Apathetic God

by Ian Withrow

  She watched the truck turn off of the gravel trail and glide awkwardly across the wet grass, heedless of the sacred ground below the tires. The driver let the vehicle drift left and right, seemingly unable to maintain a straight path as it worked it’s way across the graveyard before sliding to a halt in front of a small rose bush a few dozen yards from where Lauren was hiding.

  The driver’s door opened and a woman stumbled from the cab. Bundled up against the weather, she made her way unsteadily across the grass before sinking to her knees in front of a small cluster of graves.

  Lauren’s breath caught in her chest when the woman collapsed, shaking, on the ground. Lauren leapt from the branch where she was perched, sending a sheet of water splashing to the ground as she took off. She drifted silently along until she circled above the woman below.

  There could be no doubt, it was Allison.

  Lauren dropped to the ground a few feet behind her mother, but her arrival went unnoticed. Lauren wrestled internally, unsure of how to proceed. One half of her heart ached for the only family she had. The other, wrapped in angry darkness, goaded her to lash out and destroy the source of so much of her pain. She stood, hands clenched and jaw tightened against her indecision for several minutes as the woman in front of her sobbed, oblivious to her presence.

  Lightning flashed again, followed by an earth-shaking peal of thunder. The bright light glinted off of the empty bottle in Allison’s hand and caused her dark, wet hair to glimmer briefly.

  Lauren watched her mother’s hand slowly tighten around the neck of the bottle. Allison screamed, her own thundering rage rising to match that of the storm. She punched the ground, venting her anger and pain to the uncaring graves.

  Allison’s fists moved to the headstone in front of her. The rough granite was soon darkened by her bleeding knuckles and Lauren took a step forward to stop her.

  Before Lauren’s outstretched hand could make contact, Allison smashed the bottle against the headstone and sank back against the grass, clutching her injured hands. Lauren couldn't help but flinch, not so much at the sight of her mother, but for the mirror she was looking so painfully into.

  Allison turned and finally saw her daughter standing over her, her eyes widened and she was speechless.

  “Lauren?”

  Her soft, desperate whisper was at once a prayer, a question, and a cry for help. Lauren answered by stooping down and lifting her mother from the ground, cradling her like a child. Broken glass from countless bottles littered the grave, and the closer Lauren looked she could see dozens of tires tracks leading to this one headstone. With trepidation she read the words upon it.

  Gabriel

  Son, Brother, Angel. Our love for you will live on forever.

  It didn’t seem… enough. It felt quaint, vague, and utterly lacking to Lauren. She felt anger rising in her chest and tried to ground herself. She breathed deeply, tried to clear her mind, but the aggression within her was threatening to burst forth.

  Allison drunkenly clutched at her daughter, and Lauren barely resisted the urge to drop her in disgust. Lauren could feel the volcano within, felt her composure cracking and cast around for a safe outlet.

  No immediate targets presented themselves, so she lashed out at what she could find. With a snarling shout she released a mighty kick directly into the side of the pick-up. Her bare foot sent the door crumpling into the cab, and the entire vehicle tumbling sideways across the grass. It skidded to a halt with a spray of mud some thirty feet away.

  Thunder drowned out her mother’s helpless whimpering, but Lauren could feel Allison shaking like a leaf in her arms. She felt like a porcelain doll, weightless and delicate in Lauren’s inhumanly strong grasp. The storm inside her quieted, at least enough for her to think clearly. She couldn't leave Allison here. The woman couldn't stand, let alone get herself anywhere safe. The truck was totalled, which meant wherever they went Lauren would have to provide for her. She certainly wouldn't take Allison back to Cherry Hills, there was no chance that Lauren would risk the privacy of her sanctuary for a woman who had so utterly betrayed her.

  Thinking about Rome, and her mother’s deceit, rekindled the fire in her gut and she was again tempted to leave her behind. Some shred of humanity within her, some as-yet-un-snuffed candle of mercy forced her to resist.

  She really only had one option, if she thought about it. With a frustrated sigh she leapt back into the lightning-filled skies and headed for the edge of town once more. A few minutes of flight and she was touching down outside outside her childhood home. The small, tucked-away structure was in decent repair, but it looked much different from what she remembered growing up. The entire outside was plastered with envelopes and papers, each tacked onto countless others beneath. Besides the strange notes, hundreds of small baskets and boxes covered the yard.

  It frustrated Lauren to no end, the idea that people had spent hard-earned money and time on such nonsense was embarrassing and aggravating. She picked her way across the cluttered yard to the door, which was already slightly open from her mother’s departure.

  Sure enough, the inside showed signs of recent habitation of a sort. Bottles and cans lay like a blanket on the floor, unwashed clothes and forgotten, half-eaten food completed the hoarder-turned-homeless appearance of the house. With every step Lauren clinked and clanked through the mess, the noise jarring her ears like nails on a chalkboard.

  Lauren gave a powerful flap of her wings, sending trash tumbling across the floor and piling it up against the walls. Much better. Lauren walked to the couch and set her sleeping mother gently on the cushions. Her keen eyesight picked up a dark stain on the boards of the floor. The memory of a scared child came back to her with startling clarity and for an instant she was transported back a decade. She could almost imagine her father coming in from the kitchen with a glass of wine.

  But he didn’t, and he never would again.

  Lauren made her way to the kitchen, took stock of the broken picture frames on shelves, the unclosed refrigerator, the fact that the power seemed to be out. She moved to close the fridge and took a peek inside. The light was out, and it was barren except for some cheap beer and a half-empty plastic jug of bargain vodka.

  Lauren licked her lips, a familiar thirst stirring within her, but pushed it aside.

  A scowl took up residence on her face and she shut the door, turning to the cabinets instead. Aside from some expired cans of vegetables and dusty dishes, the cabinets were bare as well. Lauren lifted a dingy glass and briefly considered going outside to collect some rainwater, but ended up rolling her eyes and simply replacing the cup.

  Lauren returned to the living room to keep an eye on her mother. Allison’s face was peaceful, and she was snoring loudly against the cushions.

  With the couch occupied, Lauren took a seat in the aged recliner across the room. She kicked her feet up on the coffee table and sat in silent judgment over the drunkard before her. Allison’s lack of control, her disgusting inability to sacrifice for her family, was the root of all of Lauren’s problems.

  Deep breath.

  A wet retching noise brought her attention back to her mother. Allison’s face was partially obscured by her long hair, but Lauren could see a puddle of vomit around her mouth. Lauren bolted upright and rolled her mother over before she could choke. Even so, Allison coughed and hacked for several minutes to clear her mouth and throat.

  The smell was atrocious and Lauren felt her own stomach churn. It took all of her fortitude to keep her own bile down.

  The longer she sat and stewed the angrier and more certain she became. She heaped blame on the woman in front of her until her blood was boiling over. She could feel herself losing control again. Guilt hit her like an avalanche. Here she was, tearing her mother to shreds for her addiction, but hadn’t she found a vice as well? Faint echoes of hundreds of extinguished lives whispered in her mind and instead of guilt or horror, the strongest emotions that bubbled forth were lust and greed. Shame burned Lauren’s
cheeks, tightened around her heart. Lauren had murdered those people, and worse than that she had enjoyed every second of it. The power she felt, the invincibility and pleasure when she consumed their lives was a high she knew she’d never be free of.

  With every killing she had felt her body grow stronger. But Lauren knew her soul, if she had one at all, was as dark as night. Laurens hands clasped self consciously over her stomach, feeling the trembling life within. What impact might her feasting have on this unplanned being?

  Did it matter?

  Did she care if the baby inside her died? Her brain screamed no, came up with a dozen excuses to be rid of the unwelcome parasite, but her heart couldn't commit. Faced with uncomfortable introspection, the house seemed stuffy and restricting.

  Lauren returned to the outdoors and the torrential, unrelenting rain. The whispering pines and towering sycamores of her childhood home didn’t seem as welcoming and safe as they once were. Nothing about the property felt the same, in fact. It was a shell of what it had been, a house but no longer a home.

  She thought about leaving, would her mother even know she’d gone? Did she care? But Lauren had too many unanswered questions, too much to get off of her chest to let her mother off so easily.

  A gust of wind shook the tiny house and a dozen of the letters that covered the outside tore off and flitted past Lauren’s face. Her curiosity was piqued once more and she reached out to tear a few off the wall. After gathering a handful she returned to the recliner inside and settled down to read the wet, rain streaked writing.

  It was raining in Washington as well.

  Presley Weiss was poring over his handwritten notes. He could hear clamoring reporters just beyond the thin curtain separating himself from the podium he was about to take. Presley kicked himself for getting into the mess he was in. Secretary of State Rodney Kilpatrick’s unexpected retirement a few weeks ago led to his interim appointment, at least until he got confirmed. For the umpteenth time he wished that he’d sidestepped the promotion. With a deep breath he rehearsed his talking points, ‘Public Affairs Guidance’ as General Malone called it.

  He muttered to himself, running an unsteady hand through his dirty blonde hair. A dozen possible questions ran through his mind, he mulled over each and formulated plausible responses, then considered possible follow-ups and repeated the process ad nauseum. All too soon he could hear Press Secretary Mullens, an unpleasant, hawkish woman, introducing him as the next speaker.

  “Secretary Weiss will now give brief remarks followed by a few questions.”

  Presley took his cue from the smattering of applause and the brief lull in the raucous room. The meeting space was crowded with reporters and dozens of camera lenses glinted unblinkingly back at him as he walked deliberately to his place behind the podium.

  “Thank you, madam secretary.”

  Presley took a deep breath, held it a moment and then calmly exhaled.

  Showtime.

  “Here’s what we know so far. Lauren Corvidae was last seen flying South from Chicago, Illinois. She was followed by United States Air Force assets until they were forced to suspend operations due to worsening weather conditions. In the past five days, the State Department, in conjunction with other agencies, has been conducting research into where she might have gone. We have no concrete answers yet. Based on our knowledge of her flight capabilities, we project that she is still somewhere in North America, but that’s all we have so far.”

  The reporters were already shouting over each other to squeeze in a question around his statements. He pressed on, unwilling to be derailed so quickly.

  “Weyland has been far more visible. Following the events in Chicago, he returned to London. It is unclear what relationship exists between Weyland and Lauren, but following their public conflict Weyland has issued a demand to meet with the President, as well as various European Heads of State. At this time the President has not yet made clear whether the meeting will take place.”

  He was shouting by the end, and even then he wasn’t sure if anyone could hear him.

  “I will now entertain a few questions. Yes ah, you in the front, blue tie.”

  “Mr. Secretary, the fight in Chicago. People need to know what happened. Preliminary reports suggest that Lauren killed more than eleven thousand people in a 14 block radius, can you confirm those numbers?”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation, so details are changing rapidly, but yes our count is roughly at that number. I will stress however the cause of death has not officially been determined-”

  “What does the government intend to do about Lauren? How can we fight someone like that?”

  Deflect.

  “Sir I’m sorry, one question per network, thank you. How ‘bout you, green polo.”

  “Uh yes thank you, Carl Madigan CZN, same question Mr. Secretary. What is the government doing to protect American lives? Never in the history of our great nation has someone blatantly murdered sovereign citizens and gone untouched. Now we have two of these… these things running rampant.”

  Dammit.

  “The government is exploring all options. It’s certainly a unique situation, as Lauren is also a US citizen, where Weyland does not appear to be. Certainly it is the hope of the administration that swift justice be brought about.”

  “Mr. Secretary that doesn’t really answer-”

  “Next question please. Uh yes ma’am, burgundy blouse, go ahead.”

  Presley was sweating already, he was used to having the answers before he stood up in front of the wolfpack that was the mainstream media.

  “Mr. Secretary, aside from the obvious danger of having two powerful killing machines running loose, the Midwest is experiencing what can only be described as a storm of biblical proportions. Twelve states from Minnesota to Alabama, Nebraska to Ohio, have been under the same storm cell for nearly a week. Record breaking flooding is occurring and millions of American lives are endangered. Is there any connection between this strange weather and the two entities?”

  Finally, a softball.

  “The National Weather Service is currently tracking the storm very closely. While the storm cell is behaving abnormally, there is no reason to believe it is anything other than the weather. Now, FEMA is responding as appropriate, and several Governors in the affected region have activated their respective National Guard forces. The president has made a clear commitment to helping our neighbors and federal assets are on standby for states to call upon. We understand the difficult situation, particularly with regard to travelling in the affected region..”

  Natalie switched off the television, a scowl on her face. She set the remote down with a soft click on her desk and stood. She took a moment to inspect herself in the mirror on the wall, straightening the lines in her blouse and skirt and tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She let her fingers linger on the golden choker around her neck for a moment.

  When she was confident he would find no fault with her appearance, she walked to his office door and tapped lightly.

  “Enter.”

  She held her breath and slipped through the doorway with her eyes dutifully downward.

  “Your majesty, the United States still hasn’t responded to your invitation.”

  Weyland didn’t turn to face her. He was sitting in a high-back leather chair and facing the outside world. Natalie could hear the leather stretch as his grip tightened on the armrests.

  “And the others?”

  “They ah, seem to be taking their cues from the United States, your Majesty.”

  A long forgotten cup of coffee started to steam and then boil on Weyland’s desk.

  “Unacceptable. Release a statement. Tell the world that I am a merciful God, and that I will allow them time to return to the flock. Tell them also that I am a jealous and impatient God, and that to deny me is to burn.”

  The chill in his voice struck Natalie with fear.

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  She waited for him to conti
nue, but he was silent for several minutes. She knew better than to turn away from him before he released her, so she remained where she was until he finally spoke again.

  “Three days. If they have not agreed in three days then their sins will no longer go unpunished.”

  He sounded… tired.

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  Weyland sighed, giving Natalie another rare peek into his, for lack of a better term, softer side. Months of constantly being by his side had given her the ability to read him. At least to some extent. These strange bouts of melancholy intrigued her to no end. His tone felt disappointed, almost defeated even, when he spoke.

  “Where does the King of the United States live?”

  Natalie paused, unsure for a moment what Weyland meant.

  “Um, your Majesty they don’t have a king. They have an office called a president, they are elected to lead every four years by the citizens.”

  Weyland pondered the information, scratching his chin. He finally turned around and stood. Weyland strode over to a large map hanging on the wall.

  “Where does this president rule from? Show me.”

  Natalie nodded, she came over and tapped the map softly over Washington D.C. Her finger felt heavy, filled with lead and danger.

  “Here, y-your Majesty.”

  Weyland mimicked her action, placing a finger over the small dot on the map. A lump built in Natalie’s throat as the map started to smolder and blacken. When Weyland pulled his finger back she could see a small circle burned through to the drywall.

  “Has Lauren been located?”

  “No, your Majesty. Not yet.”

  “Very well, you are dismissed.”

  Natalie nodded and left the room as quickly as she could without appearing insubordinate.