by J. R. Mabry
“No, I mean…the sephirot.”
“Oh, well, we removed the tumor. There’s still a good deal of healing to be done, but things are sorting themselves out. Notice no one is arguing now? And no one is stretching the truth—any more than usual, that is.”
Mikael looked at Kat. They both nodded at each other.
“We’ll be back to normal in no time. Which is to say, ugly tubes and boxes everywhere just so you can have the internet. Don’t know whose bloody brilliant idea that was.”
“Al Gore’s, I hear.” Brian stood and headed to the bathroom for, presumably, a comb.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Kat asked.
Maggie waved her question away.
“What are we going to do now?” Brian called from the bathroom.
“Today we get a wee foretaste of judgement day,” she said, picking up one of the cups of coffee.
“Judgement day?” Kat asked. “Sounds terrible.”
“Oh no, dear, not so bad as you think. God doesn’t actually condemn anybody.”
“He doesn’t?” Kat’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Oh, heavens no. Not his way. God doesn’t reward people or damn them, that’s just a horrific little myth.”
“So what happens at judgement?” Kat asked.
“He just tells them the truth about themselves. If the soul is too sick, it will slink off into isolation. If the soul is healthy enough, it will embrace community and will be embraced by community. God doesn’t decide anyone’s fate. People choose what they will do. Always.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Kat said. “Wounded people aren’t responsible for their condition.”
“I didn’t say wounded, dear. We’re all wounded. Sick souls become sick because of little choices people make day in and day out. If you practice kindness, kindness gets easier, and you heal. If you practice spite, it gets easier to be spiteful, and you get sicker. People choose their fates every day of their lives. Judgment is just a public acknowledgment of the sum of all those cumulative choices. God never sends anyone to hell, not ever. People walk there on their own two feet, a little bit at a time.”
“Yes, I’ve seen that,” Kat said, remembering Charlie—who chose to stay in hell when Terry brought them there one day for a field trip.
“So my job is to be a mouthpiece for that kind of truth-telling. And after today, I’ll be retired, and Brian will take over.” Brian returned from the bathroom as if making an entrance, his hair neatly combed.
“Brian?” Chava asked. “You are taking over for Serah bat Asher?”
“He is. I have taken note of him. He’s the one. Treat him well.” She elbowed Kat.
“You bet,” Kat agreed. “Actually, he takes care of us.”
“So where are we going?” Brian asked.
“Why, the East Bay of course. There are hundreds of thousands of people there who need to hear the truth about themselves.”
“Why?” Kat asked.
“Don’t be stupid, dear,” Maggie said. “It’s the only way to set things right and break the power of those nasty demons.”
“How are we going to get there?” Brian asked. “BART’s stopped. The bridges are closed. Is the ferry still running?”
“Oh, poop on the ferry,” Maggie waved. “We’ll go the way we always used to go back in the good old days. We’ll walk.”
106
After breakfast, the prisoners started lining up in groups. “What’s going on?” Madison asked.
“Don’t know,” Marco whispered. “Work groups?” It seemed a good guess, as it looked like people were separating themselves by body type. Large men and the taller, bulkier women were lining up at one gate, while those of smaller stature headed off to the other side of the yard, toward a different gate. “I’m gonna guess the big ones are agricultural workers.”
“What makes you say that?” Madison asked.
“Just a hunch,” Marco shrugged. “Physical labor.”
“I just see a lot of brown and black people.”
“And some gay and lesbian white folk.”
“Sure, I’ll give you that. Looks like one or two Jewish people, too. Though I can’t figure out why they’re here.” Madison pointed to a small cluster of white kids in their late teens.
“I don’t know. They look kind of Goth. I think they just put anyone who doesn’t fit into Stan’s Aryan wet dream in here.”
“You mean those kids just aren’t Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew enough to wear the squirrel?”
Marco shook his head. “Gotta love that fucking squirrel, man.”
“I always thought they were cute. Now I’m going to see them as symbols of racial oppression.”
“Just the white ones,” Marco smiled gravely.
“Do you have white friends? I mean close friends?” Madison asked.
“Yeah. Sure. Most of my closest friends, in fact.”
“Man, that’s just weird.
“There aren’t many black Thelemites.”
“Thele-who?”
“Thele…never mind. It’s the name of the religion I belong to.”
“Was that religion started by a white person?”
Marco blinked. “Uh…yeah.”
Madison shook his head. “Man, I knew it. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”
“You know that’s a Who quote, right? Whitest rock group ever?”
Madison ignored him. “Jesus was a black man. Just give me some black Jesus.”
“Jesus was Jewish,” Marco countered.
“Now you’re a Bible expert?”
“You don’t have to be an expert to—”
“Shut up, man. I’m gonna trust my pastor before I trust some Thele-whooey.”
“Your pastor said Jesus was black?”
“He was Middle Eastern, wasn’t he? Don’t you think he was closer to what Arabs look like? I mean, Jews hadn’t gone through the whole European distillation yet.”
“Diaspora?”
“Shut the fuck up, man. What do you know?”
Marco smiled, enjoying the volley. “There’s no way they’re going to just let us stand here and wank off all day.”
“I think you’re right about that. Look.” Madison pointed to a tall, blonde, impossibly handsome kid holding a clipboard and walking straight toward them. His black shirt bore the emblem of the white squirrel and a white paper hat sat astride his head at a rakish angle.
“You two look like you have strong legs.”
“How the fuck can you see my legs?” Madison scowled.
Marco slapped his arm. “We do. And we’re eager to help. Anything for Stan.”
The young man’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. “That’s the spirit, comrade! You can help the cause by providing power duty today.”
“Power duty! I like the sound of that!” Marco said.
“Uncle fucking Tom,” Madison whispered.
“What’s that?” the young man asked.
“Uh…he’s my uncle. His name is Tom.” Madison managed a forced smile.
The young man looked at his papers. “I thought your name was Marco.”
“It is. He’s just kidding around. Let’s go!” Marco said enthusiastically.
“Sure thing. Follow me.” He turned on his heel and made for one of the wire gates near the house.
“Watch your tongue or we’ll be on the beating end of a stick,” Marco whispered. “These folks might be ridiculous, but they’re also holding all the weapons.”
“You don’t need to remind me ’bout that,” Madison whispered back. “I gotta get my digs in somehow.”
“Moderate that shit if you want to keep all your teeth, that’s all I’m saying.”
“You callin’ the shots now?”
“I’m stating the obvious, asshole.”
Stepping through the gate, they waited while the young man secured it.
“So you think it’s demons that made these folks go all Hitler youth on us?” Madison asked. “I mean, I don’t think I be
lieve any of that stuff in the first place, but let’s say you’re right. If the demon power was broken right now, what do you think they’d do? I mean, they have the upper hand now. You think they’d just let go of that?”
“I think the fact that you’re talking about ‘them’ and ‘they’ is just as horrifying as the fact that we’re in here.”
“Great. Blame the victim. I didn’t put us in here, man.”
Marco knew he was right. But he wasn’t sure how to think about it all, either. His white friends often mentioned that race was too complex for them to completely get a grip on. He’d never sympathized with that opinion before, but now Marco was inclined to agree.
They passed alongside the white-painted house, and as they came in sight of the backyard, Marco saw Cain standing in a black shirt with a squirrel on it. One of the younger members was instructing him in the use of the rifle. Marco was sure Cain didn’t need any instruction in firearms but was probably just playing along. Their eyes met for a second, and Cain gave a quick nod.
The young man led them to the back door to a semi-detached garage. Opening the door, he waved his hand inside, as if grandly inviting them to enter. Marco stepped through and caught his breath. Inside were three rows of exercise machines—treadmills, stationary bikes, and ellipticals—each row containing four machines. Marco was surprised to see the racial diversity among the exercisers and wondered if some of Stan’s Youth were among them. But no, as he looked more closely, he saw they were all prisoners.
And labor it certainly seemed to be. No one looked happy, that was for sure. Even the righteous determination he saw on the rare occasions he ventured into a gym was missing from these folks. They seemed slogging and beaten. Marco felt punched in the gut.
Then he noticed the wires. Affixed to every exercise machine seemed to be some sort of generator—copper wires sprung up like weeds from each machine, running like vines in apparently random patterns across the room. Marco followed them with his eyes to a bank of car batteries against the inside wall near a door that probably went into the house.
That suspicion was confirmed a moment later when the door opened, and a middle-aged balding man in a black shirt with a squirrel on it stepped through, conversing briefly with the young man. Behind him, Marco saw what looked like a den. A couch full of Stan Youth were crowded together, jockeying for a video game controller as the sounds of digital explosions and mayhem spilled out of the room.
Marco looked at Madison.
“Ah, hell no,” Madison said, a little too loudly. “I am not gonna be a human generator just so some white boys can play fuckin’ Legend of Zelda. Are you kidding m—”
The young man socked Madison in the jaw with the butt of his rifle and Madison went down like a sack of meat. Marco flinched but kept his mouth shut.
Then he had an idea. He turned to the older man. “Sir, if you will permit me, I have a suggestion for how to increase your power yield by about ten-fold.”
The man had opened his mouth to yell but somehow actually heard what Marco was saying. He cocked his head. “Go on.”
“You’ve got solar panels on the roof here,” Marco said. “But they’re probably rigged up to the PG&E grid so you can’t benefit from them. I’m an…well, an electrician among other things. Give me the tools I need and the rest of the morning and I’ll have your panels pumping out as much power as your batteries can hold every day.”
“We can always get more batteries,” he said.
“So much the better,” Marco said.
“Son, you’ve got yourself a job.”
107
The pizza box was empty, and the sun was dim but up. Chicken opened the back door for Dylan and Susan, and they headed out into the Alameda morning. They retraced their steps from the night before, and following Susan’s dim recollection of exactly where the Ferry Terminal was, they set off down Central Avenue. After a few blocks it turned into Main Street, and Susan relaxed. They were going the right way.
But she didn’t lower her hackles all the way. She clutched at the revolver in her jacket pocket and kept an eagle eye out for anyone who might see them or, God forbid, approach them. They did see people, but not many. Those they saw did not seem to take any notice of them and kept their distance. Susan walked as fast as Chicken’s legs could manage.
She felt an overwhelming sense of relief that she’d been able to find Dylan, but she was also keenly aware that he was not yet out of danger—nor was Chicken, for that matter. Their safety was the single point toward which everything in her was focused. It was her tabernacle, her mihrab, her north star.
Dylan kept up, but she could see he was struggling. Her heart ached for him. He’d been through so much and yet here he was, tramping on, putting one foot in front of the other in a forced march that seemed endless, even to her. When would they rest? When would they be able to relax and sleep without one eye propped open? When would they get their lives back? Would they? She was reminded that it would soon be Advent and the prophet’s cries of “How long, how long, O Lord, will you watch your people suffer before you rise up in power and bring healing to the earth?” had never seemed so timely, so poignant. She decided that the calendar was wrong—it was Advent in her heart.
As if he were reading her thoughts, Dylan began to chant a Psalm: “O Lord, you God of vengeance, you God of vengeance, shine forth! Rise up, O judge of the earth; give to the proud what they deserve! O Lord, how long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked exult?”
She stopped and faced him, her lips turned up in a sad smile. His forehead was covered with sweat, and his blind eye seemed puffy this morning. There were still wounds on his temples and cheeks that had not yet healed. He looked like he’d just gone three rounds with an ace boxer.
“Psalm 94,” he said. “It’s from today’s Daily Office.”
She slipped her hand into his and turned back toward their destination, resuming her brisk pace. Chicken skipped ahead of them as if she were impatient, as if this kind of thing happened every day and she couldn’t wait to see what happened next. Susan wondered where such zeal, such trust came from. She wanted it. No, she needed it.
And then there it was—the ferry terminal. It was a small, squat building covered by a larger free-standing roof that sloped toward the water. A minute later, Susan could make out the dock. She wondered why everyone in Alameda hadn’t already high-tailed it for the City, but then she realized that it was their home. They loved it. Hell, she didn’t live there and she loved Alameda. If it were home for me, I wouldn’t abandon it either, she thought.
There were a couple of people there, but they looked like they were going to work. Susan marveled at that, and it occurred to her that so long as people could go to work, could pretend that things were normal, they would. They reached the terminal and Susan purchased two tickets. She walked to where Dylan and Chicken were standing and handed both tickets to Dylan.
“Ah don’t feel right leavin’ you here,” Dylan said.
“You’re not leaving me, you’re getting Chicken to safety,” Susan said in a tone that said the matter was ended.
But Dylan persisted. “It ain’t right.”
“It isn’t right according to what? The way the world is right now? No, the world isn’t fucking right—”
“Fucking right,” Chicken repeated.
“—it isn’t right according to your misplaced sense of redneck chivalry that says ‘menfolk should save the women and children’?” She mimicked his accent.
“Ya’ don’t have to be insultin’—”
She stopped herself. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Dylan, you’re wounded and you need to rest and heal. I’m your wife and it’s my job to make sure you take care of yourself when you’re too pig-headed to do it yourself.”
“This is you not bein’ insultin’, right?”
A woman screamed, and the few people gathered at the terminal began running. Susan whipped around to see the dock surrounded by boats. Not the ferry, as she exp
ected, but a motley barrage of small craft. She left Chicken with Dylan and walked down toward the water so that she could get a view unobstructed by the terminal building. As she did her eyes widened. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
“What is it, darlin’?” Dylan called.
The few boats she had seen were only the advance guard. Scores of boats were close behind. Hundreds? she wondered, but perhaps it only seemed like it. That’s just a shitload of boats, she decided.
Directly in the center of the motley fleet was a large sailboat with a tall mast, and it seemed that all the other boats radiated out from it. On its sail a blood-red sigil flapped and convulsed with the shuddering wind.
Susan gulped. Why here? She wondered. Why now?
The location question was easily answered. As her eye traveled the length of the aquatic convoy, she saw that they all traced back to the docks at Jack London square. She could barely make out the piers in the morning fog. That’s where all the boats are kept, and this is the closest landing point, she thought. It occurred to her that the landing also made sense tactically. The place was nearly deserted, so they could land, set up mobile transport for their sigils, and wipe out the island by nightfall.
Dylan moved slowly to her side and grasped her hand. “That’s the sigil of Tarnequé, the demon behind the French Revolution,” he said. “He’s a wrath demon. One of the worst Hell’s got. He likes the beheadin’.”
Susan’s heart sank into her belly, along with her hope. She reached for Chicken’s hand and the three of them began to back away just as the first of the boats docked and Oakland berserkers of every color and class and religion leaped ashore, slapped each other on the back, and howled with the thrill of battle.
Susan turned. “Run,” she said.
“Run where?” Dylan asked.
“I don’t…I don’t know…” for the first time since the demonic invasion began, tears of panic and desperation sprung to Susan’s eyes. Her bravado was fleeing faster than she could, and without it she felt lost. She tugged on Chicken, urging the child to move faster. Chicken began trotting beside them, not speaking, seeming to comprehend the danger so close on their heels.
