by J. Thorn
The priest left Father alone in the conference room while he summoned a driver and vehicle. Father stared at the screen, fascinated by the number of pixels comprising the images. He let his vision blur and squinted his eyes. The number of crosses that arose from the eagle-eye view of the city reminded him of God’s will and his duties as a servant. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fine cigar. The plastic wrap crinkled as the smell of fresh tobacco filled his nostrils. Reaching back into the same pocket, Father grabbed a stainless-steel, military-issue lighter. A piercing, blue flame sent threads of sweet smoke into the air as the nicotine pulsed through his veins like the glory of God.
“Father, the commander is here, along with a driver and security detail. They are waiting for you on the curb.”
“Thank you, my son” he replied.
The bluish haze of the smoke lingered and danced with the dust mites in the tired conference room. The worn carpet slid underneath his polished, black shoes.
“Please alert me of any progress on the Holy Covenant or of any communication with the Vatican.”
“Absolutely, Father.”
“May God be with you.”
“And with you.”
Father followed the commander through the dark hallways of the hotel and into the main lobby. The sound of generators echoed off the stone pillars, casting greasy diesel exhaust throughout the room. The fountains of water normally filled with stringent chemicals lay still in pools of undisturbed silence.
The commander stepped through the shattered glass door of the Cleveland Marriott East and stood next to a jeep parked underneath the canopy, as lumpy balls of white hail ricocheted off the blackened asphalt parking lot. An early November snow loomed high above Lake Erie in threatening gray clouds. The commander held the door open for Father, keeping his machine gun raised and his senses alert. A number of support snipers encircled the jeep. The commander refused to let Satan’s disciples steal the lifeblood of Father. He nodded to the driver while sliding into the front seat, as Father moved into the backseat, still tugging on the sweet cigar.
“Father, are we headed to the church?”
“Yes, but take your time. I would like to get a visual assessment on the results of the First Cleansing.”
“Yes sir,” replied the commander.
The jeep pulled out of a parking lot littered with abandoned cars. The Holy Covenant had identified many of the guests in the hotel as Infidels, and the First Cleansing eliminated them. Records showed that many succumbed to the Dark Lord’s powers by drinking alcohol from the mini bar – or worst yet, ordering obscene movies in their room. And so their scattered cars would wait in vain to get the owners home to places like Michigan, Indiana, or Pennsylvania. Father noted the various license plates, and chuckled to himself, realizing how unnecessary those arbitrary divisions had become. The Warriors of Christ, created by the Holy Covenant, aimed to exterminate the Infidels, spawned by Satan’s hand. Those were the only divisions necessary now.
The jeep paused, as the commander surveyed the ramp to route 271. Although the Infidels had not organized enough to start a planned resistance, the commander knew war well enough to know this would happen sooner or later. He would not be the first victim of a road-side bomb. He motioned for the driver to continue, and the jeep maneuvered around several disabled vehicles on the highway, as well as the bloodied limbs of those who died inside.
As the jeep’s wheels vibrated on the wet pavement and began to pick up speed, Father’s head lolled to one side. Since the First Cleansing began, he’d had little time for sleep. He planned to rest in Heaven, at God’s right hand. They continued driving northbound, passing an occasional army truck going in the other direction.
“Father, may I ask you a question?”
Father enjoyed nothing as much as imparting his wisdom to the flock.
“Why, of course, my son. I will speak with God’s tongue.”
“What is the next phase of the Holy Covenant?”
“That is for Him to decide. The Vatican has instructed us to find John the Revelator, and when they share news of the next phase, we will do His will.”
The jeep left the highway and picked up East Eighth Street. Father used the back of his hand to wipe the condensation from the windows. The damp odor of combat boots did not mix well with his cigar, and he tossed what was left of it out the window, bringing a surge of fresh, cold air that cleared his head. All along East Eighth, Father saw The Sign painted on houses, small businesses, and other structures. The army had cleared most human remains, but the occasional dark-red splatter could be seen on doors and sidewalks.
They turned north on East Eighth and started climbing the hill toward St. Michael’s. The archangel sat atop the highest steeple, guarding parishioners from Satan’s wrath. A convoy of Humvees lined up on the street outside the old church. Father never tired from the splendid intricacies of the structure. Bright-yellow brick, sullied by years of nearby heavy manufacturing, still managed to shine in the muted daylight. Huge wrought-iron fences wrapped around the building, complete with a massive gate at the entrance to the church. The Virgin Mary, fixed in alabaster glory, spread her arms over the tiny garden on the side as she blessed the children at her feet. As if on cue, the bells rang out, cutting through the swirling hail and snow that became more intense as the lake-effect storm slid further south off Lake Erie.
The commander opened the door, shaking Father from his contemplation. Nodding his appreciation, Father exited the vehicle and climbed the five steps into the main vestibule of St. Michael’s parish. Stained, wooden doors shut behind him, silencing the howls of the ragged wind. A flurry of activity caught Father’s eye as priests milled about the church. Some tended to candles, keeping the votives lit for the souls of the departed. Others dusted the pews and polished the wood floors. Near the tabernacle, one priest repaired a golden hinge on the door of the Holy Sacrament. Lingering remnants of the incense teased Father as he wiped his nose. The rush to winter caused his nose to run and his eyes to water. Candles lit the interior of the church, and Father felt the cold chill of the stone walls. Soldiers labored to tie the electrical system into a platoon of generators. Until they did so, the church would remain in the cold dark, like the rest of the city.
“Father, it is good to see you back in your parish.”
“Thank you, my son. How are you serving God?”
“My ears are open to his calling, and my heart is open to his love.”
Father smiled at the adolescent. He could not remember his name, but he did remember that the boy attended church with his mother every week. Father saw the other members of the family, including their father, only on special occasions.
Christmas-Easter Catholics, thought Father.
“Where is the rest of your family? Has God called them to serve the Holy Covenant?”
A cloud of shame, sadness, and disappointment spread across the young man’s face.
“I alone serve Him. The others were not willing to stand against the Infidels and therefore were sent to Him during the First Cleansing.”
Father raised his eyebrows and let a smile cross his face, one generated by the knowledge possessed by the boy.
“His love above all else.”
“Yes Father, His love for eternity.”
Father placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. He turned and walked toward the back of the church, leaving the boy to continue his chores.
The door swung inward to reveal a room on the wall behind the altar. Eight priests from Cleveland’s eastside parishes engaged in animated conversation, standing over a map spread out on a table. The discussion came to a halt when Father stepped into the room.
“Welcome, and may God be with you,” said one of the priests.
“And with you,” replied Father.
He made the sign of the cross and proceeded to bless those in attendance. The other priests followed his lead and blessed themselves. Two older priests parted to welcome Father into th
e discussion already in progress.
“Please, continue,” Father said.
“We cannot risk a messenger to the west side. The Infidels may have already organized and they will certainly take aim at the Innerbelt,” said one of the priests.
“Why? I think they are still reeling from the First Cleansing and will have no interest in organizing Satan’s minions to cut us off from our brethren on the west side,” said another.
“Servants of God,” said Father. “Pray to Him for guidance on this strategy and He will provide the way.”
The conversation paused before Father resumed, his voice rising.
“Let us focus on strengthening our church in preparation for the Final Battle. Satan will not spare any life in fighting the return of the Son.”
Many of the priests nodded in agreement. Father changed the subject with another question.
“What is the status of John the Revelator?” he asked.
“How do we know—?”
Father interrupted the question.
“It is him, and I have reported that news to the Vatican. God has told me it is him. Now what is his status?”
“Alex has been tending to his wounds. I am not sure if he is awake yet,” replied a priest.
“Very well. I will descend to the parish hall and check the situation. Sharpen the sword of the Warriors of Christ and do not be alarmed by the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
The others nodded their heads and began gesturing at the map again.
Father strode past the table and to the steps taking him to the parish hall in the basement. His feet floated down the steps, in anticipation of meeting John the Revelator.
Chapter 11
The light brought scorching heat to her face. The bulb pulsed inches from the edge of the bed. Jana opened her mouth to cry for help, but mustered only a dry wheeze. She looked down at the dried blood covering her waist and legs. A flesh wound in the tender pink meat of Jana’s thigh pulsed with each heartbeat. A sudden flash of memory forced Jana to squint and hold her hands over her ears as the loud bursts rang out in the distorted replay. She managed to kick the lamp to the right and lessen the pain on her eyes and forehead.
Jana struggled to her feet, doing her best to untangle from the torn bedsheet. She fell into the bathroom off the master bedroom. A tired, frightening face looked back at her in the mirror. She reached for a ponytail holder and pulled her greasy hair back. Shards of glass stuck out of her chin. Jana winced as she pulled them out. Using a washcloth, she cleaned the superficial gunshot wound to her thigh. It ached and pulsed, but soon stopped bleeding. Jana laughed through a grimace as she used her clean nurse’s uniform to wrap the wound. Her friends on the floor would make fun of her if they could see her hasty triage.
She pulled a sweater over her head, not bothering with a bra. Her jeans bulged at the thigh where the makeshift bandage kept her wound from breaking open. She reached deep into the medicine cabinet and downed two old pills.
A half-can of soda sat on the table next to the bed, one of the only pieces of furniture not in disarray. Jana shook her head, trying to knock the memories loose.
An earthquake, a storm?
She could not recall. Grabbing the can, Jana let the sugary liquid run down her throat and felt a slight buzz from the corn syrup. She pulled a jacket from the closet, just as the light went out. At first, she thought the bulb had died; but when she looked out the window, the entire street sat in darkness. A distant boom, like eager thunder, rattled the old double-sash windows.
She hobbled down the steps in the dark and stopped in the kitchen. The table and chairs lay scattered, and long gashes revealed the inner padding of the living-room furniture. A black mouth yawned at Jana where the missing television once stood. She glanced around the room, anticipating movement and hoping not to see it. Jana opened the fridge and finished the leftovers from the Chinese restaurant she had visited with John the other night. The cold lo mien unsettled her stomach, but she managed to hold it down.
Bright headlights flooded her living room and Jana heard men yelling outside. She crawled under the kitchen sink and pulled the cabinet door shut with the towel rack. The old pipe stuck in her back, and the smell of dish detergent and brown lettuce made her gag. Muffled sounds, a pause, and then a crash broke the momentary silence. Beams of light scurried across the ceramic tile floor as if chasing cockroaches. Jana took a breath through her mouth, attempting to keep the odors from giving her away.
“Nothing on this level, sir.”
“Check upstairs.”
Jana heard one set of boots leave, while the other did not move. The first man returned to the kitchen.
“Lots of blood, but nobody.”
“A body?”
“No sir, but they’ve lost a lot of blood. They either died on the street or are bleeding out in a gutter somewhere.”
“And do you want to take the chance that even one Infidel survives? Do you?” the man in charge screamed at the subordinate.
“No sir. I am a Warrior of Christ.”
“Then find her. We know she was the only one here. The head of the First Cleansing reported one Jane Doe in the bedroom. Dead women don’t walk. Find her.”
“Yes sir.”
Jana heard the man run out of the kitchen and back through the living room, his boots cracking off the hardwood floor. She thought of the time she and John spent sanding and staining the floor. She thought of all the money and sweat they put into rehabbing the tired, old house. Jana forced the tears to stay in place.
The pair of boots remained after the other left. He opened the fridge, and Jana heard a hiss and pop, and realized he’d opened one of John’s Iron City beers. Her back throbbed from the pipe and her leg began to twitch. Every muscle in her body screamed to be free of the dark, confined space. The soldier chugged and discarded the beer with a careless toss. The bottle of Iron City met the ceramic tile with a pop, sending shattered glass flying everywhere. The boots moved toward the back door. Jana heard them clomp down the steps and rattle off the asphalt driveway. She waited as long as she could before coming out.
The dark house sighed except where the three kitchen windows invited a bit of light from the gray sky. Jana knew she was alone, the intruders convinced she was no longer there. Her aching thigh reminded her of the wound she suffered earlier.
Suddenly a memory burst into her head: she recalled waving to John from the window, teasing him with her naked sensuality. She remembered lying back down on the bed, pushing her face into his pillow, rollicking in his scent. A few minutes after he left, it sounded as if her house slid into the depths of hell. She recalled bellowing footsteps coming toward her bedroom, leaving just enough time to draw the sheet up to her chin. A flash of light, a loud crack, and that was all she could remember.
Chapter 12
“Do you think he’ll survive, Alex?”
“He passed out. He’s not been shot in the head.”
The priest looked at the man that came to serve reluctantly. Alex brought rudimentary medical skills that would have to serve until a real doctor could be found.
“Can’t you do better than that?’
“I’m a vet, not a doctor.”
The priest rolled his eyes and did not press the matter further. Alex considered them lucky to have his services, even if most of his experience had been ridding dogs of fleas. He walked amongst the cots to check on the Warriors injured during the First Cleansing.
Alex circled around to the man they had called John the Revelator. He noticed the white band revealed by a missing wedding ring. A small, wry chuckle rose in his throat as he realized the priests would not notice the slight discoloration in skin. He felt a twinge of guilt for using the narcotics on the man he believed to be named John, but he could not afford to have him confront the priests before he had a chance to hear John’s story. The drugs that Alex used on John would be wearing off soon. For John’s sake, Alex hoped he would be on duty when John awoke.
&nbs
p; He found a dry-cleaning tag in one of John’s pockets. Another slight smile spread across his face as he hid the ticket in his own pocket. The meaningless artifact of genteel daily living took him on a mental tangent. Then he thought of his wife and children, and how they were subjected to the rites of the “Holy Covenant”.
An old transistor radio hissed from the nearby windowsill of one of the basement’s windows. Alex imagined a nun using the antenna to beat the knuckles of a student for misspelling the word “catechism”. He was about to shut it off when a human voice cut through the static.
“Sons of Liberty rise and toss the Covenant to the fire. They are not doing God’s will.”
Alex froze. The phrase repeated, then disappeared. He looked about at the soldiers on the cots as well as the two priests tending to them. Alex held his breath, awaiting a reaction. He moved closer and turned the volume down with a disguised motion. As if on cue, voices rematerialized from the mono speaker.
“Hail the riff. You know where, Sons of Liberty. Get there soon. Two horns up.”
Alex pretended to work on John the Revelator for another thirty minutes, hoping the voice would return. It did not, so he memorized the phrase. Writing it down could become too costly if the commander in charge became overzealous with the body searches. Alex stored it in his mind and began to hum “The Burning Time”, by Threefold Law.
***
John slid one eye open, enough to get a blurred view through an eyelash. If he could maintain the ruse of unconsciousness, he might have a chance to escape. It would take about one minute of conversation before the priests would see through his unintentional disguise. He thought about confiding in the doctor, but hesitated. He needed more reassurance before taking that risk.
The radio on the sill bleated intermittently throughout John’s time on the cot. John could make out “liberty” and “to the fire”, but nothing else.
***
“Don’t look at me. Keep working as you are,” John said in a hushed voice. He kept his lips tight as he spoke.
