by Poppet
~ Chapter 23 ~
His sword will be covered with their blood
~ Isaiah 33:6
Preacher John:
The muzzle flare, the hammer connecting, the bullet exiting the chamber, it's all so fucking loud, that it's only now that I comprehend what I've done.
Peter has a hole dead center of his forehead, Shauna is screaming, and Seth is squeezing the life out of a fetus.
Frozen in horror, I look to my Alpha for retribution.
He's going to smite me. I didn't have authority to cap Peter.
He looks surprised, but then smiles as if I presented him with eternal glory, “The Angel of Death knows not what he does. He is the hand of God, and he acted on my behalf.”
Ignoring the carnage, he rounds on Seth, walking down the two steps to face the brother I do not know any longer. With dread I glance at the other disciples, but they seem unfazed by Peter's unexpected exit from this plane.
God hisses at Seth, his voice that of deathly threat, “The first sons Eve bore me were twins. Your half-brother Victor had a twin brother, but to create an everlasting covenant I had to send one back to my heavenly realm, so he could be reborn to redeem all of you. He was the first sacrifice. Prove you are my son, in your mind and heart, cut open your wife and offer me your firstborn son the way I did my own.”
Seth withers, his shoulders hunching, staring at Shauna as if she is an alien.
“I used my own flesh and blood, Seth. I expect of you no less.” Alpha then stoops, crouching down and whispering something in Shauna's ear.
I haven't a fucking clue what he said, but her screaming abruptly halts and she lies down on the filthy floor as if she is willing to let Seth take something that isn't his to take. This is between her and God, can't he see this is a test?
Lifting her shirt with his bloodstained hands, exposing her distended belly to all of us, humiliating and shaming his wife before the entire brotherhood, he lifts the same scalpel he used on his first victim.
He's a fucking doctor! He's supposed to make that surgically clean. He's going to infect Shauna!
Struggling with my itchy trigger finger, I stand down, my soul straining for justice.
She's just lying there, her little hands balled into fists so tight they're white, her bottom lip quivering, and it's all I can do not to bolt in there and hold her, killing them all. She needs protection! She needs Victor!
Seth presses that defiling instrument to the bottom of the swell, low down, doing a Caesarean type cut, but just when the blade bites into her skin, releasing a trickle of blood, Alpha slams his fist into the side of Seth's head, sending him sprawling.
Alpha stands over him like a devil with the whore of heaven, bellowing down into his face, “I remind you of my own words you little bastard! I am sick of your sacrifices. Don't bring me any more burnt offerings! Why do you keep parading through my courts with your worthless sacrifices? 13 - even your most pious meetings are all sinful and false. I want nothing more to do with them. 14 I hate all your festivals and sacrifices. I cannot stand the sight of them!- Isaiah 1: 11 - Victor was the last sacrifice. He spent his life in fellowship with God, and then he disappeared because God took him away! Genesis 5:24.”
Smashing his fist into Seth again, the splitting of bone is audible and chilling. He howls, “I don’t want your sacrifices–I want your love; I don’t want your offerings–I want you to know Me. Hosea 6:6! Don't sacrifice your children in the fires of your altars - Deuteronomy 18:10. If you knew my commands and my words you would know I didn't make Abram burn his son to me, I rescinded my command because I am merciful! You would know this was a test, and you failed!”
Seth argues back through a split lip, his voice quavering, “The priests shall burn all this on the altar along with the burnt offerings. The smell of this food offering is pleasing to the Lord. Leviticus 3:5”
Alpha spits out with bitter rage, “If I were hungry I would not tell you, for the world and everything in it is mine... Let the giving of thanks be your sacrifice to god. Psalms 50:12” Then he laughs and quotes Ezekiel: “I gave them laws that are not good and commands that do not bring life. I let them defile themselves with their own offerings, and I let them sacrifice their first born sons. This was to punish them and show them that I am the lord. (Ezekiel 20:25). The life of every person belongs to me, the life of the parent as well as that of the child. Ezekiel 18:4. And that's your undoing Seth! You can't give to me what is already mine. Every life you stole was mine, you are a thief in your father's house! You ignore what I tell you and rely on violence and deceit. You are guilty! Isaiah 30:12.”
“But, what about when you punished them by taking babies? By chopping them up? By inciting that violence to punish them? You have to commend me on being merciful enough that I didn't make them eat the fetus. They're sinners and infidels! They are not believers!” shouts Seth, struggling to get out from under God's wrath.
“You stupid fuck! You are just like your mother. The second I trust you, you turn around and stick a knife in my heart!”
I'm staring at Alpha, and I can't stop thinking of what I'd say in Seth's place; You created every part of me; you put me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because you are to be feared. Psalms 139:13.
Alpha looks at me, giving the slightest of nods, moving off Seth and stooping over Shauna, covering her with his enormous bulk, and I thought it would destroy me to do this but I am the hand of vengeance this day.
This is for Shauna you despicable scum.
Squeezing the trigger, I empty five rounds into Seth, lowering my arm, my chest heaving, my blood exploding, my ears ringing, rage trembling my muscles, making me weak.
Alpha tenderly lifts Shauna, helping her stand, guiding her back to her chair. She's shivering severely, shock as blatant on her face as varicose veins on unblemished skin.
Glaring at us, Alpha bellows, “Clean up this mess and fuck off. And if any of you declare yourselves above my authority, permitting atrocities I did not sanction, this is your fate. This is a lesson to you all!”
Blinking, still processing this barn of bloodshed and sadism, I watch him unzip his leather jacket, putting it around her shoulders, lifting her into his arms black with ink, and walking out.
To the ignorant that was the gesture of chivalry. To us, he just openly declared Shauna as his.
From son, to brother, to father.
Why is she so special? Will she resist? Will he raise a grandchild as his own knowing Seth was the postman's son? He was the only one Eve had access to outside Alpha's compound, and I remember the day they argued over it, and God put her to eternal rest that day.
Victor thought his mother died when he was two. I thought she was a servant until that day I overheard their shouts. I never told him she was his mother. I never told Seth either. They both died never knowing Evelyn was their mother. They treated her like a slave of their father's, a slave bought to serve them.
Wistfully watching Alpha rescue Shauna from the madness of the bastard he raised as his own, I am envious.
Why can't Julie be a dirty angel rescued from her sin; the next Shauna?
I deserve a wife as obedient as Shauna.
God is about to make her his wife.
Oh sister, I pray for your safety... I pray for your soul.
I pray Victor intercedes on your behalf.
~ Chapter 24 ~
Useless, useless, said the Philosopher. It is all useless.
~ Ecclesiastes 12:8
66: Evan:
I’m sick. Quite literally sick. I don’t know why anyone named the last book of the bible Revelation, but it only revealed one thing to me. The angry god from the old testament is back and he’s pissed off. Apparently his son is too, and they return to judge and rule the world after wiping it all out again like they did with the flood. It's all a shitstorm man. Maybe John thinks he’s that John and it's his job to fuck up sinners, because loving them and asking them to repent didn’t work.
I’ve heard of the battle of Armageddon, even seen the movie, but never read a description like this. Revelation nineteen says he will do five things: he will judge, make war, smite the nations and rule over them, and tread the winepress of the wrath of almighty god. (vs. 11-16) A river of blood will flow 200 miles long as deep as horses bridles. (Revelation 14:20).
There’s no way I can imagine how many people have to die to create a river that deep and long filled with blood. This is John’s god. This is who he serves. He wants me to be his prophet.
Like an assistant. To what? Help him spill more blood like when he made me fuck that girl? If that is righteousness, I’m comfortable staying a sinner.
Blood. There is blood everywhere in this book. The cleansing power of blood. I couldn’t wait to get the shit off my hands myself. I think I’d rather be washed in water than in the blood of the lamb.
I turn the last page, trying to keep the look of disgust off my face. So this is how all that love and gospel talk ends? Drawing some water, I rinse my mouth out, twice; gargling away the bitterness coating my tongue.
The end here won’t be any better if we sit back to see what happens. Eventually our sins will find us out, we’ll slip up like the rest, and John, his sick fuck friend, or his god, will come to put us to death.
Do unto others and all that shit. I look up.
I’m still hungry. I need a distraction. I drop down and do push ups. I’m startled to find I can only do thirty, and then I’m winded. Too weak.
I’ll have to fix that. I don’t know if god or John will be pleased at my working out: seems they like to keep us weak and humble. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll want his prophet to be strong, and he’ll see it as a sign from god that I’m the real deal.
Either that, or I’ll get strong enough to choke him when he comes for me.
Rolling over, I knock out a few crunches, until my gut stops growling. When I can’t do any more, I roll to my feet and sit on the futon, staring at the door.
Waiting.
•
19: Andrew:
I pace if off. It’s the same cell, at least the same size exactly. The walls are the same stone, the door the same steel. Sure the inside has a few more comforts, but it’s still a prison cell.
I can walk around. Drink. Shower. Read, but only the bible. Repeat.
Bored. Restless. I need out. I need to smell fresh air, stare out a window at passing clouds, watch a game of football and drink a beer. Drive a car. Hell, even run a mile or two. Anything but this tedium.
The more I read of the bible though, the less likely that seems. Bored with the same new testament stuff, I turned to the old, and I’m horrified. From the beginning, it's filled with slaughter, guts, and bloodshed. I never read this kind of stuff in there before. Hell if I’d known, I would’ve read it sooner. It's the original horror novel.
In high school, my English teacher made me read Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s book One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. I didn’t want to at first, but then I got into it. A Russian prisoner describes his daily routine. It’s compelling. It’s hard to believe at first, and makes me think of this. Who would believe these experiences if I wrote them down?
The old testament is like that for me. I didn’t want to read it, but I started out of boredom. Now I can’t stop. These Israelites and their god go back and forth like a Rocky movie. The Jews get knocked down over and over, but instead of just throwing in the towel, they get back up again and again.
Well I ain’t Jewish, not from anywhere close to Israel, but I think now I’ve seen the wrath of god through his nutty servant John. It’s time to get back up off the canvas and deliver the motherfucking knockout punch.
I keep readin', not just for show now, but because I have to know what happens next. Every now and then I lift my eyes to the heavens and mutter a praise or two for the cameras.
I try not to think about how hungry I am, and what will happen to us if John never comes back.
•
Preacher John:
Dawdling into the satanarium with a bag of burgers and fries, my morning has depleted me.
I need comfort, I need an escape. I need my own Shauna.
Shuffling up the steps to my quarters, I unlock the door, standing on the threshold, getting hit by the revulsive wave of vomit and blood.
Stench. My house smells like a fucking sewer.
Strolling to my bedroom and its pristine white linen, walls, and floor, I sag onto the edge of my bed, unzip my jacket and shrug it off, then flop wearily back, tempted to doze.
It's a relief to wallow in the glorious freedom of air on skin. It soothes with heavenly caresses, but doesn't rejuvenate my stale mind, or mend my frayed heart.
I kick off my boots using my feet, unbutton my leather jeans and scoot them off, leaving them to crumple at my ankles.
Naked, I close my eyes, taking long slow inhalations, wishing the image of a scalpel to her belly would fuck off and leave me alone already.
I require respite from sin. The horrors of life are endless. I'm tired of the mess, of the work, of the faithless.
Shoving myself into a sitting position, I stare at my open closet, every item hanging in it as faded and black as holocaust eyes.
I wear the colors of a bruised soul.
There is no joy in my home. No scent of fresh bread, newly laundered linen, or a soft hand to ease my aches. Few windows and no vase of flowers for cheerful conflict with the monotony of this dilapidated building. It's functional, minimalist, and barren.
It's fucking desolate. All this toil and no fruit, no harvest, nothing to make me proud.
Sighing, feeling melancholy and decrepit, I step out of my crumpled trousers, choosing to don faded charcoal denim and a matching t-shirt. Comfort, I crave comfort.
And I want a white t-shirt. I'm sick of being the angel of death. Screw rules and regulations, monotony is the anathema of life. Monochromatic clothing is something I've had my fill of. I'm beginning to get why the hippies went berserk with the spectrum after the hideous grays of the postwar world.
The rainbow is god's, so how come I can't step out of this dull existence and spruce up my shitty choices?
Yanking the bleak threads on, slipping on loafers, I walk out of my sanctuary, pausing to examine the screens of my redeemed flock.
Julie stares at me through a puffy black eye, her lips swollen, her nose covered in plaster.
You're back!
Sitting down, eagerly surveying her, she is more bandage than flesh, but God has chosen to put her on the same floor as the redeemed. Just below my bedroom, underneath me where she belongs.
Miasma suffocates my soul to think Seth touched her. Did he harvest her womb while she was under anesthetic?
If I could, I'd kill him again! Light him up like the fucking 4th of July.
The gloom is instantly evacuated with this fresh ray of sunshine planted back inside my insipid cage. With a spring in my step I grab the communion and manna stash, bounding down the stairs to get the wine to fortify my parish, swinging the bag of munchies with jubilation.
It is time we drank, feasted, and took our communion together.
•
72: Evan:
The doors unlock with the abrasive shuffle of metal scraping metal, opening with the suction release of breaking a seal.
Unsure of what to expect, I push the door wide, waiting for all hell to unleash, only stepping onto the wide walkway when nothing untoward occurs.
The huffing and puffing of the tiny chick with rust hair pulls me to her door, and I open it for her, offering the briefest of glances, hoping she can see the smile of friendship in my eyes before I remask with stoniness.
It pays to be guarded with emotions and interest in this shit-hole.
John's downstairs, whistling for our attention, “Come on you lazy fuckers. It's time you went to church.”
A sandy haired dude sidles up to me where John can't see us from his vantage, whispering, “We can take him. We have t
o try.”
Shaking my head, keeping tight lipped, I mutter while looking down, hoping there is no camera view to see me whisper, “Eyes and ears everywhere. Shut the fuck up.”
Striding to put distance between us, I watch the heavenly tush of lil miss scarlet walking down the stairs.
Dang, I've been celibate for way too long.
~ Chapter 25 ~
salt represents the covenant between you and God
~ Leviticus 2:13
66: Evan:
He leads us into his communion room, where basically he has a mishmash ensemble of bargain basement pews and kneeling stools.
Sitting down at his order, the smell of fries hits my olfactory nerve like a comet impaling the moon. If I'd known playing his twisted game would come with perks like this, I'd have made it my mission to convince him months ago.
“Kneel,” he orders us, and I dip off the pew, planting my knees on faded blue velvet.
I wonder how many young boys lost their virginity on this item before it was sold off as a way to eradicate DNA evidence.
I'm sure it's seen its fair share of blood and semen.
I need to quit thinking like this, I need to eat and I'm killing my appetite.
John strolls down the line, dropping 'seeds' into our mouths.
I know why they call the head honcho Lord. He's the drug-lord who keeps them all dependent on him. Edgy and addicted, ready to go batshit to protect their supplier. And it's clearly one of the ways he generates capital to keep hordes of innocent folks prisoner to his ego, making us his druggies before deciding we're 'redeemed'.
Glancing down the line, I get a quick look at the other inmates, assessing the likelihood of all six of us ganging up on him. Can we overpower a paranoid schizophrenic who has a tetchy trigger finger?
Three sets of boobs stick out from emaciated forms, and I'm grateful I'm not a chick. Walking around in boxers has become normal. I'm a permanent couch potato, all I'm missing is the wife with a cigarette in her mouth shouting at me, dragging me down by pointing out I'm a loser who walks around in a permanent state of undress and an ache to indulge in the luxuries of life.
