GM-46

When you have a guardian angel

17.

Nathaniel squinted and shook his head with a grimace. The blast from the rocket explosion just above him had thrown him into the tall yellowed grass. His eardrums whistled, his eyes burned and, on all fours, he tried in vain to regain his balance. He had no idea what just happened and needed time to adjust. A grayish plume veiled the star-spangled sky, masking the presence of the shuttle. But there was no doubt the pilot has maintained his presence in the sky, lurking and ready to strike at the first occasion. Flames and debris from the ballistic device rained down around him like if he were witnessing a miniature volcano eruption. The air, laden with explosives and burned fuel, caught in his throat. He coughed in long, cavernous exhalations, awakening the pain in his side and forcing him to press hard on his flank.

All his senses in agony, he neither saw nor heard the man approaching him from the tree line at a brisk pace.

"Get up, kid, they'll be at it again soon." A deep, gravelly voice said.

Nathaniel felt grabbed by the armpits and staggered as best he could to the cover of the trees. Leaning against a trunk, he coughed a little more, then caught his breath. He rubbed his ears to get rid of the whistling in them, and blinked until his vision became clearer. Only then did he look at his good Samaritan. A man in his forties, cut like a Mack truck, his muscular frame straining the fibers of his gray canvas jacket. A bull's neck supported a broad head crowned with a black-and-white bandana from which a few brown strands stuck out. His white skin was weathered by the elements and the sun's heat. His dark blue eyes let a condescending look slide over Nathaniel. He extended an arm to help the teenager get up.

"Fucking bastard!" the young man spat as he straightened up by himself, refusing the aid.

The other flashed a wry smirk that distorted the perfectly trimmed mustache hanging on either side of his chin. He was ostensibly miming disapproval of such language towards him, almost outraged, but his overemphasized gestures were false, he was just mocking Nathaniel.

"Manners, kid. If I hadn't fired my flare gun to beat the thermal sensor on that rocket, you'd be roasting in the middle of the clearing like a Thanksgiving turkey."

He pointed a thick index finger - only the last two phalanxes of which protruded from a black leather mitt - at the teenager's oozing wound.

"A stuffed turkey apparently." He insisted.

Nathaniel huffily pushed away his savior's finger, who didn't flinch an inch.

"You're a pain, Joe! And why do you think I was in the city?"

The brute shrugged his broad shoulders, causing the stocks of the two pump-action shotguns crisscrossed on his back to rise.

"How should I know? You got your thing, I have mine, can't be checking all the time what it is you're doing. You're a big boy now, but if I were you, I'd choose a different playground than the city."

Nathaniel shook his head and sighed in exasperation.

"Like I go there for my pleasure! I went to explain to the people who support us that we're not all big bullies like you!"

Joe stepped back casually; arms wide open, like he was the friendliest of all.

"I don't know what you're talking about..." he trailed off.

"Do you really think that your little half-baked terrorist actions serve our cause?" Nathaniel exploded.

"Ah!" Joe exclaimed, exaggerating a gesture of understanding. "Are you referring to the explosion of their shield generator number five? But that has nothing to do with me! You know very well that the Council has not authorized any direct action... I wouldn't dare disobey... No, I supposed a technical problem of some sort might have caused this unfortunate accident. You know how it is with complex machinery... Always one thing or the other breaking down."