Authors: J. Thorn
William left his last comment hang and John knew what he
meant.
“I was at a Halloween party,” said John.
“That was my second guess and the only reason you’re still
alive. Where?”
“Over on South Belvoir, not far from here.”
“Do they know you’re on this street?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they do.”
“Then we need to eat this and get the fuck out.”
“What do they want?”
“Damned if I know. Can’t get shit on the radio or cell
phone.”
John nodded in agreement and ate his eggs. They had a
slight bitterness to them and he hoped they had not spoiled. William left the
kitchen and returned with a backpack and coat. He threw a pocketed, black
trench coat to John.
“It’s gettin’ cold. Fucking Cleveland winters.”
John set the duffel bag down and put the coat on. In the
inside pocket he felt a heavy object. He reached in and pulled out a twenty-two
caliber pistol.
“That’s all you get until I can trust you. If you try
shooting me with it, it’ll hurt like a bitch, but won’t kill me. You can bet
your ass I’ll return fire with this bastard.” William held the sawed-off
shotgun up in the air.
“As long as you don’t spray-paint me with a pentagram, then
I won’t put a round of twenty-twos in your ass.”
William laughed and so did John. They looked at each other
with reluctant trust.
“Where are we headed?” asked John.
“Right now, I’m not really sure. If we can find other
survivors, maybe we can put together a tight group and set ourselves up
somewhere safe, like maybe out in Geauga County. Find an old farmhouse,
something like that, until this shit blows over.”
“What if it doesn’t?” asked John.
“Then you and I best be getting to know each other really
well.”
William turned and headed through the kitchen toward the
back door. The full light of morning illuminated fast-food wrappers and
newspapers blown from overturned garbage cans. John stepped out after William
and pulled the frosty air into his lungs. The burn of it sharpened his senses
and gave him the slightest bit of hope.
***
The rest of Winston turned up nothing. John and William
crossed the street to search. On the east block, the soldiers had tagged every
house with the Sign. The men swept a wide circle, careful not to attract
attention with movement or noise. By dusk, seven armored vehicles had rolled
down Winston Road. In the distance, William thought he heard the rumbling
vibrations of tanks. They returned to the house to spend the night.
“What’s left to eat in there?” asked John.
“I don’t think we can eat what’s in the fridge. We’re gonna
need to take what we can from the pantry and kitchen closet. Let’s stash some
of it in the basement, just in case. Keep your flashlight off and keep under
the windows. Something tells me they’re not going to forget they saw you.”
John gathered cans of chicken soup and dumped them into a
pot on the stove while William washed his hands and face with the warm water.
Even though the electricity to the neighborhood had been shut off, the natural
gas continued to flow to the hot-water heater and stove. The homey scent of
the soup relaxed John, bringing him back to childhood days of his mother in the
kitchen, cooking the family meal. The men ate their soup in silence, enjoying
the warmth in darkness. Two vehicles sped past the house on Winston, neither
pausing to search.
“Logically, what could it be?”
“My guess is a dirty bomb or maybe a terrorist threat, shit
like that.”
William pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his
pocket. A deflated menthol parted his lips and he huddled in the corner to
prevent the lighter’s flash from giving up their location. William inhaled and
pushed the minty smoke back into the room, leaning against the wall with a
satisfied groan.
“Smoke?”
John held out his hand and William tossed him the pack.
“I’ve neglected my addiction,” said John.
John masked the light of his cigarette and closed his eyes.
The nicotine brought a wave of normalcy and comfort.
“What if we’ve been invaded? What if the troops aren’t US
soldiers?”
“I guess it’s possible. I haven’t gotten close enough to
one of those bastards to tell. How do you pay the rent?” William seemed
curious.
The question snapped John from the surreal back into
reality.
“I’m a web designer. I build websites.”
“Yeah, I know what a web designer does, asshole.” William
shot John a look of derision hidden by the dark room.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Right. You assumed I’m a thug that wouldn’t know what a
web designer does. You probably think I’m a mechanic or somethin’, right?”
“I don’t know. What do you do?”
“I’m a mechanic.”
William’s wisecrack released a torrent of pent-up emotion in
John. He wiped the tears from his eyes as he rolled around on the living-room
floor. William hitched and giggled like a little boy.
“I wish I knew what happened to my wife,” John said.
William snuffed his cigarette against the wall.
“That’s the toughest part for me. I’ve got family in
Pittsburgh and Columbus. I’ve got friends and shit in Lyndhurst and University
Heights. I don’t even know where to begin.”
“We should sleep,” said John.
“I’ll take first watch. Go ahead, and I’ll wake you up in a
few hours.”
“Okay.”
John climbed the steps and went to the room he had the
previous night. He shrugged at the notion that it was now “his room”. The
smoke fired his synapses, as did the conversation with William. John flopped
on the mattress, searching in vain for a comfortable position. John set the
pistol on the floor. He stared at the barrel, reached for the grip, and then
thought better of a loaded gun in his bed. All kinds of possibilities, even
impossibilities, raced through John’s mind at lightning speed. He still could
not formulate a theory. No warning, no sirens, no panic. Based on William’s
account, the city simply winked from existence, and the soldiers moved through
to tag houses. John wanted to sleep. He also wanted to figure out this
horror. His restless mind permitted neither, so he headed downstairs.
“I can’t sleep,” he said to William.
“What do you want me to do about it? Rub your head and tell
you stories?”
“I thought you might want to sleep first.”
“No, I don’t. I’m keeping watch. I’ll come up in a few
hours when I get tired.”
John turned and went back upstairs. The adrenaline from
earlier in the evening wore off and his mind tired of the relentless pursuit of
the situation. He tumbled into the bed and fell asleep.
***
A single, sharp crack shook the house, followed by a dozen
more. The shouts of men filled the streets. John opened his eyes and could
not remember where he was or what he was doing. Windows on the wall opposite
his bed burst open in rapid succession. The icy fingers of the November night
crawled into the room.
John leapt out of bed, grabbing the pistol off the floor.
After another night in his costume, the clothes had taken on disturbing
aromas. Downstairs, the black trench coat covered his duffel bag. John cursed
himself under his breath and scanned the room for anything else that might
serve as an extra weapon.
He froze when he heard the footsteps in the hallway.
“In here,” someone shouted.
John sat on the end of the bed, his gun tucked behind his
back in the waistband of his pants. A bright beam of light blinded him, but he
could hear the room filling. He held his hands up in defense.
“It’s a priest! It’s a priest!” someone else shouted.
The light switched off, as did the four red dots circling
the room.
“Father, are you hurt?”
John looked up at the inquisitor with genuine fear and
confusion.
“He’s in shock. Quick, let’s get him to the medic.”
Two men lifted John by the arms and carried him down the
steps. An idling Humvee sat outside the house. Another group of soldiers ran
out to get John and led him into the vehicle. They sped off down Winston and
turned right on Mayfield toward downtown Cleveland.
Chapter 9
William could not open his right eye. His nose pointed left
at an awkward angle, and his mouth ached everywhere. William’s left eye
focused through a red lens, the blood running down from a gash in his forehead.
“He’s awake,” a voice said.
“What were you doing with John the Revelator?”
The question confused William. His brain struggled to keep
up with the situation.
“Who?” He spit the word through broken teeth and split
lips.
A fist slammed into his mouth, sending a fresh wave of pain
down William’s spine.
“John the Revelator. He is the one foretold by the
scripture, the one Father has been looking for to lead us. If you don’t tell
us what you were doing to the priest, we will cut you to pieces.”
“What priest?”
“The one you were holding captive in the house. Did you
think you could ransom him? God will cut you down, sinner. He is gonna cut
you down.”
William’s head lolled to one side as he fought to maintain
consciousness. Voices swirled through his head, muffled as if speaking
underwater. His broken teeth released the coppery taste of blood and open
nerves. William thought of his dead parents with something like envy, and
smiled.
“I thought I could use him as a ticket out of here, out of
town,” he lied.
“You worthless piece of shit. How dare you desecrate the
collar of our Lord!”
Fists rained down upon William until another voice cried
out. The tone cut through the others with an edge of purpose, of dynamic
potential.
“The Lord is my shepherd. There is nothing I shall want.”
William said nothing.
“Young man, you have committed vile and blasphemous deeds.
God will weigh your soul on these matters. If you cooperate with me, I will
send advance warning to Him of your coming.”
William shook his head. The blood settling in his stomach
made him sick. His body ached and he wanted nothing more than to pass out.
“All men have fallen short of the glory of our God the
Father. Speak, son, and let his forgiving kindness accompany your soul to the
Gates of Heaven. Now, where did you find John the Revelator?”
“He found me. He thought I was one of his parishioners and
he aimed to save me.”
William waited, hopeful that his final play was one that
wouldn’t cost his life.
“Glory be to God! I believe Father John carries the word of
our Savior on his lips. We’ve come to call him John the Revelator. You will
be rewarded in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“I’m not one of his parishioners and I fucking hate church.”
William was all in.
“There is no need to be so vulgar in the presence of
Father!” said a man.
The butt end of a machine gun crashed into what was left of
William’s nose. Streaks of color blinded him. His neck snapped back and
darkness moved in from the outer edges of his vision.
“Wait. He must not pass before Last Rites.”
The fury of the priest frightened the hardened soldier, and
he backed away from William.
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
the Creator of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:
Who was conceived of the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried.
He descended into hell.
The third day He arose again from the dead.
He ascended into heaven
and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty,
whence He shall come to judge the living and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and life everlasting.
Amen.”
William struggled against the encroaching darkness as the
words rang out in his ears. Hands grabbed his hair and shook him. They did
not want him to pass until they finished.
“
Pater noster, qui es in caelis:
sanctificetur Nomen Tuum;
adveniat Regnum Tuum;
fiat voluntas Tua,
sicut in caelo, et in terra.
Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie;
et dimitte nobis debita nostra,
Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus
nostris;
et ne nos inducas in tentationem;
sed libera nos a Malo
.”
“What the fuck?” William asked through a shattered mouth and
lacerated tongue.
“The Rites are complete. Show him the Glory of our God,
almighty Father, forever and ever.”
Two soldiers grabbed the mechanic by the arms and lifted him
up. They cut the ropes that bound his legs and walked him up a flight of
steps, his bare feet scraping against the coarse sandstone. He shivered in the
open courtyard as stars flickered cold light on the bare trees. A man
approached William and placed a crown of thorns on his head. The soldiers tied
William to the wooden beams and raised the cross high in the air.
“May our Lord have mercy on your soul and promise you
everlasting life.”
Chapter 10
“Has John the Revelator arisen yet?” asked Father.
“No, your holiness He is still recovering from the ordeal.
The Sisters are tending to him and offering prayers to God. How do you know it
is truly Him?” the priest asked.
Father held a grainy photograph up and tapped it with his
finger.
“He was found on the east side of Cleveland. Look at the
photograph. He is the one.”
Silence.
“What is the status of the diocese?” Father demanded.
With maximum obsequiousness, the priest motioned for Father
to sit at a polished round table. A tablet PC connected to a digital projector
flashed to life on the bare, white walls. The priest navigated through folders
on the hard drive until he found a collection of satellite photographs.
“Here you can see the areas secured under the Holy Covenant,
Father.”
The subservient priest used the cursor to draw red circles
around Cleveland Heights, South Euclid, Lyndhurst, Shaker Heights, and a
handful of other communities on Cleveland’s east side.
“The areas in blue are still in the process of going through
the First Cleansing.”
He used the cursor to point out Parma, Parma Heights,
Lakewood, and Ohio City, all on Cleveland’s west side.
“Has there been any further communication from the Vatican?”
asked Father.
“No sir, we have received nothing since the transmission of
the Holy Covenant sent one week ago. There has been spotty communication from
the diocese of the city of Pittsburgh and Buffalo, but that is the extent of
our current network.”
“It is in the Lord’s hands.”
“Yes, Father.”
Father stood and adjusted the white collar underneath his
black shirt. He’d considered wearing his Sunday vestments, but did not want to
soil them on the debris left after the Cleansing had passed through the hotel.
“I would like to return to the church.”
“Yes sir, I will arrange that immediately.”
The priest left Father alone in the conference room while he
summoned a driver and vehicle. Father stared at the screen, fascinated by the
number of pixels comprising the images. He let his vision blur and squinted
his eyes. The number of crosses that arose from the eagle-eye view of the city
reminded him of God’s will and his duties as a servant. He reached into his
pocket and pulled out a fine cigar. The plastic wrap crinkled as the smell of
fresh tobacco filled his nostrils. Reaching back into the same pocket, Father
grabbed a stainless-steel, military-issue lighter. A piercing, blue flame sent
threads of sweet smoke into the air as the nicotine pulsed through his veins
like the glory of God.
“Father, the commander is here, along with a driver and
security detail. They are waiting for you on the curb.”
“Thank you, my son” he replied.
The bluish haze of the smoke lingered and danced with the
dust mites in the tired conference room. The worn carpet slid underneath his
polished, black shoes.
“Please alert me of any progress on the Holy Covenant or of
any communication with the Vatican.”
“Absolutely, Father.”
“May God be with you.”
“And with you.”
Father followed the commander through the dark hallways of
the hotel and into the main lobby. The sound of generators echoed off the
stone pillars, casting greasy diesel exhaust throughout the room. The fountains
of water normally filled with stringent chemicals lay still in pools of
undisturbed silence.
The commander stepped through the shattered glass door of
the Cleveland Marriott East and stood next to a jeep parked underneath the
canopy, as lumpy balls of white hail ricocheted off the blackened asphalt
parking lot. An early November snow loomed high above Lake Erie in threatening
gray clouds. The commander held the door open for Father, keeping his machine
gun raised and his senses alert. A number of support snipers encircled the
jeep. The commander refused to let Satan’s disciples steal the lifeblood of
Father. He nodded to the driver while sliding into the front seat, as Father
moved into the backseat, still tugging on the sweet cigar.
“Father, are we headed to the church?”
“Yes, but take your time. I would like to get a visual
assessment on the results of the First Cleansing.”
“Yes sir,” replied the commander.
The jeep pulled out of a parking lot littered with abandoned
cars. The Holy Covenant had identified many of the guests in the hotel as
Infidels, and the First Cleansing eliminated them. Records showed that many
succumbed to the Dark Lord’s powers by drinking alcohol from the mini bar – or
worst yet, ordering obscene movies in their room. And so their scattered cars
would wait in vain to get the owners home to places like Michigan, Indiana, or
Pennsylvania. Father noted the various license plates, and chuckled to
himself, realizing how unnecessary those arbitrary divisions had become. The
Warriors of Christ, created by the Holy Covenant, aimed to exterminate the
Infidels, spawned by Satan’s hand. Those were the only divisions necessary
now.
The jeep paused, as the commander surveyed the ramp to route
271. Although the Infidels had not organized enough to start a planned
resistance, the commander knew war well enough to know this would happen sooner
or later. He would not be the first victim of a road-side bomb. He motioned
for the driver to continue, and the jeep maneuvered around several disabled
vehicles on the highway, as well as the bloodied limbs of those who died
inside.
As the jeep’s wheels vibrated on the wet pavement and began
to pick up speed, Father’s head lolled to one side. Since the First Cleansing
began, he’d had little time for sleep. He planned to rest in Heaven, at God’s
right hand. They continued driving northbound, passing an occasional army
truck going in the other direction.
“Father, may I ask you a question?”
Father enjoyed nothing as much as imparting his wisdom to
the flock.
“Why, of course, my son. I will speak with God’s tongue.”
“What is the next phase of the Holy Covenant?”
“That is for Him to decide. The Vatican has instructed us
to find John the Revelator, and when they share news of the next phase, we will
do His will.”
The jeep left the highway and picked up East Eighth Street.
Father used the back of his hand to wipe the condensation from the windows.
The damp odor of combat boots did not mix well with his cigar, and he tossed
what was left of it out the window, bringing a surge of fresh, cold air that cleared
his head. All along East Eighth, Father saw The Sign painted on houses, small
businesses, and other structures. The army had cleared most human remains, but
the occasional dark-red splatter could be seen on doors and sidewalks.
They turned north on East Eighth and started climbing the
hill toward St. Michael’s. The archangel sat atop the highest steeple,
guarding parishioners from Satan’s wrath. A convoy of Humvees lined up on the
street outside the old church. Father never tired from the splendid
intricacies of the structure. Bright-yellow brick, sullied by years of nearby
heavy manufacturing, still managed to shine in the muted daylight. Huge
wrought-iron fences wrapped around the building, complete with a massive gate
at the entrance to the church. The Virgin Mary, fixed in alabaster glory,
spread her arms over the tiny garden on the side as she blessed the children at
her feet. As if on cue, the bells rang out, cutting through the swirling hail
and snow that became more intense as the lake-effect storm slid further south
off Lake Erie.
The commander opened the door, shaking Father from his
contemplation. Nodding his appreciation, Father exited the vehicle and climbed
the five steps into the main vestibule of St. Michael’s parish. Stained,
wooden doors shut behind him, silencing the howls of the ragged wind. A flurry
of activity caught Father’s eye as priests milled about the church. Some
tended to candles, keeping the votives lit for the souls of the departed.
Others dusted the pews and polished the wood floors. Near the tabernacle, one
priest repaired a golden hinge on the door of the Holy Sacrament. Lingering
remnants of the incense teased Father as he wiped his nose. The rush to winter
caused his nose to run and his eyes to water. Candles lit the interior of the
church, and Father felt the cold chill of the stone walls. Soldiers labored to
tie the electrical system into a platoon of generators. Until they did so, the
church would remain in the cold dark, like the rest of the city.
“Father, it is good to see you back in your parish.”
“Thank you, my son. How are you serving God?”
“My ears are open to his calling, and my heart is open to
his love.”
Father smiled at the adolescent. He could not remember his
name, but he did remember that the boy attended church with his mother every
week. Father saw the other members of the family, including their father, only
on special occasions.
Christmas-Easter Catholics
, thought Father.
“Where is the rest of your family? Has God called them to
serve the Holy Covenant?”
A cloud of shame, sadness, and disappointment spread across
the young man’s face.
“I alone serve Him. The others were not willing to stand
against the Infidels and therefore were sent to Him during the First
Cleansing.”
Father raised his eyebrows and let a smile cross his face,
one generated by the knowledge possessed by the boy.
“His love above all else.”
“Yes Father, His love for eternity.”
Father placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and looked deep
into his eyes. He turned and walked toward the back of the church, leaving the
boy to continue his chores.
The door swung inward to reveal a room on the wall behind
the altar. Eight priests from Cleveland’s eastside parishes engaged in
animated conversation, standing over a map spread out on a table. The
discussion came to a halt when Father stepped into the room.
“Welcome, and may God be with you,” said one of the priests.
“And with you,” replied Father.
He made the sign of the cross and proceeded to bless those
in attendance. The other priests followed his lead and blessed themselves.
Two older priests parted to welcome Father into the discussion already in
progress.
“Please, continue,” Father said.
“We cannot risk a messenger to the west side. The Infidels
may have already organized and they will certainly take aim at the Innerbelt,”
said one of the priests.
“Why? I think they are still reeling from the First
Cleansing and will have no interest in organizing Satan’s minions to cut us off
from our brethren on the west side,” said another.
“Servants of God,” said Father. “Pray to Him for guidance
on this strategy and He will provide the way.”
The conversation paused before Father resumed, his voice
rising.
“Let us focus on strengthening our church in preparation for
the Final Battle. Satan will not spare any life in fighting the return of the
Son.”
Many of the priests nodded in agreement. Father changed the
subject with another question.
“What is the status of John the Revelator?” he asked.
“How do we know—?”
Father interrupted the question.
“It is him, and I have reported that news to the Vatican.
God has told me it is him. Now what is his status?”
“Alex has been tending to his wounds. I am not sure if he
is awake yet,” replied a priest.
“Very well. I will descend to the parish hall and check the
situation. Sharpen the sword of the Warriors of Christ and do not be alarmed
by the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
The others nodded their heads and began gesturing at the map
again.
Father strode past the table and to the steps taking him to
the parish hall in the basement. His feet floated down the steps, in
anticipation of meeting John the Revelator.