Sinless

by Sarah Tarkoff

  “There are doctors for times like this, when people have experiences that don’t make sense.”

  “I’m not crazy, Dad!”

  “I’m not saying that. But sometimes, we can’t help what we see. The brain is a very complex machine, and sometimes when one part gets out of place . . .”

  “Fuck you!” I shouted. It was the first time I’d ever said that word, and my whole body tingled with excitement. I smiled, feeling powerful. “Look at my face. Is it changing? It’s not changing.”

  My father looked at me with horror, took a step back.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, starting to feel guilty.

  But my father’s frustration and confusion had turned to rage. With a voice steady and intimidating, he said, “This is a house of Great Spirit, and you will listen to what your father says. Go to your room, and pray for Forgiveness.”

  “I don’t need to be Forgiven, see?”

  “Something has overtaken you. You’ve caught some kind of spiritual disease. Go to your room right now.”

  I gave up. Trudged upstairs. My father was going to be no help, and now he was watching my every move. I stared at the pills in my hand. They felt like a liability now. I’d had my fun, I’d gone to the black market, and it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth ruining my relationship with my father, or the guilt I was feeling about defying Great Spirit. And if my father found the pills, figured out what they were . . .

  I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. It had been a day since my last pill, and my skin’s healthy glow was already dimming. I could take another one, putting off the inevitable—or I could try to make amends to Great Spirit. Do some act of atonement. I stood in front of the toilet and dumped the pills in. For a moment I just stared at them, sitting in there, and considered swiping them out, putting them back. But then I gathered my courage and flushed.

  They swirled away, down the drain. I glanced back to the mirror, expecting my reward—but nothing came. Great Spirit didn’t care what I had just done.

  I stayed in the bathroom looking at my appearance for almost an hour, waiting to see what would happen. But when the deterioration began, it progressed at lightning speed. Every terrible thing I’d done all week—I was being Punished for all of those things at once. Stealing Zack’s pills, going to the black market. Great Spirit was angry at me for all of it. I realized then just how screwed I was.

  The pills were gone. And without them, I was going to die.

  Chapter 7

  I surrounded myself with every holy book I owned. Besides my standard Great Book, I had a Buddhist prayer wheel to one side, a statue of Ganesh on the other. I’d pulled out a set of Hanukkah candles—one of my last gifts from Jude, which I’d vowed never to burn. But in this dire moment, I thought perhaps they could help me. I liked the idea of his spirit being around me. That maybe, from beyond the grave, he could protect me somehow.

  I wondered if this was what it had been like for Jude. He’d been lucky enough to be far from a mirror and miss the terrifying experience of watching his body disintegrate, but I knew he could feel it happening, just as I could. I remember that look in his eyes, knowing he was going to die, knowing it was the end. I didn’t understand then why he wouldn’t pray; now I did. When Great Spirit sends you the Ultimate Punishment, you know, deep inside. You know you’re too far gone; you know you’re beyond Forgiveness.

  I didn’t think I’d done anything so bad, logically. A little teenage rebellion. A couple trips to the black market. A few kisses with a boy who was not my true love. And a lot of doubt. But that doubt—I could feel it was fatal. I knew now why older people like my father were so paranoid, why every question I’d ever asked about Great Spirit was hurriedly answered with rote dogma—there was nothing more dangerous than doubt.

  As I watched my face melt, my muscles wither, I knew it was the end. I prayed because I had to, because I wasn’t capable of giving up, but I knew it would do no good. For the first time in my life, I could feel Great Spirit’s indifference. I was saying empty words, and no one was listening.

  As the last embers of the candles extinguished, and my strength diminished, I gave up on my father’s plan. Maybe he was right, maybe those pills had come from the devil. But if the devil was the only one who could save me, I was ready to make a deal.

  I snuck into the bathroom, futilely tried to stick my fingers down the throat of the toilet. The pills were long gone. I wondered where those pipes led to. Could I open the sewage line, wade through waste to find them? That thought didn’t disgust me as much as it should have. The desperation of imminent death can drive you to unimaginable things.

  A more logical plan emerged, one I’d already managed once before. I’d have to steal more pills from Zack. I fumbled for my cell phone. With the loss of muscle coordination, it was hard to maneuver. It was late, after midnight, and Macy didn’t pick up. She must have already been asleep. I’d have to go there in person.

  I grabbed my dad’s keys—stealing the car again, another infraction Great Spirit would have to live with. But as I stepped into the driveway, I wasn’t sure how I could possibly get to Macy’s house. My legs were so weak they could barely support me, my arms useless as I struggled to open the car door. There was no way I’d be able to work the gas pedals for the six-mile drive. I couldn’t get on the road without endangering every other car. Great Spirit would strike me down to prevent that, for sure.

  I fell to my knees on the pavement. This would embarrass my father so much, I thought. Cleric’s daughter, struck down by Great Spirit, right in the middle of our driveway. People would leave his worship center in droves. I’d be leaving him alone, I realized. My mother was gone. My father had devoted his life to his worship center, never come close to remarrying. Could he survive losing me?

  I couldn’t give up. I had to find a way to live, somehow. There was one person left to call. It was risky; it might be suicide in its own right. But it would be better than dying here as a useless lump in my driveway, too weak to move, throat closed up so I couldn’t scream for help. I was going to have to call Zack.

  It was hard work just to pull my phone out of my pocket. I had to put the phone on the ground, I was too weak to even hold it. I desperately fumbled at the screen. “Call Zack,” I said to it with my garbled voice.

  “Sorry. I didn’t understand that.”

  “Zack Cannon,” I squeaked out, as loud as I could through my constricting throat. Finally, the phone understood me. Dialed.

  And then I noticed the battery life. I hadn’t charged it since yesterday, I’d been so distracted.

  “Hello?” Zack’s voice asked me. But he couldn’t ask me anything else—my phone was dead.

  I lay down on the ground, on my back. I couldn’t hold myself up anymore. I couldn’t walk to find another phone. I was out of hope. This was it. I’d given up. I was ready to wait and see where I ended up in the next life—if this Punishment was enough, or if I’d spend the rest of eternity serving time for these few sins. I closed my eyes. A kind of dreadful peace.

  My head spun as the lack of oxygen began to play with my brain. I felt myself being lifted up. I’d heard of near-death experiences, where people walked toward a light. This was different—it was physical, it felt like I was really moving. I wasn’t sure in what direction—I felt as though I was being carried somewhere, but I wasn’t sure if I was ascending, or simply preparing to descend. My heart fluttered. What happened next would decide my eternal destiny—a life spent in bliss or in flames.

  But then I opened my eyes. This wasn’t my soul traveling to the next world . . . this was someone moving my physical body. Someone was carrying me. A man—these were strong, masculine arms. They weren’t my father’s, that at least I could tell. But I couldn’t see the face.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” I recognized that voice—deep and melodic. But it couldn’t be. With my last ounce of strength, I strained my neck to see. It was an odd angle, a profile from below, and he looked very differ
ent from when I’d last seen him—he’d grown a beard, and his face had seen a lot of sun. But that jawline, that nose. I had to be hallucinating.

  “Jude?”

  And then I passed out.

  Chapter 8

  I can’t say for certain what happened next. I was in and out of consciousness, and what I do remember felt like a fever dream. One minute, I was in the passenger seat of my dad’s car, speeding through town as I looked out the window, nauseous; the next I was a kid, sitting on my lawn with Jude, playing at being astronauts.

  “Now we’re going to Jupiter!” Kid Jude said.

  “But we can’t really go to Jupiter,” I said. Even as a child, I was always very literal about my games. I only wanted to play pretend at things that could actually happen.

  “Sure we can,” Jude said. “We get in a rocket, and then we blast off.”

  “But where will we find the rocket?” I asked.

  “We’ll make one.”

  “I don’t know how to make a rocket.”

  “You’ll learn.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  And then I was back in the car, leaning against the window, and I could see the ground whizzing below us outside.

  “Don’t try to talk,” the male voice in the driver’s seat said. Was it Jude? Or was this a dream, too?

  “Can you build a rocket?” I mumbled, trying to verify his identity, but I don’t think he ever responded.

  Suddenly I was a kid again, at our worship center, on the day of the American Revelation, and I could feel the heat around me. My father was up at the podium, preaching. “We’re coming!” he shouted. “Leave the door open for us.”

  I turned to the mystery woman sitting next to me, the blonde who’d been with me at the Moment. My mother was in the bathroom; she’d be back any minute. “What does he mean?” I asked the mystery woman.

  “We don’t have much time,” she said. “She’s dying.”

  The next thing I remember, I was somewhere else. My eyes were closed. As I slowly came to, I realized I was on a couch with unfamiliar scratchy cushions. Where could I be? Everything felt so dreamlike. What if this was a dream? I began to hope . . . Could everything I’d just experienced be nothing more than a nightmare? Would I wake up and find Jude alive next door? Ciaran and the pills would never have existed, and Zack would still be Macy’s harmless older brother, and everything would just be back to normal?

  I lifted my head—it took immense effort—and opened my eyes.

  The room was dark and quiet. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a woman. She was rummaging through her supply closet. “She’s still breathing?” she asked. Something about her voice sounded so familiar . . .

  My rescuer responded, “Just barely. The booster woke her up, but she needs something stronger.” I couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. I tried to crane my neck to see, but I was too weak to support my own head. The woman approached with a small brown box.

  But then she stopped. Squinted at my features. All Outcasts look the same. Or perhaps we didn’t. She asked, “Who is that?”

  “Why does it matter?” the voice asked.

  “Just tell me.”

  “Her name’s Grace Luther,” the voice said, tentatively, as though he’d been found out. The woman backed away. “Why does it matter?”

  “Luther?” The woman seemed panicked. “Paul Luther’s daughter?”

  “Yes,” the man said, hesitant.

  “Get her out of here. Get her out, get her out, get her out!” She threw the box down on the table and moved as far from me as she could.

  “Dawn . . .”

  “You brought her here? To my house?”

  “I disabled the GPS on her dad’s car . . .”

  As they headed into the other room, I could hear their muffled conversation, drawers opening and closing. Finally, Dawn reappeared, walked over to me. The male voice began to panic. “What are you doing?”

  I saw the gun in her hand, pointed at my head. Her voice steady. “I’m saving all of us.”

  Chapter 9

  The man stepped into view and pushed the gun barrel away. “Dawn!”

  “It’s the most humane thing to do. If I don’t shoot her, she’ll choke to death. It’ll take hours. It’s a miserable way to go.”

  “She’s a good person. We can save her.”

  “Do you know who her father is?”

  “He’s a cleric, I know.”

  “One of the most important clerics in the country. Close to the prophet,” she said.

  “And because of that you’re going to let her die?”

  “People die every day through inaction. If we save her, more will die.”

  “Grace won’t tell anyone,” the voice insisted.

  “She won’t have to. Her father will recognize the signs, and he’ll tell the prophet.”

  “You have to help her. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.”

  Maybe it was that argument. Maybe it was another she made to herself. Maybe it was some conversation I wasn’t conscious for, because I think I passed out again around this point.

  But as everything blurred around me, I felt a sharp pain in my arm. I screamed. In my confused dream state, I saw myself locked in a torture chamber, imprisoned, stabbed with knives and spears and needles, as Dawn repeated, “This will be the end of us all.”

  I woke up in that same strange living room. There was air in my lungs. Strength in my muscles. An empty syringe next to me. I was alive. Against all odds, I was alive. There was a mirror on the wall by the door. My reflection was beautiful. Normal. Healed. And then I heard that familiar voice. “Are you okay?”

  I turned. Next to me, in flesh and blood—it was Jude. Real, live Jude. I reached out, and my hand hovered an inch from his face. I was afraid if I touched him, he’d pop like a bubble, back out of existence. But he took my hand and touched it to his face. It was warm, scraggly and stubbly under my fingers. My mouth gaped open. “You’re alive.”

  I stared, disbelieving. “How . . .”

  But he didn’t have time to answer before Dawn reentered the room. As she moved closer, I recognized that sharp, floral scent—she was one of the EMTs who’d responded to Jude’s crash. The one who’d told me he was dead, the one who still comforted me in my dreams. Jude’s resurrection was starting to piece itself together in my head.

  “How are you feeling?” Dawn asked me. Her voice was soothing now, innocent . . . did she know I’d been conscious for her attempt to euthanize me?

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “I’m sure you’re confused right now.”

  No kidding. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  She looked me in the eye. “I’m going to be honest with you, Grace. You’re in a dangerous situation. But I trust you, and I want you to trust me. Do you think you can do that?”

  I hesitated. Could I trust her? I remembered everything my father had said about the devil. Could, despite her outward appearance, Dawn herself be aligned with the darkest of all forces? By letting her save me, had I made that deal with him? And more importantly, should I trust someone whose instinct was to shoot me in the head?

  But then I looked over at Jude. He put a hand on my shoulder, reassuring. The touch was at once electric and terrifying—a ghost brought to life. And looking at my miraculously living, breathing friend, my curiosity was more powerful than my pious fear. I told her, “I can trust you.”

  “Good. Then I’m going to tell you the truth. The whole truth, as best as I know it. It’s going to scare you, and it might put you in a great deal more danger. And what I tell you now you’ll have to keep a secret from everyone. From your dad, from your friends, boyfriends, everyone. Are you okay with that?”

  Maybe everything would have been better if I’d just said no. Maybe I could have escaped all the turmoil that was to come simply by leaving that room at that moment. But I didn’t. “I want to know the truth,” I said simply.

>   She took a seat across from me. “This world is not what you think it is.”

  Book Three

  Chapter 1

  “The prophet would like to meet with you.” That was the phone call my father got in June of 2025.

  This was before “the prophet” had a singular meaning in America, before Joshua’s word was golden. At first my father assumed the caller meant Navid, the prophet of Pakistan, who’d taken on a more global role at the time by virtue of being first. But as the voice continued, my father realized he meant an American prophet.

  With all the tumult happening around the world, you couldn’t walk anywhere in the U.S. without tripping over a so-called prophet. Pakistan happened in late 2024, so by this time, the Revelations had spread throughout the Middle East and Asia, finally hitting the Caribbean in May of 2025. America’s “prophets” were a dime a dozen, and they weren’t just bums shouting on street corners—these were great evangelical leaders, saying the time of the rapture had come. Rabbis, imams, leaders of the New Age movement—they all had an opinion. They each believed they were the messiah meant to lead America out of the darkness.

  But in every nation, it worked the same way—from the cacophony of voices, one would emerge with the backing of the prophets of the other nations. This man or woman, all the other prophets said, had a unique connection to Great Spirit and would take the lead in explaining Great Spirit’s will to the people of that nation. And without fail, that prophet would predict the time and place of Great Spirit’s Revelation in his or her home country. That’s how in mid 2025, Prophet Joshua made his entry onto the world stage.

  At the time, he was Joshua Villegas, a terribly unlikely candidate to lead the nation’s religious future. He was an active member of a church in D.C., but he wasn’t a minister. He had master’s degrees in comparative religion and comparative government, and he’d spent most of his career working in a Washington think tank. Joshua had been quite successful—he had an ease with people, a charm with a five-mile radius. By the time he made his propheting debut, he had quite an impressive, if polarizing, record. He’d staved off wars and started one or two—always, he argued, on the side of the oppressed, looking for justice. And at thirty-nine, more than ten years younger than any prophet to come before him, he went from being one of the most powerful people in Washington to being one of the most powerful people in the world.