Armageddon Rising (The Soul Collectors Book 1) by S.H. Roddey

Armageddon Rising (The Soul Collectors Book 1) by S.H. Roddey

Author:S.H. Roddey [Roddey, S.H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-04-21T22:00:00+00:00


CHAPTER SEVEN

I shoved my brother out of the way and took Daddy’s free hand. His skin was cold and papery, but blood still rushed beneath it. The ventilator hissed and wheezed as his chest rose and fell in a shallow, haunting rhythm. The man in the bed did not look like my father. A sick, waxy caricature of him, perhaps. He was battered and bruised, swollen, but at the same time sunken. His silver hair had faded to a dirty gray and his eyes were held closed by antibiotic gel. His dentures had been removed and the tube down his throat breathed for him.

“He’s stable,” Jamie said. The news, though good, did not reassure me. I knew too much.

Daddy’s fingers flexed against my palm. The untouchable essence that made him my Daddy hovered around him. The longer I stood there and held his hand, the heavier the folder under my arm grew. The faint scent of brimstone lingered in my nose. The fate of my father rested entirely on my shoulders.

“Bringing your work home now?” The trite comment echoed across the quiet ICU room. I glared at my brother, but he never once bothered to look back at me.

“I forgot to leave the folder in the car,” I replied. “Sue me for being a little out of it.”

“A little?”

“Both of you stop it,” my Mom snapped.

“Don’t worry,” I said as I raised my Daddy’s hand to my lips and kissed it, “I was just leaving.” I reluctantly released him and left the room, trying hard to pretend my arm wasn’t on fire. The folder grew warm and I feared it might catch fire soon.

I sat down hard behind the wheel of my car. Thin tendrils of white vapor twisted and twirled in the breeze, dissipating but leaving behind that burning stench of brimstone. When the flap came topside it burst into flames, burning away the entire envelope and leaving in my hands a series of charred and smoldering papers. Scrawled across the paper in a delicate and perfect hand was a name.

Isaac Wightman.



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