After the Fire

by Will Hill

  “Rejecting him over and over again?” says Doctor Hernandez.

  I try to imagine what that must have been like: the frustration, the impotence, the endless disappointment. How easy it would be to assume there had to be a reason that your parents didn’t want you, that it had to be your fault. How inevitably that would turn into anger, over time.

  “I guess so,” I say. “When I was little I just thought he was mean, that he had taken against me for some reason or other. But looking back, I wonder how jealous he must have been of me and the other kids, how alone he must have felt. It makes me feel like I should have been a better friend to him. A better Sister.”

  “You were just a child yourself,” says Doctor Hernandez. “Luke’s upbringing wasn’t your fault.”

  I shrug. “I guess not.”

  “You said there were times when you’re certain he hated you,” says Agent Carlyle. “Was that because his general attitude to you was different, or are you referring to specific incidents?”

  The memory slices through me, cold and sharp.

  “There was…an incident,” I say.

  “Do you want to tell us about it?” asks Doctor Hernandez.

  That’s a good question. A very good question. Do I want to tell them about the one time – before the fire, at least – when I genuinely thought I was going to die?

  Tell them, whispers the voice in the back of my head. Be brave.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t want to tell you about it. But I will.”

  He nods. “All right,” he says. “Take it slow, and be aware of your feelings. We can stop whenever you need to.”

  I take a deep breath, let it out, and take another.

  Doctor Hernandez narrows his eyes. “Moonbeam? Are you okay?”

  I nod. “It was a Sunday…”

  Father John’s sermon – on the evils of addiction and how the Government uses drugs and alcohol to keep people away from the True Path – is still ringing in my ears as I follow Nate into the gardens.

  I follow him a lot. I know I do. Often enough to make some of my Sisters giggle and whisper things behind their hands.

  I don’t care though, because Nate is my friend and he’s much older than me and I know he’s never going to look at me the way I want him to so there’s nothing wrong with it and my Sisters can just giggle all they want.

  Joe Nelson gives us a bag of lettuce seeds and I start helping Nate plant them, but he doesn’t seem to be in a very good mood today and after about fifteen minutes of me trying to make conversation he asks me to give him a break, just for a little while. He looks guilty as he says it, looks really tired, and I feel bad for him even as my face flushes with embarrassment and my heart breaks in my chest. I manage a tiny smile and tell him no problem and walk out of the gardens and back through the yard.

  The sun is high overhead and it’s really hot and I can feel sweat running down my back and as I walk across the boiling tarmac I realize that I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself. There’s no such thing as finding yourself at a loose end inside The Lord’s Legion – if you finish the job you’ve been given, a brand-new list of chores always appears, as if by magic. I know I should find one of the Centurions and ask them what needs doing, but right now the yard is empty and it’s hot and quiet and it feels like the whole Base is asleep.

  I walk past the Chapel and through the eastern row of barracks and out into the desert, where the ground is dark orange and empty of life, nothing but dust and dirt and dead leaves. In the distance, shimmering in the rising heat, the fence runs away to the north and south, barbed wire coiled unevenly along its top, PRIVATE PROPERTY signs hanging from it at irregular intervals. Between it and me stands a row of sheds and ramshackle shelters nailed together from wooden planks, where most of the tools and machines used to work Joe Nelson’s gardens and fields are kept: lawnmowers, chainsaws, scythes, axes, hoes, shovels, and dozens and dozens of others. I head towards them, the look on Nate’s face as he asked me to give him a break still filling my mind.

  I’m not stupid, okay? I’m not some smitten little girl who believes in true love and happily ever after. I know – I’ve always known, ever since he first arrived – that Nate only sees me as a younger Sister, one who can’t quite hide her crush on him, and I know that nothing is ever, ever going to happen between us.

  The voice in the back of my head never misses the chance to remind me that he doesn’t have those kind of feelings for me, but even if it was wrong – it isn’t, but if it was – the Third Proclamation would still absolutely forbid him from acting on them. And even if he was inclined to break such a fundamental rule – if he was so wildly in love that he was willing to just throw caution to the wind – he would be taking a much bigger risk by breaking it with me than with almost anybody else in the Legion, because – as Nate himself reminds me on a daily basis – I was chosen to be a Future Wife of The Prophet when I was ten.

  There are five of us: Zara, Lily, Hanna, Hummingbird, and me. I’m the oldest, and Lily is the youngest. She’s ten, although The Lord chose her for Father John when she was six. Being a Future Wife is a great honour, second only to being a Centurion, although it doesn’t actually change anything. We don’t go to live in the Big House until we’re married, and that doesn’t happen until we turn eighteen, so it’s just a thing that exists in the future that I’ve never really known how to feel about.

  I can clearly remember my mom telling Father John over and over that I would make him a fine wife one day. Nate brings it up to people all the time too, even when it has nothing to do with whatever they’re talking about – it’s like he’s trying to make sure nobody ever forgets about my special status.

  But me? I get that it’s what The Lord wants for me, but that still doesn’t make it feel like a thing that is really, actually going to happen. Mainly because there are still three years before I turn eighteen, and every single one of my Brothers and Sisters, including Father John himself, is absolutely certain that the Final Battle with The Serpent will begin long before then.

  What if it doesn’t though? whispers the voice in the back of my head. What if you have to marry him, and move into the Big House, and into his room, and into his bed, and—

  I shove the voice away as hard as I can and keep walking, because I don’t want to think about any of that right now. I’ve almost reached the first shed, which is little more than a sheet of rusting metal perched precariously on a frame of tree branches, when I hear a noise from somewhere behind the row of outbuildings. We have diamondbacks at The Base, what sometimes seems like dozens of them, and you learn pretty quickly to slowly back up the way you came when you hear their rattle, even though you almost never actually see the snake.

  This doesn’t sound like a rattle; it’s more of a grunt, like a deep breath being exhaled all at once. I stand still, and listen, and wait.

  After a few seconds, I hear the sound again.

  It’s louder this time, and it’s definitely coming from the other side of the large shed to my left. I walk slowly forward, taking care not to snap a dry branch or rustle a clump of dead leaves, edge my way along the side of the tumbledown building, and peek around the corner.

  Embarrassed heat immediately roars into my cheeks, because Luke is standing in the shadows cast by the big shed and his jeans are undone and he’s holding his thing in his hand. He’s frowning, like he’s concentrating really hard, and, as I watch, he slides his hand back and forth really quickly and lets out the grunting noise I heard.

  It isn’t funny. It really isn’t. I know, without a shadow of doubt, that Luke will be absolutely furious if he catches me watching him. But despite that knowledge, I’m still gripped by the insane desire to burst out laughing. He just looks so ridiculous, so earnest and serious, and even though I understand that what he’s doing is private, I can’t make myself look away. I just can’t.

  Then there’s movement on the other side of Luke, and the amusement that’s threatening to overwhelm me disappe
ars all at once as Honey steps out of the shadows. She looks confused, and it’s really obvious from the expression on her face that she doesn’t want to be here.

  “Touch it,” says Luke.

  Honey looks at him with wide eyes, and doesn’t move.

  “Go on,” he hisses. “Do it. You’re supposed to.”

  She stares at him for a long moment, then fixes her gaze on the ground. As she reaches out a trembling hand I find myself moving, apparently without having made the conscious decision to do so.

  “Go back to the yard, Honey,” I say, stepping out where they can see me.

  Luke lets out a yelp of surprise and twists away from me, furiously buttoning up his jeans. “Get out of here!” he yells. “We’re not doing anything wrong!”

  Honey stares at me with relief shining brightly in her eyes, like she can’t quite believe I’m actually here, that I’m really standing in front of her.

  “Go on,” I say. “It’s all right. You’re not in any trouble.”

  She doesn’t waste another second; she just runs, her footsteps thudding across the ground as she races away in the direction of the yard. Luke turns towards me, and I realize, maybe only a second too late, that I should have run too, because the look on his face isn’t the anger and embarrassment I was expecting.

  The look on his face is pure murder.

  He lunges at me, grabs my shoulders, and drives me back against the wall of the shed. My heels scrape the dirt and my head connects with metal and I see stars, whole galaxies of them, until Luke’s palm slams into the side of my face, just beneath my eye, and an explosion of pain clears my vision. I taste blood in my mouth and I let out a scream but a hand closes over my mouth and cuts it off as Luke presses himself against me, his eyes burning with hatred.

  “Who in The Lord’s name do you think you are?” he growls. “Spying on people? Meddling in things that are none of your business?”

  I search his eyes for something to convince myself that this is going to be okay, that he’s just trying to scare me. I find nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  “Third…Proclamation…” I gasp, around the tight seal of his hand.

  He laughs, and slightly relaxes his grip. “You’re going to tell me about the Proclamations? Is that what’s happening here? I know them better than anyone apart from The Prophet himself.”

  “Then why were you about to break one of them?” I don’t care about his answer, but I’m trying to buy time while my lungs refill with air and I think of a way out of this.

  “I wasn’t breaking anything,” he says. “She’s supposed to do what I tell her. Do you understand? It’s her job to please me. Your job too.”

  His other hand slides up my thigh. I try to scream again but he sees it coming and clamps my mouth shut even tighter than before.

  “I know you’re promised to Father John,” he whispers, his eyes blazing with hatred. “I know you’re being kept pure until then. But after he’s done with you, I’m going to come and see you one night and we’re going to have some fun. A lot of fun. I’m going to—”

  The hand over my mouth and the one gripping my thigh disappear and Luke goes stumbling backwards, his eyes suddenly wide. His feet tangle and he hits the ground as my legs give way beneath me and I slide down the wall, tears springing into my eyes. I wipe them away in time to see Nate stride forward and hammer the toe of his boot into Luke’s ribs with a sound like a cleaver hitting a side of beef. Luke howls and tries to crawl away as Nate kicks him again, and again, and again, until Luke stops moving and just lies still, his eyes full of pain and terrible, awful surprise. Nate raises his foot again, and I manage to find my voice.

  “Don’t!” I shout. “Nate, don’t!”

  His boot pauses in mid-air and he looks at me with an expression of such naked fury that it freezes me solid. Then his face softens, and he slowly lowers his foot.

  “Moonbeam,” he says. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

  On the ground, Luke lets out a rattling gasp as I shake my head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m okay,” I say, even though it’s not remotely true. “I promise, Nate.”

  “All right,” he says. “Go back to the yard.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Nate glances down at Luke, whose eyes are bulging with terror in a face that has turned a red so dark it’s almost purple. “I’m going to take care of this,” he says. “Now go. And don’t talk to anybody else until I come and find you.”

  I get to my feet and half-run, half-stagger around the corner of the shed. I make it all the way to the edge of the yard before my legs won’t hold me up any longer and I sink to my knees on the tarmac and sob until I can’t breathe.

  “Jesus,” breathes Agent Carlyle. “Jesus Goddamn Christ.”

  His eyes widened steadily as I talked, and he’s staring at me with an expression so full of sympathy that I can’t look at it because I’m pretty sure I’ll start crying if I do.

  “How old was Honey?” asks Doctor Hernandez quietly.

  “Then?”

  He nods.

  “She was eleven.”

  Nobody says anything for a long time. My words hang between us like poison gas, souring the air. In the end, it’s Agent Carlyle who regains his composure first.

  “What happened to Luke?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I don’t know what Nate said to him after I ran, or did to him, but Luke never mentioned it again. Neither did Honey.”

  “Did she go and find Nate?” he asks. “Is that why he came and helped you?”

  I nod.

  A tight smile rises onto his face. “Brave girl.”

  You can’t even begin to imagine.

  “She really is,” I say.

  Doctor Hernandez rubs his eyes and takes a deep breath. He looks even paler than usual and his face is furrowed and twisted into a deep grimace, as if the story I told has caused him actual physical pain. He closes his eyes for a second or two, then takes a folder out of his bag and opens it onto the desk.

  “I’ve got a copy of the Third Proclamation here,” he says. “I assume it was transcribed by Jacob Reynolds?”

  I nod. I can clearly remember the long, feverish summer night when Father John received the message that became the Third Proclamation from The Lord, his eyes rolling and his limbs twitching and his mouth foaming like a dog’s. Jacob Reynolds was at his side throughout, his pen poised above a sheet of paper.

  “All has been shown to me,” reads Doctor Hernandez. “The Lord is the Future, and the Future is in me, and all is clearer than ever. There can be no wasted seed, no wasted womb, for we are too few and our enemies too many. A new generation of Legionnaires is needed, Faithful Warriors born with their feet on the True Path. Only the True can be allowed to enter this forsaken world, only those who carry the Light of The Lord, who have received it through me, His most loyal messenger. All else is Heresy.”

  A chill passes over me. The entire Legion gathered in front of the Big House as the sun rose the morning after Father John’s conversation with The Lord and listened in silence as he stood on the porch and read those lines aloud for the first time. The Prophet looked exhausted, like a man who hadn’t slept in years, but his booming voice was as full of cast-iron certainty as ever.

  “What did this proclamation mean to you?” asks Doctor Hernandez.

  “How do you mean?”

  “What was your understanding of it?”

  I shrug. “I’d have thought it was pretty clear,” I say. “It meant that every man in The Base, with the exception of Father John, had to take a vow of celibacy. It said that the Legion needed a new generation of Brothers and Sisters who were descended only from him.”

  “What about married couples?” he asks. “Men and women who were in monogamous relationships?”

  “It applied to them too,” I say.

  “Because John Parson said so?” asks Agent Carlyle.

  I BR
OUGHT THE WORD OF THE ALMIGHTY LORD TO MORTAL EARS! roars Father John, his voice an agonizing howl inside my head. I GAVE WISDOM TO THOSE TRUE ENOUGH TO HEAR IT! I STEERED THEIR SOULS AWAY FROM THE SERPENT!

  I ignore him, and nod.

  Of course because he said so. That was all it ever took.

  “So the men of the Legion were ordered into celibacy,” says Doctor Hernandez. “What about the women?”

  “We were told to reject the advances of anyone other than Father John,” I say.

  “And his advances?”

  “We were told to submit to them immediately,” I say. “For the good of the Legion.”

  Agent Carlyle clenches his fists and looks away. He hasn’t quite managed to compose himself by the time he turns back to face me, and I recoil from the fury in his gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m telling the truth. I promise.”

  He gives me the world’s tiniest smile. “I know you are,” he says. “You’re doing incredibly well. I’m so proud of you.”

  I stare at him. I don’t know how to tell him thank you without saying the actual words, and that’s not a possibility because a lump has leaped into my throat and lodged itself there.

  “What was the reaction to the Third Proclamation inside the Legion?” asks Doctor Hernandez.

  I look away from Agent Carlyle and swallow hard. Nothing happens, so I swallow again, and again, until my throats clears and I can speak again.

  “Some people weren’t happy,” I say. “Especially given how things had been in the early days.”

  “It’s our understanding that people left,” says Doctor Hernandez. “Is that correct?”

  I nod. “That’s right.”

  “How many?” asks Agent Carlyle.

  I think back to the day the Third Proclamation was issued, as men packed their cars and bundled their women into them and drove out through the Front Gate, their faces dark with anger.