“Wylie, wait.” A woman yelled as she jogged towards me. “I thought that was you flying by earlier. Not many Angels with fiery wings.”

I rolled my eyes as she bent over to catch her breath — I am the only Angel with feathers made of flame. “Do I know you?”

“It’s me.” She holds out her arms, like I should recognize her. She looked like every other American. Sunburned, unrealistic clothing that’s too thin for the earth's new climate, and loose skin hanging from her neck and arms, as if announcing the gluttony of the past. “It’s Susan.”

Of all the humans to survive the apocalypse, God chose Susan? This is the woman I used to accuse of eating gossip like Popeye ate spinach. “You’re still alive . . .” I meant to say it as a compliment, but it came out like a question.

“Yeah, there's a group of us that still live at the old hospital. By the way, did you know the building is still standing?”

“You don’t say?”

“It is! The Ortho Docs made their own tribe and took over the top floor with their families. The nurses stuck with the Ed Docs. You know how resourceful they can be, and there's a few lay people sprinkled in there. I mean, we all know Docs are clever, but when we needed a badass that could protect us, no one looked at the skinny nerds who spent half their lives studying in college. Seriously, what would they do if there was an invader?”

“I guess you could say they’d get schooled?”

“I can tell you think this is funny, but we adopted ourselves a motorcycle gang and it fixed all our problems. We didn't sprout wings like you did.”

“And this, Susan, is why we don’t stay in touch.”

Charlotte sits in between two bookcases, filled with faded covers and ragged spines — books she won’t be old enough to read for another decade. She pulls her knees up to her heaving chest, her blonde braid glinting in the fluorescent light, she counts to ten like her mommy taught her to do when she is scared.

One

Two

Three

Fou…

CLAP!

A book falls from the shelf behind her, the aisle narrowing as her head swivels on her shoulders. Back and forth, her braid swinging with the movement. The plaid uniform seems too tight, her white collar suddenly suffocates her.

I can’t do this by myself!

“Hello?” She whispers, her tiny throat too dry to speak any louder.

The light directly above her flickers and winks out, casting long shadows that block her exit. The buzz of the other lights crescendo as they brighten.

“Mommy?” A sniffle.

“Daddy?” Charlotte stands, when she hears a person walk past her on the other side of the bookshelf.

She backs in the opposite direction.

Braces herself.

Her fists clench.

She.

Holds.

Her.

Breath.

Her back comes against something hard, and wet fingers curl around her shoulder towards her collar bone.

A child's scream shreds the air like an innate siren.

“What is a little girl doing here all by herself?”

Charlotte manages to pull free, the beast grabbing at her shirt and hair. She runs to the end of the bookshelf, and turns to face the monster.

“Mommy said this was going to be scary!” She wipes her eyes as she bares her fangs and charges him.

“I mean, there’s a video out there.” Growling, I licked my lips and shook my head, preparing for an argument.

“I’m not even sure that’s true.” His voice showed no sign of worry.

This man was making me nervous. Yeah, he’s my best friend. Yeah, I’d take a bullet for him. But he was giving me the shits. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Days of chasing my tail and we are still landing back on this conclusion?

“I’m going to say this one last time, I’m not skipping town. My girl’s here.” I did not appreciate his calm response.

“I can smell your bullshit from here. You’re just as scared as I am.” Snorting in frustration, I continued. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to take that gun on a walk tonight. We’ll take it to my favorite spot and we'll bury the thing.”

“Yo Dog, F#$%k you! I’m the boss here, I decide what we do.” He clears his throat. “They’d find the gun, with my fingerprints on it, and I’d be f#$%ked. You know what will happen to you if I get locked away, right?”

“Why’d you always have to treat me like that? I can handle myself. I’ve been behind bars before. It’s your pretty ass I’m worried about.”

He didn’t respond. I could feel the tension between us, and it made me want to drag him down the street. That or drop to the ground and chew off my leg.

Who does he think I am? He knew the only reason he escaped was because of me. I barked. I pointed my f#$%king nose. And all I get is a “good boy” and a pat on the head.

At first, when I saw myself in the mirror, I thought it was being unkind. My hand automatically reached up to wipe the smudge off of my lip. When the bristle of a mustache scratched me, I pulled my glasses out of my purse to have a closer look.

Shit!

My purse clattered to the ground, its contents sliding across the tiled public bathroom. I reached up to my breasts. They were gone, all $8000 of them!

I turned on the fawcett, using the cold water to splash my face, and then headed to the bathroom stall.

Only one more thing to check.