Isaiah turned back to the church, and took one last step. No longer knowing what he was going to do: follow his heart or follow Dominicʹs orders.
The church was but darkness in the mist.
A greater darkness suddenly appeared.
The mist whirled as something the size of a mountain appeared. It should have come with thunder and earthquakes. But there was no tumult accompanying it. Only a breathless silence as it moved.
Isaiah got the impression of legs. Perhaps as many as twelve, each of them moving in perfect harmony, ordered by a single brain though surely the creature had to be too large for one mind to control. Each leg stretched hundreds of feet into the sky, disappearing into the fog-clad night, and each was dozens of feet in diameter. They landed softly, so softly that each step was barely noticeable, and that only if you were watching for them.
Isaiah could not see a body. Whatever thing connected the legs was too far above him to see, too high to fathom.
The legs were covered with blinking lights. Tiny pins of illumination that glimmered and glittered with a brightness that did not warm. They looked like the eyes of predators, reflecting a fire lit by frightened campers in the desert.
Isaiah sensed he wasnʹt far wrong in that thought. They were eyes. Though of what he couldnʹt guess, and what they saw he didnʹt care to contemplate.
Dominic gasped. Isaiah couldnʹt tell if the sound was rage or ecstasy.
The front leg of the creature came down on the church. No second footfall. None was needed. One moment the church stood where it had likely stood for fifty years and more, the next there lay a pile of rubble in a roughly square pattern around a huge leg-thing that rose into the nothing above.
Isaiah stared at the leg for a moment. The thing was ringed on the bottom by claws that looked like nothing more than fleshless bones. Above them: the winking lights, which he now saw were seated at the end of corded things that twined in and around themselves. Some kind of writhing vines, almost serpentine.
The leg lifted. The monstrous thing in the mist stepped away. Three huge strides and it was lost to sight in the fog.
Isaiah and Dominic stood in silence for a moment. Then Dominic said, ʺWell?ʺ
ʺWell what?ʺ
ʺGo check it out.ʺ
Isaiah glared at the other man. ʺAre you serious?ʺ
ʺThe stakes havenʹt changed. The world is still at issue.ʺ Dominic removed a cell phone. ʺAs is the fate of a little girl.ʺ
A horrible feeling swept over Isaiah. ʺCall her.ʺ
ʺOf course.ʺ Dominic didnʹt seem at all dismayed, either by the request or by the fact that a leviathan had just pounded a church to pieces. He dialed his phone, then said, ʺIs she there? Put her on.ʺ He pressed a button and the cell switched to speaker mode.
Katherineʹs voice wafted out. ʺJesus loves me, this I know….ʺ
Isaiah felt a horrible mix of emotions. Happiness, sadness. Brightness, darkness. The lift of hope, the dragging certainty that all was lost.
He didnʹt know what to do.
He remembered a line of poetry he had learned in the seminary, a bit of Paradise Lost that had stuck with him as clearly and strongly as any scripture:
Familiar the fierce heat; and, void of pain,
This horror will grow mild, this darkness light….
Was that where he was? Had he followed the coaxings of Belial, growing so comfortable with where he was that he failed to recognize it as Hell? So used to inaction that now he could not move, could not change the world in which he found himself?
A bit of wall, still clinging together, gave up the fight and fell to nothing but brick and dust and shattered mortar. The sound moved Isaiah. It pulled something in his heart.
ʺ…for the bible tells me so….ʺ
The sound of Katherineʹs voice was so innocent. So pure and good. It was the sound of everything he had always wanted to be, had always hoped to save in himself.
ʺIʹm coming, sweetie,ʺ he said, and hoped she heard him. She liked to watch cartoons, she liked to be read to. Perhaps she liked his voice. Perhaps she knew his words.
Dominic switched off the phone.
Isaiah went to the church. To what was left of it. The titan in the darkness had pulverized it so it lay nearly flat. Isaiah doubted he would be able to make out much more than bricks and wood and perhaps some bits of metal.
He was wrong. He found a body almost immediately. Twisted and wrecked and dead beyond doubt.
A few hours or even minutes ago, Isaiah would have rejoiced to see Melville this way. He had been a blight, a disgrace to life. Those facts were still true, but Isaiah was no longer thrilled at the death of the sociopath-become-beast. He stared at the body–smashed to scales and spines and blood and bone–and felt only a distant sadness. One more person gone in a night that had seen so much life stolen away.
He looked for the others. He figured that John and Serafina would be nearby Melvilleʹs body. The sounds he had heard before the huge monster had appeared must have been them, reacting to the surprise entry of the killer in their midst. So they should be right next to the dead man/once-man.
But they were not.
Isaiah picked over the remains of the church, walking gingerly over the debris. He didnʹt know if he walked carefully to avoid turning an ankle, because he didnʹt want to step on John or Serafina, or simply out of respect for what this place had once been.
He heard a moan.
Ran to it.
A hand stuck out from under a pile of pulverized brick. He scooped away dust and wood and bits of nothing that had once held the prayers of a people. His black frock grew gray with the powder of once-holy places.
Serafina was beneath it all. Blood ran from her nostrils, a deep gash at her forehead bled copiously. Scratches and scrapes ran the length of her arms, but they looked superficial.
Other than that she seemed surprisingly unmarked.
He looked at her. Her eyes fluttered open as he did. She sat up. No spinal injuries, apparently.
He grabbed her arms. She struggled. He put her in an arm lock. Firm, but careful not to harm her, careful as could be. ʺLet go of me!ʺ she screamed.
ʺSorry, canʹt,ʺ he said.
ʺJohn!ʺ she screamed. ʺJohn, run!ʺ But she was crying as she shouted. And Isaiah knew.
ʺHeʹs dead, isnʹt he?ʺ he said. A sudden sadness swelled inside him.
Serafina didnʹt answer. She fell to her knees. He didnʹt let go of her, wary of a trick but knowing it was no such thing.
John was dead.
ʺWhat happened to him?ʺ he asked. He expected no answer. He received none. She glanced toward where he had found Melvilleʹs body. Answer enough.
ʺBring her out,ʺ shouted Dominic. The man was standing outside the ring of debris, clearly worried about messing up his shoes. Isaiah counted to ten internally. He did this to calm himself. He also did it to irritate Dominic.
ʺDid you hear me, Isaiah?ʺ Dominic screamed. He sounded beyond irritated. Sounded pissed. Which was good.
Isaiah got Serafina to her feet. Didnʹt force her, just helped her. She let him, moving like a stringless marionette in his arms. Whispering something under her breath.
ʺPai Nosso, que estás no céu, santificado seja o Teu Nome, Venha o Teu Reino, Seja feita a Tua Vontade….ʺ
They navigated the debris field of the church as she whispered, and the rhythms of her words captivated Isaiah. They sounded somewhat like Spanish, but not. The words…slid, was the description his mind came up with. The language shushed and slanted away from Spanish, though clearly Latinate in origin. Not Italian. Portuguese?
ʺWould you shut her up?ʺ spat Dominic.
Isaiah realized that Dominic still hadnʹt moved, that they were standing in front of him, that Serafina hadnʹt even acknowledged his presence. She just kept on whispering, over and over.
ʺPai Nosso, que estás no céu….ʺ
Isaiah looked at Dominic. Rage blazed in the older manʹs eyes, a wrath heʹd s
een before and that was growing ever closer to the surface. Was this a symptom of the disease that had taken so much of the earth? Was Dominic not immune?
He suspected that must be the case. Dominic was changing. What his final form would be…that remained to be seen.
Isaiah turned to Serafina. He lifted a hand to her forehead. She flinched away, but relaxed slightly when he wiped some of the dust from her face.
He had seen her before, both in photographs and in person. But this was the first time he had seen her like this, close-up and not in flight. She was a beautiful person, even under the dust and blood. And it wasnʹt just beauty of body, either. He could tell it was a beauty like Katherineʹs: a beauty of soul. Not innocence; Serafina possessed a different kind of loveliness. But something good, praiseworthy. The kind of beauty that, in another life, Isaiah would have protected.
ʺ…santificado seja o Teu Nome, Venha o Teu Reino ….ʺ
ʺSHUT HER UP!ʺ
Isaiah stared at Dominic. The manʹs hands were no longer clasped, they were fisted at his sides. His face was white, bright spots of red highlighting his cheeks.
Isaiah waited a second. A long time in this dark place. Then he turned to the beautiful woman. ʺSerafina. I need you to stop that. Just for a few minutes.ʺ
She kept talking, kept up what he sensed to be her prayer. Isaiah felt a dangerous build-up behind him. Wondered what Dominic would do if Serafina defied him, and didnʹt want to find out.
ʺPlease,ʺ he whispered. He put his big hands on her shoulders. ʺThereʹs a lot going on that you donʹt know about. My daughterʹs life is at risk, and I need your help.ʺ
He hadnʹt intended to say that. He meant to ask her again, to plead with her. No one knew about Katherine–no one but Dominic.
And though he had told others that he had adopted Katherine, he had never in his life called her that.
ʺMy daughter.ʺ
He almost smiled.
Serafina quieted.
ʺSo is the life of one you love worth the deaths of so many others?ʺ she said.
He shook his head. ʺItʹs not just–ʺ
ʺWeʹre not here for a summit meeting,ʺ broke in Dominic. ʺKill her.ʺ
Isaiah spun on the man. ʺWhatʹs the point of–?ʺ
ʺThe same reasons apply. We need her body. We need the information her biology can supply.ʺ
Serafina looked like she was about to run. Isaiah put a hand on her shoulder. He tried to make it look like he was restraining her, but at the same time he squeezed lightly, as though telling her, ʺWait, wait, trust, have faith.ʺ
He didnʹt know why he hoped she would understand or listen to the gesture. But she didnʹt flee.
ʺWhat if Johnʹs gone?ʺ he said.
ʺShe said heʹs dead,ʺ said Dominic.
ʺBut you and I both know that guyʹs tough to kill,ʺ answered Isaiah. ʺWhat if sheʹs wrong?ʺ
ʺYou didnʹt find him anywhere in the rubble,ʺ said Dominic. ʺHe was crushed by that freak that came out of nowhere.ʺ
ʺMaybe,ʺ said Isaiah with a nod. Serafina looked like she was going to say something. He squeezed her shoulder again and she was silent. ʺOr maybe he got up and walked away. And if thatʹs the case, then wouldnʹt it be helpful to have her as a bargaining chip? Maybe we could use her to get him to turn himself in voluntarily.ʺ
Dominic sighed. ʺAnd where do you suggest we go, to find him, Isaiah?ʺ
ʺLebanon. Kansas.ʺ
Serafina looked startled when Isaiah said that. Dominic noticed. ʺWhy there?ʺ he said.
Isaiah was at a loss for a moment. What could he tell Dominic? ʺBecause an old guy met us in the fog and gave us a car with a pre-marked map to Lebanonʺ? Truthfully, Isaiah didnʹt really know why he wanted to go there, other than it was the place that popped in his head and was as good a one as any given that he mostly just wanted a chance to get Serafina away from here.
The beautiful woman at his side spoke. Her voice did not quaver, she spoke without fear. She said words that Isaiah knew were true, and he suspected that this was a woman who rarely if ever lied.
ʺWe should go to Lebanon because thatʹs where John was going. Thatʹs where weʹll still find him if heʹs still alive.ʺ
Dominic stared at her, clearly shocked that she would provide this information.
Then he threw back his head and laughed into the night.
CHANCE ENCOUNTERS
From: X
To: Dicky
Sent: Thursday, May 29 8:59 PM
Subject: Your Balls
As much as I despise this kind of humor, it might actually be apropos in this situation.
Get out your football and get ready to throw it. LAT. 39°50' LONG. -98°35'
Iʹll let you know the time.
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 8:59 PM
Subject: My Balls
In the words of that great American philosopher Homer Simpson: WOOHOO!
Also, I just did that thing that I always say you do that you say you donʹt know what you do even though I told you you do it every time. Hint hint.
PS The toilet stopped working. Also, I would like a pizza but Im not sure Dominos will deliver down here so can you get someone to bring me a triple meatlovers asap? Signed, The Commander In Hungry.
***
The men who had been trying to kill her and John had found them both.
One of them had turned into some kind of monster and ripped Johnʹs throat out.
The other, the man clothed as a priest, had found her after the church blew apart for some reason she still didnʹt understand, and now seemed like he was trying to save her.
And this other man? She had never seen him before, and disliked him instantly. From his perfect clothes to the mirror-polished shoes on his feet to the hair that looked like it cost more to cut than she made in a month, she hated everything about him with a fervor that nearly shocked her.
He was so put together that he was an offense. Everyone in the world wanted to ʺhave it all together,ʺ but the simple reality was that no one did. This was a world where people bounced checks, or had friends die, or left their flies open at dinner parties, or simply had to pick their noses from time to time. No one was perfect, because nothing was perfect. It was a fallen world, and the people in it matched that actuality.
But this man…he seemed like he had devoted his existence to proving that he was perfect. The exception in all things. And of course that couldnʹt be possible, so he would have to settle for appearances. To look this good he would have to spend every waking moment grooming, preening.
This was a man, she knew instinctively and instantly, who embodied the old saw about beauty being only skin deep.
He was beautiful. Stately, elegant, with a face that would have sent any used car lot owner scrambling for the new hire forms. He could probably sell snow to penguins.
And he wanted to kill her. Wanted to, but the killer dressed as a priest–Isaiah–had convinced him not to. For the moment, at least, though she had no doubt this perfect-looking man would murder her the second they had verified Johnʹs death.
Johnʹs death.
That was the thing that was strangest of all. She had seen his throat yanked out, had seen the blood pulse out and then slow and stop. She had seen him fall, then had seen the thing slam through the roof and right onto her friend.
Whatever that thing had been, it had been huge. Whatever it had been, it had landed on John.
Whatever it had been, it had killed him.
John was dead.
Hard to kill?
Yes.
Impossible to kill?
Nothing was. Not in a fallen world.
The priest had said they should go to Kansas to find John if he was still alive. She didnʹt know if he believed it was actually a possibility or not. But she knew it wasnʹt.
John was dead.
<
br /> ʺWell, then,ʺ said the too-perfect man, ʺletʹs proceed posthaste, shall we?ʺ
He gestured into the fog behind them. Serafina didnʹt see anything back there, but Isaiah started her walking, his hand firmly but not uncomfortably pushing her in the direction of the nothing-world behind the remains of the church.
After a while she saw something. It darkened and she worried it might be related to whatever it was that had destroyed the church and crushed whatever remained of the best man she had ever known.
It was just a truck.
ʺAre the keys inside?ʺ said Isaiah as they walked. She almost asked, ʺHow should I know?ʺ but the other man answered.
ʺI believe so, yes.ʺ
Isaiah walked Serafina around to the passenger side and opened the door for her. A strange date, she thought, escorted to my death by a priest.
She wondered, madly, if she would get a corsage.
And she got in the truck. No struggle, no complaint. Not only because she didnʹt know where else she could run, but because she felt a strange sense of necessity in that moment. A conviction that what was happening now was happening because it must, and no other alternative was possible.
She looked at Isaiah, too. He had sad eyes. Sad and deep and kind. Real in a way that the too-perfect manʹs eyes could never hope to be. A man who had experienced life in all its vagaries, the caprices of a world designed not to coddle humanity but to prove its capacity to endure.
He smiled at her. The smile was sad as well. ʺYou inside?ʺ he asked, another strangely gallant gesture that belonged to a different era. She nodded and he closed the door.
Isaiah walked around the front of the truck, then got in. He closed his door.
ʺWhat about me?ʺ said the other man as Isaiah started the truck.
The killer/protector grinned. His eyes were still sad, but rage and defiance also flickered in them. ʺYouʹre a resourceful guy, Dominic. Youʹll find a way there. Iʹll see you in Kansas.ʺ
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