Messiahs

by Matt Rogers

  She tried to drain the colour from her face.

  She thought it worked — she felt terrible.

  Maeve offered her a cup. ‘Here.’

  Violetta said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Gaia’s lifeblood,’ Maeve said. ‘You’ll be astonished.’

  Violetta let herself look intrigued, then told herself, Now.

  She envisioned biting into a fetid, rotting corpse.

  It worked.

  She retched, doubled over, and threw up on the floor.

  Maeve darted back.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Violetta coughed between retches. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe I ate something… oh, no. I’m sorry.’

  Maeve said, ‘It’s no problem. Here. Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.’

  Violetta retched again.

  Maeve’s mouth creased into a hard line and she gestured to a couple of nearby disciples. One supported Violetta under her arm and helped her out of the mess hall. Another darted for cleaning cloths and set to work mopping up the vomit.

  The floor was clean and disinfected in less than a minute.

  The disciples were desperate to please.

  Maeve resumed her position like nothing was amiss and gestured Alexis forward. ‘Drink, my dear. Unfortunately your friend missed out.’

  Alexis downed her cup, gave Maeve a smile of gratitude, and went out.

  Violetta, you genius, she thought.

  58

  King watched one of the disciples help Violetta out of the building.

  The morning sun struck her face. It was drained of colour. There were flecks of puke around the corners of her mouth.

  King couldn’t help himself.

  Silently commanding himself to maintain his cover, he darted forward. ‘Are you okay?’

  She looked up, and there was relief in her eyes.

  It made him pause.

  He’d been ready to go to war with the whole commune.

  She waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Had a spell of nausea before I made it to the exit. A real shame. I didn’t get to try that water.’

  King breathed out.

  He unclenched his fists.

  ‘Rest up,’ he said. ‘Make sure you stay hydrated.’

  She smiled at him like a shy stranger. ‘Of course.’

  The disciple led her away.

  When King turned around, Slater was right there, his own fists balled up.

  He’d been just as ready to fight.

  King’s eyes said what he couldn’t vocalise.

  Thank you, brother.

  Slater returned the gaze, injecting the same weight into his own look.

  They turned and saw Dane coming down from the farmhouse. He weaved around followers, putting a hand on their shoulders one by one, then worked his way over to King and Slater.

  His eyes on King, he said, ‘Ready to get to work?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your friend will help you.’

  Slater said, ‘What?’

  Dane let the question fade into nothingness. He didn’t take his eyes off King the whole time. ‘I suggest you explain.’

  He was at the end of his tether, sick of being talked back to, and Slater recognised it.

  King said to Slater, ‘I was a prick. It’s my bad. We’re going to do some grunt work to prove we’re taking this job seriously. That okay?’

  Slater shrugged. ‘Work is work.’ He turned to Dane. ‘Where do you need us?’

  It disarmed Dane, provided him some much needed respite. ‘You’ll be scrubbing floors and toilets.’

  Another test.

  Slater said, ‘Fine by me.’

  Dane relaxed. He was satisfied. ‘Follow me. And don’t forget our dinner tonight, Will.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  Dane paused, thrown off by the sudden change of demeanour. ‘You two might be the men for the job after all.’

  King said, ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

  Dane led them away from the mess hall.

  59

  A bell tolled above the church, signalling the imminent afternoon congregation.

  King and Slater pounced at the opportunity.

  The noise gave them the window they needed. They stood up from the scrubbed floorboards in one of the bunkhouses, their shirts spotted with sweat stains, and went out back where there was no one watching. The bell clanged incessantly, over and over again, but they knew it wouldn’t last forever.

  So they talked fast.

  Slater said, ‘Bodhi is fucking incredible.’

  He’d been zoned in with unnatural focus all morning and afternoon. Scrubbing floors and toilets and stripping beds of dirty sheets felt like purposeful work, and he’d relished every moment of it. The feeling had never overwhelmed him, but the chemicals in each compound seemed to co-exist in mutual harmony. He’d never felt all that different, but his mood had elevated ever so slightly and then stayed there all day, without fail. It was a beautiful stream of artificial energy, and he couldn’t imagine what a full hit of the stuff would feel like.

  King said, ‘Right?’

  ‘That was a microdose,’ Slater said. ‘What would a full dose feel like?’

  ‘Maybe a microdose is the optimal dosage.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Slater took a breath. ‘So what are we waiting for exactly?’

  King said, ‘We need to figure out whether Elias is their only security.’

  ‘You think they’re that stupid?’

  ‘I don’t think they’re stupid,’ King said, ‘but they might be naïve.’

  ‘They might really think he’s some Wing Chun master?’

  ‘Don’t get it twisted,’ King said. ‘He is a Wing Chun master. That’s just impractical in actual combat.’

  ‘You don’t sound so sure.’

  King shrugged. ‘This whole fucking place gives me the creeps. I don’t know what to believe. But I say we do it tonight. After your dinner with Dane. We isolate Elias and kill him, then go for the Riordans when they don’t suspect a thing.’

  ‘Kill Elias?’ Slater said. ‘Does he deserve it?’

  King remembered the anguished expression on the face of the corpse Elias had buried.

  He said, ‘Yes. I saw him with a body.’

  ‘Body?’ Slater said. ‘Whose body?’

  The bell tolled a final time, and the background noise faded.

  King scanned the building beside them for signs of bugs, but he knew if they were there they’d be concealed well. And he couldn’t take Slater out into the grassland to speak. Someone would see. Suspicion would arise.

  King gave Slater a look, saying, Trust me.

  Slater nodded back.

  They went back through the bunkhouse, out its front door, and made a beeline for the church. The last of the disciples were filing in. Their mutual excitement bristled in the air. It was like a fever, originating with a small expression of elation and then spreading fast through the ranks.

  King heard whoops, hollers, and shouts of camaraderie.

  Clearly Mother Libertas didn’t require respectful silence during their congregations.

  Respect didn’t mesh with a movement built on the foundations of mind-bending drugs.

  He and Slater merged with the rear of the flank and followed them through the giant double doors into the church. Neither of them had been inside yet, and they realised searching for Violetta and Alexis was pointless. The women would be somewhere in the sea of two hundred followers, ferried into one of the long pews.

  King and Slater moved down the nave, the long rectangular base of the cross-shaped church layout. They could have shuffled into one of the empty pews up the back, but the disciples were disciplined in their quest to fill the seats at the front first. So King got caught up alongside Slater in the flow of traffic, and found himself naturally guided toward a pew with three spaces on the end.

  A young man with considerable athle
ticism forced his way between King and Slater.

  King stopped in his tracks. ‘You good?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the guy said, his face glistening with a thin layer of sweat. ‘Sorry.’

  He was panting with nervous energy.

  He stared at King for a little too long.

  There was nothing King could do without causing a scene. He stepped into the pew and shuffled down to the furthest available seat.

  The young man crammed in beside him, and before Slater could take the space closest to the aisle, another disciple wormed his way in.

  Slater stared silently at King.

  King stared back.

  Slater walked off to another pew on his own.

  The young sweaty guy stared at King without blinking.

  His pupils were swollen.

  60

  King faced forward, trying not to react, but he soaked up details in his peripheral vision.

  The guy was big and thick, maybe six feet tall and two hundred pounds. Beefy muscle and fat from eating at a calorie surplus coupled with long days of manual labour. Maeve seemed to go for a particular type with the young men she recruited. They all seemed physically powerful yet mentally lost, either not intelligent enough to know where they were headed, or burdened by an abundance of options with a nihilistic outlook on the future.

  It was the perfect recipe for a place like this.

  Mother Libertas simplified everything, made life straightforward, gave lost souls a trajectory.

  That alone was appealing, and that didn’t include the Bodhi or Maeve’s skills as an orator and a persuader.

  Altogether it was the perfect storm.

  The young guy was high on Bodhi. Almost too high. He had abandoned all social niceties, staring unashamedly at King without concern.

  King said, ‘Hey. What’s your name?’

  ‘Grayson.’

  ‘Jason,’ King said. ‘How’s that? They rhyme.’

  There was a moment’s delay, too long to be natural, then the joke computed. Grayson laughed — shrill, discordant, detached from reality.

  His face fell and he awkwardly faced forward, waiting for the sermon to begin.

  The only sound came from the murmuring of the masses.

  King stood rigid, and for the first time he tensed up. He didn’t like this. Slater was long gone, sucked into the crowd, and Violetta and Alexis were too short to be distinguishable amidst the sea of heads. The church stank of body odour and dirty clothes, but the electricity in the atmosphere overrode the smell.

  Everyone was thrilled to be here.

  Maeve appeared from a door that must have led to the sacristy — the private rooms behind the altar where the priest prepared for their service. She still wore her patented farm dress, which had a disarming effect. There were no robes or official garments. The beauty of the movement was in its simplicity. Maeve walked gracefully up to the altar and spread her arms wide.

  The room fell silent.

  She said, ‘We begin with the creed.’

  Her voice naturally echoed through the nave. The space was engineered to perfection, an architectural wonder.

  Maeve said, ‘Mother, lift me from despondency.’

  Two hundred voices parroted in unison. ‘Mother, lift me from despondency.’

  King jolted at the synchronisation. The noise was tremendous, then faded back to quiet.

  It was unnerving.

  ‘Mother, free me from complacency.’

  ‘Mother, free me from complacency.’

  It boomed off the walls, off the ceiling, then the echo dissipated.

  ‘Mother, bloom my power.’

  ‘Mother, bloom my power.’

  The disciples were getting more energetic each time they recited the creed, as if they were drawing real strength from each command.

  King stood stoically, refusing to join in, merely observing. Amidst the deafening voices, he looked to his right and saw Grayson had broken out in a full sweat. Perspiration ran down his face, down the sides of his skull.

  ‘Mother, bloom my spirit.’

  ‘Mother, bloom my spirit.’

  Grayson looked to his left. Directly into King’s eyes. His pupils had been swollen before, but now they were almost doubled in size. There was barely any colour left in his eyes — his pupils swallowed his irises. His cheeks were red and beading with sweat.

  A massive dose of Bodhi was hitting him.

  ‘Mother, give me strength.’

  ‘Mother, give me strength.’

  King didn’t move a muscle.

  When the congregation rallied to return the creed at an indescribable volume, Grayson reached into his waistband and came out with a knife.

  ‘Mother, be with me.’

  ‘Mother, be with me.’

  Some of the disciples were screaming the creed.

  Grayson kept his movements hidden as he jerked at the waist, bringing the switchblade around low, aiming for King’s stomach.

  Aiming to tear his intestines, rupture his stomach, disembowel him in the church pew.

  ‘Mother, awaken.’

  ‘Mother, awaken.’

  King slipped into survival mode. As the word, ‘Awaken!’ boomed through the church he caught Grayson’s wrist and stopped the blade inches shy of ripping his guts to pieces. He used animalistic strength, every vein pulsing with the exertion. Thankfully his determination went unnoticed amidst the communal fervour.

  ‘Mother, awaken!’

  ‘Mother, awaken!’

  King broke one of Grayson’s fingers by snapping it back, successfully pried his hand open, and ripped the switchblade free.

  ‘MOTHER, AWAKEN!’

  ‘MOTHER, AWAKEN!’

  As soon as the knife was clear, King brought Grayson’s wrist down, bent his knee, and brought it up. The two limbs clashed, and the knee emerged victorious. It was a shockingly fast movement, and it was lost in the midst of the disciples shouting and screaming, raising their arms to the heavens, some of them openly crying with joy.

  Grayson wrenched his broken, mangled hand out of King’s grip and stood bolt upright, at attention, facing forward.

  Like nothing had happened at all.

  King folded the switchblade in and palmed it before anyone could see.

  He faced forward too.

  His heartbeat throbbed in his neck, every sense heightened, his brain transported back to the fight-or-flight mentality of hunter-gatherers on the ancient plains.

  Grayson blinked sweat out of his eyes and ignored King.

  Like it would all go away if he pretended it hadn’t happened.

  King couldn’t stab him without making an enemy of two hundred rabid cult members.

  He felt sweat welling on his forehead and under his arms at the exertion of fighting for his life, and the sheer strangeness of what had just happened.

  There were ten people behind him, ten in front, and seven to the left, and all of them were transfixed on Maeve, unaware of what had unfolded nearby.

  King stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his would-be assassin and waited for the service to come to an end.

  He was alone.

  61

  Maeve spoke for close to two hours.

  King barely heard a word.

  The chants of ‘MOTHER, AWAKEN!’ had subsided after increasing sequentially in volume for what felt like forever, and then the frenzy of emotion had given way to stillness and the disciples had taken their seats in the pews.

  King sat down beside Grayson and muttered, ‘What was that for?’

  Grayson stared forward. Didn’t blink, didn’t respond, didn’t so much as recognise that King had spoken. He was riding a wave of Bodhi unlike anything he’d experienced, and the failed assassination attempt had left him mentally depleted. Now all he could do was surrender to it and pretend that reality didn’t exist.

  Pretend that the man he should have murdered didn’t have his knife, wasn’t sitting beside him, entirely unharmed.

  King m
uttered, ‘Don’t go anywhere after this is over.’

  He could see Grayson contemplating what he should do. Run, fight with his bare hands, alert the Riordans. None of them seemed like the right call in the middle of a sermon.

  So he sat there and surrendered to the Bodhi.

  Sweat ran from all his pores, despite the afternoon chill. The pain of his broken wrist and fingers must have been hitting him.

  Maeve ranted about the philosophy and teachings of Mother Libertas. She spoke of the mind-body connection, the ability to choose a new reality in each moment in time, the connection to Gaia, how the maternal love the earth spewed could be harnessed, shaped, mastered, channelled into a new life and a new existence and a new universe.

  It was powerful stuff if you were vulnerable.

  King, on the other hand, didn’t pay attention at all.

  All his critical thinking was focused on planning what would happen after the service concluded.

  Grayson shifted and cracked his neck, rolling through the pulsating waves of the Bodhi experience, trying in vain to sit still. A couple of people noticed, and a woman in her mid-thirties sitting behind them put a hand on Grayson’s shoulder and whispered for him to relax.

  He nearly jumped out of his skin.

  But Maeve’s words drowned out the tension. She was an incredible orator. King could admit that much. Even though he wasn’t listening to the words, the way they floated through the church was something to behold. Her rhetoric captured the attention of every disciple.

  When it was finally over, everyone recited the creed for a second time.

  They all stood up to shout the final commands.

  Grayson was on the comedown, his skin clammy instead of flushed. Going through the mother of all hangovers.

  King said in his ear, ‘Don’t you move a muscle.’

  As the final bellowing chant of ‘MOTHER, AWAKEN!’ rippled through the ranks, concluding the service, Grayson powered past the man beside him and stepped out into the aisle prematurely.

  If he’d timed it a little worse, everyone would have stared at him for moving too soon.

  Instead, a handful of disciples on the aisles followed suit, and suddenly everyone was streaming for the doors.