by J. Thorn
As the vehicle’s wheels vibrated on the wet pavement and began to pick up speed, Father’s head lolled to one side. Since the First Cleansing began, he’d had little time for sleep. He planned to rest in Heaven, at God’s right hand. They continued driving northbound, passing an occasional army truck going in the other direction.
“Father, may I ask you a question?”
Father enjoyed nothing as much as imparting wisdom to the flock, even when the questions woke him from a short doze.
“Why, of course, my son. I will speak with God’s tongue.”
“What is the next phase of the Holy Covenant?”
“That is for Him to decide. The Vatican has instructed us to find John the Revelator and when they share news of the next phase, we will do His will. John has been foretold to lead us to eternal peace.”
The JLTV left the highway onto East Eighth Street. Father used the back of his hand to wipe the condensation from the windows.
All along East Eighth, Father saw the sign painted on houses, small businesses and other structures. The army cleared most human remains, but the occasional red splatter could be seen on doors and sidewalks. Flakes fell from the sky and landed on the ground like wads of heavy cotton.
They turned north and started climbing the hill toward St. Michael’s. The archangel sat atop the highest steeple, guarding parishioners from Satan’s wrath. A convoy of JLTVs lined up on the street outside the old church. Father never tired from the splendid intricacies of the structure.
Yellow brick sullied by years of nearby heavy manufacturing still shined in the muted daylight. Huge wrought iron fences wrapped around the building complete with a massive gate at the entrance to the church. The Virgin Mary, fixed in alabaster glory, spread her arms over the tiny garden on the side as she blessed the children at her feet. As if on cue, the bells rang out cutting through the swirling hail and snow that became more intense as the lake effect storm slid further south off of Lake Erie.
The commander opened the door, shaking Father from his contemplation. Nodding his appreciation, Father exited the vehicle and climbed the five steps into the main vestibule of St. Michael’s parish. Stained, wooden doors shut behind him, silencing the howls of the ragged wind. A flurry of activity caught Father’s eye as priests milled about the church. Some tended to candles, keeping the votive lit for the souls of the departed. Others dusted the pews and polished the wood floors including a tall, wiry teenage boy. Near the tabernacle, one priest repaired a golden hinge on the door of the Holy Sacrament. Lingering remnants of the incense teased Father as he wiped his nose. Candles lit the interior of the church and Father felt the cold chill of the stone walls. Soldiers labored to tie the electrical system into a platoon of generators. Until they did, the church would remain in darkness, like the rest of the city.
“Father, it is good to see you back in your parish,” the boy said.
“Thank you, my son. How are you serving God?”
“My ears are open to his calling and my heart is open to his love.”
Father smiled at the adolescent. He could not remember his name, but he did remember the boy attended church with his mother every week. Father saw the other members of the family, including their father, only on special occasions.
Christmas-Easter Catholics, Father thought.
“Where is the rest of your family? Has God called them to serve the Holy Covenant?”
A cloud spread across the young man’s face.
“I alone serve Him. The others were not willing to stand against the infidels and therefore were sent to Him during the First Cleansing.”
Father raised his eyebrows and let a smile cross his face.
“His love above all else.”
“Yes Father, His love for eternity.”
Father placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. He turned and walked toward the back of the church, leaving the boy to continue his chores.
The door on the wall behind the altar swung inward to reveal a room. Eight priests from Cleveland’s eastside parishes engaged in animated conversation while standing over a map spread on a table. The discussion came to a halt when Father stepped into the room.
“Welcome, and may God be with you,” one of the priests said.
“And with you,” Father said.
He made the sign of the cross and proceeded to bless those in attendance. The other priests followed his lead and blessed themselves. Two older priests parted to welcome Father into the discussion already in progress.
“Please, continue,” Father said.
“We cannot risk a messenger to the west side. The infidels may have already organized and they will certainly take aim at the Innerbelt,” one of the priests said.
Father thought about the strategic advantage to securing the Innerbelt, the raised highway connecting the east and west sides of Cleveland.
“Why? I think they are still reeling from the First Cleansing and will have no interest in organizing satan’s minions to cut us off from our brethren on the west side,” another said.
“Servants of God,” Father said. “Pray to Him for guidance on this strategy and He will provide the way.”
The conversation paused before Father resumed, his voice rising.
“Let us focus on strengthening our church in preparation for the Final Battle. Satan will not spare any life in fighting the return of the Son.”
Many of the priests nodded in agreement. Father changed the subject with another question. “What is the status of John the Revelator?” he asked.
“How do we know—?”
Father interrupted the question.
“It is him, and I have reported that news to the Vatican. God has told me it is Him and the photograph proves it. Now what is His status?”
“They have been tending to his wounds. I am not sure if He is awake yet,” a priest said.
“Very well. I will descend to the parish hall and check the situation.”
The others nodded their heads and began gesturing at the map again.
Father strode past the table and to the steps leading to the basement. God showed him John the Revelator in a dream and when his men found him, Father knew He was the one. He prayed to God and God told Father this John was the prophet, even if the prophet himself did not realize it.
Chapter 11
The light brought scorching heat to her face. The bulb pulsed inches from the edge of the bed. Jana opened her mouth to cry for help but mustered only a dry wheeze. She looked down at the dried blood covering her legs. The wound in Jana’s thigh pulsed with each heartbeat.
Jana struggled to her feet, doing her best to untangle from the torn sheet. She fell into the bathroom. A tired, frightening face looked back at her in the mirror. She reached for a ponytail holder and pulled her greasy hair back. Shards of glass stuck out of her chin. She winced as she pulled them out. Using a washcloth, she cleaned the superficial gunshot wound to her thigh. It ached and pulsed but the bleeding stopped. Jana grimaced as she wrapped the wound.
She pulled a sweater over her head. Her jeans bulged at the thigh where the bandage kept her wound from breaking open. She reached deep into the medicine cabinet and downed two Vicodin.
A can of soda sat on the table next to the bed, one of the only pieces of furniture not in disarray. Jana shook her head, trying to knock the memories loose.
An earthquake, a storm?
She could not recall. Jana drank the soda and felt a slight buzz from the caffeine. She pulled a jacket from the closet just as the light in her room went out. She thought the bulb died but when she looked out the window the entire street sat in darkness. A distant boom, like angry thunder, rattled the old windows.
She hobbled down the steps in the dark and stopped in the kitchen. The table and chairs lay scattered and her couch was torn to shreds. The television screen was smashed, creating a cracked web. She glanced around the room then went to the kitchen where she finished the Chinese leftovers from dinner w
ith John the other night. The cold lo mien unsettled her stomach, but she managed to hold it down not knowing when she would eat next.
Bright headlights flooded her living room and Jana heard men yelling outside. She crawled under the kitchen sink and pulled the cabinet door shut. An old pipe stuck in her back and the smell of dish detergent and brown lettuce made her gag. Muffled sounds, a pause, and then a crash. Beams of light scurried across the floor as if chasing cockroaches. Jana took a breath through her mouth, attempting to keep the odors from giving her away.
“Nothing on this level, sir.”
“Check upstairs.”
Jana heard one set of boots leave while the other did not move. The first man returned to the kitchen.
“Blood.”
“A body?”
“No, sir, but a lot of blood. They either died on the street or are bleeding out in a gutter somewhere.”
“And do you want to take the chance that even one infidel survives? Do you?”
“No, sir. I am a Warrior of Christ.”
“Then find her. We know she was the only one here. The head of the First Cleansing reported one Jane Doe in the bedroom. Dead women don’t walk. Find her.”
Several bishops hijacked the government’s data systems and merged those databases with field reports from the field generals.
“Yes, sir.”
Jana heard the man run out of the kitchen and back through the living room, his boots cracking off the hardwood floor. She remembered when she and John spent a weekend sanding and staining the floor. Jana thought of all the money and sweat they put into rehabbing the tired, old house. And then she remembered the texts and pics.
I have to find him. I don’t know if I’ll hug him or stab him, but I have to find John.
One pair of boots remained after the others left. He opened the fridge and Jana heard him open one of John’s Iron City beers. Her back throbbed from the pipe and her leg began to twitch. Every muscle in her body screamed to be free of the confined space. The soldier chugged and discarded the beer with a careless toss. The bottle of Iron City met the ceramic tile with a pop, sending shattered glass flying everywhere. The boots moved toward the back door. Jana heard them clomp down the steps and rattle off the asphalt driveway. She waited as long as she could before coming out.
Jana knew she was alone. Her aching thigh reminded her of the wound she suffered earlier.
She recalled waving to John from the window as he left for Reggie’s Halloween party. She remembered lying back down on the bed, pushing her face into his pillow and inhaling his scent. A few minutes after he left, it sounded as though her house slid into the depths of hell. She recalled bellowing footsteps coming toward her bedroom, leaving just enough time to draw the sheet up to her chin. A flash of light, a loud crack, and that was all she could remember.
Chapter 12
“Do you think he’ll survive, Alex?”
“He passed out. He’s not shot in the head.”
Alex was almost six feet tall with jet black hair. He parted it in the middle and tucked the long strands behind his ears. He had bright green eyes and a permanent five o’clock shadow. The girls he dated in college called him the Goth version of Brad Pitt. He had a chiseled chin and a full smile.
He brought rudimentary medical skills that would have to serve until a real doctor could be found.
Father Joseph looked at Alex and then turned to face the cots of wounded soldiers in the makeshift triage of the church basement. “Can’t you do better than that?’
“I’m a vet, not a doctor,” Alex said.
Joseph rolled his eyes and did not press the matter. Alex thought they were lucky to have him. He walked amongst the cots to check on the Warriors injured during the First Cleansing.
Alex circled around to the man they called John the Revelator. He noticed the white band revealed by a missing wedding ring. A small, wry chuckle rose in his throat as he realized the priests would not notice the slight discoloration in skin. He felt a twinge of guilt for using narcotics on the man he believed to be John, but he could not afford to have him confront the priests before he had a chance to hear John’s story. The drugs Alex used on John would wear off soon.
He found a dry cleaning tag in one of John’s pockets. Another slight smile spread across his face as he hid the ticket in his own pocket. The meaningless artifact of genteel daily living took him on a mental tangent. He thought of his wife and children and how they were subjected to the rites of the Holy Covenant. The soldiers took his family from him and he would never forget that.
An old transistor radio hissed from the nearby windowsill of one of the basement’s windows. He was about to shut it off when a voice cut through the static.
“Sons of Liberty rise and toss the Covenant to the fire. They are not doing God’s will.”
Alex froze. The phrase repeated and then the static returned. He looked at the soldiers on the cots as well as the two priests tending to them. Alex held his breath, awaiting a reaction. He moved closer. Voices spoke again from the mono speaker.
“Hail the riff. You know where, Sons of Liberty. Get there soon. Two horns up.”
Alex pretended to work on John the Revelator for another thirty minutes while waiting for the message to repeat. He memorized the phrase and tried to solve its cryptic meaning. He wouldn’t discover it until he spoke with John. Whoever was responsible for the broadcast was summoning a resistance to an old rock club on the west side of town.
***
John slid one eye open, enough to get a blurred view through an eyelash. If he could maintain the ruse of unconsciousness he might have a chance to escape. It would take about one minute of conversation before the priests would see through his unintentional disguise.
The radio on the sill bleated intermittently throughout John’s time on the cot. John could make out “liberty” and “to the fire,” but nothing else.
“Don’t look at me. Keep working,” John whispered to Alex. He kept his lips tight as he spoke.
“I thought you were coming around. Your muscle movement betrayed you. Don’t worry, only a trained eye would see it.” Alex pulled the surgical mask up over his mouth as he spoke to conceal the movement of his jaw. “Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is John. I’m not the Revelator or whatever shit they say I am. They think I’m a priest, the prophet, and as soon as they realize I’m not, I’m dead. So if you’re not going to help me, sound the alarm and end it now.”
“Calm down, hothead. If I was part of the Covenant, your ass would be hanging on a cross down in Public Square. My name is Alex and you’re damn lucky your threads are legit. If they knew you stole these, man, you’d be in a world of hurt. Ever heard of the Inquisition?”
“What’s that? A metal band?”
“Don’t be an asshole. I’m trying to help.”
“Wasn’t trying to be. Just wanted to lighten the mood a bit. Yeah, I know the time. The Catholics in Spain did nasty shit to the Jews and Muslims in the name of God.”
“Well, from what I’ve heard, the Holy Covenant makes the Inquisition look like the Geauga County Fair.”
“Rednecks and Amish sucking down flat beer and funnel cake?”
Alex muffled his laugh into a cough as one of the other priests headed in his direction. John picked up on Alex’s body language and shut both eyes.
“How is he doing?”
“Same as when you asked me five minutes ago,” Alex said.
“You would be wise to hold your tongue, doctor.” The last word slithered from the priest’s lips.
Alex watched the Father Joseph walk toward the old bingo board hanging in the back of the parish hall. For decades, parishioners gathered to smoke, gamble and spread rumors, just feet beneath the altar. Joseph walked up the handicapped ramp toward the ground floor of the church. The other priest went to the far end of the cots and sat at a desk, his back to the hall.
“Don’t move, John,” Alex said.
Alex deci
ded it was time to make their escape. He pulled a syringe and flask of Butorphanol from one of the bags on the floor. Alex injected the three soldiers closest to John’s cot with an overdose of the painkiller. He refilled the syringe and injected the others with a lethal dose as well. The priest at the desk continued flipping through paperwork, oblivious to what took place behind him. Alex walked back to John and bent down so he could look into his face.
“They won’t be waking up again.”
“You killed them.”
“This is war, Gandhi. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, those sons of bitches have been emptying clips on innocent civilians. Do you want to live or not?”
John twitched but did not move his head.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then do exactly as I say or hang next to Jesus Christ upstairs.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to slip Father Paperpusher over there a nice dose of drugs. Should knock him out for a while and give me a chance to work. As soon as I get to his desk, start taking off your clothes. I have no clue when another priest might come down here and we don’t have time to spare.”
“Why not kill him too?” John asked.
“Kill a priest? Bad karma,” Alex said.
Alex walked past the soldiers who lay dying on the cot. He heard the priest sigh as he slid a needle full of horse tranquilizer into the back of his neck. The priest froze and slid down into his chair. Alex nudged him forward so it appeared he fell asleep.
John took off his clothes. Alex stripped the soldier closest to him and threw the camo to John. John tossed the black garments and white collar to Alex, who placed it on the dead soldier. He pushed the soldier’s cart toward John and slid it in between the others.
John finished dressing as another priest descended from the church above. John stood next to Alex.
