Kate Fox & The Three Kings (7 page)

My attention was immediately torn from the pregnant woman and redirected to the neon pink sign being shoved into my hands. Out of breath and sweating profusely, Joy distributed the rest of the obnoxiously colored and heinously hateful signs to everyone filing out of the church vans. The majority of the signage read: “Thank God for dead soldiers!!!” and “God hates America!!!” written in bold, black lettering. I cautiously studied my own sign and cringed: “Thank God for IED’s!!!”

Sergeant Coleman, whose funeral we were at, died from a roadside car bomb, according to the
Lexington Leader
Obituary. Our local paper detailed the account of Sergeant Coleman’s untimely death, highlighting his military experience and his childhood. Coleman was a Mt. Vernon native who married his high school sweetheart as soon as they graduated. He and his wife were expecting their first child in August.

Joy led W.H.O.R.E. in the protest of Sergeant Coleman’s funeral, and she urged the congregation to chant: “God Hates America!” louder as the organ cascaded into a beautifully tragic rendition of
Amazing Grace
.

The worst portion of the protest occurred halfway through the funeral, when the church’s elegantly wooden carved doors burst open and several of the Sergeant’s fellow soldiers stalked through the threshold. “Enough with this shit!” growled a lanky man with leathery olive skin. The man’s five-o’clock shadow was at about half past eight; he looked as though he hadn’t slept for several days. Although, his lethargic state was hardly noticeable as he lunged forward, ripping Essie’s yellow sign from her hands and shredding it to bits. I watched the flamboyant neon fragments float to the concrete in my practiced state of indifference. Of course, I sided with him, but there was nothing I could do to convince W.H.O.R.E. to turn around and leave.

The man’s lapel read “L. Stanley,” I noticed, as Joy spat in his face, hollering: “God hates y’all. Nothin’ would please Him more than y’all to join your friend in Hell.”

L. Stanley was hardly fazed, as a man on a single mission. He marched toward David, standing sheepishly behind his own orange sign, trying his best to concentrate on the ground. L. Stanley snatched the orange sign from his grasp and tore it in half, throwing the pieces at Joy, who was still blubbering on. I half-expected the situation to escalate to violence, as it so often tended to at W.H.O.R.E. pickets, but L. Stanley turned on his heel and marched back through the church doors his uniformed friends held open. Joy insisted we continue our protest, but relocation was necessary for optimal television coverage. Of course, everyone, including the news crew, thought W.H.O.R.E. was a crazy cult, which was spot on.

Onlookers gathered along the streets to protest our…protests. More often than not, bystanders responded with violence, throwing sodas, rocks, or whatever blunt objects they deemed chuck-able. I didn’t blame them. I understood the ludicrous nature of W.H.O.R.E.  I hated myself for being a part of the toxic message, the damning, the same folks who probably nailed Jesus to the cross, laying a crown of thorns atop his head. I passively complied with W.H.O.R.E.’s ways. In a way, my compliance proved me worse than any other members of Blood of Christ Baptist Church—at least the other members believed in something, enough to take a stand against whatever they translated as unholy. Self-preservation stood as my only motivator.

Walking over to the
Channel 6 Action News
cast, I recognized Gideon’s voice before I spotted him, preaching God’s hatred with all eyes and cameras on him. His appearance was rather unusual; Gideon’s unruly, mousy blonde hair was slicked down, by product or perspiration I could not be sure. A crisp polo shirt clung to his back, and as he arched his spine in a confident display of posture, he read approachable and friendly to anyone who couldn’t see beneath a perfectly straight smile and fresh pressed khakis. Friendly and approachable was who Gideon used to be – but now he was a stranger, who reveled in my hesitant gaze and grinned through clenched teeth.

“Tell us what the purpose is in protesting a military funeral,” the pretty blonde news anchor shoved her microphone in Gideon’s direction, which he hastily snatched from her hand and climbed on top of the fountain to gain vertical advantage over the crowd.

“Blood of Christ Baptist Church has one purpose, ma’am. That’s to spread God’s message. Sin is the enemy. Faggots, towel-heads, soldiers, the filthy perverts of the television—just to name a few—they’re all livin’ in sin. They’re goin’ to hell,” Gideon paused to stare directly into the camera, a maniacal smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “God is angry. He’s angry with all of y’all, raising your children in sodomy-acceptance, with worldly desires and feminism. The end of times is comin’. Y’all should be shakin’ in your boots.”

Gideon handed the microphone back to the news anchor and stalked off.  Soon, the funeral ended and puffy-eyed silhouettes clad in black filed out of the wooden doors. I watched the crowd embrace; the uniformed men shook hands. Like an itch, I sensed a pair of eyes on me. They belonged to the sullen but furious mother-to-be, who was close enough for me to notice dried mascara trails splattered like paint on her face.

“How dare you!” she hissed, advancing. I glanced around to make sure she was directing her commentary at me. Yes, I was definitely the target of her anger. She looked so fierce despite her petite frame. Behind her watery eyes was fire. Only inches away from my face, she grabbed my wrist and laid my hand on her bloated belly. “She’ll never know her daddy,” the lady lowered her voice, just loud enough for me to hear. “One of these days, I’ll have to tell her. She’ll wanna know, you know, why he’s not around. Why all of her friends have a mommy and a daddy. He’ll never be there to threaten every boy she brings home—to tell those boys she’s somethin’ special, and they better not lay a hand on her. She’ll have no one to teach her the things I can’t. No father to walk her down the aisle…and why?  Because daddy’s in a million fucking pieces. He died protecting scum like you,” she paused, and I felt a tiny kick on my palm. With each word she spoke, she became more unhinged. The pregnant lady released my hand and began poking my chest with her index finger as she yelled: “HE DIED SO YOU COULD HAVE THE RIGHT TO WAVE YOUR HATEFUL SIGNS—TO PROTEST AT HIS GODDAMN FUNERAL!”

I cringed as her words hit me like multiple rolls of quarters in a tube sock. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, that I knew what it was like to grow up without a father. But like a coward, I hesitated to muster up an apology.

I lifted my gaze from the ground to meet her stare. Before I could say anything, Gideon appeared, clearing his throat, “Your husband—granted he was your husband and y’all didn’t have lust-laden sex out of wedlock,” he scoffed, eyeing the pregnant woman from head to toe, “is suffering the consequences of living a life of sin…in hell, right now. He’s a murderer and probably a fag-lover, too.” Gideon shot a sideways sinister grin at me, then turned and spat at the woman’s feet.

Gideon’s words sliced through me. Two months ago, such hatred would’ve never escaped his lips. His eyes filled with tears as he confided in me how he wanted to run away from W.H.O.R.E., to escape his family’s toxic grip. Now, judging by the grin of cruel satisfaction plastered across his face, all of Gideon’s empathy had been replaced by…something else entirely. Just when I thought Gideon’s spiel was over, he took in a deep breath. I noticed he was hunched over in an unnatural way, hovering over the now sobbing widow. Then, the smell hit me; I peered around for the source of the spoiled milk stench, tinged with a bite of old pennies.

I glanced over at Essie, who was watching the scene unfold with a frozen expression of horror, but her expression showed no indication of smelling something foul. How? I began to feel nauseous; overcome with the potent mix of humidity laced with rot. The stench reminded me of the one time Gideon and I found a decaying deer on our way into the woods. At first, when we stumbled upon the scene, we believed it was a recent kill, probably being tracked by a hunter. But as we approached the deer’s lifeless form, the smell hit us. The smell of mangy, unfiltered death. I didn’t want to get any closer, but Gideon coaxed me to inspect the animal with him. When we were five feet away from the body, pinching our noses, Gideon flung his arm out to stop me from moving forward. I shot him an annoyed glance, but then examined the deer and immediately understood the abrupt halt.

The buck’s body lay bloated, his stomach doubled in size. We suspected he had been hit by a car. His left antler was spiked off into five different points. The right antler was snapped in half. The buck’s face appeared unharmed, except for the pair of maggots crawling out of his blank stare, but the rest of his body hadn’t fared as well. His front leg was twisted, bone protruded at the knee, dried blood matted the surrounding fur. His stomach indicated the age of the kill: several days, judging by the swarm of flies and pile of green entrails that lay beside his body. Buzzards.

To my horror, I noticed the buck’s chest slowly rise, then deflate. He was still alive.

“Oh my God,” Gideon saw it, too.

“We have to do something!” I yelled at him in a panic. I knew the deer was beyond saving. Tears threatened, clouding my vision, but crying seemed selfish, given that I wasn’t the one spending my last moments in agony, eaten alive.

Gideon stepped forward, flipping out the knife he always carried around in his back pocket. “Look away, Katie,” he ordered, kneeling next to the buck.

But I couldn’t look away. Like driving by a horrific car accident on the highway, glass everywhere, maybe even an engine fire, several ambulances, pieces of metal spread across the lanes. You know you shouldn’t look, but traffic slows, and you can’t stop yourself. You have to know. You have to know what death looks like.

The world moved in slow motion. Gideon placed his blade against the buck’s throat. The buck’s eyes moved to Gideon’s face, defeated. In one swift movement, it was over. The buck’s chest didn’t rise and fall like before. Blood seeped out of his neck. A breeze filled the already cool air, carrying the chill of death with it. The leaves stirred. I heard Gideon sniffle as I pulled him away from the dead animal.

We left the buck and shuffled to the bonfire in a heavy silence. Gideon and I waited for our friends to arrive. He poured fire-starter over a mound of brush we collected.

“He ran all the way out here to die,” Gideon sighed. He was right, of course. The interstate was about a mile away from where we encountered the rotting deer.

I nodded, not really knowing what to say. Picturing the deer getting plowed by an unsuspecting driver was horrific in itself—but to think that the buck’s life didn’t end roadside was unbearable. His last moments weren’t sudden and painless, they were drawn out and filled with suffering. The buck limped to his home, where he felt safe, in the woods. He dragged his mangled body to safety. To die. To rot.

We never told anyone about that deer.

Gideon reached out and placed a hand on the shoulder of the sobbing widow. “I’m speakin’ for all of us when I say,” Gideon motioned to the crowd of neon signs, “I hope God kills your baby, too.”

My world spun out of control as I attempted to regain my balance, struck hard and off-kilter by Gideon’s piercing hatred. I didn’t see the widow fall to her knees. I didn’t register the sight of Sergeant Coleman’s fellow soldiers crowd around her, pushing Gideon away. I didn’t feel Essie and David’s hands on me, asking me if I was okay. I gasped for air. My stomach twisted. I felt the bile make its way up my throat. As sick as I felt, it was nothing in comparison to the anger bubbling inside of me. Anger I had never felt before.

I caught Joy’s stare as I fell. Her usual, passive expression was absent, replaced with a hard frown as she studied me. I was consumed by how much I hated her—how mad I was that my grandparents had died. How alone I truly was.  How much I longed to escape. Gideon was supposed to escape with me—those were the thoughts running through my mind when my head smacked the pavement.

T
he scene unfolded
in slow motion. I expected pain but felt nothing. I saw red. Fury pulsed through my veins, and I locked eyes with Gideon, who studied me as Joy did moments before. I recalled the scene in the woods, when he forced himself on me, the way I ran from him like a mouse scurrying from a calculating feline. He chased me with an unnatural speed, grunting madly as he navigated through the night. My savior was the interfering animal in the woods, to whom the two red eyes belonged. Gideon walked away unscathed, and I had also managed to escape, but for what? To go back to W.H.O.R.E.? They branded me, with whelps and shame that I’d never forget. My wrists were still tender. I scanned my eyes over the blurry red horn outline. The burns tingled as my breathing became shallow and controlled.

It was my turn. I brought myself to my feet with unexpected ease. Then, without a plan, I lunged at Gideon, who was snickering at me near the church doors. My attack caught him off-guard, but he was quick to react, shrugging me off and bolting into the house of worship. A growl vibrated in my throat as I pursued Gideon across the threshold. As soon as I entered the building, I didn’t see Gideon, but a waft of his unpleasant stench teased my nostrils. I sniffed the air and cocked my head to the right. He stood hidden behind me, in the shadow. I turned to strike him, but instead of defending himself, Gideon held up a single hand and the doors dead bolted locked. I bounced off of him. He chuckled at me with amusement, like I was a pathetic child.  He didn’t wait for my next move. Gideon pulled me off my feet by my ponytail, pressing my backside against him, a cold hand on my throat. His smell was suffocating; his breath was on my ear. I struggled to free myself from his grasp.

“Who…are you?” I screamed, the tremble in my voice echoing off the high ceilings.

“I am God’s soldier,” Gideon replied in a husky voice, followed by a deafening laughter that reverberated against the beautiful stained windows. He maneuvered me so I was facing him. The vein in his neck was throbbing. “Look at me,” he whispered in my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut, which added fire to his anger. “LOOK AT ME,” his grip tightened on my throat as his voice grew louder, until his nails bore into my flesh, sending a trickle of warmth down my neck.

I can’t die like this
, I told myself, panicking. I felt the pressure on my neck increase, followed by a soft crunching sound. The pain was unbearable. Gideon’s twisted face clouded and became unrecognizable through my tears, like I was gazing at the final moments of my life through a kaleidoscope. Green and blue glass, golden wooden pews, yellow teeth, black crosses.
No, no, no…

A myriad of brightly colored spots filled my vision following release. My racing heart sounded like thudding bass vibrating through my core. Gideon let go of my throat. I smacked the floor with a thud and staggered to regain my footing. I wiped away my tears and scanned the church for an exit. For help. For anything. Instead, Gideon doubled over, coughing up blood. His horrified expression cut through me as the white of his eyes became pink, and blood spurted out of the sockets.

“What are you doin’ to me?” Gideon shrieked, throwing himself on me. I fought him, digging my nails into his arms, biting his hands, but he was completely unfazed. From behind, he snatched my chin in both of his hands, trapping my writhing body under his weight. This was it. The fight was over.

As a bystander in my own life, I watched everyone I loved be taken from me. I was sent to Brushy Fork, to endure toxic people. I was never given the option of happiness that I thought I deserved. In that moment, I promised myself, that if I escaped the church, if I lived, I would really live. I’d never go back to Brushy Fork. I’d never hold another horrible sign. I’d never damn an unborn child to Hell.

I opened my mouth to scream, and Gideon attempted to cover my mouth with his hand, which provided opportunity for action. I bit down on his index finger with all the strength I could muster. Gideon shrieked in surprise, trying to free his hand, and his resistance proved to be his downfall. All the squirming gave me enough time to bite through bone. He scrambled away from me, clutching his bloody hand to his chest.

“You hill-billy bitch!” Gideon shook his hand, stalking forward. I spat out his still-wiggling finger and managed to find my feet, ignoring every pulse of pain thundering down my spine.

“Do not touch me,” I snarled and held my hand up with purpose.

Gideon hunched forward to strike, but was stopped, like he hit an invisible wall between us. I closed the gap, feeling bold and stared straight into Gideon’s eyes. But the sensitive boy I knew wasn’t who stared back. Blood continued to ooze out of his eye sockets, but he remained eerily still with the same sinister smile tugging at his lips.

Finally, he let out a yelp and crumpled into a lifeless mass on the floor. Gideon landed with a thwack on the hardwood, followed by the sound of fingernails scampering across the floor. A dark, hunched animal-like figure hunkered out of the corner of my eye, but I was more concerned with Gideon, who had fallen face-forward, whimpering in a pool of scarlet.

“I’m s-s-so sorry, Katie,” he wailed. I studied him, fascinated by the constant dribble of blood spurting from where his finger once was. “I d-d-didn’t wanna to hurt ya. I-I told ‘em that, ya haft-ta believe me.” I kneeled next to Gideon to get closer to his hand, taking it in my own.

“You hafta leave, Katie!” He was yelling now. “Are you even listenin’?” I wasn’t. I was watching blood gush and glisten out of his hand. My grandparents celebrated their 40
^th
wedding anniversary when I was ten. The catering provided a chocolate fountain. The chocolate flowed to the top and cascaded down varying levels of the fountain. I dipped marshmallows on wooden skewers into the melted chocolate. It was tasty. I brought Gideon’s hand to my mouth. The smell was intoxicating. I wished he wasn’t injured on the ground. I wanted him to run. Not because the last ten minutes of torture and confusion, but because I needed to chase him. My mouth watered. Gideon’s chest rose and fell hastily; goosebumps formed along his neck. He was rambling on, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. It was all background noise to his thudding pulse.

Snap out of it, Kate. What are you doing?
I turned on my heel, and without saying goodbye, headed towards the back exit. Surely there had to be a door, window, or outlet for escape from W.H.O.R.E. My thoughts momentarily lingered on Essie and David. I reassured myself they would be fine. They’d find a way out. Of course they would. They didn’t just make a spectacle of themselves in front of the entire congregation. They didn’t almost die at the hands of someone they had grown to trust.

I launched myself down the church hall, lined with empty, dark Sunday school classrooms. The old floors creaked loudly under my hurried steps. Finally, I spotted the door at the end of the hallway. I held in a deep breath as I opened the door and peeked outside, releasing a relieved sigh when the coast was clear. Beyond the playground and crowded parking lot was a wooded area.

“Kate?” called a familiar voice. Essie rounded the back corner of the church, out of breath. “You’re okay! Are ya okay? The door was locked! We couldn’t—” She started toward me, smiling in relief, but footsteps followed behind her.

I was faced with a decision: keep the promise I made to myself, which involved getting the heck away from these folks, or continue living my miserable life with them.
As Joy’s round frame came into view, I bolted in the direction of the woods. I prayed I could outrun them, as I tried to control my breathing. Keeping my pace, I cleared a fallen tree and thick kudzu. The rustling of feet was close; I peeked over my shoulder and counted four figures. Joy was with them; I felt confident I could at least outrun her soft, lumpy body.

To my delight, exhaustion never hit. I felt as though I could run forever. I no longer heard the crunching of leaves or heavy breaths. Even if W.H.O.R.E. abandoned the hunt, it was imperative for me to get as far away as possible. I swallowed and caught my breath, flinching at the pain when I moved my neck, which was like trying to swallow a cactus. I had no clue as to my whereabouts. I severely underestimated the depth of the wooded area, which could no longer be classified as a “wooded area.” The collection of tall oaks and underbrush transformed into a thick forest. The branches above cradled over, forming a canopy, barely allowing any sunlight to seep through. The lack of light proved difficult to determine the time.

I scaled the slope of a hill, noticing a clearing to my left. The field was filled with wildflowers, radiating gorgeous shades of pink and purple.
I need to take stock of myself first
, I thought, slowing my pace to a stop. I examined my arms, checking for cuts, wiggled my fingers and toes for breaks, and lifted my shirt, searching for signs of bruising along my belly. I never found a scratch. I laughed in disbelief to myself, followed immediately by regret. My throat tingled, and I winched at the raw feeling. The scent of heat radiating off the pine needles filled my lungs, woody and crisp. The smell caught in my throat, and I choked on my own breath. Coughing was a horrible sensation, but as soon as the fit began, it ended abruptly.

Worry crashed in anxious waves across my mind. I estimated I’d spent three hours running around like a headless chicken through the woods, and the afternoon slowly drifted away, with darkness creeping over the thick. Twilight lingered in the air. I allowed myself to rest on the root of a giant oak tree.
What was I supposed to do now?

I was the village idiot. I had no money, no phone, no way of knowing where the heck I was. I did know that I was alone, in the middle of gosh darn nowhere. I was nowhere. I was no one. And I had nobody. Hot tears slid down my cheeks, as I drowned in fear and self-pity.

The rustling of leaves shook me from my wallowing. I scurried behind the tree and covered my mouth and nose with my hand. Moments passed without further movement. Maybe it was a squirrel, scavenging for a nut. A hungry squirrel. That’s all. I started to leave my hiding spot, but the snap of a twig froze me in place.

Dang it. They found me.
I panicked but didn’t want to turn and face them. They’d surely figure out a way to keep me in Brushy Fork. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let them win.

I turned to look my future in the face, readying myself for the opportunity of escape. I peered into the darkness, but no one emerged. Confused, I whipped around, checking my sightline for any trace of movement. Out of the night, appeared a black mass. Frightened, I stepped back quickly, my back hitting the tree trunk.

The black beast that attacked Gideon the night of the bonfire stood in front of me. The beast was the size of a horse, with the build of a saber tooth tiger, muscle rippling down the legs and back. What was
it
doing here?

We were having a Mexican standoff, both regarding at each other with intent, but neither of us proceeded forward. I considered how the next five minutes of my life could go: 1. With my leg in the canine’s jaws, being drug into the underbrush and devoured for breakfast, lunch and dinner the following day, or, 2. I could establish my first friendship in my new life — granted, not a human friend, but I’d rather not get hung up on the details. I preferred the latter, although making a friend with the snarling behemoth in front of me seemed unlikely.

I was the first to make a move. I read about dominant behavior in mammals one time, recalling that the first animal to break eye contact was interpreted as the submissive one, also known as the first to be eaten. Additionally, showing teeth was a sign of aggression, so I mentally noted not to burst into laughter, which I did on occasion when nervous. Instead of inching forward, I squatted down, gritting my teeth to keep myself from making any jerky movements. Maintaining eye contact with the beast meant I roamed the ground with my hands like Helen Keller searching for a single grain of rice. When my fingers brushed the twig, I felt an elated sense of euphoria, knowing that I’d found the solution to my problem.

Desperate, I half-whispered, “Fetch, little buddy,” in my best speaking-to-animals, high-pitched voice, and tossed the twig no where in particular but far away from me. I must’ve accidentally broken eye contact. The beast stalked toward me, sniffing the air with slobber running down its jowls.
Don’t run
, I ordered myself.
Dogs like to chase things; they get bored with stationary objects.
Clenching my fists into tight, anxious balls, I planted my feet, cringing each time the beast poked me with its snout, getting a better whiff of me.

“N-n-nice B-b-beastie,” I reached to pat a matted coat of coarse, black fur, but retracted my hand when giant teeth clamped down millimeters from my shaky fingers and a deep growl erupted from Beastie’s throat. The animal nudged my rump several times, as if to say “walk the plank.” I couldn’t help but stumble with each forceful nudge, and after several minutes of being pushed around, I decided that the only direction to go was forward.

We navigated the forest with only moonlight. Every squeak, hoot, or rustle compelled me to jump, but Beastie paid no mind. I got the sense that the animal knew exactly where it was headed. When the sun rose, I was ready for a break. My stomach growled, and I wished that I had paid more attention that one time I attended a girl scout meeting in fifth grade. I stopped next to a honeysuckle bush, which I could smell right off the trail, and plucked a handful of buds, sucking the drops of sweet liquid from the root. Beastie eyed me with an annoyed expression.

“What?” I asked, discarding a piece of honeysuckle. “I’m starving.”

Beastie had no empathy and nudged me forward rather forcefully. Blood or maybe something else entirely coursed through my veins, allowing my feet to smack the ground as we sprinted into the morning fog, away from Brushy Fork, away from everything. Beastie pawed several paces behind me, scanning the surrounding tree line, occasionally watching me warily, with its mouth taught and slightly frothy.