by Sean Platt
“Shit,” exploded Ryan. “Okay, you wait here. I’m gonna go get your medicine back.”
“You sure you wanna do that, mister?”
Ryan cocked a smile. “Not really, but that’s not gonna stop me.”
“Thank you,” the boy said.
“My name is Ryan.” He jerked his thumb at the building behind him. “Why don’t you wait for me upstairs. I’m in apartment 720. Just lock the door. There’s a handgun on the kitchen table if you need it. You know how to use a gun?”
“Um … no, not really,” the boy said, fumbling his eyes on his fingertips.
“OK. Don’t sweat it. Just aim and fire, if you have to. The safety is already off, so don’t mess with it unless you need it. OK?”
“Okay,” the kid promised. “My name is Carmine.”
“I’ll be right back, Carmine.”
Ryan raced down the street, slowing only when he reached the alley that had swallowed the jacketed thugs. The men were standing in front of the Pizza Hut shooting the shit.
“Here we go,” Ryan said to himself, quickly closing the distance between them, rifle aimed at Red Jacket the entire time.
“Hey!” he yelled, startling the men. “You took something from a friend of mine,” Ryan said.
Red Jacket reached into his pocket. Ryan shouted, “Don’t move or I’ll blow your fucking head off. I’m a Marine sniper, and I never miss!”
Ryan wasn’t sure if his lie or tone of voice was convincing, but he gave his best don’t-fuck-with-me look.
“What’s your problem, man?” Blue Jacket asked. Up close, Ryan saw that both men were clearly over 30. Red Jacket was pale with freckles and bright-orange, curly hair that reminded Ryan of a giant pubic bush. Blue Jacket was a pudgy black guy who reminded Ryan of Ice Cube, if the rapper had a lazy eye, unibrow, and looked a bit slow.
“My problem is that you took something from my friend. And I want it back. Now.”
“It ain’t his,” Red Jacket whined. “He stole it from our store.”
“Your store?” Ryan asked, glancing at the sign over the store which read, Billings Pharmacy. “Which one of you is Billings?”
The two exchanged a glance, confused by the question.
“It’s not your store,” Ryan said. “You’re just squatting until someone bigger and badder comes along to take it from you.”
“Yeah?” Blue Jacket asked. “Is that you?”
“I don’t give a shit about your drug store, asshole. Neither does my friend. He just needs some medicine for his grandpa.”
“We ain’t in the business of giving shit away,” Red Jacket retorted.
“Do you even know what kind of medicine it is?” Ryan asked.
“Nah,” Red Jacket said with a shrug. “Don’t really care much, neither.”
“It’s heart medicine, dipshit. Do either of you need heart medicine?”
Ryan wasn’t sure if they felt stupid or were just playing tough, but both men stared blankly at him.
“You going to give it to me or do I need to take it, and maybe the whole fucking store along with it?”
“Nah, you ain’t got to do that,” Red Jacket said, reaching into his pocket.
Ryan adjusted his aim on the rifle as if to say don’t even try it.
Red Jacket pulled out a shrink-wrapped pack of six vials.
“Put it on top of the car,” Ryan instructed, pointing to the Blue Volvo next to them.
Red Jacket was a good boy; he did exactly as he was told.
“Now, I’m gonna leave you boys to go about your business. Next time you see my friend, I suggest you keep walkin’ because the thing about snipers is we’re really good at not being seen. So, if I even see you lookin’ at my friend wrong, I might just add you to the notches on my rifle. Hoo-rah!”
Ryan swiped the meds, slipped them into his sweatpants, and backed away in reverse, rifle aimed at the two ass clowns until he reached the alley corner and turned. He waited a moment to see if they’d give chase, but apparently these bullies were more bark than bite when facing anything bigger than a pup.
Ryan headed toward a home that hadn’t been home long enough. His intervention today meant he’d made enemies and he’d have to move again; just when he was starting to like this place. Which was probably the kick in the ass he needed, anyway.
He’d never find Mary and Paola by staying put. He had to keep searching, even if that search was in vain.
Thirteen
Mary Olson
Kingsland, Alabama
The Sanctuary
March 20
10:40 a.m.
“The Prophet?” Mary said, barely hiding her snicker.
Had John gone off the deep end, running off to do God-knows-what, following a so-called prophet? Prophet of what? Apparently he hadn’t foretold whatever the hell it was that had burned half his body, Mary thought with a sting of guilt.
“He foresaw everything that happened,” John said, eyes toward the sky and hands in the air, proudly singing the praises of his new best friend. Mary had never known John to be a religious or terribly excited man. Back in Warson Woods, the only thing he ever prattled on with unbridled enthusiasm about was Jenny, and how thrilled they were to be together. John always had a story about the latest thing they’d done, or were planning to do. It was nauseating, at times. But that was John and Jenny, and you put up with it.
Since Oct. 15, the old, effervescent John had vanished into a shell, replaced by a bitter drunk, pissed at the world and happy about nothing . . . until now.
The Prophet had ignited something in John’s eyes and his spirit; that much was clear despite the mystery enveloping Mr. Godsend, which now enveloped them, too.
The Prophet hadn’t budged since John’s introduction; he just stood at the foot of the stairs watching, though observing was probably a word more fitting. While John was talking up the Prophet, most everyone’s eyes were fixed on John. But The Prophet’s eyes were fixed on everyone else, as if taking mental notes on how each of them responded to John’s message.
“He saw it all, down to the day and time it would happen. That’s why we’re here,” John said, warmth like honey on his voice. “The Sanctuary is more than the name of your new home, it’s our purpose here as well.” John waved his hands around the compound with enough pride to suggest he’d pounded the nails himself.
“How old is this place?” Desmond asked, moving his eyes from the three houses to the silo, then across to the hangar and back. “How many people are here?”
Will shot him a look, desperate for the guided tour from Animatronic John to be over. Although Desmond’s face was turned from her, Mary was sure he could feel her glare.
“Oh, it’s old,” John said. “The land had been in his family for more than 100 years. It began with a simple house on farmland. Then The Prophet’s grandfather built the church, which stood until Oct. 15. We’re now home to more than 60 people, though there’s room for you all should you decide to stay.”
Mary took a step toward Desmond then grabbed his hand, squeezing it hard.
“The Prophet built The Sanctuary to prepare for the Glorious Day when Heaven would open its doors to its chosen few. He never asked to be a leader, never wanted it at all, but The Prophet is not just the son of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, he is the Son of The Inevitable, and there is no redirecting fate from eternity.”
Mary squeezed harder, wishing the lecture would end soon. She felt as uncomfortable as the time her old friend, Susan, got married and became a Jehovah’s Witness and started trying to sell Mary on her faith. Mary was on the fence with religion most times, but was never comfortable with the hard sell; especially when it came from someone she knew. This latest experience felt like that, but multiplied, as if John had also joined some multilevel marketing scheme and was trying to sell them on a “golden opportunity.”
“God showed our Prophet the future. Gave him the vision and then the strength to see it in all its Glory, because only then could
he lead the righteous to His Kingdom. Once he saw God, The Prophet knew his life’s purpose. And as the Lord’s Chosen, he bore the burden of choosing the path for everyone to follow – building the compound, gathering his flock, and waiting for the Glorious Day when Heaven would open its doors.”
“You covered that,” Desmond said.
John stopped speaking and turned to Desmond, considering him for a moment with undecided eyes, then opened his mouth to speak. Before he could say a word, The Prophet stepped forward and said, “Desmond, right?”
Desmond nodded. The Prophet moved faster than Desmond would have imagined, and was inches away almost immediately. “I understand how you’re feeling right now,” he said, “And I know that even as I’m talking, you’re likely thinking, ‘Well, who in the front door does he think he is?’ Well, I’ll tell you exactly who I am. I’m a man, no different from you, Desmond. I just saw something you didn’t, something most couldn’t, and not because I wanted to. And once I saw it, well, that something changed everything.”
The Prophet started pacing, shaking his head earnestly side to side. “No, I didn’t ask to see what the Good Lord saw fit to show me. And no, I can’t say it’s been an easy burden to bear. But I don’t have a single regret. It’s all a blessing, from the sky opening up and taking my family, my congregation, and little Ellie May, to the pox upon my face. And why do I feel these things are blessings?”
The Prophet paused for an answer he didn’t expect, then dropped his voice to something just above a whisper. “Because I know my purpose. And when you know your purpose, everything else is gooood.”
His voice returned to its full bellow, “I’m here because while most men ignored God’s voice, I listened. My congregation was welcomed into Heaven because they listened.”
“I’m curious,” Desmond said, sounding sincere, “Why did the rest of your congregation go to Heaven, but you were left behind? Doesn’t seem like a very nice thing to do to one’s messenger.”
The Prophet smiled, “That’s a great question, son, and one I must admit, I wondered about for a bit. After all, He had promised to reunite me with my wife. Yet, he took all but me. And I wondered, had I not been true enough to His Word? Had I strayed? What had I done to anger him so? But then I realized that perhaps God wasn’t punishing me, but testing me. Could I, in the face of conflict, maintain my faith? Could I persevere? Could I still deliver His Word? Could I be a 10th of the man that Job was? Was I truly worthy to enter His Kingdom?”
The Prophet paused, and his pale-blue eyes met Desmond’s. “I wasn’t always a righteous man. I wasn’t always a good man. And though He forgives, He does not always forget. I believe this is my final test. To show God what I am truly made of. That I am worthy. That I have repented and learned from all my youthful indiscretions. And that’s why I’m here, to do His work. To serve as His instrument until I have fulfilled my obligation to Him.”
The Prophet turned to Mary. “I have seen terrible things. I saw you in my visions. You and your daughter, slaughtered by the very beasts that invaded your home this morning. God gave me this vision, worked through me and this church to intervene and save you all. To bring you here and offer you sanctuary from the Demons.”
Demons?
The Prophet let the word sink in, then chewed on his lips and adjusted the mask that covered the left half of his face before continuing. “You see, while the Good Lord was smart enough to leave a man like me down here to help you, he isn’t the only one with skin in this game. That black-backed Beelzebub downstairs is also playing for keeps. And much as I don’t like to admit it, I think he might’ve outfoxed the Good Lord on this one. See, as capable as I might be at keeping you safe and spreading The Word, I am just a man. There is a war for this world and the souls left behind, and Satan has set his Demons against us, looking to claim us all.”
Desmond waited until The Prophet turned his head, then caught his eye and said, in an uncharacteristic smirk, “These Demons, are they the ones who made all the bullet holes?”
The Prophet chuckled. “No, no. I wish. At least then I could blame it on pure evil rather than my own dirt-poor judgment. Even when God himself will take the time to speak with you, no one likes to be wrong. And I’m downright ashamed of some of what’s happened on this here holy soil.”
The Prophet held Desmond’s eyes, then shook his head. “No, the bullet holes were my doing. On Oct. 15, after the Gates swung closed and left me alone without my flock, I needed help. Unfortunately, I’m a man of faith who put my faith in the wrong people in the immediate aftermath of His Glory. There were survivors nearby. I took them in and gave them a job to do: to help me find someone. But they did things in their own way, and not in a way the Good Lord would approve of. They’re all gone now, sizzling with the other sinners in The Lake of Fire. So no, we won’t ever need to worry about them again. Besides,” The Prophet waved his hand in the air, “it’s not their fault really, the beginning of Limbo was awfully confusing with no one knowing what to expect. And men are men, after all; imperfect creatures full of sin, some more than others. Those unfortunate souls hadn’t been here long enough to know their true virtues. They handled the situation real poorly, and we paid a dear price.”
The Prophet shook his head. “But that’s history now. We’ve cleaned house and scrubbed it good. The Demons stay outside, and we stay safe in here. With John’s help,” The Prophet pointed at John, thoroughly beaming, “only Good People are allowed into The Sanctuary.”
“Who were you looking for?” Will asked, surprising Mary with his curiosity.
“Why, Brother John, of course. God told me to find him. And just when I’d nearly given up the search, he walked right through our front door. And John has proved me right; he’s been such a guiding light since arriving here.”
The Prophet slapped John on the back and added, “Why don’t you introduce everyone, John?” Then he turned to the crowd of newcomers, “You’re all welcome to stay as long as you like. John couldn’t have said nicer things about you all, and I find myself awfully humbled to have you here with us at New Unity. Of course, you’re under no obligation to stay. But it’s good times and good people. And besides,” he laughed, “There are no Demons in here!”
Most of the gunmen who helped out at the farm had already disappeared, but John introduced the remaining bystanders, starting with Eli, the oldest of the Amish-looking men, and Sarah, the woman. Sarah said hello in a voice that sounded thin enough to shatter. The round of introductions ended with Brother Rei, a disciple. John said his goodbyes, then told the group Brother Rei would lead them to their rooms.
Brother Rei looked young, no more than 25, but Mary would swear he was at least 10 years older judging by the short conversation on the way to housing, which quickly turned to Kurt Cobain after Desmond said, “Nice looking Nirvana.” Rei steered the conversation to Cobain, but unless he was smelling Teen Spirit as a toddler, his story was off.
Rei turned to Luca, Scott, and Paola. “Children are in the second house,” he said.
“What?” Mary and Paola cried in unison.
Rei smiled. “Oh, none of the children stay with their parents. Independence helps the children to grow up so much stronger. The Prophet knows you’ll agree; independence has never been more important than it is right now.”
Rei didn’t raise his voice, though the generator in the background doubled its hum. Mary strained to listen, wondering if the generator was always running, and what that would cost the The Sanctuary in gas, and trips to get more.
Luca wore no expression; Paola looked angry. Mary hugged her, assuring her that everything would be okay and that Luca would look after her. Scott seemed content just to be alive after the morning’s events. All three children said quiet goodbyes, then followed Sarah silently into the house.
“I’d like a room with Mary,” Desmond said.
Rei turned and smiled, “Oh, we have a married couple?”
Mary laughed and shook her head.
“I’m sorry, but there can be no sinning in The Sanctuary,” Rei said, “Women’s quarters are in the third house.” He bowed his head, gesturing toward the women’s housing.
“That’s ridiculous,” Desmond said. “We’re grown adults.”
Desmond took a quiet step back and seemed like he would drop it, but then added, “Besides, we are married. Mary just didn’t want anyone to know because Paola will get upset. She thinks her father’s still alive.” Desmond added a sneer to the ending. Mary wasn’t sure if it was for her or Rei.
“I understand what you are doing,” Rei said. “But even if you were married, your union would have taken place after Oct. 15 and is therefore unrecognized. I am quite sure The Prophet will be happy to marry you under his authority. Would you like me to make a request?” Rei smiled.
“No. Thank you,” Desmond replied, his tone contradicting his verbal gratitude.
Rei said, “Sarah will take the children and get them settled. The Prophet would like the four of you to make yourselves at home for a short while. Everyone will meet back in the dining hall in an hour to break bread. One hour,” Rei repeated, then bowed his head, took a step back, then turned around and headed toward the hangar.
“See you in an hour?” Mary said to Desmond, Will and Linc, though mostly to Desmond.
Will tapped his head. Observe everything.
Mary nodded, then headed up the stairs.
She immediately went to the window. Eli was bringing the men their bags. Just as he disappeared into the stairwell, the floorboards outside her room creaked, followed by a light knock on her door. “Miss?” said the timid voice.
Mary opened the door. “Sarah, hello.”
“Where would you like me to set these?” Sarah pointed at the two bags by her feet. “There are another two downstairs.”
Mary nodded, “Yes, may I help you with those?”
Sarah shook her head. “Oh, I wouldn’t hear of it.”
Mary wasn’t surprised. “Thank you,” she said, then pointed to the corner. “The corner will be fine.”
