Phoenix Rise – Angelverse Episode 2

[This story takes place long before "Sleeping Beauty"  but still in the same world. I finally fixed the title and formatting!]

“World’s gonna end soon,” Old Jerry said one night as he nursed a beer. Stan’s Bar was characteristically empty for a Tuesday. The bartender absently cleaned and restacked glasses.

“Think so?” he asked Jerry, his voice more bored than curious. Jerry didn’t seem to mind.

“Signs are everywhere,” he said, jabbing a finger at the paper spread out in front of him. Even their small town paper had taken notice of the terrible earthquake that had rocked Europe and the volcanic eruption in Brazil. “World’s gone mad. Everything’s going sideways, you know?”

“Hmm,” the bartender said noncommittally.

“They say the poles will be swapping soon. North to south, south to north. We won’t know up from down.”

“They’ve been saying that for years, Jerry.”

“But they’re serious this time!”

“So the world’s ending, Jer?”

The old man shrugged. “Call it a hunch.”

The bartender nodded absentmindedly. He’d run out of glasses to clean.

A handful of other patrons lurked in the dimly-lit corners of the tiny bar. The only thing out of the ordinary was the lovely young woman draped, apparently unconscious, over the counter.

She’d come in an hour or so before and demanded two rounds of the cheapest booze in the house. The bartender had taken one look at her—with her gently curling auburn hair, low-cut white linen shirt, and fine leather jacket—and told her to get out.

“You in the business of refusing pay customers?” she’d asked, her piercing eyes narrowed.

“It’s for your own safety, ma’am. This isn’t the sort of place a lady should be drinking by herself.”

“Let’s let the lady worry about her own safety, shall we?” There was a tone in her voice that would have intimidated a lesser man, but the bartender merely shrugged.

“It’s your funeral.”

The woman gave a light, melodious laugh. “Not likely.”

An hour later, four empty bottles of dirt-cheap, dirt-flavored beer stood guard over the woman as she sat with her arms crossed on the bar and her head buried somewhere amidst her elbows. Midway through bottle three, Old Jerry had sidled over and asked what a pretty thing like her was doing in a place like that.

“What the hell does it look like?” she’d asked before taking another swig.

Old Jerry had looked over at the bartender with a wink and a shrug as if to say, “Women, eh?” and returned to his usual chair. The other men had eyed each other, waiting for someone to make a move. No one did. The woman remained undisturbed as she finished up her drinks.

The bell above the bar door chimed atonally and local troublemaker Jamie came in flanked by two of his usual cronies. They were all in their early to mid-twenties, heading nowhere recklessly fast. Jamie was in the middle of telling a story that had his companions roaring with unmerited laughter.

“So this guy finally pulls me over and he’s asking for my papers and—three beers over here, huh?—and I obviously don’t have them, the papers, but I can’t tell him the bike’s stolen…” Jamie’s story died as he caught sight of the woman at the counter. “Well…” he said, drawing the word into far too many syllables. He sauntered over to her stool with what he appeared to think was a lady-killer smile on his lips. “What have we got here?” He paused a moment, apparently just realizing that what they had there was not just a gorgeous woman, but an unconscious one.

“Um…hello?” He poked her shoulder. She shifted slightly but did not wake. A slow, nasty smile spread across his face. “Oy!” he called to the other hooligans. “Girly here’s had a few too many. How ‘bout we give her a lift?” The three men had barely begun to snigger before the bartender moved to intercept.

“That’s enough, James.” The bartender could only have been ten years older at the most, but he had mastered the art of talking down to rowdy patrons. Jamie sneered at him just the same.

“You telling me what to do?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Jamie stuck out his chin and tried to look down at the bartender, even though the man was slightly taller than him. “And why should I listen to you?”

The bartender put his hands on the counter. “I think it’s pretty simple. You want to keep buying beer here.”

“You can’t refuse to serve us!”

The bartender cocked an eyebrow. “Can’t I?”

“You’d…lose money.” It was apparent to everyone in the bar that Jamie would not be winning this fight.

“Hell of a lot less than I lose every time you show your ugly mug around here.” That brought a laugh from the other patrons. Old Jerry sounded like he was choking as he cackled. “Plus there’s the laser gun, but no need to mention that between friends, eh?”

Jamie pasted a thin smile on his face. “Course not.” He looked at the woman. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” And he and his minions left.

The bartender watched them go, and then turned back to the glasses he was re-cleaning.

“Thanks for that,” said a muffled voice. The bartender turned to see the woman looking lazily at him over her crossed arms. She was bleary-eyed, but not in the way of the drunk. More in the way of the recently awoken from a pleasant nap.

“Don’t mention it,” replied the bartender.

She uncrossed her arms and reached a hand toward him, her head still resting on her other arm. “Vega.”

“Trent,” he said, shaking her hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm.

“Not Stan?”

“Nah, he’s dead.”

“Oh. My condolences.”

Trent shook his head. “He’s been dead for ten years or so. Longer than I’ve been working here.”

With a dismissive nod, Vega sat up straight and stretched. Any eyes not already on her drifted her direction.

“How you feel?” Trent asked.

“Much better, thanks.”

“Just the same, is there someone I can call to come pick you up?”

“I don’t know.” A slow grin slid across Vega’s face. “I’m told I’m quite a handful.”

“Family or anybody?”

The smile faded. “I’ve got a couple of brothers but they’re…they’ve been out of contact for a while.” She seemed to collapse in on herself, elbows on the bar, chin sinking down among the empty bottles.

Trent watched her with a look of consternation on his face. “Are you at least from around here?”

“No, just passing through. On my way east. I’m hoping to hit New York eventually.”

“For work?”

She shook her head, which was picking up again. “I’m unemployed. By choice. Hence the cheap booze. Bartending always seemed like a decent gig, though.”

Trent shrugged. “Pays the bills.” He gave her an apprising look. “You’re stone cold sober, aren’t you?”

Vega sighed and clinked a couple of the bottles together. “Despite my best efforts, yes. You wouldn’t happen to—” Her voice caught off suddenly as she lurched forward and slammed into the counter.

“Vega?” Trent asked, concern in his voice.

“What the hell?” Vega shouted, outraged, as she turned to face the rest of the bar. “Which one of you bastards hit me?”

A room full of silent men stared warily back at her.

“Vega, no one hit you.”

“What?” Her hair whipped around her head as she turned back to Trent.

“There was no one behind you.”

Rage turned to confusion. “But then what…”

The bar was silent for a moment.

Then Vega screamed.

Her head flew back, her spine arched, her shoulders hunched, her fingers splayed. She toppled off her stool and crashed to the wood floor while beer bottles shattered around her. And still she screamed.

Bar patrons leapt to their feet and looked around uncertainly for something to do. Old Jerry watched with bemused interest. Trent leapt over the bar to reach the fallen woman, but even once he was kneeling by her side, he could only look hopelessly for some way to help.

Without warning, the screaming stopped. Like a puppet cut from its strings, her body went slack and she lay limply on the floor. Trent did his best to scoop her up into his arms.

“Hey,” Vega said weakly, looking up at him. “Did you just jump the counter?”

“Uh…” Trent looked back at the bar counter. “Yeah.”

A smile ghosted across her face. “Very cool.” Her eyes slid from him to the ceiling, at which they stared blankly.

“Vega, what just happened?”

“Something monstrous. A crime so terrible it has no name. Now let go of me.”

“What?”

“It’s still happening.”

As though electrocuted, every muscle in her body tensed with an explosiveness that tore her from Trent’s grip. She landed on the floor just as the scream ripped its way from her throat. It was an inhuman sound, a sound no living creature should be able to make. The screech of metal, the crash of thunder, the roar of waves, the crack of ice and stone were layered into her cry. Sounds of destruction and loss rolled around and through the unfortunate humans trapped by her cry.

Old Jerry shouted something. No one answered. He tried again.

“She’s on fire!”

He was right. Smoldering smoke was drifting upwards from under the leather jacket. Small tongues of flames were licking at the white shirt.

“Get the coat off her!” Trent ordered. He grabbed her shoulders and tried to lift her up but quickly withdrew his hands with a shout that could hardly be heard over Vega’s screams. His palms were the angry red of fresh burns.

Vega’s body tightened and contorted in her agony. Just when it seemed her skin would burst and her bones would snap, there was a rush of wind and her very skin seemed to burst into flame.

With cries of terror, the bar patrons, even Old Jerry, fled the room. Trent, however, made no motion to go. He grabbed a jacket off the back of a nearby chair and tried to deaden the flames on the woman’s body, but the fabric of the jacket caught fire almost instantly. The fire spread and rose up until it was a great bonfire. Trent backed away, looking wildly around for anything that might help.

“Trent!” The voice came from the fire. It was wild and rushing like the howling of wind, but with familiar traces of the voice of the woman who was no longer screaming. Something moved within the fire. It looked almost human, but its outline wavered with the flames. “You idiot, get out of here!”

Trent hesitated, but then nodded and bolted out the door.

The bar was engulfed with flames by the time Trent joined the crowd of observers forming in the street. Half the town watched as the roof caved in, the walls collapsed, and liquor bottles exploded. Someone commented it was quite a show and was immediately smacked upside the head and threatened with worse. A lady had died in there, after all.

As the last wall crumbled and fell, something shifted amongst the rubble. A figure arose from the dust and flames, its shape unmistakable this time.

“That’s her!” one of the men from the bar shouted. It was. Her clothes had burned away and her entire body appeared to be made of fire, but Vega was still recognizable. She looked their direction, her eyes two white lights amid her golden swirling hair. For a moment it appeared she might speak. But the moment passed and she turned her eyes skyward. The fire coiled itself around her before unfurling behind her. She leapt into the air and soared away on wings of flame.

The onlookers craned their necks to watch as she disappeared from sight. A smashing sound drew their eyes back to earth. Old Jerry had thrown the bottle he’d carried with him at the ground.

“That’s it! No more of this filth for me! Cold turkey, starting today!” Jerry seemed to consider for a moment. “Or tomorrow, since I’m already drunk. Hey, barkeep! Any chance I can get another bottle?”

Trent looked from the old man to the still burning remains of the bar and back. “Not really, Jer.”

The old man looked crest fallen. “No, I suppose not, what with the world ending and all.”

“Right, Jer,” Trent said, looking back at the darkening sky in the direction Vega had disappeared. “Right.”