by J. Thorn
Jana pushed the hair from her face and bit down hard into the sleeve of her sweatshirt in an effort to stop the bleeding.
“He is my husband.”
Commander Byron helped Jana back to her chair. He reached for a bottle of water on a nearby table and took a clean handkerchief from his pocket. He poured water on the cloth and dabbed Jana’s chin, attending to the blood.
“You are a very pretty woman and I would like for you to stay that way. It is not easy for a man to strike such a beautiful woman, but I must do what I must do, for the greater good. I am sure you understand.”
The pain surged in her mouth. Jana managed to nod.
“Take these with this water. It will help with the pain.”
He handed Jana the water and a bottle of aspirin. Jana noticed the Cyrillic characters on the label.
“Do you know that the leader of the Holy Covenant has identified a ‘John the Revelator’ as a key person of interest? He does not want John killed or injured because he wants to speak with him. If you tell me where he is, I can get him safely back to Father with minimal pain involved.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
The knife plunged down toward Jana’s gunshot wound. It managed to slice her jeans and lodge in the wooden chair. She gasped and pulled back from the blade.
“I believe you,” said Commander Byron. “When is the last time you saw him?”
“He was heading to a Halloween party, on the thirty-first. I waved to him from the window as he drove away. Later that night, a bunch of soldiers stormed into my house and shot me in my bed. I was able to hide until the next group searched the house.”
“Very good, Jana. Where was this party?”
“His friend Reggie’s house, in South Euclid.”
“Do you know where it is?”
Jana paused. She looked down at the knife and slid her tongue through the raw openings in her gums.
“Yes.”
“I am so glad to hear that. It appears you and I will be traveling companions. How far is it from here? I am not fully acquainted with, how do you say, the ‘Mistake by the Lake’?”
“That’s an old joke. It was never funny.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“A few miles. Will we be driving?”
The commander stood and walked toward the counter. He grabbed a book of matches from a dish sitting on top of the glass case. Byron lit a match and applied it to the reeking stub of a half-smoked cigar. The initial stench of the relight made Jana gag. She felt the aspirin crawling up her throat, but managed to force it back down with another swig from the water bottle. The commander shook the match and tossed it into a stainless-steel sink behind the counter “No. If he is there, the sound of the vehicles would alert him. Given our respective physical limitations, it will take us time to get there but I believe we must sacrifice comfort for the success of the mission.”
He motioned with a cane to his right leg.
“However, we have plenty of time. How does your schedule look for the next three or four days?”
“I might have to comply, but I don’t have to put up with your shitty attempt at being funny.”
Commander Byron laughed. Bursts of smoke launched toward the ceiling fan while his hearty chuckles propelled them out.
“This is true, my dear, you do not. But I think you will find our partnership much more tolerable if you do. I am sure you want to see your husband again, correct?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You see, then. We are partners. I deliver your husband to Father, and you both get to live. Given the situation in this town, I’d say that is a deal worth taking.”
“Why is this happening?”
“My dear, I don’t think you are in any position to ask questions.”
Jana slumped back down in her chair, exhausted and tiring of the conversation.
“Can you at least tell me who is behind this invasion?”
“An invasion implies takeover by a foreign and hostile power. I’d like to call it a liberation.”
“Liberation from what?”
The commander shook his head and looked down his nose at Jana. He shuffled to the chair next to her and sat down. The recent activity caused sweat circles to bloom under his arms. Jana could taste his musky body odor.
“From yourselves. You have forsaken God. You have forsaken goodness and now, like the Great Flood, He is cleansing the Earth of its evil.”
“That is nonsense. Who has ordered this?”
“Father has received the message from upon high. He leads the Holy Covenant, and with my help, has executed a very successful First Cleansing.”
“This is the United States of America. We tolerate religious freedoms. We don’t impose them on our citizens.”
The commander stood. He took two long drags from his dwindling cigar and snubbed it out on top of the counter.
“God’s law supersedes man’s. You have wandered. It is time for the shepherd to bring you back home again.”
Jana stared at the Commander and shook her head at him. She pulled her bottom lip in with her top teeth, stifling any further provocations on the matter. Byron waited, anticipating another barrage of doubt from the unfaithful.
“When do we leave?” Jana finally asked.
“You are a wise conversationalist, young lady. You quit pushing when you realize there is nothing left to gain. We will leave tomorrow morning. I have no fear of traveling during the daylight hours. We have the authority of Father and the Lord Almighty behind us.”
“Commander, promise me that you will not harm me or John.”
“I promise that I will deliver you to Father unharmed. From that point on, it is God’s will, not man’s.”
Jana found a space in the storeroom. She used cardboard boxes to furnish a sleeping pad. The commander, holding on to a twisted sense of chivalry, created a similar one in the store. Jana’s mouth ached, and breathing brought a cool pain to the exposed nerves of shattered teeth. Restless on the makeshift mattress, she turned the recent events over and over in her mind as she drifted into a fitful sleep, pondering a bleak future.
Commander Byron waited until he heard the rhythmic breathing of the woman. He moved toward the front door and stared out into the empty, black streets. The lack of noise stunned him the most as he stepped outside.
Byron had spent his entire adulthood in the bustle of urban life or war, both of which drummed on the ears of their participants. Mortar rounds, machine-gun fire, tanks, sirens, boom boxes, and road construction—all of it was gone. An occasional howl from a lonely dog or the rumble of a military truck heading to an unknown destination were the only remnants of the former lifeblood of the city.
Let it rot to hell, he thought. Nothing but cesspools of so-called humanity. Millions of poor, destitute souls soiling each other for an opportunity to buy yet one more piece of plastic garbage.
Commander Byron ripped the silver crucifix from his chest and threw it to the ground. With a steel-toed boot, he crushed the soft metal into the cold asphalt. He pulled a yellowed journal from an inside pocket and moved a finger over the faded handwriting.
God is profane. A loving God does not punish his creations. He does not send war, pestilence, and disease. He does not ravage the faithful. God is for fools and the weak, those unable to think for themselves.
He hoped Father was buying the ruse and that he could finish his life with a shred of peace and dignity. Byron lit another cigar. He stepped on the sidewalk and pulled the collar of the wool coat around his neck. The awakening spirit of the winter solstice opened an eye from its deep slumber. December would bring the beast completely out of the receding autumn.
A plastic bag danced down the middle of the road. It spun and twisted as if part of a silent ballet. Commander Byron lifted his hand and curled his finger inward, a gesture summoning his hovering guards.
“Yes, sir!” they said.
Both men snapped to attention. Byron tried to avoid
gazing at the two silver crucifixes hanging from their necks. He shuddered and pulled his coat together at the neck.
“The woman is secure. I will need to update command on our situation. Move into the ground floor of the building across the street. Put your crosshairs on the door of this shop. If anyone but me tries coming in or out, shoot them dead.”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
He watched the men trot across the street and step into the yawning hole of the front door. Byron pulled the satellite phone from his breast pocket. He dialed the number and waited for a series of clicks and beeps to pass from the earpiece to his head. A groggy, disconnected voice crackled through on the other end.
“What do you have to report?” it asked.
“I’ve found her,” he replied.
“Bring her to me,” the voice said.
Chapter 29
The morning broke over drifting snow and barren trees. Alex fumbled through his bag in search of soggy cigarettes. John stood in the frame of the window, a single silhouette in the exterior wall of the factory. He blew smoke into the frigid air, sending a puff of nicotine toward the low, gray ceiling.
“I hate November in Cleveland,” said Alex.
John turned and offered a battered pack of cigarettes to his partner. Alex’s eyes lit up. He reached for a smoke while pulling a lighter from his pocket.
“I can’t tell you what I’d do to you for a large chai latte,” said John.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t involve getting to second base.”
“I dunno know, you’re kinda hot.”
The joke fell on near-deaf ears, as Alex was preoccupied now by thirst. John hitched his pants up and straightened his jacket.
“When do you want to move out, Alex?”
“Soon. This place smells like death. You got any more soda?”
“Yeah, three cans left.”
Alex walked back into the gloom.
***
Streaks of powder blue slipped from underneath the heavy canopy. Crystal flakes tussled and spun their way to the frozen asphalt. Alex and John abandoned the factory and scurried like roaches through the urban wreckage, hiding from their pursuers. They decided to move back toward John and Jana’s house on foot. Walking six miles might prove to be difficult, but it would keep them concealed better than a vehicle. John hid the keys of the truck under a sewer lid a block from the factory.
John led the way through the remains of Little Italy. Mayfield Road ran through the immigrant community and proceeded up Murray Hill into Cleveland Heights. During the festive summer month of August, the Church held a carnival for the Feast of the Assumption. Restaurants and bakeries pulled tables onto the sidewalk and sold their wares to smiling and hungry pedestrians.
With the Holy Covenant in control, John and Alex avoided the blocks surrounding the parish on Mayfield. They stopped for a moment behind a two-story apartment building. The bell tower of the church loomed over the top of the building, keeping a watchful eye on their movements.
John ran through the parking lot and entered the back of a playground, as Alex followed his lead. The swings moved back and forth, as if propelled by the spirits of children who used to ride them. Snow accumulated at the bottom of the shiny, metal slides.
“Let’s take a breather,” Alex said.
John nodded and pulled a bottle from his bag.
“We’re really in the open here,” said John. “How about we move towards Murray Hill? If we can get to the top, we’ll be about halfway there.”
Alex looked around, surveying the area.
“Not trying to creep you out, but maybe we should climb through Lakeview Cemetery rather than going up Murray Hill. The rock on one side and the condos on the other create a nice little tunnel where we could end up being fish in a barrel.”
John nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”
The two men set off from the park, navigating through back alleys until they came to a black, wrought-iron fence. It stood seven feet high, with a three-inch space between bars.
“Now what?” said Alex.
“Follow me.”
John led the way through heavy underbrush to a break in the fence. Amidst a slew of empty beer cans and plastic bags that littered the area, the fence stood mostly intact. Delinquent teenagers had dug a hole underneath it, allowing unauthorized access to the graveyard. Though an easy opportunity for vandalism, most Goths used it only as a location for midnight readings of H.P. Lovecraft.
John crawled underneath the fence first, coming out the other side with uneven brushstrokes of dark mud on his clothes. Alex followed, wearing a look of disdain on his face.
The headstones inside the fence crumbled under the weight of time. John ran his hand over a couple. The ravages of the elements ate away the carvings of an ancient undertaker. An “R” or an “S” stuck out, but most of the granite looked scarred with acid.
Alex followed John through the cemetery, through clumped rows of gravesites and expensive monuments to the wealthy and elite. The cemetery held the body of a US President, as well as other famous and important people of the twentieth century. A number of crows flew to an ominous tree on top of the hill. Their fluttering and cawing grabbed John’s attention.
“What are they up to?” he asked Alex.
“Don’t know.”
“Aren’t you the vet?”
“Yes, and I can’t tell you how many crows I’ve treated.” Alex delivered the sarcasm with grace.
“Let’s keep moving, Alex. I’ll feel better when we get to the top of the hill. That means we should be out of Little Italy and moving towards Cleveland Heights.”
John saw the puff of stone before he realized what had happened. Four more clouds of dust burst from the headstone before he threw his body to the ground. The attack came in dead silence. John saw Alex hit the ground and pull up behind another headstone. John felt the fatal spirit of each bullet whiz past his head, and the shattered stone chips dropped into his hair like the early winter snow.
An explosion brought the assault out of silent slow motion and into brutal real time. A moment later, Alex’s screams began to break through the surreal attack.
Orgiastic flashes of bright red and orange appeared everywhere, as though programmed by an erratic DJ at some nightmare rave. Clumps of frozen mud, rocks, and stone rained down on the men, while still more explosions rocked the ground beneath them.
John reached over and grabbed Alex by the arm. He dragged Alex’s inert frame toward a towering mausoleum. John saw the name “Wilson” inscribed above the main door as he pulled Alex inside. The gun fire roared as bullets grabbed chunks of earth and spit them back into the air, covering the men with debris. John covered Alex’s body with his own and asked for protection from the remains of the Wilson clan.
Chapter 30
Sickly candlelight danced on the yellow brick of the church. Father walked around and inspected each votive. Lay members of the Holy Covenant took up positions of responsibility in the new hierarchy of the diocese. Children swept and dusted like duty-bound Dickensian urchins, while young adults helped move food and supplies into the basement.
Father thought back to the earliest days of the Faith. He saw his new flock functioning much the same way as villages did in medieval Europe. Entire communities gathered together and lived their lives in God’s services. Spiraling cathedrals and stone deities rose purely on pre-industrial muscle. Generations of Masons committed their lifetimes to erecting an eternal house of worship. Father felt the connection across time and space, overjoyed to have permanent residents in the basement of St. Michael’s. The cavernous space encompassed and protected those of the Covenant, the new Masons of His word. Like their ninth- and tenth-century counterparts, they would construct a return to the old ways of unwavering faith and dedication to the Lord.
A young boy startled Father from his reverie with a question.
“Father. The candle. It’s already
lit.”
He reached down and ruffled the boy’s wild, blond hair.
“So it is my young servant. What is your name?”
“I’m Joey.”
“Nice to meet you, Joey. What is your job here today?”
Joey pulled on the man’s robe, trying to monopolize Father’s attention.
“I’m helping my mom. She’s downstairs, making sure everyone has a place to sleep.”
“You are an obedient son. God will show favor on you and your mother. You should probably go back downstairs and make sure she has all the help she needs.”
“I will. See ya!”
The boy ran toward the steps and disappeared down the staircase before Father could respond.
A cloaked member of the clergy stepped from the shadows in the back of the church. Father looked at the doors, certain they had not recently opened.
“Father, may I have a word?”
“Please, follow me behind the altar where we can talk in private.”
The hooded monk kept even strides behind Father, managing to preserve a respectful distance. They entered the back room on the other side of the altar, where young boys stood washing towels in the sink. With a wave of his hand, Father dispersed them from the room, and assumed the role of good host.
“Sit. May I get you a beverage?”
“No, I won’t be staying long. My name is Brother Cyrus and I’m from the Internal Order.”
He paused, waiting for Father to confirm his knowledge of the Order – or show his ignorance of it.
“I do not know of you.”
“Ah, but I know about you, Father.”
Brother Cyrus raised both hands, and dropped his hood onto his back. His brown, wool robe thinned at the elbows and frayed at the edges. Cyrus’ bushy eyebrows sat upon a haggard face. Although in his early forties, premature baldness stole any semblance of his youth. Cobalt-blue eyes sat deep in his skull and held Father with a tight grip.
“I have intelligence for you.”
“On the Revelator?”
Cyrus nodded.
Father stood and walked to a miniature refrigerator, like one might find in a dorm room. He took a cold bottle of iced tea and tilted the top toward Cyrus, who held up the palm of one hand in polite refusal.
