The Wicked (The Righteous)

by Michael Wallace

  He raced up the stairs to his room, then looked out his bedroom window. Flames already engulfed that side of the shed, consuming shingles that had been dried to husks by the desiccating winds that blew off the Ghost Cliffs. The shed door was still closed.

  TJ is going to die.

  He realized this with a mixture of horror and delight. The fire would consume him like it was consuming the building. He would scream as the flames roasted his skin until it was crackling and oozing fat like pork at a pig roast.

  But to Caleb’s disappointment, Taylor Junior didn’t die in the fire. By the time someone from the house spotted the flames, it was too late to save the shed, but TJ had managed to kick out the window on the far side and climb to safety. But Caleb didn’t know that at first. He had watched as thick smoke curled into the sky, as a dozen women scrambled about with hoses and shovels and sent children running for the fields to find Father.

  Caleb wasn’t sure, but he thought that both Father and Taylor Junior blamed Gideon for the fire. That was about the time that Gideon started falling out with Father. A few years later, when Gideon was home from college, someone caught him with some dirty magazines, drove him into St. George and dumped him in the parking lot of a 7-11.

  Caleb’s turn to be driven from home and from the Church of the Anointing would come a few years later. The angels told him it was God’s will, that the Mormon fundamentalists practiced a corrupt form of Christianity, that they would show him the pure faith, and teach him how to announce the coming of the Great and Dreadful Day of the Lord. And proclaim the fall of Wormwood from the sky.

  “Master?” Christopher asked, shaking him from his thoughts.

  “I have to go to Blister Creek,” the Disciple said. “To finish what I started.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The cleansing. If it is to sweep over the Earth, it must come from where it started.”

  After Gideon died, Taylor Junior disappeared, and Elder Kimball was sentenced to prison, Abraham Christianson had swept in to take over the Church of the Anointing, moved most of the Christianson family from Alberta to Blister Creek. The Disciple wasn’t so isolated that he didn’t know this already.

  “I don’t understand,” Christopher said.

  “You don’t have to understand. You’re staying here.”

  “Master?”

  “I’m taking the boy with me. Nobody else.”

  “What? No, please. Diego can stay here, I’ll go. Kirk and Benita could do what needs to be done.”

  The Disciple fixed Christopher with a hard look. “I need someone here I can trust. Someone who is not afraid to die. Benita is afraid. Kirk is afraid, so are the rest. You said you’d die for the glory of God. Do you mean it?”

  Christopher looked down for a long moment, then raised his eyes to meet the Disciple’s. “I’ll do it. But what about Madeline and Eliza? They need to be sanctified.”

  “I don’t have time, I have to leave for Blister Creek. But don’t worry, if we can’t manage, the fire will take care of everything.”

  “But you said they’d be sanctified,” Christopher said. He licked his lips. “Maybe I could do it.”

  He had a gleam in his eyes and the Disciple worried it would be a distraction, that if he said no, Christopher would do it anyway and the work here wouldn’t get done.

  “Listen to me. First, prepare for the fall of Wormwood. Tomorrow night, when you’re done, you may sanctify them both.”

  Chapter Seventeen:

  “So the worm crawls home,” Father said.

  Abraham Christianson possessed a withering sense of righteous anger and David felt the weight of it now, as Father clumped up the stairs to the porch that overlooked the ranch.

  “You’ve sold your birthright for a mess of pottage. You let go of the iron rod and now you’re wandering in mists of darkness. You’re like the idle workers in the vineyard and now you want to be paid.”

  “You’re mixing your parables,” David said.

  But Father was just winding up. “I gave you a talent of silver and you buried it in the ground, just like a slothful servant. You’re the prodigal son, who collected his inheritance and wasted it on fine clothing, rich food, women, and wine. And now you’re stealing food from pigs.”

  “Food from pigs? That’s not very nice. One of your wives made me breakfast this morning.”

  Abraham narrowed his eyes. “Oh, is that supposed to be a joke? Do you think you’re funny? Would your loser friends think you’re clever?”

  “I don’t know, would yours?”

  David had dragged himself outside, where he settled into an Adirondack chair under the veranda with a pair of sunglasses, squinting at the sun. He could use a cup of coffee—to start; in truth he was craving harder chemicals—but the chance of finding coffee in Blister Creek was about the same as your chances of finding a good pulled pork sandwich in Mecca.

  It couldn’t be later than eight, but when his father stomped onto the porch, he was already covered with dust, with sweat rings under his arms, and the hair peaking out from beneath his hat was damp with sweat. He’d peeled off his gloves and tossed them to his feet with disgust before jumping into the first of what would no doubt prove many tirades.

  David leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on the morning sun that warmed his face, the sound of the single cricket still chirping from beneath the porch. Twenty minutes earlier, there had been several.

  “So you’re going to take a nap? You’ve put in a long day, walking out to the porch and letting some hard-working woman cook you breakfast, and now you’re going to sleep it off. Is that it?”

  “I can’t help it. Droning lectures always put me to sleep.”

  “I don’t know why I listened to Jacob. I told him you were worthless, but he didn’t believe me. He seemed to think you could be redeemed. He seemed to think that all I’d have to do is tell you to come back and here you’d be, repentant, ready to change, to admit your mistakes and do what it takes to get back into the good graces of the Lord. Can you believe Jacob actually thought that?”

  “If you see him, be sure to tell him thanks,” David said. “It’s working out great. So peaceful, so relaxing. It’s great to be home in Blister Creek, where everyone loves me and wants only the best. Who could ask for more?”

  “Too bad he’s not here to see you himself, it’s obvious just looking at you that you’re hopeless.”

  “That was meant to be sarcastic, by the way. You seemed to have missed that.”

  “And this is intended to tell you I don’t give a damn,” Abraham said. “David, I don’t give a damn.”

  He opened his eyes and propped his sunglasses on top of his head so Father could look him in the eye. “Where’s Miriam? Don’t tell me she’s gone back to Zarahemla. I understand the two of you have a little wager to settle.”

  “She’s coming, don’t worry. Getting your drugs ready, so you can inject yourself with pot or crack or whatever it is that you’re using to kill yourself.”

  “You smoke pot and crack. You shoot up heroin.”

  “Ah, well if you say so. You’re the expert. Look, here she is now, right on time.”

  Miriam came out of the house with a clatter of the screen door. She’d changed into a prairie dress and braided her hair. No makeup, although she was still surprisingly pretty, and there was no disguising the cunning look on her face. She’d managed to pry him out of Las Vegas where Eliza had failed, dragged him to the edge of the wilderness. The Ghost Cliffs stretched along the northern horizon, with the wide sweep of the ranch in front of them, and a glimpse of the sandstone walls and spires of the temple to the right. Behind the temple and stretching toward the cliffs, the red rock fins and hoodoos of the Witch’s Warts. He felt like he stood on the edge of the nineteenth century, with a glimpse back to pioneer times.

  And yet here was this pioneer woman, in a pioneer outpost, holding a syringe in her hand. David’s mouth felt dry and a tremble seized his right han
d.

  “How are you doing?” she asked in a voice that was surprisingly tender. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Yes, those pills helped, thanks.”

  “I can give you some other stuff that will help even more.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off the syringe. “What other stuff?”

  “Methadone.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “It binds to the receptors in the brain, can stabilize your addiction, help wean you off the harder stuff. Give you a fighting chance.”

  “You’ve got methadone now?” David asked.

  “No, but I made some calls. I can get it. All you have to do is hold out for today, fight through it, then I’ll have it by tonight.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Abraham said. He turned to David. “You want it, don’t you? I wish you could see yourself, that look of lust on your face. You can’t stand it. Now I know what a true addict looks like.”

  “Why don’t you get the hell out of here?” David snapped.

  In his head, a whispering voice. Take it. Don’t think about it, just grab the syringe and shove it in your leg. Hurry, it will only take a second.

  Miriam held the syringe just out of reach. He’d have to get up and grab for it. “You don’t have to,” she said. “You know that, right? Say the word and I’ll crush this with my foot and go upstairs right now and flush the rest of these poisons down the drain.”

  “You know I can’t make it, you know I can’t say no.”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort.”

  Abraham let out a snort. “Like I said, you’re wasting your time.” He stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt, with a look on his face like he’d just licked a wet cow pie.

  “Can you make him go away?” David asked.

  “I think he should stay.”

  “He’s only making it worse.”

  “Exactly. See that look on his face? That’s not being harsh, that’s a reflection of reality. Nobody does you any favors by dolling up the truth with makeup and lipstick. This addiction is ugly, and getting uglier every time you give in to it. At some point—and I mean soon—you’ve got to stand up, give it a hard kick in the crotch, and walk away. The longer you wait, the harder it will be, and then it will be too late. This horrible, ugly thing will consume you entirely. You’ll be a walking corpse, and then you won’t be walking anymore.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  Stop talking! Just grab the syringe and get it over with. The demon sounded. . .what? Maybe a little desperate. David felt a twinge of hope.

  “Are you actually trying to talk him out of it?” Father asked. “What’s the point of that?”

  Miriam ignored him and continued to address David. “Of course you know it, but you’re trying to forget it. I’m not doing you any favors if I let you.”

  David’s whole body began to shake. He scratched his fingernails into the armrests of the chair, trying to hold down his hands, keep from grabbing the syringe. Just a moment with that syringe and the pain would be gone.

  “Please, just. . .just. . .”

  “What?” she asked. An eager hope in her voice. “Do you want me to throw it away? Just say the word. David! Say a prayer, ask the Lord for help. Do something, please. You can fight this. I’ll help you, I promise. You won’t be alone.”

  “Just give it to me,” he said with a gasp.

  David let go of the armrests and when Miriam tried to step back, he clamped a hand over her wrist. She dropped the syringe. He caught it with his other hand. He sank back into the chair, then rammed the syringe through his pants, straight into his right thigh.

  There was a split second before the drug hit his bloodstream and in that moment he caught a look in Miriam’s eyes. Sorrow, regret. And he knew that in spite of her hard words, she’d actually held out hope that he would resist. And David felt a terrible longing to be the type of person to earn the respect and admiration of someone like Miriam. That instead of disappointing her, he could have been the kind of man people could count on, the kind of man who made people proud, who made them want to be better people.

  And then the heroin slammed him with the force of a tsunami, washing everything else away. The rush was stronger than he’d ever felt, it pulsed through his body, made his eyes roll back in their sockets.

  “Ahhhh. . .” He opened his eyes and stared out across the desert.

  “David?” Miriam asked. She sounded worried. “Is it too much? Did I mess up? Please, talk to me.”

  “Shhh, I’m looking.”

  The landscape that had looked so harsh moments earlier was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. How had he not noticed before? He felt like he was floating above it all, that the red colors were hot air lifting a bird on thermals above the desert. He could feel it stretch out in all directions, thirty thousand square miles of the Colorado Plateau. The smell of desert with pansies from the beds around the porch filled his head.

  Abraham Christianson’s voice sounded from a distance. “Disgusting, Almost obscene. Did you hear that sound? Like a copulating bull. He’s so far gone, look at that expression on his face.”

  “Leave him alone,” Miriam said. “You got your way, just don’t say anything more, I can’t stand the sound of your voice.”

  “Hah! You thought he’d actually turn you down? What a fool you are, Sister Miriam. He’s too far gone, I told you that. Lucifer owns him now. Only a miracle could save him.”

  David could hear all of this, but he didn’t care. Father could have taken a pair of garden shears and clipped off his fingers, one by one, and it wouldn’t bother him. This droning voice didn’t even rise to the level of annoyance.

  He heard a crow somewhere to the left, the chirping cricket, and a breeze that tickled his eardrum, and felt like he was a part of them all.

  It’s beautiful. This is the true spirit of the Lord.

  It was the demon speaking, he knew that, but didn’t care.

  “Call Jacob,” Father said. “David is farther gone than I thought. It is time.”

  Chapter Eighteen:

  Eliza tried the obvious first: climb out. She groped along the walls of the pit. Most of the sides were smooth, but after about twenty minutes she discovered that one corner had a pair of boulders spaced at intervals that served as shelves. Whoever had excavated the pit had just dug around them instead of working to dislodge them completely from the soil. Using these as steps, she climbed maybe three feet off the ground, then felt nothing. Carefully, she felt every inch and, just when she was about to give up, touched a thin lip of rock at the edge of her reach.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Stand up, let me try something else.” Eliza came back down. “Here, put your hands on my shoulders. Now step up, I’m going to make a stair. There’s a rock sticking out just out of my reach, but I might be able to hoist you up.”

  She clenched her hands together and got them under Madeline’s foot. But even though the woman had lost a lot of weight through months of semistarvation and enforced fasts, Eliza couldn’t lift Madeline past the height of her own waist. They struggled with different combinations of this method for about ten minutes before giving up. For a long moment there was no sound in the pit but their heavy breaths.

  “How tall was that ladder anyway?” Eliza asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe twelve feet.”

  “That’s what I thought. Help me move these gallon jugs.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “When I stretch out, I’m a few inches shorter than the mattresses. I’m guessing they’re six feet each. We can lift them upright, then stack one on top of the other in the corner. You hold the mattresses in place while I climb up. I should be able to reach the top pretty easily.”

  That was if they could keep the mattresses in place, which proved simpler in the plan she sketched in her head than in practice. It was easy enough to get the two mattresses stacked one on top of the other, and though the topmost mattr
ess didn’t reach the surface, Eliza guessed it was close.

  Unfortunately, the same thing that made the mattresses so easy to stack made them unsuitable for climbing. They put the heavier mattress with springs on the bottom and the flatter, springless mattress above. Madeline held them in place, but when Eliza reached the second mattress, it sagged and bent back on itself. She almost fell when she tried to climb from the first to the second.

  Eliza said, “Lean your body into the bottom one to hold it, then hold your hands up and keep this one from falling.”

  “I’m trying that already.”

  The problem was putting her weight on that mattress. If she could make it in one scramble, she could grab the edge of the pit and use it to support most of her weight. She tried to catch her breath with her face pressed in the dank, urine-soaked mattress.

  “Okay,” Eliza said. “Here I go, don’t let me fall.”

  She dug her toes into the sewn buttons and scrambled up. The top mattress bent back when she was halfway up, but then her outstretched fingers grabbed the edge of the pit. Below, Madeleine pushed and grunted against the slumping mattresses.

  Eliza had it, she got most of her weight off the mattress and Madeleine wrestled it into place. She swung her other arm up and pushed on the edge of the fridge. It didn’t budge, she couldn’t get enough leverage. Her arms ached. Below her, the mattress buckled and Madeleine let out a cry.

  One moment Eliza was clinging to the edge of the pit and the next the whole unstable pile was collapsing. She fell, crashed into Madeleine, bounced off the mattresses, then slammed into the ground. Pain stabbed through her shoulder.

  Madeleine found her in the darkness. “Are you okay?”

  Eliza tested everything, found she was all right. Her shoulder ached, but it didn’t seem serious. “Yeah, I’m okay. Ugh, what’s that smell?”

  Turns out she’d crashed into the waste buckets. At least one had lost its top and the stench of urine and fecal matter and something rotten—was that bananas?—mixed in the enclosed space. She put her hand over her mouth. Madeleine made little gulping sounds.