The sound of machine gun fire echoed through the air like rain on a tin rooftop, unending and persistent. Steam crawled from the engines popped hood, a black plume flying towards the black sky. There were no stars that night, and no moonlight overhead. A soft glow fed the faintest of light into the deserted desert street, the sand and dust that moved through the air creating a grained fog that caught in Michael’s throat. The gun warmed in his hands, almost burning to the touch. The muzzle flashed like a signal flare, as he and his ground found themselves circled by those that had crawled from the deepest bowls of hell. Their black eyes blended with the night, their taunts and shouts and laugher as they all marched from the back alleys and houses of the Eastern city, an endless swarm of puppet suits holding the foulest of all creatures; demons.
“Run or shoot?” Cried Isabella from behind Michael. Despite everything, there was no hesitation in her voice yet; she’d be ready to fight and die, or flee and live on his word. His sister was blind to anything but loyalty, trust and blood. Were she like him, and had they shared the same father, she’d have been one hell of a soldier. But she was only human, nothing but a skin suit and a meal to the malevolent drones of the inferno that surrounded them.
But Michael was different. True, he was human. Partly, at least. He knew the name they called him, and knew his heritage, but that by no means meant that he even understood it. All he understood was the here and now.
Nephilim. That’s what they called him, the demons and the people whom knew of the war that raged behind the scenes of our world. Half man. Half Angel. Belonging to neither.
As strong as he was, as fast as he was, as impossibly stupid as he was, there was nothing to be done here. Alone, the demons were cowards and fearful of his kind. But en-masse, they were riled and rallied.
“Ajmal, how long before the cars moving?” Michael’s voice boomed, his naturally stoic face holding firm. His square jaw kept locked, his brow straight and un-quivering. As his weapon clicked empty, he reached for another clip and found only empty air. Cursing himself, he threw the weapon to the ground and unsheathed the nine inch knife from his belt, holding it outstretched before him. Isabella’s gun clicked empty next. Then Rikard’s. Ajmal’s head, toying with the busted engine of the car, bobbed upwards as he spoke, his thick middle-eastern accent coming through stronger than usual now. Soot covered his face, his already tanned complexion darker still.
“It’s… I can’t…”
“Ajmal, can you get it working?” Michael pressured.
Ajmal thought for a moment; English wasn’t his native tongue. “It’s, how you say, fucked Michael.” He replied, bringing the hood to a close.
“Michael, run or fight?” Isabella persisted, bringing up the handgun she’d had with her since they’d gotten off the boat; there was no way any US airline would have let them on board with the weapons they’d been carrying.
“Michael, we’ve got another half dozen this side!” Rikard added.
Michael tried to weigh up the situation in his head, as the demons formed a rough circle around them. Salt? They didn’t have any. Ritual? Too time consuming. They had to fight. There had to be maybe thirty of them, against the four of them. They could maybe take down half before they’d be overwhelmed. Michael would have to lure them away, give the others time to escape. Not how he figured he’d go out, but he knew people were dealt the hand they were given, no reshuffling. His heritage proved that.
“Isabella, get Rikard and Ajmal out of here. I’ll hold them off!” Still, his face remained stoic. Emotionless.
Isabella’s face scowled Michael as she turned her head to briefly look at him. “Like hell! You don’t get to take the easy way out and leave us to pick up the pieces. We fight and leave together, right guys?”
“You know me,” Rikard mustered, firing a handgun shot into the scalp of a demon, “ain’t no way I’m passing up a chance to piss on these fuckers.”
Ajmal shrugged, looking at the four Americans. “I suppose it is worth a shot, right? How many can there be?”
Michael didn’t appreciate their sentiment. But still, they stood a chance, and he was damn sure going to take it. They just needed to stay close, stay tight, and not give the monsters any ground.
And then he saw it. Well, he heard it before he saw it; a faint whistle from the sky, plummeting towards the ground like a rock, burning through the sky like a star falling to earth. The firing stopped, the demons chanting halted, and for a moment, all looked upwards at this falling object.
Then, it struck the ground.
Like a brief earthquake, the ground shook. A small crater emerged from where it had hit the ground, and a white light so bright it was almost blinding came forth for the briefest moment. It was hunched over in the small hole, the being that had fell. Then, slowly as though it was stretching for the first time, it began to rise, its arched back becoming straight until it stood upright. It looked like a man, built like a tank. But it was no man. The glaring white eyes that pierced the scene affirmed that. Two large, arching wings sprouted from its back, each at least five metres across and pristine as the sun. Feathered. The being looked at Michael, and the three people with him, and then looked at the demon spawn that surrounded them. It raised one hand towards them, and as though it was effortless, the black eyes of the demons rapidly began to boil, before their bodies exploded into a purifying light. The rest that had avoided this fate scattered into the urban landscape in seconds, leave the fallen man and the four people alone on that night.
“What the hell is that…” Isabella muttered, her jaw dropping slightly.
Michael’s stone expression finally shifted, but it was not from gratitude. His cheeks sank, and his eyes went cold. “We need to run, now.” He firmly muttered under his breath, his grip on the knife tightening out of what could have been mistaken as fear.
“Nephilim,” The being spoke, its voice loud and pure. Dominant and just. “You have no place here, abomination.”
Whilst the others were in awe, Michael knew that the demons would have been a far lesser threat than what had fallen before them. The first he’d ever seen, but not the first he'd heard of. He knew what it was, as though it was a part of him. It technically was.
An Angel.
“Run, now!” Michael ordered, backing up a few steps.
The Angelic being grinned, and drew its blade.