The Wicked (The Righteous)

by Michael Wallace

  The mattresses wobbled, threatened to tip over. “Don’t let them fall!”

  She heaved. Getting it to budge was the hardest, and then she got the fridge to slide a fraction of an inch. Cool, clean night air rushed in on her face. She stopped, tried to stabilize herself while giving her arms a rest and taking in gulps of the clean air. After a moment, she caught a whiff of diesel fuel, but couldn’t hear the generator running. Maybe when she got it open wider she could figure out what was going on.

  “Are you okay up there?” Madeline asked.

  “Yes. Going to give it another heave. Hang on.”

  Eliza counted to three, then thrust her weight into the fridge. It slid out of the way, but her changing position on the mattresses threw off her balance. The mattresses bucked and Madeline grunted and struggled to keep them in place. Eliza grabbed for the top of the pit. Her hands caught the edge just as Madeline lost her struggle below and the mattresses fell. Pushing off the side with her toes, Eliza scrambled to get her arms up. Dirt and rocks crumbled from the side of the pit, but she didn’t let go.

  A moment later she was squirming through the hole on her belly. It was night, with a full moon overhead, casting the tire mounds into dark shadow. A breeze prickled across her naked skin. It was the most wonderful thing she’d ever felt. Her spirits rose with every breath of fresh air. She could be at the overturned sofa, fishing out the cell phone, in two minutes. Call Jacob, tell him to send the police. But first, she had to get Madeline out. How was she going to do it? Maybe lower down tires until there were enough to climb out? Quickly, Eliza bent and put all her weight into sliding the refrigerator all the way off.

  She bent over the hole. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  “You’re not going to do anything, you filthy bitch,” a low voice said.

  Eliza whirled around, heart pounding.

  Christopher stood a few feet away. He carried the ladder and as he approached, she smelled diesel fuel, as if he’d spilled some on his clothes. He was a big man, and even in the moonlight she could see the crazed look on his face.

  Eliza stood her ground. “Get away from me.”

  “I should have done it before, should have done it first. I knew it. It’s the only thing that will teach you a lesson.”

  Christopher swung the end of the ladder around, intending to catch her across the body and knock her down. She tried to back out of the way, but the fridge blocked her path to the rear.

  “Get ready to be sanctified, bitch.”

  Chapter Twenty-one:

  The Disciple had found the shed without difficulty. It was in the same spot where he’d almost burned his brother Taylor Junior alive. His father had rebuilt it within a few weeks and there it had stood for the last fifteen years. Mocking him.

  Be careful. Do not alert the enemy.

  He sent Diego into the shed first, but that apparently wasn’t what the voices had been warning, because nobody was inside. Fortunately, the new owners used it for the same purpose as Taylor Kimball, as there were mowers, hedgers, and other tools. And a five-gallon can of gas. He heard the boy clanking around with the can, trying to get it to budge, then finally decided to go in and get it himself.

  “No, you stay in here. You don’t want to get in the way. The rest of this I can do myself.”

  The Disciple closed the door with Diego still in the shed, then reached to flip the latch and lock the boy inside. He opened the gas can—nearly full, as it turned out—and sloshed some on the door frame and around the foundation of the shed. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the book of matches from the Excalibur Hotel.

  Not yet. The house, first.

  And so he moved around the porch and the back edge of the house, spreading the rest of the gasoline. Tumbleweeds had piled against the house and the porch on the north side, and he made sure to soak these with gasoline.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, offsetting the occasional flash of light. No rain, just as he’d guessed. Between the thunder, he heard voices from the front porch. Someone said something about oxygen, but he couldn’t figure out what that could be about.

  He emptied the rest of the can at a spot where the end of the porch connected with the house. The spruce railing had started to split and paint flaked from the shingles on the side of the house. In the dry air of the Colorado Plateau, both the porch and the shingles would be dry as kindling. He pulled out a match and lit it. The wind blew it out.

  Stay focused. You are almost done, and then you can return to Nevada for the falling of Wormwood and the end of the world.

  He turned his back to the desert and sheltered the matchbook between his body and the house. This time it stayed lit. He touched it to the railing and a tongue of fire licked along the top where he’d poured the gasoline, up to the edge of the house. The heat and smell radiated toward him and he had to resist the urge to reach out and bathe his hand in the flames.

  Quickly now, he hurried to the pile of tumbleweed around back and lit that on fire, then permitted himself a moment to watch the tumbleweeds ignite. They burst into flames all at once, like marshmallows thrust too far into a campfire. The Disciple turned to go. One more task and then he would be done. The shed. It had to burn.

  But as he crossed back toward the shed, he stumbled across a path of crushed stone. In the dark, he hadn’t seen it, and couldn’t remember there having been a path on this side of the house, just hard-packed dirt. In fact, he was sure there hadn’t been one. There wasn’t enough light cast off from the porch to differentiate the path, and when he tried to cross, he found instead that he was following its course. His feet crunched again. He could see the shadow of the shed to his left, and presumably the path curved toward it. It took several more steps across the crushed rock before he found his way off the path.

  The Disciple heard the voices again, but there was a sudden change in their tone. A flashlight cut through the night, waving in his direction.

  The voices all clamored at once. Go! Now!

  He ran.

  #

  For one moment, David had felt a peaceful wave flow over him.

  That feeling was nothing like the euphoria of the too-heavy dose of heroin Miriam had given him. That was a sedating feeling, like floating above his body. In the moment when the drug had him in its claws, he lost all feeling for the world, cared about nothing. The others could have taken hacksaws to his legs and he would have sat there with a vacant smile.

  But when Jacob spoke the words, “David, thou art healed. Rise and cast out the demon from thy soul. Thus sayeth the Lord,” it was over. He was instantly alert. Like pulling a stopper, the euphoria of the drug swirled around the drain and was gone. Without the drug, he expected the shakes to return, to hear the demon howling for him to shoot up again, for his veins to catch fire.

  Only this time it was different. He felt his soul, a thinning of the veil, with angels and the Lord on the other side. He felt a connection to the others on the porch, and an outpouring of love from his own dry, withered heart that brought tears to his eyes. These people: his brother, Sister Miriam, even his father, they seemed to him the most wonderful people he’d ever known, and hope radiated from them.

  You are home, brother. Take this chance, it is a miracle.

  David stood up, ready to tell them that he was healed, that it was over, that he would never touch drugs again. Jacob looked stunned. Normally, he wore a mask of confidence, an intelligence and charisma that other people could only envy. But that was stripped away. In its place, confusion and self-doubt. It was apparent to David that Jacob had not prepared those words, had even tried to fight them as they came out of his mouth.

  And then a flash of lightning and when the rumble stopped, he heard crunching feet on the gravel. He’d heard it at the beginning of the prayer, still semi-catatonic from the heroin. A dark warning passed through his soul.

  “We have an intruder.”

  Sister Miriam and Father moved at once. Sister Miriam stiffened, re
ached across her body to a spot just under her left armpit, as if expecting to find a gun in a shoulder holster. But she wore a prairie dress and there was nothing there. She turned toward the door.

  Father grabbed for something behind the other Adirondack chairs on the porch and came up with a flashlight. He swung it back and forth over the yard. More crunching. The light caught a figure, running toward the shed.

  It took Jacob a moment longer, but then he said, “I smell a fire.”

  David could smell it too. There was a hint of campfire, but also a chemical tang, like burning plastic or paint. “Father, you need to wake up the house.”

  “But what about the intruder?”

  Jacob took the flashlight. “We’ll take care of him, you get people out.”

  Miriam burst out of the house, almost colliding with Abraham, headed the other direction. This time she did have a gun. She and Jacob started down the stairs from the porch and David came after them. Jacob held out his hand. “Sit down, you’re too weak.”

  “No, I’m not. I feel fine, and I’m coming.” He felt stronger than he had in years. Even the aching ribs had stopped complaining.

  The three of them made their way down the crushed stone path toward the shed. As they approached, flames licked the edges and climbed the door. He smelled burning gasoline, which explained why the fire was spreading so quickly. At the house itself, the end of the porch was on fire and there was a second, even larger fire around back. But lights were already flipping on throughout the house and he heard the shouts of women and children. The people, at least, would be okay. David started toward the shed.

  Jacob grabbed him. “It’s just tools and junk, it can burn. We need to find the firebug before he burns down the whole town.”

  But he wasn’t sure. Why light a small outbuilding on fire? As Jacob and Miriam—one armed with a flashlight, the other a gun—searched in the direction of the greenhouses, David continued toward the shed. The whole side was on fire now, and it had reached the shingle roof. He could see a latch up high on the door, but there was no way to reach it through the fire.

  He got as close as he dared. “Is anyone in there? Hello?”

  No answer. That feeling must have been wrong. David turned to catch up with the others.

  And then, so quiet that he had to listen carefully to be sure over the crackling, smoking fire, he thought he heard a sob, like a small child. A moment later, another sob. A hot lump of fear lodged itself in David’s gut.

  “Jacob!” he shouted. “There’s a child in here.”

  The other two came running. David took off his shirt, wrapped it around his good hand and tried to get to the latch, but the fire was too hot and forced him to retreat.

  “Around here!” Miriam cried. “There’s a back window.”

  The two men followed her to the back side of the shed. There was a small window at chest height and David pushed the others away so he could smash at it with his shirt-wrapped hand. Together, they pulled away the shards of glass and then David leaned halfway in to see who it was.

  It was dark inside, but the fire through the window on the opposite door gave enough light that he could see a boy standing, facing the window. He wore a t-shirt and jeans and looked impossibly thin, almost like he’d been sick or starved.

  David leaned in. “Come on, hurry. I’ll get you out.”

  The boy’s eyes were deep, liquid pools on a face so thin that the skin looked stretched, like a too-small glove on a too-big hand. He shook his head.

  “Come on!” Miriam shouted from behind David’s shoulder. “Hurry, we’ll pull you out.”

  The boy simply stared at him.

  “Come on, kid,” David muttered. He turned to Miriam. “He’s in shock, I’ve got to go after him. Help me in.”

  Jacob grabbed his arm. “What about your broken arm? Let me do it.”

  “It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt. Come on, we don’t have time, and I’m skinnier than you. Help me up.”

  The other two lifted him to the window. He got halfway in and realized his mistake. It was too narrow. All he’d managed was to wedge himself in the window frame, where he’d die in the fire. The frame was too tight around his shoulders, and the more he tried to force himself in, the more stuck he got. But then, just as panic started to take him, he was in and spilling to the floor. It was hot inside, and filling with smoke. He grabbed the boy, who struggled to free himself from David’s grasp.

  “It’s a lie,” David said. “Whatever they told you, it’s not true. Please, we’re here to help.”

  And then the boy went limp in his arms. David lifted him to the window and the other two pulled him through. The smoke filled the room now and fire was on the inside, roasting hot. He coughed, tried to lift himself into the window, but couldn’t get high enough to get his arms through. The stupid broken arm, it didn’t hurt until he got it up and tried to put weight on it. He coughed again, felt light-headed. His eyes burned and watered. He tried again and still couldn’t get up.

  “David!” Miriam said.

  “It’s no use.”

  “No use? You jerk!” Miriam shouted. “We didn’t go to all that so you could just die. Now get up here!”

  The lawnmower sat just to his side and he wheeled it in front of the window and then climbed onto the motor. The mower started to roll, but he caught the window frame and steadied himself. Standing on the mower gave him just enough height to hook his arms over the window and then Jacob and Miriam had him by the shoulders and were yanking him through. Or at least until he got wedged again.

  “Come on, come on,” Miriam said.

  “I’m trying.” He hacked and coughed. The fire at his back felt like the flames of hell and whatever he’d felt moments earlier—an inevitable feeling of one’s impending death—was long gone. Terror remained. “Just get me out of here.”

  “Suck it in,” Jacob said. “We’re going to yank you out if we have to pull down the whole shed. Ready? One. . .two. . .three!”

  There was a sharp pain in his left shoulder, and now he felt his bruised ribs. He cried out at the pain. Through he came, and then was out, lying on the gravel and breathing the air. The shed blazed behind him, the fire crackling and roaring. Smoke poured into the sky. David crawled away from the shed, regained his feet. Miriam grabbed the boy and pulled him clear.

  The Christianson family worked around the edge of the house. Two women had hoses, while women and children knocked flaming piles of tumbleweed away from the house with shovels or batted at flames with brooms. Father stood to one side, shouting instructions, like a general directing troops.

  They were slowly bringing the fire under control. The house would be saved. The shed, on the other hand, was a total loss. It burned like a torch, illuminated the yard and gardens surrounding the ranch house. David clutched his ribs and winced.

  “What about the firebug?” Jacob asked. “Should we go after him?”

  Miriam shook her head. “We can raise a search party, but I bet it’s too late.”

  David scanned the desert side of town. The Ghost Cliffs were a darker gash against the horizon and in the moonlight he could see the edge of Witch’s Warts beyond the temple. No flashlights or other lights in that direction, but house lights flickered on to the south and east. Word of the fire would be spreading through town and soon all of Blister Creek would be on their way to help with the fire and to search for the enemy who’d dared attack their community. He guessed Miriam was right; they could search, but they wouldn’t find anything. Whoever it was had known the area.

  He put a hand on the boy’s head. “I’m guessing this one knows something. Look at these rags. He’s not from Blister Creek.”

  The boy looked up at him with those deep eyes, and something stirred in David’s heart. What kind of monster would starve and then immolate a child?

  And then, suddenly, he knew.

  Chapter Twenty-two:

  Even in the moonlight, Eliza could see the sneer on Christopher’s face, the l
ust and the crazed fervor in his eyes. He was going to knock her over, then rape her, and every moment he would think he was doing the Lord’s holy work, sanctifying her for the Disciple. She remembered his words and his ugly tone.

  Sanctify her. Right here, in the dirt. Show her, do it.

  Eliza stood naked, 135 pounds before the last few days of forced starvation. He had to weigh two hundred pounds and swung a heavy ladder like a weapon. It caught her on the chest and drove her into the overturned fridge.

  But instead of pushing back, Eliza grabbed the ladder and pulled. She slid over the fridge, let her momentum pull her back. He grunted as he lost balance. She heaved, and then the ladder lost its propelling force as Christopher let go, tried to recover.

  Too late. Christopher had staggered into the hole. For a moment, he teetered on the edge, trying to catch his balance, and then he fell with a cry. Madeline screamed. There was a sickening crunch. Madeline continued to scream.

  “Madeline!”

  The other woman seemed to catch herself. “I’m okay. He didn’t hit me, not directly. Oh, no, he’s alive. Eliza!”

  “Move out of the way. Over to the side.”

  Christopher groaned, muttered something. There wasn’t a second to spare. Eliza grabbed the ladder, swung it around, looked for the darker patch next to the outline of the fridge, then tilted it up so it would slide down into the pit.

  “It’s the ladder, grab it.”

  She hadn’t got the ladder level on the ground below and it wobbled as Madeline started to climb. Eliza hooked her leg around the edge and braced it against the fridge. Madeline’s head had just appeared above the ground when she screamed again. “He’s got my leg.”

  “You filthy bitch, I’ll show you.”

  Eliza grabbed her arms while Christopher tugged on her feet and Madeline kicked and fought. And then Madeline freed herself and was on the surface. Christopher was coming up after them. They shook the ladder, tried to dislodge him, and it seemed that he’d injured himself in the fall because he only gradually emerged from the ground, but they couldn’t shake him loose. He was cursing and snarling as he came up, threatening them, not just with sanctification, but swearing he would kill them and drink their blood.