Back on the road again in the old pickup truck, Mike and Hunter were headed to West Texas, just outside El Paso. Hours passed quickly as Mike stared out the window, watching the scenery shift. More ruined towns. More remnants of battles. The frequency of destruction was escalating.
Emergency broadcast alerts flooded almost every radio channel that wasn't a news broadcast. Speculating about the apocalypse. Panic in the voices of the hosts. Fear of the unknown.
Hunter avoided cities heavy with demon or angel scent. The roads they took were longer, but safer.
Finally, they reached the arid edge of West Texas. Mike was driving now, letting Hunter rest. They'd been taking turns at the wheel with almost no stops. According to the map, they were nearly there.
Pulling into a gas station just outside the town, Mike leaned over and shook Hunter awake.
"Hey, Hunter. We're here."
With a groan, Hunter opened an eye and sat up, glancing out the window. "I'm up." He rubbed his face, then muttered, "Let's grab some food, then head to Fort Bliss to check out the refugee camp."
After a quick meal and topping off the tank, they returned to the truck. Hunter climbed into the driver's seat, glanced at the rearview mirror, then muttered, "We've got an angel watching us."
Mike gave a subtle nod. "Let's head to the fort. See if they follow."
—
At the base checkpoint, Hunter looked over at Mike with a serious expression. "Let me do the talking. Do not react unless they attack."
"Understood," Mike replied.
Rolling down the window, Hunter handed an ID card to the guard. "From the Council. We're here to speak with a refugee at the camp."
The guard took the ID and disappeared into the shack.
"Two more angels just arrived on base," Hunter whispered.
The guard returned, handed back the ID, and gestured them through. "You're clear. Follow the posted route. Don't deviate."
—
They parked near the refugee camp and took in the scene: endless rows of shabby tents, portable toilets, a makeshift hospital under canvas with a line of wounded trailing out front. The air stank of blood, sewage, and desperation. The noise was constant—people crying, shouting names, searching for missing loved ones.
Starving people with frail bodies sitting next to the tents. Covered in dust and grime. The scent of death in the air. Making Hunter wince at all the smells connected to this place of suffering.
"This…" Hunter said, shaking his head, "is the real cost of the awakenings. This is what the angels and demons don't care about. The gods? They're silent. But this is what we should be fighting to stop."
They approached the administrative tent. Inside, a woman sat behind a fold-out table, a laptop and a stack of papers in front of her. Dirty blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, round glasses perched on her nose. A clean military uniform, and an expression like cold stone.
"How may I help someone from the Council?" she asked without emotion.
"I'm Hunter. We're looking for a man named Hamza Ayad. We need to speak with him."
She didn't reply. Just started typing. After a few silent minutes, she scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it over.
"Row 36. Tent 77."
Hunter nodded and turned. "Let's go."
—
Row after row of suffering. More wounded. More dead. Blood-soaked sheets covering corpses. Children sobbing beside bodies out in the open. Mike said nothing, but his jaw tightened as he walked.
"This is what happens to people who don't get chosen. This is the world that's coming." Hunter muttered.
At Tent 77, Hunter called out, "Hamza Ayad! My name is Hunter—I'm with the Council!"
No reply. A shuffling sound came from inside. An elderly woman stepped out.
"What do you want with Hamza?" she asked.
"We want to offer him a place of safety. A chance to protect his family—away from this camp," Hunter said gently.
"He left just a few minutes ago. Some golden-eyed men came for him. Promised something similar." She pointed down the row.
Hunter cursed under his breath. "We need to move."
They hurried down the aisle of tents. At the far end, a towering man with broad shoulders and a thick beard walked beside two soldiers with faint golden eyes. Just as they reached the exit, Hunter called out:
"Hamza!"
The massive man turned around, confused. "Who are you? Why are you calling my name?"
"I'm with the Council!" Hunter shouted. "I came to recruit you! The angels want to use you—and hold your family hostage!"
The two soldiers reacted immediately, turning and rushing Hunter, blades drawn.
Mike was already moving.
He stepped in front of Hunter, caught both swords on his new gauntlets with a metallic clash, then slashed forward. Blood sprayed across the sand as the claws tore through limbs and torsos. The soldiers dropped in pieces.
Mike looked down at the blood dripping from the blades on his gauntlets.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Much better," he muttered.
Hunter knelt beside the mangled corpses. "These were just humans… but they were blessed. The angels are building an army."
The towering man approached. He stopped in front of Mike, looking down at the remains of the soldiers, then extended a hand.
"I am Hamza Ayad. Ifrit Djinn. Champion."
Hunter slowly stood, wincing, and shook his hand. "I'm Hunter. Advisor to the Council."
Then, under his breath, "Starving refugee my ass. Crafty old spider…"