After the Fire

by Will Hill

  Oh God.

  How could I have known that though? I was just a little girl and she kept her plans private, carrying her burden on her own and never saying a word to anyone. She played dutiful and loyal and True while she schemed and plotted, and for the longest time everyone believed she was exactly what she appeared to be.

  Including me.

  That’s because you’re stupid, says the voice in the back of my head. It doesn’t sound kind or gentle or sympathetic; it sounds angry, and hard. You’re stupid and weak and ungrateful and you only ever thought about yourself.

  “Shut up,” I whisper.

  She was your mother and she was trying to save you both and all you did was resent her for it.

  “Shut up.” The pencil flies back and forth, gouging the dark brown lines of the cliffs onto the sheet of paper.

  She understood what The Lord’s Legion really was, but you just believed what you were told and couldn’t see what she needed you to see. If you hadn’t been so blind she could have told you the truth before it was too late.

  The pencil tears through the paper and snaps in half.

  It’s your fault that she’s out there on her own. Your fault that you’re both alone.

  “SHUT UP!” I scream. I sweep my arm across the surface of the desk, sending paper and pencils and crayons flying into the air, and slam my fists down on it. Agony explodes up my left arm from my injured hand, hot and bright and awful, but I welcome the pain because I know I deserve it. “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!”

  I hear the lock turn but I don’t see my door swing open because my eyes are squeezed shut and everything is deep black and blazing red. Footsteps hurry across the floor, then arms encircle my shoulders and Nurse Harrow is telling me it’s okay, it’s all right, everything is going to be all right. I let her pull me to her chest as a torrent of anger and frustration – what feels like years and years’ worth, buried deeper than I ever knew – boils out of me, leaving me spent and dangling limply in her arms. Tears spill down my cheeks as she shushes me and rocks me back and forth like a baby and the voice in the back of my head speaks again, softer than before.

  Tomorrow, it whispers. Tomorrow you tell them everything.

  Like you said you would.

  No more hiding.

  “Here,” says Amos. “Try not to shoot your own foot off with it.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes and take the rifle from his hands. It’s an AR-15 – black, mostly plastic, and surprisingly light for such a powerful gun. Amos moves on down the long line of my Brothers and Sisters as Jacob Reynolds appears in front of me, holding out a bundle of empty magazines and a plastic bag full of bullets.

  “Fill them, check them, keep everything clean,” he says.

  I take the ammunition without a word, and he moves on without giving me so much as a second look.

  It’s Tuesday morning. The Centurions unlocked the doors just before dawn and told us all to assemble in front of the Chapel. Once we were gathered, Father John emerged from inside the tall, angular building and told us The Lord had made it clear to him that time was growing short, and that it was no longer wise to keep the Legion’s weapons locked away in the basement of the Big House; it was time to have them at hand, ready to be used against the Servants Of The Serpent when they finally made their move against those who walk the True Path.

  He ordered us all to line up on the yard, and told us that he would have more news for us once we were properly armed against our enemies. Then he strode away towards the Big House as my Brothers and Sisters started arranging themselves into single file.

  I look down at the gun in my hands, and frown. There are scratches and file marks around the lower receiver and the ejection port, and dull metal plates have been screwed into the plastic above the trigger guard on both sides. It doesn’t look like the rifles we usually use during training, the ones that Amos counts in and out and keeps scrupulously clean – this one looks like it has been snapped in half and put back together.

  I raise it to my shoulder and sight down its long barrel. As it often does, the deadly power of what I’m holding in my hands makes me think crazy thoughts, like when you stand on a high ledge and part of your brain urges you to jump off. I could turn to my right and pull the trigger again and again and again and most of my Brothers and Sisters would be bleeding on the ground before the first scream rang out.

  I don’t do it though.

  You could, whispers the voice in the back of my head. You know you want to.

  But I don’t.

  And that’s all that matters.

  “Brothers and Sisters!”

  Father John’s voice booms out across the yard. Everyone turns towards the porch of the Big House, from where he gives us a wide, benevolent smile.

  “Gather before me, my Family,” he says, beckoning with his hands. “Gather, and hear the good news The Lord has shared with me.”

  I walk across the tarmac with the rest of the crowd and stand below the porch, squinting up at Father John as the sun climbs into the bright morning sky. When everyone is waiting in silence, he spreads his arms and stares down at us.

  “The Lord has seen fit to grant me wisdom,” he says. “This very morning He spoke to me. The Lord is Good.”

  “The Lord is Good,” echoes the congregation.

  “There is to be a celebration,” continues Father John. “There is to be great joy and rejoicing, because The Lord loves his Faithful servants, those men and women who walk the True Path. He has allowed me to understand that the time has come for His humble messenger to take a new wife, to further the line of His Holy Legion. He has given me a name, and it is not for me or any other mortal man or woman to question the judgement of The Lord.”

  A low murmur spreads through the crowd. On the porch, behind their husband, I see Agavé and Bella and the rest of The Prophet’s wives clasp their hands together and nod and smile in dutiful joy. I look around the crowd and see my Sisters staring at each other, clearly wondering which of them is about to move into the Big House.

  “Those of you who have been promised to me are no longer promised,” says Father John, and I feel my heart stop dead in my chest. “You are True Sisters of The Lord’s Legion, and there is no insult intended, no punishment meant. But time grows short, and The Lord has seen fit to grant me new understanding. He does not make mistakes.”

  I stare up at The Prophet. The first emotion that fills me – irrationally, ludicrously – is rejection, hot and bitter. I’ve always dreaded the decreasingly distant moment when I would actually have been forced to marry him, but now that I’ve been so suddenly released from that obligation, my heart is throbbing with something that feels weirdly like grief.

  Why doesn’t he want me any more? Aren’t I pretty enough? Wouldn’t I produce good enough children?

  Reality comes rushing in before I have time to even consider the panicky, self-loathing questions my brain is spewing out.

  I don’t have to marry him. I really, genuinely don’t. It’s over.

  And just like that, the fleeting sense of rejection is gone, swept away by a tsunami of absolutely glorious relief. I don’t care why Father John has changed his mind – although I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he has done so, rather than The Lord – and I don’t care what it makes people think of me. A single thought pulses through my head, over and over and over.

  I’m free.

  “The Lord has made His choice,” says Father John. “He has made His will clear, and He tolerates no argument. I can announce that He has chosen Honey to join His humble messenger in Holy Matrimony.”

  My elation disappears so instantly and completely that it’s like I never actually felt it at all. My stomach drops into my boots as everyone slowly turns and stares at Honey. She’s about ten feet away from me, standing as still as a statue beside her mother. Astrid is beaming with wide-eyed delight, as though every single one of her dreams has just come true. Honey isn’t smiling though. She’s starin
g up at Father John, her face so pale it’s almost translucent.

  Please, no. Not Honey. Oh, please not her.

  “There is to be no delay,” continues Father John. “The Lord has made it clear that this is a matter of utmost importance, and that there is no time to waste. The marriage will take place this evening. The Lord is Good.”

  For a second or two, nobody responds. Silence hangs over the crowd, as though everyone is attempting to process what has just happened, to adjust to yet another shifting of the ground beneath their feet. And for the briefest of moments, I see the same thing flicker onto The Prophet’s face that I saw when Nate refused to be a Centurion.

  The same fear.

  Then Jacob Reynolds bellows “The Lord is Good”, and the moment is gone. Everyone else follows suit and then people are cheering and clapping and crowding around Honey, telling her how lucky she is and how wise The Lord is to have chosen her, how wise and clever and wonderful. Up on the porch, Father John smiles as his wives applaud along with the rest of the crowd. But I ignore them all, because I’m staring at Honey as she receives the congratulations of her Brothers and Sisters, staring at her wide eyes and stricken expression. She’s only fourteen; Father John has never married anyone so young.

  Never.

  “Honey,” says The Prophet, and the crowd falls instantly silent. “Will you come and stand at my side?”

  Anger spreads through me. He makes it sound like he is genuinely asking a question, rather than merely announcing a formality. The illusion of choice, of free will for anyone but him, makes my skin crawl.

  The crowd turns expectantly towards Honey, who is still staring up at her newly-announced fiancé with the same empty expression. She hasn’t moved a single muscle. Then her face crumples and her mouth drops open and my brave little Sister – who has always been so self-possessed, ever since she was a tiny girl – lets out a terrible screeching sob.

  “No!” she wails. “No, I won’t do it! Don’t make me!”

  Gasps echo across the yard. Astrid drops to her knees in front of her daughter and speaks to her in an urgent, frantic whisper, as most of the Legion shake their heads and mutter about Heresy. I can hear some of what Astrid is saying – it’s a wonderful honour, it’s The Lord’s will – and I’m almost overcome by the urge to beat her head against the tarmac until she shuts up.

  “I don’t care!” cries Honey, between sobs that hurt my heart. “I don’t! Please!”

  I glance up at Father John, searching his face for the fear that I saw minutes earlier, the same fear that made him back down when Nate defied him – but I find only cold, terrifying fury. His eyes narrow, and I understand, with a certainty that almost makes me gasp, the thought that is roaring inside his head.

  I am not going to let this happen again.

  I push my way forward, fully intending to grab Honey and lift her into my arms and run until I can’t run any more, but when Father John’s voice thunders out again I stop just as still as everyone else.

  “SILENCE!” he bellows. “This is the daughter you have raised, Astrid? This Heretic, who would deny the will of The Lord?”

  Astrid’s eyes are full of panic as she stands and faces The Prophet. “Forgive her, Father,” she says, her voice trembling. “She is only a child. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  “Is childhood an excuse for Heresy?” asks Father John, his voice as heavy and dangerous as a landslide. “Is that what you are telling me?”

  “Father, I—”

  “THERE IS NO EXCUSE FOR HERESY!” he screams. “You know that as well as I do, unless you are even stupider than you appear! There never has been, for our rules are set by The Lord Himself, and our standards are not negotiable! Now stand aside and let me see her.”

  Astrid looks like she is going to faint with terror, but she manages to shuffle to one side, leaving the red-faced, tear-streaked figure of Honey standing on her own. I want to scream at Astrid until my voice gives out, because I don’t understand – I can’t understand – why the sight of her panicked, sobbing daughter is not enough to make her grow a backbone.

  “Honey,” says Father John, and although his volume is lower and his tone is gentle, I can still clearly hear the anger rumbling underneath. “The Lord has made His wishes clear, and you know as well as I that He does not mistakes. So think hard, child. Think harder than you ever have.”

  Honey stares at him, her bottom lip quivering, her eyes wide and red.

  “Would you defy Him?” asks Father John. “Or will you join me in Holy Matrimony, as He has commanded? I would have your answer.”

  Honey stares. Around her, on all sides, my elder Sisters stare intently at the ground.

  Do something, I silently scream. Something, anything, one of you. Stop this.

  “No,” whispers Honey, then looks up at Astrid with huge, pleading eyes. “Mom…please…”

  A flicker of horror crosses Astrid’s face, and she retreats half a step from her only child.

  “That is…regrettable,” says Father John. “It truly is. Centurions?”

  The four men step forward and I suddenly understand what’s going to happen and I try to force my throat to work, to howl for Honey to run, just run and don’t look back, but everything inside me is frozen solid and all I can do is watch.

  “Lock her in a box,” says Father John, “until she learns humility before The Lord.”

  Cries of shock ring out, and I see Astrid belatedly make a grab for her daughter. “Please, Father!” she screams. “Please no!”

  Honey wraps her arms round her mother and holds on like a limpet as the Centurions elbow their way through the shouting, protesting crowd. My paralysis finally breaks and as Lonestar rumbles past me I throw myself after him, trying to grab his shoulder, to turn him around and plead with him not to do this, but my fingers barely brush the fabric of his shirt and he doesn’t even slow down, let alone stop.

  Jacob reaches Astrid first. She shrieks and turns away from him, trying to shield her daughter, but he wrenches her around and grabs hold of Honey’s wrist. Honey screams as her mom tries to hold onto her and I wade through the crowd of my shouting, crying Brothers and Sisters. I’m almost there when Luke appears behind Astrid and drags her backwards, an awful, empty smile on his face. She flails at him as people shout up at the porch, pleading for The Prophet to show mercy because Honey is just a child and she doesn’t understand what she’s doing, that he must show mercy because children don’t go in the boxes, children never go in the boxes.

  Father John doesn’t so much as glance in their direction. His gaze stays fixed on Honey as Jacob scoops her up and carries her, kicking and screaming and sobbing, across the yard towards the shipping containers, their metal sides glowing in the hot Texas sun.

  Lunch is hot dogs and French fries and a little cup of beans that taste like soap and a plastic glass of chocolate milk.

  I eat quickly, then draw the house and the cliff and the water and the two little figures a couple of times while I wait for Nurse Harrow to come and escort me to SSI. The drawings are basic, little more than the scratchy scrawls of children, but that’s okay, because I’m not really concentrating on them. My mind is full of Agent Carlyle and Doctor Hernandez, of their faces when I finished telling them about Father John’s announcement.

  They were both as pale as ghosts.

  Doctor Hernandez was trembling as he stared at me, as though it was taking actual physical strength to maintain his usual composure, and there were patches of red around Agent Carlyle’s eyes, as bright as blood against his ashen skin. It looked like he had been crying, although I’m sure I would have noticed. I think I would have noticed. I guess he was thinking about his daughter while I talked, about what he would do if anyone ever tried to do to her what Father John did to Honey.

  I think about all the things they must have seen in the years of doing their jobs – the horrible things they must have heard, the damaged men, women and children they must have met – and it’s w
eirdly reassuring to see that they clearly haven’t been numbed by it all, that they haven’t lost their ability to be shocked and upset when someone tells them something awful. And they still manage to keep going afterwards, to keep getting up each morning and moving forward. It’s a reminder that they’re still just human beings, and it gives me hope that there might still be a future for me.

  I don’t have the slightest idea what it might look like, but I guess that doesn’t really matter right now.

  After they asked me a lot of questions – about the box, about how The Prophet’s wives reacted, about how much my Brothers and Sisters protested – Agent Carlyle told me he was glad that Father John is dead. Doctor Hernandez told him it wasn’t a helpful opinion, because I guess he doesn’t want me thinking that violence solves problems, but Agent Carlyle told him he didn’t care, and said it again.

  “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  I didn’t respond. What could I have possibly said?

  Doctor Hernandez would have been disappointed if I’d said “Me too” but I know he would have been concerned if I’d disagreed. And when he’s concerned about something, he wants to talk about it. So I said nothing. A memory crept into my mind, a pool of dark red spreading across the floor of the Big House, but I didn’t say a single word.

  There was no more time left in the session, so I promised them I would carry on tomorrow morning. And I will, even though I know it means telling them one of the two things I swore I would never tell anyone.

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

  I’ll try. I’ll try my very hardest to be brave. But I’m terrified, and I can’t pretend I’m not, no matter what the voice says.

  I know I have to tell them what I did. I’m scared, because I don’t know what the consequences are going to be, but I know I have to, and part of me – the distant part that I sometimes suspect is where the voice comes from – is ready for this to be over.