“Why do they call them Angels, then?”
The old man spat, a lump of phlegm quivering on the dirt beside him – he turned his attention back to the gun he was cleaning, eyeing down the barrel.
“It’s the look of the beast, boy – great white wings, you see?”
Of course, it wasn’t just wings. Their language sounded like heavenly choirs, and their faces glowed with beautific, serene smiles as they slaughtered.
“Well, we’ll be ready for them,” the boy said, sighting along the muzzle of his pistol, winking at the sky, “won’t we, Uncle?”
The old man grimaced, and turned his head – he couldn’t look the boy in the eyes.
He knew the bullets weren’t for the angels.
Written for one of this week’s BeKindRewrite prompts: Angel Watch.