I posted a chapter before this one tonight, be sure to read that first ;)
The two men moved with an overburdened, awkwardly-armed grace, over the rocks and boulders leading to the lip of the waterfall. The beams of their flashlights skittered back and forth from the water to their feet to their next likely step.
The man in the front, generously proportioned, with a pair of night vision goggles propped on his head, made a sound not unlike a groan of pain.
"I can't believe I shot an angel."
The other man, lankier and carrying two backpacks, with a long knife at his hip, sighed.
"For the last time Steve, it wasn't an angel."
"It was a guy with big white wings, Art," Steve shot back, flicking his beam into his friends face. "That is the literal definition of an angel, and I shot him and I'm going to Hell."
"Steve. You can't go to Hell, because it doesn't exist. Neither does Heaven, or angels or devils or gods or any of that crap."
"Yes, great, I know you're a heathenous atheist, dipshit. But, seriously, how can you be, after seeing that?!"
"Because he bled when you shot him, dumbass. If he was really a messenger of God," Art framed the words with air quotes, "dontcha think he might have been a little more bulletproof?"
When Steve didn't reply immediately, Art continued, "he was a cryptid, end of story. Like... an incubus or something."
Steve snorted. "Incubi have devil wings, stupid, and they're from Hell."
"I know that-"
"You don't, otherwise you wouldn't have said it."
"Fine, a harpy."
"Harpies," Steve said, raising a hand as if delivering a lecture, "are ugly women with the bodies and talons of birds. He look like a lady to you?"
Art glowered at him.
It'd been a mistake, lending Steve that Monster Manual when they were seven.
"Those weird bird women have to reproduce somehow."
With a sigh, Art threw an arm up at his friend. "The guy had a bag of groceries, Steve! I mean, c'mon! Unless there's some fancy new biblical Uber we don't know about he wasn't an angel!"
Steve was silent for a moment, and the deep hooting of an owl filled the space over the rush of the falling water.
"He did sound a bit funny," Steve conceded. "When I accidentally shot him that first time - when he was standing in front of us asking for directions?"
"Yeah, he sounded English."
"Right, but that wasn't the problem - England is a very proper place and it's a very dignified accent. Angels should sound dignified and proper."
"Wow."
"Shut up, Art. I'm trying to say that I thought he'd be all," he stood up straight and adopted a terrible British accent, 'And lo, do not shoot!' or 'And lo, I bring glad tidings from whatever's, but he didn't."
"No, he said 'Fuck!' and took off."
Steve nodded vigorously. "Yeah - he said fuck! Wasn't that weird? Angels can't say fuck!"
"Or bollocks, which he also said. Remember how surprised he was too? Like right after you shot him, which I still don't get, by the way."
"A man with wings landed in front of us, Art - huge wings, flapping everywhere. I had the gun up already - it was a reflex."
"Right. But then you shot him three more times."
"Only after he flew away," Steve mumbled, then winced. "I dunno, I didn't want him to leave and something in my brain just clicked on - you know, when we used to hunt geese? It was like we'd just flushed one out."
"Right. He turned into a giant goose in your head and you shot him out of the sky." Art snorted. "Great job."
"Oh God. I really did. He fell like a damned stone."
"He wasn't an angel, Steve, don't loop back to that again or I'll shoot you."
"Nah, I'm thinking you're right. I just wish I hadn't fired at him."
"Well, if we find him and he's not dead, you can apologize and hand him back his groceries, before we grab him and get famous. If he is dead, we'll hike out of here with his body and sell it for a shit-ton of money."
"And everyone in the world will hate me."
Art frowned. "Why?"
"Because I shot and killed an angel," Steve moaned.
With a loud curse, Art picked up a rock and threw it at his friend.
I love these idiots.
If you're enjoying my story, let me know with a comment :)
