by J. Thorn
“I thought you were coming around. Your muscle movement betrayed you. Don’t worry, only a trained eye would see it.” Alex pulled the surgical mask up over his mouth as he spoke, concealing the movement of his jaw. “Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is John. I’m not the Revelator or whatever shit they say I am. They think I’m a priest, and as soon as they realize I’m not, I’m dead. So if you’re not going to help me, sound the alarm and end it now. I have no desire to suffer more than I have to.”
“Calm down, you fucking hothead. If I was part of the Covenant your ass would be hanging on a cross down in Public Square. My name is Alex and you’re damn lucky your threads are legit. If they knew you stole these, man, you’d be in a world of hurt. Ever heard of the Inquisition?”
“What’s that? A metal band?”
“Don’t be an asshole. I’m trying to help.”
“Wasn’t trying to be. Just wanted to lighten the mood a bit. Yeah, I know the time. The Catholics in Spain did nasty shit to the Jews and Muslims in the name of God.”
“Well, from what I’ve heard, the Holy Covenant makes the Inquisition look like the Geauga County Fair.”
“Rednecks and Amish sucking down flat beer and funnel cake?”
Alex muffled his laugh into a cough as one of the other priests headed in his direction. John picked up on Alex’s body language and shut both eyes.
“How is he doing?”
“Same as when you asked me five minutes ago,” Alex replied, as he rolled his eyes and struggled to keep his balled fists from delivering shots to the man’s face.
“You would be wise to hold your tongue, doctor.” The last word slithered from his lips.
Alex watched the priest continue on his way toward the old bingo board hanging in the back of the parish hall. For decades, parishioners had gathered to smoke, gamble, and spread rumors, feet beneath the altar. The priest walked up the handicapped ramp toward the ground floor of the church. The other priest went to the far end of the cots and sat at a desk, his back to the hall.
“Don’t move, John,” Alex said.
He pulled a syringe and flask of liquid from one of the bags on the floor. With lightning speed, Alex injected the three soldiers closest to John’s cot. He refilled the syringe and injected the others. The priest at the desk continued flipping through paperwork, oblivious to what took place behind him. Alex walked back to John and bent down so that he could look into his face.
“They won’t be waking up again.”
“You killed them!”
“This is war, Gandhi. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, those sons of bitches have been emptying clips on innocent civilians. Do you want to live or not?”
John twitched, but did not move his head.
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Then do exactly as I say or hang next to Jesus Christ upstairs.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to slip Father Paperpusher over there a nice dose of drugs. Should knock him out for a while and give me a chance to work. As soon as I get to his desk, start taking off your clothes. I have no clue when another priest might come down here and we don’t have time to spare.”
Alex walked past the soldiers that lay dying on the cot. The cyanide poisoning would not be obvious to the priests and he doubted anyone would be able to perform an autopsy. Alex heard the priest sigh over an accounting error as he slid the needle into the back of his neck. The priest froze and slid down into his chair. Alex nudged him forward so that it appeared he had fallen asleep on the desk, like an anxious college freshman the night before an exam.
John took off his clothes and at the same time, Alex stripped the soldier closest to him. Within a minute, Alex had thrown the camo to John. John tossed the black garments and white collar to Alex, who placed it on the dead soldier. He pushed the soldier’s cart toward John and slid it in between the others.
The vest fell on John’s shoulders as another priest descended from the church above. He stood next to Alex, at attention. He hoped Alex knew what to do next.
“Doctor, how is John the Revelator?”
Father stepped around and gazed at the costumed soldier’s dead, false-priest face with pride. It did not matter what the Cardinals whispered, Father knew this was the Revelator. He could feel the certainty.
“He is still out, Father. I would like to take a closer look at him in my office. Can I have this soldier escort me? He seems to be doing much better and wishes to serve the Lord again.”
The high priest beamed with admiration at Alex.
“Of course, doctor. Wheel John to the back door and I will send the freight elevator down. You can load him into a troop carrier and I’ll have a driver take you there.”
“No need, Father. This soldier can drive it. We can’t spare another man in the battle with the Infidels.”
“Yes, you are correct. The light of God has illuminated your soul and it warms my heart.”
“I feel his love, Father.”
Alex felt the salty blood on his tongue as his teeth bit into his lip.
John grabbed the cot with the dead soldier dressed in black and wheeled it toward the elevator. The priest turned and ascended the steps. Alex and John stood motionless next to the elevator as the motor roared to life. The soldiers tied the church’s electrical system into the generators and sent the freight elevator down. John pushed the gurney inside and Alex shut the door. As the elevator began its return trip back up, Alex spoke.
“When we get to the top, get us into the vehicle. If anyone stops us or looks at us with a second glance, open fire and run for the truck.”
“The last gun I fired was a cap gun,” said John.
“Then you’d better be ready, because that machine gun has a hell of a lot more kick.”
The elevator door opened and Alex saw him. Father’s vestments flowed and billowed, flickering candles all around. Alex vowed to bloody those garments. Father walked toward Alex, paying little attention to the man in fatigues to his right.
“Where are you taking John the Revelator?” Father asked.
“I’m taking John the Revelator into my office, for closer observation – per our discussion, Father. I have electronic equipment there that will allow me to monitor his heartbeat and other vitals.”
A single bead of sweat popped out on Alex’s forehead and ran straight down the bridge of his nose.
“We can bring it here for you, Doctor.”
“Umm, yes Father, I have no doubt that you could. However, I am unsure of John’s condition and would not want to lose him in that cold, damp basement.”
Father paused and glared at Alex. He turned in the direction of John, and addressed him, but kept his eyes on Alex the entire time.
“If this man does anything out of the ordinary, anything, send him to meet the Maker.”
“Yes Father,” John replied, garbling his words in an attempt to disguise his own voice.
“I have seen the light, Father. I serve the Lord.”
“Let’s hope you are truthful as well as subservient.”
Father turned to speak to another priest. Alex looked at John and exhaled a sigh of relief. They left the front door of the church and had three other soldiers help them carry the cot down the steps. The dead soldier in priest’s clothing filled the back of the truck. John jumped behind the wheel and Alex sat in the passenger’s seat. One of the men at the back slammed the tailgate with his fist twice, alerting John that he should pull out. As the vehicle turned on to East Eighth Street, Alex threw his head back and rubbed his forehead.
“Take it all the way to Shaker, and don’t stop for anything. The men that drive these would run down their own grandmother for a spritz of holy water.”
John chuckled and took the suggestion.
Alex motioned John to the curb on Shaker, a mile from Shaker Square. John saw red pentagrams everywhere. The truck coughed to a halt, and the men got out and walked around back through the shat
tered door. John followed Alex into the dark veterinarian’s office.
“If they haven’t already discovered us, they will soon. Grab as much of the drugs as you can from those two cabinets and throw it in this bag. Meet me back at the truck in two minutes. I need to grab syringes and surgical tools.”
“Where are we headed next?”
“Damned if I know. Do you know a good place to ‘hail the riff’?”
John grinned.
“As a matter of fact, I do. The Jigsaw Saloon on the West Side books stoner-rock bands all the time. There isn’t a better place in Cleveland to ‘hail the riff’. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Get your shit and meet me in the truck. Think of how we’re going to get across the Innerbelt and I’ll tell you why we’re heading that way.”
“I ain’t leaving until I find my wife.”
“If she was in the Heights area, she’s dead.”
John stepped into Alex and seized him by the collar.
“John! Is that going to help us? I’m not trying to be cold, just realistic. She’ll be the first we come back for, okay?”
“Alright, alright. I’ll meet you in two minutes.”
The two men set about their tasks while the dead soldier waited for them in the back of the truck.
Chapter 13
“Sons of Liberty rise and toss the Covenant to the fire. They are not doing God’s will.”
“You heard it twice?”
“Yeah. I stood by the radio for as long as I could, and that’s what I heard.”
“And you say you heard something else a bit later?”
“Hail the riff. You know where, Sons of Liberty. Get there soon. Two horns up.”
John looked out the window as the dark, empty eyes of the houses stared back at him. He considered the broadcasts, turning them over and over in his head.
“Is there a radio in this thing?”
“No, but I grabbed one off my receptionist’s desk.”
“Turn it on and see if you can pick up anything.”
Crackling static filled the cab as Alex turned the knob on the old AM/FM radio, a safecracker searching for riches in the form of invisible airwaves. The blip of a man’s voice broke the wall of interference. Exultant, Alex backed the dial until the voice popped through again.
“…nothing more than sadistic murderers in a bizarre Holy War of the 21st century. Rise up with the Sons of Liberty!”
The static took control once again. Alex turned the knob, ready to fly further up the dial.
“Wait. If it isn’t a live broadcast, it’ll probably repeat,” John said.
An angry down-tuned guitar roared to life from the puny mono speaker, then faded back into nonexistence as the voice returned.
“Citizens of Cleveland and the United States of America, lend me your ear. The situation is dire. Monsters slaughter friends and families while our way of life stands on the brink of extinction. Within the past week, a right-wing Christian Fundamentalist organization took control of our national forces. Led locally by a priest known simply as ‘Father’, they mobilized the entire US military in an attempt to eradicate any that do not subscribe to their rigid beliefs. The destruction is probably happening in every major city of our great land. They call themselves the ‘Holy Covenant’. The Holy War is designed to root out and destroy anyone that is not part of the Covenant. We believe that the first phase of the takeover is coming to an end. Nobody knows for sure what will follow the ‘First Cleansing’, but rest assured, they will not stop until all of America is under their heel. The church labels us of different faiths, or no faith, as Infidels. They break into our homes and murder our families in the name of God. The red pentagram signifies the residence of an Infidel.
“Brothers in the cities closest to us, such as Pittsburgh and Columbus, have shared similar stories. The military has usurped communication and transportation. In addition, they have taken over the major electricity feeds, with the Covenant controlling the switch. Our scouts estimate 70 percent of our citizens killed or imprisoned by the First Cleansing. We gained scraps of intel from soldiers and priests captured in the fighting. Although they refuse to divulge much, even under extreme torture, we do know that the Holy Covenant thinks it is fighting the Final Battle of good vs. evil. In their eyes, when Jesus returns, they will go with him and leave the Infidels behind in a burning, smoking ruin of a civilization.
“However, we are not ready to lie down and die at the hands of the demented faithful. A band of resistance has formed and is organizing. We have sent cryptic messages out in the hopes that the Covenant will not be able to identify our gathering place. We are the Sons of Liberty, and we will take this country back. Please find your way to our base. Drive, walk or crawl and bring any that wish to resist the Covenant. Find the Temple of Doom where the sun sets on the Old West. This is where we gather.
“This message will repeat for as long as the Covenant cannot find the broadcasting tower. We are not ready to die under ‘God’s hand’. This is our country and we will fight for it to our dying breath.”
John pulled the truck to the side of the road, and killed the engine and the lights. They reached an on-ramp to route 271.
“I know where they are.”
“The Jigsaw Saloon?”
“Has to be. ‘Temple of Doom where the sun sets on the Old West’. The Jigsaw is on the west side and books stoner rock and doom bands all the time.”
“What were the chances that two stoner-rock fans end up in this together?”
John smiled.
“How do we get there?” Alex asked.
“If we take the highway, we’re less likely to stick out, especially at seventy or eighty miles an hour. But of course, if we are recognized, all they need to do is block the highway ahead and we’re toast.”
Alex looked at John, looked at him truly as a person rather than a patient, took a good long look for the first time.
“They were calling you ‘John the Revelator’. Apparently they think you’re some Pope-approved leader of the new apocalypse.”
John nodded.
“I guess if I were part of the Church I’d understand what the hell that means, but for now, we need to keep moving.”
Alex shrugged his shoulders with indifference.
“You’re behind the wheel.”
John brought the greasy diesel engine to life. Exhaust fumes snuck into the cab, delivering the bitter taste of fossil fuels. They took deep breaths from the windows and staved off the nauseous attack. John accelerated down the ramp and onto 271. Corpses of cars were piled seven high on each shoulder, reaching the top of the sound barrier. From above, the scene looked as if a child had been playing with Matchbox cars and stacked them when he was done. Black skid marks snaked across the pavement, even in the dim light of the fading November sun. An arm or leg hung out of some of the wrecks, painted in deep shades of red. Alex found a rusty searchlight in the truck and positioned it on his window. The painted pentagram appeared every hundred feet on the sound walls.
Twice in the first ten miles on 271 military vehicles sped past them going the opposite direction, but neither bothered to communicate or stop the renegade Humvee. John slalomed through the abandoned cars at seventy miles an hour until he approached the intersection of 271 and route 480. There, the 480 westbound looped around and underneath 271. At the point of the bend, a massive pileup, dozens of cars, stretched across all three lanes. John slowed their vehicle to a stop, killed the engine, and let the head lights illuminate the grisly scene.
Both men stared into a wall of twisted, charred metal. Blistered paint bubbled on panels of steel, making the cars look like the scaly skin of a dragon. Doors flung aside revealed darkened interiors where people once talked, laughed and sang together on the way to work or home from a party. Alex got out and stood next to John. They looked to the right side of the metal mountain at an opening extending three feet in width.
“There. Can we force our way through that
?”
John put his hand over his forehead and squinted.
“Maybe. Let’s see if it’s open through to the other side. If it is, we can get a running start.”
The men walked closer. They put their arms up to their face as the unmistakable scent of burnt hair forced the men to pause and cough. Alex stepped down and picked up a pink teddy bear dressed as a ballerina. One eye had fallen out and the bear had dried blood on its foot. Alex straightened the tiara and wiped grease from the plush fur. He shoved the bear into his pocket and fought against the memories of his daughter playing in the backyard.
“Wait here and make sure nobody bum rushes us,” said John.
“Who are you, P. Diddy? Nobody says ‘bum rush’ anymore.”
John flipped Alex the middle finger and maneuvered through the first couple of cars.
One minivan was turned sideways at the end of the opening. John calculated that the truck would be able to knock it out of the way – if they had enough speed. He retraced his steps to Alex, who stood in the white beams of the truck’s headlights. Night was falling, and taking the temperature with it.
“I think we can get through there. The metal rails on the bumper should prevent us from doing any damage to the truck when we hit the pile.”
“Let’s go, Evel Knievel.”
“You dated my ‘bum rush’ comment by another decade. Nice,” John said.
The men got back in the truck. John massaged the gear shifter into reverse. It scraped, screeched, and sputtered. The worn transmission obeyed the command of the driver, protesting the continued backward motion. Back they went, until finally John turned around to face the wall of twisted metal at a distance of three hundred yards.
“You may want to keep your arm inside the vehicle,” John said.
Alex ducked low and covered his face with a jacket in anticipation of flying shards of glass. The truck lurched forward, tons of metal fighting against gravity. As it shifted into third gear, John slid down in his seat and held the wheel.
An ungodly noise erupted from the sides of the truck as sparks shot across the hood. Alex felt like he was in the mouth of a giant beast, fighting to avoid being crushed by gigantic teeth. When the men thought their eardrums might split, the truck collided with the sliding passenger door of the minivan. They lurched forward and felt the seat belts bite into the soft flesh of their shoulders. The truck slammed into the van and started to spin sideways as it forced the minivan to the left. They fishtailed to the far right of the shoulder and faced back toward the pileup as the truck came to a rest.
