by Brian Hodge
Perhaps it had all been a dream.
Perhaps it had never happened.
Out past the entrance to the cave, people were going about their business—acting as if nothing had happened. A few of them I recognized. I’d seen them murdered.
“Good Morning, Daniel. Want some coffee?”
I spun around violently and stared. I scooted back on my hands and heels until my back touched the rough wall of the cave. I pushed myself up to a standing position and stared at Brother John holding a steaming metal cup out to me.
“Come on, take a drink before it gets cold,” he said.
It must have been a nightmare.
No one comes back from the dead.
I calmed myself and argued with my feet until they agreed to move me over to the Brother. I reached out with a tentative hand and grabbed the handle of the cup. I could see a neat little scab in the center of his forehead. Funny I didn’t notice it before. It couldn’t possibly be from the gunshot wound.
I chuckled to myself a little more crazily than I wished and sat down beside the Brother.
The coffee tasted excellent. I already felt better. The bandages on my hands had been expertly done.
The bandages!
If what I thought happened last night didn’t happen, then why are my hands burned? I glanced over at Brother John and there was a twinkle in his eye.
“It seems that God saw fit to let us live another day. Perhaps our work is not yet done, no?”
I threw down the coffee cup and jumped to my feet. I searched for something to defend myself with. Anything to keep me from the vengeance these people were only right in unleashing.
“Have no fear, friend Daniel, we have no ill will against you... or even your friend there.” The Brother gestured over by the cold dead fire where Morty lay, curled around the jug, sleeping soundly. I could see the rise and fall of his stomach.
“Why— I mean how are you— not dead?”
“As I said, Friend Daniel. God must have a greater purpose for us. It’s just as you think. We were truly dead. But come morning, we awoke as if from a sound sleep.” The Brother rubbed the center of his forehead. “A little worse for wear, mind you, but alive none the less. It is truly a miracle.”
I reached out a trembling hand and felt his forehead. It was true. The wound had almost entirely healed. I didn’t know what to make of it. I wasn’t a very religious person. I’d been to church a few times, but only to meet girls. This manifestation of power, though, was a little too much.
“You must be hungry. You slept right through breakfast, but give me a second and I’ll get some fruit.”
He walked to the back of the cave and reached inside a large light blue drum. He brought back two large ruby red apples. After brushing off a couple pieces of the insidious green moss, I mumbled my thanks and started to devour them. I had finished one and started on the other when I saw the end of the gun protruding from Morty’s pants.
I took it.
Morty woke about dusk.
I’d considered leaving him, but quickly rejected the idea. One thing was for sure, I needed to get him as far away from these people as I could. To Morty’s credit, he was appropriately shocked when he noticed Brother John and the rest of the village walking and talking as if last night’s Amusement Park had never happened. One by one, each walked over and spoke with him. I wasn’t close enough to hear, but it appeared they were consoling him. Trying to make him feel better or some similarly insane thing. They left him trembling all over.
It took some convincing, but Morty finally came around to the realization that they were still alive. But like a kid denied dessert, he sat there silent and sullen for over an hour, staring out from beneath a roiling cloud of anger. All the way through dinner, he refused to speak. A young man approached me. I recognized him as the one who’d been burned. He thanked me for trying to help him. And in these people’s inimical manner, proceeded to scold me for interfering with God’s will. I was mad enough to hit him, but his injuries were so extensive that they hadn’t quite healed yet. Whatever mystical force controlled these people was healing the poor kid slowly.
Morty finally spoke as the last of the people went off to bed. There was a strangeness in his voice that I had never heard before.
“Better get a good sleep, Dan. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
I couldn’t tell what was running through his mind, but I was glad we were leaving. This whole scene was too spooky. My friend had become an uncontrollable mass murderer. But then again, he wasn’t. All of his victims were alive. I had no doubt that it happened, but couldn’t explain the resurrections. All I knew was that God had somehow given us a second chance. I promised myself that as soon as we arrived in Raleigh, I was going my separate way.
I woke up sometime around midnight after a bad dream of flesh-eating religious-groupie zombies. My mouth was as dry as a Grandma’s ass and when I reached over for some water, I noticed Morty was missing. With a curse, I jumped up and went searching for the asshole.
Off to the left of the cave’s entrance was a row of huts. I tip-toed to the first one and peeked inside. There were two beds, each containing a softly snoring figure.
I nudged the door silently closed and slipped to the next hut. Morty stood three huts down. He’d just exited a hut, the knife in his hand dripping the blood of his efforts. He must have started at the other end.
He saw me at the same time I saw him.
He smiled weakly. “I don’t know what these people are, but I’m not leaving them behind to chase me down,” he whispered. “Jesus, talk about born again Christians. These folks bring new meaning to the word.”
“That’s not even funny.”
“I don’t give a damn. These folks have screwed with my head. I don’t know anything anymore. All I know is with them dead, we’re safer.”
“They’re just going to come back in the morning. Leave the poor folks alone. Don’t you think you’ve caused them enough pain?”
I said it and it made sense, but it was so ridiculous.
Morty smiled. “I’m one step ahead of you, pal. Once they’re all dead, I’m gonna burn them. Burn them until nothing’s left. If need be, I’ll spread the ashes from here to Raleigh. Let them try and come back from that.”
“Don’t do it Morty,” I pleaded. “We don’t know anything about these people. We’re lucky they didn’t kill us. We don’t know what they’re capable of.”
“Exactly,” he said. “We don’t know what they’re capable of. So I’m gonna make sure there is nothing left.”
I shook my head slowly. There seemed to be no way that I could keep being a watcher. It was time to be a doer.
I pulled out the gun and pointed it at Morty’s chest.
“No, you’re not, Morty. Let’s get in the car and leave now,” I said as forcefully as I knew how.
He looked at me sadly, “What are you gonna do, Dan. Shoot your best friend?”
“If I have to,” I replied. I pulled the hammer back like I had seen him do with Brother John. It was harder than I expected and I had to use both my thumbs. His eyes widened appreciably. His smile turned into a malicious sneer. He began walking toward me.
“You better put that down, before you hurt yourself.”
I saw the tip of the knife pointed at my heart. I looked into his eyes and saw nothing there I recognized. He was a complete stranger to me. I pulled the trigger and felt the gun buck in my hands. The bullet hit him in the center of the chest and I watched mutely as he was hurled backwards. He stared down at the blood pumping from the impossibly large fist-sized hole and died.
I pulled his body over to the fire. I was exhausted—spiritually and emotionally. I didn’t need any more crap. If I wanted to survive the road, however, I needed to get some sleep before I started out in the morning. Also, I didn’t want to leave like a thief in the night.
I didn’t want these people to think that I was the one who killed them.
Again.
&nb
sp; The next morning, I explained to Brother John what had happened. He shook his head sadly when he looked over at Morty. I wasn’t sure if it was because Morty was a psychopath or if it was because I had interfered with God’s will.
They talked me into staying until noon, with the promise that they’d load my car with fruit and water for the trip. They could tell my sanity was precariously perched and they spent every opportunity counseling me in an attempt at lightening my spiritual baggage.
I sat and listened, letting it come in one ear and mentally shoving it out the other before any of the insane ideas had a chance to take root.
The lunch bell gonged and we returned to the communal cave to eat and say our good buys.
“Hello, Dan,” said Morty, standing by the blackened logs of the fire pit and holding the bell.
My legs trembled and threatened to fail. The villagers seemed equally shocked. I found that a little strange, knowing their own propensity for returning from the dead.
“You know, that really hurt,” he chuckled as he rubbed his chest. The blood had dried and the hole had disappeared, but the shirt still proved the event. “But what a rush!”
“Morty,” I said, unable to keep the quaver out of my voice. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“I guess God has a special purpose for me too,” he said with a wink and a grin.
At the mention of God, the villagers began to murmur among themselves. The Brother was gesticulating wildly towards Morty. Their voices became louder. I finally understood what they were saying.
“The Christ. He is the Christ,” they were saying.
Morty’s smile grew from ear to ear. He had never seemed so happy. “They think I am the Son of God, Dan.” He began laughing uncontrollably.
I rushed over and tugged at Brother John’s arm. “This isn’t the Christ,” I said. “It’s only Morty. He came back just like the rest of you.”
His eyes rested on mine. “Our holy book says ‘And one shall come among you with the sins of the world on his shoulders…although he is not of the chosen, He will die and rise again. He will provide for you and succor you in your times of need. He is the Christ, so love him.’”
“Do ya hear that,” shouted Morty over the din. “I’m the Christ.” He raised his arms skyward. “I am the Christ.” The final word echoed throughout the cave along with his laughter.
Brother John and the villagers knelt before him and bowed their heads in reverence. Morty took on an imperious demeanor and strode over to Brother John’s kneeling figure.
He winked at me, placed his hand atop the Brother’s head and spoke in a commanding voice, “Arise, Brother John. Arise. I am the Christ. Love me.”
Brother John rose and bade the kneeling multitude rise, also. They placed Morty atop their shoulders and headed towards the huts in a grand processional. A solitary voice floated up from within the group. The rest soon joined in and accompanied the procession with a hymn.
I was completely and utterly amazed by the turn of events. All I could do was followed at a distance, mindful of the gun still tucked in my waistband. The procession passed the huts and entered a small clearing. In the center was an immense cross, sunk firmly into the ground. They stood Morty before it. He turned, smiled beatifically at his worshippers and jokingly placed his arms along the length of the cross which were immediately seized from behind. Four large men secured his wrists to the arms of the cross with lengths of rope. Two women wrapped another rope quickly around his feet, securing them to the shaft of the cross.
Morty’s shouts of confusion were lost amidst the singing. A man in the rear of the group produced a curved, single-edged knife and passed it forward. The blade glittered wickedly in the sunlight. I began to edge backwards. A large wooden bowl was also making its way forward. Brother John soon held the items in either hand. He brought his arms up. The singing stopped and the congregation knelt in the wildflowers of the field.
Brother John turned and kissed Morty passionately upon the lips. Then, in a quick sure movement, he drew the blade across Morty’s neck. Morty tried to cry out, but couldn’t get enough air for a scream. The blood gushed forth in a bubbly rush. Before any could hit the ground, Brother John deftly moved the bowl into position and the torrent quickly filled it.
He held the bowl high. “This is the blood of Christ. Blood he sheds to wash away our sins.”
Before I turned and left, I saw the agonized look in Morty’s eyes. He had become their permanent fountain of redemption. He knew he wouldn’t die. And I am sure he wished he could.
Peaches
by David Whitman
The old man ruffled his leathery hands through the child’s blonde hair. “You know something, Davy,” he said. “You’re the only one who has ever done good for me. The only one that I have faith in.”
He looked up at the peach tree, enjoying the way the wind blew into his wrinkled face. The newly ripened fruit waved invitingly in the warm breeze.
The old man and his grandson sat on the hill under the tree, the sweet scents moving enticingly through the air. Flowers dotted the landscape around them, the colors swaying back and forth like a beautiful dream.
The old man watched patiently as the rest of his family ambled slowly up the hill, his eyes narrowing.
“I like you too, Grandpa Pete,” Davy said, looking up at the old man.
Pete returned his adoring look and smiled, exposing his white dentures to the summer air. “I want you to remember that, Davy.” He turned back towards his family and there was an odd glint in his eye. “Your Grandpa is leaving soon. Going to join that woman, uh your grandmother, in the afterlife. I’m going to be saying some things to these buffoons that you see walking up the hill, things that aren’t going to be too pleasant. I thought it would be best if you heard it firsthand. I’d rather that you’d have your own memory of what’s going to go on here, rather than some biased second hand information from one of those clowns.” He said the last sentence with a smile as he waved at the group nearing the top of the flower-dotted hill.
The first son to make it up was Steve. Pete actually had to fight to keep his smile glued to his face—a fight he won much to his amazement. He was getting much too impatient for such niceties. Steve was his oldest son, a piece of shit, the very definition of redneck. Steve hadn’t held a job longer than a month in his entire forty-five years. A man who would rather spend his father’s vast amount of wealth than to go out into the world and provide for himself. Steve took off his John Deere cap respectfully and held it to its side, but not before putting a dip of wintergreen chewing tobacco behind his bottom lip.
Steve’s wife, Mary, followed behind. She was a woman who reminded Pete far too much of his long dead wife—a woman who felt the world owed her something for nothing.
Pete’s second son, Samuel, was followed by his wife, Lia. The only good thing that those two have done, he thought, is bring such a perfect boy as Davy into the world. Other than that, they did nothing more than have sex, sleep, eat and shit. Might as well get a dog. At least a dog shits outside and has the decency to die after about fifteen years of freeloading. There are no bigger parasites in all of Georgia.
“Daddy.” Both sons said their greeting simultaneously and Pete winced.
Pete looked up at the peach tree, putting his hand over his eyes to block the sun and thought to himself just how much he and the old peach tree were alike. His whole freeloading family took fruit from that tree, with the exception of Davy. The boy, like Pete, had developed an aversion of peaches.
The rest of the family took the peaches gluttonously, never giving anything back, not once offering to help take care of the tree. That’s my job, he said, chuckling to himself. I take care of the tree, and they eat its fruit. My family scavenges from me, never even leaving home to cut their own paths. They depend upon me totally. I take care of myself, increasing my fortune every year in real estate, and they eat from me. My money might as well have peaches on the front of the bill instead of th
e face of some old president. Like the tree, I wince every time one of my hard-earned fruits is taken. The fruits of my labor.
Pete hid his thought well. “Everybody grab a peach and sit down,” he said, gesturing to the tree. “I have something to tell all of you.” He grinned and this time it was genuine.
They all pulled a peach from the tree and sat down. Steve took three in his typically greedy fashion.
They bit hungrily into the sweet, luscious peaches as they waited for Pete to speak. Steve did not even bother to wipe the juice that ran messily down his chin. Lia took short baby bites, chewing carefully to get maximum enjoyment.
“I’m glad to see everyone here,” Pete said, turning his gaze at each of them as he spoke. “The first thing that I want to tell you is that I’m dying.” He saw that they tried to hide their elation, but failed miserably. They actually seemed to drool like hungry dogs, the peach juice on Steve’s chin emphasizing the metaphor colorfully.
“Oh Pete, I’m so sorry,” Mary said sorrowfully, although to Pete it sounded like, “Good-Goddamn, Pete, that’s fantastic!”
Pete finally put aside the mask of the friendly old man he had worn for years, letting it slide from his face with smooth and satisfying precision. “Please. Spare me your fake sympathy. You’re the most apathetic woman that I’ve ever met. You couldn’t empathize with a dying child, you cold bitch.”
“Dad!” Steve shouted in shock. “Don’t listen to him, Mary. He must be going senile.”
“Senile!” Pete shot back, sending them all into frozen positions of amazement, each of them riveted to his words. “Boy, my mind is sharper than that knife you used to whittle with when you were Davy’s age. Although you did most of your whittlin’ without the knife, I should add, judging by the amount of times I caught you in the barn with your pants down to your ankles!”
“Dad!”
“Don’t Dad me, boy! Let me finish! I got some things to say and I want you to hear me out! The least you can do for me, after all I’ve done, is shut your hole and listen!” He glared at them one by one, daring them to open their mouths. “I have a confession to make. Many years ago your mother didn’t run off on me. She didn’t just disappear. I killed her. I killed the cheating bitch. I found her with Ned Roberts and I shot the both of them. Your mother took a bullet in the face, dead instantly. For the first time in her life, she didn’t get the last word in.”
