by Kyle Harris
Juliet swallowed. She shook so hard that tears danced on her eyelashes.
“You feel that? That fear that a bullet might come out of this gun at any moment and impale your worthless brain? That’s how Libby felt. That’s how I have felt my whole fucking life. And it’s all because of you people—Christians, God’s devout cocksuckers.”
The woman opened her mouth.
“And you know what? I wish it was like you said. I wish there was a choice. Because I didn’t grow up wanting to be like this. I even tried praying for God to fix me.” Chaz laughed. “Stupid. But I was a kid, and kids believe stupid shit. Kids think we can all get along.”
“There is evil inside you,” said Juliet. “My husband was right.”
“Not as much as what’s inside you.” Chaz kept the gun drawn for a few more seconds, until she was sure the woman had peed a little. Then she let it fall to her side. “I don’t know if God’s real. If He is, He saw how much good was inside Libby. Christians should be like her. Not you.” She leaned in close. “A day’s coming. Might be a long time away still. But it’s coming. And when it does? You people are gonna fucking get it.” Even closer. “And I’ll be there to cut off your fucking head.”
Chaz left Juliet to ponder about the future integrity of her neck.
She left the apartment and rode the elevator down.
Project Doomsday had just under three minutes left on its countdown. She considered letting it run all the way to zero but decided to terminate the program. The doors opened at the lobby.
Chaz was angry at herself. And yet relieved. She’d left the Pruitts still breathing—the angry part—but also she didn’t have to spend the night covering her tracks and making sure she left no evidence behind—the relieved part. It was just an uneventful stroll home.
She dumped the .357 revolver into the nearest communal garbage chute.
On the Metro ride, she received a notification on her tasker—communication request from a blocked number.
Talk to you soon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The homeless shelter was up and running.
Chaz observed the building from safely across the street, her back against the corner of a credit union. The second-story overhang provided shelter from the afternoon’s cold drizzle. She didn’t keep track of how long she stood there, but by the time she neared the end of her third cigarette, she identified the trademark purple hair emerging from the former tanning salon. Alysia Fowler cast a grumpy look at the sky as if her prayers for sunshine had been dismissed by the Great Powers That Be. She raised her umbrella and shuffled on down the wet street.
It made sense that she had filled the void of shelter manager. The project had turned into a community endeavor, and Fowler was the de facto leader of the hippie brigade. There were other volunteers going in and out of the building that Chaz recognized—by face if not by name.
She was happy to see the joint hadn’t been abandoned after Libby’s death. In a way, a little bit of Libby lived on because of that shelter. Because of all the time and love she had put into it. Friends had poured in their support, helped get the ball rolling, but it was hers. It was all because of her.
Nice job, Libs. If only you could see the finished product.
The thought of going over there nagged Chaz’s mind. Reunite, catch up on what she’d missed in the last two months. But what the hell was the point? Her one link to the love-and-acceptance squad had been Libby. Chaz couldn’t muster a fuck for the rest of them. If she did slog over there, the assholes would just want to hold hands and join in prayer, because that’s all they knew how to do. Love and pride hadn’t killed the Begotten Sons, and it sure as fuck wasn’t going to stop whoever came for them next.
If those homos had any fucking sense, had any goddamn working brain cells, they would thank her for what she’d done. If not for her, more of them would be dead.
Chaz sighed. She pulled out a diazepam lozenge from the baggie in her pocket and dry-swallowed it.
There was also another reason she didn’t make herself known: they might think she had murdered Libby. All the news articles about her death didn’t mention Chaz’s name, but it was logical deduction, wasn’t it? She had been Libby’s closest friend, and she had vanished off the radar after it had happened. A disappearance like that usually meant either of two things: she was hiding from the cops, or she was in lockup.
One of those was actually true.
Chaz crushed the cigarette under her boot and went on her way.
To her surprise, the door opened when she pulled on the handle.
The house of God was vacant, but the layout more or less matched pictures she’d seen. This Methodist version was less cathedral and more elongated cube. Pews pressed in from both sides of the aisle. Stained-glass windows painted the wood with colorful murals of light. At the front was the pulpit. Behind that, a large cross, backlit like the one in Libby’s bedroom.
After the door closed, the whole place was quiet. Quiet like she had never heard before. There were no footsteps from outside, no voices, no pattering of the raindrops, no general racket of the city. It was eerie. And actually pretty comforting, the world muted as it was.
Chaz dropped into the back-row pew. She stared at nothing.
In her younger days, about the time she had tried putting her hands together and begging God to do something about the bleeding wound between her legs, she had also been scared shitless of churches. Not only were they hangout spots for scum like the Pruitts, but she had never really believed in God in the first place. Even when praying to Him. And you couldn’t enter His holy turf unless you were 100 percent faithed up. The pastors would know if you weren’t, and they’d kick you out.
Jokes aside, she had wanted to talk to a pastor or minister or whoever the fucking denomination equivalent was. Someone who was buddy-buddy with God, someone who could pass on a question: What did I do to deserve this?
Of course it was all bullshit, though. She knew that now. The pastor would have only said an uplifting nonanswer about God not making mistakes or told her to read the Bible and see what the scripture said. Or maybe the pastor would have been another Pruitt; maybe he would have called the exorcist hotline.
She could laugh now. But back then, she had thought she was alone in what she felt. When the truth was that people like her—gay, trans, whatever—were just hiding. Wearing the colors of hetero camouflage.
It was how they survived.
But now there were psychotic Christian gangs with hit lists. And resort companies that could somehow detect sexual orientation. It wasn’t so easy anymore.
The uprising and purge couldn’t come soon enough. Once the gays wrested control of the planet and tossed every hetero savage into the fire pits, Crystal City would finally be a safe place. The official queer capital of the universe.
She smiled. Yeah. Right.
A door squeaked open and closed. Footsteps. Then: “Welcome, Chaz.”
Chaz turned and looked up. The voice belonged to a dark-haired woman wearing some sort of white uniform, like a bulky dress. Pastor getup. Her smile radiated warmth and friendliness from an oval-shaped face.
“Pastor Ludmila King,” she said. Then, to answer Chaz’s confusion: “Lilibeth had a few photos. She always had positive things to say about you. Her affection for you was immeasurable.”
Chaz nodded and bit her lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to trespass or anything. The door wasn’t locked.”
Ludmila’s smile widened a tick. “You cannot trespass here any more than you can trespass in an ocean. It would defeat the purpose.”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
Ludmila said, “I’m very sorry for your loss.” She bowed her head slightly. “I do not know anyone more cherished by the community than Lilibeth. She was the embodiment of what it means to be Christian. God’s love was strong in her. She is missed by many.” A pause. Then: “If she is why you’ve come—”
“No,” said Chaz, shaking her head. “Actually
. I don’t really know why I’m here. I think I just wanted to see the inside of a church. For real.”
“You’ve never been?”
“Nope.” She looked down at her lap. “I didn’t really, you know, believe in that sh—stuff. Wasn’t my thing. It wasn’t my crowd.”
“I understand.” Ludmila angled herself down into the next pew in front. “Religion is weighed down by its pressure of conformity. It might be viewed as a mold. But some of us cannot survive without what that mold cuts off.”
Chaz looked up at her. Yeah, Libby had definitely been talking to this woman. Or this was the pew where the loner lesbian usually sat. She had neglected to check the seat for a reservation slip.
“So,” said Chaz, tapping her fingertips together. “Are you gonna try to sell me on God? Or how does this work?”
“I’m not here to sell you on God. That’s not the practice of a pastor. At least not mine.” She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. The rest was assembled in a ponytail—a youthful diversion from the wrinkles around her eyes. “What I try to convey to a congregation is that faith in God is discretionary. There is no system for belief. What God is to you is different than what God is to someone else.”
“I’m not religious, or whatever. I don’t know.” Chaz mindlessly picked at a sore behind her thumb, peeling the skin off. “Libby, though. All she talked about was God. God was her life. Everyone else I’ve known like that was a nut-basket. No offense.”
Ludmila smiled.
“But the more I was with her…I don’t know.” Chaz shook her head. She felt her cheeks flushing. “I don’t believe in God. I don’t think anything in the Bible is true. It’s just all fuckin’ brainwashing. Sorry.”
“Chaz. You do not have to believe in God to be religious.”
That crooked Chaz’s eyebrow. “What?”
“Your faith is yours, and only yours,” said Ludmila. Then: “Did Lilibeth ever talk to you about her idea of the self?”
“Yeah, she mentioned it.” More than mentioned.
Ludmila nodded. “As a Methodist, I embrace same-sex relationships, and I have had the pleasure of marrying a few wonderful couples. Nowhere else do I witness so much love in one place. But reconciling sexuality with scripture can be difficult.”
“The Bible doesn’t have many nice things to say about gays, does it?” asked Chaz.
“No, it does not,” agreed Ludmila. “This was years ago. I remember it was after a congregation. Lilibeth was still one of my newcomers. She came up to me with tears in her eyes. She wanted to know if there was a way to change how she felt. If there was a trick I could perform. She was so terrified that God would punish her. In Romans, homosexuality is described as unnatural and shameful. In the book of Leviticus, it is said to be punishable by death. And there are several other grievous passages which say the same, although Jesus Himself said nothing about homosexuality.
“Yet the Bible is filled with contradictions. Depending on what page you turn to, Abraham might have had one child or eight. This is why I stress a subjective mindset. You may take what the Bible says as literal or as a collection of allegories.
“I told Lilibeth to read John 4:7 aloud: ‘Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God, and every one that loveth is born of God and knoweth God.’”
“God is love,” said Chaz.
“Yes,” said Ludmila. “One form should not supersede the other. Some time later, Lilibeth came back to me with her idea of the self. She said that if God is an entity without gender, and we are created in the image of God, then why should our love be bound by gender? And I told her that was a very beautiful way to look at it.”
“But isn’t God a man?”
“He is commonly depicted as a paternal figure in the human sense, yes. You are correct.” Ludmila smiled. “But Lilibeth contended that even if God’s form shares similarities with a human man, He cannot have a gender, as He is only one entity, and gender is fundamentally relative. She said that if Adam was the first man, and Eve was the first woman, then God cannot be either.”
“Damn,” said Chaz. “That’s awesome. She was smart.”
“She was very smart. And she was gone too soon.”
Ludmila used a tissue to blot her eyes, which Chaz just now noticed were wet. Her own remained dry. As usual.
“I’m sorry,” said Ludmila, putting away the tissue. “Sometimes a story is required to reach a point, and mine is that religion isn’t about God; it’s about us. Whether we want to elevate ourselves by studying the humility of Moses and the Israelites or the courage of David against Goliath, or if we simply seek friendship of the people in our communities.” She gently took Chaz’s hand. “I do not sell you on God because it is none of my business—as an individual and as a pastor—what you believe. Salvation is for the soul, and that’s what I tend to. And from what Lilibeth told me, you have a good soul.”
Chaz let out a slow breath. Ludmila’s hand left hers, and the woman rose to her feet.
“Do you mind if I…” Chaz reached into her coat and extracted her pack of cigarettes. There was one left. “It’s kinda my thing. I promise I won’t leave a mess.”
“I will forgive it,” said Ludmila. She started to turn away, stopped. “Lilibeth said so much about you, but there was something she said that will never leave me.”
“What’s that?”
“She said you were the reason there is still hope in this world.” And Pastor Ludmila King smiled the smile of someone who always smiles, turned, and walked away.
Hope. Chaz had felt hope exactly once today: that her pre-noon shit would go down in under three flushes. No, wait, that was the second time; the first occurrence was earlier in the morning when she’d hoped the people arguing in the unit above hers would shut the fuck up while she was trying to sleep. Before that, she’d hoped to blow Pruitt’s brains into the next dimension. So much for that.
But she would need hope again. A big fucking dose of it.
And maybe that was the reason why she was here—she was reaching out for a little help, wherever she might find it. A little more hope.
She held the cigarette out in front of her, clamped longways between her thumb and index finger.
Okay, Pall Mall, listen the fuck up. I got a question to ask you. I invoke the prophecy powers of Homeless Nostradamus.
She pinched the cigarette between her lips and raised the lighter.
How do I kill that motherfucker?
The flame caught, and her mind took off.
No guns. Not only because her revolver was surfing somewhere in the maze of underground garbage condensers, but also because guns were liable to cause a ruckus. The Wehrlein building was pretty open on the inside—everyone would hear the fucking thing go off. Plus, being an armed intruder meant private security and police had the full protection of the law to put her down. Then it wouldn’t be Wheeler she was going back to—just a furnace.
All things considered, she still kind of valued her life.
Also, pointing that .357 at Pruitt—and his wife—had left a door ajar in her mind, and she didn’t like what she saw behind it. It didn’t change the fact that the fuck deserved a bullet. He always would deserve one. And maybe someday she would look back on her inability to finish the job, go get another gun, and do what she had intended. Do it right. But, for now, no guns.
That left her weapon options completely open. She would need something—she couldn’t just walk up to the building and fisticuff all the bad guys. Sure, she had her legs, but that wasn’t enough. What came to mind first was the Taser that pimple-faced asshole had pulled on her back at her apartment; the jolt stung like a bitch. Might be something to consider. The downside, it was just a stun weapon—it didn’t really incapacitate. And there was the range problem: she would have to be right up on a douchebag to use it effectively. Maybe if the voltage was upped? Still.
A clump of ash tumbled into the empty cigarette pack.
Weapons. Weapons. Nothing materialized. She
moved on.
The biggest hurdle of the job wasn’t what she was going to fight with; it was her face. Every angle of bone, every formation of cartilage, every little combination of topographic features that didn’t belong to anyone else in the city. Of course, she didn’t have to be anonymous—she could accept the job offer, meet Kennedy in his office, and do the deed when she saw an opening. But his guards would probably frisk her first. That’s what she would do in Kennedy’s position. And even if they didn’t pat her down, it was still bad odds. Her against three guys, two of which were packing heat. If she managed to take out Kennedy, she was dead. If she focused on the henches first, she was dead.
She needed anonymity—she needed to get inside the Wehrlein building without Kennedy knowing it. There was no other way.
The cigarette was over half cooked, and she didn’t feel any closer to an answer. The needles packing anxiety were already starting to prick. She rocked forward, took a very long and very deep breath. And focused.
Delete her facial-rec data? No—mainly because she didn’t know where all the datafiles existed. A welfare server was no problem. But what else? Advertising companies knew her face. Detention centers knew her face. The government registry knew her face. Not an option.
She would have to conceal it. Somehow.
Cosmetic surgery? No. Fuck no. Chaz didn’t hate herself that much.
What about something like the mask of Libby’s face? Could work, except she would have to cut out large enough eye holes to not have anything obstructing her periphery. Eh. She didn’t rule it out.
Sunglasses? Facial-rec software would have to be pretty fucking lousy to not take into account eyewear. Worth some further research, though.
Makeup?
The cigarette was nigh devoured.
You were a fucking phony, you fucking hobo.
