by Tillie Cole
“How old are ya?”
“Nineteen.”
“You know your way ‘round a bike? Can fix them up and shit?”
“Can fix people better.”
“You a doc or some shit?” Arch asked.
“Was a medic. My old man was a doctor. He taught me some things before he passed. Marines taught me everything else,” I replied, the deception rolling off my tongue like butter.
Shade lifted an eyebrow. “You vouchin’ for him?” he said to Smiler.
Smiler shrugged. “Don’t know him much outside of Smitty’s bar, but I’ve seen him ride. He’s good. Real fuckin’ good. And I ain’t all that good at patchin’ the brothers up like I’ve been havin’ to lately. With the Mexican situation heatin’ up, I thought he might come in handy.”
Shade took in a long breath, then slammed his hand down on the table. Meeting my eyes, he said, “You got a shot, kid. If you make it past a few weeks and you ain’t fucked up too much, we’ll vote on you bein’ a prospect.”
Relief and delight like nothing I’d ever felt before raced through me. I’d passed the first test. “Thank you, sir,” I replied.
Shade laughed in my face. “And cut with the ‘sir’ shit. I ain’t ever earned a title like that and sure as fuck won’t anytime soon. Smiler, throw the kid behind the bar. If the fucker can survive Vike and Bull’s shit all night, give him a room. You’re in charge of seein’ that he doesn’t piss anyone off. Ain’t in the mood for shifting a stiff tonight.”
“Right, Prez,” Smiler said and led me from the room and to the bar. He handed me a bottle of liquor and some shot glasses. He pointed to the group of men that had been watching the naked woman dance. They were now drinking tequila straight from her mouth and licking salt off her thighs and breasts. “You keep them supplied with Patrón and do whatever the fuck they say. Right?”
I nodded. Smiler slapped his hand on my back, then walked away and joined some men at the far end of the bar.
As I poured the liquor for the already intoxicated men, I was filled with a sense of purpose. I was here. I’d made it into the den of evil and unworthy men. God had brought me to this place to do His will. So I would gain the favor of those in charge and become as valuable to them as I could . . .
. . . then I would tear them apart. Destroy everything they held dear. And when the time was right, I would bring Prophet David’s wrath down upon them all . . . until there was nothing left of this club.
The sinners dead.
Forgotten.
And burning in the great red fires of hell.
Chapter One
Cain
Present day . . .
I stared straight ahead through swollen eyes as another drop of water fell to the floor. The air was sticky; the Texan humidity was climbing to its peak. My cell darkened to almost pitch black as yet another storm rolled in. Thunder growled in the distance, moving ever closer to New Zion.
Many minutes passed, until the edge of the lightning storm began to sporadically light up the dark room. The rain turned from a light drizzle to a torrential downpour as it hammered on my cell roof. The gentle drops that had been falling through the small cracks in the stone ceiling became an angry stream that crashed onto the floor.
I moved my leg, wincing as my muscles protested. I tried to do the same with my arm. I huffed out in frustration when my entire body burned with pain.
I squinted up at the wall behind me, my temples throbbing. My vision swam in blurred lines, balancing on the ever-present edge of unconsciousness.
I made myself focus. I counted the tallies I’d managed to scrape onto the wall with the sharpened edge of a stone. Thirty-five. Thirty-five . . . thirty-five . . . I had been in this cell for thirty-five days. Had suffered daily exorcisms and beatings by the new disciple guards . . .
“Repent! Repent and bow down to the prophet!” Brother James screamed as I hung from the chains in the ceiling.
“No,” I rasped. Searing agony sliced over my back as the leather belt slashed yet another stripe across my already broken skin.
“Repent! Repent and declare your loyalty to your prophet!”
My eyes closed as streams of fresh blood ran down my back, over my dangling legs, splashing to the floor at my feet.
My jaw clenched. I closed my eyes, praying for absolution. Praying to be taken from this pain . . . this damned constant pain . . .
“Do you repent?” Brother Michael asked. My heart beat once, twice, three times as his question ran through my brain.
“Just repent and this will all end. Repent and all the pain will stop. Repent and join your brother in leading the people to heaven. Repent and never look at the inside of your cell again.”
My breathing hitched as the temptation to submit to Judah’s demands tried to push its way to my lips. The words ‘I repent’ hung on the tip of my tongue. My broken body wanted to speak them, just for a reprieve . . . But then my soul steeled as I thought of the Lord’s Sharing I had witnessed . . . the pain . . . the fear . . . the acts of pedophilic sin being done in my name . . .
I blew out the rest of the breath I was holding and felt my chest lighten. “No . . . I will not repent . . . I will never repent . . . ”
I kept my eyes closed. I kept them tightly shut as a hard fist slammed into my ribs, ripping a strangled bellow from my raw throat. But I didn’t care. I would not bow down to my brother.
I couldn’t . . . I just . . . couldn’t . . .
My eyes swam again and I shook my throbbing head, trying to hold on to consciousness. I was sick of waking disoriented and alone in darkness. I was done with the aching bones, broken skin and vomiting. I was done with listening to my brother preach his hysterical doomsday sermons through the speakers around the commune.
My fingernails scraped against the stone floor as I tried to make myself stand. I willed my legs to function, but they wouldn’t. I tried again, managing to crawl onto my knees. But my weak muscles collapsed, unable to hold my weight, and I landed on my back with a thud. The air was knocked from my lungs as my spine slammed to the hard floor. I breathed hard through my nostrils as the frustration built up inside me. A traitorous tear fell from the corner of my right eye as the desolation took hold. The dark creature that forever burrowed in my stomach began digging in its claws.
The screech of a speaker coming to life sounded outside. “People of New Zion!” I closed my weary eyes as Judah’s voice came drifting into my silent cell. “The heavy storm and the darkness above signal the end. Make no mistake, Armageddon is coming! The floods creeping toward our home, the daily strife we all suffer in following God’s path . . . they all lead the way to our salvation. Work harder at the tasks given to you. Pray with even more devotion. We shall prevail!”
My fogged mind blanked out the rest of Judah’s words. But it didn’t matter. They were the same each day. My brother was whipping our people into a terrified frenzy. He was instilling fear into every minute of every day.
It was what Judah did best.
Spots flickered in front of my eyes and my lips cracked with dryness. I could no longer feel my arms at my side, and knew that I would soon be pulled under. I could feel it, coming to take me down. But I fought it. Every day I fought the effects of the punishments.
The fight in me was the only thing I had left.
“The devil’s men are coming! Our days are numbered! We must save ourselves!” Judah’s final sentence managed to filter through the high-pitched ringing in my ears. My fingers curled into fists and shook with rage.
Years ago Prophet David had preached that Satan’s agents would one day storm our commune, trying to rid the earth of God’s chosen people. Only through the prophet would heaven be achieved. Only through obeying his every word could a soul be saved. When the Hangmen invaded and killed my uncle, many of the people thought that was the end. It wasn’t. Now Judah preached that they would come again.
A loud crack of thunder exploded right above me. I flinched as it ripped me fr
om my dark thoughts. All I entertained these days were dark thoughts. Doubt, the devil’s greatest tool, smothering my heart and soul like a cancer. The taste of salt burst on my tongue. My long brown hair stuck to my cheeks; the stifling heat bathed my skin in sweat.
I licked my cracked lips, wishing I had water. I guessed that I would be fed and watered soon. I was fed twice a day, like clockwork. Women I didn’t know would come to my cell, placing a tray of food at my feet. They would give me a specific amount of time to consume the food, before returning, silently, to take it away. On good days they would cleanse me, with a vacant, detached look in their gaze. Then I would be alone until the disciples returned to punish me. The cycle would begin again.
I had yet to set eyes on Judah.
His focus seemed to be on thrusting the commune into hysterical chaos. Spinning a spiteful web to encourage what I had refused to pursue. He wanted a holy war. He wanted the Hangmen dead.
My mind was conflicted. On the one hand, I didn’t care if all the Hangmen burned in Satan’s eternal fire. On the other hand, when I thought of the three Cursed Sisters, the three sisters that Judah would force back into submission or simply see killed, I found it hard to breathe.
Bile rose in my throat when I pictured the life they would have under my twin’s hand. Nausea followed when I pictured the Cursed Delilah’s scarred face, her shorn hair. When I thought about what Judah had done to her on the Hill of Perdition. I, the prophet, had no prior knowledge of what Judah had planned. In the aftermath, I realized that I had no idea what he was truly capable of. If someone had merely told me what happened to Delilah, I would never have believed it. But I’d seen her face. I’d seen the fear in her eyes when she had been locked in the old mill. It had happened. There was no doubt.
And I had done nothing to stop it.
My thoughts drifted to Mae and the last thing she had said to me. When I had let her and her sisters go. “I always believed in you, Rider . . . I always believed you were a good man, deep down.”
Mae’s words were imprinted on my brain. And whenever I thought about her, I was hit by a wave of pain. The way the Cursed Sisters looked at me would forever be burned into my mind. They both feared and detested me. Worst of all, Mae was disappointed in me. She had thought me better than the behavior I displayed.
She was wrong.
I had been two men in my life. I was beginning to understand that neither of them were real. They were both the ultimate pretenders. Rider pretended to be a Hangman, but always stood on the outside, looking in. Cain pretended he was a prophet, outwardly faking strength, yet drowning in fear underneath. But if both of those men were a ruse, then who the hell was I? Who was the real me?
I had absolutely no idea.
Footsteps sounded outside my cell. Light spilled through the crack under the heavy door, and the smell of food hit my nostrils. My stomach growled with the need for nourishment; my mouth salivated with its need for water.
The lock turned, and a woman walked into the darkness. Her head was bowed and her face was turned away. She wore a long gray dress that covered her body from her neck to her feet, and a white headdress covered her head. As she placed the tray on the ground, her face came into view. My eyes widened in surprise when I saw a wayward strand of hair falling from her headdress. Red. Bright red. Her cheeks and nose were spattered with freckles, and her eyes were bright blue.
I know her . . .
Phebe.
Phebe settled the tray of food on the floor. She avoided all contact with my eyes. For days and days, I had had the same two women delivering my food and cleaning my wounds. Never before had Phebe come to me.
Phebe’s face was blank. Without addressing me or even glancing at my upturned face, she stood up and left the room.
My heart beat faster. Someone I had had previous contact with was now coming to my cell . . . my heart slowed, then sank. She would never believe that I was the real Cain.
She was programmed to believe everything her prophet told her.
It was useless.
I was on my own.
I forced myself to move into a sitting position, gritting my teeth as my limbs shook with the strain. My swollen eyes scanned the contents of the tray: vegetable broth, a hunk of bread, and a glass of water. I reached for the water first, draining the lukewarm liquid in record time. I gasped, breathless with relief. Ignoring the shaking of my hand, I sank the spoon into the broth and brought it to my lips. My raw flesh stung as the warm salty liquid seeped into broken skin. But I closed my eyes as the food hit my starving stomach.
Phebe returned with a basin and rag. Kneeling at my side, she began to wash away the blood from my skin. She was methodical and silent as she scrubbed. I watched her the whole time she worked. She kept her head bowed and low, avoiding my attention. She looked different to the last time I saw her. Her dress was even more modest. Her skin was too pale. I squinted at her cheek, at what looked like a fading bruise. Through my blurred vision, it was difficult to see in detail.
Phebe’s hand moved to my hair. Some of it was still stuck to my cheeks, the rest of the long, tangled strands clung to my chest, hiding my face from view. My brown beard had grown long, and it too was matted. I had avoided my reflection for five weeks, but I knew I would be hardly recognizable.
She turned her attention to my arms; I saw her stiffen as the dirt and blood washed from my skin. Her reaction was subtle, but I caught it all the same. My tattoos—the remnants from my Hangmen days—were slowly coming into view. My heart sped up as I waited for her to say something. As prophet, I wore a tunic; I was expected to cover my body. My people didn’t know that I had tattoos. But Phebe knew every inch of Judah’s body, his ink-free skin . . .
Her eyebrows pulled down, but she continued her work. When I was clean, Phebe got to her feet and, scooping up the basin and rag, swiftly left the room.
My body sagged in defeat.
Thunder peeled above, another wave of the powerful storm moving in. Slouching to the floor, I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to sleep. I knew I had only hours until the disciples would return to punish me.
I pressed my cheek to the hard stone floor and let the darkness take me.
If I was lucky, maybe I wouldn’t wake again.
Chapter Two
Harmony
I gripped the edge of the seat as the plane bounced up and down. Brother Stephen had told me it was something called turbulence. My stomach flipped over at the strange sensation of flying and I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Are you okay, Harmony?” Sister Ruth’s soft voice drifted into my ears as her warm hand covered mine.
“It . . . it feels strange,” I replied, opening my eyes.
Sister Ruth was watching me, her dark eyes filled with worry. “I agree. No matter how many times I fly, it never gets easier.” She smiled in reassurance. I turned to face Brother Stephen. He was facing forward, staring at nothing in particular. He turned and offered me a strained smile.
Leaning closer, he said, “It is because this is a small plane. I have been on bigger ones in my youth, when I lived in the outside world. I remember the ride being much easier on the nerves.”
A smile tugged on my lips, but it disappeared when the plane dipped again. My knuckles were white as my grip on the armrests tightened. I closed my eyes again, trying to breathe through the panic fueled by the bumps and jerks.
I conjured up good thoughts. I pictured the home I had left behind. I loved it there. I loved the hot weather, but more, I loved the sense of family. My stomach fell as I thought of where we were going—New Zion.
The commune where I had lived in Puerto Rico was exceptionally small compared to the many others around the world. Most of the people lived out their days in private. Like my family. We kept to ourselves. We cared for one another—no pain, no expectations.
We were happy.
Then Prophet David died.
His heir, Prophet Cain, took his place, and in no time at all, he began to unite
the people. One by one the communes closed and the followers made their way back to New Zion, to be at one with our leader.
We were the last commune to join the Repatriation.
I looked around our small plane. There were fewer than thirty of us on board; I did not know most of them. The eyes of the unfamiliar men and women met mine. Their expressions varied. Some looked happy to be leaving Puerto Rico. Others looked terrified.
From the minute we were gathered this morning, many had regarded me with suspicious eyes. Some were looking at me that way now.
I quickly turned my head, panic and fear seeping into my skin. I had stayed hidden from these people for a reason. I had only been exposed to those who cared for me . . . those who did not want to hurt me.
I sat back in my seat. Sister Ruth’s hand tightened on mine. As I looked at the woman who had become one of my most faithful guardians, a sliver of dread penetrated my heart. I could see the trepidation in her eyes and face—it was the same racking fear I knew was in mine.
These past few weeks, Brother Stephen, Sister Ruth’s closest friend, had been out of sorts too. New Zion. Our fear of New Zion was palpable. As we drew closer to our new home, my hands began to shake.
Be strong, I thought to myself. You must stay strong.
I focused on breathing deeply. The plane seemed to have moved past whatever wind had held us in its grasp, and everything had calmed. Releasing my hand from underneath Sister Ruth’s, I stretched out my fingers, then moved them to lift up my veil.
As soon as the thin pale-blue material was away from my mouth, I took in a long, deep breath. The veil was not too bad to breathe through; Sister Ruth had designed it to be light and easy to wear. But when it lay over my face I felt suffocated.
Sister Ruth guided my hand down to my lap. She slowly shook her head. “Harmony, you have to get used to it.” Sister Ruth fixed the pale-blue veil back in place and flattened the matching headdress over my blond hair.
“I hate it,” I confessed as quietly as I could, clenching my teeth in frustration.
