"Jack," Albert asked meekly, "do you think this is a good idea, what with those disappearances and stuff?"

"Al, Al, don't be such a wimp. We're perfectly safe."

"You sure?"

"There are three good reasons we have nothing to worry about," Jack snorted confidently.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. One, the closest disappearance is forty miles from here. Two, it's the middle of the day, and all those bear attacks were at night and three . . .," Jack tried hard but couldn't think of a third reason, ". . . and three, it's stupid."

"You're right," said Albert. "I worry about stupid shit too much."

Albert Torrence was a very nervous man. Being called a wimp made him uncomfortable because down deep he knew it was true. He was a small town history teacher and was perfectly happy spending his life lecturing students who couldn't care less about history, or at least that's what he told himself. He fought ulcers and headaches and broke out in hives every time he became upset. In fact, his shoulders were starting to itch right now.

Life was a cruel test for Albert, who voted Republican in every election just so his friends wouldn't find out that he was a Democrat. For almost his entire forty years he had been hiding from something, whether it was the bully next door when he was ten, or the girls he was too shy to speak with when he was twenty.

Albert liked Jack because Jack was confident and self-assured. Somehow when Jack insulted him it was hardly painful at all.

"Jack?"

"Yeah Al."

"Are you sure that it's a bear that's been doing all this stuff?"

"What else could it be?" Jack paused and scanned the sky fondling his shotgun. "It's got to be a huge one, old and hurting, but it's a bear all right."

Jack Tramell was a well-liked man. It was curious to him that he had become county sheriff after all the trouble he'd gotten into with the law when he was younger. But he liked his job and the people he worked with. He liked Al too, despite himself. Jack had known Al since he used to beat him up in school when he was ten. There had always been a protective bond between them, and when other boys began to harass Albert, Jack turned from tormentor to protector and they had been friends ever since.

Jack had tried often to instill some gumption into Albert. These weekend hunting trips were part of it. Albert would only hunt birds, it was goose this weekend, out of season, yes, but after all Jack was the sheriff. Deep down Tramell knew Albert hated to hunt, but he still thought he could change him. After all, wasn't Al a Republican?

"I haven't seen a goose or even a duck all morning," Albert said trying to get his mind off the previous subject. "Maybe they're not coming in yet."

"Should be Al. They saw them up north earlier this week. Look, we'll give it another hour. Fresh roast goose would sure taste great."

"It would." Albert pictured a golden brown goose on the table. He wasn't crazy about hunting, but bagging a goose to eat sounded like a good idea. "Sure, let's give it another hour."

It was a little while later that they heard the tell-tale flutter of large wings to the east of the swamp. Jack told Albert to watch the far reeds, since the geese usually approached over them in a low pattern to land on the fish-rich marsh, thankfully fed by a underground spring and not severely affected by the drought.

Al shouldered his shotgun and watched the reeds for the first sign of white wings. The rustle became louder, and both men's fingers tightened on the triggers.

Suddenly the impression of large white wings was directly above the boat. What happened next was never clear to Jack. The animal was directly above the boat when Albert fired. Something metallic dropped onto, or rather through, the boat. A large mass, that Albert had thought to be a goose, dropped like a brick onto the reeds in front of them. The men's boat sank in the waist-deep water of the swamp.

"What was that?" screamed Albert standing soaked on the soggy bottom of the marsh.

"It looked like a person," Jack said sounding deceptively calm. "What the hell happened to our boat?"

Something fell through it," Al said, feeling the itch of hives beginning to erupt on his back.

"Al, this is an aluminum boat." Jack ducked under the water, scrounging along the bottom of the marsh. When he came up to gasp for air, he called to his friend, "There's something down there. I'll get it!" He re-submerged.

Albert watched the whole proceeding, enthralled. When Jack re-surfaced it was like a scene out of 'Excalibur.' A brilliant golden sword broke the surface of the marsh held by Jack's hand.

"What's that, for god's sake?" cried Albert, scratching his back furiously now.

"It's a sword, stupid." Jack tried to lean it on the bottom of the boat, but no matter how gently he placed the point on the submerged craft, the sword slid through as though the boat were made of butter.

"A very sharp sword and very heavy one...it's gotta weigh thirty pounds. I wonder what the hell it's made of," added Jack, placing the weapon on its flat side and gently resting it on some squashed reeds.

"What about that thing I shot? Jack, I think it was a person. I think I killed a person," his hives were unbearable now.

"People don't fly, Al. Look, there's no point in making ourselves crazy. Let's take a look at what you hit. No, on second thought, I'll look. You stay here. And for chrissakes, stop scratching your back. You're gonna' rub your skin off."

"I can't help it. Go ahead, see who I killed."

"What, Al, what you killed."

Jack made his way over to the clump of brush where the body had fallen. He had seen all sorts of bodies as sheriff, but even Jack was not ready for this.

"What is it, Jack?" Albert yelled over to him.

Jack Tramell was a little glassy-eyed when he answered, "I don't know how to tell you this, Al, but I think you wasted a fucking angel."

"Screw you. Jack. This is no time to mess with me," his back was bleeding by now.

"See for yourself. You blew his head off."

Al ran over and looked past Jack's shoulder. It looked like a healthy human, healthy except that half his head was missing, healthy except that it was naked and dead, healthy except for the two six-foot gossamer wings growing out of its shoulders.

"Shit, shit, shit. A person would've been bad enough, shit. I'm damned."

"Stop it, Al," Jack tried to calm him. "It just looks like an angel. You can't kill an angel."

"Apparently if you blow its fucking head off, you can. God is gonna' be so pissed off." Albert was a wreck.

Jack couldn't stop from laughing.

"What's so damn funny, Jack?"

"Well, we're standing waist-deep in a goddamn swamp, and you think God's pissed at you because you decapitated Archangel Michael here."

"Oh, God," Al whined, "you don't think it's Michael, do you?"

"Stop it," Jack snapped. "It's just some kind of freak. It was an accident. I'm the sheriff. We'll weigh the body down into the swamp, and no one will know."

"We can't do that."

"It was an accident. No one will know."

"What about the sword?"

"Keep it as a trophy, Al."

"That's not funny."

"Look, keep the sword. If we find out where this guy comes from, we can give the sword to his kin. I was only kidding, sort of, about dumping the body. I'll send Bill and Jake out in the morning to pick it up. It's just an unfortunate hunting accident, that's all. Now calm down and let's get back before it gets dark, OK?"

"Sure Jack, and Jack?"

"What, Al?"

"I'm sorry for getting you into this mess."

"Don't sweat it. I would never have believed it if I hadn't been here. Now grab the sword, carefully. We can use it to cut through the reeds. I'll grab the guns and we'll head back."

"OK, Jack."

The two men quietly trudged homeward.