by Mark Tullius
business, a shelter of greed.”
“Greed?” The Reverend laughed. “Our money flows through the people of this country, not through your golden palaces in Rome.”
Potter’s face flushed red. Kenneth saw his father was staying true to their concept of never defend, always attack.
Potter said, “The money you donate to the government comes back to you multiplied by a number far greater than ten. You know it, even if your blind flock does not.” The Reverend started to speak, but Potter raised his hand to silence him. “I’ve seen the provisions of this tax bill you’re pushing. Your church is the only one to receive anything from the collected funds.”
“Because unlike you, we guarantee it will be spent on the people.”
A frail woman stepped forward, her grip tight on a picket sign. “You just want to take everything. So you can control our country.”
“And what exactly is under control now? The traffic? The pollution? Corruption? Scandal? The education of our young?”
“My brother’s dead because of the laws you support,” a voice shouted.
“And my father,” another announced.
Kenneth stared at the shell of a woman, a blond, thirty-something clutching an upside down picket sign to balance her withered leg. Her sunken eyes were dull gray like she’d been slowly poisoned. The sign read, “The Fourth Forgotten” in blood-red letters.
Potter put his arm around her and said, “Her husband was murdered in one of your raids for supposedly not turning in a registered gun. A gun they never found.”
The protestors grumbled in anger, booed the Reverend, called him a charlatan.
“And what exactly would you call this so-called ‘priest?’”
The bearded man lunged forward, his stick drawn. “Murderer!”
Potter and a young man, with a blue bandanna covering half his face, grabbed his arm, urged him not make matters worse for himself, for all of them.
“But worse is exactly what will happen,” the Reverend said. “As long as the needs of the few outweigh those of the many, then suffering is all that awaits.”
The protester, dropped his picket sign, took off his bandanna and stepped toward the Reverend. “And what would you know about suffering?”
For the first time, the Reverend stepped back. The protester was just a teenager, but his eyes looked like they’d seen years of death. It took a few seconds, but Kenneth recognized the kid. Justin Adams, the brother of that girl who had been raped and murdered. Justin’s face had been splashed on every news station. That vacant stare, his chin dripping with blood after his five minutes.
Wayne stepped in, put his hand on Justin’s chest, but Justin just kept walking. The crowd closed in. The ushers formed a line.
Wayne said to Justin, “You want to get sprayed?”
The protesters stopped. The blue dye took over a week to wash off and it was reason for any citizen to be picked up for questioning.
Kenneth said, “Do it!”
One of the protestors in the Reverend mask started for Kenneth, who nearly tripped as he backed up. The protester said, “Look at me, I’m Chosen, I’m Chosen.”
Another one danced back and forth. “Me, too. Me, too.”
Kenneth felt his cheeks flush. He wanted to shout, to tell these nothings they didn’t deserve to live in this country, but he felt the stutter, the affliction he’d worked so hard to overcome, swirling around his mouth.
Several of the protestors shoved their camera phones in his face. One of them said, “Save us, Chosen One.” They all started laughing.
The Reverend grabbed Wayne’s hand, lowered it from Justin’s chest. “No one will be sprayed.” He leaned into Justin’s ear, but spoke loud enough for the cameras. “I feel your anguish. But you don’t have to carry this alone. We are here for you, son.”
Kenneth watched Justin’s eyes. The anger was starting to dissipate, but then Justin’s hands drove into the Reverend’s gut. The bodyguards snapped out their batons. The protesters drove them back.
Wayne pulled out a canister, shook it, pressed the button. A blast of blue sprayed Justin’s eyes. Screams and the burning mist filled the air. Potter grabbed Justin and pulled him back, emptied a water bottle over the kid’s face. Kenneth barely saw the woman pulling something from her purse, but he heard the shot. Saw the flash. The exploding hole. The blood sprayed across his face and dripped down his cheek. The Reverend collapsed, his head smacking concrete.
An usher pulled out his gun, returned fire, the woman a marionette dancing in the wind. Potter crawled toward her while the rest of the protestors ran, spread out like fireworks.
Kenneth fell to his knees, cradled his father’s head. Their brand new suits covered in red. The hole gushed the contents of his father’s heart.
The Reverend’s mouth moved, but there wasn’t a sound.
Kenneth took his father’s hand. “Don’t talk. It’s going to be all right.” Kenneth screamed for someone to help. He stroked his father’s fiery hair and felt something gripping his jacket. His father’s hand.
“You must lead them,” the Reverend gasped. “Through everything.”
“Dad…”
“It’s all yours now.”
Kenneth watched the brick fall from his father’s hand and gave a small, silent prayer. He sensed the cameras zooming in, the world watching, waiting to see what he’d do next. Kenneth simply drew a deep breath and looked around at the scene. He saw the woman flat on the ground, her chest still rising and falling. He crawled over and bowed his head in prayer. He kissed her forehead to tell everyone watching she was forgiven. Then he leaned into her ear and whispered so only she could hear. “I doubt five minutes will be enough.”
EXCERPT FROM TRY NOT TO DIE: AT GRANDMA’S HOUSE
An interactive graphic novel by
Mark Tullius and Anthony Szpak
