angels in the architecture
Alice Blaine saw the Angels when she was picking up new bath towels at the Walmart south of Taladega. Thick humidity burst through the building as they came down through the fluorescent ceiling. There were two, at first, scattering detritus over the shoppers, their massive bodies writhing. The Angels opened their great mouths in silent screams, their many red rimmed eyes seeking out heat signals from the poor sinners below. Alice was not afraid. She stood, balancing her weight on her buggy, watching the flesh above her gyrate.
How could she be afraid of Angels? She was no sinner. She lived every day by the good book and the words of Prophet Ames. There were bruises on her feeble knees from pew athletics. She would bow and kneel, bobbing in time with church choirs and resounding chants. Alice had eaten the good Lord and drank his blood from the Prophet’s hands every Sunday. Her inheritance, and that of everyone at His Holy Light Assembly, was the salt of the earth from the tears of the sinners.
Though Talledega was a majority Christian community, Alice had wondered if they could even call themselves true followers. False pastors and rancid practices littered every church within a fifty mile radius. She was thankful she had not associated herself with them.
She wouldn’t run in fear of the sweet, sweet Angels. Others had fled, their unholy masses skittering from the Truth down through the electronics department. The Angels were multiplying, plump bodies splitting to blot out the sun. The poor sinners were tracked down and snatched between midnight claws. Alice wasn’t sorry for them. They ignored the good word, laughed at Prophet Ames’ flock as they held signs and hands on highways. The dirty folks that turned their noses away were food for the divine. They were to be despised.
Skylights popped in over freezers and electrical sparks bled from the roof. Thick Angel song sounded from the gardens, trumpets, heralds calling Alice in. She was to come home. The sinners around her were swatted like flies, gushes of blood flowing from the Angels’ mouths. She fell to the ground, varicose veins screaming in her stick thin legs. That was nothing of concern, she would be healed. She would be with the shiny, beautiful people of her flock, the followers of the truth in Heaven. Her people, no one more and no one less.
An Angel spied her, hot eyes locking onto hers. It fixed her between the claws, hoisting her into the air. The Angel’s flat nostrils smelled stringy meat and old blood. Alice Blaine started to pray, having only left a trace of crimson in the towel aisle. She was eaten whole.