by J. Thorn
Most members of the Keepers lived in a ratty duplex a block down the street from the Jigsaw. The owner welcomed the patches every night as they helped to keep the peace. The metal and doom bands that graced the stage of the Jigsaw respected the Keepers of the Wormwood. The bikers in turn loved the music and ran unofficial security for the shows. Troublemakers or hecklers invariably found themselves bloodied and dazed underneath the dumpster in the back alley.
The rocker and biker chicks of Parma adored the Keepers. Keepers loved to party, and spent their money like it was nothing but paper. Girls could get whiskey, dope, or crank that would last days. The bikers never claimed an Old Lady, preferring to share the women as they did the alcohol and drugs.
Scully inherited leadership of the Keepers after his uncle died in a motorcycle accident. A soccer mom talking on her cell phone swerved right into the bike, sending it and its rider for a fifty-foot asphalt burn. By the time the paramedics got him to the hospital, he was dead. Sully took the President patch without opposition. The gang mourned his uncle with a weeklong party and then it was business as usual, but with a new leader.
The Keepers, along with their new acquaintances, partied through most of the night. When they smoked all of the dope and the beer ran out, Sully approached John and Alex. They found a table in the corner by the bar, sitting at an angle as if the room slid into a sinkhole. Sully wore two ladies over his vest and was not ready to call it a night.
“Boys! We’ve got cardboard boxes and moving blankets over there behind the bar. It ain’t the fucking Hilton, but you’ll be able to get some sleep.”
The women giggled and continued to stroke Sully’s hair.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” asked John.
“The plan? I told you guys. Let society fucking die. We live on the fringes and this shit don’t affect us. The more of our brothers we can get to return to the ‘Saw, the better. But that’s all we’re about. We’ve got enough to keep us stoned for a long time. We’ve got enough pussy to keep our dicks wet, and we’ve got enough guns to blow those motherfuckin’ Bible freaks to hell. I’ve got a couple of prospect vests at my pad. If you’d like to take a shot at being a Keeper, we’ll give ya a fair shake. How about a patchover?”
The women kissed each other while groping inside skirts and panties.
“Thanks for the offer, Sully,”replied Alex. “We don’t need cuts. We need to figure out what to do.”
“Suit yourself, boys. I’ve got ladies to service.”
Sully and the two women walked off toward the back of the stage. Alex and John looked at each other and laughed.
“I’ll bet he passes out before they unzip his fly,” said John.
“Doesn’t look like it’ll stop their good time if he does,” replied Alex.
“What are we doing, man?” said John. “Maybe this ain’t the best time to be talking. Ya know, after a night of drinkin’ and all. But what should we do? Do you think they’re alive, anywhere?”
Alex took the last swig from his bottle of beer. The warm hops stuck in his throat. Alex felt queasy and feverish. He closed his eyes to a spinning room, and opened them again to ward off the ride.
“I’m sure there are pockets of survivors all over the city. That’s not the challenge. The hard part is going to be finding them and communicating with them. Your wife could be holed up in a basement two blocks from here and you’d never know it. You could spend weeks, months, looking and never find each other, even though you’re neighbors. You get what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah, I do. But part of me can’t give up on Jana. I know she’s alive, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do everything in my power to find her.”
“I haven’t given up hope, but I think the prospects of me finding my family alive are very low. I see those fucking blasts of light every time I close my eyes. I can hear their screams and the pops of the rifles, over and over. I plan on stabbing Father in the throat with a fucking crucifix and pissing on him as he’s dying. That’s what’s keeping me going. I can’t even deal with the grief yet.”
Both men stood up. They stumbled to the bar and walked around behind it. The moon lit the glass block with a low, gray light. As Sully promised, a stack of cardboard boxes stood beneath the taps, and tattered moving blankets lay in a heap opposite the boxes. Alex and John pulled them out and placed them on the plastic mat that kept the bartender from slipping on the wet floor. The bar reeked of stale beer, piss, and cigarette smoke. The stress of the day and the alcohol pushed both men into an instant sleep.
Chapter 20
John took a deep breath. The leaves grabbed at his ankles as the soft breeze pulled them across the forest floor. Many of the trees had given up their life for the season. The maples remained a vibrant orange. They fought the encroaching winter with all their might. John sat up and pushed his hair from his face. The moss underneath him covered most of the exposed rock, creating a lush and natural sleeping mat. The midafternoon sun peeked over the barren branches of the tallest tree, struggling to get to the height it did a few months ago. The golden rays that reached John on the floor warmed him from the inside out.
He stood and walked toward the sound of moving water. The dry leaves crackled under his boots, throwing the aroma of autumn into the air. John ducked underneath low-hanging branches and came to a rocky outcrop. He looked straight down eighty feet to Euclid Creek. The water rushed over limestone steps, cutting a thirty-foot path in the ancient rock. High above the creek, on the opposite shore, John saw tags that teenagers painted on the rock face. The disrespectful symbols intruded on the natural surroundings.
John looked downstream and saw the creek disappear around a bend. Upstream, he watched it emerge from another. He picked up a rock and tossed it into the water below. The stone fell and tumbled for five seconds before bouncing off the rock just below the surface. It skipped down another piece of limestone and came to rest under the water. The creek, shallow at this time of year, would be raging with snow melt in early spring. John thought that his could be the last human hand to touch the rock for thousands – possibly millions – of years.
He turned and walked back toward the moss bed to discover a six-pack of soda, bag of snack chips, and a can of chewing tobacco. John devoured the chips and chased them with three cans of soda. Although he gave up dipping twenty years ago, he shoved the can into a pocket, already savoring the salty, bitter sting of the snuff.
When he set the soda down, John noticed an MP3 player next to it. He giggled and surveyed the empty woods. John placed the buds in his ears and pushed the power button. A woodcut from the twelfth century appeared on the display. John recognized the figure seated at the banquet table. Vlad the Impaler, the historical Dracula, wore a long beard and robes with his head thrown back in laughter. On the other side of the banquet table stood tall, wooden spikes. Each spike held a writhing, naked figure who had been impaled from the anus to the mouth. Above the woodcut he saw “Threefold Law” in a gothic script. “Killer of the Sultan” filled the title box on the display. An ominous bass guitar growled, followed by distant cymbals. The song lurched into an hypnotic riff, beckoning the Hounds of Hell.
John shrank back in fear. When he looked up, a figure stood before him in a white robe. Father held a Bible in one hand and an incense burner in another, the kind Catholic priests used for the Stations of the Cross or funerals. As the flame leapt from the burner, John recognized the unique aroma. It overpowered the natural, earthy smell of the forest in autumn.
He pulled the buds from his ears and dropped the MP3 player to the ground. The leaves swallowed it whole. John stood and faced Father from five feet away. Father had not moved since John first noticed him. His fierce eyes penetrated John’s awareness. Father’s mouth remained closed, but the corners tilted up, giving the impression of a faint smile.
John looked down and noticed that he’d shrunk. A child now, his jeans and T-shirt had been replaced with a white robe tied at the waist. He stood with
both hands holding the crucifix, and the forest blinked out of existence. A blinding light filled John’s vision. When it subsided, he stood in the vestibule of St. Bernadette’s church as the twelve-year-old altar boy at Sunday Mass. Father took a step toward John and placed his hand on John’s right shoulder.
“She is alive.”
“Who?” asked John.
“Jana. She needs you in this difficult time. Do not abandon her.”
“How do you know?” John asked. His voice squealed and broke.
“He has provided the Holy Covenant with all the tools and weapons necessary to prepare the way for the return of His son.”
John looked out across a sea of blank stares. The parishioners sat in the pews of 1983. He saw Brett and Chris from his seventh-grade class. Next to them sat Jacquie, the first girl to make his stomach flutter. He saw neighbors and friends from childhood, his parents, and little brother and sister. The entire congregation moved their mouths in unison to a hymn or prayer, yet the church remained silent except for the conversation between John and Father.
“Why am I here?”
“To remind you, John. We are a part of you. You cannot forsake your faith. You cannot forsake your past. All sheep wander from the path, but God is still shepherding you. Come back to us, John. You are the Revelator. He needs your help.”
“I’m dreaming. This isn’t real. It’s been a long time since I was an altar boy at St. Bernadette’s. Those people out there are grown up, moved on, or dead.”
“A dream has its own reality. The feelings of safety, comfort, and assurance you had as a youth, they can all be yours again. Serve the Lord and He will save your soul for all eternity.”
John flushed with anger. He saw through the shallow eyes of the Father and the deceptive illusion of his past. John heaved the crucifix as hard as he could toward the tabernacle. The cross twirled through the air with the long handle spinning underneath it. The solid-silver crucifix smashed headfirst into the tabernacle, shattering the door and top with a wretched crash. The golden chalice of a long-forgotten priest rolled out and fell to the marble stone beneath. John looked at the faces of the parish and yet they did not change. Mouths opened and closed in silence, like hungry fish groping for food.
His altar-boy robes disappeared and he grew back to his adult height, dressed in the jeans and T-shirt of reality. Father never moved and never uttered a word. Flames burst through the floor of the church and wooden pews erupted in golden and blue heat. The faces of John’s past began to melt. The apparitions continued their silent chant as skin and muscle slid from bone. The only thing John heard was his own panicked breathing.
Stained-glass windows shattered, exposing the cold, black nothingness of the outside. Hymnals fluttered through the air like birds of fire. The roof of the church collapsed, sending chunks of plaster down upon the melting bodies. Dark figures swooped down upon the scene, carrying corpses away in taloned hands. The demons lifted those that had not yet burned and devoured their flesh in mid-flight.
After what seemed like days, the church and all of its parishioners of the past dissolved into a barren, rocky landscape. On the horizon, John saw nothing but red-tinged rock, tendrils of smoke creeping toward the black sky. He turned and saw Father standing in the same position he had occupied since the dream began. Father’s appearance and halfhearted smile did not falter through the grotesque transformations.
“It is never too late to come back to Him,” said Father.
His white robe stung John’s eyes by its brightness.
“But, John, do not waste precious time. You can save your family, your friends, your love, and your past if you come back to us. We will accept you with open arms and shower you with the love of God. I have spoken to Him and He tells me you are our savior. You will lead us from this dark time into a new era of shining faith.”
John rubbed his face and pulled the collar of his T-shirt over his nose and mouth. The smell of rotting eggs made him retch. Distant screams of agony and pain broke the silent façade of the dreamscape as lost souls departed again for eternal solitude.
“Why must you wage war? Surely God sent His son to preach the ways of peace, love for one’s brother.”
“You of all people must know the answer to that question. You are the Revelator.”
“I am not!” John screamed. “Quit calling me that.”
Father’s face twisted in anger and his eyes turned a shade of red.
“You are! God has written of the Final Battle. Through you, John, He has shared His vision of the last war between good and evil. The Infidels must be destroyed. The Warriors of Christ will cleanse the earthly heaven in preparation for the return of the Son. All the souls of heaven must be spared, and those innocent of the earth must join them in praise.”
“And God has chosen you to lead this crusade?”
“No. He has chosen you, John. You are His messenger, His right hand. He has chosen me to be your protector.”
“That is bullshit and you know it. How many times has the Church done this and then apologized for it later? How many decent, peaceful, and innocent people perished at the hand of the Inquisition? How many bled out on the sword of the Crusades? That is not God’s message. That is man’s desire to force others to live as one.”
“The Infidels have raised the demons of hell and sat them amongst us. They have lured Satan and all his minions to the table. They have feasted on the God-fearing souls of the earth for too long. Ask yourself, John. ‘What shape is the world in today?’ Can you answer that? Illicit drugs steal young people from their families. Women legally kill unwanted seeds in their womb. Nonbelievers taint all of humanity, tempting them with sex and violence. Lucifer walks with us. If we do not stand and fight in God’s name, we are all doomed.”
“I will not deny that we face challenges today that threaten our entire existence. But, killing all those that do not prescribe to your ways will not save us. You are mad with blind religious fury, and I will not be part of it.”
“You may change your mind yet, young John. Your eyes have not seen the extent of the brutality of the Infidels. You will come back to your faith and fight alongside us. You will trumpet the return of the Son, the banishment of Satan, and the beginning of the Thousand Year Peace. God’s love will bring you back.”
“We have nothing left to discuss. Wake me or cut me free from this vision and do not return.”
“Or what? Do you think you are in a position to threaten me?”
John blinked. When his eyes opened, he sat inside a three-foot by three-foot cell. The walls and ceiling of solid concrete left no room for windows. Iron bars sealed the cell from the only opening in the dungeon. A six-inch hole in the floor smelled of feces as flies circled and infiltrated the opening of the pipe. Beyond the bars, a dark corridor spread out as far as John could see. Meager torches on the moldy brick walls faded into the distance.
“I can put you here until the end of time.”
“This is a dream, you have no power over me.”
“Then wake up, John. Go ahead and do it.”
John stood in the cell and knew that he could not.
“I will not be forced to do your will.”
“You are right. You cannot. But you will suffer the consequences. Consider our conversation. Think about Jana and the good you can do for the Holy Covenant. Take comfort in the fact that you can tip the scales and help defeat Satan’s army. God will welcome you through the Gates of Heaven, and Earth shall sing your praises.”
John slid down the wall of the cell and collapsed onto the floor. He pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his head between his legs.
“I am through with you, Father. Speak to me no more.”
John did not get a reply. When he lifted his head again, the early morning sun danced through the glass-block wall of the front bar of the Jigsaw. Alex was slumped nearby, underneath the cooler, snoring off the last of the alcohol from the night before.
Chapter 21
/> “The Infidels are growing in size, but they have yet to organize.”
“Are they armed?”
“As best as we can tell, no. There is a group taking refuge in the Jigsaw Saloon and Tavern in Parma, but we have not confirmed the absence of firearms.”
“Why not?
“We think they are remnants of the Keepers of the Wormwood and that they could have automatic weapons.”
“You mean the biker gang?”
“Yes.”
Father blew a perfect ring into the flickering, fluorescent light hanging above the table. He closed his eyes while the smoke wrapped him in its protective blanket.
The other priests sat amongst the military leaders. Men in black robes carried Bibles, while those in camouflage carried machine guns.
The basement of St. Michael’s provided the group privacy and a place to debrief. The generators created enough electricity to run a laptop computer and projector. A high-ranking officer grabbed the laptop and bowed before Father. He wore medals tacked to his chest, and they jangled when he walked. A plain cross held in place by a silver chain sat over his coat. Father noticed that many of the troops wore a crucifix around their neck.
“Father, what my sergeant here was trying to tell you is that we have most of Cleveland secure. That doesn’t mean we won’t run into roaming gangs of Infidels or snipers. I guarantee you we will. However, we have enough firepower to handle whatever they throw at us.”
“When will we be ready for the Second Cleansing?”
“That depends on how quickly we dispose of the bodies from the marked structures. If we can get this done in the next two or three weeks, you’ll be able to commence the Second Cleansing right on time.”
Father looked around the table. The other men avoided his gaze by shuffling papers or fidgeting with weapons.
“Have you heard from commanders in other areas?”
“Yes, I have. Pittsburgh and Columbus are in the same situation we are. They have almost finished with the First Cleansing and appear to be poised to begin the Second. There have been problems in other cities, however. The sheer size of New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles have made it difficult for us to control the situation. In those three cities, an all-out war rages. Air strikes may need to be used to disarm the Infidels and flush them out of their strongholds. Many of my men saw action in Afghanistan and Iraq, and an overweight buck hunter isn’t going to pose the same threat as the Taliban did. I can tell you that for sure.”
