After the Fire

by Will Hill

  Father John lowers his head and closes his eyes. Everyone in the crowd instantly does likewise, including me, but I only do it because I’m scared that someone will notice if I don’t. I hear the low murmur of prayer all around me, a sound that I used to find comforting, as if it connected me to my Brothers and Sisters and proved that I wasn’t alone.

  It doesn’t comfort me any more though. Since what happened to my mom, all it does is make me angry.

  The thing is, I no longer believe that all the men and women around me are praying because they genuinely want to speak to their Lord. Some of them, sure, but not all. What I believe now, what I’ve come to be certain of, is that some of them are praying simply because The Prophet told them to, and because they’re scared to death of disobeying him.

  “The Lord is Good,” says Father John. The crowd repeats the words I’ve come to hate more than any others, and raise their heads. “There is a matter of great importance to attend to,” he continues, gazing out at his people. “That of who will take our Brother’s place as a Centurion of The Lord’s Legion, and assume the glorious responsibility of carrying out The Lord’s will here on Earth. I have prayed long and hard for instruction, as I know you all have, and I received that instruction this morning, at the precise moment of Horizon’s Ascension. Proof, as if any more were ever needed, that The Lord sees all, and hears all, and gives no man more than he can handle. The Lord is Good.”

  “The Lord is Good,” echoes the crowd.

  I keep my mouth firmly shut.

  “I have never presumed to know the mind of The Almighty Lord,” says Father John, his voice dropping to a devout rumble. “I have served him to the best of my abilities, and I have done what he has asked of me without question or hesitation. His wisdom is infinite, his will unquestionable, and he does not make mistakes.”

  He pauses, letting the anticipation build. My stomach twists up into knots, as the voice in the back of my head whispers to me.

  You know who it’s going to be. You know.

  The voice is wrong – I don’t know who the new Centurion is. I just know who I don’t want it to be.

  “The Lord does not make mistakes,” repeats Father John. “It is therefore given to me to announce that The Lord has chosen Nate Childress to serve as Centurion in His Legion, from now until such time as he Ascends. Where are you, Nate?”

  Icy cold spreads through my bones.

  He told you, whispers the voice in the back of my head. He made it clear he was considering Nate. You just didn’t believe him.

  I shake my head, because Nate can’t become a Centurion. He can’t. He’s kind and gentle and good and he’s my friend and it isn’t fair, it just isn’t fair.

  Horizon was kind and gentle too. Would you rather the new Centurion was hard and cruel?

  The words slice into me, cutting me open. I know the voice is right, that Nate will be a good Centurion, if there even is such a thing, but I don’t care, I don’t. Because this is going to change everything, and even though I’ll still have Honey and Alice and Rainbow and the others, I won’t have him any more.

  You never had him. You never did.

  “Nate?” says Father John. “Show yourself, my Brother.”

  My chest flutters with panic at the thought of Father John sinking his claws deeper into Nate, drawing him into the dark heart of the Legion. I see him locking people into boxes and beating them with birch branches and putting them on punishment rations and I want to throw up.

  I want to scream for him to run, now, before it’s too late, but I don’t. Of course I don’t. Because I’m a coward.

  There’s a commotion on the east side of the yard as the crowd parts to reveal Nate. He stands easily on the tarmac, his jaw set, his dark green eyes fixed on The Prophet.

  “Brother Nate,” says Father John. “Come stand with your fellow Centurions. Don’t be afraid.”

  Nate doesn’t move a muscle. I drag my gaze away from him in time to see the first hint of a frown appear on Father John’s forehead.

  “Did you not hear me, Brother?” he asks. “The Lord has blessed you with a great honour. Surely you would not refuse Him?”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” says Nate. “That’s exactly what I must do.”

  A chorus of outrage ripples through the crowd as eyes spring wide and hands are clapped over mouths that have dropped open in shock.

  Father John’s frown deepens. “I find myself confused,” he says. “Are you not a Faithful Brother of The Lord’s Legion? Do you not walk the True Path?”

  “I am, Father,” says Nate. “And I do. But there are other men here who are more deserving of the honour of being a Centurion. There are—”

  “IT IS NOT YOUR DECISION TO MAKE!” bellows Father John, his eyes blazing with sudden fury as the crowd falls deathly silent. “It is the will of The Almighty Lord! It is what He demands of you, and you do not choose to say yes or no! You fall to your knees and give thanks and praise His everlasting Glory!”

  Nate doesn’t respond. He just stares silently at The Prophet.

  “Or perhaps you are not True?” says Father John. The sudden rage that engulfed him has disappeared as quickly as it arrived. “Perhaps you are a Heretic, sent by The Serpent to sow discontent among the Faithful? Is that the truth of this? If so, confess your treachery now, as I can imagine no other reason for you to so grievously insult The Lord these men and women have dedicated their lives to serving.”

  “I am no Heretic, Father,” says Nate, “and my Faith is the equal of any man or woman gathered in this yard. So I ask that I be allowed to pray on this matter. The Lord will guide me, as He always has.”

  “I have told you what The Lord asks of you,” says Father John, his voice cold and crackling with danger. “Was it not clear? Or do you doubt the truth of what I say?”

  “No, Father,” says Nate. “But I would rather hear it from Him.”

  Someone giggles.

  I sense movement around me as people turn to see who it was, but I don’t move a muscle, because my attention is absolutely locked on Father John. I’ve seen The Prophet angry more times than I could possibly count, but I have never, ever seen what has flickered into his eyes as he stares at Nate.

  Doubt.

  Fear.

  And in that moment, something I’ve vaguely understood for a long time becomes absolutely crystal clear.

  Father John is a terrifyingly powerful speaker, and a man possessed of enormous, almost hypnotic charisma. He is capable of great kindness and fearsome rage – often in almost the same breath – and his knowledge of Scripture is unequalled. The Centurions are utterly loyal to him, his authority is absolute, and my Brothers and Sisters both love him and fear him, often in equal measure.

  But none of that is why they do what he says, why his orders are obeyed without question.

  Father John’s authority, his power, comes from the central belief that lies at the heart of the Legion: that his voice is essentially interchangeable with that of The Lord.

  Without that belief, there would be no reason for The Prophet’s rules to be obeyed.

  Without that belief, the Centurions would be nothing more than bullies, beating and punishing the disobedient.

  Without that belief, everything would unravel.

  And Nate just challenged it in front of everyone.

  “You may pray on this matter for a day and a night,” says Father John, and I see in his eyes that he understands how unsteady things have suddenly become, how precarious. “In that time, I have no doubt that you will come to see the truth that I have told you. You and I both know that The Lord does not make mistakes, everyone gathered here knows that to be true, and so it will be proven yet again. But I would no more interfere with a Brother’s relationship with their Creator than I would cast them over the fence for the Outsiders to feast on their flesh. If you need to be brought to understanding at a slower pace, then that is your burden, and yours alone. We will hear your answer at dawn tomorrow, although I hav
e not the slightest doubt what it will be. The Lord is Good.”

  “The Lord is Good,” agrees the crowd.

  Father John nods his head. “Until tomorrow then.”

  He walks forward, lays a hand on Horizon’s chest, and closes his eyes. His lips move in a brief silent prayer, then he turns and strides back towards the Big House without another word.

  For a long moment nobody moves. There’s a weird collective tension filling the yard, as though everyone is holding their breath. The three remaining Centurions glance at each other, clearly unsure what they’re supposed to do now. In the end, it is Amos who breaks the silence.

  “All right,” he shouts. “I reckon that’s more than enough standing around for one morning. Horizon’s burial is going to happen before lunch, so anyone who wants to take a moment to say a personal goodbye to him has got a couple of hours to do so. But for right now, get on into the hall for breakfast, then get to work.”

  The crowd breaks up and starts to move in every direction. I see my Brothers and Sisters scatter out of the corners of my eyes, but I’m not looking at them.

  Nate hasn’t moved an inch; he’s standing in the same spot near the edge of the yard, his face pale, his eyes lowered to the tarmac. Several people speak to him as they head in the direction of Legionnaire’s Hall, but he doesn’t give any indication that he hears them. He looks deep in thought – or prayer, maybe – and he doesn’t even glance in my direction as I approach.

  “Nate?”

  Nothing.

  “Nate?” I repeat, and grab his arm. He recoils, his eyes wide and unfocused, then seems to recognize me and gives me a tiny smile.

  “Moonbeam,” he says. “Go to breakfast. You don’t need to be seen talking to me right now.”

  “What are you doing, Nate?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “Why did you say those things?”

  He shakes his head. “You don’t need to know,” he says. “Just trust me, if you can. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “When?” I ask. “None of this is okay, Nate. None of it.”

  “I know,” he says, and the pain on his face makes my heart lurch in my chest. “I know, and I’m sorry. Go to breakfast, and if anyone talks to you about what I did, call me a Heretic, or tell them you think I might be The Serpent himself. Just don’t defend me, Moonbeam. Please don’t.”

  I feel tears rise into my eyes and blink them away. “What are you talking about?” I say. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I’ll find you later,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “If I can. But I need you to put all this out of your mind, for both our sakes.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Try,” he hisses. “Try really hard. And if you can’t actually do it, lie. Just please don’t do anything stupid, okay? Please, Moonbeam.”

  I open my mouth to say something else, but Nate turns away before I form a single syllable and strides towards Building Seven, where he sleeps. I stand at the edge of the suddenly empty yard and watch him go, trying to ignore what the voice in the back of my head is telling me.

  You’re never going to see him again.

  “I’m sorry,” says Doctor Hernandez.

  I frown. “For what?”

  “About Horizon.”

  “Why?” I ask. “You never knew him.”

  “I understand that,” he says. “I’m sorry for you, Moonbeam. I’m sorry you lost someone you cared about.”

  “Oh,” I say. I feel gentle warmth in my face. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “There was something I meant to ask you yesterday, after you told us about when Horizon got sick. Who paid for him to be taken to hospital?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “It costs money to see doctors,” he says. “It costs a lot more money to have them run the kind of tests that tell someone they have cancer.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Father John must have given Amos some money before he left.”

  “Did you ever see money inside the base? In the Big House, maybe?”

  I shake my head.

  “Did Amos take money with him to Layfield on Friday afternoons?”

  “He must have.”

  “But you never saw it?”

  “No.”

  Doctor Hernandez nods. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s move on. I need to ask you about something that you might find upsetting. Is that all right?”

  Like it matters.

  “It depends what it is.”

  He nods. “You told us yesterday that Horizon was a good man,” he says. “You were very insistent about it. And you just referred to him as kind and gentle.”

  I frown again. “So what?”

  “I’m wondering why he stayed after Father John took control of the Legion, if he was such a good man,” says Doctor Hernandez.

  “He loved the Legion,” I say. “He loved his Brothers and Sisters, and they loved him right back.”

  Doctor Hernandez nods. He doesn’t say anything, and I know he’s hoping that silence will make me keep talking. I don’t want to give him what he wants, to fall for such an obvious trick, but anger is threatening to burst loose and spill through me and I don’t think I can help myself.

  “What do you want me to say?” I ask. “That staying after The Purge makes him evil, makes him some kind of monster? I won’t say that, because it didn’t. It doesn’t.”

  “Why did he tell you it was right that you should be starved for three days after you left your patrol post?” he asks.

  “It was his job.”

  “Like locking Shanti in a metal box until he was half-dead was his job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  The anger that was building inside me has turned into horrible, impotent frustration and I’m suddenly on the verge of tears. Horizon wasn’t perfect, not even close, but he was kind and he played with us and he never complained and everyone loved him. I loved him. I really did.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “Why do you want to make him into someone bad?”

  Doctor Hernandez winces. “That’s not my intention,” he says. “I’m trying to challenge your assumptions, to get you to look at certain things from a different angle. I don’t doubt your feelings for Horizon, and I’m not trying to undermine them. I’m just trying to show you another perspective.”

  “I loved him,” I say.

  “I know you did.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think you do,” I say. “If you did, you wouldn’t be trying to spoil my memories of him, to poison them. Was Horizon really a good man, deep down? I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter, not any more. He’s dead. So why can’t you just let me remember him the way I want to? How does it hurt anyone to let me have that?”

  Agent Carlyle sits forward in his chair and looks at the man sitting next to him. Doctor Hernandez stares at me for a long moment, then drops his gaze.

  “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  So you should be.

  I take a deep breath. “It’s okay.”

  He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “It isn’t. It’s not for me to impose my opinions of The Lord’s Legion and its members. I’ll try not to do it again.”

  Try hard.

  “It’s okay,” I repeat. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Good idea,” says Agent Carlyle. “Like what you saw on John Parson’s face when Nate Childress said no to him.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ve told us about people who left The Lord’s Legion,” he says. “After the Third Proclamation, for example.”

  “Right.”

  “And Parson let them go.”

  I nod.

  “Why do you think this was different?” he asks. “People leaving because they didn’t want to follow his rules could be seen as a rejection of his authority. So why do you think Nate Childress refusing to be a Centurion would have scared him?”
<
br />   I consider this for a long time. “They weren’t the same thing,” I say. “When people left, Father John could just tell the rest of us that they were leaving because their Faith wasn’t strong enough, that they weren’t really True and didn’t deserve to be part of the Legion. That made the people who stayed feel special, like they were stronger than the people who were Gone.”

  “So why was what Nate did different?”

  “Because it made Father John look…” I pause, and search for the right word. “…weak. No, not weak. Fallible. It made him look fallible.”

  “How so?” asks Agent Carlyle.

  “Most of the Legion believed that Father John was a genuine Prophet,” I say. “They truly believed he had a direct connection to The Lord, that they spoke with one voice. So when he announced that Nate had been selected to be the new Centurion and Nate refused, that only left two options. Either The Lord was wrong—”

  “Or Father John was,” says Doctor Hernandez.

  I nod, as Agent Carlyle smiles at me. “There were some people – Amos, Jacob, Luke, and probably a few others – who would have been more likely to believe that it was The Lord who had got it wrong. But not everyone. Not by any means.”

  “So you think he saw the possibility of people questioning him in the future?” asks Doctor Hernandez.

  “I think so,” I say. “And I think it made him realize that he had a problem in Nate.”

  “How do you mean?” asks Agent Carlyle.

  “Because if Nate didn’t stand up in front of everyone the next morning and say that he had changed his mind and Father John was right and he was proud to accept the honour of being a Centurion, it was going to look really bad.”

  “I think you’re absolutely right,” he says. “So what happened?”

  I’m dreaming about water, blue and warm and inviting, when something shakes me awake. The dream comes apart and drifts away and I open my eyes and I’m lying on my bed and someone is leaning over me in the darkness, their hand gripping my shoulder.