve got a room. Let’s get out of here.”
Simon nodded. He tried to settle his tab, but Flynn waved his money away. The bartender even threw in a bottle of Bushmills.
“It’ll keep away the nightmares,” the bartender said.
Simon didn’t think it would, but he took the bottle anyway.
In the modest hotel room, Saundra showered first while Simon ordered room service. Normally they’d have shared the shower, but they hadn’t talked much. Simon wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he’d killed the poachers that had created the barrier between them, or all the news about London. Either way, he wasn’t a big fan of personal contact at the moment, either.
He stood under the shower under the hottest water he could stand, letting it almost scald him. He scrubbed with soap and shampooed, but didn’t feel clean. Visions of demons, his father’s patient voice, all kept bouncing around inside his skull.
He kept repeating the process till Saundra knocked on the door and told him the food had arrived.
Wrapped in a towel, seated on the bed, Simon ate from the tray. Saundra sat beside him as they watched tri-dee. The segments kept looping, showing the same horrific images over and over. They drank Bushmills with the meal, and Simon felt the alcohol and the food drain the energy from him.
“I can’t believe this is really happening,” Saundra whispered.
“Neither can I,” Simon replied. And I’ve been told it would all my life.
“Your father lives in London.”
“Yes.” Simon made himself eat. He needed his
