by Ray Garton
"Well, what do you know," he said, folding the paper over a couple of times so he could hold it in one hand as he read and ate. "They finally executed that killer upstate."
"The one who killed those women?" Nita asked, circling the table again to dole out the bacon strips.
"Uh-huh. The electric chair. It's about time. All those stays of execution...I'm telling you, if it were up to the liberals and lawyers, psychos like that guy would be running in the streets. They should be killed as soon as they're caught."
"Al, please," Nita said quietly. "The children."
"Well, it's true. They should learn early. The Bible says 'Thou shalt not kill,' and 'The wages of sin is death.' Case closed. No left wing lawyer has any business putting himself before the word of God."
Once she was through, Nita seated herself at the table.
Al munched on a piece of bacon as he read on. He chuckled. "Oh, listen to this. You know what his last words were? 'I'm right with God, and that's all that matters.' Can you believe that? 'I'm right with God!' From the mouth of a brutal murderer. A serial killer."
"Well," Nita said, taking a dainty bite of scrambled eggs, "they say people like that aren't really in control of themselves. That it's a sickness. A mental illness."
"Nita, for crying out loud, you're not starting to think like them, are you? Insanity. Well of course he was insane! Using it as an excuse is like saying—" He made his voice thin and whiny. "—'I didn't mean to.' It's ridiculous, just plain ridiculous. And don't let me hear you saying things like that again, Nita. It makes me nervous, you talking like some Godless liberal reprobate."
"Daddy, what's a rep-ro-bate?" Matthew asked.
"It's someone who is going to burn in hell because he's turned his back on God's truth."
"What's a liberal?" Ruth asked.
"The same thing." He opened the paper again and began paging through it. "You know, it's sad to say, but this paper seems to get more liberal every day. Anybody who says there's no slant to the press is blind as a bat." He scanned the pages and stopped on something. "Well, what do you know. An article about us."
Nita and both children shot their heads up to look at him.
"What?" Nita asked, surprised.
"About the coalition. It says, 'After last week's demonstration in front of the Women's Health Clinic'—health clinic, can you believe that? It's a butcher shop!—'police are prepared for any possible violent outbursts that may occur at tomorrow's weekly demonstration by the Coalition for Unborn Life.' What outbursts? It was just one of those guys escorting a woman into the clinic who got carried away, is all. We had to defend ourselves. He grabbed one of the cameras—remember?—threw it to the ground and started jumping up and down on it."
"Oh, yes, I remember," Nita said. "Mr. Stanfield was very upset. He said that Nikon was terribly expensive. And besides, it was a gift."
"I still don't understand what all this 'pro-choice' business is about! What's to choose? They're killing babies! The only choice is either you're a murderer or you're not. Besides, we're pro-life. They should be called what they are—anti-life! I mean, how can we be pro-something and they be pro-something at the same time? They're anti-life, and that's all there is to it!" He pounded a fist on the table.
"I understand, Al, but...well, aren't you getting a little angry?"
"Yes, yes, you're right. I'm sorry." He read the paper with a frown and a sigh. "So...the police will be out there with us this morning. Fine, that's just fine. We know who's side they're on. And we know who is on our side." He shook his head slowly. "If only this country would go back to its roots, back to God and Christianity and the values that made it the strongest, richest, most powerful country in all the world. God and family and the Bible. Look at us now. We've got a socialist president, a liberal media, socialized medicine, General Motors is now Government Motors. These days, the only people you can joke about are Christians. God and Jesus Christ are jokes. Family doesn't matter. Children are sex objects. Pornography is everywhere. We've...degraded. Decayed."
"It takes time," Nita said soothingly. "We always knew it would take time. This new administration is a setback, yes, but we've made a lot of progress. And things aren't as bleak as you seem to think. Remember that atheist who challenged the mention of God in the Pledge of Allegiance and on our currency? It was rejected by the Supreme Court. Abstinence-only sex education has had the support of the government for years now. We have a lot of devout Christians in office and running for office. It looks like this administration will make such a mess that people will realize what this country really needs, and those candidates are going to do well, you wait and see. In a few years, things will look very different. All it will take is the right candidate in the next election. A true Christian who's willing to go up against the opposition and stick to what's right. I think the time is right for that and the country's hungry for it. It'll happen."
"I hope you're right," Al said. He set the paper aside and dug into his breakfast, anxious to get on with the day's work, to go head to head, once again, with God's enemies . . .
* * * *
"You have all the signs?" Al asked.
"They're already in the car," Nita said.
"All the cameras? I've got two."
"So do I."
"Matthew? Ruth? You have your cameras?"
The children nodded. Each had a brightly colored camera on a neck strap; Matthew's was blue and Ruth's was pink. The cameras was easy to use and took much better pictures and video than a cell phone would. They had found that the people going in were more intimidated by cameras than cell phones and hoped it would discourage some from going inside. "And who do you take pictures of?"
"The people going inside," Matthew said.
"And the people taking them in," Ruth said.
"And why?" Al asked.
Together, the children recited, "So they will know that their crimes against God have been recorded."
Al smiled and nodded slowly. "Very good. You'll have extra jewels in your heavenly crowns for this, you know."
The children beamed up at him.
"Okay," he said, clapping his hands together, "let's go. They'll be gathering there by now. We don't want to be too late. I'll go out and fire up the SUV. Everybody make sure we've got everything, then come on out and we'll be off."
Jangling his keys in his right hand, two cameras dangling from around his neck, Al went out the door, down the front walk, crossed the lawn toward the carport and—
—he froze. He looked around, looked up and down the street. Something was...not quite right. But he couldn't put his finger on it. He frowned as he looked the left, then the right.
Had Baxter torn out his hedge recently? It was gone, completely gone. But then, who could tell what Baxter would do next? He was a man of about thirty, an atheist and a liberal—a noxious but unsurprising combination—and a bachelor who paraded different women in and out of his house at night and in the early morning hours. Al had talked with Jerry Baxter a few times, just to be neighborly, and even visited his home once, but only to find that they had nothing in common, nothing to talk about.
Baxter liked to fancy himself a "thinker" and had shelves of books filled with cold and soulless secular humanism. So if he had taken out the hedge in the last day or so...what of it?
But that big oak tree that used to shade the Genoveses' yard was gone, too; there was not so much as a stump left, nothing but a sunny, empty yard. They were a Catholic family, but good people, with five children who used to swing from the tire that hung from one of the tree's branches. And there was something else . . .
Either he was just noticing it for the first time or all of the houses on the street had been repainted very recently. All of them were a metallic gray trimmed with deep red, almost a blood red.
Only one house on the street was painted a different color, light blue with white trim: his own.
Even more bizarre was the American fla
g waving in the warm breeze in every single yard but his. There was nothing wrong with flying the flag, of course, but they had not been there yesterday. Rather than flagpoles, these were all flying from—Al squinted and craned his head forward slightly to make sure he was not mistaken—crosses. Al's frown deepened and he muttered, "When did...how long ago did they..."
"It's getting late, honey," Nita called from in the house.
"Yeah, yeah, okay," he muttered, still frowning as he looked around. He started toward the car again when he heard what sounded like a siren, but not the kind of siren he was accustomed to hearing from police cars, ambulances or fire trucks. It was a siren-like sound that played the first seven notes of a very familiar tune over and over again, and it was drawing closer.
The tune was "Jesus Loves Me."
Tires squealed over pavement down at the intersection and a shiny, squat, black car with a disproportionately large, boxy rear-end and white doors that had official-looking markings on them screeched to a halt before his house. There was a spinning red light on the car's roof. It was a police car, but looked like no police car he had ever seen before. Instead of a gold or silver star or police shield on the door, this car had a metallic-grey cross with blood-red stains at the ends of the crossbar and at the bottom. And from the top of the cross flew the American flag, as if in a strong, whipping wind.
Both doors opened and two men who appeared to be officers bolted out of the car in black uniforms. They were unlike any police officers or security guards Al had ever seen before, but that was clearly the impression they intended to give. Each had as a badge a metallic-grey cross pinned over his heart. Large, odd-looking guns were holstered to their belts and they wore shiny black helmets that left only their faces visible. And their faces looked eerily similar to one another: hard, stern, iron-jawed, and unhappy.
One of the men, the driver, unsnapped his holster, drew his gun, and said, "Sorry, sir, but I'm afraid you're under temporary detention until you can explain a few things."
"What's going on here?" Al asked, not sounding very friendly, as he frowned at the two uniformed men and eyed the gun.
"Don't you at least know enough to cross yourself when you see a Deacon, brother?" the second officer barked.
"A Deacon? Cross my—what are you talking about?"
The man with the gun smirked. "Well, if I have to tell you, then you're in even more trouble than I thought."
"For one thing," the second man said, waving toward the house, "this paint job is not regulation."
"It's blasphemous. You ought to know that. How long ago did you paint it?"
"I painted this house three years ago," Al said. "Myself! What's wrong with it?"
"You looked around at your neighborhood lately?" the first one asked sarcastically, gesturing with the gun. "Regulation colors."
"Those colors," the other one said, pointing at the bloodstained, metallic-grey cross on the door of the car.
"And where's your crossflag? In fact...now that I notice it, you're not even wearing a cross, are you?"
"Wearing a—" Al's voice dropped to a puzzled mutter as his frown deepened. He vacillated between confusion and anger. "Well, I don't normally wear a—"
"Don't normally? Okay, let's see some I.D., brother."
"Well, I-I, uh—" He fumbled for his wallet and held it open so they could see his driver's license.
"What's that?" the second one snapped.
"You know what we want to see. Your CA scancard."
"Scan...CA...scancard? Look, I don't what you're—"
"Church of America scancard so we can scan your barcode," the gunholder growled impatiently.
Al could only stare at them silently.
"Either you're suffering from some sort of demon-possession or you are a very, very bold Churchstate Sinner."
"I...I'm afraid I don't know what you're...Churchstate?" he squinted at them. Then he set his jaw and snapped, "What is going on here. Is this some kind of joke?"
At that moment, the front door opened and the children came out.
"How come you haven't started the car, Daddy?" Ruth called.
"Yeah, Dad, we're gonna be late," Matthew said.
Both officers looked at the children with widening eyes. The second one drew his gun as well.
"These are your children?" the first one asked, shocked.
Before Al could respond, the front door closed and Nita locked it behind her, then came down the steps to join them. As the children stared curiously at the officers, the officers looked at Nita with horror and each quickly made the sign of the cross over himself.
"You're all under arrest!" the first one shouted.
All of them froze.
Al said, "Wait just a second, here, officer—or, well, whatever you're supposed to be—I think you could at least tell us—"
"Deacon! You'll address me properly, as Deacon, or you'll be in even more trouble."
"Okay, then, Deacon," Al said firmly. "If you're arresting us, then what are the char—wait, arresting us? Who are you? You are not police officers, that's obvious.
The two officers looked at one another in disbelief.
"I said," Al repeated, clenching his fists at his sides, "who are you?" He clenched his fists in an attempt to hide the feeling of alarm that was rising inside him.
"You're under arrest for crimes against the Churchstate," the first one said. "Your house is painted blasphemously, you have no crossflag, and your wife and daughter are dressed and painted like slutty witches!"
Nita's mouth dropped open with a gasp.
The officer turned to his partner and muttered, "Box her."
The officer removed a small black device from the breast pocket of his shirt, touched the barrel of it to Ruth's temple and there was a quick, quiet crackling sound. Ruth fell to the grass in a limp heap.
Nita screamed and ran to her daughter's side.
Al lunged toward his fallen child, but the first officer put the gun in his face. "Don't move."
Matthew hurried to his father's side and Al put an arm around the boy, holding him close.
Nita screamed and cried hysterically as the other officer picked Ruth up under one arm. "My little girl my little girl, what are you doing to my little girl!"
The first officer nodded toward Nita. "Do her too and shut her up!" he growled.
With another zap, Nita collapsed the ground. The officer carried Ruth to the car, opened up the large, boxy rear, threw her inside roughly, then closed it.
"My wife!" Al shouted, holding Matthew tight. "My daughter! Damn you, what are you doing with them?"
"Watch your language, you heathen," the officer growled, pressing the gun to Al's cheek.
Tears welled up in Al's eyes as his entire body grew cold. Helplessness coiled around him like an enormous python and began to squeeze. His breath came faster and faster as he gasped, "Whuh-what're you gonna do to them?"
The officer moved close to Al until their faces were about an inch apart. He squinted, cocked his head curiously. "What's wrong with you, anyway?"
Al felt anger boiling in his stomach, burning its way up through his chest. His teeth clenched and his lips trembled as he growled, "Wrong with me? What's wrong with you? Who the devil are you and what gives you the right to—"
The officer punched Al in the gut. The blow knocked the wind out of him and he doubled over, then dropped to his knees.
Holding the gun on the top of Al's head, the officer snapped, "I told you to watch your language! I can shoot you for using Satanic language like that, brother!"
Al grunted, retched and, when his vision cleared again, turned his head toward Nita, who remained motionless on the grass.
"Nita," he rasped as he started toward her, crawling on hands and knees, "Nita, honey, it's gonna be okay, it's gonna—"
The officer pressed a shiny black boot down on him hard. "Stay right where you are. Stay away from her. You too, boy. Don't m
ove. For the time being, she's condemned."
Al turned his head and looked up at the officer. "Con...demned? For what?"
The officer got down on one knee, close to Al, and when he spoke, there was, for just a moment, some humanity in that square-jawed face, in those steely eyes and that harsh, deep voice.
"You...you really don't know, do you, brother?" the officer whispered.
Al shook his head slowly as a tear ran down his pale cheek. "No. No. I don't. I don't understand anything you're telling me."
The officer frowned at him, not angrily, but curiously, as if there were something about Al's face that disturbed him.
"Your wife will be given the Mark of the Beast on her forehead," he said, speaking slowly, "then sent to a Prayer Camp for such time as decided by one of the High Priests. When she has truly repented of all of her sins—" He studied Al's face as he spoke slowly. "—and has given her soul back to Christ, she'll be released back into society to serve as an example of the fact that the Churchstate can, indeed, overcome sin." He backed away slowly, still frowning. "Tell me, brother...do I know you from someplace?"
Al could not respond. He could only stare at this strange man who had thrown him into such confusion that he could not even think clearly enough to pray silently for God's help.
The officer's face became cold again and he stood, gesturing with the gun to both Al and Matthew. "Okay, on your feet. Both of you. Now!"
Al struggled to his feet. The officer holstered his gun and pulled something else from his belt, jerking Al's hands behind his back to cuff them.
Standing behind them, the officer ordered, "To the car. Now!"
They headed toward the car slowly, Matthew sticking close to his father. They watched as the other officer picked up Nita, took her to the car and tossed her into the box-like trunk with Ruth.
"Maaaw-meee!" Matthew screamed.
