Paynes Prairie
“Sky looks different tonight”
You and I both know it was meant to be a whisper. But the way it bounces off the aluminum we lay on makes it more of a yell.
“No shit”
Honestly, you said the understatement of the millennium. The sky’s the color of blood and pulsing like a heart in between the parting pockets of fog. The air shrinks and grows in time with the beats. And there’s a tornado or some shit getting closer… wait does this place even get tornadoes? There’s no other earthly explanation for the sound of branches colliding and grass whipping.
“Well damn, you don’t haveta be an asshole about it”
You giggle as I pass you the last of our booze for the night: a stolen bottle of Jack from some frat brother’s bedroom. The trophy from our latest journey to Pi Kappa whateverthefuck. Empty cans of beer and boxes of wine cover any spare area around our bodies and the blanket we lay on; butts of cigarettes and spliffs complete the patchwork quilt of collegiate debauchery. Still though, this is a pretty weak showing for some Thursday night stupidity — definitely not anything large enough to cause us to see somethin’ that ain’t there.
“What the hell am I s’posed to say? The sky’s on fire dude”
Instinct should tell us to flee, to scream, to save our skins. But, between our own human curiosity and the haze of whiskey slowly creeping in, we can’t do anything but stare dumbly upward. Not like we have the service to call someone nor the words to describe whatever’s going on. We’ve been getting wasted in a damn field for the last two hours, all we can do is sit and snark.
The fog clears completely except for one damn cloud right above our truck — at least I think it does. Everything’s swirling around too much for either of us to tell where the blinding red sky begins and blood red fog ends. But the sky’s not really what’s bothering me anymore now. It’s the sound of a million helicopters landing that’s really taking me out. An impending hangover might be making a simple wind sound worse, but one look over the walls of the truck bed proves only one of those thoughts is right. Above the mysterious winds and groans of the rocking truck, you pipe back up.
“Hey”
“What’s up”
“Is this…yaknow…hell”
Well… not a conclusion I thought we’d come to. Figured we’d get to Ryan screwing with our stash before the Second Coming. Didn’t think you’d be the religious type either. Guess I’d never thought to ask; these nights were never about getting personal, just about releasing the stress of the week. If we’re being honest I forgot near everything I learned during worship: my time on my knees hasn’t been for praying in years. Not sure if now’s the time to think about confessing, but what’s the harm in planning ahead.
“Nah that’s just some shit they tell kids to make em behave”
That’s when the goddamn earth shakes. An ear-splitting crack follows soon after. You give me a nudge — whether it’s an “I told you so” or just a way to ground the situation is up in the air. A blanket shadow falls over us milliseconds before something — someone — grabs the edge of the truck bed. Once again, instinct flies out the window and the sheer need to see what the hell was causing all this takes over. Big mistake. Absolute fucking WHOPPER of a mistake.
The sound of leathery wings slapping the air shuts us up on the spot. Not like we wanted to say much anyway, the giant beast before us is definitely a buzzkill. Its jacked torso and lord knows how many limbs and eyes halts any original thought that dared form in our blasted minds. The more we stare, the warmer I felt — not a comforting warmth, but the warmth of an overheated laptop. Warmth so overpowering that I barely feel the blood starting to drip from my mouth until I feel it hitting my leg.
It’s not an angel — not like I remember what they’d look like anyway. But in between the pulsing of blood and the slapping of leather, I swore I heard you call this motherfucker “holy”. I’d call bullshit but I’m not really in the place to. Whatever this thing is — man, beast, or otherwise — it’s about to make the bed of our stolen pickup our fucking tomb.
I can’t move anymore — either from blood loss or the first animalistic instinct kicking in. The only thing moving is tears down my face. I can’t even turn my head to see if you’re okay, but God knows I try. Whatever the fuck looms above us cranks my neck back in its direction: it demands I look at its stupid face. I do so more for the sake of my neck than anything else. Staring at it begins to hurt worse than any hangover or migraine, but closing my eyes ain’t an option. All I know is the three words that split my eardrums and make my world spin on its axis before the world goes black.
Be Not Afraid
