The God Killers

by David Simpson

  “No, he might be on to something here,” Han said. “We should test this out,” he suggested, his mind poring over the possible implications and applications of having such a power.

  “If you’re gonna test that out on somebody, I got a little herpes outbreak!” the naked hooker exclaimed, putting her hand up in the air to volunteer.

  “Ew!” Essence responded, her nose wrinkling again. “That’s so gross, Brandy.”

  “Whatever, Essence! At least I don’t have HIV and keep fucking guys anyway!” Brandy responded bitterly.

  “What?” Han uttered, stunned.

  Essence turned to him, wearing the shameful, pitiful look of a child who’d wrecked her parent’s car, then smiled and shrugged. “We always wrap it up, right baby?”

  “Oh my God. You...I...I’ve got AIDS!” Han exhaled as though he’d been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. He held his hands to his head and sank against the wall of the condo, then slid down it until he was sitting in a shocked trance.

  Cipher watched his friend collapse slowly, then turned to Brandy. He strode over to her, grasped her wrist, and pulled her into his room. “Let’s see, shall we?” Cipher said.

  “Hey! Gentle, mister!” Brandy protested. “I’m not into the rough shit!”

  “Hey, man! What the hell’s going on?” asked a naked man, holding his trousers over his private area as he leaned out of the room in which Brandy had been keeping him company.

  “I’ll be right back, baby, better than ever!” Brandy called back.

  Rex followed closely behind Cipher, with a hesitant Essence in tow. They all stepped around Han as though he were a land mine.

  Cipher put Brandy on the mattress. “Where’s the outbreak?” he demanded.

  “Just right there,” she pointed to a few small red spots near her vaginal lips.

  Cipher grimaced as he looked at it. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.” He inhaled deeply, then placed his right hand—the one that had held the Spear of Destiny and that had been coated in the blood of God on the Second Plane—gently over the red, inflamed skin. He left it there for a moment, trying to feel something, some sort of magic, but he couldn’t tell for sure. A second later, he lifted his hand away, and his eyes became wide.

  Essence shrieked and the old man jumped in the air and pointed, releasing a hoot of joy. The prostitute’s flesh was completely healed and fresh, as if Brandy were still a virgin.

  “You...got rid of it?” Brandy shouted.

  The festive reaction to Cipher’s healing powers shook Han out of his trance and he entered the room on his hands and knees. “You got rid of it?” Han asked, stunned, as he knelt next to the proceedings.

  Cipher turned to his friend and nodded.

  “Holy shit,” Han replied.

  1

  Florence loved Jesus. Florence loved the Holy Spirit. Florence loved the Lord most of all. The one Florence did not love—or even like—was her priest. As far as Florence was concerned, Father Hurley was justifiably headed toward Hell and damnation. How dare he question His omnipotence! How dare he suggest that the Bible’s stories could possibly be meteors…or metamusils, or whatever that sacrilegious word was that he was using to question Him? How dare he? Florence sincerely hoped that the father would suffer another heart attack and die, so Satan could take him once and for all and straighten him out.

  She arrived at home and kicked off the high-heeled shoes that had been torturing her poor, swollen feet all morning as she stood through the eight, nine, ten, and eleven a.m. Masses. She went to all four of the morning Masses every weekday and all weekend services so she could spend as much time as she could afford with the Lord. But, she hated it when Father Hurley, that old fool, that cantankerous crackpot, tried to inject doubt into her soul. She had complained about him on multiple occasions to the bishop, yet Father Hurley remained unpunished and continued spouting heresy. On this particular day, Father Hurley had given the nine and eleven a.m. Masses so she had to listen to his New Age, hippie filth for two hours—two hours where she should have remained undisturbed in her blissful, perfectly right relationship with the Lord, whom she loved very much.

  “Natalie!” Florence shouted as she entered the living room, which was adjacent to the kitchen, and noticed an absence of the aroma of food. She immediately knew her niece hadn’t made lunch. Florence was starving, and all she asked of her niece—her bookish, will-be-a-student-forever niece—was that she have lunch ready for her when she arrived home, voracious after a morning spent hard at prayer. Oh Lord, why have you burdened me so with the responsibility of raising this child? And when will this child finally finish her studies and enter the real world? It’s so shameful to see her hiding in her books, away from the hard realities of life.

  “Natalie!” Florence called again, this time with much more frustration in her voice. Where is that child? She bustled past the kitchen and down the main hallway to Natalie’s bedroom, expecting to find her still slumbering in her bed. What she saw startled her. Natalie wasn’t there, the bed wasn’t made, and her nightstand was knocked over. “Natalie?” Florence called again, this time a little more gently—the sort of gentleness that comes from guilt—the sort of guilt that comes from worry. “Natalie? Where are you?” She checked the bathroom, and then her own bedroom, just in case, then looked outside in the backyard, but there was no sign of her. There was only one place left to look: the basement.

  Florence opened the door to the basement and looked down into the dark, dank, fetid, ancient room. She hated going down there. The house was old—nearly as old as the city itself—and the basement remained virtually unchanged since its construction, other than the addition of a single light hanging from the ceiling at the bottom of the stairs. She hated walking down the old, stone steps into the stagnant, stale air, nearly blind until she reached out with her trembling hand to click the light switch. It was always such a terrifying process for her, particularly since Florence believed in ghosts. She believed in the Holy Ghost, after all, and she believed in Satan—and that meant she believed in evil.

  The basement was saturated in evil.

  This was why Florence only stepped foot in her basement once or twice a year at most. She made sure only to store things in the basement that she was confident she wouldn’t need to bring upstairs ever again. It housed only knickknacks, old memories, useless family heirlooms, and the like. When she did have to make that horrifying descent, she never went alone, but Natalie was missing. Natalie would always tell Florence beforehand if she had to go out to the library or to the university. If she had to leave unexpectedly, there would be a note left on the fridge. Her niece’s inexplicable absence unnerved her so much that she had to check the basement. What if she’s slipped on the slippery stone of the stairs? What if she’s bleeding at the bottom of the stairs with only moments to live? Florence had no choice: She had to go down there.

  She gulped one last breath of reasonably fresh air before she began working her way down the stairs. The hairs on the back of her neck stood like soldiers at attention as she peered into the almost perfect blackness. She tried hard to see, but she couldn’t make out any images. It was like walking into nothingness.

  “Natalie?” she called out again.

  Suddenly, there was a sound.

  What was that? Something had moved and she knew it couldn’t have been the house settling. Do I have a rat problem? That idea, in and of itself, should have been frightening, but something about the current situation—something Florence couldn’t quite put her finger on—made her hope that she did have a rat infestation; it seemed so much better than the alternatives. “Hello?” she called into the blackness.

  There was no response.

  Again, Florence stepped down the stairs slowly, her legs shaking from fear as she moved farther and farther into the evil. Nearly at the bottom of the stairs, it was time to reach her left hand out into the dark to feel for the string hanging from the light switch. She purposely used her left ha
nd; since she was right-handed, she felt she could afford to lose the left one if some monster were to lunge through the blackness and bite it off.

  Finally! Her wrist felt the string against it, and she quickly curled her fingers around it, yanking it hard to switch the light on.

  But there was nothing.

  She pulled on the string again, but again, no light came.

  Rather than the illumination that she expected, there came a hot sensation, as though there was a long exhale of breath on her face.

  Suddenly the light switched on, but it wasn’t by Florence’s hand. She hadn’t been holding onto the string at all; she had hold of her niece’s hair as it hung down from the ceiling, the ceiling Natalie was crawling on, supernaturally, like a human spider. Natalie held the string in her hand and smiled, her black eyes peeking out on either side of the glaring light bulb.

  Florence screamed.

  2

  Cipher awoke with Essence’s far-from innocent teenage face looking down at him. She was holding her cell phone in one hand while rubbing her eyes with the other. “Your friend, Father What’s-his-name, is on the phone,” she uttered.

  Cipher snatched the phone out of her hand and leapt to his feet. “Father! Where have you been? I called you half a dozen times last night!”

  “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m an old man now, and I don’t always stir when the phone rings in the middle of the night. I just heard your message a moment ago.”

  “Well we need to get you out of there right now, Father. Our cover is blown, and yours will be soon, if it hasn’t already,” Cipher responded emphatically.

  “I’m aware. I take it things didn’t go well with the Spear of Destiny,” Father Hurley replied calmly.

  “You could say that. And what do you mean, you’re ‘aware’?”

  “I’m aware because I just received a rather frantic phone call from one of my parishioners. Apparently, her niece is crawling on the ceiling, and babbling in an unknown language.”

  “A new message,” Cipher said, immediately understanding the significance.

  “Clearly, Satan wouldn’t be sending us a new message if your mission had been successful. I need you to meet up with me...in a hurry. This particular parishioner isn’t a big fan of yours truly. I asked her not to call the police and said I’d be right over to help, but there’s no telling if she’ll listen. She might try to involve the police, and if she does—”

  “The cops will call the Vatican. I get it, Father. What’s the address?” Cipher replied.

  “Heh. That’s the best part. 2323, 23rd Avenue,” Father Hurley said, amused.

  “Two times three equals six. Six-six-six. She couldn’t be making herself much more obvious.”

  “Get here soon, Cipher. I won’t be able to keep the girl’s aunt from calling the police for much longer.”

  “I’m on it, Father,” Cipher responded before pressing the hang up button and turning to leave the room. He stopped when he found Essence blocking the doorway.

  “Who the hell are you, man?” Essence asked, a mixed expression of awe and suspicion on her face.

  “I’m no one. Got it?”

  “That’s bullshit! You’re like...you’re an angel or something.” Essence was suddenly more engaged with what was happening around her than she had ever been in her life. She’d always refused to take life seriously, to listen to her parents, to do the things much wiser people advised. In her opinion, life was short and meant to be enjoyed, and the things she enjoyed most were sex and money. Nothing else had ever been important—until now. Suddenly, her fake tan, the sparkles in her body lotion, the pink lip gloss, the hair extensions, and her pink, frilly thong all lost their luster. Everything about her seemed so fake, so insignificant, so out of place.

  Cipher scoffed. “I’m no angel, kid.” He pushed past her in search of Han. “Han! Wake up!”

  Essence followed him out of the room, the conversation unfinished, in her view. “Yes you are! You cured Rex and Brandy!”

  “Han! We gotta roll right now!” Cipher called again, entering the room where Han was beginning to stir.

  The sun streamed in through the bare windows, heating the room. Han was soaked with sweat.

  “What? You’re just leaving? But you can’t just...you can’t leave!” Essence exclaimed, clutching Cipher’s forearm.

  “Why not?” Cipher replied, turning on her quickly and backing her against the wall. “Because you want me to cure your disease? Why should I? I don’t owe you shit.”

  “What? You cured that skank Brandy last night! What the hell’s the difference?”

  “I did that for me, just to see if it would work. Why the hell would I do it for you?”

  “Fine! Fuck! I’ll give you a freebie right after if that’s what you want!”

  “Really? Wow. A freebie. Sex is a commodity to you? Something you barter with?”

  “What’s a barter?”

  “Fuck you. You’re gonna die.” Cipher turned away in disgust and grabbed Han by the arm, pulling him up before slapping him hard across the face. “Wake the fuck up!” he raged.

  “What the fuck, man?” Han yelled as he stood to his feet and took up a defensive posture.

  “Yeah! What the fuck? What’s the matter with you, man?” Essence screeched.

  “A whore asks me what’s the matter with me? Funny. A whore thinks I should cure her. Why? So she’ll be free to go out and get it again right afterward?”

  “Because I don’t want to die, man!” Essence yelled back, tears beginning to form in her eyes. “You can help me, but you...God, you can’t just let me die!” She covered her face and slowly began to sob.

  Cipher let her cry for a little while.

  “I don’t want to die either,” Han said quietly.

  Cipher grabbed Essence and pushed her down onto the thin mattress that was lying in the corner of the room. “Swear to me that you’ll never have sex for money again.”

  “Man, I-I can’t. Don’t make me do that. Don’t make me do that,” Essence cried. “I can’t make money doing anything else.”

  “Why not?” Cipher demanded, Han watching, dumbfounded, in the corner.

  “I-I don’t know. I just...I don’t know!”

  “Then fuck you,” Cipher replied as he stood to his feet and turned to leave.

  “Because I’m too fucking stupid, okay?” she cried out after him. Cipher turned to her and watched as her face fell into her hands and she began to sob more heavily.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Han whispered to Cipher.

  Cipher didn’t respond. Instead, he knelt beside Essence and commanded once again, “Swear to me that you’ll never have sex for money again, or the healing won’t work.”

  Essence looked up, pained. She was boxed in, being forced to give up the one thing that had allowed her to avoid real life. She looked at Han for a lifeline, but he stayed silent and sympathetically watched her cry. With no alternative, she looked into Cipher’s eyes and whispered through gasps, “I...swear. Never again.”

  Cipher didn’t say another word. He took his hand and placed it on the girl’s forehead and left it there for a moment, until he was sure the healing would take place. Then he stood up and turned to leave.

  “Is that it? Am I cured?” Essence called to him, desperately seeking confirmation.

  “That’s up to you,” Cipher replied as he exited the room.

  Han took one last look at Essence before he, too, left the room and trotted to catch up to Cipher.

  “Why did you do that?” Han demanded as the two men picked up their gear and left the condo.

  “I don’t like whores.”

  “So now you’re some kind of moral judge? I thought we were against doing things just because someone tells us it’s bad. You made her believe she wouldn’t be healed unless she promised! Isn’t belief in things that aren’t true exactly what we’re trying to fight?”

  Cipher hit the button for the elevator. “Sometimes belief comes in
handy.”

  3

  Cipher and Han came to a halt outside of 2323, 23rd Avenue and quickly jumped out of the car as Father Hurley immediately stepped out of the front door and began making his way down the path toward them. The house was a beautiful old colonial, with a magnificent oak tree in the front yard that sheltered the dwelling from the brilliant sunlight; hedges on both sides stood higher than the roof. Cipher went to the back of the car and grabbed the gear while Han lit up a cigarette. Father Hurley knocked it out of his hand and stepped on it while Han grimaced.

  “Stop it!” he harshly whispered to Han as Cipher joined them. “I’ve told this woman you’re important religious advisers on the subject of the paranormal. Try to behave with some professionalism. You have no idea how tightly wound this woman is.”

  “And she has no idea how tightly wound I am,” Han replied.

  “What’s the situation?” Cipher asked Father Hurley as the trio began making their way up the front path.

  “Her name is Natalie. I had to pry her off of the basement ceiling with a broomstick. I have her strapped to her bed, waiting to be debugged.”

  “Tied to her bed? You dirty old bastard.” Han smiled.

  Father Hurley glared at him but kept silent.

  “Good work, Father,” Cipher replied. “We’ll get the message and be out of here before the aunt has time to get suspicious.

  “Who are these people?” Florence shrilly shrieked as soon as she opened the front door. “They’re supposed to be experts? They look like homeless people!”

  “Experts always look that way, Florence. They’re students,” Father Hurley explained, reassuringly.

  Students? Florence understood that part.

  “Where is she?” Cipher asked.

  “She’s through here,” Florence replied, turning and walking quickly into her home and into a side hallway that led to a modest-sized bedroom.