by J. Thorn
John dropped the steel can when he saw the bedroom door was open. He fought to remember if he had shut the door, but could not recall.
John looked out into the hallway. He saw footprints in the plush carpet, but nothing else out of the ordinary. John gathered his things and threw them into the duffel bag.
“How did you sleep?”
John jumped and turned toward the end of the hall. A young man sat in a folding chair at the top of the steps.
“Are you the owner?” John replied.
“Does it matter?”
John reached for the opening of the duffel bag in the hopes of placing his hand on anything that could be used as a weapon.
“Don’t bother, Father. If I had wanted you dead you’d be bleeding out in that bed by now. Follow me.”
The man stood and John followed him down the steps. At the first landing, the morning light gave John a better look. The stranger appeared to be in his mid to late twenties. He’d shaved his head bald and wore a black T-shirt and jeans. A knife and a holster hung from a flaking leather belt. A full sleeve of tattoos ran down his right arm, while two portraits hung on his left. The sleeved arm cradled a twelve-gauge, pump action with a sawed-off barrel. The man’s black boots left deep impressions in the carpet on the steps.
John followed the man into the kitchen, where red stains on the floor replaced the bodies of the night before.
“I found it difficult to have breakfast with the dead. Hope you don’t mind me cleaning up a bit. How about some eggs?”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Steve. You, Father?”
“John.”
“Nice to meet you, Father John.”
Steve held his hand out, waiting for John to shake it. John did so, but without taking his eyes off of Steve. John had forgotten about the white collar under his black shirt.
“Is this your house?” asked John.
“No, this isn’t even my neighborhood. I live in Shaker, but happened to be drinking with my girl when the shit went down.”
“What shit is that? I still have no clue what the fuck is going on.”
“Hmmm. Well, you just confirmed my hunch that you’re not a real padre and that I don’t have to cut your throat – yet. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer,” Steve said while stirring the eggs on the stove. “I awoke from a drunken sleep, still groggy from screwing my lady, when I hear all these explosions, like the Fourth of July fireworks. Next thing I know, the power is cut and the entire neighborhood goes black. My girl, she starts freakin’ out. I had to slap her to get her to shut up. I could see the flashlights moving from door to door. I thought maybe it was a drug raid or something like that, but there were too many shots coming from too many places. My girl throws her clothes on and goes running out to ‘demand information’. I saw them gun her down right on the front lawn, like they already knew which people to eliminate. Some asshole grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her inside.”
John grimaced and thought of Jana, his mind twisting with concern for his wife and hatred for his ex that used roofies to attempt to wreck his marriage.
“I ran for the basement. I hid in the coal room that most of these old places have. The previous owner had covered the door with a moving blanket and I think that’s what saved my ass. I hid in there for two, maybe three days until the shots, screams, and cries ended.” Steve stopped stirring the eggs and did his best to maintain the tough-guy persona. “When I climbed out of that place, I walked the same street you did. This place is my girl’s neighbor, to her left. I’ve only been here one night, but I won’t be staying for another. It’s a matter of time.”
Steve left the comment hang and John knew what he meant.
“I was at a Halloween party,” said John.
“That was my second guess,” William replied with a sarcastic wink. “Where?”
“Over on South Belvoir, not far from here.”
“Do they know you’re on this street?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they do.”
“Then we need to eat this and get the fuck out.”
“What do they want?”
“Damned if I know. Can’t get shit on the radio or cell phone.”
John nodded in agreement and ate his eggs. They had a slight bitterness to them and he hoped they had not spoiled. Steve left the kitchen and returned with a backpack and coat. He threw a black trench coat to John.
“It’s gettin’ cold. Fucking Cleveland winters.”
John set the duffel bag down and put the coat on. In the inside pocket he felt a heavy object. He reached in and pulled out a twenty-two caliber pistol.
“That’s all you get until I can trust you. If you try shooting me with it, you can bet your ass I’ll return fire with this bastard.” William held the sawed-off shotgun up in the air.
“As long as you don’t spray-paint me with a pentagram, then I won’t put a round of twenty-twos in your ass.”
Steve laughed and so did John. They looked at each other with reluctant trust.
“Where are we headed?” asked John.
“Right now, I’m not really sure. If we can find other survivors, maybe we can put together a tight group and set ourselves up somewhere safe, like maybe out in Geauga County. Find an old farmhouse, something like that, until this shit blows over.”
“What if it doesn’t?” asked John.
“Then you and I best be getting to know each other really well.”
Steve turned and headed through the kitchen toward the back door. The full light of morning illuminated fast-food wrappers and newspapers blown from overturned garbage cans. John stepped out after Steve and pulled the frosty air into his lungs. The burn of it sharpened his senses and gave him the slightest bit of hope.
***
The rest of Winston turned up nothing. John and Steve crossed the street to search. On the east block, the soldiers had tagged every house with the Sign. The men swept a wide circle, careful not to attract attention with movement or noise. By dusk, seven APCs had rolled down Winston Road. In the distance, Steve thought he heard the rumbling vibrations of tanks. They returned to the house to spend the night in spite of Steve’s concerns about being found.
“What’s left to eat in there?” asked John.
“Shit. We’re gonna need to take what we can from the pantry and kitchen closet. Let’s stash some of it in the basement, just in case. Keep your flashlight off and keep under the windows. Something tells me they’re not going to forget they saw you.”
John gathered cans of chicken soup and dumped them into a pot on the stove while Steve washed his hands and face with the warm water. Even though the electricity to the neighborhood had been shut off, the natural gas continued to flow to the hot-water heater and stove. The homey scent of the soup relaxed John, bringing him back to childhood days. The men ate in silence, enjoying the warmth in darkness. Two vehicles sped past the house on Winston, neither pausing to search.
“Logically, what could it be?”
“My guess is a dirty bomb or maybe a terrorist threat, shit like that.”
Steve pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. A deflated menthol parted his lips and he huddled in the corner to prevent the lighter’s flash from giving up their location. Steve inhaled and pushed the minty smoke back into the room, leaning against the wall with a satisfied groan.
“Smoke?”
John held out his hand and Steve tossed him the pack.
“I’ve neglected my addiction,” said John.
John masked the light of his cigarette and closed his eyes. The nicotine brought a wave of normalcy and comfort.
“What if we’ve been invaded? What if the troops aren’t US soldiers?”
“I guess it’s possible. I haven’t gotten close enough to one of those bastards to tell. How do you pay the rent?” Steve seemed curious.
The question snapped John from the surreal back into reality.
“I’m a web designer. I build websites.�
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“Yeah, I know what a web designer does, asshole.” Steve shot John a look of derision hidden by the dark room.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Right. You assumed I’m a thug that wouldn’t know what a web designer does. You probably think I’m a mechanic or somethin’, right?”
“I don’t know. What do you do?”
“I’m a mechanic.”
Steve’s wisecrack released a torrent of pent-up laughter in John. He wiped the tears from his eyes as he rolled around on the living-room floor. Steve hitched and giggled like a little boy.
“I wish I knew what happened to my wife,” John said, reality sobering the mood.
Steve snuffed his cigarette against the wall.
“That’s the toughest part for me. I’ve got family in Pittsburgh and Columbus. I’ve got friends and shit in Lyndhurst and University Heights. I don’t even know where to begin.”
“We should sleep,” said John.
“I’ll take first watch. Go ahead, and I’ll wake you up in a few hours.”
“Okay.”
John climbed the steps towards the bedrooms. The smoke awoke his synapses, as did the conversation with Steve. John flopped on the mattress, searching in vain for a comfortable position. John set the pistol on the floor. He stared at the barrel, reached for the grip, and then thought better of a loaded gun in his bed. All kinds of possibilities, even impossibilities, raced through John’s mind at lightning speed. He still could not formulate a theory. No warning, no sirens, no panic. Based on Steve’s account, the city simply winked from existence, and the soldiers moved through to tag houses. John wanted to sleep. He also wanted to figure out this horror. His restless mind permitted neither, so he headed downstairs.
“I can’t sleep,” he said to Steve.
“What do you want me to do about it? Rub your head and tell you stories?”
“I thought you might want to sleep first.”
“No, I don’t. I’m keeping watch. I’ll come up in a few hours when I get tired.”
John turned and went back upstairs. The adrenaline from earlier in the evening wore off and his mind tired of the relentless pursuit of the situation. He tumbled into the bed and fell asleep.
***
A single, sharp crack shook the house, followed by a dozen more. The shouts of men filled the streets. John opened his eyes and could not remember where he was or what he was doing. Windows on the wall opposite his bed burst open in rapid succession. The icy fingers of the November night crawled into the room.
John leapt out of bed, grabbing the pistol off the floor. After another night in his costume, the clothes had taken on disturbing aromas. Downstairs, the black trench coat covered his duffel bag. John cursed himself under his breath and scanned the room for anything else that might serve as an extra weapon.
He froze when he heard the footsteps in the hallway.
“In here,” someone shouted.
John sat on the end of the bed, tucking the gun beneath the pillow. A bright beam of light blinded him, but he could hear the room filling. He held his hands up in defense.
“It’s a priest! It’s a priest!” someone else shouted.
The light switched off, as did the four red dots circling the room.
“Father, are you hurt?”
John looked up at the inquisitor with genuine fear and confusion.
“He’s in shock. Quick, let’s get him to the medic.”
Two men lifted John by the arms and carried him down the steps. A Humvee sat outside the house. Another group of soldiers ran out to get John and led him into the vehicle. They sped off down Winston and turned right on Mayfield toward downtown Cleveland.
Chapter 9
Steve could not open his right eye. His nose pointed left at an awkward angle, and his mouth ached as blood ran from a gash in his forehead.
“He’s awake,” a voice said.
“What were you doing with John the Revelator?”
The question confused Steve. His brain struggled to keep up with the situation.
“Who?” He spit the word through broken teeth and split lips.
A fist slammed into his mouth, sending a fresh wave of pain down Steve’s spine.
“John the Revelator. He is the one foretold by the scripture, the one Father has been looking for. If you don’t tell us what you were doing to the priest, we will cut you to pieces.”
“What priest?”
“The one you were holding captive in the house. Did you think you could ransom him? God will cut you down, sinner. He is gonna cut you down.”
Steve’s head lolled to one side as he fought to maintain consciousness. Voices swirled through his head, muffled as if speaking underwater. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. Steve thought of his dead girlfriend with something like envy, and smiled.
“I thought I could use him as a ticket out of here, out of town,” he lied.
“You worthless piece of shit. How dare you desecrate the collar of our Lord!”
Fists rained down upon Steve until another voice cried out. The tone cut through the others with an edge of purpose, of dynamic potential.
“The Lord is my shepherd. There is nothing I shall want.”
Steve said nothing.
“Young man, you have committed vile and blasphemous deeds. God will weigh your soul on these matters. If you cooperate with me, I will send advance warning to Him of your coming.”
Steve shook his head. The blood settling in his stomach made him sick. His body ached and he wanted nothing more than to pass out.
“All men have fallen short of the glory of our God the Father. Speak, son, and let his forgiving kindness accompany your soul to the Gates of Heaven. Now, where did you find John the Revelator?”
“He found me. He thought I was one of his parishioners and he aimed to save me.”
Steve waited, hopeful that his final play was one that wouldn’t cost his life.
“Glory be to God! I believe Father John carries the word of our Savior on his lips. We’ve come to call him John the Revelator. You will be rewarded in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“I’m not one of his parishioners and I fucking hate church.” “There is no need to be so vulgar in the presence of Father!” said a man.
The butt end of a machine gun crashed into what was left of Steve’s nose. Streaks of color blinded him. His neck snapped back and darkness moved in from the outer edges of his vision.
“Wait. He must not pass before Last Rites.”
The fury of the priest frightened the hardened soldier, and he backed away from Steve.
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
the Creator of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:
Who was conceived of the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried.
He descended into hell.
The third day He arose again from the dead.
He ascended into heaven
and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty,
whence He shall come to judge the living and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and life everlasting.
Amen.”
Steve struggled against the encroaching darkness as the words rang out in his ears. Hands grabbed his hair and shook him. They did not want him to pass until they finished.
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis:
sanctificetur Nomen Tuum;
adveniat Regnum Tuum;
fiat voluntas Tua,
sicut in caelo, et in terra.
Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie;
et dimitte nobis debita nostra,
Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris
;
et ne nos inducas in tentationem;
sed libera nos a Malo.”
“What the fuck?” Steve asked through a shattered mouth and lacerated tongue.
“The Rites are complete. Show him the Glory of our God, almighty Father, forever and ever.”
Two soldiers grabbed the mechanic by the arms and lifted him up. They cut the ropes that bound his legs and walked him up a flight of steps, his bare feet scraping against the coarse sandstone. He shivered in the open courtyard as stars flickered cold light on the bare trees. A man approached Steve and placed a crown of thorns on his head. The soldiers tied Steve to the wooden beams and raised the cross high in the air.
“May our Lord have mercy on your soul and promise you everlasting life.”
Chapter 10
“Has John the Revelator arisen yet?” asked Father.
“No, your holiness He is still recovering from the ordeal. The Sisters are tending to him and offering prayers to God. How do you know it is truly Him?” the priest asked.
Father held a grainy photograph up and tapped it with his finger.
“He was found on the east side of Cleveland. Look at the photograph. He is the one.”
The priest believed the photograph could have been any number of men but he knew better than to question authority.
“What is the status of the diocese?” Father demanded.
The priest hesitated and then motioned for Father to sit at a polished round table. A tablet PC connected to a digital projector flashed to life on the bare, white walls. The priest navigated through folders on the hard drive until he found a collection of satellite photographs.
“Here you can see the areas secured under the Holy Covenant, Father.”
The subservient priest used the cursor to draw red circles around Cleveland Heights, South Euclid, Lyndhurst, Shaker Heights, and a handful of other communities on Cleveland’s east side.
“The areas in blue are still in the process of going through the First Cleansing.”
