38. Meet on the Ledge

‘It’s time to fly, Gabe. Find somewhere safe to unfurl and I’ll meetcha in Nevada.’

‘Vegas? This is no time for a night-club act.’

‘I swear, Gabe, if you were any dumber Moses coulda got water out of you with a stick. No, not Vegas. We’re going to see Beburos, J-Rod. So I’ll meetcha on the bluff over Groom Lake.’

‘Aren’t you going to fly?’

He gave a short laugh, ‘I don’t fly much now. You were right about the knees.’ He disappeared in a puff of cigar smoke, so maybe he didn’t hear me asking how he knew J-Rod and I had spoken about the knees thing and how Gee Oh Dee had fucked those up by wasting all his time on the damn feathers.

I went round to the garbage containers at the back of the strip mall, unfurled my wings, wriggled my back against a brick wall to scratch an itch, then took off and flew west to the Silver State.

We fly fast. Sub-sonic speeds, of course. I mean those bangs would attract a lot of attention in a sky empty of fighter planes, wouldn’t they? We can keep up with a Jumbo jet and our take-offs and landings match up numberwise much better than the 737-MAX’s do. Sometimes we fool around and wave to the flight deck or stand on an aircraft’s wing, but it’s not allowed. Not strictly against the code, but you could get in trouble if you got caught.

It took me an hour to fly to the Bluff overlooking Groom Lake. I could see J-Rod from 30 miles away, a tiny pin figure stuck in a relief map. Of course, the beacon helped. I wonder how many vanities he’d assembled for a bonfire that size. My left knee gave way when I landed on the uneven rock. J-Rod laughed,

‘Don’t miss that. Nossir.’

I knocked the dust off my clothes and semi-furled without hiding the wings completely. The sun was bleeding red into the sky. It looked beautiful and damned. Maybe it was.

‘Ain’t here yet, Gabe.’

J-Rod held out a spliff the size of one of Mr D’s cigars. I shook my head. The fallen angel formerly known as Beburos lit up and drew in smoke ‘til I thought he might faint. Then he let it out through his nostrils slow.

‘Not bein’ an angel no more has its consolations.’

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ I said.

‘But those women… those uniforms… those...’

‘I said I don’t want to hear it,’ he scrabbled for the joint after I knocked it out of his mouth.

‘Hey! Chill out, man...’

The smoke from the fire was acrid, I stifled a cough.

‘What on earth are you burning, J-Rod?’

‘Ha! Betcha can’t guess...’

‘Books?’

‘Manuals. Air Force Manuals. Manuals about DefCon 1,2,3 O’ leary, Manuals about silos, shelters and lockdown for civilians. The Post-Apocalypse Handbook revised edition. Pamphlets, ‘Duck and Cover’ ‘Now Wash Your Hands’ ‘What to do the Day After Doomsday’ by Professor D Lovestrange. I’m burning bullshit, that’s why it smells.’ He giggled. I wondered what the Devil’s plan was and what hope it had of success if it involved a pot-head sex-addict who liked burning things.