Deadliest of the Species

by Michael Oliveri

  “Come on, move! I haven’t got all day!” she shouted at the man behind the register.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied in a beaten tone.

  A few remarks ran through Mike’s head, but he knew better than to speak them aloud.

  The young boy behind the next register finished his most recent customer, then beckoned Father Mike to his lane. “It’s okay,” Mike told him. “I’ll wait.”

  The boy shrugged. Within seconds another man pushed a cart into the young boy’s lane.

  Mike speculated Marie was probably the only woman who did not have a husband to do all the shopping for her. The rumor mill claimed she ate her last three “suitors” (he hesitated to call them boyfriends, as they had quite obviously been forced into the position). He felt the rumor stretched it a bit but, then again, her legendary appetites for both food and sex became legendary among both the men and women.

  Finally the man behind the counter completed his task as the register tape detailing the purchase grew to nearly three feet long. The man folded it carefully and tucked it into a specially labeled drawer beneath the register. Two boys, both in their late teens or early twenties, stacked her bags on twin carts to carry her groceries outside.

  With a hideous shark’s smile, she urged the boys on ahead of her. “Come on, you handsome little devils.” They went on ahead of her, hurrying as best they could to get their trip over and done with. They paused for the automatic door and Marie took advantage of it. She reached down and grabbed the second boy’s behind. “Ooh, aren’t you a strong one!” she cooed.

  A shudder ran down Mike’s spine as he emptied his basket onto the counter. “How have you been, Gus?”

  Gus began scanning Mike’s few groceries. “Good, Father. Yourself?” Gus pushed seventy, and the lines of age carved a good niche in his hide. His kept his sparse, stark white hair nicely combed to one side. A thick mustache covered his upper lip.

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “I understand you have a visitor?” Gus asked casually.

  “That’s right,” Mike replied, removing his checkbook from his back pocket. He looked around, making sure nobody eavesdropped on them. “Our mutual friends have already tried to get their hooks into him.”

  Gus shot him a panicked look. “Have you warned him?”

  “No.”

  “No? What do you mean no?”

  Mike reached out and grasped his friend’s wrist firmly. “Keep your voice down. You’re still clean. Keep it that way.”

  “Why haven’t you told him?” Gus demanded again, running the remainder of the groceries across the scanner in exaggerated motions.

  “Tell him what? ‘Get out of town boy, before the witches get you?’”

  “For starters, why not?”

  Mike shrugged. “It may be too late. They have his car, his money, and most of his clothes. He’s got no way out and nowhere to go. He’s stuck.”

  “All the more reason to warn him! Hell, maybe he can help us!”

  “Help us with what? The so-called ‘Resistance?’ A couple of geriatric misogynists don’t stand a chance against these women. One more man won’t make a difference. And how do you suggest we get him past whatever they’ve got guarding the mountain pass?”

  Gus shook his head as he pressed the last button to total the groceries. The digital display read $25.79. “You’ve lost heart, Mike,” Gus muttered sadly.

  Mike’s pen froze over the check. “What do you want me to do? They’ve beaten us.”

  “Only because we’ve let them.”

  “Letting isn’t a factor. They stomped us flat!” He struggled to control his voice. “Have you forgotten what they did to Johnson and Malloy?”

  “Don’t forget the men responsible for you being able to write those checks. If they hadn’t gotten out of here, they wouldn’t be on the outside dumping money into your checkbook. You could have starved to death by now. How long do you think they’ll keep it up, huh?”

  “Shut up,” Mike said in a defeated tone.

  “The only reason they’re doing it is because they think you’re still fighting back. They think you’re still trying to get more of us out of here.”

  “Shut up!” Mike said, louder this time. Gus’s words bit deep.

  “Don’t allow this new one to be sacrificed. Enough good men have died, Mike.”

  “I said shut up!” he nearly shouted. A few others in the store looked over. Struggling to regain his composure, he finished writing the check. Gus looked as calm as ever, his hard gaze boring holes in the top of the priest’s bowed head.

  Mike tore the check out roughly and thrust it at Gus. “I’ve done all I ever could. If you keep your mouth shut, you wouldn’t have to worry about it either. We’re too old to attract their interest anymore.”

  “My sons aren’t. Nor is my grandson. You led us once, Mike. You never lose that ability. It’s never too late. The others still have faith in you, even if you don’t. I won’t tell them about our conversation.”

  Mike sighed, gathering his bag and his gallon of milk. He headed out the door.

  Gus looked down at the check. Like he did every time, Mike scribbled “Fuck You, Bitch” on the memo line. With a sad smile, Gus took up his pen and scribbled over the three words, just like he did every time.

  Chapter Five

  Tim finished gathering the lawn clippings into trash bags as Father Mike strode up the sidewalk toward the house. He cut directly across the lawn to where Tim stood and surveyed the yard work.

  “Looks great,” Father Mike commented.

  “Well, I’m not quite done yet,” Tim replied, “But I tell you what…”

  “What’s that?”

  “You keep taking care of breakfast, and I’ll handle the landscaping.”

  Father Mike chuckled. “You got it. Here, let me drop this stuff and bring out some sandwiches for lunch.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  He nodded and moved for the door. He disappeared inside briefly, returned to pick up the empty pitcher and glass, then closed the door behind him.

  Tim tied off the lawn bags and stacked them against the side of the shed. He could find out where to dispose of them later. He scattered the scraps that he could not pick up, then shook off the rake and set it against the shed.

  Father Mike came out balancing two thick sandwiches in one hand. In the other he carried a small plastic bottle which he extended toward Tim. “I picked this up for you. Looks like I got here just in time.”

  Tim read sunscreen off the label and gratefully accepted the bottle. He popped the top and squeezed a heavy drop out onto his palm, then rubbed it across his sun-reddened skin. Father Mike handed the sandwiches to Tim and helped cover his back.

  “Go get him, preacher man!” somebody called from the street. The two men looked over to see a teenage girl leaning out the back window of a car slowly passing by. Two girls in the front seat giggled hysterically. “You old fag!” They raced away with a squeal of tires.

  Tim stepped away from the old man. He could not help but wonder if they knew something he did not. The priest took him in pretty quickly…

  Father Mike shook his head, taking the sandwiches from Tim. He handed one back. “Don’t worry about them. I don’t know her name, but I’ve seen the shouting girl around. She’s a real troublemaker. I suspect she and her friends are the ones who have been giving me such a hard time lately.”

  Tim only nodded, taking a bite of the sandwich.

  “We’ll finish these and go on into the church,” Father Mike said.

  Tim took a seat on the steps, eating slowly to draw out his time to rest. What little shade there had been earlier disappeared, burned away by the sun as it neared its highest point. “What time is it?”

  Father Mike consulted his watch. “Almost noon.” He looked back out over the lawn. “Not bad for a good morning’s work.”

  They spent a few more moments in idle chatter about the lawn and the next few steps
of the restoration process. Father Mike assured Tim he could take his time on the job, and would be welcome to stay at the rectory for as long as he felt necessary. In the end, they decided he would finish working on the lawn today, then pull the weeds from the bases of the two buildings. His next project would be inside the church, giving his skin a break from the sun. Depending on the time it took inside the church, he would move on to fixing the two roofs, and finally to painting the two buildings.

  Still he debated whether or not to tell Father Mike about the vandalized room upstairs. The man looked so happy at the moment, Tim hated to bring him down. Perhaps he could fix the room up in secret, discarding the older, damaged furniture while the old man went out shopping or on some other errand. If the priest kept going to bed early, he could easily clean it up during the night as well. He would just have to locate a nearby dumpster or similar trash bin to accommodate the larger pieces.

  Finally, their lunches finished, the priest fished a key out of his pocket and opened the back door of the church. Tim followed him inside. A series of small back occupied the back of the church, each with only a table and chairs and a few pictures depicting various scenes of religious significance on the walls. A low bookshelf rested against one wall, only filled with a half-dozen books and several spider webs. Father Mike led him through a short hallway and several more rooms into the chapel itself.

  “I spend most of my time taking care of the church,” Father Mike explained. “Dusting the pews, the altar, and so forth. It seems sacrilegious to me to let it go, even if there are only a few truly faithful people in town.”

  Tim hardly heard the man’s words as he surveyed the church. The vaulted ceiling made the place seem huge, and their words echoed through the rafters. The stained glass windows (those still intact, anyway) shone their colored lights onto the pews in a rainbow effect. The pews themselves gleamed with their heavily-polished sheen. Like the rectory floors, Father Mike kept the carpeting immaculate. Hung high over the altar, mounted on the wall, a superbly-crafted statue of Jesus on the cross mournfully looked down at them. The artisan obviously took great care with even the slightest detail.

  Its beauty almost, but not quite, countered the cruelty and blatant offensiveness of the vandals.

  As Father Mike said, what remained of the vandalism was too high for the old man too reach. Spray painted slogans, much like those in the upstairs bedroom of the rectory, marred the higher portions of the walls and the beams. A large stuffed doll, nailed to an improvised cross, dangled upside down from a higher rafter. In several places the vandals carved their epithets directly into the wood rather than using their paints.

  “Why haven’t your remaining parishioners helped you out?” Tim asked.

  “They’re afraid of retribution.”

  “Retribution from vandals?”

  Father Mike sighed deeply. “There’s a strong…anti-religious element, shall we say, in this town. They want nothing more than to see me and my church gone forever. Obviously, they’re too cowardly to face me directly or to do me any physical harm. Instead, they opt for this immature behavior.”

  Tim nodded. The worst of the vandalism, the desecration of Jesus, captured his attention. The vandals painted a burglar’s mask over his eyes. Black streaks ran down His face like tears frozen in time. In red, they wrote “666” across His chest and drew a crude phallus over His loincloth.

  “I’ll fix that first,” Tim said soberly.

  “They destroyed most of the books and candles. What you see here is all I have left. I make do, though.”

  “I still can’t believe your parishioners didn’t help you out.”

  The priest looked pensive for several moments. “There’s more to this town than meets the eye, Tim. We’ll have a talk about it later tonight.” He smiled suddenly. “It’ll be good to see this place whole again, though. I’m deeply indebted to you.”

  “Hey, I’m not afraid to earn my keep. I may not attend church much anymore.” He felt awkward admitting as much to a priest. “But I know what’s right and what isn’t.”

  Mike clapped his guest on the back and grinned. They left together, Father Mike locking the door behind them.

  Tim took up the mower again as the priest headed inside.

  “I’m going to fix myself a drink and do some housework. Just holler if you need anything,” Father Mike said.

  Tim did not reply. He got back to work pushing the mower across the backyard.

  * * *

  Evening neared as he finished the chores. Six full bags of lawn clippings rested against the side of the shed. A veritable plague of insects now sought new homes. He returned the rake and mower, both cleaned and the mower oiled, to their homes inside the shed. His legs hurt from the effort of pushing the mower all day, and his arms and back hurt from pulling weeds. The other tools in the shed proved too awkward to use, and he was not even sure he used them right.

  Tired and sore, he went into the kitchen. He tore off his makeshift bandana and threw it into the garbage, followed by the now smelly and grimy Journey shirt he retrieved from the steps. He doubted anyone would miss it. He probably should have worn it longer though, as his flesh burned despite the sunblock.

  “Dinner’s on the stove,” Father Mike called from the next room. “Help yourself.”

  Tim looked over and saw a pot simmering on the cook top, brimming with what appeared to be chicken stew, thick and hearty, just the way he liked it. He smelled it and smiled. He definitely would not be going hungry tonight. Beside the stove Father Mike had laid out a loaf of Italian bread, a small package of crackers, and a deep bowl and spoon. Tim emptied the contents of the pot into his bowl, then took it to the small table to dine alone. He ate slowly, savoring the taste.

  He heard little movement in the next room, and he wondered what the priest was up to. Father Mike mentioned housework. Perhaps he finished and settled in with a book. Tim looked over at the clock on the wall and saw it was only six thirty. Surely the priest did not go to bed this early?

  When he finished, he went over to the sink and, not seeing the priest’s bowl anywhere, he found some containers in the cupboard and put the stew in the refrigerator. He then washed his bowl and the pot, and after a few moments’ browsing through the cabinets he found where each piece belonged. Finally he went upstairs, again digging through the spare bedroom’s stacked boxes. He found a pair of good sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt to wear for the evening, as well as some fresh underwear. He tried not to think of it as once belonging to somebody else. He carried the entire bundle downstairs to the bathroom.

  “I’m going to grab a shower,” he called into the next room.

  “Whatever,” Father Mike replied softly. Tim swore he heard a slur in the old man’s voice.

  Tim shrugged and shut the door, then undressed and climbed into the shower. He rinsed the sweat from his flesh and, with a liberal amount of shampoo and soap, scrubbed his body clean. He tried hot water at first, but it stung his reddened flesh too much. Instead, he turned the cool handle until his shower turned lukewarm.

  He emerged clean and toweled off gently. He examined himself in the mirror, hoping the skin on his face would not peel. His skin did not generally peel when it burned, but it had been years since he spent so much time in the sun in one day. He toweled his hair dry, brushed it out, and dressed.

  “What do you want me to do with the dirty clothes?” he called down the short hall.

  “Hamper,” the priest muttered.

  It took a moment for the word to sink in, but he did as he was told, placing the dirty, rolled up jeans on the small pile of clothing already in the wicker hamper in the corner. Refreshed, he went into the next room to talk to Father Mike. What he found surprised him considerably.

  Father Mike sat at his desk, an open book pushed negligently to the side. His face flushed red, his gaze wavered. He removed his white collar and (hopefully) put it in a safe place, the top two buttons of his shirt opened to expose a thick mat of t
angled gray hair. A bottle of bourbon sat on the ink blotter, a strange replacement for the book, its contents all but drained. Beside the bottle, the priest’s hand still wrapped tightly around it, rested a tall, thick drinking glass.

  “My God,” Tim muttered.

  “Your God, my God, He’s the same being. Here, have sheat,” the old man slurred, waving an unsteady hand.

  Tim did so, partially amused but mostly concerned with the priest’s display.

  “Sorry, my one vice. What’s your poison?”

  Tim considered his answer. “Usually beer,” he replied simply.

  The priest nodded. “Haven’t touched the stuff for years. Thish, however,” he said patting the bottle. “Thish is the good stuff.” He nodded, a big silly grin smeared across his face. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any left.” He upended the bottle and a tiny trickle spilled onto the ink blotter, which rapidly went about the business of absorbing the liquid.

  Tim could not help wondering if the priest’s liver had such an easy job of it. He never figured priests to be the drinking kind, and knew for a fact that it ran against the vows they took.

  “I know!” Father Mike said cheerfully, opening the top drawer of his desk and reaching into it. He removed a small stack of folded bills tucked into a money clip and tossed it onto the desktop. “Here you go! Go out and get yourself something to drink. We’ll drink to our health! Or lack thereof!” He laughed loudly.

  Tim chuckled despite himself. “I think it’s a little too late to catch up with you.”

  Father Mike froze, then suddenly broke down crying. “I shouldn’t have let you see me this way. I’m sorry. I’ve failed you, and I’ve failed the community!”

  “Hey now,” Tim said, wondering what he could add to that phrase to make it comforting.

  “It’s all their fault.”