Unholy Advent: Deception Of The Christ

by Brandon Messerschmidt

The water was piping hot and endlessly refreshing. It washed the grime comprised of war and dried sweat from the soldiers' bodies with its joyous caress, pulling it to the tiled floor where it spread, lining the surface with their filth.

  Pleasured moans from Matea and Washington drew the awkward attention of other prisoners who showered with them in this steamy open space. They seemed an unsavory bunch; many covered from head to toe in violent and crude tattoos that made those adorning the body of Creeper look like fine works of art penned at the hand of DaVinci or Van Gogh.

  The strangers to this place didn't care, though; the experience was divine. They had been allowed to shave their thickened beards and felt the wondrous touch of soap for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. Matea found the sensation almost sexual; he figured becoming aroused among these men would be a mistake, however, so he somehow managed to contain his glee.

  The cascading water suddenly switched off, leaving everyone at the mercy of the cool and dank air of this room.

  "That's it!" The officer that had led them from their cell shouted. "Yard time - one hour! GO!"

  Creeper and the Commander followed the hoard of men as they wrapped themselves in towels and filed out of the shower area. They were each handed fresh orange jumpsuits which they donned before spilling out into an outdoor courtyard. There were uniforms for the soldiers as well... they slipped into them, still wondering what was happening to them. The fabric of the clothing was thin and rough, but strangely comfortable in contrast to the worn fatigues they had so eagerly gotten out of before the shower started.

  A warm sun shined down upon the yard, the soldiers shielding their eyes in their first glance at its rage since their deployment so long ago. The layout of the place made it clear that this was a high-security complex. The space was surrounded on all sides by concrete walls, familiar razor wire lining its summit. Lookout towers were planted at each corner of the perimeter, rifle barrels sweeping from within constantly.

  There was a half-court basketball game in progress, prisoners shouting their praise as shots fell through the netless rim with expert precision. In another area inmates were pumping iron and riding stationary bikes, their physiques as chiseled as those of Matea and his friend.

  Men of every race and creed were present, but there were defining spaces between them. The soldiers drew intimidating glances as they walked; the only instance of a black man and an Italian within arm’s length of each other to be seen.

  "Stay cool." Washington advised, evaluating the situation as though it were a live battlefield. "We don't know how much of this is real; these people may be able to kill us if they want to."

  "Let's hope they decide against it." Matea responded. "I haven't had a Jiu-Jitsu refresher in quite a while, and I somehow doubt those guys in the towers will toss me a rifle if things pop off."

  A restlessness seemed to be building around them as they approached the exercise area which seemed dominated by whites. People were plainly staring at them now, some shouting slurs as they passed. Washington set his eyes on a vacant weight bench and moved towards it.

  "Spot me, Creep." He said, preparing to sit upon it.

  He was nearly settled in when a young white man literally knocked him from the seat as he crashed himself down on the bench.

  "Excuse me." He said as Washington fell to the pavement.

  Matea was ready to pounce on the stranger and show him how the Seals handled business until the Commander called him off.

  "I guess that one's -- taken." He said, staring at the man as he pounded out a few reps. "We'll just have to find another."

  He stood only to be knocked back to the ground by another prisoner passing by.

  "What the fuck?" Creeper barked at the man.

  The biker-looking prisoner stared down at Washington with disdain, hatred ringing in his voice as he spoke.

  "You'd be best advised to stay down there, nigger... wouldn't want to see you hit your head on your next dive if you don't."

  Matea jumped the man immediately in his rage, bedlam unfolding as result as every person in the exercise area dove into the fray. Seeing one of their own under attack, the blacks in the yard came to join the action in a fight for redemption and revenge. There were contingents of Asians and Hispanics under the sun as well; they threw themselves into the riot simply for the fun of being in the spat.

  A siren sounded, much like that which had called out from Ali Sabra's compound on the night of the raid.

  "Everyone on the ground immediately!" A voice echoed over loudspeakers, barely audible amongst the tumult of the fight.

  None of the combatants obliged, earning them an onslaught of tear gas canisters which choked them and burnt their eyes. The fighting continued, however, Matea and Washington holding their own against the hardened criminals.

  A glimmering object in the chaos caught Matea's eye; it was a shank of some sort, clenched tightly in the hand of the biker who was now approaching Washington from behind.

  "Robert! Behind you!" He shouted.

  The Commander turned around just in time to catch the blade in his chest, blood spraying from the wound as he collapsed to his knees.

  "Damn it!"

  Matea fought through the crowd to reach his downed friend as the attacker passed the weapon to someone else who handed it off in turn. Corrections officers were in the crowd now with their full riot gear, pelting the field of prisoners with bean bag rounds and batons in an attempt to regain control.

  Creeper took a round from their less-than-lethal cannon to the side of his face, knocked unconscious instantly by the violent slap of the bag. He collapsed on Washington's bloodied chest, the two left lying in that position until the yard was secured and the two were carried off in opposite directions on canvas stretchers.

  Matea awoke in pitch blackness, his head pounding, his face swollen like a grapefruit.

  "Ow!" He complained, gently touching his angered flesh.

  A dim rectangle of orange light above reminded him of the fire they had built in the cave, leading him to believe for a moment that the delusion of the prison had fallen away. A distinctly black voice echoing off the steel which was clearly not that of Commander Washington shattered that concept quickly.

  "Good mornin', Sunshine!" It said. "I was wonderin' when you were gonna come to and keep me company up in here! Sure as shit took your time, though."

  "Where am I?" He asked the disembodied voice. "Where is Robert?"

  "You in the hole, buddy." Was the response. "I imagine they took your boy to the infirmary -- I hear he got carved up pretty good out there."

  "Where?"

  "I told you!" The man barked. "You in the hole! It ain't just somethin' they have in movies... the hole is sho'nuff real, partner. Earned yourself an indefinite stay with that shit you pulled in the yard; can't just incite a riot and expect to go back into the general population now, can ya'?"

  "I know what the hole is." Matea returned. "I've done my share of time on the inside -- what I meant was what institution is this? Where am I?"

  "Damn, that shot must've knocked all the sense right out of yo' ugly head! You in The Big House, brotha'! Deep River Super-Max, baby!"

  "Deep River?" Creeper thought aloud. "That's in Atlanta!"

  "Very good!" Came the response. "Congratulations, you ain't win shit!"

  "But I was in Afghanistan..." He continued, talking mostly to himself.

  "I've heard it called the long arm of the law, but that's a real stretch, partner. How long you been in?"

  "A few hours, I guess."

  "And you already in the hole! Damn... you got style, son! You said you'd been in before?"

  "Yeah," Matea answered, though he wasn't completely interested in the conversation as he considered what had happened. "A long time ago. When I was eighteen -- did two years for assault with D.W."

  "What you use?"

  "A baseball bat... the guy dese
rved it, he broke in to my mother's house."

  "They sent you up for defending your crib?"

  "Not exactly -- he ran when I walked in, but I chased him down."

  "Yeah!" The man applauded. "That's how it ought to be... nothin' wrong with a little vigilante justice, if you're askin' me! My story is kinda the same... man tried to sneak off with some of my blow, so I shot the mutha'fucka'... twelve times! Then I killed his wife... his sister... his momma... shit, I guess I killed just about his whole family."

  "How long did you get?"

  "They pegged me real good, man. Four counts of murder one, possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute, unauthorized possession of a firearm by a felon - even tacked on use of a firearm in the commission of a felony tryin' to say that the dude was a deal gone bad. They hit me with life plus ninety-nine. I've got thirty-two under my belt so far. It's not so bad, once you're used to it... I wish I could see my son, though. He was just a year old when I came in - left him and his mother out there alone."

  "Pretty noble to be concerned about them - didn't expect as much from a murderer."

  "Shit." The man laughed. "You and I ain't so different, Creeper."

  "What?" Matea recoiled. "How did you know my handle?"

  "Uh..." The stranger paused. "You must've told me, you were pretty delirious when they tossed yo' ass in there, talkin' all kinds of crazy shit."

  "I hope you didn't try to play innocent, sir -- you lie like shit."

  "You got me." He chuckled again. "A guard told me you were coming last night -- told me all about you."

  "Last night? I wasn't here last night. How could that be possible?"

  "Beats the ever-loving shit out of me." The man replied, the words ringing with familiarity to Matea. "The guard was a weird mutha'fucka' too -- never seen him up in here before. Had long hair and a beard... I didn't think they let shit like that fly around this place. Smelled like incense, too... some kind of hippie-ass bitch, I guess."

  "What else did he tell you?" Creeper asked. "What else did he say?"

  "Nothin', really... just that you and yo' partner were killers with a laundry list of victims between ya'. That you would be comin' here and I should talk to the two of ya'... get to know you for some reason or another. Said you would set me free... Can you imagine that? Some punk-ass white boy setting me free? He must've been crazy, I imagine."

  The sound of a heavy door opening then slamming shut interrupted the conversation, several sets of footfalls calling out behind it. Light filled the cell, blinding Creeper, as its door swung open and a man was pitched in on top of him.

  "The wing is full, pal!" Their favorite guard said. "You get to be with your sweetheart after all!"

  "Robert!" Matea said as his partner groaned, the door slamming closed again behind him. "Commander Washington, are you okay?"

  "Wait..." The other black prisoner called. "Robert Washington? Is that his name? Ain't that what you said?"

  Creeper's eyes adjusted to the darkness again, allowing him a glimpse of the roughly stitched wound in his friend's chest.

  "I'm okay." He moaned. "It just hurts like hell! I need to rest..."

  "How old is he?" The stranger yelled now.

  "Shut up!" Matea returned, tending to his partner.

  "Damn it, man! Just tell me how old he is!"

  "I think he's thirty-three, now shut the fuck up and let him rest!"

  "Little Rob?" He asked, curiosity invading his excited voice. "Little Rob, is that you?"

  "Dad?" Washington responded, his curiosity clearly peaked as well.

  "My God, Little Rob -- is that really you?"

  "Dad? But -- you're dead, dad!"

  "No... I'm not dead Little Rob!"

  "Nana told me you got shot to death in a drug deal gone bad."

  "That's not your father, Robert!" Matea said. "It can't be."

  "It is him!" Washington insisted. "I know his voice! I had a tape... when I was a baby he recorded a tape for me! I treasured it; listened to it every night! I recognize his voice, Creep! It's my daddy! I know it is!"

  "Then we are dead." Matea concluded.

  "We're in Hell," The supposed Pappa Washington suggested. "But we ain't dead. I know my momma well, Little Rob... she would've rather had you believe I was dead than in this place. She was a proud woman -- I imagine she was ashamed of what I had become. Don't blame her, son! She was just tryin' to protect you!"

  "Protect me from what?" He yelled back, a lifetime of suppressed anger spilling out.

  "From the life that had swallowed yo' momma and I! We threw it all away, Rob! For what? Another hit at that pipe? Another shot from that needle?"

  "You abandoned me, dad! You and momma both! Just left me and Nana -- out in the cold without a pot to piss in!"

  "You're so right, son! We did! Be angry at her and me, not at yo' nana!"

  "I loved my nana, fool! I never blamed her for anything. When we couldn't eat because she didn't have enough money... when I wore dirty clothes because it was all I had... when I almost died because she couldn't find a hospital that would treat me without any insurance! I always blamed you, you filthy worthless fuck!"

  "Calm down, Robert!" Matea advised. "Don't get yourself excited - you're hurt, you need to relax!"

  "Good." The senior Washington replied. "I'm glad. When that guard told me that the two of you would set me free - I couldn't have imagined that this is what he meant. You have freed me from a lifetime of guilt... I thought you would blame your granny or yourself - that you would turn to the hell that I called a life for an escape. Thank you... thank you for freeing me of my chains!"

  "Fuck you!" Robert shouted back viciously. "You don't deserve salvation! If I could get my hands on you, so help me God I would deliver you to Satan myself!"

  "I'm glad to hear it, son!" The man responded. "That's exactly how you should feel! But it ain't time to talk about the past anymore... this ain't yo' home, Little Rob -- y'all don't belong here. The man I was tellin' your friend about did say somethin' else when he visited me last night... he said it was up to me to help you realize why he sent you here... to figure out what you had to do to set yourselves free of this place. It ain't time to talk about me and what I've done... we need to get down to what y'all have done to offend God if you are to survive this detour. He wants you by his side, boys... to stand with him as warriors in the fight to birth the new world!"

  "How do we do that?" Matea asked. "What are we supposed to do?"

  "He said you carried heavy burdens... loads you couldn't bare and stand against the darkness at once. To free yourselves from this place you will have to cast them off... learn to forgive and accept, and to bring that understanding to all the damned souls of this prison."

  "How are we supposed to do that while we're locked in this pit?"

  "Patience is a virtue, boys... another lesson for you to learn before you break down these walls."

  Chapter 20