by JK Franks
A few months after they first met, Gia invited him to her house to meet her fiancé and join them and some other friends for a dinner party. Steve was a gregarious bear of a man, with a quick smile and an infectious laugh. He was polite, well-informed, and Scott instantly hated him. He could see the attraction and the obvious and deep love the couple shared. Scott felt guilty for wanting Gia, and for wishing Steve ill. He had felt the temptation to cause them problems . . . Gia had already made several comparisons between the two; generally, they cast her fiancé in the poorer light.
Despite this fact, Steve seemed to like Scott, and if he felt threatened by his fiancée’s friendship, he never let it show. Over time, Scott became a pretty regular guest at their home. He helped Gia in the kitchen. She was a good cook but no foodie like Scott. Together they cooked some fantastic meals. It was during one of those sessions that he asked her why she never tried to fix him up with any of her friends. Her blue eyes glanced devilishly up from what she was doing, and with a wink, she said, “Because I’m keeping you to myself. None of my friends deserve a guy like you.”
He wasn’t completely sure how to take that, but he blushed, and inside his heart exploded with raw emotion. His eyes watered, and he was sure she noticed. To her credit, she said nothing more and went back to preparing dinner.
As the wedding day approached, Scott was in turmoil. He had helped the couple with many of the details, and Steve had even asked him to be one of the groomsmen. He politely declined. He knew Gia’s family was far away, and she was handling most of the planning. He wanted to be available to help her if she asked. She relied on him, in that respect, for many things. He wasn’t sure he had ever worked so hard. He helped find and organize the caterers and bar staff, plan the menu and the deejay’s playlist. He was there for her, wherever and whenever he was needed. By then, they rarely had a private moment together, which was probably good, he felt, as he had by now fully realized that he was deeply and hopelessly in love with Gia.
The wedding had been a beautiful event, and Scott was speechless when he saw Gia coming down the aisle. She radiated beauty and grace, and he could tell she was happy. She caught his eye as she passed and gave him another of those little winks and a grin. Scott melted inside, but ten minutes later a part of him died as she looked into her soon-to-be husband’s eyes and whispered the words that would seal each of their fates and lock Scott out forever.
Scott could not control how he felt. He guessed inwardly that he’d been hoping she would say no, run away, or even just glance his way one more time . . . he honestly had no idea what he had expected. He was lost. The rest of the service and most of the reception were a blur. He busied himself with the various details Gia had asked him to handle. The couple was headed to the Caribbean for a weeklong honeymoon as soon as the reception was over.
Scott heard the music coming from the ballroom; the pair was enjoying their first dance as a married couple. He couldn’t watch. He would not flee, although that was his greatest desire at that point. He didn’t want to disappoint his friend. He was helping in the kitchen a short time later when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Gia pulled him close and said, “Come dance with me.” Scott's heart beat furiously, and he found himself swaying. He nodded but could not say anything.
“Where have you been hiding?” she asked as she pulled him onto the crowded dance floor.
“Sorry G, just needed to make sure things were being handled. This is your day, and I want it to go without a hitch.”
She grinned, “It’s all perfect, honey. You’ve made it so easy for me and Steve. Thank you.” With that, she pulled him close into the slow dance.
Scott was glad she could not see the tear roll down his face, but he felt sure she could feel it as her face leaned against his. He prayed no one was watching but couldn’t muster the strength to be sure. As the song ended, he whispered in her ear, “Gia, you are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen.” Scott kissed her cheek, and as he moved apart from his friend, he noticed her eyes were wet too. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t shy away from looking him in the eye. He knew then; he wasn’t fooling anyone. She knew he was in love with her. He was not sure if it thrilled, repulsed or terrified her, but he knew deep down it would do no good for him to stay in her life.
He never saw her again after that night. The newlyweds left for their honeymoon, and Scott returned home to Arkansas. He accepted a job offer and moved to Chicago several weeks later. He and Gia spoke on the phone occasionally after that, but it was awkward, and he thought that she, maybe, sensed it was painful for him. Gia and Steve seemed very happy. She was accepted to a prestigious medical research school on the west coast where she could continue her graduate studies. Scott usually talked to Steve as well; it was hard to dislike the guy. Each time they spoke, they all agreed to get together soon, but neither seemed inclined to actually make it happen. The months and then years slid by, the pain, though, never faded for Scott. He was never completely sure if he missed his best friend or his first love the most.
Chapter Eighty-Six
Southern Mississippi
The Prophet had returned to his former glory. Somehow, he had managed to recover from the unfulfilled prophecies of their certain victory in Memphis. He had even managed to shrug off the terrible loss in numbers and supplies. He explained to his people that God needed to test His followers. Only to himself did he admit that many more encounters like that would leave him with no more followers to test.
He needed a victory. His movement demanded that he be ruthless and lead the Messengers in their mission. He once more donned his robes, as much to hide the other man—that beaten, weak man—as to present the Prophet.
Hawley’s throat was dry as he waited for his boss. This morning’s mission was maniacal. He barely had the stomach for it. He tried to remain calm, keep his face from betraying him, and so he raised only an eyebrow as Michael emerged from the tent. There were blood spatters on his white robe. Hawley fell into step as normal, delivering an update to his boss. “No one has located the runaway yet. Most of the Judges are at the coast but have not yet taken the ship. “
“Why not?”
“They say it will take some time to get a breaching force across the canal. Apparently, the group there has done a lot to keep the town and ship cut off from the surrounding land.”
The Prophet quickly turned from well-mannered to impetuous but reined his thinly disguised emotions back in check. He had much to do this morning. The two men kept walking toward the center of the little town. “That is our ship, brother, our ark! It must be taken, the supplies seized and the heathens inside brought forth for judgment.” He turned and locked eyes with his second in command. “Am I making myself completely clear?”
Hawley felt uneasy under the man’s glare. Michael was becoming more and more erratic—unhinged. He felt something leak from the burned flesh of his eye. He wanted to wipe it away before answering but didn’t dare. “Yes, yes, sir—Your Holiness. I told them to make it happen. They will not let us down.”
The Prophet turned away to resume his slow walk toward the pitiful excuse for a town square. One side of the town was on a hill that gently sloped away to a small river below. Early morning fog rose lazily in silver wisps. “I remember learning in school that Mississippi was the most religious state in the US. Have you ever heard that?”
Hawley did not think the man wanted an actual answer, so he remained silent.
“Look at it, Hawley, it’s like a picture postcard. Smalltown, USA. Barbershop, fire department, city hall. What a laugh. Hard to imagine anyone living in this decrepit little shithole would give a damn about anything but getting away. Perhaps the next life will be better for them.” Michael smiled slightly at the words. “Is this all of them?”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Good. How far are we from this other town, Harrisville?” he added.
“Harris Springs. We’re about forty miles from there. This here is the last real
town on the road before we get there.”
Michael nodded.
The Prophet reached the center of the town square where his Messengers standing guard waited expectantly. Some of the others assembled stifled sobs or sniffed. The mass this morning was not jubilant, but terrified.
The man stood erect, his blood-spattered regalia glowing in the strengthening sun. He looked out at the assembled crowd. “Good morning, everyone. I hope you good people all got a lovely night’s rest.” The group of mostly dark-skinned men, women and kids, were surrounded by his armed men. They watched him silently. “Today is going to be an important day for us,” he continued. “God has ordained it. I know this to be true as He has given me a very clear vision of it. We are taking our message to the heathens of a nearby town called Harris . . . um . . . something. In order to best prepare for this mission, we must incur a blood debt. Do any of you know what a blood debt is?”
The crowd said nothing, dared not say anything.
He continued, “Of course you don’t. You do understand the concept of debt, though, yes? When you owe someone something. Our Lord and Savior, Jesus, paid a blood debt. Paid it for you, in fact. Even before you were born, you owed a debt. We call it original sin. Because Eve bit the apple, she allowed sin to enter the world. Threw paradise away just for a taste of forbidden fruit. But our Lord and Savior, Jesus, paid that debt for us. I see many of you already know this . . . good, good.”
He looked pensive as he paced up and down the front line of men. He stroked his patchy beard absentmindedly. “Today’s mission will incur a separate debt of blood. Lives will be lost today. Yes,” he smiled reassuringly to the crowd, “many will get to see the Kingdom of Heaven in all its glory! To do so we…and by we, I mean you must pay a blood debt—a gift to offset the cruelty of this day.”
“Fortunately, that’s not my fate or my brothers here, we are ordained and must go out and continue to spread the message.
Thankfully, our great and merciful Lord does not require that debt to be paid by us. We are the Messengers. We have been tasked with a much greater mission, a much greater mission indeed, and our work is far from finished on this Earth. That, my friends, is where you come in,” he looked out at the bewildered crowd of townspeople. “My recent vision has shown me exactly how many lives in God’s Army will be lost today . . . It just so happens that it is the exact number of you gathered here this morning.” The crowd tensed visibly, but remained silent, every eye watching him. “Truly prophetic, isn’t it?” He took several steps over to a hastily constructed device.
“Thank you, good people, for your sacrifice today.”
With that, he raised an arm in signal and a figure at the top of the hill clambered out from the cab of a massive log truck. From the back of the truck were strung hundreds of strands of barbed wire, which led back to and around the necks of every one of the assembled crowd. As the giant load began its agonizingly slow crawl down the far side of the hill, the crowd moaned and stuttered in horror to feel the wire pull them closer together in their bunches. As the wire pulled taut, it dug into flesh. Screams and gurgles sounded, neck bones snapped with a sickening crunch, windpipes collapsed and in many cases, a sudden, sickening thwak sounded as necks elongated and heads separated from bodies. The Prophet watched with eyes that glittered in delight as each of the more than two thousand victims fell, decapitated and dead to the ground. This was his crowning achievement.
It was over in moments; too quickly for His Holiness, in honesty. He looked down to where his robes tented out around his crotch. He chuckled at himself. Michael, you weak, weak man. You’re a pervert, but you are creative. The driverless truck was picking up speed now, and the several hundred bodies that remained somehow attached to the wire dragged and bounced after it like a macabre collection of tin cans tied to the bumper of a wedded couple’s car.
He looked over triumphantly at Hawley who had gone quite pale. “Well, that was quite efficient, wasn’t it?”
“Ye…yes, sir. It was.” In truth, the scene had been the most horrific thing he had witnessed in his life thus far. They had been collecting the converts since leaving Jackson, and now Michael had just executed them all. For what? He wasn’t sure. He had never been a man with many morals, but even he was surprised at his boss’ increasing bloodlust. He had heard the concerned whispers, the doubts about his sanity. He was no longer so sure they were entirely wrong.
“Calm down, Hawley. If God commands it, it must be done! While it might’ve been a bit gruesome, we just can’t spare the bullets or the time to do it differently. Remember in Chronicles, where God helps the men of Judah kill half a million of their enemy? God will reward us for following his Word, for spreading his Word. Now, get everyone ready to move south. Bring me some company before we go. I require my own reward.”
Hawley nodded, “Yes, Your Holiness.”
Michael turned to walk away but stopped and looked back. “Not as old as the one last night. She had a bit too much fight in her.”
Hawley eyed the tiny blood spatters on the man’s white robes again before nodding ok.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Harris Springs, Mississippi
From the encampment on the side of the Intracoastal Waterway, hundreds of battle-hardened Judges were busy making preparations. They saw people on the ship’s decks watching them, but so far, there had been no hostile action from either side.
“Those fucks have to be shitting themselves right now,” one of the burly men said with a laugh. The others chuckled, but after the fiasco in Memphis, no one made assumptions about how hard or easy the siege might be. The Judges were a brotherhood: a protected collection of ruthless men. Each was a veteran warrior whose combat skills had been honed over the past year in almost constant fighting. Most had once been police, gang members or military men, and they fought more for their brothers than the movement they represented. Few seriously believed in the Prophet, nor gave much credence to the supposed Message. What it meant to them was that they would not go hungry. That they would not be the ones to suffer. Moral codes were for the weak and the dead.
A handful of the most senior men were looking at a battered map of the local area. One, known simply as Dobbs, summarized what they were up against. “They have all the bridges raised and there’s no way of getting those lowered from this side. Our priority is to get a team across the canal. We need to send our best swimmers across as soon as it’s dark. I suggest we send multiple teams, each of them leaving from a different spot. These guys aren’t stupid. They picked a good location and probably have some defenses beyond what we can see. Peterson, what can you tell us about alternate routes to the other side?”
A wiry-looking man standing to one side leaned over the map. “Looks like they had a ferry crossing here, down past a thick stand of mangroves.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “We can see what looks to be a small pontoon craft on the far side, but no way to get there yet. When our teams get across, this will be a good secondary route for us to use. Everything east is an impassable thicket of trees, vines, ravines and mangroves. It would take us weeks to cut over to the water. That shit goes on for mile after mile, all the way over to a deep bay.”
Dobbs nodded. “What about over to the west?”
“Well, that way is probably even worse. Like you said, they picked a good spot. If you go west, you start running into bayou and swampland in about a quarter mile. We went in as far as we could… wound up losing one of Clements’ guys to an old bull gator. Clem had to shoot an arrow into his head. So, it’s a no-go that way too. Even if we can cross the swamp on foot, I don’t see how we could bring much gear and no vehicles.”
“We need a solution to this. This is what we get paid to do.” The atmosphere was becoming tense with the talk of so many impasses. He realized his blunder too late: none of them was ever paid. “Michael expects that boat to be ours before he shows up. That will likely be by noon tomorrow. Get the swimmers ready to go by nightfall. Chuck, you and Sanchez
pick the teams. Johnson—where the fuck is Johnson?”
No one had seen the man. “Shit, someone find him and tell him to find us some boats. Now. We aren’t going to get many of us to the other side without something that floats.”
“Dobbs, they said they done looked, didn’t find nar one o’ dem boats,” one of the other judges said in a whiney voice.
Dobbs looked over at the man with barely concealed fury. “Look, this is the fucking beach, we are on a canal, over there is a swamp. Every fucking house round here must’ve had a fucking boat. Go and find them. If these clowns thought ahead and cleared them out, go farther. Somebody call Hawley and tell them to pick up some on their way down.”
“A’ight, sure, sure.” The man walked off, still muttering to himself.
“Peterson, go with him and make sure he does what I said.”
Another one of the Judges, an older man spoke, “What’s our plan of attack once we get over there?”
Dobbs looked around the group thoughtfully. “Good question. Ideas?”
Several men spoke in succession:
“Blow the access hatches with Semtex.”
“Use scuttling charges beneath the waterline to sink it. Once she’s on the bottom we can enter from the deck.”
“Grappling hooks over the lower cabin rails and aft deck should be pretty manageable.”
“Cut off the water supply and wait for them to die?”
The conversation went on for several minutes before Dobbs put up a hand. “These are good ideas, but keep in mind we don’t have days or weeks. We don’t want to be standing here with our thumbs up our collective asses when the boss rolls in. Also, and this is the real pisser, we’re not to damage the ship. He wants it intact. So, we can’t go blowing holes in the damn thing. Which also means none of our heavy weapons.”
