Steve’s eyes went wide, and he froze.

  “You finally got the idea, Steve. Just stay right there,” Jack said and unfurled his wings, giving them a quick thrust downward. As Jack took to the air, the ash from the burnt sandwiches flew about the restaurant in the whirlwind of the angel’s sudden flight. Ash fell around Jack like black snow as the angel came to a landing.

  Steve stared at the ash in disbelief.

  “No more sandwiches. No more running,” Jack said, and checked an old grandfather clock that ticked against the back of the bar. “You got only a handful of minutes. Best make peace with that, Steve.”

  Steve looked around the restaurant, looked for something that could free him from this. He saw nothing but ketchup bottles and tables, waitresses kicking burning bunnies out the front door, and the ashes of all the food that could have saved him.

  “You’re done, bro,” Jack laughed.

  Steve bolted.

  Knowing that if he stayed in that restaurant he’d get sent straight to hell in a few ticks of that old clock, Steve did the only thing he could think of to get away. Twisting on his heels, Steve raced out the door with the speed of a man who literally had hell chasing him.

  “You can’t run, Steve,” Jack laughed, and chased after the half-demon, angel wings flaring.

  Steve ran out of the Jackson Brewery’s back entrance and into a battlefield. The corpses of thousands of expired and soon-to-burn-to-death bunnies lay about the ground like fall leaves. Dozens of angels were swarming Gore at the center of the melee. The clashing of angel steel on demon metal rang out like the bells of oblivion. The horns of Gore’s helmet had been chopped off, and he was limping as he struggled against his too-many foes.

  Burney was at the edge of the struggle, pinned to the ground with a spear. The spear didn’t seem to be hurting him all that much, but it had effectively staked him to the bunny-strewn pavement.

  Dawn stood at the distant boardwalk, wobbling and leaning on the thin railing that kept her from falling into the Mississippi River that ran red with bunny blood. She reached out to ply a bunny reinforcement, but felt nothing but the air between her fingers.

  Amidst all this, the police officers and other emergency responders were beginning to reassemble. Cops with pistols drawn and fire crews with hoses and axes were rapidly strengthening their courage to make a move on the brewery. Their vehicles walled off the building, with fire engines occupying all possible exits for a quarter mile in each direction.

  Steve saw all this, his friends, and no way out. Even in front of him, on the path back to the boardwalk, two angels blocked his escape. They were injured, but armed. Stopping at the sight of this barrier, Steve felt the four walls that had damned him.

  To the left was the maelstrom of battle. To the front were two angels who’d just noticed him. Behind him was Jack, and to his right was the Mississippi River. It was no longer a choice of if he could succeed or not, but how he wished to fail.

  “You, stop right there,” one of the two angels blocking Steve’s path said. They hefted their spears and took a step toward Steve.

  “Oh Stevey-boy,” Jack said, and got within arm’s reach of the trapped half-demon.

  “We got him, Jack,” the other angel said, and took another step forward.

  But that was the last step they took, as a round, metal object struck the angel in the back of the head. The angel fell forward like a felled tree, giving Steve just enough time to see Evy strike the second angel in the forehead with what looked like an enormous candy cane. This angel went down just as quick, and Evy stood facing Steve with the hollow end of the candy cane pointed at his nose.

  “Duck,” Evy said.

  Steve ducked.

  The explosion that came from the candy cane cylinder contained an amalgamation of heat-activated gels and powders and blasted Jack back inside the brewery with a rainbow of colors. Steve turned and saw the reds and blues and greens that made Jack and his formerly-white wings look like he’d been painted with a pack of melted crayons.

  “I brought the cutie-cannon — did I tell you I brought the cutie-cannon — I probably didn’t tell you I brought the cutie-cannon. It’s technically an assault weapon and very much illegal to carry so that’s probably why I didn’t tell you I brought the cutie-cannon,” Evy said, smoke rising out of her assault weapon candy cane.

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  Before Steve had a chance to thank Evy, Jack rose from inside the brewery and let out a holy cry for vengeance.

  “Evy, help!” Steve said.

  “Steve!” Gore shouted, hearing the explosion from the cannon. He shoved an angel with a risky thrust, knocking the combatant against where Burney lay. This might have crushed Burney a bit, but the angel rolling against him also freed the spear that had been pinning him. The move had been too risky, though, and Gore disappeared beneath the blows of a dozen angel spears.

  Burney screamed.

  “Yes, thank you!” Steve answered, and ran.

  “I’m going to rip your horns out!” Jack shouted, and ran after Steve. But Burney cut him off, flinging himself at Jack and forcing the angel to run backward or get set on fire from Burney’s sudden desire to give Jack a hug.

  “Run, Steve,” Evy said as Steve raced for the boardwalk. “This looks like fun, anyway. Hey angels!” Evy ran toward the Burney-distracted Jack. She started throwing dropped spears, rocks, and a few bunny corpses at the angel to buy Steve time to get away.

  Steve made it to the boardwalk, the annoyed cries of Jack the angel calling after him. Dawn saw him coming and raised an exhausted hand in greeting. “Run Steve,” Dawn said. “Got one last trick for you.”

  Dawn smiled, and revealed the silver scales of her office as Judge. She tossed the scales into the air, and let them fall against the brick boardwalk. Upon impact with the ground, the scales made an ear-splitting chime that shook the earth. Like a wine glass shattering from too high-pitched a sound, the ground split open. The crack in the earth ran from Steve and Dawn toward the fire engine-occupied street, where it swallowed whole one of the fire trucks. This not only gave Steve an open escape route away from the boardwalk, but formed a trench between him and the police officers.

  “Run,” Dawn advised.

  And Steve did just that. He ran down the length of the trench while his friends did their best to give him time. He ran abreast of the melee rapidly overwhelming Gore. He leapt over the trench that had swallowed the fire engine. It had only fallen about ten feet, which allowed Steve to leap onto the fire engine’s roof and jump back onto the pavement.

  With the screams of the righteous, multi-colored angel licking at his heels, Steve ran through Jackson Square. He stumbled against the brick pavement, turning away from the crowds on either side of the restaurants and tourist traps and the statue of Andrew Jackson. Steve looked to the streets for an escape route, but heard the sound of Jack calling from above.

  “You can’t run, Steve,” Jack shouted, searching from the air. “I’m going to find you.”

  Not thinking anything but that he needed to escape the angel’s sight, Steve ran forward to the only building he knew for sure would be unlocked: the St. Louis Cathedral.

  Steve ran inside the old church and slammed the large door shut behind him. He quickly shoved the stone basin of holy water in front of the door, hoping to bar anyone from entrance, and ran into the church nave. He didn’t stop when he went passed the front pews, didn’t stop till he reached the altar at the end of the church.

  Plain white pillars capped in gold held up the low ceiling of the St. Louis Cathedral. The walls were a simple, elegant shade of white, and added a more homely feel than the ostentatious glamour of similarly-aged cathedrals. At the front of the church rested a faded white altar, flanked by faded statues of St. Peter and Mary.

  Steve stood before the altar, panting. He kept his gaze down. Droplets of sweat trickled down his face, splattering against the black and white checkered floor tiles. Steve forced his attention to the tiles and tried to ignore the knowledge of what lay outside, what lay below, and kept his attention away from what was above.

  And then Steve looked up, and took his hat off so he could see what was painted on the ceiling.

  He saw through his sweat-marred eyes, beyond the twin horns that blocked his vision, the paintings of apostles and saints coloring a pure white ceiling. He saw painted people surrounding a painting of Christ. He saw an empty cross. He saw a painting of an old man reaching out, and a glowing dove at the center of it all.

  “God,” Steve said, struggling to keep his face held upward, “I’m sorry.”

  Steve opened his mouth to say more, but the words caught in his throat. He was left gaping, staring upward. Steve couldn’t move, and though he fought for words to say, to say something and get some sort of message out, he could only shake, crippled in surrender before the altar’s cross.

  The sudden bang of a door opening shook Steve from his paralysis. He expected it to be Jack bursting through the door. But it was not. It was the door to the side of the nave, where a priest had just finished changing out of his vestments. The priest wore a black shirt and the white collar of his office. Steve turned toward this, the only other person in the church, and his eyes grew wide at what the priest held in his hands.

  The priest bore a paper-wrapped object. Licking his lips, the priest didn’t see Steve because he was staring at the sandwich he was eagerly anticipating eating at the church’s kitchen on the other side of the nave. It was only when he nearly bumped into Steve that the priest saw the half-demon.

  “Oh, excuse me, my son,” the priest apologized, taking a step to the side to go around Steve. “I didn’t see you…” The priest stopped, having taken a full look at Steve. “…there.”

  “Hi,” Steve said, running his hat through his hands, fully conscious of the fact that the priest was staring at his horns.

  “Hello.”

  “Are you, um, you the priest here?”

  “I am. And you are?”

  “Steve.”

  “Very well, Steve. What brings you to this house of God?”

  “What kind of sandwich is that?”

  The priest looked at his paper-wrapped sandwich. “Oyster hoagie.”

  Steve’s eyes went wide.

  “Fresh fried oysters, pepperjack cheese, minced bacon spread atop the cheese, stone-ground wheat bread baked thin with a coating of Worcester sauce mixed with spices and roasted red peppers in a wood-fired oven. Why?”

  Steve punched the priest in the face.

  Before the priest could recover from staggering backward with the blow, Steve took the sandwich out of his hands and ran down the nave. With the painful, hungry cries of the priest at his back, Steve raced to the door, threw down the holy water basin and ran out of the church.