Vehicles blurred by as they made their way further up the hill, kicking away whip-like weeds and escaped tire rims. Fords, Chevys and GMCs populated the portion of the lot they navigated. Melinda couldn't help but to glance in the windows as they passed. Long forgotten open cans of soda occupied holders; cars with CDs piled on the seat gave way to clusters of tapes occupying the same position in others. As they weaved past an F-150, the voices got louder.
“There they are!”
Melinda looked over her shoulder and ran into Jason, who'd stopped without warning.
“What're you doing?”
“End of the earth.”
“What?” She looked around his shoulder.
A fifteen-foot high cinder block wall barred their way, going the width of the open lot in either direction and into the tree line. Directly in front of them were the words, 'END OF THE EARTH,' spray painted in Day-Glo orange. She looked along the wall's length. Where the tree line on their side met the wall, no trees mirrored them on the far side.
Jason stood, staring dumbfounded at the construction.
“Jason!” A thought struck Melinda. “The wall!” She grabbed him with her good hand and pointed as best she could with the other. “We can use the trees and get over the wall!” A single look over her shoulder at the closing group of people was enough for her to take the lead.
The statement seemed to shake Jason free of the surfacing shock and he followed her to the right. Trunks were navigated, a family of field mice displaced by the shifting of one vehicle they climbed across, and two rear windows on cars, which were more rust than paint, cracked under the sudden shifting from their combined weight.
Behind them, the townsfolk pursued, many choosing more dangerous paths of access to gain ground on the couple. Windshields smashed and boots met with car roofs, a few angry shouts came from those tearing clothes, or in some cases skin, on the rusting hulks. Each shout of pain was followed with a, “Praise him.”
Neither one spoke as they navigated the next thirty cars, before coming to three pickups with campers parked tightly bumper to bumper and a newer RV backed up against the block work, creating a vehicular wall of its own. Jason looked down the four vehicles’ length, gauging the distance from the farthest pickup and the ever-closing members of Fellowship.
Too close.
He grabbed the door handle to the RV and lifted.
Nothing happened.
Jason jerked on it a second time yielding the same results. He kicked at the door repeatedly and on the fifth strike the latch gave way, swinging the door and inner screen door open. Shoving Melinda inside he slammed the door closed and reset the lock, adding the ineffective chain lock as well. “Look for something!”
Melinda stumbled into the shifting vehicle's kitchen area and looked for a towel, finding none.
Something slammed into the RV's side.
Jason reached up and smacked the skylight, which doubled as the RV's emergency roof access. It popped free and he pulled himself up. Melinda looked up and through the square hole leading out as another series of smacks echoed through the mid-eighties recreational vehicle. She raised her hands, feeling blood trickle down her arm, tickling the inside of her elbow. Hands shot down and grabbed her forearms and she looked up into her husband's face as he hefted her up and through the ceiling. Breasts dragged painfully against the skylight's lip and then she was out as far as her waist, though still kicking the air inside with her legs. Then she was free and on the roof with him.
Men and women stood on either side of the vehicle, while still others arrived.
“Come down,” the black-haired man, who'd stabbed the car's tire, said.
Jason turned to her. “Up on the wall, we can drop to the other side.” He turned and took a running jump at the wall, catching the top and pulling himself up.
Melinda followed suit, jumping for all she was worth and grabbing onto the lip with both hands.
Jason sat there, straddling the wall and stared into the expanse on the far side. A confused expression marred his face, and he cocked his head like a dog that heard something unusual.
“J...J...Jason,” she managed. Her grip started to slip.
Still he sat there, ignoring her, transfixed with whatever lay beyond the brick monstrosity they were navigating.
“J...Jason!”
Jason suddenly smiled broadly and laughed, putting his clenched fists in front of his eyes. Jerking his arms down for a second, he brought the right fist back up in a wicked arc, striking himself in the face, never looking from what lay beyond. His left followed suit, striking his nose with an audible crack. “Hallelujah!” He started a new volley of blows against himself. “Hallelujah!”
Melinda dug in with her sneakers and pushed up, getting her chin over the lip and using it to help keep what purchase she had. Her gaze shifted from Jason to what the wall hid and her eyes went wide.
Someone grabbed onto Melinda's foot and jerked her free of the wall. She fell, smashing through the bubble-like rear window of a Pacer. Pinpricks of glass sliced along her entire body. Something in her right leg, the leg she'd been grabbed by, gave way and felt somehow loose under the skin. She lay amongst the mouse-nested mass of what had once been packages of diapers and stared up at her husband, who still straddled the wall and had already beaten his face into a bloody pulp, which resembled a post-match boxer rather than that of the man she'd said, ‘I do’ to.
“The end,” she managed. “The...end.”
“Hah...yay...yuyah!” Jason cried out.
A man's voice outside her limited vision asked, “What about him?”
“Leave him,” a woman's voice answered. “He's seen the Lord's plan.” Julia stepped into view. “Now, what about you?”
“The...end,” Melinda said, trying to convey what she'd seen. “The end.” She held out her bloodied hand in a feeble attempt to hold off whatever assault they had planned, a wad of glass falling from the already injured palm.
Two men stepped in, each carrying a length of wood.
Julia's face went gaunt. “Stop!” She shoved past them and grabbed Melinda's hurt arm. “She's got the mark!” A sigh escaped from her. “Who will take this newest child of the Lord?”
No answer came.
Above them, Jason's self-pummeling had slowed, fists swelling in time with his face. "A...yay...yuya!" he cried out as best he could past broken teeth.
Melinda turned her own hands to see the mark the waitress had spoken of. The gash opening her hand had been sectioned by another slice, this time by the car's glass. The two together formed a crude representation of a cross.
“I,” Julia said with pride, “will house you then.”
“The...the end,” Melinda stressed, tendrils of madness picking at what was left of her sanity.
The waitress leaned inside the car. “I know, sister, I know. I climbed a tree as a little girl once and glimpsed....” She brought up a pair of kitchen scissors and dragged them down the length of her scar. “I felt better once momma had done it. More worthy of His love.”
“I...don't,” Melinda screwed her face up and tried again. “The...end.”
“It's better this way,” Julia continued, “if thine eye offends the, pluck it out. If thy tongue offends thee...”
Gargled screams echoed through the afternoon.
"A...yay...yu...ya."
THE END
SOMEDAY, IN HEAVEN
By A.L. King
Samson looked down the hill of clouds and felt a sense of euphoria as he watched the four-legged figure climbing toward him. He then became uneasy about feeling so good.
Excitement is to be expected in Heaven, he told himself. And this must be Heaven. There’s nothing but clouds for miles.
The strange new dimension he found himself in seemed to wear only two colors: the white of the cloudy ground itself, and the blue of the sky, which appeared to shimmer like the waters of a crisp and clear pool on a sunny day.
As well as his instant happi
ness, and the beauty of his surroundings, Samson thought it was all pretty damn strange. He observed the form running his way and reflected on his time there so far.
After waking up on the semi-soft ground, he had wandered the landscape for what seemed like hours before deciding to climb the highest peak. What was it he’d expected to see? Signs of life? He already concluded he was dead, so that was laughable. He was even about to laugh out loud at the idea of spending an eternity there alone when curiosity replaced black humor. Something was beginning to stir in the ground below. Only, that observation was incorrect. The ground itself was moving, separating from itself, and becoming something else.
Continuing to take on its rightful shape, the shape climbing his way still partially resembled the same white fluff that spat it up. He tried pushing down a rising sense of elation, but the emotion was too strong. The form was that of a dog, and he knew it wasn’t just any mongrel. It was his childhood companion, Sparky.
The clouds wisped into fur. Black and brown—colors other than the endless backdrop of blue and white—spilled into the little canine. It struck him as odd that his old companion had only seconds before been one with the earths of Heaven.
Am I made of clouds, too? Samson wondered, holding his seemingly real arms out before him. Maybe it’s all an illusion? Even my own body…
He pushed those thoughts away. If he really were in Heaven, that line of thinking might be considered blasphemous and offend the almighty entity responsible for bringing him there. Besides, everything would be okay. The clouds that made up Sparky were continuing to bleed color, as well as further refining the shapes of his whiskers and nose and dopey canine smile.
He told himself to forget about the dog’s transition from fluff to form. He would be happy with the company of an old friend, no matter how it had manifested within that divine dimension. Being put off by such a gift—now that would be truly blasphemous.
Would the clouds whip up his Grandma Zelda next? Perhaps his older sister Vivian, who died in a car accident when he was ten years old, might appear as her seventeen-year-old self, minus the lacerations that drained the life from her. Maybe Uncle Chuck would come strolling up the billowy hillside with a six-pack of Guinness in his hand, like the way he used to show up randomly at Samson’s parents’ house before he finally drank himself to death.
At any moment those family and friends who preceded him in death might spring out of the ground like white flowers and climb the soft, hilly crest to greet him. It was appropriate, he decided, that Sparky had arrived first. Sparky had been so loyal. Such a good friend.
“Come here, boy!” he called, and the dog’s little legs beat the ground faster, sending up a trail of cloud-wisps. Its paws pedaled against the strange surface, giving off a quiet yet audible sound—thip-thip-thip—that reminded Samson of a rusty fan belt.
When the small mutt was close enough, it jumped into his arms—floated into his arms was more like it. He was surprised that a portion of the shapeshifting clouds had not twisted itself into wings and a halo for the dog. Then again, he supposed he should be more surprised that a dog even made it into Heaven. He had long accepted the widespread notion that animals were not graced with souls. And over the years, he had even come to view most human beings as animals.
I guess my mother was right, he considered, reflecting on her words following the burial of Sparky just beneath his treehouse.
“You’ll see Sparky again… someday, in Heaven,” she had said to console him.
But she didn’t know his secret. He could never let her know.
What secret? he wondered.
The creature, which was cozied in his arms, tilted its head and licked his chin. He was relieved to feel the doggy saliva and find that Sparky felt of fur rather than the collective mist that had formed him.
Still, he tried to recall, What couldn’t I let my mother know?
He decided that maybe the mysterious secret he couldn’t remember would come back to him after he saw her. She would be there any second, he figured. More clouds had begun stirring below. Shapes would soon rise from the cyclones. Human shapes.
He lowered his four-legged friend to the ground. Then he slid down the fluffy hummock to where the white silhouettes had, as he predicted, started rising. The thought of descending such a high cliff might have frightened him during life, but he was in Heaven. What’s the worst that could happen?
Sparky, who had just climbed to the top of the hill to see him, wasted no time following him down. In the days of yore, when he was young, the dog was practically glued to his side.
After the physical builds of the cloud folk had finished, the process paused. Samson walked among the white, blank beings, studying them. They reminded him of mannequins waiting to be dressed. He shuddered.
Heaven shouldn’t be this eerie, his mind protested. These people should already be how they are!
The forms began filling with hue, starting from the tops of their heads. It was as if someone above were pouring a variety of paints into an invisible funnel that connected to each shape. The subtle shades of skin and hair filled in, appearing almost digital until the finished products displayed absolute, fleshy clarity.
Fleshy, he mused. Too fleshy. Too naked. Why would anyone want to see their friends and loved ones this way?
Except, he understood as he studied the bare cloud-makings before him, they were not his friends and family members. Most of the thirty-something people were women, and a few were men, but they were unrelated. Not his kin, although they did look hauntingly familiar. They did, however, have something in common. Him. Samson was the connecting factor.
They smiled, all of them at once. Their simultaneous grins stretched a bit too far, perhaps a grace provided by the malleable mists that made them up. For the most part, however, they resembled the shapes they used to have before Samson dismembered them.
A sensation stronger than fear ran through him. He could feel it in his veins, a lingering warmth flowing faster and faster until it became heat. The hotness even throbbed in his temples. It was becoming hard to think.
How could he have been so calm? He was dead!
A bit of fogginess from the chemical cocktail, he supposed. As the phrase suggested, the injections were lethal. They had carried him from one world to another and had yet to depart from his spirit. Instead, they swam through his soul, causing a painful friction that he could feel again, now that he knew it was there. Had Sparky not distracted him, he might have reached that realization—and felt the pain through his confusion—much sooner.
The hurting inside was almost too much for him to move. He barely managed to pivot and start up the soft hillside. He feared the clouds under his feet would become quicksand, holding him in place. Thankfully, their semi-firm state remained.
Sparing a glance backward at his victims—former victims, he understood, for he was now the one being pursued—Samson saw a series of small creatures shoot out from around their legs. More animals! Strays and pets and other little creatures unlucky enough to meet his wrath when he was young and still working his way up to people. They soon gained on him.
Try to remember that, underneath everything, they’re just clouds, offered his frantic mind. Just clouds and nothing more!
Those just-clouds caught up and sunk their teeth into his ankles and most of his back. Part of him had hoped that the pain already swimming through his veins would cancel out the carnage those on the outside sought to inflict. He was wrong.
Samson fell headfirst, expecting a soft landing. However, there was far less give than he anticipated. A few fanciful billows shot in whimsical directions, but the ground that caught him felt like a pillowcase packed tightly with gravel. There was about as much give as the surface of a wrestling mat. He suddenly felt just how his opponents had during high school wrestling matches, where he allowed his sadism a little room to breathe in the open. He could have pinned most opponents in a matter of seconds, but he’d enjoyed the rough play.
Now he was the one being played. The animals he’d tortured and killed in his youth were biting into him as if trying to create a burrow. They dragged him back down the hill. Their claws and teeth ripped flesh and sent blood spraying until a circle of red formed on the white ground around him.
The clouds began shifting beneath his plasma. The sensation was like a tiny earthquake. He expected a fissure might run underneath him and open and swallow him into nothing but the strangely shimmering sky below. However, rather than breaking apart, the white ground started to bubble like boiling water. This sentient landscape, whatever it truly was, seemed to be cooking up something else.
It didn’t take long for Samson to recognize the latest shapes spewed up by the ground. Hacksaws. The cloud folk eagerly raced forward and caught up with him and shooed the animals away. They then grabbed the handles of the sharp-toothed tools just as cold silver began creeping into the blades.
“Please don’t!” he begged. “I’ve already paid for my sins with my life! That’s why I’m here!”
Something like lightning flashed, and he saw a flicker of the lacerations he’d left in what constituted their flesh. Those scars traveled across their naked bodies, where limbs had rejoined. And then, as quickly as they appeared, the marks were gone.
He kick-crawled away, pleading further and offering up desperate attempts at an explanation despite the deeper hole he knew his mouth was digging.
“It was my sister’s death that messed me up and made me who I am,” he said through pathetic and, he hoped, pitiable moans. The tears burned as if every bit of the lethal injection were leaking from his eyes. “Who I was, I mean. You see… I was only te-te-ten when she died in a ca-ca-car crash. I loved her and I was numb after that. And then… later, when I found out about how cut into pieces she was, I fi-fi-fixated on it. That’s why I chopped people up. Viv was taken so randomly, I wanted control over life and death.”
Things were quiet for a moment, as the cloud folk appeared to consider. Then a single bark broke the silence. It was Sparky. With one, shrill syllable, the mutt sealed his fate. Maybe they would have seen through his half-assed excuse anyway. If he were being completely honest, knowing the details about the death of his sister was not why he murdered people; it was why he chose to murder people the way he did.
Blood and Blasphemy Page 27
