Pazuzu - Manifestation

Matthew Sawyer

Published by Matthew Sawyer at Smashwords

Copyright 2009 Matthew Sawyer

Discover other titles by Matthew Sawyer at Smashwords.com

“Pazuzu - Manifestation” is a fictional story. All characters, names and locations

are the creations of Matthew Sawyer. Any resemblance to persons, living or
dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy,
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Preface
Outrage as the victim of extortion or the lack of amphetamine caused the priest’s
fat hands to quiver. The UnChosen caste called the drug “Ape,” the street name
for the stuff that typically turned users into anxious, howling gorillas. But that
would never happen to a priest, the upper echelon of the Chosen caste. All the
pomp and dignity granted to Kanen’s position guarded against that base lunacy.
The unquiet phases of the chemically grown monkey would not drive Josiah
Kanen into madness. The Church promoted the middle-aged priest to the rank of
captain because of his genetically endowed discipline. Captain Josiah Kanen was
born a Chosen and granted authority over the Mortal God

The responsibility of the rank crushed him under the stones of responsibility. The
pressure the Church applied to Captain Kanen drove him to use the damned drug
in the first place. The problem with Ape was not the use of the drug, but the lack
of using any once addicted. Sobriety-sharpened nails pressed into his chest and
head. Being clean took away the magic of knowing exactly what to do in any
situation. Sobriety compromised Kanen’s ability to control his god and the
forsaken UnChosen living his squalid quarter by the Wall.

Reverend Arnett, who Kanen assigned as custodian of the St. Erasmus parish
and reported directly to the captain, had just been murdered in its church, an
unheard-of crime unheard within the walled city-state of Capital, the Promised
Land. The Wall protected the city-state from the ravages of heathen terrorists.
No one passed through the Wall without approval of the Church or its military.
The Chosen exercised exclusive entrance to Capital

The UnChosen permitted to stay behind the Wall lived in parishes like St.
Erasmus, a suitable place for spineless degenerates. Still, the status of the
murdered victim raised the severity of the crime to an act of terrorism. The
Church and the military’s censors debated if news of the crime should be made
public, but could not come to a decision.

The presence of pagan tablets on the altar at St. Erasmus will never be reported
to the public. The Church immediately confiscated and destroyed the
sacrilegious objects. Whatever the dead Reverend Arnett planned to do with
them better left unknown. The blasphemous controversy went to death with him.
Reverend Arnett brought the awful fate upon himself.
In the midst of Kanen’s dealing with the lack of Ape, and the murder of a priest
too curious with an archaic and forbidden religion, the phone rang. Reverend
Benedict Ishkott called, a non-commissioned asshole from the city-state of
Gomorrah.

“Captain, Kanen,” addressed Reverend Ishkott with the aggravated squall of an

addict. “I know you don’t know me from Adam, but you have something I
want.”

“A demotion?” threatened Captain Kanen. “Why, in the name of the Mortal God,
do you dare talk to me with lack of respect?”

The two priests shared their addiction to Ape, with a difference. Ape caused
Reverend Ishkott to lose respect for superior officers, sending him out-of-the-
away to Gomorrah.

“Listen, I know you’re related to Judah Bathierre, the crime-lord in this city-
state,” Ishkott said, uncovering his hand.

Hopefully, Ishkott didn’t know how complicated the relationship between

Captain Kanen and Judah Bathierre became. The crime-lord used the captain as
his connection to the Church, although Judah’s patience had increasingly grown
thin with Josiah, resulting in Ape becoming difficult to find and impossible to
obtain.

“That is a sad coincidence,” Kanen claimed.

“I know you keep the military away from Gomorrah,” Ishkott stated. “And I
know Bathierre is your Ape connection.”

“I know you are a dead man, Ishkott!” Kanen shouted over the phone. “How
dare you call me with your crazy accusations!”

“Listen!” Ishkott shouted back. “Military patrols will be coming to the city-state
whether you like it or not! Ilu Drystani is in these parts of the Shur. Colonel
Taclale himself is coming here!”

Colonel Taclale’s trip to Gomorrah presented a bigger problem. Captain Kanen

reported to the colonel, as would Ishkott when the bishop arrived at Gomorrah.
Ishkott, the tattling Aper, may tell their superior officer anything.
“What do want?” Kanen capitulated.

“An assignment away from Gomorrah, and heathens,” Ishkott bartered. “This
city-state will be the next to fall to the terrorists. Drystani is here!”

“Let me think,” Kanen replied.

The situation seemed to work itself out. A custodian position suddenly opened at
St. Erasmus and a priest materialized who would shut his mouth if invited into
Capital. Josiah didn’t think ahead when he offered the position to Ishkott, as the
wretched blackmailer might one day try to twist Josiah’s arm again. Yet the
possibility failed to stop Josiah from asking if Reverend Ishkott would bring Ape
into Capital.

“No, of course not,” declined Ishkott. Whether he brought drugs to his

promotion sounded like a way for his supervisor to trap him. Captain Kanen
could not be trusted with the truth.

“That’s unfortunate,” answered Kanen before hanging up. He meant what he

said. Josiah looked forward to securing another batch of Ape for himself.
1 The Wilderness
His own shoulders bore down on him with a foreign weight he wanted to throw
off. The extra fleshy padding around his waist only added to the burden. The
gain had crept upon the man stealthy over many years, while age brought denial
and moments of complacent acceptance. Growing fatter seemed to be a natural
process of age, as weight introduced itself like a hobo trespassing the rails, a
sneaky hanger-on who wouldn’t be shaken off easily. His tired posture and
swollen, blistered gut made him a forlorn caricature. His arms swung like
pendulums knocked from their paths. The broiled devil lumbered across a
desolate, alien world - the only living thing exiled to hell. Without warning, he
grew desperately thirsty.

“You’ve certainly wandered enough.”

The voice spoke clearly into his left ear. It sounded like his own, but of better
clarity, absent of the muffled hesitation he vainly struggled to overcome in
ordinary conversation. This voice sounded rehearsed and confident, far from his
own verbal fumbling. His voice, like a rapidly recorded, nasal monologue on an
answering machine, was an amputation hopelessly separated from his self-
conception, whatever that could be now. The better voice resonated as if echoing
in an empty room. Just as abruptly, the voice vanished and a second of stillness
filled the void. Leaded footfalls on packed dirt and a muffled ringing in his head
dispelled the silence, much like listening to a radio station when the announcer
misses his timing until a burst of sound suddenly jolts the dead air. Yet the voice
did not have the static of a radio. The voice, and his plodding across the dry
waste, were exclusive and opposite each other.

He did not bother to look around, because the sporadic company of the voice
remained his only companion. It had joined him earlier that day, or it may have
been the day before. Time passed as fleeting as the voice. The sun traveled only
a quarter of its path through the sky, yet the day already became unbearably hot
and bright, and the previous night had been sweltering. He stumbled through the
darkness, unsure of when one day ended and the next began, as the endless
expanse of dirt and suspended days were disorienting. He needed to continue
walking, to find his way, or die. The desert never looked this large from the
roads. He would have easily spotted the scant landmarks if driving, but he was
on foot; “leather locomotion” he heard it called some time long ago. Regardless,
he thought he could recover his bearings, as his sense of direction had always
been amazing, or so he believed.

Although he could not recall why he was in the middle of nowhere, he suspected
a he decided upon a destination when he began the dangerous trek. The “when”
was now long ago, hidden beneath multiple hours and unending sand dunes. If
he initially had any water, it was now gone. He did not know what supplies he
brought on the journey, as he didn’t even have a pack or a shirt. All he
apparently owned were the clothes he wore: a pair of scuffed laced boots and
crusted khaki pants with empty pockets.

“Hey, wouldn’t a tall glass of cool water be great?”

The voice, barely noticeable among the hot winds, teased like some subtle siren.
Whirlpools transformed into sandstorms. The pleasant thought of a gulp of water
lit in his mind, but he deliberately quashed it. There was none to be found here,
and he would not torture himself. Entertaining pleasant fantasies remained more
conducive to his survival.

He dreamed of finding that siren and lying down with her. She would take this
poor, baked fiend to her dune, her bare skin as cool as the ocean where she was
birthed. Eyes green as kelp competed flirtatiously for admiration, against lips
glistening with the sheen of pearls. Rescued and transformed, they would soon
tire of the colorless desert and travel back to her sea. He would never be thirsty
again, never care to recall how or why he had discovered himself alone in the
desert. Finding the bliss of love and the sea would be the answer, and she would
be the reason for his journey.

Stumbling on his feet was just a pretense. He was already lost and dead, since
dehydration had set in a long time ago. Heat exhaustion was near, and the voice
called insistently.

“Benedict,” it called him. This time the voice shut out every thought. “Ben.”

Ben jerked leftward so violently, he twisted completely around,like a marionette

positioned into a clumsy pirouette by an amateur puppeteer. The momentum
pulled Ben off his feet. He fell forward as if his strings were cut. His shoulders
remained hunched as he lay face down. With a huff and small cloud of dust, Ben
flipped himself over. He saw the orange cauldron of the sun over his toes. He
stopped sweating, which wasn’t a good sign, but he didn’t have the will to worry.
The dirt caking his arms, chest, and back, dried and flaked off with each heavy
step. His torso and arms looked like an old table dusted by careless brush
strokes. Overall, Ben was red with angry pustules. He could feel his insides
baking. His already bulging belly would continue to bloat until the skin burst and
juices bubbled out. The very last of his fluids would evaporate before dripping to
the ground.

That was not the image of death he desired. He would not die, sizzling in his
own fluids. Instead, he’d dry up and blow away, and become part of the dust, red
dust. His name would be forgotten, if ever known. He recalled it now, because
the voice had reminded him. His name was Ben. He closed his eyes and pictured
rippling waves drifting upward from his body. He was stuck to the ground, as if
a part of it. This land may also be called Ben; he was merely a piece of desert,
like the dust stirred by his steps. The particles would eventually settle back down
to rejoin the suffering man, misplaced specks relocated from one piece of the
desert to another, but still part of the whole.

His breath was the hot breeze. He exhaled a gust, singeing the inside of his
gaped mouth. Ben opened his eyes. The sun now hung directly overhead, like a
white whirlpool in a smooth blue ocean. A mighty hand polished away the waves
and ripples; not God’s hand, though. The Mortal God was gone. The voice told
him, although the man suspected.

“Ben, you’re wasting the day with daydreaming.”

Ben realized he was disoriented and hallucinating. The voice was clearly not his
own, but disguised itself to imitate an internal conversation, to creep up on him
unawares. Still, Ben responded to the voice’s reproach and rolled to his right. He
grunted with the exertion, and then felt as if he choked.

Ben laid still and listened to the ringing in the back of his head. The sound was
high pitched and constant, but did not demand attention. He heard his own
thoughts and shallow breaths. The ringing reminded him that he was awake and
painfully alive. With his ear pressed against the ground, Ben also thought he
heard far off rumbling, not unlike an ocean wave slowly rolling over the shore,
then retreating. The rumble seemed to come from a road. Ben continued
listening, but the familiar sound of civilization again evaded him. After a few
minutes, the ringing in his head receded. Ben avoided focusing on it entirely,
unlike the voice when it decided to speak, demanding to be heard.
Ben spent an hour feebly pulling his knees to his chest. He lay in a fetal position
for a few more minutes, as flashes of the sea above taunted him. Fear of the
voice scolding him for such fanciful ideas brought him back to the reality that he
lay in the desert, beneath an afternoon sun. He should put a little more effort into
his survival. Ben started panting slowly, with hard breaths crescendoing and
climaxing as he pushed himself to his knees. He hoped the difficult part passed,
but he was disappointed. All the exertion became harder, rather than easier.
Standing nearly took the last of his strength.

Ben dropped back to his hands and knees. He needed leverage to lift his leg from
the ground. Ben planted a palm flatly in the dirt as he went into a runner’s three-
point stance, as if waiting for the starting gun to fire. After a few minutes of
posing motionless, Ben considered standing. Apparently the starter and the other
runners had gone home, the race called due to the extreme weather. The
temperature was much too hot to compete; Ben agreed there would be no
running today.

He raised his other leg shakily and pushed himself backwards. Ben dug shallow
furrows with the toes of his boots as he attempted to stand. He grunted and stood
up, with his feet spread wide. His head swam and he felt nauseous; if he had any
gorge, it would have bubbled into his throat. He wobbled uncontrollably, but at
least he stood on his feet. Where this reserve of energy came from, seemed
unfathomable. A fluke of gravity held him upright, much like setting an egg on
its end during the vernal equinox. The fossil of this creature wouldn’t be found
here in the Shur desert, unless he fell back to the ground or dried up alone. Ben
determined he would be the last thing to cross this particular piece of desolation,
until the end of time. He decided he’d rather have his bones found in a cool lake
or in an air-conditioned car. He leaned forward and let momentum carry him, as
each step caught him from falling on his face again.

Now where was that road? Behind him lay the temporary path carved by his
shuffling, although the wind began sandblasting it away. A compass point was
impossible to find, with the sun directly overhead. Chances were he had
confused his direction a long time ago, even after noting the sun always rose in
the east. He did not recall where or even when he became lost. The belief that he
possessed an acute internal sense of direction could have been merely delusional
thinking. His misconception was a perfectly rational diagnosis, given he now
heard voices, saw seas in the sky, and held generally grandiose ideas about
himself.
“Rationalization and losing one’s mind probably shouldn’t be exercised
simultaneously,” Ben thought, and then laughed aloud. The chuckle started as
coughing, and then cracked his harsh voice with a noise he had not made since
the age of thirteen. Ben now became delirious, as the sound made him laugh
harder. He stumbled and nearly fell, but his feet continued to swing forward and
faster now. Wherever he was going, he planned to get there quickly.

He veered to his left, as that leg became heavier than the right. It dropped and
dragged. His right foot crossed his left, as if stepping over the carcass of an
animal that stewed in the sun beyond recognition. The sidestepping dance
continued another twenty or thirty meters, until Ben grew dimly aware that a
black line stretched in front of him. The line reached from horizon to horizon,
and an invisible glass wall rose from it. No matter how Ben tried to step unto the
line, he leaned to the left. He walked parallel to a road. A road! That’s when the
voice became more than a hallucination, hailing him from the direction he forced
himself to follow.

“You have certainly wandered around long enough.”

Ben did not raise his face from his discovery. The thin black line magically
stretched into a thick ribbon of cracked asphalt, and sand drifted over it in sheets.
As he realized that the road lay flat instead of vertical, Ben steered himself onto
it. He continued walking to his left, deliberately.

“Now, here we are, and all the worse for wear.” Ben swore the quip was a
thought hidden in his head, but the voice said it. Ben snorted, then choked in
amusement.

“Who are you?” demanded a nervous new voice. Ben stopped walking. This
voice couldn’t be any more real than the first.

The sound of the wind had not deadened when Ben heard the voice ask his
identity. There were other noises, too. Labored yells barked from a hoarse throat,
and yet another voice sounded from the direction of the distressed shouting.

“Oh man, he’s gonna die too?” This voice sounded shrill and scared.

The only reply came from the hoarse throat. “Help me! No, stay way from me!
All of you! Away, heathens! Do you know who I am? Stay away, damn you!”
Ben raised his eyes. Crust nearly glued the lids shut, and now tore away
painfully. Only the right eye opened enough to see more than white light and
blocked, shadowy shapes. Two men shuffled toward him cautiously, with their
hands raised before them. One came from the rear of an old truck, really only a
moving assemblage of scrapped parts, haphazardly painted yellow. Scratches
scarred the crude brushwork, already by pitted by sand. The mirrors and back
window were missing, and the bed of the truck crumpled in toward the cab. The
yellow coat of paint looked like it had been added after the apparent accident,
because the folds in the metal retained the color thickest and brightest, as if
freshly coated. The truck stood parked in the middle of the road, its bald tires
molded to the pavement. The engine ticked as it cooled, if that were possible in
the daytime heat.

Another man sat in a white Bourdon sedan, a popular car for Church fleets. A
couple years passed since that particular model had appeared on the market. It
looked dirty, but in good condition. The car sat behind the truck on the shoulder
of the road, and the hoarse voice came from inside. The approach of the two men
obscured whoever actually issued the warning.

The men looked alike, thin, but not wiry, maybe brothers. They wore coarse
denim work shirts and pants. The mismatched boots and cuffed pant legs on one
of the men dispelled the impression that they were wearing military uniforms.
The one with cuffed pant legs displayed a small bump in the middle of his
forehead. Their faces were deeply tanned and unshaven, revealing that work and
life outside carved undeserved age into them. The men were accustomed to the
heat and glare, as they took no precaution, such as hats, and bared their necks
with open collars. The smell of their musky sweat reached Ben before the two
unrecognized men.

The shrill voice sounded again. The man from the sedan, the one with the bump
on his head, spoke, as his lips curled back over short white nubs of teeth.
Wrinkles curved over his nose and below his eyes as he took a closer look at
Ben. “There can’t even be any blood left in him. You’re not doing all right.”

“Get him to the car,” the other man ordered. Up close, Ben saw that the other
man had narrower eyes. His mouth was larger than that of the man with the
bump, but his lips were thinner.

Ben staggered toward them as they came closer and he ventured to say
something. Three words crackled like smoldering leaves, “Tall…glass…water.”

“Sure, man” the thin-lipped man replied. “Sure. Yeah.”

Ben fell forward into the pair. Their hands wrapped around his arms. His skin
felt scalded where the men touched him. Ben hissed in pain, as he was badly
burned. He felt lighter, though, born by these strangers. Ben’s head became a
weight he could no longer bear. It lolled, as if tethered by a heavy invisible
chain, jerked from side to side by the sadistic puppeteer.

“He’s heavy for being all dried up, huh, Dil?” The shrill sound disappeared from
the voice of the man with the bump; he was a better man for its absence.

The man he addressed, the one called Dil, did not reply. The trip to the sedan
was short. As they neared the driver’s side, Ben peered through the partially
open door, seeing a lap clad in black slacks upon the reclined seat. A pink elbow
resting on a rotund gut made Ben feel a little less conscientious of his own, but
only a degree. Panting came from within. The hoarse yelling started again as the
three men approached.

“Get away, heathens! I’ll command the Mortal God down upon you all!”

A pale man, not much older than Ben, sat sprawled in the sedan. Ben didn’t
notice this man’s herald of gray hair. The man’s right hand buried into his left
armpit. His other hand gripped the stunted collar of his shirt, pulling it from his
neck. The outburst caused him to gasp and wince in pain.

The man with the bump squeezed Ben’s armed emphatically.

“He’s having a heart attack. He won’t let us help him - won’t even let us touch
him.”

“I’d rather die out here by myself, than let you spiteful heathens cut my throat,”
the man spat. The meager spittle fell across his chin in long clear threads, as
more pain gripped him.

“Take him around to the other side,” Dil directed, speaking about Ben.

Dil and the one with the bump carried Ben around the front of the car to the
passenger side. The windshield was covered in dust, except where wiper fluid
turned it to bluish mud, which the rubber blades pushed aside and left to cake.
Through the glass and semi-circles of grime, Ben watched the panting man grow
calm. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the window at his side. The
immediate threat had dissipated, temporarily.

The sick man was a priest and one of the Chosen; he must have been born of the
elite caste, the Mortal God’s Chosen. That accounted for his threats and
recalcitrance. Only heathens would be out in the wastes of this desert. That is
what they believed in Capital and other city-states where the Chosen lived. The
priest obviously didn’t have a rank, because there wasn’t an insignia pinned to
the short upright collar of his white shirt. At his age, people expected he would
have had some achievement in the Church. The lack of rank, and his presence in
the desert, were connected.

“You’re him, huh?” the man with the rolled pant cuffs asked Ben, as they walked
around to the passenger side. His voice stayed low and conspiratorial.

“Shut up, Hen,” Dil warned sharply.

Both the question and command floated past Ben like a conversation drifting on
the wind from far away. He didn’t respond to either as Dil reached for the door
handle. At the sound of the latch, the priest stirred crazily from his brief respite.
He made a desperate lunge for the lock, but could not lift himself from his seat.
It was too late, anyway, as Dil already swung the door wide open.

The priest scowled. “Damn each of you! I mean it!” He had fallen against the
driver’s side door and now hung from the open vehicle. Only the seat belt saved
him from spilling out entirely.

“Give me back my keys,” the priest demanded feebly, as he pawed at his neck.
He sucked in short, shallow draws of air through his mouth. An unseen weight
immediately pressed each breath back out. The priest’s hands returned to his
chest.

“Hey, we found him like this. We were going to help, you know,” Hen’s voice
quivered.

The two men eased Ben into the passenger seat, within the blessed shade of the
sedan. Night seemed to fall mercifully early. The brown leather upholstery
burned like a griddle on Ben’s bare injured back, but Ben endured it since being
out of the direct glare of the sun was worth the pain. Dil let Hen lift Ben’s feet
into the car. The thin-lipped man passed in front of the car, back the way they
came.

“You were going to peel the skin from my living skull. Terrorist!” The priest
emphasized the last point with another dry spat.

Hen reached over Ben to the dashboard’s middle console. Hen’s shirt felt like
sandpaper where it dragged over Ben’s torso. The air conditioning burst forth
with a roar. “You know,” Hen said, “we’re UnChosen. We believe in the Mortal
God.”

“Liar,” the priest abruptly denied. “Don’t touch me when I’m dead.”

Hen stepped out of the car and straightened up. He grimaced and looked over at
the truck. As Hen placed idle hands on his hips, the glare made him squint. Dil
rummaged through the crooks of the folded bed. Instead of calling out to Dil,
Hen shut his mouth with a clack of his teeth. Dil soon returned and handed Hen
a clear plastic bottle of warm water.

“Give it to him,” Dil said, before disappearing around the back of the sedan. Hen
held the bottle around its bottom and carelessly dumped the contents into Ben’s
open mouth. The water streamed down his dirt-caked chin and bare chest.

The air from the vents instantly cooled the interior of the car, as well as the space
just outside the open doors. The stream reached for Ben like a caress. The siren
had finally arrived and her golden hair floated about her face as if underwater.
Her smile, gleaming as white as the sun above, was the only thing he saw clearly
beneath her hovering yellow tresses. The siren’s hands raised goose flesh as she
stroked his face and shoulders; her touch was the only sensation that did not
burn. She straddled Ben’s lap and pressed her cool, bare breasts against him. The
feel of her skin made him forget his pain. He slowly surrendered to his
exhaustion and would soon follow her into secret fathoms. Her hair drifted into
his face as she leaned forward, smiling through slightly parted, shining lips.
When she kissed his open mouth, cold air flowed into him, and the cool caress
filled his lungs with frost, which was unbearable.

Ben choked and the water Hen gave him sprayed against the dash. It ran down in
little rivulets from the interior of the slanted windshield and evaporated before
any of it pooled. Hen fumbled.
“Just a little. You can have more, just not so fast.”

The coughing and sputtering continued a few seconds more, but Ben didn’t
move. Exhaustion planted Ben in his seat, as firmly as the priest had sunken into
his. Ben drank in his siren a little at a time, lest she drowned him. Hen gave him
a sip of the water, carefully this time. When the scorched stranger looked like he
could tolerate the life-saving liquid, Hen gave him several more gulps.

The priest looked away, as he softly spoke. “I condemn you …” He grew rigid
and his mouth fell open. The sound of the air conditioner covered whatever the
priest said next, if any intelligible comment had followed. The priest added a
long and low “…oooooooo…” trailed by a longer, rattling exhalation.

“I think he’s dead,” Hen guessed. His voice quivered again. “We didn’t kill him.
Right?”

Ben did not hear him. The siren drifted away. The thirst, only slightly quenched,
became worse. Hen’s rationing of the water taunted Ben, but he didn’t have the
strength or presence to do more than suck the tiny portions as they were offered.
Ben remained unaware of the dead man next to him.

Suddenly, as the voice returned, all other sounds vanished. “You’re filling up
again,” it said. “You were empty, just the right place to store something for later
use.”

Ben disregarded the cryptic statements. The water was gone, the only important
news he cared about.

“You learned some truth today. You’re going to remember that later. We need to
keep your revelation in mind.” The sound of the air conditioner wavered and
then quit abruptly, before roaring back solidly. Within that pause, the voice
added another word.

“Transformed.”

“What happened to your clothes?” Hen wondered out loud. He saw Ben would
not answer.

“Hey!” Hen exclaimed. “You look about the same size as the priest. He has a
suitcase back here.” Hen stretched his neck as he peered into the back seat. Just
as the priest passed on, so did Hen’s fear. He sounded eager to scavenge the
vehicle.

Ben remained conscious long enough to see Dil return. In his right hand, he
carried a small gas canister. The red plastic had faded to pink, especially at the
seams. Light passed through the canister, making it appear to glow from within.
The black spout looked gnawed. Dil passed something to Hen. The object
appeared a small key ring adorned with a charm shaped like an elongated “X.” It
was actually a cross, a shared emblem of the Chosen and UnChosen faiths. One
silver key clearly belonged to the sedan. Ben closed his eyes. A dreamless sleep
claimed him completely.
2 Samaritans
“Come on, Hen,” Dil shouted. Peeved impatience was his first display of real
emotion since the brothers had spotted the Bourdon at the road’s shoulder. He
hoped the car was abandoned. Even more so, he hoped to find something to
scavenge, especially fuel. Then he saw the priest slumped in the driver’s seat.

“Get it off the road,” Dil ordered, “and don’t get it stuck or you’ll be digging it
outta the sand yourself!”

Dil was the older of the two Cortras brothers, by three years. His younger
brother, Hen, endlessly tried to impress Dil. Hen often overstepped his bounds,
trying to protect Dil, and the effort was always half-cocked. Hen’s assumption of
both older and younger siblings’ roles grew frustrating, as neither were
accomplished very well. Hen was too excitable, so Dil remained burdened to
stay level headed and stoic. There were moments when he could relax, but
strangely enough, only with his little brother. Relaxation consisted of bossing
Hen around and generally giving him a hard time. They both loved it, since they
were as close as any family either had ever known. They only had each other,
since being thrown out of their home as teenage delinquents. That was many
years ago, and was truthfully no great loss. Their mother and her rotation of
substitute stepfathers didn’t provide a childhood worth mentioning.

The Cortras brothers were taking their chances when they decided to cross the
Shur desert into Capital, known as the Cap, by outsiders. They didn’t have
enough gas or money to make the trip, but they had to try. The lack of cash
didn’t matter, as there wasn’t any place to fill the tank along the way through the
empty, colorless waste of the Shur. Dil expected to drive until the fuel was spent,
or the old truck overheated and the engine permanently seized.

Hen was more hopeful. He recited the dogma that claimed Capital was where the
Mortal God lived with the Chosen: The Promised Land. A quest to the city
where the Mortal God made his dwelling had to be a lucky decision. Dil liked it
when Hen talked like that, although he’d never let his little brother know it.
Religion was a little too emotional for Dil’s taste.

The sad reality was that patrols would probably find them broken down far from
their destination, or they would be stopped and harassed. Then they would be
sent back to Gomorrah or be escorted to the encampment outside the Cap and its
Wall. Getting past the Wall was an entirely different problem; if the brothers got
to the Cap, they had no means or purpose to get inside the city-state. The
encampment was probably going to be their final destination.

The trip would take a day. If they started early and drove westward through the
night, they’d reach the encampment by sundown. Summer was the wrong season
to cross the Shur, since the days stretched too long, and the landscape and
everything in it baked slowly. The sands oozed hoarded heat through its pores
throughout the night, so there was never a cool respite. As far as Dil was
concerned, there wasn’t a choice - they needed to leave. Driving as fast as they
could with the windows down was the only way they were going to stay in some
moderation of comfort. The back window of their truck was missing, anyway.
They lost the glass on a rare occasion when Dil had allowed Hen to drive. The
broken window occurred during the accident, which was ultimately what drove
the the brothers into the desert.

Dil and Hen had just arrived in the city-state of Gomorrah. The Church of the
Chosen did not have an interest in the area, as no real skill or resources were
present for exploitation, just citizens eking out an existence. The UnChosen were
alone to administer to their spiritual needs and police themselves. In the absence
of the Church or its appointees, local crime lords assumed the governing,
unbidden. The Batheirre family won that mantle in Gomorrah and ran the drug
trade. The city-state disintegrated into a haven for amphetamine production and
served as a heathen induction outpost. With the frequent exploding labs, which
were hidden in garages and crawlspace basements, it was a wonder that the place
hadn’t burned to the ground. Dil wished it had been consumed by fire long
before the brothers had found their way there. In the beginning, a big city-state
seemed to be the best place to earn some money, and maybe even save a little.
There was still honest work, if only day labor. If a man or boy didn’t attract

attention, and remained secreted away from the streets at night, he avoided being
shanghaied into the heathen’s holy war.

The head of the Batheirre family reveled in delusional righteousness of himself

and the countless members of his family. So when his nephew rear-ended the
two brothers, and was carried home unconscious and bleeding, Dil and Hen fled.
Plenty of witnesses had seen the young man barrel his uncle’s convertible into
the stalled truck. The young Batheirre was plainly at fault, yet that didn’t make
any difference. The witnesses would have run, too, if they had been involved and
not just convenient bystanders. But true to their nature, no one in Gomorrah
would hesitate to tell a story other than the truth they had witnessed. Dil
wouldn’t have thought twice about lying, either. The game was self-preservation.

The victim’s uncle placed a notice on the Cortras brothers. They had to flee
Gomorrah before the word spread. Dil collected debts from strangers and made a
few of his own, none of which he had intentions of ever repaying. The lenders
knew it, because people had already heard the news. When this desperate man
came banging on doors after dark, most people tried to chase him away, which
was also self-preservation. So Dil gathered all he could by yelling threats in
alleys and smashing back windows. In the end, chasing the man away was easier
and safer than just giving him anything that could be spared. In either case,
whether he was caught or got away, he’d never be seen again. The faster this
marked man vanished, the better.

Meanwhile, Hen drew a curious audience. Stealthy gawkers peeked through

slightly parted drapes and cracked doors. Dil had instructed Hen to go over the
truck and fix anything that needed repairing, if he could. The brothers would
leave before dawn and the vehicle had to be ready. Hen reasoned the truck was
fine, because they were able to drive away from the accident. In fact, the
accident got the engine started again when Hen had popped the clutch as the
truck rolled.

Before his head had jerked forward in the collision and snapped off the rear view
mirror, Hen had seen the convertible racing up behind them, too fast and
unaware. Hen had recognized the driver and was very much aware of the
vehicle’s owner. All Hen had time to do at that moment was brace for the
impact. The crash was followed by an aftermath filled with threat to life and
limb. Hen had decided, by himself, to escape and take Dil with him. Instinct was
Hen’s counsel.

Hen drove the truck to an empty lot, parting dead bushes and short trees along
the way. Despite the sparse cover of skeletal branches and chaparral, every
window and doorway facing the lot had an open view. Hen balanced on the
crumpled folds of the truck bed. His attempts to stomp the buckles into their old
shape were futile. He swept out the cubes of glass with a ragged, short-handled
broom he had brought with him. In the setting sun, the glass chunks sparkled like
thick drops of water as they clinked to the ground.
Hen had also brought along a couple liters of yellow house paint that he had
found discarded on a corner along the way to the lot. An idea struck him when
he spotted the paint. Once most of the glass was gone, Hen opened the paint
using the long stem of a broken screwdriver with a missing handle. Hen dipped
the broom into the paint and brushed it across the molded metal of the truck. The
paint went on quickly with thick, broad and textured strokes. The truck was soon
covered and enough remaining light allowed Hen to assess his work. Hen sighed
in exasperation at his crude camouflage. This was just the kind of thing that
made Dil angry. Hen laughed aloud anyways, as he couldn’t wait to see his
brother’s face. Hen added the empty paint cans and broom to the clutter of junk
hidden in the dry grass. He backed the truck out of the lot in the same direction it
had come from, scratching the wet paint and leaving a trail of pastel twigs and
branches.

The brothers met again after midnight, rendezvousing at a train yard where they
had once made a temporary home. They had slept in their truck until they found
work and money. Compared to the strung-out homeless, camping beneath sheet
metal overhangs, the brothers had lived in luxury. Their new plan entailed
getting some sleep before starting the trip, but they were restless. They left
before dawn with the clothes on their backs and whatever had been left in the
truck. Once the city was out of sight and the sun rose behind them, Dil turned the
driving over to Hen. Now that they were safe, it was time to trade places. Hen
got out and ran around the back of the truck as Dil slid over. Dil was vaguely
aware that something was different with the color of the vehicle, but he was too
fatigued to figure out even the obvious. He was so tired that he had no choice but
to let Hen drive. They weren’t going to stop if it could be helped. Dil dozed off
after sufficiently scolding his younger brother for grinding gears.

Dil woke suddenly, soaked with sweat. His back felt prickly and his shirt stuck
to the vinyl seat. The day was going to be terribly hot. Hen listened to the radio
as it softly played, although the rush of the wind through the cab and the thrum
of the engine made the broadcast impossible to hear. Dil reached across and
turned up the volume. His brother smiled.

“I’m fine. You can sleep some more. Go ahead.”

“No,” Dil replied.

The desert made radio reception excellent. It was a shame only a couple of
stations were broadcasting. But then, those two stations were the only choices
available: one was the Church and the other was military news and propaganda.
They were the same entity, the head and the arm. Both would broadcast twenty-
four hours a day, usually recordings. The only music that ever played was
carefully crafted non-rhythmic chants. Hen listened to the news, because the
other station would make his older brother mad. Dil never tolerated anyone
preaching to him. A woman’s voice announced events from the other night. Her
voice sounded artificial, like every other female announcer. All of them could
have easily been replaced with a machine that rearranged audio clips. News was
just as generic; feed in the copy and get a mechanical voice to match the
message.

“… Military patrols from four desert sectors joined to conduct the operation. The
missing scout was located. He had been tortured and murdered. Fourteen
heathen fighters were killed. Military forces did not suffer casualties. It is
suspected that a high-ranking leader in the heathen terrorist network was present,
but could not be accounted for. The leader has been tentatively identified as Ilu
Drystani. It is assumed he escaped into the desert outside Gomorrah. Patrols
have been alerted and a search operation has been ordered. If Drystani was at the
raid, it would be the third sighting in the area this month. He is wanted for
heresy, murder, and crimes against the Chosen people. There is a substantial, but
undisclosed reward for information leading to his arrest or proof of death.”

“We could really use that money, huh?” Hen said wistfully. He half-expected the
reward would actually be handed to him, if he had anything useful to offer. Dil
didn’t answer. That was blood money and only a loan. It would be paid back in
the flesh of anyone stupid enough to succumb to the temptation. Before Dil had
crafted an appropriate put-down, there was a flash far up the road. He instantly
fixed his eyes on the spot where he had seen it.

“Slow down,” Dil ordered. Hen creased his brow as he took a quick glance at his
brother.

“You see something?”

“Yeah, maybe a car. Let’s check it out.”

Dil turned down the radio as he squinted into the distance. It was definitely a car,
and it was off the road. The truck slowed, as did the wind whipping through the
cab.

“There goes our air conditioning,” Hen sighed.

“It wasn’t working anyway,” Dil quipped.

The brothers coasted past a white Bourdon sedan. It looked abandoned, from
their vantage point. Hen stopped the truck in the middle of the road. The engine
clanked and quit a few seconds after he pulled the keys from the ignition. Hen
handed them to Dil out of habit.

“Let’s take a look.” Dil stepped out onto the road.

Hen followed his brother, skipping around the side of the truck as if he were
barefoot on the hot pavement. If he stood in one place long enough, the heat
would eventually work its way through the soles of his boots. Dil did a double
take and his face wrenched with disbelief. “What in the name of the Mortal God
have you done to the truck?”

Hen had waited all morning in anticipation of this moment. His brother’s jaw
finally dropped. Dil had four fillings and a missing back tooth; Hen was familiar
with the landscape. He hooted the laugh he had saved for the occasion. “They
haven’t found us, have they?”

“Not yet.”

As the brothers neared the sedan, they spotted a body slumped deeply into the
seat on the driver’s side. The door was ajar, so they drew closer cautiously.

“What is it, Dil?” Hen whispered to no one but himself. “You think he’s dead? I
think he’s a priest.”

Dil opened the door further to discover it was just as hot inside the car, as
outside under the sun. Hen was right. Judging by his clothes, the man was a
priest. Dil stooped forward, hovering over the priest’s mouth. A chemical smell
wafted from the skin of the unconscious man. Evidence suggested that speed of
the narcotic kind had killed him and the drug probably came straight from
Gomorrah. Still listening, Dil deftly snatched the keys from the man’s lap. At
that moment, the priest resurrected. He screamed and kicked himself upright,
tangling himself in the seat belt. Dil yanked his head out of the car. He thought
he heard himself yell in surprise, but that was Hen. Loud humming filled Dil’s
ear.

“Who?” cried the priest. “Heathens! Get away from me!”

The brothers were paralyzed. The door fell against the girth of the priest,
preventing the door from latching shut. The priest continued to scream with his
arms around his chest. His heart was succumbing to the drugs.

“What?” Hen finally asked.

Dil looked into the distance, from side to side. His brother repeated the motion.
The horizon was far away and empty, confirming that the three men were
completely alone.

“You stay with him,” Dil pointed at the groaning priest. He had seen this before
from previous experience with drug addicts and the clergy. Dil headed back to
the truck. “I’m still gonna take the gas.”

“What am I going to do?” Hen pleaded.

“Nothing,” Dil replied. “He won’t let you, even if there was anything you could
do.”

Hen timidly shuffled toward the dying priest. He felt he should extend some kind
of help. They couldn’t let the poor man suffer.

“Hey, who are you?”

The priest cursed Hen and howled. Hen raised his arms in surrender and dropped
them to his sides with a thump. Friendly introductions were obviously out, but at
least he had made the attempt.

Dil was suddenly startled by the red apparition on the opposite side of the road,
as he had been careful to guarantee their privacy. The figure looked like a
scarecrow sewn together from the skin of some gruesome ripe fruit. Both Dil and
this new figure remained staked to their posts. The apparition tottered to its left
as the priest began to yell at Hen again. The sound and motion brought Dil back
to his senses. As he called out to the stranger, Hen whipped around. He had been
trying to calm the priest, but that task was quickly forgotten. Hen may have said
something out loud, but lost that, too. He rushed over to Dil, while the priest
continued his tirade.

“I think that’s him,” Hen confided to Dil. “I think that’s Drystani.”

Dil thought about the suspicion for a moment. “How did he get up here?” He
considered the thought further. “I don’t think so.”

Dil was still uncertain. The brothers stalked the still figure. Hen continued to
talk, but Dil was deep in concentration. He did the majority of his thinking while
Hen yammered. He talked mostly to himself, anyway. The constant noise was
probably how his little brother vented stress. After awhile, tuning Hen’s
gibberish out became as natural as farting. Dil instructed Hen to put the man in
the car with the priest.

“Tall…glass…water…” The broken words crackled in the dry throat of the

stranger. Dil agreed that the request was reasonable. If this was Drystani, there
may be some change of luck to be seized. The man collapsed into the arms of the
brothers and they carried him to the sedan. Cooling him down became their top
priority. Hen began asking the stranger what both brothers suspected, but Dil put
an end to Hen’s questions before they could continue. The whole scenario would
have to be carefully thought out. Tipping your hand was unwise, even to a dying
priest and living mummy.

Regardless, Dil left Hen to watch over the two as Dil attended to his original
plan. He returned briefly to hand Hen a bottle of water from the truck and then
purposefully approached the trunk of the sedan. Dil used the priest’s keys to
open it and looked inside. There was little to claim, as the emergency road kit
was missing most of its essentials. The flare and an empty aerosol can of flat tire
repair remained. A beaten plastic gas canister had rolled to its side against the
back seat. Dil had to lean all the way into the trunk to retrieve it. He lay nearly
flat before he managed to right the can with his fingertips and grasp its handle. It
was empty, which is what Dil had expected. He slammed the trunk shut.

A hose or tube wasn’t available to siphon the tank. Dil discovered the long stem
of a screwdriver covered in yellow paint, the same new color as the truck. He
shook his head and reconsidered the situation. The sedan had to be removed
from sight before taking the gas, an impossible scenario in a flat, featureless
desert. Dil calculated that if the car was far enough off the road, it might escape
bleary eyes, dulled by hours of traveling. If the car hadn’t appeared directly in
their path, Dil wouldn’t have necessarily noticed it. He went back to the
passenger side, toting the gas canister. The priest was dead, for good or ill. Dil
couldn’t figure out what to do with him, anyway. Having a corpse to work with,
instead of a drug-addled priest, was a morbid relief. The situation was less
complicated when there were fewer opinions, so the priest would have to stay
with the car.

“Hen. Shut that door and give me a hand.”

Hen capped the empty plastic bottle from which he had been rationing water to
the stranger. Dil held the keys out to him. The cross on the key chain flashed in
the light, but there was no need for Dil to worry. It wasn’t their car and it wasn’t
going to be.

“Take it into the desert. Straight out, until you see me waving,” Dil instructed.

“We’re not taking it? Come on, Dil!” Hen protested and slammed the door. Now
that the coolness from the air conditioner was shut inside, Hen realized how
much he was enjoying it. His fingers were pleasantly numb. The luxury of cold
air wasn’t one he had counted on, but now he added it to his list. The muscles in
Dil’s neck contracted.

“Think about it, Hen! Us, in a dead man’s car. He’s probably got orders - some
place he’s gotta be. Patrols will look for him, and this car, if and when he doesn’t
show.”

What Dil said sounded logical. A priest alone out here in the middle of summer
didn’t make sense, not just to get aped on speed, unless he had an assignment he
was reporting to.

Hen nodded. As a concession, he was able to enjoy the air conditioning for a
little longer. He pretended to sulk on his walk back to the driver’s side. Hen was
going to have to touch the priest now, but there would be no protest from either
of them. Hen pulled the driver’s door open and hunched over the dead man. The
smell of aped people was bearable, but the priest had also soiled himself when
he died. Hen held his breath while drawing closer to unbuckle the seat belt. The
dead man was snared in it as the strap crawled across his body. He looked like an
oversized rag doll, draped over a clothesline by its neck to dry. The sight made
Hen shiver and the stench replaced the chilled air inside the sedan.
Hen backed out and exhaled. He took another breath and stretched forward,
holding his face back. His small chin disappeared into the wrinkles at his neck.
He untangled the priest’s head from the belt. As the strap snapped back, it
snagged Hen’s arm and trapped his hand against the priest’s forehead. It was
slimy and Hen’s fingers slipped into the moist tangle of hair. Hen frowned and
squinted at the fishy texture, this feel of dead flesh. The interior of the sedan
became considerably less appealing by the moment. Less ginger action was
required. Hen shoved the priest’s head into the car, followed by his upper body.
Hen freed his arm at the same time and the buckle whipped back to its bracket
with a clank. Hen felt better until he realized that only the first step was
complete. He repeated his deep breath, his chest swelling and remaining inflated
while he dove into the priest’s body.

The front seat was a bench, and inclined downward, due to the car’s position on
the shoulder of the road. The body of the priest crushed the stranger who was
planted on the passenger’s side, against the opposite door. The priest slid easily
across the seat while the stranger remained unconscious and oblivious to the
dead man’s weight. When Hen exhaled this time, he did so with a contented
exclamation. Hen fished the keys from his pocket but he paused before taking
the priest’s place behind the wheel. Hen fretted over sitting in something
embarrassing and unpleasant. The seat and its back were streaked with a film of
oily sweat, unpleasant, but a fact of life in this climate. Hen still paused,
watching the splotches shrink now that the air and light touched them.

Dil yelled at his brother to get moving. Dil became impatient, as Hen’s delay
drove Dil mad. The frustration was evident in his voice, but Hen still took a
moment to roll down the door’s window before getting in. Once he sat down, he
adjusted the vents to point toward his face. This was the sensation he looked
forward to, as every muscle slackened and he moaned with a pitch not dissimilar
to his earlier shrill. He relished being at the wheel of the chilled Bourdon with
leather seats. Getting out of the sun allowed escape from the desert for a few
seconds, and he didn’t even smell the priest. Hen turned the ignition.

The instrument panel lit up, but he couldn’t hear the engine over the fast howl of
the air conditioning. Hen did hear the screech of the starter and whipped his
hand off the key, then he shifted into drive and stepped heavily on the
accelerator. The car lurched forward and rocked over the uneven dirt. Hen took
his foot off the gas pedal entirely and let the vehicle roll, but it didn’t go far. Hen
had to get accustomed to the way the sedan drove. He pulled the steering wheel
hard to the left and tried the accelerator again. A great wall of dust rose as the car
left the shoulder and headed into the emptiness. Despite the rough ride, entirely
due to where Hen was taking the sedan, he wished they didn’t have to abandon
it. The Bourdon was the best thing he had ever had, even for a few brief minutes.

Dil performed a crazy dance in the rear-view mirror, waving his arms wildly
over his head. Hen slowed as his brother skipped off the road, following Hen
before he stopped the car. The walk was longer than what Dil wanted, but it
wouldn’t be long before he reached the sedan. They left the air running after
shutting off the engine. Hen kicked the door open and assessed his passengers.
Neither had moved much with the jostling, and neither was in any condition to
be disturbed. The backside of the priest was turned toward Hen. Hen made an
effort not to look, but he couldn’t resist the wallet that had spilled out. The
billfold disappeared without inspection into the same pocket from which Hen
had pulled the keys. He then reached over the seat and retrieved the suitcase
lying in the back. The luggage was heavier than it looked. Hen hauled it to the
front of the car and slapped the suitcase on the hood. For a second, he felt a pang
of fear for having dented the metal, then remembered it wasn’t going to make a
differ

ence. The twin latches popped open as Dil reached the back of the sedan.

“What are you doing?” Dil asked, perturbed by the walk. That wasn’t really a
problem, although further from the road would have been better.

“I’m looking for some paper,” Hen answered, as he rummaged, but the case
contained only clothing.

“Why?” Dil had to ask.

“I’m gonna write a suicide note. You know, for the priest.”

Dil was dumbfounded. Twenty-four hours hadn’t passed since his brother had
started them on this exodus, painted the truck without talent, and then come up
in an idea of a suicide note for a dead priest. The idea couldn’t possibly be
mistaken for a good one. To make matters worse, Hen started to whistle
tunelessly. Dil must stop his little brother before he went any further.

“Damn your brain, Hen! And you’re illiterate,” Dil glared at him. “Forget that
and come over here.”
There wasn’t any paper, pens, or pencils, anyway, and no drugs either. They’d be
on the priest or hidden in the car, if he had not smoked the drugs already. That’s
not what Hen wanted, since the Cortras brothers had enough everyday anxiety to
keep them tossing at night. Hen did find a folded manila envelope and crammed
that into his pocket as quickly as the wallet. There would be time later to sort
through what he’d poached.

“What goes on in your head? Can you even tell me?” Dil continued with the
chiding. He wasn’t looking for an answer. “It’s best no one ever finds out about
this. Let’s not make any more problems than we have to.”

Dil went down on his knees at the back bumper. He clawed at the dirt with his
hands and didn’t stop until he had dug a hole beneath the tank large enough for
the bottom of the gas canister. It fit perfectly, with the opening of the can just
below the bottom of the tank. Dil pulled out the painted screwdriver shank again.

“At least we’ll make it to the Cap.”

Dil drove the screwdriver into the tank with a blind and awkward thrust. The
result was precise enough, as it wasn’t the first time he’d done this. He withdrew
the shank slowly, with a long groan of metal, and Hen winced at the noise. The
complaint was like the pain of a living robot, stabbed in its belly. Gas flowed
into the can with a thin, constant stream, until the can filled and fuel spilled over
the sides.

“Stop it up, while I put this in the truck.” Dil yanked the can out of its ditch and
replaced the nozzle. “We need as much as we can get.”

“With what?”

“Well, uh…” Dil was lost. “Put your finger in it.”

Hen wasn’t sure if his brother was joking. Meanwhile, the small hole filled with
fuel.

“Go on! You’re wasting it!”

Dil walked back to the road and Hen did what he was told. The ground sucked
up the spilled gas, now that the source was plugged. The process took several
trips before all possible fuel was transferred to the truck, although about a third
as much had been squandered in the dirt. Hen watched on his knees, bent over,
with his finger in his version of a dike as Dil walked back and forth between the
vehicles. The blast of the air conditioning grew weaker. All the life in Hen’s
grandest, luxurious moment would soon be gone.

The last time Dil returned, he was empty handed. He placed the can into the
truck’s rumpled bed and watched the last of the fuel drain into the ground. Both
men were soaked in sweat and it was time to move on. In the back of Dil’s mind,
he hoped to deal with the stranger as he had with the priest. Let the stranger pass
away so they could leave him behind, forgotten. However, there were larger
matters to think about, and the stranger was still alive. The brothers would take
him with them after all, as that would be a big debt to repay. If this was Drystani,
the brothers might gain dissuasion to be used against Batheirre. If a patrol
stopped them before they reached the Cap, the truth would naturally come out.
This was a stranger in the desert who needed help, and they were simply doing
the right thing when they picked him up. They weren’t heathens, after all.

The brothers pulled the stranger out of the car. He was harder to carry this time,
since all his strength had left him and he required the brothers’ energy. Just as
they started back to the truck, Hen stopped and flung the stranger’s arm from his
shoulders. Dil was nearly pulled to the ground by the unexpected weight.

“Wait a second.” Hen ran back to the driver’s side. He reached into the sedan
and grabbed the body of the priest with both hands. Propping himself with one
foot against the seat, he yanked the priest over to the driver’s side and dropped
him over the steering wheel. Dil watched in discouraged resignation before
turning away. If he could have done so on his own, he would have dragged the
stranger much closer to the truck by now. Hen had grabbed the suitcase from the
hood when his brother wasn’t paying attention. Hen assumed his position again
at the right side of the stranger and they got him back to the truck more quickly
than they thought possible. Grisly fate had worked out in their favor so far.

They placed the stranger on the passenger side. The brothers went opposite
directions around the truck, and Hen entered the driver’s side before Dil. Hen
straddled the stick shift on the floor and sat far back into the seat. Dil was visibly
irritated that he needed to reach between his brother’s knees to change gears.
The suitcase on Hen’s lap didn’t miss Dil’s notice, but he started the truck and
sped down the road before he asked what was going through Hen’s head now.
Obviously Hen had experienced too much time with nothing to do, other than
corking a gas tank and huffing the fumes.

“You need to get rid of that suitcase, Hen. What are you doing with it, anyway?”
Dil’s attention was divided between the suitcase and his driving, but the straight,
empty road didn’t demand much. Curiosity compelled him to wish he had
special vision to see through the leather lid.

“What’s in it?” Dil asked, immediately after directing Hen to lose the case.

“Nothing, just clothes.”

“Then throw it out the window.”

Hen smiled and nodded toward the stranger. “He’s going to need clothes. That’s
why I brought it along.”

“Priest clothes? You’ve lost it,” Dil diagnosed. “How do you think this guy will
pull off being a priest?”

“Listen, Dil.” Hen had spent some time thinking out an idea and he insisted on
being heard. “He needs clothes, right? And we’re not going to hand him over…”

“Unless we’re stopped,” Dil interjected. “We’re not putting our necks out for
him, even if we have a choice.”

“But if we’re not stopped, he’s going to need clothes. Right? Cover,” Hen
continued, believing he had just made an indisputable point. “And a priest can
get into the Cap.”

Dil was intrigued by Hen’s last statement, as Dil was sure his little brother hadn’t
thought about their obstacle with getting past the Wall. The plan may have been
ill conceived, but it was amusing. Dil scanned ahead and glanced over his
shoulder twice as he watched for patrols and more apparitions. He prompted Hen
to continue.

“This guy can wear the clothes we got. They’ll fit him, you’ll see. He can go
right up to the Wall and order the guards to let us pass.” Hen raised his brow and
spoke more quickly as he finished his thought. “It’s that easy.”

But it wasn’t going to be easy. Priests didn’t just order soldiers around, despite
being like officers in the chain of command. The status was more honorary, and
carried little power, especially with priests that didn’t have rank.

“It doesn’t work that way. Those guys at the Wall aren’t local militia. The Cap is
the most secure city-state of them all. It’s the command center of the Church and
military headquarters.” Dil felt compelled to paint the complete picture for his
brother.

“And look at him.” Dil gestured at the sleeping stranger, with a hooked thumb.
“He’s burned to a crisp. How do you explain that?” Dejection filled Hen as his
older brother continued. “Everyone needs a pass or a good reason to get into the
Cap. Priests need orders.”

Suddenly Hen stabbed his leg straight out to retrieve the wallet and manila
envelope he had taken from the dead priest. Hen shuffled the two items as he
decided which to thumb through first. Dil went pale.

“That better not be what I think it is. How can you be so stupid?” The last part
was more of a statement than a question. “How much money is in that?”

Any hurt Hen felt at Dil’s judgment was quickly forgotten when Hen opened the
wallet and discovered identification cards without photos, and more importantly,
money.

“About two hundred.”

“Split it and give me half. Put yours in your pocket.”

Hen divvied the cash and let the wallet drop into his lap. The manila envelope
remained unfolded, with its top seam split and frayed. It had already been
opened properly with something like a letter opener. Hen drew out creased
papers and found photocopied orders in triplicate. Dil leaned over to read them
with Hen.

“It says he’s going to the Cap,” Hen relayed. “There’s a parish he’s supposed to
take over, St. Erasmus.”

“St. who? How can you rub out a name like that?”

“Dil, don’t even kid about things like that. Cuz, you know…”
The conversation ended, as both brothers thought about the challenges Dil had
listed. An uncomfortable silence formed like skin on milk until Hen poked a hole
in it.

“He could have the orders. We could give him the IDs.”

Dil almost gasped and he felt sick to his stomach. Apparently they could
implement Hen’s plan.

“He could get us into the Cap,” Hen added. He had to say it aloud to convince
himself of the possibility, although his own guts fluttered with butterflies. The
lack of verbal dissent from Dil implied affirmation. There weren’t any other
clues in his body language, as he was usually just stiff. The plan might not work.
That would mean arrest and permanent detainment, which also indicated
something bad could happen in the detention camp. Then there was the stranger
to consider, as he may not go along with their idea. There was no reason he
should, and trying to talk him into the suicidal scheme may be a waste of time.
This man could also be Drystani, although that hadn’t been established yet. But
the situation could change again, back to Dil’s hope for cashing in on a favor
owed to them.

“Okay,” Dil finally said. “What’s the name on the ID?”

Hen plucked the wallet from his crotch. He verified that the name on the orders
matched the IDs and he grinned triumphantly.

“Benedict Ishkott,” Hen stated. He looked at the stranger. “Hello, Ben. I’m Hen
and this is my brother Dil. We’re Dil and Hen Cortras.
3 The Assailed Rock
Margot Sebash needed to meet her deadline. Otherwise, she would be forever
relegated to the status of an irresponsible hack. None of the dozens of stories she
had written made it to military news radio without being heavily edited, and
consequently, became tragically delayed by the process. In fact, few of her
stories were selected at all. She was lucky she could get by, doing transcription
work. But there wasn’t a real future in that part-time job, and it certainly wasn’t
why she had spent so much time and money in school. Every Sunday afternoon,
she’d gather her friends, alumni from the university, and they would empty their
rations of liquor. During the gatherings, she and her friends always rehashed
complaints and whined about the lack of work for reporters, and the lowly
commissions for those stories that were approved for broadcast.

Still, their focus remained solely on the climate and nature of reporting, and
avoided criticism of the Church itself. That could put an end to a fledging career.
Margot and her friends consoled themselves with the fact that they were still
young, only a couple years out of school, and were all having a hard time
earning a living in their chosen field. “Misery loves company” was the
expression, and they were certainly a miserable bunch.

Capital was different, two or three generations ago. Margot’s grandmother had
told Margot stories from the past. The Wall was under construction when
Margot’s grandmother was still a little girl. That period was called the “Great
Social Renovation” when families of the Chosen and UnChosen alike were
clothed and fed by Church-financed construction projects. The projects were
mainly defensive measures, such as the Wall. Heathen terrorists had escalated to
conducting suicide bombings and kidnapping highly ranked priests, straight out
of the city-state. The terrorist attacks were impossible to stop because of their
desperation and daring, so a barrier between them and the uncivilized world was
the only solution.

Once the Wall was completed, the Chosen lived within the barricaded city, while
most of the UnChosen found their families rooted in the despicable slum outside,
which was called the encampment. It was originally a temporary home for
migrant construction workers during the “Renovation.” The encampment was a
flat piece of ground covered with tents, but it grew as more people came to find
work. People still arrived, despite the end of construction and reins on Church
money. The encampment became a way point for the destitute and UnChosen
pilgrims seeking entrance to Capital. Few were admitted in those past times and
none were admitted today, so the camp spread like a weed sending out runners,
outside the gates of Capital.

Poverty and squalor cried in stark contrast to the wealth of the city-state. As the
encampment expanded, it pushed back from the Wall. The military expressed
concern about securing the perimeter, but in reality there were aesthetics to
consider. The approach to Capital and its great white wall should convey
reverence and awe. Corrugated steel buildings and hastily erected networks of
phone and power lines couldn’t be allowed to creep up the Wall’s pristine face.
So the northern section of the encampment came down, while workers bulldozed
shacks and installed barbed wire fences.

The space between Capital and the encampment was a restricted zone. Only
travelers with reasonable business during daylight were allowed to approach the
gates, and even then, they had better keep moving. The Wall had, to date,
fulfilled the promise to keep the heathens out. It had become the pride of the
military.

The existence of free print was what had particularly interested Margot about her
grandmother’s stories. Magazines, newspapers, and books could be found in
people’s homes and for sale in legitimate shops. Writing wasn’t constrained by
the scrutiny of the military, the functional arm of the Church. Libraries held
more than technical manuals, carefully worded textbooks, and archived
recordings of sermons and military news. That freedom was gone by the time
Margot had learned to read. Printed material that hadn’t been scrutinized was
deemed potentially subversive and systematically collected through books-for-
cash programs, and later, by outright confiscation.

Even bibles and hymnals printed before an exaggerated prehistoric date, had not
survived. The clergy became the only authority on the Mortal God. Still, the fact
that independent publications ever existed, inspired Margot to write, as the
freedom sounded ideal. When the practical side of life conflicted with the
naivety of youth, she was already in debt for her higher education and there was
no turning back, at least not yet.

Margot dreamed of the possibilities opened by the re-introduction of the written

word. For her, they were primarily additional opportunities to sell stories. A
newspaper meant that a level of restriction on information dissemination was
lifted; that meant opinion and commentary may even be possible. No more
walking a tightrope for the grace of the Church. The trick to writing today
required an intuitive understanding of the balance between public perception and
Church propaganda.

However, propaganda wasn’t the term the Church or military used; everyone else
did, but covertly. Her journalism classes defined juggling between fact and
Church agenda, as a hard line of discretion. The practice was necessary to avoid
unrest and uprising among fringe elements influenced by heathens and other
malcontents. Information control was paramount for public safety. The
undeniable truth was that the Chosen lived within a wall because of terrible
hatred. Free speech wasn’t entirely revoked, and people could still express
themselves and voice their dissatisfaction. There was an age-old forum for that.
The Church called the practice, the Sacrament of Penance. Confession
vaccinated against civil disturbance.

The problem with Margot’s stories was her exposition beyond unimaginative
bullet points. She was too creative, and she used quotes. She never solicited
permission, because she wrote for the news, after all. People shouldn’t be afraid
to have their names read over the air if they told the truth. They should be
grateful for the recognition; but the practice often backfired, when it came to the
fact-checkers.

Censors lacked tact and were intimidating, even in mundane matters. If the
military news called to verify a source, the typical reaction was to deny anything
had ever been said. No one wanted his or her name finding its way onto a list.
Anonymity reigned as a valued trait among Capital residents.

If Unchosen were quoted, the censors automatically struck those quotes from
stories. Their comments were considered uninformed and unreliable. The truth
was that the censors were prejudiced, just like everyone else, although Margot
never accepted that. Chosen and UnChosen shared the same beliefs. The only
things separating the two castes were a matter of birth and a parable about God
playing favorites. She, of course, was a Chosen, and her presence in Capital,
along with her degree, were testaments to the fact. There were UnChosen living
here with college educations, but they were few. Exceptions always existed
among millions of people crammed together in any one place.
Story investigation required clearance from military news. Sensitive and high
profile stories were assigned to experienced reporters directly from the Church
or military. Meeting the deadline for those stories guaranteed a steady stream of
work. Ordinary current events were left to the rookies and hacks, who fought
over them like scraps thrown to scrawny dogs. Margot hoped to find an angle
with recurrent activists petitioning to open the Wall for transit. The story
resurfaced every few months, with new proposals by aspiring community
leaders.

The Wall was more than a barrier against heathen terrorists. A four-lane road
system rested on top and gated ramps rose up to the Wall from myriad points
within Capital. Public use of the roads would alleviate traffic congestion
dramatically, and the relief was sorely needed. Expediency excused the lack of
foresight when the Wall was built, as the planners didn’t anticipate that growing
families would swell the population.

The Church supported the military’s desire to maintain possession. On a few

occasions, the Church used the issue to weed out potential threats to their
complete sovereignty. When a particularly vocal leader gathered inordinate
support, the Church would reveal an embroiling scandal. The issue always
convoluted things, as the leader became mired in controversy, and then
languished in everlasting obscurity. Truth had never been the goal, because
sensational stories paid a lot of bills. Innocence and truth were subjective,
depending on how the facts were presented, and the public got their blood.

There was another story Margot was currently covering. She was repulsed, but it
was quick work. A priest had been murdered in his parish, but the crime was
probably a botched robbery. The military wanted a very specific story for their
broadcast, or nothing about the incident would be reported at all. So an outline
was prepared for Margot, and all she had to do was flesh out the details.

The parish was within the ghetto of Capital, where most of the UnChosen lived.
A fellow reporter, an old friend from school, had tipped her off with a phone call.
He claimed he had grown sick of tales of murder and suicide, and didn’t want
the story. They had been his revenue for the past year and he would likely return
to them, but for now he had taken a sabbatical. He needed to clear his head and
Margot was grateful, at first.

Margot followed her friend’s steps to navigate through the typical bureaucratic
experience. She went to military headquarters, stood in lines, presented
credentials, and provided a request form to retrieve the crime summary and
photos. After the normal delay, the clerk provided an additional cover sheet,
flagging the case for censorship, which was also typical. Instructions were
included, stating that the murder was to be linked to heathen sympathizers as an
opportunistic attack on an isolated member of the Church. The publics morbid
curiosity would be satisfied and patriotism would be infused. Only the
preliminary writing remained.

The story was a day old, as the priest had been killed the night before. The
summary remained brief, which again was expected from the military. Details
were the realm of reporters and censors, and solving the crime was secondary to
the military’s intentions. If the real perpetrator were caught, he or she would be
pinned as a sympathizer in the story. A death sentence would ensue and “justice”
served, no matter what the circumstances.

The summary stated that the victim was Reverend Jude Arnett, age forty-two.
The priest didn’t have a rank, and given the location of the St. Erasmus parish,
that wasn’t surprising. The summary went on to describe the death as a result of
fatal lacerations. The incident had occurred in the church sometime after sunset.
The name and address of the person who reported the crime to the military had
also been included, which was rare. Calls were usually made anonymously from
pay phones, another common tactic used to avoid being added to a list.

Apart from the bullet points on the summary and the additional instructions, the
story was skeletal. Margot supposed she could sew it together with embellished
and transparent stitches, but habit took hold of her. She’d pay a visit to the caller,
Mrs. Tamara Stoughnt, and gather a few quotes. St. Erasmus was on the other
side of Capital, which meant traffic would be gridlocked in the usual places and
thick everywhere else. She would waste the remainder of the morning getting
there.

How Margot wished the roads on the Wall were open. It was painful gazing up at
them while stuck in a car and going nowhere. Daydreams played through her
head, likely the same dreams as other drivers in wedged cars, compacted like
bricks. People could speed away on those empty roads above the smog, and trips
would take minutes, instead of hours. Rather than looking and dreaming today,
she should make use of the time. She could write the draft and even peek at the
crime photos, but Margot preferred to delay reviewing the images.
Margot wasn’t disappointed in her expectation, as the freeway was jammed. She
completed her draft, leaving a few blank lines to insert quotes. Mrs. Stoughnt’s
comments were already scripted, but formality insisted that the woman actually
say them. That wouldn’t be a problem, because Margot was a crafty reporter.
Traffic came to a complete stop near the address of the parish because a delivery
truck had overheated and died in the center lane.

The summer had been unusually warm. Strained engines often quit after idling in
traffic and running air conditioners. Long, frustrating minutes would pass before
drivers managed to establish a flow to either side of the stricken vehicle. If a
large stone was dropped into the middle of a stream, the water would part and
merge again behind the sudden obstacle. Unfortunately, human behavior was
less fluid, and drivers sparred to inch in front of each other. Great metal jabs and
feints only produced scratched and dented fenders. Now horns blared as if to
wake the truck from death’s slumber. In the meantime, the folder with the crime
scene photos waited, but Margot hoped to escape looking at them. The story was
essentially complete, and she didn’t need to review them. That had been the plan
from the beginning. Currently, however, she had nothing else to do, and a
modicum of integrity had crept in with the boredom.

The photos were in a pale green folder stamped with the heavy red words
“Evidence,” “Authorized” and “Authorization granted.” Margot’s name had been
handwritten on the line following “Authorized” and the name stamped in
smeared black ink on the line below was presumably the clerk’s superior. Margot
opened the folder with one eye squeezed shut. The photos were black and white
photocopies. She knew they would be, but knowing didn’t desensitize her
enough. Even before looking, Margot knew solicitation for other violent stories
would be few and far between. She would reserve them for tough times, for her
and the victims.

Oddly enough, she was disappointed, because few photos were included; even
then, they were dark and unfocused. A body at the dais of a nondescript
sanctuary could be surmised, and appeared slashed numerous times. The quality
of the copies made it impossible to judge the severity of the attack, but there
were too many cuts to make this just a typical third degree murder. This looked
like a hate crime. There may be truth to the angle that the military hoped to
portray,or this was some crazed or aped intruder, or both. The lacerations likely
resulted when the priest fought and he had no defense. His face, arms, and
clothing were ribboned with a knife as the unarmed priest was attacked. The
crime summary didn’t indicate that a weapon had been found, but there was a lot
of blood. In the photo, it flowed together with shadows, and defining where one
ended and the other began was difficult. Margot was glad the photos were blurry
in that regard.

Something else in the photos puzzled her, as the scene was littered with oblong
black shapes spilled out in a rough circle around the body. The scattered shapes
could have been a tasteless inlaid design for the floor, but that wasn’t quite right.
Suddenly traffic started to move again, as the stone had been removed. Margot
replaced the photos, stacked the folder, summary, and draft, and secreted the
bundle beneath the passenger’s seat. She’d ask Mrs. Stoughnt about the shapes.
She could also look for herself, if she worked up the fortitude. The woman lived
across the street from the church.

Margot knocked on Tamara Stoughnt’s door well past noon. The woman lived in
a tenement house. Her door faced the street, and a hallway and stairwell
connected the building to the other apartments next to her barred entrance. The
asymmetric construction looked like units were added as the old ones readied to
burst. The conjoined dwellings were covered in stuccoes, in a misguided attempt
at unity, but the appearance was that of a tumorous mass, covered with face
powder.

An excited yelp sounded from inside the woman’s apartment. A small dog had
probably been startled, yet the thundering toward the door wasn’t from an animal
that belonged in an apartment. The door swung open inward, as the bars before
the opening stood in place. A short, thin teenage boy bounced inside, wearing a
rumpled yellow t-shirt and blue shorts. The shirt bore a decal of a fuzzy pink
cartoon pig, which resembled the boy. He had a flat nose and tiny ears, and his
squinting eyes were set a little too far apart. A minute passed as the boy and
Margot stared at each other. Margot offered a tentative smile, and the boy’s
mouth dropped open.

“Mama!” he cried. “Mama, a pretty lady’s here! It’s a pretty lady!” The boy
disappeared into the impenetrable shade of the apartment. He repeated himself,
turning it into a song. Margot heard hushing from within and the singing
stopped. An old woman appeared and greeted her.

“You’re right. It is a pretty woman. She looks just like a mermaid.”

Behind the old woman rose hawing laughter. Margot started to blush, but she
held the smile that had started with the boy. The old woman stood at Margot’s
height, just a little shorter than average. Her hair was gray, but once had been the
same hue of blond as Margot’s, only the old woman’s hair color had been
natural. When the woman stepped into daylight, Margot was stunned to see her
face and hands covered in nasty wheals. Her skin glistened with an oily salve,
but the old woman didn’t seem to mind her appearance.

“Hello, can I help you?” the woman asked. She sounded like she had worked her
whole life behind a counter and had taken the polite servitude to heart and
practice.

“Hello,” Margot answered. “I’m Margot Sebash …”

“I’m Tamara Stoughnt,” the old woman cheerfully volunteered. “And the little
boy who ran away is my son Davey.”

Laughter rose again, and Mrs. Stoughnt turned around and sent a warm “shh” to
her child. Margot thought the boy was a grandson or even a foster child; the
latter were taken in for extra money, or “Church charity.” Mrs. Stoughnt looked
too old to have a teenage son. The disbelief must have shown on Margot’s face,
or the woman had grown accustomed to providing an explanation.

“I know, I’m an old woman. He was an accident. But I love him with all my
heart.”

Margot nodded and began again. “I’m Margot Sebash. I’m a reporter …”

“And you heard about Reverend Arnett,” the old woman interrupted again.
Tamara Stoughnt was going to try her patience, so Margot got to the point.

“Yes. I wanted some details. You found the body, isn’t that right?”

The old woman nodded and waved for Margot to step back. “Baby, stay inside
and don’t lock your mother out. I’m going to talk to our friend.”

The bars swung out with a slow creak. Margot sighed. The hottest part of the
afternoon crept upon them, so if the old woman wanted privacy, she would get it.
On wilting days like these, people stayed shut in their dark hovels. The street
was empty except for an occasional car coasting by with the windows up and air
conditioner blowing. Afternoon commuters wandered lost, looking for shortcuts
around busy main routes. Margot asked if the old woman would like to sit in
Margot’s car which. also had air conditioning. Margot’s little red compact,
nicknamed ‘Mariposa’ after the Mariposa Lily, was parked up the block. The old
woman graciously declined.

“I can’t go far without someone looking after my baby. He can get into trouble if
he’s not watched.”

Mrs. Stoughnt brought a scarf to drape over her head. The floral patterned cloth
partially covered her eyes, although she still had to use her hand to shield them
against the light. The afternoon was too bright, even though Margot still wore
her sunglasses. The pair took a short walk to the curb.

“Do you mind if I ask you what happened?” Margot asked, unable to restrain
herself any longer. “It looks like you were bitten - a lot.”

The old woman “tsk’d” her hands as she held them out before her and rotated
her wrists. “I’ll tell you. It happened when I found Reverend Arnett.”

A second minor mystery pended; the objects or marks on the floor, and now the
bites. None of these miscellaneous facts would find their way into Margot’s
story. These were superfluous details, outside the bounds of the censors,
therefore struck from any submission. The story was already written anyway, but
Margot had grown curious. Before she could prompt the old woman to continue,
the story went on.

“I was coming back from work down the street. I dust a few of the shops for
cash. I can’t work at the factory because I have to be home most of the time with
Davey. The owners at the strip mall are nice. They don’t really need me, but the
shelves do get dusty.”

“Mrs. Stoughnt,” Margot intervened. “It’s warm out here.”

The old woman took the interruption in stride. She may not have even heard it.
Tamara used Margot’s prodding as a convenient spot to pause and take a breath.
“Well, it was after curfew and I had to sneak back home. The church is on my
way to our place. I thought I’d stop there to catch my breath and wait for the
patrol to pass before I got home to Davey. Sometimes they can be so mean to an
old woman. My neighbors will watch Davey sometimes if I fix us all dinner.”
A smile spread across the old woman’s face. She enjoyed living in this
neighborhood, even though Margot wanted to get back to Mariposa, for fear of it
being stolen, as much as for the cool air. Questions had to be asked, though. This
time she did rudely interrupt the old woman with a question, interjected in the
middle of the blathering about kind neighbors.

“Where is the church? I thought you lived close by.”

“Oh, it’s right there,” the old woman pointed across the street. A tent, or more so
a tented building, sat between two large, low warehouses. The building was
about two stories tall, although the distorting thick, vertical blue and white
stripes on the canvas made accuracy difficult to judge. St. Erasmus was a flat
rectangle. There weren’t any steeples or buttresses as Margot was accustomed to
seeing on the mediocre churches where she had lived and gone to school.

“They covered it when the fumigators started working. They had to kill the
flies.”

Margot’s curiosity twisted to confusion. She opened her mouth and got her
answer before asking.

“They came out of nowhere, after Father Arnett was killed. They were nasty and
biting, and they were big. I’ve never seen flies like them. They must live in the
desert, eating carrion.”

“Please, start at the beginning,” Margot insisted. She had a feeling that a timeline
needed to be established or the story would become convoluted quickly.

“I was coming home from my work when I stopped at the church. The doors
were always open late into the night after curfew. Reverend Arnett was a night
owl. Bless him, although he never welcomed company for long. Before I
reached the stoop, I heard him screaming. I thought he was being tortured. It was
the way he screamed.”

The old woman’s face went pale, making the angry blemishes stand out like
neon in the shadow of her scarf. “It was horrible! When I opened the door, there
was blood everywhere. Reverend Arnett was stripped to the bone!”

Margot knew the last part wasn’t true, as she had seen the photos. The incident
was embellished on its way to becoming a ghost story for scaring children back
into their homes at sunset. Still, Margot would not contradict the old woman.
She wanted to avoid bickering over details, for the sake of expedience.

“And there were feathers, like a whirlwind.”

“Feathers?” These were the shapes in the photos. Margot almost asked Mrs.
Stoughnt if she knew what they meant.

“I think it was the devil,” the old woman gushed.

“Please, go on.” Mrs. Stoughnt’s comment dissuaded her from asking about the
feathers, and it appeared she couldn’t get into the building to look. A tour of the
crime scene wasn’t necessary. Besides, Margot realized the blood would still be
there with feathers. That stomach-turning vision and resulting sleepless nights,
could be happily avoided.

“I wanted to run home, but I used the church’s phone and then I went outside
and called for help. The patrol was right there. A little while after that, an
ambulance came. Then the flies.” The old woman took a breath and moved her
hand to cross herself shoulder to hip. She was very orthodox. “They were big,
and black and white like bees, but their stripes went the wrong way.”

Mrs. Stoughnt motioned up and down with the hand she used to cross herself.
“They went for the blood. I swear, I could hear them lap it up.”

The description made Margot feel ill. She battled against conjuring up the sound.
Her imagination could disquiet her at times. The hot weather proved to be an
adequate distraction. She dabbed at perspiration on her face with a tissue from
her purse.

“They started to bite me and the photographer. It was as if the blood on the floor
wasn’t fresh enough for them. They wanted living blood, right from the vein!”

“Mrs. Stoughnt, please.”

“I’m sorry, honey. But that’s what happened. Well, the men from the ambulance
put on their coats and wrapped up their faces. They pulled what was left of
Reverend Arnett out and stuck him into a bag right outside. Then they left. I told
the patrol what I saw and they let me go home. I told them I was coming home
from work. I wasn’t as quick as I was when I was your age. That’s why I was out
after dark.”

Margot had enough. She would omit the quotes and submit the story as it was
written in the summary. The report would be accepted, since it was already
exactly what the military wanted.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stoughnt. I’ll need to get back to headquarters.”

“You do believe me,” the old woman stated. “About the devil. I won’t set foot
into that church until the new priest arrives. Reverend Arnett was a good man.
He prayed to the Mortal God. He commanded miracles to make Davey normal.
That’s why the devil killed him. Out of jealousy.”

Margot nodded. She was religious, but at the same time, educated and rational.
The beliefs that miracles were produced upon command, and the existence of a
malevolent force envious of man’s authority over God, were pedestrian Church
fables for children and the despondent. The second case probably applied to
Tamara Stoughnt. Margot wanted to withhold judgment. Although she noted, not
so deep inside, this was an example of what separated the castes. She was
Chosen and this woman was UnChosen. Margot told herself the difference was a
matter of privilege and education. She was glad to have both.

“Thank you,” she repeated. “I have to go. Goodbye.”

“Yes, take care. Goodbye.”

Margot returned to her car, started the engine, and cranked the air. The instant
coolness felt wonderful. She sat back, relished the air, and flapped her blouse’s
collar. As she turned away from the curb, she looked back to see Mrs. Stoughnt
trying the handle and rapping on her apartment door. She had been locked out,
despite the instructions to Davey. Margot was certain the retarded boy thought
the trick was the funniest thing since the last time he had locked his mother out.

Enough time in the day remained to type the story and return to military
headquarters for submission. Reporting was much like transcription work.
Reporters translated the handwritten scribbles on summaries into typed pages,
which were later read on the radio. The summary and photos required being
returned as they were presented, or the story would be rejected. Margot would be
subjected to a prying investigation into her personal affairs, followed by an
extensive audit of previously submitted work. The process was crippling, and
that couldn’t happen to her again.

Putting aside the old woman’s assumption that the devil murdered the priest, the
culprit was still unknown. The summary reported nothing had been taken, or at
least, the meager donations and ornamentation were untouched. No proclamation
or threat associated with heathen sympathizers had been left at the scene; yet
there were the feathers.

This may be some crazy killer with an unconventional calling card. Margot
flirted with the idea to follow up similar incidents. If this was a serial killer,
someone who hated priests, and not an opportunist stealing in through open
doors looking for a few valuables, it could be a real story. The censors would not
twist facts into sugary nonsense if a manhunt ensued. That would be
counterproductive to finding the perpetrator. Margot now became the ideal
candidate for the assignment. She had staked her claim for being there first. All
she had to do was identify a trend and play by the rules. She grew so excited, she
planned on skipping the pile of transcription work. The forms were due
tomorrow morning. Missing their deadline would cause trouble. Some serious
thought would need to go into her hopeful plan.
4 Trespass
Night had arrived by the time the Cortras brothers crawled in from the low
desert. Time stretched long and thin in the emptiness. It snapped back at the first
signs of civilization, with the sudden setting of the sun. Now that the wilderness
was behind them, under the cover of darkness, the trip became substantially
cooler. Hen fell asleep a few hours after the stranger’s rescue from certain death.
The Cortras brothers called him Ben. They tried the name on him for size and it
fit; the stranger looked like a Ben. The suitcase full of clothes lay on the floor,
underneath Ben’s knees. The army boots Ben wore were working against his
upcoming assumed identity. That is, if he accepted their hastily planned scheme
to get into the Cap. Hen had neglected to take the priest’s shoes; Hen rebuked
himself for overlooking the detail. Nothing could be done about it now, so he
didn’t concern his brother with the oversight. He mentally kicked himself
enough for the both of them. The brothers were exhausted, so they didn’t need to
fight over the stranger’s boots until later. They could win their escape from
worry and the heat through sleep.

The trio reached the encampment past midnight. The drive was uneventful, as if
they were the only souls stranded on a blasted world. Dil got what he had hoped
for, which was no confrontation with suspicious patrols or more desert
wanderers. As luck would have it, they appropriated enough fuel to cover the
stretch, and then some. The only task now was to stay under the radar, as the Cap
couldn’t be entered before dawn. The Wall was secured at its gates from sunset
to sunrise, completely locked down. Besides, their new friend Ben needed
briefing. Dil found a liquor store at the outskirts of the encampment. The place
looked like it never closed. The owner didn’t have a choice, as three battered tin
walls and a canvas flap were all that stood between the merchandise and a world
of thieves. The twenty-four hour service ran for security, rather than
convenience. A young man in a loose t-shirt and cut-off jeans sold Dil three tall
bottles of water. The travelers needed it, especially Ben.

Hen had passed part of the drive dripping the last of their water into Ben’s open
mouth. Ben swallowed and spit reflexively. The stranger appeared semi-
conscious at the time, but Hen couldn’t tell. Ben needed a constant supply of
water to bring him back to the world of the living, and he’d get it, awake or not.
Hen told his brother he had heard from migrants about nursing badly dehydrated
people who had crossed the desert on foot in the winter.

The Shur remained dry and inhospitable, no matter the season. The brothers had
plenty of opportunity to talk to migrants during day jobs. The only taboo subject
was the heathen, although the brothers must have rubbed shoulders with more
heathens and their sympathizers than they cared to know.

Dil returned to the truck with the water. With his free hand, Dil pulled his dozing
brother off Ben. Despite the heat still radiating from the stranger, Hen had rolled
on top of him in his sleep. Hen woke after being righted, but stayed drowsy.

“Where are we?” Hen slurred.

“The encampment.”

Hen slid over to dangle his legs out the open door on the driver’s side. Dil
handed him a bottle of water. The brothers opened their bottles and drank, and
quietly observed their surroundings. Hen shook off the haze of slumber. Coyotes
yipped their questions in the near distance. The yelps of the wild canines and
hum of an electrical generator from the liquor shack were the only sounds. The
relative peace was a welcome change from the whistling wind that the trio
experienced as they sped through the desert.

“I’m hungry, Dil.” The statement sounded empty.

“Yeah. They got nothing at the store. We can wait until the sun comes up.”

Ben groaned, and the complaint made the brothers jump. Hen twisted in his seat,
while Dil strolled slowly around the truck to the passenger side window. A
suspicious gaze locked him and the young store clerk together. They watched
each other out of familiarity with the kind of folks meeting at the edge of towns
in the middle of the night. There wasn’t malice, only caution. Dil broke the stare
and turned to the waking stranger.

“Hey,” Dil said. “Are you waking up?”

Ben’s head hurt and his face was swollen. His nose was filled and pinched shut.
He snorted, but the blockage didn’t clear. “Who?” he asked. His voice didn’t
crackle this time, but his throat was still dry.
Dil held out the last bottle to the stranger. He tried his best to sound friendly and
tough simultaneously. “I asked you first.”

Ben took the bottle. The container was heavy in his parched and weakened state,
but he needed the water. Ben strained to break the seal of the plastic cap. The
snap eventually echoed through the stillness. Because of the demanding thirst, he
remembered where he’d been. He forced himself to sip the water carefully and
then he finally spoke.

“Ben.”

“Yeah!” Hen exclaimed. The shout reverberated into the distance, bouncing off
unseen walls. Hen smiled through his brother’s disapproving gaze.

“Okay. We need to talk about that,” Dil said, placing his hands against the door
and leaning forward. Now that the moment had arrived, he wasn’t sure how to
proceed. He hoped the stranger would take the initiative. “Hen, go ahead and
give him the wallet.”

The younger brother wrangled the wallet from his pocket, along with the
envelope. He handed the items to Ben. A purple lump on Hen’s forehead
momentarily distracted Ben.

“I’m Hen. My brother’s name is Dil.”

Ben accepted the wallet and the envelope, but neither looked familiar. The empty
wallet only contained ID cards. Ben pulled them out and tilted the cards into the
dim light from the liquor shack. “A priest?” Benedict Ishkott was his name. Here
it was, printed on foreign IDs. The identical names were maybe an odd
coincidence, but Ben, in person, wasn’t a priest. He was…he couldn’t remember.

Scattered memories of the desert and a priest in a white car floated in a sparse
sea. Before the desert, he remembered mundane events, such as shaving,
shitting, and an occasional shower. He recalled a childhood memory from when
he was five years old. He had caught pneumonia that went untreated, because his
parents lacked money for a doctor. Ben wound up in intensive care after he
stopped breathing and spent two weeks in a hospital on Church charity. But Ben
couldn’t remember the years that led him to whatever role he played now. The
lack of memories was like walking through the home in which he grew up and
looking through the rooms, but a room was missing. A wall existed where there
was once a door, with no evidence that an entrance ever existed.

Ben opened the folded envelope; more mystery was stuffed inside. This Benedict
Ishkott had been ordered to a parish in Capital. Ben looked at the brothers, Dil
and Hen. They had saved his life, although he still felt he was about to fall back
into the dirt. Yet he could still afford to trust them. How did that belief go?
Cultures had mangled the saying but it went something like the brothers were
now responsible for him, or he owed them some equal service. Either way, an
implication of being bound together existed. The idea sat with bony knees and
elbows in his throat. Ben remembered always being alone, and purposely so.
Self-reliance may have led him into the desert in the first place, before events
turned for the worse. Yet, he may have wanted that, too. At the last moment,
delirium could have driven him to the road - or the voice pushed him.

The voice was gone now, as was the ringing. Only the thirst remained, but the
bottle was empty. The brother named Dil didn’t offer more.

“Where are we?” Ben repeated Hen’s question.

“The encampment,” Hen answered, feeling privileged for being the very latest
informed. “So what do you think?”

“Think about what?”

“We were thinking you’d take us into the Cap. More like, we’d take you and
you’d get us in.” Dil wanted to tell it straight, before Hen could twist the idea
with his lack of forethought.

“These will get me in.” Ben made the observation. He couldn’t think of a reason
he’d want to get into Capital, but he had no other place to go and he felt a
strange compulsion to try. Still, he needed more information before he could
agree with the pending decision.

“What would we do if we get in? Why do we want to?” These were genuine
questions.

Dil crossed his arms as Hen shrugged his shoulders. Dil caught the obtuse
gesture and shot his brother a smoldering glance. Hen shrugged his shoulders
again, this time raising his open palms starward. Ben turned to see that Dil
disapproved. Ben moved slowly, as every muscle was rigid and achy. Hen
assumed a neutral posture, hands on hips, and head turned downward. He had
played the same game with his brother since they were kids.

“We thought you might have a reason,” Dil said.

Ben might, but that was still unknown. Getting through the Wall would be taking
a big risk. The IDs didn’t bear a picture or rank. This was as anonymous and
hassle-free as someone could get with a false identity, as a priest of no
importance. Ben strung events together to deduce the IDs belonged to the priest
in the white car. Now that Ben had them, things must not have turned out well
for the man. Ben recalled something about a heart attack; he was curiously
concerned by his disregard. Pilfering IDs and sneaking past checkpoints seemed
ordinary, even comfortable.

“We can go to the parish,” Hen piped up. It was merely a matter of time before
he finally chimed in.

“Hen,” Dil attempted to quiet him.

“Why not? That’s where he’s supposed to be, ain’t it? It’s not like the other guy
is going to come knocking on the door, wanting his stuff back.”

“But his superiors might,” Dil countered.

“Well, where else are we going to go? We never went to the Cap before.” Hen
made the obvious and valid point. Curfew also needed to be considered. The
plan grew less viable with each step. That’s the way the younger Cortras
brother’s schemes usually went. They were bound to fall apart, due to myopic
vision.

“Okay,” Dil said, including Ben in the plan. “Here’s what we’ll do. We go in and
check it out. If it looks bad and we can’t find a place to stay, we’ll leave before
sunset. We’ll stay in the encampment.”

Ben looked down at his bare and raw chest. “My clothes.”

“At your feet. Check it out.” Hen hadn’t stopped smiling since giving Ben his
name. The smile grew wider each time he had something to say. Ben leaned
forward to see a suitcase that he also didn’t recognize. His body screamed and
pushed him back. All his muscles were still too tired and sore, so reaching for
the case was out of the question. He would wait for morning to open the case,
after some of the stiffness receded. The Cortras brothers had put a lot of thought
into the construction of their plan. Many of the pieces went into the right places,
but Ben wouldn’t make up his mind yet. He was still exhausted and had a lot of
missing pieces of his own to find.

“Let me think about it.” Ben closed his eyes.

The brothers finished their water. Hen exclaimed, “Oh!” and pointed as if
noticing the liquor shack for the first time. Dil recognized the thin disguise of
spontaneity. Hen used the tactic when he wanted to make a proposal, but
couldn’t find the appropriate time or words.

“How about we get something, to celebrate.”

Dil couldn’t argue with the desire. “All right, but we gotta make our money last.
Give me some of yours.”

“Aw, Dil,” Hen said grudgingly, and handed over a few bills.

“Ben,” Dil called. “You want something? More water?”

“Yes,” Ben answered, never opening his eyes.

Dil returned with a cheap bottle of wine, bearing the label “Yowling Cat.” The
wine tasted like grape-flavored cat piss, straight from a feline with a yeast
infection. The proof made up for the taste, as the Cortras brothers said. The
inexpensive wine was their preferred juice, totally lacking any essential
vitamins. Dil screwed off the metal cap. He offered the first swig to Ben, but he
refused, shaking his head. Dil gave Ben another bottle of water, instead. Dil then
took a long drink in one swallow, as his face twisted into a pucker. He passed the
bottle to Hen.

Ben gulped half his bottle of water immediately and then capped it. Swallowing
felt like drinking marbles. He wanted more, but he had to save it until he felt like
relieving himself. He needed his organs to soak up the moisture like a sponge in
a bucket, only from the inside out. Fluids needed to start flowing again.

The wine was gone within the hour. The brothers slowed when their stomachs
began burning and the grape acid crept up their throats again. The alcohol did its
work; it had strange affects on the two. Hen grew quiet, and Dil, more
adventurous. He attempted to start a conversation with the young man in the t-
shirt, but the clerk silently brushed aside Dil’s animated monologue about
shoplifting.

Interaction entailed only making sales, not friends. He’d seen enough of their
likes when working late. Trouble chased strangers to drink on the fringes of the
shack’s pathetic fluorescent glow. Trouble must have caught up to most, since
they were never seen again. Dil was accustomed to the lack of banter. People
never felt like talking when he did, or at least when Dil drank. He went back to
Ben.

“You know, there was a heathen camp outside Gomorrah that got hit.” Dil
retained enough discretion to avoid asking what he really wanted to know. “It
wasn’t long after that, we found you out there.”

Dil made a wide gesture with his arm. He wasn’t pointing out a specific location
and the arc of his limb seemed to indicate a path to nowhere. Hen sat on the
running board at the driver’s side, holding the empty wine bottle. When Dil
drank, he had a tendency to go too far with teasing. Usually, he just turned mean.
Hen learned to sit quietly when the drinking started and avoid Dil after a certain
point of intoxication. Dil liked it that way. No talking back, just listening, which
was fine with Ben.

“What were you doing out there without a pack?” Dil asked, knowing he may be
reaching for too much. Ben shook his head.

“You know, when a man is generous, like saving somebody, favors are usually
expected.” Dil realized this was too excessive. He had pushed his luck. If this
man were Drystani, Dil better stop while his comments were still broad and
optionally unanswered. But Ben nodded; Dil thought he understood the motion.
They were going into Capital. The decision resulted from a nagging in the back
of Ben’s mind. There wasn’t a hope or expectation, only a compulsion.

The remainder of the night was short. None of them had slept for more than a
few hours, including the young storekeeper. The liquor shack stood closer to the
encampment’s jumble of ramshackle huts and adobe walls than expected. A pink
light bathed the slum, making the adobe look furry. Much of the place still slept,
while scattered waking sounds punctured the quiet. Car engines idled or
sputtered to death. Loose and wild dogs barked at random distractions. Ben felt
better when he woke soon after the brothers. They jostled him while rummaging
through the cab of the truck and Hen apologized.

“We’re taking a look at what we brought with us,” Hen explained.

“And for contraband,” Dil clarified. “We’ll probably be searched at the Wall.
You don’t have anything, do you?”

Ben patted his pockets, knowing there wasn’t anything in them. He assumed Dil
meant weapons, drugs, or both.

“I already looked through the suitcase, Dil,” Hen reported. “Nothing except
clothes, like I said.”

“Speaking of which, maybe you ought to put ‘em on,” Dil suggested.

Ben looked at the suitcase, which lay unlatched on the seat beside him. He was
sore, but could move. The clothing didn’t offer any variety, just black slacks and
white collarless shirts. These were a priest’s everyday attire, but he still sorted
through the case. Ben anticipated the younger Cortras brother had already
confiscated any valuables, but whether he shared them with his brother or not
was something Ben didn’t know. He suspected Hen was the sort of fellow who
wouldn’t, at first, but eventually he would show the prize to Dil. The two acted
like brothers, as a complement of motion and thinking played between them.

Ben made his selection, which was simple, considering the lack of choice.
Uniformity had that going for it. He debated with pulling the clothes on while he
sat in the truck, but then he spied a spigot set in a flat pile of stones. Mud
surrounded the mound like a newly drained moat. Ben could stand there to wash
the dirt off. He liked the idea of lying on the stones and letting the water shower
over him. He would have to make due with what was available, and do it
quickly. A sense of urgency radiated from the brothers. Stepping out of the truck,
Ben felt as if the joints in his legs would snap. He bent them and his knees
popped loudly. He dropped awkwardly to the ground and stretched,with the shirt
and pants tucked under his arm.

Ben drained the remainder of the water from last night and still craved more. He
began to think that the thirst would never be satisfied. He carried the plastic
bottle to the pump with him. The only waking souls still around were just the
brothers, and presumably the storekeeper. The shack was dark, now that the sun
had risen, and the fluorescent light was off. The young man could be just inside
the shadows, lurking or snoozing. Ben caught himself scrutinizing shadows, like
those in the shack. Ben didn’t know what he watched for, but was compelled to
check anyway.

At the pump, he relieved himself absentmindedly. He pulled off his boots and
banged them together to knock off the dirt. He placed them on the ground with
the loosely folded clothes on top. The stones around the spigot were hazardous.
Ben balanced on them with bare feet as he jerked the pump’s handle. The
movement rocked him back and forth on his perch. The water soon flowed and
Ben drank until the stream slowed to a trickle and stopped. The taste was
coppery, so he had to prime the pump again to get more.

Ben primed the pump half a dozen times before he was done. He splashed
handful after handful of water over himself. Bathing never felt as good as it did
then, even though he shivered a little from the cold water. The chill was glorious.
When Ben finished, he shook the droplets from his feet before hopping over the
mud moat. Still wet, but drying fast due to the stark lack of humidity, he pulled
on the shirt. It felt like pushing through a patch of nettles. The polyester blend
stung his damaged skin and made him suck in his breath through clenched teeth.
At least the long sleeves would protect his arms from further burning, and the
shirt hung loosely, away from his body. He stretched out his hands; the redness
and swelling made them look like thick, bright gloves. He could only imagine
the impression his face would make. If there had been pictures on the IDs, his
cooked mug would have disguised him well.

Ben peeled off his soaked pants. For a moment, only the tail of his shirt left him
unexposed. It didn’t matter, as he could have bathed naked, with no one around
to object. However, modesty demanded that he pull on the black slacks quickly.
Even with the shirt tucked in, the waist was still too wide, but at least the inseam
length fit. The new Benedict Ishkott had lost a little weight and had gotten a tan;
but he wouldn’t recommend his spa.

A belt with strained notches had been packed in the suitcase. Ben put on his
boots and laced them up. The pant legs weren’t cut for the boots, so he had to
roll the legs over the tops. Ben had filled the plastic bottle, drunk its contents,
and filled it again before going back to the truck. Ben gathered the excess waist
in a bunch, and left the old pants where he dropped them. Ben decided to locate
the belt.

A piece of graffiti on a tin wall of the liquor shack caught his eye. A cross had
been spray painted on the building, a red lopsided “X.” Two long additional lines
ran through the vertex, one vertical and the other, horizontal. The Chosen called
it the Star of Lucifer. They claimed the hieroglyphic was a heathen symbol, but
Ben knew the actual meaning. The mark was defilement and rejection of Church
icons. Pubescent vandals were more apt to scrawl the corrupted cross than
heathens. Ben didn’t understand why the cross caught his eye, as he’d seen them
hundreds of times in places just like these. He remembered frequenting many
slums, although the extent of his travels was still unclear. The graffiti wasn’t
important, but the fact that the Star of Lucifer was so close to Capital struck him
as ironic. But then again, looking around, it was perfectly natural to expect to see
it here. What better place?

The Cortras brothers waited in the truck. Dil thrummed his fingers against the
dash. Ben fastened his new belt and climbed inside. Dil tried turning the engine.
At first nothing happened, but with a few more attempts accentuated by curses,
the truck came alive. The three entered the encampment proper. There were no
roads, just worn paths weaving around makeshift dwellings and temporary walls.
The city survived in this respect. Where a building had been leveled, a road
instantly continued, and when a denizen decided to erect a shanty in the middle
of the street, a new twist was added or the path simply came to a dead end.
Visitors and natives alike were forced to slowly peck their way through to
wherever they were going. There was no guarantee the route taken the day
before, would exist tomorrow.

Exploration included a lot of back tracking. There were few vehicles so early in
the morning, but that would soon change. The lack of traffic signs created havoc.
Two-way streets suddenly became one way. The flow of traffic became crippled
when someone decided the best place to park was just where he or she happened
to be at that moment. Passive-aggressive dueling was another experience that life
offered in the encampment. The three men were spared the battle over right of
way. The smell of cooking meat and beans greeted them after a few turns into
the city. A mobile open grill stood in the middle of road. The cart rested on hard,
cracked rubber wheels, as a mobile business. An older couple worked together
preparing meat and eggs; she did the cutting and breaking eggs, while he
cooked.
“There, Dil,” Hen pointed, even though it sat obtrusively ahead.

“I know. That’s where we’re going.”

“You’re hungry, right?” Hen asked Ben.

Ben nodded. He wasn’t, but knew some food would be good for him. Dil let the
truck run while they all got out.

“Hen, get me something. I’ll stay with the truck.” Dil could have shouted his
order to the couple, but didn’t like the idea of turning his back with the engine
running and the streets beginning to fill. He was afraid to turn it off. The brothers
couldn’t risk being stranded, if the truck didn’t want to start again.

“Yeah.” Hen was agreeable.

Ben and Hen approached the couple. They stopped cooking and stared at Ben.
Hen forced a quizzical frown. He stared back at the couple, at Ben, and at the
couple again. Hunger fed his annoyance. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, sorry,” the woman instantly replied.

“Sorry,” the man reiterated.

“It’s just that we’ve never seen a priest in the encampment,” she explained.

“What?” Hen stated in disbelief. He didn’t accept the excuse for the lack of
prompt and friendly service.

“Plenty of patrols, just not priests,” the man said.

“Never mind that. What have you got here?” Hen had already peeled off some
money.

“What you see and tortillas. No salsa, but we have spices.” The man pointed at a
metal rack hanging over the grill. The assortment included ground peppers, salt,
and other shakers with colored dust. Hen couldn’t tell what they were.

“Alright,” Hen commented, preparing to order. Then he called over to Dil, “How
about breakfast burritos?”
Dil curled his thumb and forefinger into an “OK” sign.

“Just put some beans and eggs into tortillas, five of ‘em,” Hen instructed. “Wait,
how many do you want?” he asked Ben.

“One.”

“Five,” Hen said, holding up splayed fingers, his thumb tucked into his palm.

The man poured broken eggs into a skillet and scrambled them. The woman
spoke to Ben as the man tended the frying.

“Are you alright?” the woman asked, noting Ben’s face and hands.

“We found him broke down in the Shur. He’d be dead if we didn’t save him,”
Hen practiced their story. “We’re taking him to the Cap.”

“All right, Hen,” Dil interrupted.

The old man handed the burritos to Hen in nothing but their tortillas.

“They’re free. It’s for the priest,” the woman said. The man had reached for the
money Hen offered, but let his hand drop, smiling close-lipped, yet agreeably.

“Thanks!” Hen smiled back, bouncing as he turned to his brother.

“Reverend, will you command the Mortal God for us?” the woman asked Ben.
He waited silently.

“Have him send us money and health. Oh, and a car.”

Ben felt loathing stir in his heart. These were common prayers of the UnChosen,
and such requests were even encouraged by the Church. Something was
fundamentally wrong, as Ben couldn’t justify his feelings. The idea of a wish-
fulfilling god in the flesh, killed by people in a show of preeminence, was
warped. Ben remembered that his disguise promoted this horrid theology, so he
nodded.

“Are we ready to go?” Dil asked assertively.

Hen had already finished his first burrito and started his second. The others
formed a stack in his free hand. Ben stepped into the truck and took his
breakfast. Both he and Dil nibbled as the group hunted for the other side of the
encampment and the Wall.

“We’re all doing this, right?” Dil garnered agreement.

“Yeah,” Hen answered, then turned to Ben. The question was actually directed to
the stranger. “Right?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll vouch for us, if it comes to that. We get into the Cap and you can even
go your own way.”

Ben’s way was their way until more of the recent past returned to him. Part of
his brain must have fried in the desert during his transitory bout of insanity.

This was it. Past the northern edge of the encampment, behind the curled rolls of
razor wire fences, stood a sign.

“You are now approaching Capital,” the notice read. “Admittance through
verification only. Identification must be presented at gate.”

The travelers were subject to the posting with its smaller print the second they
passed the wire fence. Turning back would attract attention and a patrol would
be dispatched. All roads to Capital were clearly visible from the Wall. The empty
plain sloped gently downward and away for three hundred meters. The Wall
literally looked down upon the encampment.

The Wall itself was more like a dam in appearance and function. The base was
much thicker than the top. The barrier incorporated the hills that had originally
wrapped the city-state, though less completely, The hillsides facing away from
Capital had been sheered away. The construction used the mined rock. The Wall
was circular. No matter which gate was approached, that section of the barrier
bowed out. An ocean interrupted the Wall from completely encircling Capital.

Ben had never seen a body of water larger than a pond in an oasis. He had never
been out of the desert. The ocean was said to be as large as the desert and deep
as the sky. A strange agoraphobia frightened Ben from being curious. The fear
seemed recently formed, and the desert still felt safe. That’s where he’d been all
his life. The desert presented ground to stand on.

A quarter way up the Wall, at about three or four stories, the infrastructure could
be spotted. Observation windows and machine gun nests cut evenly spaced holes
in the smooth surface. A pair of binoculars was undoubtedly trained on the lone,
shoddy truck at the fence. The direction of its movement was the only thing that
distinguished it from the motley composition of the encampment. Dil tossed his
second burrito out the window. He didn’t feel like eating any more.

“No turning back now,” Dil proclaimed.

They moved into the perimeter. The dirt road rolled up to pavement. The truck
bumped over the transition. Shocks creaked as the truck rocked. Waist-high signs
stood like sentinels just off the road. “Danger. Mines.” Hen gazed across the
plain. Only leveled dirt was visible, but Hen still looked. The straight road in the
featureless terrain echoed the trip through the desert, except in one respect. An
uneasy feeling that their identities were being scrutinized replaced the
comfortable sense of anonymity. The drive was going to be shorter than Dil
would have liked. Arrival at the gate couldn’t be postponed. As much as Dil
wanted otherwise, he wasn’t going to slow down and attract undue attention.

“Hey,” Hen said halfway to the gate. “What if they know what the priest or
Drystani look like?”

Dil suppressed his nervousness reasonably well. Leave it to his little brother to
find a way to rattle him.

“Hen, we can’t go back. Stick to the plan and shut your mouth.”

Ben recognized the name Drystani. He tilted unconsciously toward Hen when he
heard it spoken. Did these two think he was a heathen terrorist? He knew he was
Ben Ishkott, just not the one ordered to St. Erasmus in Capital. The brothers
were in a desperate spot if they were playing games with someone they believed
was Ilu Drystani. Ben hoped there were no hidden agendas. It would be a
horrible turn of luck if he were passed off as a terrorist in exchange for a reward.
He would have fared just as well stranded in the desert. Wearing a priest’s
clothes certainly wouldn’t help. The brothers would have to be held at their
word. The time to turn back had passed.

They couldn’t possibly think that taking someone they thought was Drystani
straight to the gates of Capital could work, even in hope of collecting a
handsome reward. They had to know that was suicide. If the military didn’t
shoot them all outright, the heathens would mark the brothers in vengeance for
their martyr. Dil was correct on the one account; the near future was set. Waiting
for it was like a falling man holding out hope against death, the moment before
meeting the ground.

A solitary stop sign loomed a few steps from a lowered gate, which was a large
metal arm locked between two concrete columns. Dil stopped the truck before
the double yellow lines on the road. A single armed soldier came out of the Wall
to meet them. He wasn’t alone with his folding stock H830 automatic rifle.
Within the tunnel where he sprang from, a number of similarly equipped
shadows shifted. There were gun nests carved into the Wall. The nests at either
side pointed barrels of monstrous machines in their direction. The design of the
guns made it impossible to see if they were manned until the target was in a
gun’s sight. Still, the truck would be cut to shrapnel at any sign of trouble.

“Stop the vehicle and get out,” the soldier instructed. He trained his rifle on Dil.

Dil took the keys from the ignition and swung open his door. “We were taking
…”

“Shut up. Get out. Put your hands on your heads.”

All three slid out of the truck and followed the soldier’s instructions. The soldier
scanned the inside of the cab. He looked at Ben. “Is that yours?” he pointed at
the suitcase with his rifle. “What’s in it?”

“Clothes.”

“Do you have anything else?”

“We weren’t planning on staying,” Dil answered the soldier. The rifle went to
Dil’s face. Obviously the solider was not asking Dil.

The soldier twirled his hand in the air. Three more soldiers marched forward.
They wore brown field uniforms with the requisite black and white name and
rank patches. Their boots were polished and in much better condition than Ben’s.
When the soldiers moved, telling them apart was difficult. Duty at the Wall must
call for a strict physique, and specific hair and eye color.
Ben never tried to assign soldiers personal identities anyway. He didn’t want to
disappoint the military when it tried so gallantly to create an impression of
uniformity. Two soldiers stepped forward and patted down the travelers, one by
one. Ben brought the envelope with him, holding it in his hand. When the
soldiers got to him, one asked if the papers were orders, and Ben confirmed that
they were. The coffin’s lid was nearly nailed shut. The soldier who asked, waved
off the others.

“May I see them and some ID?”

Ben handed over the envelope, then carefully reached for the wallet in his back
pocket and produced the IDs.

“Reverend Benedict Ishkott?”

“Yes.”

“Please wait here, sir.” The soldier’s demeanor immediately changed. The other
soldiers lowered their rifles. The soldier who had been asking Ben questions,
disappeared back into the tunnel with the orders and IDs, and another soldier
followed him. The brothers continued holding their hands to their heads as Ben
stood with his arms dropped. Hen chewed his bottom lip. Ben could see bits of
black beans stuck between his small teeth.

The soldier who had been asking the questions returned, led by a sergeant. His
large chevrons on his uniform’s sleeves and a small gray mustache distinguished
him from the others. He carried Ben’s ill-gotten orders and IDs.

The sergeant saluted Ben. He didn’t wait for Ben to return it, before dropping his
hand. “Reverend Benedict Ishkott, I’m Sergeant Meshonne.” He handed the
documents back to Ben. “We are a little surprised to see you. We found your
automobile.”

Hen visibly paled. Ben suspected the blood rushed from his face, too, but the
burns wouldn’t betray him. If they found the sedan, they would have found the
priest. Ben and the Cortras brothers should have been face down and dead in the
dirt by now, executed on the spot. Whatever was happening, Ben played along.

“If you would pardon me, sir, by the looks of you, our suspicions were not far
off.”
“We found him!” Hen exclaimed. The soldiers snapped their rifles up again at
the sudden excitement. The eyes of both Cortras brother opened so wide that
they formed perfect white orbs dotted with black circles. A look of disdain for
the brothers hovered on the sergeant’s face.

“Where are you coming from?” the sergeant asked.

“The encampment,” Dil answered, trying to assume control.

“I didn’t ask you.” The sergeant went to Hen. The soldier was shorter, but
tougher, many times over. “Where are you taking the Reverend?”

Dil held his breath. He prayed Hen would stick to the story and be as brief as
possible.

“To his parish. We found him in the desert when we were coming from
Gomorrah.”

The sergeant considered this and spit. “Why did you leave Gomorrah?”

Hen was alone with the question. Thinking up a back-story had been an
oversight. They couldn’t say they were running away, because running people
were troublemakers. They certainly wouldn’t be allowed to hide in the Cap.
Patrols would flush them out of the encampment if Hen made that their
destination. Newcomers were tolerated if the military was reasonably convinced
they’d actually lived there since the day they were born. This was despite the
unchecked growth of the encampment that flew in the face of such claims. Dil
redoubled his prayers.

“We were looking for Drystani. We were going to collect the reward. We figured
he’d be in bad shape after that raid we heard about on the radio.”

Now Dil went pale. He didn’t expect Hen to concoct such a far-fetched cover.
Dil mentally prepared for detainment. Eventually the truth would come out and
they may even be sent back to Gomorrah, unless there was more to the story
about the military finding the priest’s car. Dil made the same nervous connection
as Ben.

The sergeant howled in laughter. The baying spooked the two soldiers, who held
their rifles steady. “You are either stupid or crazy.”
He turned to Ben. “We thought the heathens kidnapped you. What happened, car
trouble?”

“Ran out of gas,” Ben answered truthfully, after a fact.

“And these two rescued you?” The sergeant tossed his thumb at the brothers.

“Yes.”

“Well, the car is back on the road outside Gomorrah. Looks like someone
stripped it. I hope the Church insured it for you.”

Whoever took the car parts also took the priest. There were tales of cannibalism
and obscene rituals among heathens and migrants, but that was so much
propaganda and urban legend. Still, it appeared the body was missing. Maybe
the priest wasn’t dead and was left stranded, or perhaps he wandered off and met
the fate Ben had escaped. They had literally traded places.

“I’ll tell you what.” The sergeant paced between the Cortras brothers. “Take the
Reverend to his parish. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see him. But be out of
Capital before sundown. My men will take your names from your IDs and put
them in the logs. We’ll know when you go. And we’ll be looking for this vehicle
if you’re not gone. This piece of crap is too easy to miss. You crazy bastards
belong on the outside, no matter how harmless you are.”

The brothers were relieved, and Hen even smiled. “Crazy” and “bastard” were
terms of endearment to him. The soldiers copied the names from the IDs before
returning them. The arm of the gate tilted up from its left.

“You have a good day, sir.” The sergeant saluted Ben again and signaled the
three travelers through. Dil felt even better when the truck started right up. He
wanted to get away as fast as possible.

The trio drove down a passage through the Wall that was shaped like a tilted
“Z”. The narrow tunnel and sharp corners made it impossible to navigate
quickly. Shards from an exploding bomb smuggled inside would have negligible
impact with the twists. The design was simple yet effective. Suddenly they were
out of the Wall and inside Capital. The buildings were nothing like the brothers
had ever seen before. There were skyscrapers in the distance, closer to where the
city-state met the sea. The streets were wide and paved, and packed with
vehicles. The brothers were excited that they had made it. Gaining entrance was
perhaps the grandest scheme of their lives. Ben still waited for what would come
next.
5 Promised Land
The world changed upon leaving the tunnel through the Wall. Gomorrah was the
largest city-state the Cortras brothers had ever seen. The single-storied, factory-
fabricated dwellings were only a grade above the assemblages in the
encampment. Gomorrah consisted of nothing more than a collection of kit
shacks with enforced building codes. The Cap was a real city. Gutters spilled
through grates into functioning sewers. Freeways provided alternatives to
surface streets, although traffic moved slowly, if at all, on both. The promise of
opportunity beamed like the sun. There was no mystery why the UnChosen
huddled outside; they sensed possibilities hidden behind the Wall.

The Cortras brothers were lucky. Ben was a like a lottery ticket that they had just
cashed. They were safe from Batheirre. His family may be the top of the food
chain in Gomorrah, but he had no entrance to the Cap. Law governed this place.
Bathierre would never suspect that the two brothers could have stolen inside.
The encampment was the only possible retreat for the likes of them. Batheirre
was welcome to look all he might, but never behind the Wall. The Cortras
brothers now hid in the province of the Chosen. Dil laughed out loud. Hen joined
him with a whoop.

“I guess we have to find the parish,” Dil said. “What do the orders say?”

Hen wiggled his fingers at Ben. Hen wanted to be a part of the action. Ben
hadn’t returned the orders to the envelope. He held the paper and IDs absently in
his lap. As he passed the orders to Hen, the younger brother plucked them from
Ben’s moving hand.

“L99 and F66,” Hen conveyed.

The Cap, like most other city-states, had been plotted on a grid. Addresses were
actually coordinates. The military oversaw planning and development at the
deference of the Church. They assumed the role before the Renovation. Dil
scanned numbers on buildings. He had to turn east or west to get a bearing on
where they were and where they needed to be going. Numbering must have
started at the sea, because they passed double digit letters like “UU.” The trio
drove in a circle for almost a half hour by the time Dil figured out the way. He
insisted on taking surface streets. The freeways intimidated him, but he’d never
admit it. He had never driven on one before.

Along the drive, the brothers noted the absence of bars on doors and windows.
Even the windows on parked cars were down. The only military presence they
had seen was at the Wall. The general feeling of security was completely foreign
to them. Soldiers always patrolled the city-states to both prevent and cause
trouble. The military apparently didn’t see a need for their presence past the
Wall.

Capital was paved with sidewalks and decorated with colorful storefront
awnings. After a dozen or so blocks, the buildings started to look the same. The
men could have sworn they were going in another circle, if not for the
diminishing numbers. Tracking the addresses as they went past was like
counting down. Few people were out walking. Most were waiting in their cars
on busy streets. Today was going to be another warm day, but nothing like the
heat of the recent week in the desert.

A couple hours wasted away as they crept closer to their destination. The distant
skyscrapers never got closer. The towers appeared to move with the trio, like the
moon on a long evening drive. They drove beneath an overpass that resembled a
parking lot. Hen was glad Dil didn’t want to practice his driving on the freeway
today; at least they maintained some momentum. On the other side, the buildings
became residential, indistinguishable from the shops except for additional stories
and the lack of placards. Many had underground parking. Ramps descended into
dark caves where an occasional large metal groundhog poked its nose out and
moved on to the day’s toil. It wasn’t long before the brothers saw that some of
the doors and garages bore gates. As they continued, they noticed more, until
metal bars were featured on all openings. Fewer vehicles crowded the road in
these neighborhoods. The trip started to accelerate.

“I think we’re in the bad part of town,” Hen observed.

“If this is the bad part, we got nothing to worry about,” Dil said. “These folks
don’t know what bad is.”

They were traveling northward on L99 and getting very close to the parish. Dil
slowed down. “I think this it.”

A crew of men pulled a striped canvas off a two-story red brick building. The
logo on the back of the crew’s white overalls and on the doors of their long, flat
bed truck indicated that they were exterminators. The words “Gas-M” floated
over a silhouette of an overturned spider. The letters and arachnid were colored
blue. It appeared the Cap also had its share of vermin.

“You think we can get in on those jobs?” Anticipation filled Hen.

“That’s a real job with a regular paycheck,” Dil answered. “We’ll have to see
how it goes.”

The presumed church sported ornate ironwork over the windows. The brick and
lattice set the place apart from other buildings on the street. Enough of the
canvas had been removed to spot the address. This was it. They had arrived at
the church which the priest, now Ben, had been appointed to. Dil parked behind
the exterminator’s truck. He gave them plenty of room to roll and fold the canvas
before packing it on the bed. Ben and the brothers got out and loitered as the
workers finished.

“You guys hiring?” Hen asked a pair of workers who were flattening the canvas.

“Do you have your apprenticeship?”

“What?”

“Real jobs,” Dil explained.

Hen started protesting that someone didn’t need to go to school to learn to kill
bugs. The complaint went unheeded. One of the workers walked over to Ben.

“Reverend. Is this your church?”

“Yes…” Ben answered with hesitation.

“It’s safe to go in, but you’ll want to open all the windows. Keep them open until
you can’t smell the gas anymore.”

Ben opened and closed his mouth in an assumed gesture of acknowledgment.

The man climbed into the truck with a couple other workers. Others filled a
nearby van which bore the same markings. Both vehicles soon vanished down
the street. Ben and the brothers were left staring at each other. If they had arrived
a few minutes later, there would have been no trace that Gas-M had been there at
all, other than the smell.

“Let’s check it out,” Hen rallied the group.

They approached the big wooden double doors at the top of a short flight of
stairs and tried the looped brass handles. The doors were locked. Hen shook the
doors, hoping they were merely stuck, but they held fast. He attempted to peer
through the doors’ small, diamond-shaped windows. They were set so high that
Hen needed to stand on his toes. The windows were red opaque glass, and only
the glow of light behind them could be distinguished.

“There’s gotta be a back door,” Dil speculated.

Hen led the way around a side of the building. A canyon between the church and
a solid wall of a neighboring warehouse presented an avenue. Only the church
had windows. The thin breezeway was a long stretch of dirt, the first patch of
ground not covered with concrete or asphalt that they had seen since entering the
Cap. Tall weeds had filled that patch, died, and dried up. The brown leaves had
curled into spiny stems, which crunched and turned to dust when the men
trampled on them. The back of the church hosted a meager yard of stones. A
brick wall joined the two buildings at either side of the church. The courtyard
offered an abundance of unused privacy. Dil was right; there was a back door. A
small rise of concrete stairs led up to a flaking white door. Hen took the steps in
one leap. This door was also locked.

“Wait here,” Dil said. He disappeared back the way they had come. Hen passed
the time kicking up small clouds in the breezeway. Ben found an angle of shade
to lean into. His shirt had become damp with sweat. At least he was sweating
again, so that was a good sign. He had enough of the sun. No more sunbathing
for him.

Dil returned with the shank of screwdriver that he had previously pitched into
the truck’s bed. He had scraped off the yellow paint the last time he used the
tool, when he punched a hole in the gas tank. He found a suitable chunk of
concrete and went to the door. In three strokes, he hammered the shank into the
jamb near the lock. The screwdriver jutted out at a sharp angle. Dil stepped back,
threw all his weight behind him, and delivered a flat kick to the shank. At first he
looked as if he was going to run up the wall like some mean cartoon dog chasing
a cartoon squirrel. Hen laughed, remembering he had seen cartoons printed on a
newspaper when he was a kid. Newspapers weren’t printed anymore. In fact, the
one he had found was in a garbage dump just outside of the town where he and
Dil grew up.

The overwhelming damage to the door wasn’t very funny, though. Dil released a
great deal of anger to deliver such violence. The door flew open, taking the jamb
with it. The force of the kick sent him stumbling partway into the entrance. It
seemed that Dil was practiced in the indelicate art of breaking and entering. He
retrieved the screwdriver that had skittered into the church. Hen followed his
older brother inside. Once the brothers vanished through the doorway, Ben
followed.

They entered the kitchen, where the only appliances were a stove and
refrigerator. The latter clattered like the sound of gravel rolling down a metal
chute. The room looked like it was used mainly for special functions, as nothing
was stocked in the kitchen to indicate it had been used daily. No utensils lay in
the empty sink, and common dishcloths, typically seen hanging on racks, were
absent.

A pungent, almond-like smell nearly overwhelmed the three men. The odor must
be the gas which the exterminator had warned Ben about. He opened the only
window in the room. The view revealed a sliver of the breezeway that they had
come down. Hen pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose and held it there as
he explored the drawers and cupboards. They were bare. Dil surveyed the
damage to the door and its jamb. The whole works needed replacing. Hen
opened the refrigerator. The electric bulb refused to glow, but he could make out
some plastic containers. Hen let go of his shirt to peel the cover off one container
which was filled with black, fuzzy mold.

“Ugh!” Hen exclaimed. He tossed the container into the lidless trashcan next to
it. “Looks like we need to get some food.”

“You’re not supposed to eat the stuff you leave in the house when you fumigate,
anyway,” Dil informed him.

As the brothers explored, Ben ran the water in the sink. The pipe spit out rusty
brown water, then cleared. His damnable thirst demanded attention like a child
throwing a tantrum. Ben leaned into the sink and gulped directly from the faucet.
No matter how much he drank, he couldn’t satisfy the brat. He lingered long
enough to draw the brothers’ attention. They stopped exploring to watch. When
Ben eventually felt like his gut would burst, he shut the water off and turned
around. He wiped water from his chin with the sleeve of his shirt.

They moved as a group through the hallway that ran along the rear of the church.
The tour led past a closed office, closet, and stairwell before the hall turned right
into the nave. Dil tried the door to the office. It was open, so no lock picking was
required. The smell wasn’t so bad in the office, probably because the door had
stayed closed. Ben still wanted to open the window. This one overlooked the
small, barren yard. Ben had to reach over a small metal desk to get to the sill. As
he did, Hen tried the drawers. With the window open, Ben pushed away from the
desk. Hen rattled a locked drawer.

“You still got that screwdriver, Dil?” Hen asked.

“We don’t have to rush it. After all, the priest is right here,” Dil smirked.
“There’s gotta be a key. Slow down. The back door is bad enough.”

Dil was right. Hen pulled open the next drawer; within it was a key chain
holding keys of various sizes. Hen tried the keys that looked like good matches
for the lock, and got it right on the first try.

“Give those here,” Dil said. Hen tossed the key chain to him. Dil turned the keys
over, sucking in his cheeks. “I suppose these belong to you.” He handed the
chain to Ben. Ben held them in his open palm a long time before placing them in
his pocket.

Dil kept on eye on his little brother. Dil was going to be certain to take his share
of any found wealth. Hen pulled out a sealed envelope. “It looks like a check’s
inside.”

“Let me see it.” Dil took the envelope. “This looks like the fund from the Church
to this parish. They get these every month, you know.” He tore the envelope
open from one side and pulled out a check. “It’s almost a thousand dollars! We’ll
split it three ways.”

“What do the parishes get checks for?” Hen asked.

“Food, I suppose, and other stuff that comes up. Things not on the Church tab.”
“In that case, let’s say this one got lost and get another one,” Hen suggested,
eagerly.

“Maybe, let’s not push it. Anything else in there?”

Hen dug deeper into the drawer and found another envelope. He opened this one
himself and discovered tickets or coupons inside. “What are these?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Lottery tickets, maybe, or for the merry-go-round.”

Hen put them in his pocket. The fact that they had been saved made them
important enough to keep on his person. The three left the room and followed
the small hall into the church proper. Light spilled into the breezeways outside
and through the long windows flanking a large room. They hadn’t noticed when
they were outside, but the top thirds of the rectangular windows were composed
of stained glass. Red had been overly used, and the ornamentation threw broad
swatches of color to the floor, which welled up like spilled wine.

The glass depicted battles that the Chosen allegedly had waged in their claim for
the Promised Land. Only the tops of the images were preserved. The bottom
two-thirds of each scene had been replaced with clear glass, with straight iron
bars outside. Bits and pieces of the remaining scenes were enough to suggest the
art’s subject. Everyone knew the mythology, and priests sometimes felt
compulsion to cite the story in sermons. The lessons were intended to convey
what the Chosen were capable, and willing, of doing. The affect was still
unbalanced, more so with missing details. The mind struggled to paint the absent
parts. Spear tips, helmets of marching soldiers, and the feet of a sacrificed god
were the only clear images. A crucifixion culminated a parade of victories
against pagans, the devil, and the Mortal God. The lack of icons beside the
windows was puzzling.

The usual pollution of paintings and statues was missing. The church looked
austere. Above the altar and against a solid white wall, hung the expected
wooden cross. It appeared sturdy enough to bear the weight of a man and then
some. The wood surface was a greenish brown patina, making it look moldy
instead of intentionally aged.

Black feathers were everywhere. They had swirled and stuck to the floor of the
sanctuary in the muddy, crimson glue. Numerous little corpses about the size of a
thumb were also trapped in the mixture. They looked like large flies, with wiry
legs curled above and below them. They were almost as plentiful as the feathers.
The exterminators had done their job.

“What the …?” Hen asked, tiptoeing over the feathers and dead flies. “What are
these bugs? I ain’t seen them before. They look burned.”

“Dead,” Dil answered.

“Uh-huh,” Hen agreed. “Is that what I think it is?” He pointed at the congealed
liquid.

“Blood,” Ben stated flatly.

“We can’t stay here,” Hen decided immediately, his earlier enthusiasm rapidly
departed. “This has gotta be a bad sign.”

“I bet that’s why they needed a new priest.” Dil had taken over the task of
opening the windows. They had become habituated to the smell, but Dil thought
they all could use a little fresher air. He turned around and spit into a pile of
feathers.

“Dil!” Hen exclaimed.

His older brother waved him off. “Well, the good news is this place will be
closed for awhile until this gets cleaned up. We got a place to stay.”

“Dil, we can’t stay here!” Hen objected.

“How about you go find a place for the truck.” Dil tossed the keys to Hen. They
fell to the floor next to him. “Go get a tarp or something.”

Hen stood motionless. The stillness attracted Ben’s attention, and he stopped
pacing between the plain wooden pews.

“Ahh, shit!” Hen had given in to the queasy paralysis easily, and had to force
himself to move. Reaching down, he picked up the keys with his thumb and
forefinger. He handled them as if they had fallen into a cesspit. Hen even tried
jiggling off unseen germs. Dil followed him to the front door. Ben tagged behind
like a stray dog finding a new pack. Hen turned the dead bolt and yanked both
doors open. Immediately, all three were struck cold with shock.
A priest stood on the steps outside, as the doors slammed against the inner walls.
He twitched his hands up in front of him.

“What in the name of the Mortal God?” he cried.

Hen immediately crossed shoulders and hips. This priest was a captain. A pin
advertised the rank with golden bars on the lapel of his black jacket. The day
was too hot for a coat, but it fit him well. He probably wore it for the impression
that the presentation created. He was a plump, older man. Years had shrunken his
spine and swelled his waist. He looked wan and agitated, but the sudden fright
might have caused the edginess.

“Who are you?” he demanded of the younger Cortras.

Dil slipped into the conversation before his brother attempted to answer, Hen’s
jaw hung open uselessly. “We’re, uh, cleaning that up.” He swept his arm toward
the mass of stuck feathers and flies. Hen raised his eyebrows, shocked at the
prospect.

“Oh, good.” The priest was satisfied and promptly dismissed the brothers. He
had no further interest in them. “Reverend Ishkott, I presume. I’m happy to see
you’re showing some initiative. It’s good to start off an assignment giving more
than what is expected of you.”

Ben wasn’t sure what to make of the comment. The welcome lacked sincerity
and the clenched teeth delivery conveyed a degree of hostility. The priest
obviously had confused this Benedict Ishkott for the clergyman he replaced.
That was good, as the test couldn’t have been better than if the dead priest’s own
mother mistook him for her son. The priest stood glaring at Ben, waiting for
something.

“Bow and thank the ancient aper,” instructed the companion voice behind his left
ear. Ben didn’t turn, because he knew nobody stood there. The knowledge made
his heart jump, yet he studied the priest for any reaction. Only Ben had heard the
comment; then the voice said more. “Don’t be shy. After all, you have a friend in
common.”

Ben lowered his head. “Thank you.”

The priest rocked back on his heels dangerously close to the edge of the steps.
Ben felt the urge to nudge him, as one jabbing finger would send him toppling
backwards.

“Sir,” Ben added.

The priest nodded.

“Hmf.” The priest stood rigid, staring at the brothers. “You two have work to do.
If you’re lucky, you’ll be finished before curfew.”

“Yes, sir,” Dil said. He turned and skulked back to the hallway at the rear of the
sanctuary. “Come on,” he called to his brother. Hen followed without a word.

“Let’s get out of this stink.” The priest pulled Ben into the sunlight by his sleeve.
“You look like you crawled out of hell on your hands and knees.”

“Behave yourself, Ben. You’ll never see this addict ever again,” the voice
advised. Animosity did bubble up inside Ben. The feeling must have seeded in
his forgotten years. What was the voice from the desert telling him? The voice
sounded like it wanted to lead Ben through the encounter with the priest.

Ben recalled the story the brothers had practiced. “The car broke down.”

“I know. I was notified when you reached the Wall. The Church had given you
up for dead, not that it would’ve been such a tragedy.” The voice offered no clue
as to what the priest meant.

The priest scanned from side to side. The street was empty. He stood on his toes
to peek over Ben’s shoulder. No one was inside the church either. “Listen.
You’ve got your second chance. So forget what you think you know about me.
Forget what you think you know about Gomorrah. You are a real cock to call me
for favors, anyway.”

Some arrangement had been made. It looked like the other Benedict had finally
taken his first step up the clergy’s ladder. It was a shame he wasn’t there to reap
the reward.

“As good as it will do you here, anyway.” The priest wiped his receding
forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. He suddenly lost his composure, as if he’d
been holding his breath as long as he could and now needed to take a deep
swallow of air.

“I don’t know what went on in there.” The priest pointed inside the church. “And
I don’t care. The guy was going crazy and he probably sliced himself to pieces.
Committed suicide. I don’t care.”

The priest began shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He swayed as he
talked. “What you have to do is not cause trouble for me or yourself. Don’t
attract attention. You only have one thing to do here. Placate the dregs. Let them
know the Church is here, too, keeping an eye on them. As far as I’m concerned,
they should have built the Wall around this slum.”

Ben looked around the neighborhood. He had been in much worse places, and
just recently. The encampment outside the Wall was one instance. Even the best
parts of Gomorrah weren’t as clean and in as good condition as this street. Ben
remembered he’d been in Gomorrah not long ago. So the psychic voice seemed
part of a package deal, including bits of recollection.

“If I never have to come down here or see you again, everything will be fine. So
you’ll get your check every month in the mail. You don’t need to file reports, but
you don’t get special requests, either. No trouble. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Ben didn’t feel obligated to call him “sir” again.

The priest drilled into him with narrowed eyes. Standing in the light was hot, but
the priest was sweating just too much. Rivulets formed on his round cheeks, and
stinking chemicals leaked from his skin.

“Fine. That’s fine enough for me. I wanted to make sure I saw you first and I
was the only one you’d see. It’ll be like you never left that shit hole mission. The
Church never cared to hear from you then and certainly not now. You understand
that?”

Ben nodded. He felt less hostile. His alias appeared to have cornered this rat and
poked the jittery thing with a stick. Ben enjoyed a degree of pleasure, taking
vicarious responsibility.

“Then we’re done. That’s all.”

The priest didn’t wait for a reply. He trotted to a white limousine parked behind
the Cortras’ truck. No lowly fleet car for him. He looked over both shoulders at
Ben as he went. The car’s alarm chirped when the priest tried the handle. He
rustled through his jacket pocket for the key chain. Upon finding it, he shut off
the alarm and unlocked the doors with a single button. He dropped behind the
wheel, started the car, and slammed the door.

He turned the front wheels from the curb slowly. Ben felt he was still being
watched, even though he could only make out a rotund shape behind the car’s
tinted glass. But there were more spectators than just the priest. The audience
included the Cortras brothers at the back of the church and the voice over his left
shoulder. The car accelerated with a screech, slowed, accelerated again, and then
sped away.

“Everyone gets what they came for. You are a generous man, Benedict,” the
voice said as the car disappeared around the corner of the block and through the
stop sign, slowing only to make the turn.

“Who was that?” Hen asked. The brothers had come out of hiding.

Ben listened for the voice before answering, but it didn’t offer any answers. “I
don’t know.”

“I think he’s your boss,” Dil observed.

“That didn’t sound good,” Hen scratched his head. “Maybe we should go.”

“Don’t be stupid. We just got a free ride. You heard what the priest told Ben.
This place doesn’t even sound like a real church. It’s a stop in.”

“I don’t like it, Dil.”

“You’re always coming up with the crazy ideas, but when the chance comes, you
either blow it or chicken out. We’re staying.”

Hen wasn’t appeased by his brother’s perspective and stubborn stand.

“Tell you what. Go get the tarp, like I told you. Pick up some Yowling Cat while
you’re out. We’ll cash that check when you come back. I’ll start on that.” Dil
pointed to the mess in the sanctuary. Hen agreed reluctantly. An errand away
from the church and a few hundred dollars in his pocket were incentive enough
for him, so he went to the truck without protest.

Ben stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips. By now the smell of the
gas should have diminished considerably, but he liked the building being wide
open. He listened for the voice. Nothing. As Ben thought about it, he started to
convince himself that the voice was his own process of thought. The experience
in the desert must have disconnected a bit of himself to observe from outside and
lend rational advice.

The calm within the church spread to the street. Ben hadn’t noticed Dil leaving
and returning until a snarling scraping noise and Dil’s voice broke the peace. Dil
dragged the uncovered trashcan from the kitchen. Inside the can were a broom,
mop, and dust pan. If these were the only tools supplied, there would still be
plenty of work for Hen when he returned.

“I don’t know about you, Ben, but this place is growing on me,” Dil said, as he
scooped up a pile of feathers, insects, and goop with the dustpan. It slid off into
the trashcan like molasses, leaving brown smears.

Ben turned around and watched Dil set to work. The older Cortras never seemed
more inspired. Ben wouldn’t be surprised to hear him start to whistle.

“It feels like we’re supposed to be here.” Another pan full of gore plopped into
the can. “You know, the place talks to me.”
6 Uncovered Nakedness
Immediately after Margot’s story aired, her phone rang. The caller was the friend
who had tipped her. A couple uneventful days had passed since she had visited
the parish where the priest was killed. Margot needed to redouble her efforts to
meet the transcription work quota, to make the rent. Checks for stories acquired
by military news were notoriously slow and issued only on a biweekly basis. The
money couldn’t be counted on arriving before the first of next month.

Still, Margot became excited to have a check coming. She was very appreciative
of her friend, Mark. He didn’t hang out on Sundays with her other friends. He
had married soon after graduation and had “grown-up” responsibilities. That
made Margot a little sad. At times it seemed like she and Mark had been friends
since grade school, despite meeting at a college party when, at the time, the only
thing they had in common were their majors. One circumstance or another
prevented them from getting closer than infrequent phone calls.

Today Mark called to congratulate her and proposed something more. He asked
if he could take her to dinner. Margot jumped at the chance. She grew elated
after listening to her story on the radio, even in the monotone of the woman
announcer, and felt celebratory. That, and the transcription had her working
hermit-like around the clock. Margot needed a break. She accepted without
thinking anything more of it. A tenacious craving for pasta salad with feta had
come upon her.

They met in late afternoon at a modest trattoria close to Mark’s residence.

Neither had ever been to each other’s homes, and in fact, they hadn’t seen each
other in the flesh for years. Despite the passed time, they recognized each other
instantly. Now that Margot saw Mark again, she remembered why she was so
fond of him. He was tall and naturally blond, a rare sight in any city-state.
Margot soaked her hair in peroxide, like many of the women in Capital. He
looked taller, as if he’d been working out. Most reporters Margot knew sported
thin arms and were beginning to permanently slouch, which included Margot
and her other friends. She pushed the self-conscious thought away. This
conversation wasn’t going to start with complaints about being out of shape, and
losing will and interest to do something about it. She had enough of that whining
on Sundays. Mark smiled widely when he saw her sitting at a table outside the
restaurant. She caught whatever afflicted him and returned an exaggerated grin.
“Margot?” he asked, in feigned surprise. “You haven’t changed a bit!”

Margot blushed. “And you get more handsome every time I see you,” she replied
sheepishly. She knew for a fact that her butt had grown a little bigger, but she
still liked to be reminded of the time when she was trim and full of energy. Life
wasn’t wasting time breaking her down.

“Maybe you just keep forgetting how good I looked to begin with.” Humility
wasn’t a weakness Mark suffered. Most of the time, trying to figure out if he was
truly arrogant or just enjoyed playing with the trait, was difficult. Margot was
sensible enough to realize his looks and flattery helped to overcome just how
annoying it could be when someone enjoyed flaunting their own laurels.

“I can see you’ve been working those pecs. I notice these things. I’m a
journalist, you know.”

“And a fine one. Congratulations again. I liked what you wrote. They didn’t
censor you, did they?” Mark queried.

“No, they read the story verbatim. The story was flagged for censorship, so I just
followed the outline. There wasn’t much to it, really.”

Mark pulled a chair from Margot’s table and sat down. “Still, it put you on the
air. More exposure means more writing.”

“I know.” Margot handed a menu to Mark. She had asked for two when she had
arrived. Despite having read every word as she waited for her friend, she perused
the menu again. She cleared her throat. “I should be buying you dinner. But the
check hasn’t even been cut yet and I’m short of cash.”

“I wouldn’t let you. I’ve been in your shoes. It’s just a pleasure to see you. Time
has really flown by.”

“It has,” Margot sighed. “Well, thank you, and thank you again.”

Mark waved her off. He glanced at the menu and set it down again. The waitress
came to the table. She was young and resembled the thin man who periodically
peeked from the doorway to the kitchen. She was probably his daughter; then her
etiquette cinched the suspicion.
“What d’ya want?”

Mark looked amused and pointed to Margot. She blinked and drew a tolerant
breath. Civil outrage would only come off as envy for the girl’s youth.

“Do you have pasta salad? I see only green salad here.”

“Nah,” the teenage waitress shook her head. Her partially braided hair dragged
over either shoulder as her head turned. “We just have pasta.”

“Then I’ll have the fettuccine and the green salad.”

The waitress bounced as she wrote out the whole order. She hadn’t bothered
learning item numbers or short hand, and she was oblivious to the awkward wait
her lack of skills caused as she scrawled. Judging by the way the face of the
waitress twisted, she looked like she had trouble spelling; most likely the word
“fettuccine,” Margot guessed. The waitress checked the menu, which confirmed
it. She turned to Mark and he winked. The acknowledgment popped the girl’s
tongue between her teeth and she bit lightly. Margot noted Mark had a talent for
inspiring immediate giddiness in women. Since she was older now, and able to
reign herself in with some efficiency, she could see Mark’s charm didn’t affect
just her.

“Just an ice tea, please, honey.”

The waitress trotted back to the kitchen.

“Aren’t you having dinner?”

“To tell you the truth, I have to watch my weight.”

“Nonsense. It’s expected for a man to have a little paunch. It’s how a woman
knows he’s taking care of his loved ones and not thinking about himself,”
Margot lied. She found him much more attractive with the muscles and straight
frame. She had always found him attractive. She thought it better to change the
subject before losing herself in a familiar daydream she had held captive since
school. “How is your wife?”

“Oh, let’s not talk about her.” Mark became suddenly flustered.
“We never do.”

“And that’s why I like talking to you.” His smile returned. He laid his hands on
Margot’s. She was surprised, but didn’t want to pull away - so she didn’t. A little
untoward flirting was coming to her.

“All right. Then it’s really good to see you, too.”

“Thank you.”

The young girl brought the ice tea. Margot asked her to also bring some water.
The waitress turned with a frown and went back the way she had come.

“I was curious,” Mark said. “What do you think happened in the church? Was
there any truth to the story that heathen sympathizers were involved?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know. It was a murder, maybe by a maniac.”

“What do you mean? Maniac?”

“There were feathers all around the body.” Margot sat back and folded her hands
in her lap. “Are we going to talk about the details of a murder? I am about to
have dinner.”

“Margot, no.” Mark consoled her. “I’m just wondering if there was any real
connection between the murder and the heathens. Was there anything at the
scene like a star, a big asterisk? You said feathers.”

She sighed again, this time exaggerated and frustrated. “I didn’t actually go
inside. I saw the feathers in the crime photos. The military didn’t take very many
because of the flies.”

“You didn’t go in the church?” Mark was incredulous. “Flies?”

Margot relived the conversation with the old woman from the day she went to
investigate the priest’s death. Having been there before, she knew how to stop
the tumbling spiral.

“After the priest was killed, the blood must have attracted flies, biting flies.
When the ambulance arrived and the patrol started to take photos, the flies
attacked everybody. It was so bad that they carted the priest away and fumigated.
That’s why I didn’t go in the church. I don’t think I would have,either. It
sounded too gruesome.”

Mark drained half his ice tea as Margot spoke. The girl brought a couple glasses
of water. The conversation lulled for the time she lingered, waiting for Mark to
notice her again. A phone rang inside and her father called her to the kitchen.
Her name was Sadie, or Sally. Her father had the twang of a northern accent, like
a foreigner. He must have married a Chosen with family in Capital. Such unions
were rare, but it happened in other countries. The marriage elevated him above
the caste of UnChosen, but forever outside the bloodline. His daughter would be
viewed more kindly, but remain tainted.

“What about the feathers?” Mark resumed.

“I don’t know. I have no clue where they came from or what they mean. That’s
why I thought it was some crazy killer.” Margot sipped her water. “Do they
mean something to the heathens?”

“No. Nothing that I’ve ever heard.”

Margot became suspicious. “Mark, you’ve covered enough murders that have
been pinned on sympathizers, whether real or not. Why are you so interested in
this one?”

Mark shifted in his chair and thrummed his glass with his fingers. “Time for
confession. It doesn’t sound like the tactics of heathens, even though I’m sure
they wouldn’t be upset over the death of a priest. But I have to connect all the
dots.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There was a raid outside Gomorrah three or four days ago. It was prompted by
a missing scout and reports of Ilu Drystani being in the area.”

“I heard about that.”

“Yeah. Missing scouts and Drystani resurfacing go hand in hand. He’s a sadist,
you know. He probably became a heathen just so he can hide his crimes under a
cause.”
“So what makes you think Drystani is connected to the priest’s murder?” Margot
jumped to a grandiose conclusion.

“I don’t. But there have been rumors that he is in Capital.”

Margot shivered. Tales before the Wall were among the stories her grandmother
repeated. One day, her grandmother had shopped across the street from a caf�
no bigger than the restaurant Margot sat outside now. As Margot recalled, a
driver had raced down the street. That was possible decades ago, before the
constant tangle of automobiles. There were far fewer people and automobiles.
The driver veered into the caf�, smashing through the front window, and
disappearing inside. Her grandmother said she had seen people thrown into the
air by the impact. There must have been a bomb in the car. Before the falling
people hit the ground, the cave-like opening filled with flame. The crash and the
whoosh of fire were instantaneous, but her grandmother recalled it clearly as if it
played out on film in slow motion before her. Margot looked around. No reckless
drivers, and the restaurant had so few patrons, so it couldn’t possibly be a
feasible target. She felt sudden ire, not toward the heathens, but at Mark. She
pulled her clenched fists to her sides.

“If there is a connection, this is my story. This is big. You can’t just take it over
after I’ve done the legwork.”

Mark shuffled his feet, and Margot spotted the uncomfortable squirming through
the glass tabletop. “I’m not doing that at all,” he said. “The whole Drystani thing
is just a rumor. Babble on the airways. You know heathens say those sorts of
things just to rattle the military. There’s probably no relation.”

“Why did you really ask me to dinner?”

Mark shuffled again. His hands remained on the table where Margot left them,
but now he interlocked his fingers. “I wanted to see you. That’s all. I wanted to
see if you still looked sexy when you were angry.”

Margot’s anger dissipated like the failing resonance of a bell. Her flushed face
now refueled with hot blood. Mark was being especially bold this afternoon.

“Shut up,” was the only reply she managed.

Mark relaxed and leaned back. He gazed contentedly at Margot’s face a little too
long. The stare sustained her blush. The salad arrived, as did a refill for Mark’s
ice tea. After Margot’s first nibble, she felt compelled to start another
conversation.

“So why do the heathens want to hurt people?”

Mark sighed. He wondered if his charms were lost on older women. The
waitress was easy enough to melt, but Margot resisted. The trouble could be that
the two had known each other for years, or she knew he was married, but he
could see Margot wanted to succumb. He’d known that since school, but she had
always been with someone else. Mark had been, too, but that didn’t stop him
from having fun. He was in school, after all. Commitment came later in life.

For him, the shackles came immediately after graduation with the only woman
who had ever stirred guilt in his heart, and an unplanned pregnancy; but the child
died at birth. Of course, Mark was sad, but also relieved. Still, his wife wouldn’t
let him go free, despite his resisting her pleas for another child. The resumption
of his flagrant philandering had no impact on their marriage, either. Mark
couldn’t get Sarah to leave him. He would have walked out a long time ago, but
he didn’t want to look like the bad guy. Mark’s family warned him against his
callous behavior toward his wife. This time, an old friend from school had
turned up, accompanied by the realization of an unfulfilled love affair. She was
the love of his life, for that matter. Who could scoff at such a romantic destiny,
where the alternative was a hopeless marriage? There was some truth to the
story, despite it growing from the seed of a missed conquest. Margot would
require some work, but maybe it was about time Mark was challenged. He could

always use new tools, as he suspected age only enhanced his appearance. For
now, he would set aside his game of peek-a-boo with Margot and rethink his
strategy.

“We’re iconoclasts,” Mark answered. “One day, a messiah will come and wipe
the Church and all its graven images from the face of the earth.”

“But we don’t worship the cross.”

“They know that. Still, heathens hold to strictly literal interpretations of the
scriptures. They don’t accept that a human being can overcome a god, or god
serves man. They think it’s the other way around.”
“Honestly, I’ve never been very religious.” Margot had enough of her salad and
pushed it aside unfinished.

“Maybe that’s what they don’t like about us,” Mark ventured. “I think it’s
politics. They want a theocracy of their own.”

“And Drystani would be a dictator?”

“He’s only a captain in their organization. I don’t think he has ambitions other
than murder and mayhem. But he is their lion. In fact, heathens talk a lot about
lions and tigers. If you didn’t know better, you’d think their god was a god of
cats.”

“Well, there is the story about the prophet in the den,” Margot shared.

“That pit is now Capital, if you believe they have infiltrated it.”

“And if they have, you want to discover it and land the assignment from military
news.”

“Well, sure I do.” Mark leaned forward again. He was about to share an idea.
“And so would you. But neither of us have a lead, do we?”

“Besides feathers in a church that have nothing to do with Drystani and the
heathens.”

“Let’s be realistic, Margot. I’ve made a career of crime scene reporting. I know
the difference between crimes of passion, lunatics, and terrorism. You need to
work part-time copying illegible handwriting to stacks of mundane forms. But
you’re still a reporter and I know you prefer investigation over writing
sensational propaganda.”

Mark had a valid point. Even if she did find a lead, or break a story, chances
were it would be passed to a trusted, more experienced reporter. That wouldn’t
be Mark, either. They were in the same race, although he had a couple laps on
her. There would have to be some angle to make either of them indispensable; a
unique way of thinking or an invisible source. Making themselves essential
reporters required far-fetched thinking and luck.

“And?” Margot asked, trying her best to sound unconvinced.

“Let’s work together,” Mark proposed. “I always thought we’d make a great
team. And we look good together.”

Mark had returned to flirting. She liked it, and this time she put her hands over
his. “That sounds a lot fairer than letting you steal my story.” Margot
emphasized the possessive aspect of the comment.

“Great. Then we have a partnership.”

“So tell me, what will Sarah think about you working what could be long days
with an old school flame?” Margot read Mark’s mind, or had some thoughts of
her own.

“She doesn’t need to know,” he replied without embellishment. “Seriously, she

would get in the way. She has always been jealous, even when there wasn’t
anything to be mad about.”

Margot doubted there was ever a time his wife didn’t have a reason to be upset.

“The last thing we need is her getting the wrong idea,” Mark continued. “So I
should always call you. And if you need to call me, hang up if she answers.”

Margot was tempted with the idea of a clandestine adventure, absorbed by the
secrecy. The fettuccine dropped to the table with a clank that nearly cracked the
glass surface. It appeared Mark could also inspire jealousy in women he had just
met.

“Thank you.” Margot gloated over the attention she received in preference over
the young waitress. The teenager snubbed her with a sour wince and abrupt
twirl.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to give your wife any ideas,” Margot said. Now she
held the long gaze and Mark’s eyes grew wild.

Margot tasted the fettuccine, but the pasta had already grown cold. No doubt the
lukewarm dish was the deliberate fault of the waitress. Margot offered Mark a
sample.

“Oh, this isn’t very good. I still owe you a dinner,” he critiqued. Despite the
taste, they finished the creamy noodles together and talked a little more about
where they should start looking for clues.

“Give me the address of the church,” Mark instructed. “I’ll take a look if I get a
chance.”

“Why? Everything is probably cleaned up by now.”

“Maybe it isn’t. The place is in the ghetto, right? That would be tough to order a
new assignment on so short a notice. I don’t think anyone would volunteer for
that kind of work, especially if what happened already made the circuit. No
priest meant an absent caretaker for the facility.”

“I can go,” Margot said.

“There will be that mess you didn’t want to look at,” Mark warned. “Besides,
you don’t know what I’m looking for. We can go together. Just give me the
address today.”

Margot acquiesced. Chances of either of them getting down there in the coming
days were slim, especially for her. She retrieved a pen from her purse and wrote
the address of St. Erasmus on the paper napkin that came with the ice tea. Come
to think of it, the waitress had only provided one napkin.

After finishing their dinner, Mark left an overly generous tip on the table. The
old friends, and new partners, hugged. Mark leaned down, stroking downward
until his hand rested in the small of Margot’s back. He pressed her into him in a
grip that lifted her to her toes. She swooned at the strength of his arms and the
solid feel of his abdomen. This man was bold and smooth. She had always
known it.
7 Leviathan
The older Cortras brother had worked up a sweat, as well as an appetite, as the
partially eaten burrito had turned to vapor and steam. Ben joined Dil in the grisly
task of cleaning the sanctuary. They had found a rake in the opposite breezeway
that they had followed upon their arrival at St. Erasmus. Dil raked feathers up
like leaves at the end of a warm autumn afternoon. With the sun so low, only the
top portions of the stained glass let light splay into the nave. Shades of fall
dabbled room. Ben crouched as he pushed the dustpan through the red jelly,
rolling dead insects into a mound like fruit suspended in an opaque desert. The
scraping of the pan and rake against the wooden floor bit painfully, as if an angry
spider skittered through Dil’s ear. As the work progressed, scratches and stains
damaged the floor. The scars were already obvious between the smears.

Hen was late. The sun threatened to set by the time he finally returned. He
managed to find pizza and more ‘Yowling Cat,’ the alcoholic cough syrup that
the Cortras brothers called wine.

“Those weren’t lottery tickets. They’re rations,” Hen reported, showing a string
of paper tickets. He had somehow stolen them from his older brother’s pocket.
“You can only buy as much liquor as you have tickets.”

“I suppose it’s better than nothing at all,” Dil said, unsurprised at Hen. “There
was some talk about prohibition in the Cap before our time. I guess they came to
a compromise.”

“Uh, yeah.” Hen noticed something different. He expected his brother to be mad
about being gone so long, leaving Dil to the unpleasant work. Instead, he was
oddly cheerful. Hen would have preferred him angry. An animated Dil was
unsettling. Perhaps Dil had found and drained a bottle while Hen was absent.
Hen entertained using the altar as a dinner table, but decided that would be some
sort of sacrilege. He scouted the pews before the image of the blood and feathers
began to turn his stomach. “Hey, ah, can we eat this in the kitchen?”

Dil and Ben put aside their work agreeably. A change of scenery was plainly
required if they were going to enjoy a meal.

“There’s plenty left for you,” Dil said to Hen. “I made a point of saving some.”
That sounded a little better to Hen, but he could see that Ben and Dil had made
admirable progress. Tackling the remaining work wouldn’t fill a morning, even
if Hen worked alone, although he had secretly hoped the work would be finished
by the time he returned. Dil led the group to the kitchen.

“What are you doing with the feathers?” Hen asked. His voice echoed in the hall.
The smell of fumigation gas had faded, but a rotten scent lingered. The smell
was like a ripe, dead rat recently removed from a trap. Hen leaned over the pizza
boxes and breathed in deep. The cheese and tomato sauce so close to his nose
sufficed to mask the other offending odor.

“The yard,” Dil answered. “It needed a little something to spruce it up anyway.”

Hen’s skin crawled. He had never heard his brother talk this way. Ben didn’t say
anything. Come to think of it, the stranger never really did speak. Hen hoped
Ben was responsible for Dil’s transformation. The change would be okay, but
only if it lasted temporarily. Hen wondered what his brother and Ben had talked
about, if anything at all.

“Did you get a tarp?” Dil asked, sliding a couple chairs from the table, one in
each hand.

Hen opened the pizza boxes. Both pies were topped with sausage and
mushrooms, heavy on the sauce and stingy with the cheese. Ben washed his
hands in the sink. He lathered with a crusted bottle of dish soap that he had
found in the cupboard below. Ben left the water running so he could take another
long drink without the copper flavor. He then shook his hands partially dry. Dil
didn’t bother washing. He wiped his hands on his clothes. The sweat from his
arms liquefied the blood again. Long red pin stripes were drawn down the front
of his shirt. Hen didn’t notice as he busily made his selection among the irregular
pizza slices.

“Yeah, and I even parked the truck down the street with a couple other wrecks.”

Dil shoved half a slice into his mouth. His eyes rolled back. The Cortras brothers
had gone without pizza for a long time, but Hen couldn’t imagine it being that
good. His older brother was never much of a connoisseur of anything. The smell
of pizza drove home Hen’s hunger more than the promise of a fine culinary
experience. Ben also ate greedily, so creating some dinner conversation fell to
Hen. The burden couldn’t be lighter, as Hen always felt compelled to talk.
“I know where those bugs came from. I heard it on the radio.” Hen’s audience
continued eating, but did not protest the attempt at discourse. “There were some
prehistoric squids that washed up on the beach. But they weren’t really squids;
they had the arms, but their bodies were like snakes.”

“I thought you said you knew where the bugs came from,” Dil said. A huge,
mushy wad of pizza muffled his speech.

“I was getting to that. They were huge. The biggest squids ever found.”

“So the military news is talking about events other than heathens and body
counts. This must be their golden age of radio,” Dil observed.

“Dil? Are you on something?” Hen asked. “Cuz’ I wouldn’t mind…”

Dil laughed with his mouth wide open. Chewed crust spilled out and bounced off
the edge of the table on its trajectory to the floor.

“Ben, have I told you that my brother is a crack-up?” Dil spat crumbs as he
talked. He reached for a bottle of wine. “Where did the flies come from, Hen?
My money is on the ass of Beelzebub. Any wager, Ben?”

Hen didn’t know what his brother was talking about and Ben didn’t seem to care.
He was preoccupied with eating and had no interest in rhetorical gambling.

“They were on the dead squids, swarms of them. They started to bite people on
the beach. The military brought in flame throwers to fry them out of the sky.”

Dil took a huge gulp of wine straight from the bottle. The next moment, he
bowed over the table with his tongue jutting out. His arms spread wide as one
fist gripped the bottle. The other hand wielded a folded slice of pizza. Dil was
going to retch. Hen rescued the uneaten portions of pizza, but that were never in
real danger as Dil recovered.

“Damn!” Dil exclaimed.

“Plague,” Ben said backing away from the table.

“Damn, right!” Dil added. “And fire in the sky!”

Hen sat cemented to his seat. His goose flesh had gone cold. Something was
different about his brother, as if somebody else had slipped into his Dil’s skin.
This other Dil took a couple more big swigs of wine. This time Dil swallowed
hard and clenched his teeth.

“Well,” Dil said. “Did it work?”

“What?” Hen forgot what they were talking about.

“The flame throwers? Did they kill all the bugs?”

“I suppose so.”

Dil turned around to recover the chair that had skidded back when he had stood
up abruptly. Hen leaned toward Ben.

“Hey, Ben,” Hen said in a low voice, impossible to hide from anyone at the
table. “What did you guys do when I was gone?”

“By the wiggling toes of the Mortal God!” Dil exclaimed the interruption. “Let’s
talk about something else. I’ve been shoveling dead bugs all day.”

Silence swelled within the kitchen, except for the prattle of the refrigerator.
Neither Dil nor Ben seemed to notice. Ben continued eating and Dil drank. One
of the bottles of wine was now his alone. Dil quickly drained half its contents.

“Where did you get this?” Dil asked. “Can you get some more?”

“It’s the same stuff we always get,” Hen answered. “There’s a store on the
corner. We still got tickets.”

“We’ll need some more, then.”

“There’s a curfew, Dil. The shop will be closed, too.”

“Not tonight, my good friend. Tomorrow.”

Hen thought twice about telling Dil to take it easy with the wine. Even though
Dil would suffer for it in the morning, Hen knew better than to try to curb his
brother’s drinking. A younger sibling had no place telling an elder what to do.
The lesson was once reinforced in a drunken brawl. Hen could never get the
better of his brother in any condition. Pent-up viciousness clawed Dil’s inside.
Hen avoided being the one to tap into it. Exposing that anger was easy to do
when Dil was drunk, especially if obviously rude attempts were made to ignore
him. Even though Hen also enjoyed tipping the bottle, it was best to encourage
his brother to stay sober. Hen could have lied about the tickets,but the chance
was spoiled. That’s usually how his ideas came, just in time, or a little too late.
Hopefully the impending hangover would dissuade Dil from drinking again for a
while.

“Ben.” Dil put down his squashed pizza and favored the wine. “I think we’re
going to be great friends. You, me, and him.” Dil thrust the neck of the bottle
toward Hen. Ben couldn’t help noticing that Dil acted as if his younger brother
was a recent acquaintance. Still, he didn’t know much about either of them to
say that the behavior was out of the ordinary. Last night, Ben had noticed
drinking transformed Dil. The change was obvious, even in Ben’s debilitated
state. More alcohol must let more of that alternate personality loose.

Ben appreciated that he wasn’t being asked more questions about his identity or
where he came from. He already personally focused on those mysteries with as
much diligence as he could summon. The effort to recall made his head throb.
His memories were almost within sight. Seeing the images was like staring at a
blank piece of paper with words printed on the other side. The backward ghosts
of letters were perceived, but still illegible. Eventually, focus would drift through
the white portions of the paper, but focusing only on the blankness promoted
meditation. To avoid the pangs of thought, Ben droned away at his immediate
task. A few hours that passed during the afternoon involved mindlessly scraping
congealed blood from a floor.

During the work, Ben partially listened to Dil’s light-hearted comments and
morbid quips. They reminded him somewhat of the voice that had come to haunt
him. He couldn’t conclude Dil and the voice were the same. Ben realized he was
trying to find an external source for the voice, but the uninvited guest had
arrived before the Cortras brothers. Ben had mapped out that order of events on
his recent timeline. The encounter with the dead priest, whose identity he had
assumed, or shared, was also pinned in his history.

Now the three of them were in Capital. They had appropriated a parish church
that didn’t receive much oversight, as a base of operations. Everything had
happened thus far according to the plan. But whose plan? The brothers thought
things out only as far as getting past the Wall and finding a place to stay. They
were hiding. Ben picked that up instinctively. He didn’t care what they were
hiding from, and he didn’t believe he had his own plan quietly unfolding in his
subconscious. A large gap in his memory needed to be filled, but he felt it was
bigger than his amnesia.

There was a reason Ben had come to St. Erasmus, more solid than any
metaphysical purpose. A large chunk of pizza had grown soggy and tasteless in
his mouth. A good chunk of time had passed between taking the bite and starting
to chew. Ben eventually became aware of the unsavory fact. Thinking had
spoiled his dinner.

“Here we are in a church,” Dil said, spinning his free hand in a grand circle.
“What better place to get started at making a difference. Do some great things.”
Dil laughed loudly and hard. He was the only one, and the lack of participation
didn’t escape his notice. “Oh, come now. Here we are together. Let’s make a
pact. We have plenty of blood to sign our names in.”

“What are you talking about?” Ben asked.

Hen was glad Ben asked. His petrified state returned as he prayed Dil had
merely become drunk too fast. He was grateful Ben picked this moment to shake
off his daze.

“This world is coming to an end, Ben.” Dil grew suddenly solemn. “Soon the
only thing to walk the face of the earth will be zombies, vampires, and Cain.”

Darkness filled the room. No one noticed the light growing orange and dim as
they ate, but now that the sun dipped behind the low mountains beyond the Wall,
all illumination retreated. Hen stood, stiff with momentary paralysis. He found a
switch near the refrigerator and flipped it up. A bare bulb over the sink cast soft
light and fuzzy shadows into the room. Dil’s seat faced away from the light. His
face was in complete shadow except for the beads of sweat clinging to his
cheeks. They glistened like diamonds embedded in his skin.

“Do you think the Mortal God wants any part of this place? To be constantly
nagged and bullied?”

“You’re talking like a heathen, Dil,” Hen cautioned his older brother.
“That has nothing to do with it!” Dil shouted. He rose from his seat, then sat
back down with a thud, causing the chair’s legs to creak. “There’s not going to
be a messiah, either. God is gone, my friend. Took a vacation and decided he
liked the other side of the galaxy, or wherever he built his summer place. A little
birdie told me.”

“You know we’re not heathens, right, Ben?” Hen asked. His voice trembled. Ben
remembered that the younger brother had mentioned that fact to the dying priest.
The clarification was important.

“It wouldn’t make any difference,” Ben replied. He didn’t care either way. He
decided he was unconvinced, if not completely unconcerned, about the existence
of a god.

“But we can,” Dil pronounced happily. He smiled again and stood up wavering.
“That’s what I’m saying. How about we start a new religion? How about a cult?
Virgins and drugs and not-so-virgins.” Dil’s chuckle echoed hollowly in the
bottle as he raised it to his lips. One more mouthful would finish the nearly
empty bottle. Dil took the gulp after an exhalation in which he pretended to
breathe fire.

“Let’s not talk about this anymore. We’re in a church, Dil. We believe in the
Mortal God.” Hen begged to change the subject.

“What better place to bid him bon voyage? Just don’t expect any miracles. He’s
not even writing postcards.”

“What do you say, Ben?” Dil staggered. He still held the empty bottle in his fist.
“We need to make our own miracle. Get ourselves a flock.”

Dil’s audience wholly dismissed his drunken rambling. Ben avoided being struck
by the bottle as Dil swayed. Ben stood up and established a safe distance
between Dil and himself.

“I think I need to get some sleep,” Ben said.

“Yeah,” Hen eagerly agreed. Any suggestion leading away from the current topic
was welcome. He darted behind Ben. “Let’s go to sleep.”

“I was just playing around. Don’t get upset,” Dil said. “We can talk about
something else. Sit down. We need more wine… but I’m not feeling so good.”

Dil pitched forward into the open boxes of pizza crust and partially eaten slices.
Hen didn’t have a chance to save them this time. The table slid forward with the
momentum of Dil’s fall. Its tubular metal legs creaked and screeched as they
strained against the weight and motion. Dil had passed out. His body draped
over the table, with his knees bent, and his arms dangled over the sides. The
bottle slipped from his grasp and landed with a cavernous thud, and leisurely
rolled toward the splintered doorway. Hen watched as it bumped and rested
against the wooden door that could never be fully closed.

“That hit him pretty fast,” Ben observed.

“I haven’t seen him like this before,” Hen said. “Are you sure he didn’t take
anything?”

Ben shook his head, but Hen didn’t see.

“Those things he said,” Hen started. “You know he didn’t mean it. He never
talks like that.”

“Are you going to leave him there?” Ben asked, disregarding the disclaimer. He
still had a sliver of crust that he now chewed casually.

“I suppose there’s a bed upstairs. Can you help me?”

Ben nodded again, but Hen still wasn’t watching. He busily explored ways to
handle Dil. Apparently Hen was unaccustomed to touching his older brother.
After swallowing the dry bread, Ben hoisted the unconscious Dil up with a hand
under the man’s armpit, and the other pulling his wrist. Hen followed the
example. They strung Dil’s arms around their necks. Ben couldn’t help thinking
he had come around full circle. One good deed had now been repaid with the
same.

Dil was dead weight. He slept and snorted as he snored, and his breath smelled
like rotting oranges and rubbing alcohol. Hen lifted Dil’s head, worried that his
brother would suddenly stop breathing. Moving into the hall was easy enough,
but they stumbled on the steep, narrow stairs. They had to navigate the steps at
an angle, with Ben going first. The stairwell itself was without light except for a
dusty glow at the top. The light floated through windows just barely topping the
walls at either side of the church. Hen tripped and fell on Dil’s limp form, which
nearly dragged Ben backwards. The older brother would surely wake to
mysterious bruises in the morning or early afternoon. Feeling the uncontrolled
tug, Ben let go entirely. He wasn’t going to allow himself to tumble backwards
into a monkey pile of grown men. Once Hen pushed upright, they dragged the
unwieldy Dil the remainder of the way by his arms.

Big rooms and a large bathroom partitioned the second floor. There was even a
kitchenette with a hotplate, but no other appliance or sink. The layout looked
more like a hostel than a church. Then again, the place was designated for other
purposes than a house of worship. It wasn’t such a stretch of the imagination to
think this building was a way station for patrols in times of unrest. Ben
wondered if a stash of riot gear or other provisions had been hidden somewhere.
The breeze blew gently through open doors. Ben and Hen strung Dil’s arms over
their shoulders again. Ben steered for the nearest bedroom. His selection
contained a half dozen bare cots set up in a row. More cots were folded and
stood against the far wall. Hen wanted something cozier. He headed for the
second room. Dil was tugged between the two, but Ben yielded. A game of tug-
of-war was out of the question.

The room Hen chose contained two naked twin beds and closets, which carved
the room into an irregular shape, casting thick angular shadows. The
arrangement formed a nook filled with a table and chairs and provided a simple
outdoor view of rooftops.

When they reached the nearest bed, Ben dumped Dil gracelessly. Hen didn’t let
go and almost fell again. He caught himself on the bed. The mattress was hard
and bounced once before settling. Hen lifted Dil’s feet to the bed. He didn’t
bother taking off his brother’s shoes. Ben pushed Dil’s shoulder beneath him so
he lay on his side.

“I guess this will be our room,” Hen said. “Are you going to stay?”

“In here with you?” Ben asked.

“No, I mean stay at the church. I still want to leave in the morning. I don’t like
what maybe happened here. It might be haunted or cursed. I don’t know. This
isn’t what Dil is like.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know. But we got lots of money now. More than I’ve ever seen all at
once. If we get jobs, we can stay in the Cap. If we can’t get jobs, we’ll have
enough to live in the encampment for awhile.”

Ben couldn’t shake the feeling that he was meant to be here. Dil made it obvious
that he, too, felt welcomed. Only Hen voiced aversion, and his reaction was
perfectly natural. The eyes of the Church may be turned away, but the trio’s stay
was on borrowed time. Then there were the blood and feathers, indicating that
something terrible had happened to the previous priest. Signs did not bode well.
There was no guarantee that Ben wasn’t the next target, even if he was an
impostor. Yet, he gained entrance to the Cap and specifically came to St.
Erasmus for something, great things, not merely for celebration or honor. There
was a job to do. The big, blank spot in his memory may not have anything to do
with the feeling. However, he had to assume it did. A human, inspired directive
was more comfortable to believe than everything being the result of ghoulish
coincidences.

“Let’s see what happens tomorrow,” Ben said. He knew he’d stay. The Cortras
brothers would, too. Hen wouldn’t leave Dil. Poor Hen was like a man who
wouldn’t unlace a comfortable boot caught in the tracks of a train barreling down
on him. In a strange way, Ben felt better to know that. He knew what to expect
of Hen, but Dil was a different matter. The older brother gave the impression of
being stoic and contemplative, if shortsighted, but that personality started to
change even before he started to drink. Hen saw it, and there wasn’t a better
judge than a brother.

Ben left Hen and walked to the farthest room. A window overlooked the street.
This must have been the priest’s room. A large bed, armoire, armchair, and table
lent the space a lived-in appearance. Their shapes and colors were not exact in
the low light. Ben realized he really was tired. He pulled off his boots and lay
down otherwise fully clothed. The soft ringing in the back of his head returned
and the steady whistle lulled him to sleep and into dreams. He couldn’t describe
any of the frozen, intangible images, but he noted the absence of sound. His
dreams were still and deaf.
8 Pride
Jimmy Batheirre had lived a very short life. At seventeen, he had everything he
wanted when he wanted it. Most of the desires were driven by youthful whim,
only to be forgotten once appeased. The red, newly antique convertible “Arroyo”
wasn’t one of those passing impulsive urges. He had dreamed of it since the age
of thirteen. The automobile belonged to his uncle Judah. The interior was glossy
white leather. A liberal amount of chrome was applied inside and out. The family
consensus was that the car was tacky, but to Jimmy and his uncle, it was a fine
example of mechanical sculpture. The Arroyo was a real work of art. Jimmy
believed it was a shame that the car sat beneath its cloth cover in his mother’s
garage.

This jewel was meant to parade around town. It wasn’t just a symbol of wealth,
but of class. Standards were dismally low in Gomorrah, and the car surpassed
any little token the peasants presented. Shiny leather shoes, gold watches, and
even a swimming pool in the back yard were trinkets compared to this
marvelous machine. The car maintained its pristine condition by staying
covered. Everything was original. There wasn’t so much as a scratch in the paint,
except for the few tiny blemishes Jimmy had caused and hoped no one would
notice.

Sometimes, when Jimmy was home alone, he would sneak into the garage and
remove the thick cotton cover. He would spend a good part of an hour gazing at
the beauty. Part of the ritual included slipping off his sneakers and stuffing his
rings into his pocket. The jewelry had made those first, barely perceptible
scratches. Jimmy would sit behind the steering wheel. He bet his uncle had felt
the same thrill the first time he sat in the driver’s seat.

In Jimmy’s imagination, the wooden garage doors melted away and he was
instantly transported to an empty road in the desert. The white vinyl top was
folded down and the car cruised as fast as it could go, with Jimmy’s foot planted
heavily on the accelerator. Not so much as a shudder, as he rocketed through the
sunlight and solitude. Jimmy never dared to lower the top as the Arroyo sat in
the garage. He never touched the dials and buttons on the console, either. The
scratches were the only evidence he dared to leave, and if there was something
he could do about them, he would.
There had been a time, at fifteen, when he found the keys. His uncle wanted to
see the car one afternoon, as he occasionally would. Jimmy’s mother left the
keys on the kitchen table, instead of immediately secreting them back into her
purse for safekeeping. She and Uncle Judah went to lunch. Jimmy couldn’t resist
starting up the convertible. He nearly panicked when exhaust started filling the
small space, so he restored the cover and keys in a panic. He threw open the
garage door and waved an old blanket through the air for a good twenty minutes
to dissipate the fumes. Luckily, the little adventure went undiscovered.

The car would eventually be a gift to the boy, if Jimmy finished school and
actually attended the university to which his large family bought admission.
Going to the university was still a year away. Jimmy would major in business
and then graduate. That was never a question. In fact, he didn’t need his family
to pave his entrance to school or to land a job. He was an intelligent and
ambitious kid, smart enough to know life had handed him a free ride. He
wouldn’t turn his back on that.

The vices of common people made his family rich. The concept of morality was
sketchy to the buyers and sellers in his family’s business. Even though the
production, distribution, and selling of methamphetamine, and a few other
choice drugs for which the family was less known, were illegal, a popular
demand persisted. Who were they to tell people what to do with their lives?
They certainly weren’t responsible if customers got hooked.

If people wanted to spend less fortunate existences while aped, the Batheirre
family would happily provide the goods. Why not? Jimmy saw what Gomorrah
had to offer for the less privileged. If he were not a Batheirre, he’d probably be
an addict, too. Jimmy had his merits, but the temptation to escape the drudgery
would have been nearly insurmountable, especially as relief was so readily
available. If his family didn’t provide what the populace wanted, somebody else
would. That someone could be less interested in the longevity of customers and
the safety of the city. The Batheirre family provided a service and held civic
responsibility in high esteem. It was good business.

The Batheirres were not bad people. Jimmy had always believed that. He hadn’t
heard otherwise, until talking to his cousin one summer day. Jimmy and Nate
were related, but many times removed, and rarely saw each other. Still, they
were family. The solidarity of family was a core Batheirre value. It kept the
operation of their business tight. Nate was older and wiser by a few years,
although his wisdom needed more time to cure. Nate outlined the history of the
family.

As Jimmy had always believed, Uncle Judah and Jimmy’s father were brothers,
who learned the ropes from his grandfather. Jimmy knew that. That was how the
business ran, passed down from generation to generation. Jimmy also knew he’d
been conceived before his parents were married. That supposedly caused a
problem between his father and grandfather. The unexpected death of his
grandfather soon solved the problem. Cancer took the patriarch before Jimmy
was old enough to remember. A young Judah took over the business and
Jimmy’s father never allowed another ill word about his wife and new son.
Jimmy’s father was killed in a car accident soon after. Some aped loser failed to
yield at an interaction. Jimmy’s father and the other driver were killed instantly.

Nate told a new variation of the story. Apparently Jimmy was closer to the brutal
center of power than he realized. Nate said Jimmy’s grandfather was thrilled to
have a grandchild. The couple was indeed young and unmarried, but that wasn’t
a problem. The Batheirres were a close family and had plenty of money. No time
at all would be wasted ushering the girl into the tree. Another leaf, or two in this
case, were lovingly welcomed. So Jimmy’s father and mother were married.
Then, of course, his grandfather passed away. Jimmy’s father was the older
brother, so by tradition, he was heir to the empire. As Nate told it, tradition was
firmly in place, as Jimmy’s father assumed control. Nate revealed that this
development didn’t sit well with Judah, who was envious.

Competition between Judah and Jimmy’s uncle had been overfed throughout
their youth. Their father preached the importance in guarding against apathy. The
business was to be passed to hungry sons. Judah landing in second place, solely
due to the happenstance order of birth, wasn’t fair. That’s why Judah engineered
his older brother’s death.

The idea was difficult to comprehend. Uncle Judah had always been kind and
generous to Jimmy. He spoke well of Jimmy’s father. Most of what Jimmy knew
about his father and his grandfather had come from Uncle Judah. Yet a subtle
tension existed between his mother and uncle. She never spoke of it, but Jimmy
had the impression that she wanted to put distance between her son and the
Batheirres. They visited relatives only when Uncle Judah showed up at their
door, and dragged them to holiday affairs or other special events. Uncle Judah
had been the only one who had ever come to visit, and typically arrived
unannounced. He never said or did anything to coerce his mother, but she looked
reluctant and pressured.

Maybe she sought to avoid the memory of her dead husband, but life would have
been much different without the support of Uncle Judah and the rest of the
family. The tailor shop of Jimmy’s mother would have failed a long time ago.
Jimmy wouldn’t have the money to go to the university after passing the
entrance exams, and there wouldn’t have been the plentiful gifts and cash
throughout his childhood.

In addition to the plan for Jimmy to attend school and earn a degree, he was also
the only true heir to the family business. Jimmy’s uncle had said as much. Uncle
Judah never married and didn’t have children of his own. When Jimmy
graduated a good five or six years from now, he’d come back to Gomorrah.
Uncle Judah would teach him how business worked in the real world. With that
knowledge, and whatever Jimmy picked up in school, the boy was expected to
do wonderful things for the family name, and maybe even bring it some
legitimacy outside the ragged borders of Gomorrah. His mother never disagreed,
but she did insist Jimmy express what he wanted with the future that was his
alone. Jimmy did.

However, there was that bellyache of truth. Nate didn’t have a reason to spin
lies. Judah fostered an uncomfortable relationship with heathens around the time
of his brother’s death. The family disapproved of the interaction and had
harassed Judah ever since. The relationship between Judah and his brother, the
head of the family, was complicated, but it wouldn’t matter if Judah were in
charge.

The dealings with the heathens started with establishing lines of demarcation.
Both sides benefited as long as their activities remained separated. Trouble in
one camp never touched the other. The arrangement grew into tit for tat, not like
a genuine partnership, but favors were exchanged. That kind of activity couldn’t
be hidden from a family the size of the Batheirre’s. Nate said Jimmy’s father
demanded it end. An ultimatum paramount to excommunication was delivered,
but Judah was committed to the path he had taken. He may have gone too far
and owed too much to back out, or his dark desire was firmly coupled with
heathen strategy. In either case, Jimmy’s father was an obstacle to be removed.
The body of the fledgling Batheirre heir had been so horribly mangled in a fatal
accident, that the family insisted on an immediate cremation.
Jimmy didn’t want to hear anymore. He ran straight home. Nate called after him
to solicit silence. Jimmy didn’t know what to do. He thought about having been
mercilessly stripped of a father. The loss was the only thing going through his
head all the way home. A whole other life had been denied him. Jimmy didn’t
know how to deal with that, either. He’d grown up without a real father, although
Uncle Judah attempted to play the role every once in a while. His uncle insisted
upon it to the point of imposing on Jimmy’s mother. Uncle Judah even said he
had chosen Jimmy’s given name. Whether that was true or not, the revelation
resulted in a terrible argument between Jimmy’s mother and Uncle Judah. The
fight left his mother crying and bruised. Jimmy pushed the recollection of that
day beneath more pleasant memories. When the bad memories bubbled up to his
consciousness, he tried to distract himself.

His mother’s beating had been a long time ago, but Nate’s story dusted and
polished it. The small trauma glared in a new light that was impossible to ignore.
Jimmy grasped at a desperate idea to make himself feel better, to restore his
oblivious happiness from a few hours before. He would take the Arroyo for a
drive.

The timing couldn’t have been more convenient. His mother had stepped out,
probably not far. Her purse sat in its usual place on the vanity in her bedroom.
She must be making a rare call on a neighbor, but that was far enough. Jimmy
snatched the key to the convertible. After slipping the key off the keyring, he
backed out of the room, subconsciously retracing his steps. Once in the garage,
he deftly removed the convertibles cover. He tossed it into the broad back seat.
Jimmy unfastened the latches of the top and started the car. This was the first
time he had lowered the top. A wonderful exhilaration made his heart beat faster.

The transformation was like watching a flower bloom or a bride lifting her veil.
Jimmy sat amazed as the metal struts folded the top back. The convertible
awakened as the Arroyo stretched its mechanical arms after a long hibernation.
The car evolved into what it was meant to be, open to the sky-but not quite yet.
In his haste, Jimmy had forgotten to open the garage door. He hopped out of the
car and dashed to the door, coughing out the fumes as he went.

The garage door raised with loud twangs of un-worked springs and fear gripped
Jimmy. He almost expected to see his mother and Uncle Judah standing there or
on the corner at the end of the block. Jimmy scouted the area in three long-
legged paces. The street looked empty, but it was the middle of a hot day. People
would either be at work or finding shade. He listened to the growling engine.
The car was determined to go. Jimmy could feel the craving from the machine.
That was all the convincing he needed. Jimmy went back to the car and roded it
from its cramped cell.

The sun glistened like a bead of molten glass in the red paint. The reflection
flowed across the hood as the car crept forward tentatively. Jimmy wanted
nothing more than to drive away, fast and far, but he restrained himself long
enough to lower the garage door again. When that was done, he returned to the
idling car, shifted the car to “Drive” again, and placed his foot on the accelerator.
The tires screeched with the slightest touch of the gas pedal. He raced the car
down the street a second later. Everything Nate had said was now the furthest
thing from Jimmy’s mind.

The feel for the car came naturally to the boy. Jimmy believed he was a good
driver, despite the lack of experience. People got out of his path, anyway,
because everyone knew who Jimmy was. Being the only nephew of the most
powerful man in Gomorrah automatically granted the boy an amount of fame
and status. No doubt, word of Jimmy’s adventure would soon reach his mother
and uncle. That was the drawback of being famous, but Jimmy didn’t care. On
long empty streets, he was able to build up enough speed to make the wind
whistle past his ears. Between the wind and the thundering engine, he couldn’t
hear himself laugh and yell. His shaggy black hair danced the whirl of a dervish
as it whipped across his vision. The twirling locks brushed away tears that the
wind blew from his eyes.

The speed, sun, and feel of the wheel in his hands stoked Jimmy’s daring. He
turned the knob on the radio. There wasn’t anything to listen to. Sermons from
the Church and military news didn’t cater to teenage boys. Both channels were
droning bores. Playing with the radio was really a matter of exploration. Jimmy
wanted to hear sound from the dashboard speaker. He wanted to blast it over the
sounds of the wind and the car. Taking the convertible in the first place was the
biggest risk. What more did little things like twisting knobs matter compared to
that? The day had arrived when Jimmy did what he had wanted to do for years.
Taking the Arroyo was the only thing he wasn’t allowed to do. It was the only
thing that wasn’t given to him the moment he asked. Having this now, after
wanting it for so long, was sweeter than any fulfilled desire he had ever had. The
feeling made him bolder.
The radio wasn’t cackling. The little orange bar behind the floating white
numbers moved to the right as Jimmy continued to turn. The other knob did
nothing at all. He caught himself minding the radio closer than the road. His foot
pressed more heavily on the accelerator when he wasn’t watching where he was
going. He tugged the steering wheel to the left to avoid sideswiping a parked car.
As he passed, he realized that he hadn’t even come close to the other vehicle.
The perspective and sudden upward glance had tricked him. He chortled at his
momentary loss of confidence.

Jimmy returned to figuring out how to operate the radio. He grasped the first dial
between his thumb and forefinger. It felt like there was a little give. He pulled a
little harder, hoping the next sound would be a shower of voices or static,
depending on if he had fallen on a station during his clueless knob twisting.
Neither happened. Instead, the knob popped off its metal stem and slipped
between his fingers. Jimmy watched as it flipped through the air in front of him.
It bounced off the steering column, then rolled on the floor between the pedals.

Sudden fear gripped the boy. He could easily fit the knob back into place, yet all
the anxiety over breaking something on the car rushed back with fury at the sight
of the displaced chunk of cast metal. Jimmy’s instinct was to immediately reach
down and retrieve the knob. As he did, he sealed his destiny. No more thought or
desire, only oblivion. The convertible folded like an empty soda can, as did the
bed of the stalled pick-up truck that Jimmy rear-ended. The truck rolled forward,
while the crumpled car skidded an impossibly short distance, given its
momentum before it stopped. Then the truck pulled away as if nothing had
happened. Jimmy’s blood fell in thick drops over the white interior and shattered
glass like big pearls of rain at the beginning of a summer storm.

The concussive collision drew witnesses after the fact. Everyone knew Jimmy
Batheirre lay in the crushed convertible. A few people recognized the Cortras’
truck, even though it was relatively new to Gomorrah. Before nightfall, a dozen
people were looking for it as a reward was offered for finding the vehicle’s
owners. Jimmy was still alive, but only in a technical sense. Gurgling came from
his throat, but the boy never recovered. Someone who worked for Judah, as half
of Gomorrah did directly or indirectly whether they knew it or not, wrapped
Jimmy’s limp body in a blanket and rushed him to Judah Batheirre’s home.
Within fifteen minutes after being placed on a leather sofa in Judah’s den, Jimmy
drowned in a lungful of his own blood. Five minutes after that, the summoned
doctor pronounced the boy dead.
Judah Batheirre was stunned into silence until the doctor offered his condolences
- then Batheirre exploded. He beat the unsuspecting doctor until both men lay on
the floor. Loud cracks accentuated Judah’s flourish of curses. The doctor
suffered a broken face during the knock-out blows, with his nose and jaw
pressed unevenly to the right side of his face. Judah sobbed,with the fractured
fingers of his right hand raised before him. He gave the order to find whoever
had killed his son. He emphasized the word “son.” The murderers would be
brought there to see what they had done, before they had fled like cowards. They
would make amends with their tears and their lives.

However, the guilty party was not found. The Cortras brothers had made their
escape, but Judah now knew who was responsible. The following morning,
Annette, Jimmy’s mother, finally heard what had happened. She had spent the
night worrying, since it was the first time Jimmy hadn’t been home in the
evening. She had not noticed the missing convertible, as she hadn’t even
bothered to look. Months went by without her going into the garage. As far as
she was concerned, that part of her home didn’t belong to her. It had been taken
over by Judah for his brassy car. When she heard that it was the instrument of
her son’s death, the bitterness toward Judah that she had long harbored in her
bosom, burst and inflamed her. She rushed to Judah’s home to see her dead son,
to take proper care of him, instead of allowing his body to be treated like muck
to rub the offending dogs’ noses in. It was an infrequent occasion when her will
dominated over Judah’s. She discovered that bending his bandaged fingers in the
course of an en

suing argument helped make her point. She had not forgotten the lesson in how
effective violence could be when it came to winning.

The visitation was held a couple days after Jimmy’s death. Judah demanded it
take place at his home. He argued a valid point about space, and Annette was too
tired and shocked to dispute. The details were currently too much to wrangle
over. Judah took care of everything, just as he always had before; likewise,
Annette refused to be grateful. She did demand that Jimmy be taken back to her
house to spend one more night at home before the funeral. As inconvenient and
unorthodox as the request was, it was granted. The mother would be allowed her
quirks in her grief.

Gathering the family together was a simple matter. Though there were many
members to contact, all lived in the city, and word spread quickly. The ceremony
was quiet. Judah and Jimmy’s mother sat furthest from each other on opposite
sides of the burgundy casket. It was originally going to be red like the
demolished convertible, but the pressure of time and poor taste were too great
for Judah to overcome. The lid remained closed during visitation, since the boy’s
face had been turned to pulp. No amount of creativity on the part of the
mortician had been able to restore Jimmy’s cheeks to the same shape they had
held in life. An open casket would have been cruel to the mother, even though
Judah demanded everyone see what had been done to a member of his family.
There would be witnesses to the work of cowards. Judah got his way. Whenever
Annette stepped out of the room, Judah opened the coffin to show whoever was
nearest. Jimmy was no longer a human being. He didn’t even look like one
anymore.

The immediate members of the family gathered at Annette’s home that evening.
The mood was reflected in the black dresses the woman wore. The ordinary suits
of the men increased the somber tone. Judah invited himself. He felt justified,
more than obligated. Despite his tenuous relationship with Jimmy’s mother, he
saw so much of the boy’s features in her face, and he missed seeing that beauty
now. The boy shared the same almond-shaped brown eyes and high cheeks as his
mother. Both possessed sharp chins and noses, with clear, pink skin. Judah
remembered that the beauty of Jimmy’s mother, Annette, was what captivated
him so many years ago, the day Judah had discovered his older brother had met
this lovely girl.

She eventually found herself unable to decide between the loves of two brothers.
Ultimately she chose the elder and rational brother, the one who didn’t scare her.
Judah felt that the passion he lost with Annette had been regained with Jimmy.
Now he could only conjure up the mauled image of the boy in death. After such
a tragedy, Judah was finally seeing Annette again. He recognized what he loved
in Jimmy and realized it was Annette all along. The booze or the pain pills he’d
been consuming all day played no part in the insight. He and Annette made
Jimmy into the boy he was. Annette may see that in Judah now. He was the only
one she had. Judah decided their game of avoiding each other for the past day
and a half would come to an end tonight. The time for renewal had arrived, an
affirmation of life, and a new beginning. Judah crossed the room and stood
squarely before Annette. She was lingering near the coffin. The corner of the
room cleared as the two met. The family was prepared for the confrontation.

“Annette,” Judah said. His voice carried the inflection of reverence it hadn’t
offered in years. He surprised himself. The sound of his voice took him back to
his youth. It rekindled the excitement of the first time he had made love with his
brother’s girlfriend. He regressed to the weeks of tumbling romance when he had
tried to win Annette’s heart from another man. Tragically, it was in vain. “There
is so much I want to go back and change.”

Annette glared at Judah, with venom in her eyes. She could feel the muscles in
her neck and shoulders tightening as if she was coiling, but Judah didn’t heed the
warning. He was swimming in his rediscovered memories of love and lust.

“This is not what I wanted for us. There has been so much time wasted.”

“And that is why you tore it all away,” Annette spat. “You lack imagination,
Judah. Or was it some kind of sick joke, that you killed Paul and his son in the
same way?”

Judah reeled. He didn’t expect to hear these accusations tonight. He thought

Annette’s suspicion about Judah’s responsibility for his brother’s death, was
buried ages ago. The subject hadn’t come up since the argument over Jimmy’s
real father, the day Judah had staked his claimed. This was unfair and flatly
inappropriate, given the circumstances. Judah was still speechless, but a
matchstick had been struck inside. He tasted the sulfurous smoke curling from
his mouth.

“What was it, Judah? Was Jimmy reminding you a little too much of Paul? Did
you think he was back for revenge?”

That was enough. Annette was growing louder, even as her voice quivered. The
topic was off limits. Now this woman was dragging it out in front of the family
at the very worst time.

“Jimmy is my boy!” Judah yelled. The family still in the room tried to
inconspicuously retreat. Judah caught the motion in the corner of his eye. When
the last back turned, he grabbed Annette’s arm. A purple imprint of his fingers
would swell up the following morning.

“Let go of me. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she screamed.
“Jimmy is Paul’s son. Sleeping with you was the stupidest thing I ever did.”

“Marrying the wrong man was the stupidest thing you ever did. You thought you
were fucking money, but he’s dead. He’s been dead for a long time. I just don’t
understand why you’re not fucking me now.”

Annette slapped Judah. Judah raised his bandaged hand and thought better than
to strike the woman in return. Injury taught restraint. Instead, he yanked her off
balance and pulled her, stumbling, toward the coffin. The reminiscent affection
for the woman was gone, like the past and Jimmy. Judah was going for the latch
on the lid again.

“Like I said, Jimmy is my boy. Do I have to point out the resemblance?” Judah
fired. “Let me show you why Jimmy is mine, not Paul’s.”

“Judah, please,” Annette pleaded. She righted herself long enough to firmly
plant her feet. Judah still pulled her along as she skidded on her heels. “Please, I
don’t want to see my baby. I don’t want to see my baby like this.”

“Bitch.” Judah fumbled with the latch. His broken fingers made the task
difficult. Annette tugged at her captured arm. Struggling made it worst, as each
movement caused Judah’s grip to constrict automatically. Her fingertips started
to tingle and turn purple, while his knuckles turned white.

“No!” she sobbed in protest.

“What’s going to happen to you now?” Judah asked, as he worked the latch.
“You’d have nothing without me. You’ll be nothing without me. I’ll make sure
of that! I’ll take it all away!”

A dilemma arose; Judah couldn’t possibly unlock the casket with his bandaged
hand. If he let go of Annette, she would undoubtedly bolt. Judah wasn’t a man
who gave up easily. Even in his rage, he was timing his next motion. Once he let
go, he’d have to lunge forward and deliver a backhand to Annette’s face. An eye
for an eye was his motto. He personalized the saying by making his retribution
hurt much more. He was in the final seconds of his silent countdown when he
was disturbed.

Neither Judah nor Annette had heard the man clear his throat, trying to gain their
attention. It was Truman, Judah’s uncle on his mother’s side. He was no one of
consequence, but closer to the center than Judah preferred. There were too many
“hanger-ons” and charity cases on that branch of the family. Judah often felt
lucky that there was enough fire in his father’s blood to make up for the
meekness and beggary that cursed his mother’s side. The woman was fortunate
to preserve her natural beauty well into middle age. Her looks certainly had
earned her a grand share of undeserved favors for her rodent-like siblings. She
must have been a changeling, kidnapped at birth by a pack of half-rat creatures.
What other than a mythical explanation would suffice?

“Judah?” Truman asked. He was a plump rat, just like his brothers and sisters, all
thanks to Judah. Truman would be the only person so obtuse not to realize when
privacy was desired, and he couldn’t take a clue from everyone else present.
Judah waited for Truman to leave. When it was obvious the man wasn’t going,
he let go of Annette. She ran past Truman, stunned and wobbling.

“Bitch,” Judah muttered again. He called after the fleeing woman. “Think about
what you’re going to do next, Annette. Think about how good you’ve had it.” As
he watched her go, he couldn’t believe that he had allowed it. She had managed
to slip away. The escape made him angrier.

“What is it?” The flames still burned.

“It’s Josiah,” Truman answered. “He’s on the phone.” The ringing of the phone
was something else Judah and Annette had missed.

“He wants to express his sympathies.”

“To me?” Judah was incredulous. “What does your aped brother really want?”
For a moment, Judah wasn’t going to take the call, but then, his prey had eluded
him. He was alone in the room with his unpalatable uncle. He needed something
else to do and was at an immediate loss for anything. Judah stomped across the
floor. He was grateful Truman stepped to one side to clear the doorway. Judah
didn’t like touching him. He mused over finding an island to create some kind of
leper colony for his mother’s side of the family; Truman and Josiah would be
residents, and Annette would follow out of principle. It was a far-fetched
solution, but seemed to be the only practical one. Killing family was much too
complicated and perilous. Judah had learned that lesson when he was young and
more rash.

Josiah Kanen had once shown potential. The Batheirres were introduced to him
when Annette and Judah’s brother, Paul, were married. Josiah was a priest and
had performed the ceremony. Judah’s father said it was fortunate to have a
connection inside the Church. Not only was Josiah a priest, but also assigned to a
position inside Capital. It could prove useful. If Judah was more ingenious, he
could have played both sides. The Church and heathens would have been
unwitting tools. That was out of Judah’s scope of abilities, as he didn’t have the
vision or the temperament. He was more of a rolled shirtsleeve overlord, always
getting his hands dirty.

Despite the Batheirres’ money paving Josiah’s rise through the rank, the
investment amounted to pearls given to swine. The priest decided to try the
family’s product and liked it. His addiction became a liability. Too many
resources were wasted keeping secrets. Bribes and payoffs that once bought
position and promises, turned to maintaining status quo. Losses had to be cut.
There would be no more money or drugs.

Judah went to the kitchen where the phone hung on the wall. Most of the family
had gone home, but the few who remained went back to the room with Jimmy’s
casket. Judah’s continued insistence for privacy was evident. Annette was out of
sight.

“Joe,” Judah said into the phone. “What do you want?”

The caller replied with a pause then a keen inhale. “Hello, Judah.” There was
another pause. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about James.”

“In the name of the Mortal God, you didn’t even know he was dead until you
called,” Judah accused.

“No, Judah, I did.”

“You know you’ve been cut off. Your fake sympathy isn’t going to change that.”

“Judah, please, that’s not fair,” Josiah pleaded. “That’s not why I called. And I
truly am sorry.”

Judah made the concession. “All right, why did you call?”

“I need a favor”

“I knew it. What is the matter with you? You’re a captain now, right? I’m
supposed to be asking you for favors.”
“It’s that priest. He’s here.”

Judah remembered. Another pay-off, but that time the request was refused. The
day had come for Josiah to handle his own problems. That’s exactly what Judah
thought Josiah did with this other priest without rank, another addict. The
Church had so many drug users, it should be obvious that they had an epidemic
of apers, but there was no such thing as a pink slip once an initiate was ordained.
The addicts were just shuffled from one low profile assignment to another. This
other priest got his stuff from the gutters of Gomorrah. He was a regular. He
knew the players, producers, dealers, and other buyers.

That’s what he had on Josiah. Josiah had gotten stupid, and blindly wandered the
streets of Gomorrah looking to get hooked up. It looked bad that a captain in the
Church had sunk so low. As it was, with word on the street, everyone knew why
he was there. Josiah had fallen out of favor with the Batheirres. This other priest
took advantage of the knowledge. It wasn’t the first time Josiah was
blackmailed. The fact that it would happen again was inevitable, even if Josiah
managed to kick his habit. Without the resources of the Batheirres, Josiah pulled
strings and got lucky. There was an opening at a parish in the Cap. Judah was
genuinely impressed that Josiah was able to bring an outsider into Capital. The
accomplishment made him wonder if his uncle held out on his obligations all
these years.

“Yeah,” Judah said. “I thought that’s what you wanted. You handled it. It’s done,
right?”

“He can’t stay here.”

Judah knew it. There was a catch. Josiah’s solution was a temporary one. Now
he wanted his mess cleaned up for him all over again. Judah would not bail him
out. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. He’s got to go.”

“You better not be asking me for anything. You know that.”

“But what am I supposed to do?” Josiah implored. The sound of desperation

made Judah feel ill. At least his pitiful uncle distracted him from Jimmy and the
dead boy’s mother.
“Handle it yourself. That’s what you do.”

“This isn’t just my problem,” Josiah said. “What if the Church finds out that the
Batheirre family has their fingers in the affairs of he Church? This priest could
tell them that.”

This was an old threat. Judah wasn’t going to fall for it again. Nothing would
happen to the Batheirres. Gomorrah was of no consequence to the Church. What
would happen is that particular finger, the gangrenous Josiah, would be sliced
off. That would be the best for everybody. Judah was finished with this detour in
his tumultuous evening. There were bigger concerns, and they would have to be
put into perspective.

“Let me remind you, Joe, what has happened here. Jimmy is dead. His fucking
brain was in his nose. I don’t have time for your shit. I’m looking for the cunts
that killed him. You handle your problem yourself!”

Judah had called Josiah’s bluff. He was a terrible gambler. Nothing more could
be said, but he still needed help. He wished Judah would just tell him what to do
and he’d do it.

“You’re right Judah. I don’t know what to do. I wish this guy was dead.”

That was the simple solution. The hard part was figuring out how to do it and get
away with it. There were professionals in this field. In the Batheirre’s business,
Judah became familiar with a few. It was a necessity.

“So you want him dead?” Judah asked. Josiah grew hopeful. “You got money?”

“I can get it. Can I send it to you after you’re through?”

“I didn’t say I was going to do anything.” Judah provided an avenue and Josiah
was already steering in the wrong direction. “There’s someone in the Cap you
can talk to. You better have the money up front.”

“But…”

“Shut up,” Judah snubbed Josiah. “Or you might as well fuck it up yourself. All
you’re going to get is a number. When you call, don’t ask him his name. He
won’t tell you anyways. It just looks amateurish.”
“Thank you, Judah.”

The conversation ended with a phone number and more thanks from Josiah.
Judah went home without talking to anyone else. He was satisfied that someone
was going to die, but it was only an appetizer. He still wanted the Cortras
brothers. He’d make a few calls the next morning and offer a bounty. No place
was going to be safe, not even the Cap.
9 Wantonness
The sounds of scrubbing, and running water, woke Ben. The latter reignited his
thirst, but he would ignore it for now. The drowsiness made it easier, so he
decided to allow himself to drift back to sleep. The combination of scrubbing
and water flowed together into a rhythm. The music of activity could have sung
Ben back into slumber, except that the light had become a rude guest. At first it
was soft and feathery, just a little brighter than the streetlight that glowed
through the night. Within minutes, however, it started to pound through his
closed eyelids, and Ben’s face began to ache. Ben realized he was squeezed his
eyes shut more tightly as the intensity of the morning light grew and that’s what
caused the pain. This was clearly a battle he wasn’t going to win It was time to
wake up and plan for what should be the next step. The Cortras brothers may be
leaving, if Hen had been able to talk Dil into the idea. Just as Ben made the
decision to start the day, the running water stopped and transformed to a

steady dripping.

The intruding light was bearable when Ben finally opened his eyes. The slow
introduction and steady intensity adjusted his vision, even as he fought it. The
ache at the front of his head was gone instantly. He was still lethargic, but now
that he was not falling back asleep, the thirst was certain to take precedence and
needed to be addressed soon. For now, he was going to explore his new room.
The armoire and table he had spotted last night were constructed of pine and
stained a dark chocolate. The table was bare. The chair next to it was upholstered
in faux brown leather. The arms and back were worn down to the thick string
mesh beneath. The strands were the only layer holding in the bulging stuffing.

The armoire was shut, but didn’t have a lock. Ben pulled the doors open by their
thin brass rings. The closet contained an identical wardrobe as discovered within
the suitcase: more white collarless shirts and black slacks. Ben pulled out one of
each. They were too big, even larger than the clothes he presently wore. There
was also a pair of black polished shoes that looked like they’d fit if he wore a
couple pairs of socks. He decided he would do that, eventually. He had dreaded
the idea of putting on the beaten boots again. Once the boots were removed, Ben
had enjoyed the air on his feet too much to stuff them into hot shoes again.

Ben looked down at his feet. They were stark white. All the color had been worn
off during his trek in the Shur. His toes were bony and shriveled. The difference
between them and his still swollen red hands made him muse that he looked as if
he had been stitched together from two different people. Ben assessed his
wardrobe options again. He decided he would continue living out of the suitcase,
because the fit of those clothes would be less conspicuous. He tried to remember
where someone had placed the suitcase. He solved the quandary with a quick
scan of the room, as he observed the suitcase just inside his bedroom door. Ben
started to open it, then tossed it on the rumpled bed instead. He decided he
would wear the same clothes he wore the day before. No reason to prepare for
anything formal. He ignored the criss-crossed wrinkles in his clothes and walked
into the hall, barefoot.

Ben’s curiosity intrigued him enough to investigate the source of the scrubbing.
Dil was in the room where Ben and Hen had left him. He held an oval-shaped
toilet brush. The bristles had splayed from abuse. Dil was bent over the bare
mattress, rubbing a large soapy circle.

“To hell with this,” Dil evoked. He tossed the brush. As it sailed through the air
and struck the floor, white suds splattered the wall. The plaster sucked up the
moisture, leaving rings. Dil grabbed the mattress and flipped it up. He lost his
grip and the mattress slipped to the floor on the other side of the bed. It leaned
upright against the frame. Dil reached over and gripped it again. He jerked it
back up and then over, wet side down. With the mattress turned over and back on
the frame, Dil stood erect. Dry, yellow vomit coated the front of his blue shirt.
Ben became aware of a rank smell, or perhaps the sight of puke triggered some
hidden olfactory memory. In either case, Ben decided he’d move on. Neither
man acknowledged each other and continued as if they had not seen one another.

Ben followed the dripping sound, which led him to the large bathroom. There
were doubles of every fixture, including sinks, toilets, and showers. The drip
came from the nearest shower stall where a soapy puddle obscured the tiles at
the bottom. Ben heard Dil lumber down the stairs. Toward the bottom, just when
Ben expected to hear nothing more than an echo, Dil cursed and hammered the
floor once. He must have missed the last step just where it was darkest in the
expiring morning. Ben listened longer for conversation. He knew Hen well
enough to expect some greeting for his brother. Nothing. Hen must be gone. Ben
hoped Hen was hunting down breakfast. Last night’s dinner taunted his stomach
to expect regular meals again, but first he’d get a drink.
He ran water in one of the sinks. Ben filled his cupped hand and brought it to his
mouth. He captured a painfully small amount of water this way, and he realized
that slurping repeatedly from his hands wasn’t going to be enough. His head was
too large to fit in the basin under the faucet. He still tried, because the need
drove him. He turned to the second shower stall. The wide shower head offered a
torrent of cool liquid. He felt gritty from his work yesterday afternoon and his
skin still stung from his extensive burns. All his pressing problems could be
solved with a shower.

Ben started the shower. He almost forgot to turn the water off in the sink and the
basin had already started to fill. Some plunging may be required if he stayed at
the church very long. Ben stripped off his clothes and piled them in the dry sink.
Looking down, he saw where his two halves appeared to be sewn together. They
were joined at his waist. The work was masterful,with not even a sign of a stitch.
He was a living peppermint candy cane, eaten down to the last two colored
bands. Ben stepped into the shower. It wasn’t as cold as the water from the pump
at the edge of the encampment, but it was cool enough. His skin felt soothed
again. Ben had almost become accustomed to the pain. Most of the blisters had
burst, leaving raw flesh beneath. They weren’t any more painful than the rest of
the top half of his body, though, as he hurt evenly.

Ben had barely stepped into the flow when he turned his mouth upward. He
stood on his toes to catch as much of the water as he could and drank with
restrained swallows. Ben imagined his insides like the bed of a stream. Every
living thing within him depended on water and its motion. He needed to keep it
running down his throat and throughout his body. The water had to fill the grotto
of his belly and then overflow, to bring back the life, and banish the emptiness of
memory and the past. When his legs grew tired, he took hold of the spigot and
held himself up by locking his fingers together over the pipe.

He drank until his hands began to slip. Only then did he take a few minutes to
bathe the rest of his body. Ben looked around for soap, but couldn’t find any.
The water alone would have to suffice. Ben stepped out of the stall and dressed.
He didn’t bother to dry off, since there wasn’t a towel around. Shaking his limbs
didn’t help much but he didn’t mind staying wet. Ben retrieved the shoes along
with two pairs of socks before he went downstairs. He decided to stay barefoot
just a little longer.

Dil was in the kitchen, wringing his shirt in the sink. His back was pale, but not
as white as Ben’s lower half. The back of Dil’s neck was red, but again, not like
Ben’s. Dil’s red band was thick and permanent, like a leather collar that was
never coming off. Dil held the shirt up. The light from the window streamed
through the coarse fabric. The laundering was satisfactory. Dil put the shirt back
on, sopping wet, but didn’t button it up. It dripped from the shirttail and cuffs.
The smell was finally gone from the shirt and Ben’s nose. Dil turned around and
acted like he was seeing Ben for the first time that morning.

“If the sun weren’t shining, people would think the two of us got caught in a
downpour,” Dil smirked. There was something different about him, but only at
times. Contrary to Hen’s suspicion, Dil’s change in behavior wasn’t based on
drugs. Dil was rarely alone. Besides, he didn’t have that chemical smell. The
personality change came and went like the voice from the desert. Ben waited for
Dil to say more; Ben needed to know which personality was prevailing this
morning. If this were the original Dil, he wouldn’t say anything else; Ben would
have to continue the conversation. Dil said nothing else. He walked past Ben and
into the hall. Ben noticed the trash can was back in the kitchen. Stains and
streaks covered the surface, in spite of it having been rinsed. Ben’s and Dil’s
fingerprints were clearly visible. The pizza boxes had been tossed on top, since
they wouldn’t quite fit inside. They tilted up on their sides, forming shapes like
diamonds. Ben followed Dil.

“So are you finished with the mess?” Ben asked.

Dil glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t answer until he turned back around and
watched his moving feet. “Yes, sir.” The tone was far from subservient. The two
were nearly to the knave before Dil said more. “Hen finished it up this morning.
He was up early. He had nothing good to say about last night, his chores, and
this place.”

Dil looked at Ben again. It appeared that Dil was trying to read Ben; he was still
the blank paper he had been since being rescued. Ben suspected he knew what
Dil wanted; to hear that Ben was outraged at the thought of leaving. The older
Cortras brother was looking for a majority vote, if the semblance of democracy
was going to be used to convince Hen to the contrary. Dil didn’t really need it for
his little brother, but a consensus would serve to quiet Hen more quickly and
gently than it would normally take. Ben didn’t have an inclination to stay or go,
so he abstained. The dispute would have to work itself out between the brothers.
This place was merely where he was meant to be at the moment. Ben didn’t
object to the company. If the brothers were to go, he would not leave with them.
The feeling that he had a purpose to fulfill here still nagged him. It wasn’t as
strong as Dil’s odd enlightenment with finding a place to call home, but it wasn’t
wise to dismiss it. All Ben currently had was his instinct. Dil turned away.

“Yeah,” Dil punctuated. “I sent him to cash that check.”

The two surveyed Hen’s handiwork. There were no more bugs, clots, or feathers.
The floor was damp. A great deal of water had been dumped over it. The trash
can must have been filled and poured on the floor. The wood was dyed maroon,
and only the deep scratches and gouges from yesterday’s work hinted at the
original color of the grain. Even then, the water had carried a diluted stain into
most of them.

“You don’t look too bad, considering last night,” Ben observed.

“Now you’re a doctor, priest?”

Ben had heard Dil talk to his little brother like this. Either he was getting
comfortable or the hangover made him irritable. Ben would take it as it was
meant and determined he would make no more comments about Dil’s condition.

“I don’t like the bars,” Ben stated. He took a prolonged look at each window,
one at a time. They were still open from yesterday. The bars were black and two-
dimensional with the morning light behind them. The barrier made Ben restless.

“So cut ‘em off,” Dil offered.

After he dropped those words, Dil’s mood lifted instantly. The hint at making
improvements to the place seemed to cheer him. An investment of energy meant
a longer stay. The plan was really hinged on Ben continuing his masquerade.
Hen could be cowed and distracted, but Ben was the key. Without a priest, what
business would a couple of UnChosen transients have in a church, even one in
the ghetto of the Cap? But as long as they were here, the pretense existed of
repairing the floor. There was certainly enough damage to require a long time to
fix. It was an uneducated guess, but to any average eye, it looked like a lot of
work. In the meantime, the brothers could even learn something about fixing
floors. When that was done, there would be something else. Excuses could run
on indefinitely if they were clever.
“I’ll even help you,” Dil volunteered.

Dil would take on the task all by himself, if it made a difference. The elder
Cortras wanted to stay. There was another reason, other than the money and a
safe place to hide from whoever was looking for the brothers. Ben and Dil
seemed to be sharing it, and that feeling of belonging haunted them. It would
probably be a good idea to talk about it. Dil had a more complete picture of the
events that had led him to this point and place in time. For them to arrive at the
same destiny, their pasts may not be so different.

“What did you mean last night?” Ben queried.

Dil blanched at the question. He scuffed the stained floor with the toe of his
boot. It would take a little more than friction from the leather of a sole to restore
the wood.

“I don’t remember what I said,” Dil replied. “Hen said I talked about some crazy
stuff. Nonsense. It was the desert.”

“And the wine,” Ben handed the excuse to him. Dil scowled.

“I wasn’t drunk. I got a handle on it.”

Ben nodded. The subject was obviously a sore spot. He had no qualms about
letting it go.

“You were out there,” Dil added. “No water. Sun and heat. Then this slaughter
house.”

“I meant about the things you thought we could do. Why do you think we’re
here?”

“I had a dream about that last night.” Dil looked astonished. “I didn’t think I told
anybody. I didn’t even think I talked about it at all.”

“You didn’t tell me, exactly. The statement was vague. It was before you passed
out.”

“You might think I’m crazy. I don’t believe much in dreams. I don’t talk about
‘em, if I remember. But this was different.” Dil took the time to button up his
shirt. He started at the bottom. The cloth was still very wet and stuck to his
shoulders like a second skin.

Dil didn’t speak again until he was finished with the third button from the collar.
“I never had much expectation. You always get disappointed if you wish too
much. But the dream I had last night, everything I told myself I could live
without, was mine. I didn’t even have to ask for it. And I mean everything. I
even had the stuff I wanted when I was a kid.”

“That was all it was about?” Ben was hoping for a revelation.

“Yeah. It was a promise. All I had to do was stay here at the church.”

“What’s going to happen if you stay?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t expect anything. It was just a dream. It just made me
feel, uh, hopeful.”

As Dil spoke, he drifted to the middle of the stain. He was almost at the altar.
Ben had followed. Looking down, he realized he was standing barefoot in the
discoloration. The wood felt soft and cool. Suddenly, noticing where he stood, he
could feel the sensation turn clammy. He stepped into a clear patch. The nearest
pew was pushed away, but Ben didn’t bother correcting it before sitting down
and putting on the socks and shoes he had brought with him. Dil looked
disappointed, like a storyteller who had just lost his audience.

“You feel it too, don’t cha?” Dil made the observation.

“Me?” Ben asked. He wasn’t certain if being evasive was in order, but he didn’t
know how to say what he felt. He did feel hopeful, but he also felt like someone
or something else was in control. That was what made him so uncomfortable.
Maybe it was the voice, but that would sound crazy.

“C’mon, Ben. You have to be here for a reason.” Dil was uncharacteristically
curious again, this time without the alcohol. It was an indication of his eagerness
to stay. “I know you’re not Drystani.”

“I never said I was.” Ben pulled on the second pair of socks. As much as he
enjoyed stretching out his toes, he saw a poisonous red field before him. The
shoes were his only protection.
“I gotta be honest. It’s hard to believe there is a Mortal God. But something
brought us here. Brought you out of the desert, even. You should’ve been dead.”

That was true. Madness and luck were his saviors. That was what Ben brought to
the Cortras brothers; one went with the other. Together they were spreading like
a virus. A soft rap broke their conversation. One of the front doors swung slowly
open. The sound and motion caused Ben to jump up, leaving the shoes untied.

“Hen?” Dil called. Ben took a deep breath and exhaled his sudden rush of
adrenaline.

It wasn’t Hen. An older woman and a teenage boy timidly stepped inside. Both
wore t-shirts and cotton shorts. The woman blinked as she struggled to adjust to
the shadow inside. The boy hopped from side to side as the woman cleared the
passage. She was too slow for him. He pushed open the other door and danced in
front of her. This must be a couple of the flock. Ben and Dil had foolishly
expected that the lack of Church supervision also meant a lack of parishioners.
Even outside the Wall, the plan hadn’t included prayers, sermons and
confessions. Those tasks seemed too trivial to consider, based on the
impracticality of ever arriving at the church, yet there would be some duties and
expectations. Ben wasn’t comfortable with this idea. He’d wear the trappings,
but refused to perpetuate the spurious religion of the Chosen. He knew it wasn’t
his religion now, if it ever had been. They would have to chase the woman off.

“Don’t worry, Dil. I’ve got no other place to go,” Ben whispered. Dil nodded.
This moment of expressing his contentment was spoiled by the presence of their
guests.

“I’ll be in the back,” Dil announced quietly. “What are you going to tell her?”

“We’re closed.”

Dil disappeared into the hall at the back of the church, an escape route from
unexpected visitors. Ben stood ready for his performance. The boy trotted up the
center aisle. The old woman had to shuffle faster to catch him. The exertion
made her breathe heavy.

“Davey, don’t go there,” the woman implored, as the boy approached the outer
perimeter of the stained floor. “It’s dirty. Stay with your mother.”
The woman was short and grayed. Her face and hands bore temporary scars of
healing bug bites. Ben concluded there was a connection between the flies and
the woman.

“Hello,” the woman greeted. “Are you the new priest? You must be.”

“Hi, hello!” Davey laughed.

“I’m Tamara Stoughnt,” she introduced. “This is my son, Davey.” The boy
repeated his manic salutation. Davey was retarded. His face was round and pig-
like, which was an odd coupling with his thin body. Ben didn’t reply; he didn’t
have a chance, as the woman hadn’t stop talking.

“I saw a workman going into the church last night, and I saw the lights. Thank
the Mortal God you came so quickly. This needs to be a good place again.”

“You’re red!” Davey interjected. His finger shot within a hair of Ben’s nose. Ben
felt a breeze chase the quick hand and he pulled his head back by reflex.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Tamara said. “Davey, put your hand down. Be a good boy.
Sit down over there.” The woman pointed to the middle pews. Davey put his
hand down, but didn’t go away. He stood at his mother’s side, twisting his
fingers in his ears. Tamara returned to Ben. “You are badly sunburned. Does it
hurt?”

“Yes, it does,” Ben replied. Obviously, was what he thought, but it should have
been hurting more.

“Oh, and you cleaned everything up.” Her head rolled on her small wrinkled
neck as the woman surveyed the floor.

“There is still a lot to do,” Ben chanced. “The church will be closed for awhile to
come.”

“But you’re here. That’s the important thing.”

“Yes, but I have work to do.”

“Reverend, what is your name?”

“I’m Davey!” The boy raised his arms over his head. His mouth fell open and his
tongue protruded. He stared at the stained floor. “Uhk!”

“Shh, Davey,” His mother said.

“Ben.”

Tamara smiled. “I like that you are not so formal. It means you’re friendly, just
like Reverend Arnett.”

“Who?” Ben asked. Davey echoed him. Ben took a clue from Tamara and
ignored the boy.

“They didn’t tell you? Reverend Arnett was the priest here before you. Did they
tell you what happened to him?”

“No,” Ben replied. He already knew an explanation was coming. If her son
didn’t constantly distract her, she may have answered her own questions.

Tamara leaned close. She gently nudged her son’s head away as he attempted to
join the huddle. “He was murdered,” she whispered. The statement was nearly
lost in the boy’s howl of protest. The old woman might have planned that. She
acted practiced with her timing and volume. Davey was determined to push his
way into the conversation. Missing secrets made him assertive. He threw his
head against his mother’s head by accident. The boy didn’t have the wits to
know better and there was a thud of skulls.

“Ow!” Tamara cried. She rubbed the bludgeoned side of her head and stomped
her foot. “Oh, Davey. You’re being bad. I told you to sit down. Please, listen to
your mother.”

Davey rubbed his head furiously. The motion was empathetic, as he wasn’t
injured in the least. He stuck out his bottom lip. “Sorry,” he apologized
sheepishly.

“I know, baby. Just sit down. Over there.”

Davey did as he was told. He weaved in and out of the pews, going from one end
to the other through each row, until he reached the spot his mother had pointed
out. Meanwhile, Tamara spoke to Ben, keeping her voice low.
“There were black feathers and big flies. I know you saw them.”

“Yes, and the blood. Why was the priest killed?”

“I don’t know.” Tamara crossed herself. “I think because of what he was doing
for Davey.”

“What do you mean?”

“I asked Reverend Arnett to command a miracle. I want Davey to be a normal

boy.”

Ben was disappointed, but realized he was being too hopeful to expect a
substantial answer from this woman.

“So you didn’t see the murder?”

“No, but I heard him dying. It was so terrible. You can ask the reporter. I told her
everything I heard and saw. It was even on the radio.”

“A reporter came here?” That worried Ben. He didn’t like the idea of more
people showing up and asking questions. The Cortras brothers would agree. Dil
wouldn’t want Hen to know, as he didn’t need any more reason to pick up stakes
and move on.

“Yes. She was very pretty and young. Her name was Margot.”

“Is she coming back?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She might want to look at the church. It was being gassed
when she came to visit. Because of the flies.” Tamara showed Ben her bitten
hands. They were smooth and dry, mottled with fading purple circles. “But you
were so quick to clean up, there’s really nothing to see.”

There was, truthfully, nothing more to see, except an impostor priest and a
couple squatters on the lam. The sergeant at the Wall and an addict captain in the
Church were enough of a trial for Ben. He didn’t want to tell lies to someone
specialized in asking questions. That was still only a possibility. He would at
least try to learn from the woman why there was such an interest in this parish.
“What was said about the church on the radio?”
“They said it was heathen sympathizers. The reverend was unlucky to be in the
wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know about that. I think the devil did it.”

Ben wasn’t going to argue the woman’s beliefs. He was satisfied that the reporter
was dispensing the standard propaganda, nothing but a hacked story for a
paycheck. He didn’t anticipate seeing any other reporters.

“All right, Mrs….?”

“Stoughnt. You can call me Tamara, Ben.”

“Mrs….” Ben paused. “Tamara. You should go now. The church isn’t ready.” He
opened his hand toward the doors. They were still partly open from Tamara’s
and her son’s entrance.

“Ben.” She grasped Ben’s forearm. Her touch was light, but he still winced from
the sudden pressure on his damaged skin. Tamara didn’t notice and even
squeezed a little harder. “Since Reverend Arnett is gone, can you pray for
Davey? Please make him normal.”

Here it was again, another demand on a crucified god. One who so loved his
creation, he subjected himself to sacrifice and an everlasting life of servitude.
This was the same god that was gone now. The deity was driven away by the
selfish wants of an overgrown and merciless species of lemur. Ben would not
abash himself and pray for worldly comforts. They had never been afforded him.
Besides, the prayer would be for naught; no one was listening. This woman had
been visited with hardship, just like most, and she would have to cope or perish.
That was what Ben decided to believe.

The woman must have sensed Ben’s disapproval “Please, I know I’m an
UnChosen. I know I was irresponsible and had a child when I was too old. But
Davey is just a baby. He’s innocent. He shouldn’t have to pay for my
indulgence.”

That sounded fair, but that kind of miracle didn’t exist. This was a godless
world. Chance was a miracle and luck was divine intervention. Lack of either
opened a person up to exploitation by the Church. Ben guessed by that criteria,
he had been blessed the past couple of days. Tamara would have continued her
plea for intervention in her fate, but she and Ben were interrupted.
“I couldn’t cash that check,” Hen informed them. He carried a couple full brown
paper bags in his arms. A booted toe tapped the front doors the rest of the way
open so he wouldn’t have to squeeze through. Light followed him in. Now Hen
could plainly see the woman and the boy, and he was dumbstruck. “Sorry,” was
the only thing he could manage to say. He glanced from side to side. His
wandering steps mirrored his disarray.

“You can put those in the kitchen,” Ben said. It was the obvious rescue.

“Uh, yeah,” Hen agreed. He immediately followed Ben’s direction. Hen strode
up the center aisle. He was fixated on the teenage boy and Davey returned the
stare. They had the look of two young dogs eager to make friends, but still
uncertain of each other. They were bursting with the restrained impulse to run
over and sniff each other. Hen got closer and Davey lunged first.

“I’m Davey!” the boy shouted.

Hen grinned. Every one of his small teeth was visible and shining. “I’m Hen.”

The boy let loose a rollicking laugh. “You’re a chicken!”

The comment took Hen off-guard. Hen was his nickname; Dil had christened
him when they were kids. He remembered being teased with it by his older
brother. He liked the ribbing a lot, so the name stuck. The sight of Davey
summoned back Hen’s too soon relinquished boyhood, but the comment recalled
it. “Hey, you’re funny.”

The boy grew soundly sober. “No, I’m Davey.”

“And you’re funny.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No!”

Hen started to laugh. It was shrill, like his panicked voice in the desert, but it
lacked the chafing helplessness. He looked at Ben.
“This kid is great.” Hen then turned back to Davey.“Brawk!”

Davey roared back in laughter. Hen joined him. Ben allowed Hen his joy. The
old woman was engaged with the scene, and the subject of prayers and the need
for an explanation for Hen’s presence was forgotten.

Hen used his knee to help him find a new grip on his groceries. “I love kids,” he
declared. “Davey, it was fun to meet you. I gotta put this stuff down.”

Davey didn’t stop giggling, even after Hen vanished down the hall.

“I need to go with him,” Ben said.

Tamara nodded and smiled. “OK, Ben. I’ll come back. Please, think about what I
said.”

Ben bit his bottom lip and looked to the bars on the windows. They were coming
off.

“Let’s go, baby.” Tamara retrieved Davey. The boy led their way out of the
church. Tamara’s hand rested on his shoulder.

“He’s my friend,” Davey sang, skipping out of his mother’s reach. She was
speaking to her son, but was too far away for Ben to hear. The doors remained
open after the pair’s exit. As much as Ben wanted to keep it that way, he closed
and locked them. He went to the kitchen, expecting to find the brothers together,
but he only saw Hen.

“Where’s Dil?” Hen asked. “Is he still sick in bed?”

“No. I thought he’d be here with you.”

Hen had bought an assortment of canned foods and a can opener, along with
bread, jelly, peanut butter, and canned juice. He spread the items out over the
table.

“Hey, if we’re going to cash that check, you’re going to have to do it. I’m not
going back to the bank.”

“What happened?” Ben asked.

“I just got a bad feeling,” Hen confessed. “I mean, I thought about it. This is a
check from the Church, right? Shouldn’t a priest have it?”

“You’re right.” Ben grew aware that a balance of caution and risk was how the
Cortras brothers lived their lives. Gut reactions were their guides.

“Anyway, after that, we’re going to leave.”

“Is that what Dil said?” Ben was puzzled. Dil was determined to stay. Then
again, he didn’t know what the brothers said to each other.

“Yeah.” Hen nodded. “He said we can go when the church is in shape and you’re
set up. I don’t think coming to the Cap was so good.”

Ben didn’t tell Hen that his older brother had more in mind than mopping up a
floor and doing some grocery shopping. Dil was stalling, and he probably
wanted to get Hen out of his hair as he recovered from last night. If he were here
now, Hen’s hopes would have already been crushed. Ben looked out the broken
doorway, trying to locate Dil. The gruesome pile of feathers was strewn partly
across the stone yard. The mound attracted flies of the normal variety. Dil wasn’t
there. Indistinct knocking floated through the kitchen. At first, Ben mistook it for
the cans being stacked on the table, but Hen was still.

“Who is it now?” Hen asked. “You see? That’s why we gotta go.”

Neither man moved. The knocking at the front of the church continued.

“How about I go look from the side of the church?” Hen asked,staring at the
back door.

Ben expected escape was Hen’s real motive. If the younger Cortras brother
didn’t like what he saw, he’d be outside the church already. Slipping into the
street when backs were turned was a simple next step. If that was the case, Ben
was fine with it. No real alternative existed except throwing the doors open wide
and accepting whatever lay on the doorstep.

“All right.”

Hen skipped out the door without waiting another second. He checked his
pockets as he went. The action reinforced Ben’s suspicions. He wondered if the
old woman had the same affect on Dil.

Hen stole up the breezeway, dragging his back against the church, with his head
jutted out. He could only see a sliver of an empty street. The fact that there was
nothing yet to see comforted him. When he reached the end, he held his breath.
Stooping, he slipped one side of his face around the corner. It was the old
woman and her son, Davey. Hen pulled back into hiding. He didn’t think to go
and tell Ben. Instead he casually strolled around the corner to the curb.

“Hey,” he called.

Davey jumped around.

“Hen!”

The old woman turned. “Hello. Where is the Reverend Ben? He was just here.
Why is the door locked?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Dil said. “He’s around. We’re just doing some work,
you know, on the floor.”

“Oh.” The old woman looked anxious. “Can you find Ben for me? I need to ask
him something.”

“Um, I can ask him.”

“I suppose that would be fine,” the old woman said. “I really need to leave. I’m
late. I can’t find someone to look after Davey. I was wondering if I could leave
him at the church.”

Hen lit up. “You mean babysit?”

“Yes. Just for a few hours. I need to go dust the shops at the strip mall. I can’t
leave Davey alone. He gets into trouble.”

Hen thought about spending an afternoon with the boy. Dil wasn’t around, and
there were errands to do in which Hen did not play a role. A few hours with
Davey before leaving the church and the Cap may be something he needed to do.
It had been a long time since he could relax. Playing with a kid would be a
welcome change to all his stress and fright.
“Sure,” Hen said. “That would be fine.”

“Ben wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’ll look after Davey.”

“But don’t you have work to do?” The old woman was confused. Davey cheered
for Hen and had to be hushed.

“I mean, I’ll take him to Ben.”

“Good!” The old woman was thrilled. “Thank you. You don’t know how much I
appreciate this. You’re so nice, just like Ben.”

“No problem,” Hen said. “We’ll have fun, won’t we, Davey?”

Davey squealed his affirmation.

“I’ll be back soon. Thank you.” She hurried down the street.

Hen led Davey down the breezeway and into the kitchen. Ben was speechless
when he saw the boy.

“I’m going to babysit Davey!” Hen said. He and the boy laughed. Caution and
risk took a back seat to impulsiveness and luck.
10 Wild Beasts
Mark knocked insistently on Margot’s door just after dawn. The hammering
jarred her awake. Mark called for Margot to get dressed and hurry out. The
sudden rousing from slumber was disorienting. She didn’t recall him leaving.
The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in her bed, wrapped in Mark’s
arms. That was at dusk, when the curfew took effect. The roads were choked
with people hurrying to their destinations in the fading illumination. No one
wanted to be stopped by a patrol only a block or two from home. It was
inconvenient after a hard day at work and a longer day in traffic.

The last thing anyone needed after drawn out hours of inane busywork, was to
be asked stupid questions with obvious answers. “Where are you going?”
“Home.” “Why are you out after dark?” “Traffic.” That was the extent of the
pleasant part of the interrogation. After that, soldiers became sadistic, knowing
the frustration they could cause.

Margot had drifted off, feeling an iniquitous pleasure with the fact that Mark was
trapped with her for the night. She hadn’t expected he would stay after they had
made love. Mark did have a wife waiting for him at home, but the lost sense of
time and the setting sun made it impossible for him to leave. The uncomfortable
moment where Margot would have to watch him draw up his pants and leave,
wasn’t going to arrive. She was happy for that.

Yet now he was outside and knocking. The door had locked automatically when
he pulled it behind him. Margot wondered when Mark had made his escape. She
hoped he left at sunrise, but didn’t doubt that he had snuck out right after she fell
asleep. Obviously he took his chances getting home to avoid a confrontation
with Sarah.

It was ridiculous to become jealous. Mark was married and Margot knew it. She
had accepted the consequences of her decisions with maturity. The fleeting
moment hadn’t caused her to be rash or desperate. Mark didn’t seduce her with
promises, although his flirting and advances were especially tempting. In the
end, Margot wasn’t certain who had kissed whom first. When they undressed,
she would have liked to believe it was mutual, although it was probably she who
had knowingly stepped over the hazy line. Margot had made the first move. She
had guided his hand to her breast as the warmth from his lips spread through her.
She had unbuckled his belt and pushed his trousers off his waist.

Margot refused to feel guilty; she was well aware of Mark’s infidelities. At one
point, she stopped him from reciting a list of names of women he had known. A
numerical trip down lover’s lane sounded tawdry right from the start and the roll
call would have squelched her libido. This encounter had waited a long time and
she would not waste the opportune moment.

The damage was already done to Mark’s relationship with Sarah. He had
undertaken a guerrilla war to shatter the marriage, but his wife held on. Sarah
entrenched upon a barren hill, resisting every humiliating siege. There could be
no divorce in the eyes of the Church unless both partners wished it. Mark could
leave, but he wouldn’t be allowed to marry again until his marriage with Sarah
was annulled. Sarah fought against that and it was unfair; Margot had known
Mark first.

The old school friends shared a smoldering interest that had lasted for years.
Desire for each other drifted and survived on a river of time. Margot didn’t know
what would happen after last night. She wasn’t thinking of marriage or even a
relationship beyond what they currently shared. The thing she didn’t want, was
for the affair to be complicated. It was only natural that Mark and Margot
eventually expressed their desire for each other. Circumstances could not be
allowed to sink this need that had finally surfaced. When the moment arrived,
Margot seized it. A long time had passed since she had been with anyone. She
was beginning to fret her youth would be irretrievably squandered before having
sex again. Making love with Mark was a renewal. Youth returned like a flower
after winter, as Mark brought her to life.

In the morning, she was just tired. The afterglow was gone. Being jolted awake
and finding Mark missing brought back the weighted feeling of age to her. She
wondered what it would feel like to be thirty. If it was worse than how she felt
now, she couldn’t bear to grow old. Something had to change in her life. Maybe
she needed to have a child; an infusion of hormones could be the answer. The
doldrums of adulthood may be the result of ignoring her biological clock. Once
Margot was sitting upright, she dismissed the thought. She didn’t even believe in
cultural timetables and predestinations of nature. What she needed was another
hour of sleep and a cup of coffee. This man she had brought to her bed last night
wouldn’t afford her those little luxuries.
Margot groaned and groped for her robe. She wasn’t prepared to open her eyes.
Although her small bedroom was dark, she didn’t want to see the time. There
was still a chance to send Mark on his way and catch up later with whatever he
was excited about; she had a strong feeling it wasn’t about her. The moment to
wake peacefully to a gushing proclamation of unfurled love or romantic
soliloquy had passed. If Mark left now, she might be able to sleep another hour,
or maybe two, now that she had been disturbed.

The thin satin robe wasn’t at the foot of the bed where Margot usually tossed it
before sliding into the sheets. She wasn’t proficient at being blind, so no choice
remained except to open her eyes. The robe had fallen to the floor, along with
most of the comforter. Its royal blue beamed against the ivory bedding. She
slipped the robe on over her t-shirt and panties. The distance from her bedroom
to the front door of her apartment wasn’t more than a dozen steps. She doubled
the walk by taking half steps. She needed the extra time to rake her fingers
through her hair and tie it back. She knotted the robe shut standing behind the
door. Mark had been rapping and shouting that entire time.

“C’mon, Margot. Open the door. Your neighbors are going to start complaining.”

Margot hoped they would. She wanted a mob to confront Mark for his
outrageous wake-up call. A soft kiss and strong embrace would be much more
forgivable. In fact, that was her dream last night; but Mark had spoiled it and
deserved any grief Margot could imagine. She peeked through the peephole in
the door. She needed to stand on her toes and steady herself against the frame.
Mark’s change of clothes and freshly shaved face proved he hadn’t simply
returned from a forgotten, but urgent errand.

“I hope you brought me breakfast,” Margot said, watching him. He shoved his
hands into his brown leather jacket’s pockets, striking an impatient pose.
“Flowers would be nice, too, but I would love a croissant and some cheese.”

“This is important, Margot. I’ll get you something on the way. I promise. Please,
let’s go.”

Curiosity told Margot to disregard staying hurt over with the indignity of Mark’s
stealthy leave of absence. Whatever brought him back to her door this morning
must be important. Mark must have left his house the instant the curfew was
lifted, or a little before, to be back at her place so soon. What he had to share
was just as important as making it home to Sarah in the evening. Margot
unlocked and opened the door with a twist of the knob.

“Should I get you a key?” Margot queried. The sarcasm was lost and the entire
remark ignored.

“You’re not dressed,” Mark observed. “What took you so long?”

Margot wanted to punch him. She doubted that she had the reach to travel to his
slightly dimpled chin and make it count. He probably wouldn’t notice that, either
and would just brush off the blow. Margot let the impulse fade.

“Let’s go, Margot!” Mark guided Margot back into her apartment. He pressed his
solid hands against her shoulder and the small of her back. She tried to brace
against it, but Mark was already moving and too massive to resist.

“Wait,” she protested helplessly. She had to lift her feet if she didn’t want to be
carried. Dead weight would be difficult to manage. “What is this about?”

“We’re going to get you dressed.”

“I’m a grown woman. I can dress myself, when I’m ready.”

Mark was clueless once they reached the bedroom door. He was married and had
lived with a woman for years, but he didn’t know how one went about dressing.
Mark jerked a half-smile when he realized he practiced just the opposite, getting
women out of their clothes. In that respect, he’d been quite successful. He tore
himself away from the thought. It was not an easy task. Mark had been trying to
number his conquests since last night. Margot had stopped him before he got
organized, but he didn’t stop thinking about it. She should be thankful, as it
added gasoline to an already blazing fire.

After leaving last night, he didn’t worry in the least about patrols and
checkpoints. He was too occupied with completing his mental list of women
whom he had slept with. He didn’t mind having to start over numerous times
when his concentration was broken or he put a wrong name to a face. In fact, he
enjoyed it. It was like savoring a particularly luscious aftertaste. Margot was the
most recent, but she went to the top of the list, at least in most cases, depending
on how he shuffled the criteria. He had to put a little reflection and distance
behind the coupling before he could be truly objective. The evening was too
emotional for him. He almost let himself get carried away in the current of
deferred desire and fulfilled wishes. Expressing feelings of overpowering
affection was foreign to him. Talking about them would be an insincere attempt
to make sex more than the basic need it was. So he remembered to keep himself
in check. He fended off falling asleep and left as soon as it was feasible.

“Mark, tell me what’s going on or I’m not moving.”

“We are losing time, Margot.” Mark glanced downward into Margot ‘s eyes,
striking a pose reminiscent of a giraffe reaching down for a drink. “We need the
assignment. It’s a first-in basis.”

Margot understood now that he was talking about a story. How Mark got his
leads was a secret. She naively believed it was because of his experience. In
reality, he probably had a source on the inside. He must know someone
downtown at military headquarters, most likely a woman. Margot wondered if
his source was allowed to call his home, but the scenario was most likely the
same as Margot’s. Sarah must spend a great deal of time answering the phone to
dead air and abrupt clicks as callers hung up from the other side. On that point
alone, Margot would not call Mark unless it was imperative.

No development had been so important thus far. Mark and Margot had waited in
lines for assignments and had wasted days unable to get across town to follow up
with investigations. The parish where the priest had been murdered was no
longer in their sights. Something more concrete had happened since. Rumors of
heathen infiltration had more merit than anyone outside the military would give
them. Fertilizers that could be used in explosives were found traveling from the
encampment to the only local seaport outside the Wall. The suspicious thing
about the fertilizer, was that it was heading in the wrong direction. That alone
was enough. Little mistakes were often the cause of elaborate plans unraveling.
Military news surmised it was going to be smuggled into Capital by way of its
port.

The seaport was the least secure section of Capital. The harbor was policed night
and day, but the volume of ships and cargoes, coming and going, made
enforcement difficult. On the contrary, the gates through the Wall presented an
impossible route for large trucks carrying goods. Essentially there was only one
way to supply Capital; that was the design. It was only a matter of time before
heathens successfully navigated the harbor. Decades of trial and error had been
used to probe for weakness. Margot believed the breach would involve
complacency and arrogance, tried and true exploits. The only hardened soldiers
were those patrolling the desert between the city-states. They had seen heathens,
usually over the barrels of rifles pointed in either direction. Soldiers in Capital
had uneventful nights and had grown comfortable in handling mundane domestic
disputes, runaways, and curfew violations.

Real threats were growing, but most information provided to the public was
concocted and driven by an agenda. Margot and Mark were the alchemists who
mixed the ingredients. Mark was a good conjurer. He hooked Margot with the
taste of the possibility of sympathizers and terrorists within the Wall. She was
sucked in, despite being decent at the game. Seeing through spin and propaganda
was part of her trade. Yet the priest’s murder and Margot’s last couple stories
were unconnected and didn’t amount to more than drunks and blasphemers. The
latter often involved the former, who had much to say about the Church or the
military - lots to say, actually, with few words of praise. There were, however,
those stories to which Mark and Margot were not assigned that smacked of
potential. Such was the story about the fertilizer.

No facts regarding a plot were provided. As soon as the driver had been pulled
from the truck, he flashed a pistol and a firefight ensued. The battle was short,
resulting in one casualty, when the driver was torn apart by an automatic wall of
spinning metal. His identity remained unknown. The truck was registered to an
owner from Gomorrah, deceased for many years. Authorities were tracking the
place from which the fertilizer was purchased or stolen. That discovery would
dead-end the preliminary part of the investigation. The real story would begin
there. That much was predictable. What was required to go further, was a clue to
the recipient, either at the port outside Capital, or the one within.

Someone would be waiting, a sympathizer, heathen terrorist, or even a sleeper

cell. A sympathizer wasn’t likely. The risk associated with transporting and
storing incendiary material was too great. Inside the Wall, even the lackadaisical
patrols would sniff it out. That kind of threat was the focus of their training.
Bimonthly drills dealt solely with bomb threats. If the chemicals were available,
though, they could be assembled quickly and put to use; a real terrorist could do
that.

A terrorist spends a whole desperate, idealistic lifetime preparing for a holy

moment of destruction. Losing his life for a chance to take others’ lives was a
fair gamble. Terrorists were conditioned to trade one life for another, but their
goal was the death of many Chosen in exchange for the terrorists’ own.

Margot believed even if the military prevented an attack, lives were still wasted.
There were too many people with a single-minded purpose to take or save life
through violence. If all that were unnecessary, people would be free to better
themselves. The world could not help but to be a better place.

“Does it have anything to do with the fertilizer and the man transporting it?”
Margot inquired. If the reason Mark came back so rudely this morning wasn’t
connected to the most plausible terrorist incident, she would throw him out, in
spite of his being quite good last night.

“Maybe,” Mark answered.

Margot cleared her throat and crossed her arms. She faced him. “You could have
gone without me.”

“After last night, I’d never hear the end of it,” Mark claimed. He recognized
where Margot’s attitude was coming from; it was because of last night. This
wasn’t the first time he’d seen this festering, but it was the only time when he
was going to have to deal with it. He was glad she was mad and not crying.
Margot seemed incapable of disappointing him. He even started to feel pangs for
being so rude, but she needed to understand that it couldn’t be helped. Mark was
unhappily married and didn’t want to make his life at his own home unbearable.
Silently torturing his wife was his goal; there was no reason he had to suffer an
outright confrontation.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Margot asked. She dropped her arms
and walked into her bedroom. Mark followed.

“About the story? I’ll tell you on the way.”

“No.” Margot frowned. “About you, last night.” She cleared her throat again and
grasped the door. “Excuse me. I have to dress.”

Mark was vexed. “I’ve already seen you naked. You’re making me leave? After
last night?”

“Yes, especially after last night.” Margot pushed him from the room. She
wouldn’t have been able to, if Mark didn’t accommodate. Margot shut the door.
“Besides, I can always have my modesty. So tell me why you left.”

“You know, Margot,” Mark said. He walked into the kitchenette. The nook was
appended to the only other room of the apartment, besides the bedroom. The
compact oven and refrigerator looked like they had been custom built for the
tiny spaces they occupied. Mark was fascinated that they were scaled half-size to
the real things. He spotted the coffee maker and began a search of the cupboard.

“Sarah would have made my life hell. You, of all people, know that.” Mark gave
up trying to find the coffee. He doubted she had any. There wasn’t any place
Margot could keep it that he hadn’t searched in the minute he spent looking.
“Besides, it’s a good thing I went home. I heard a story about missing soldiers
down at the docks. They had permanent assignments. They had been there
almost three years.”

Margot’s interest peaked. She hurried herself. If Mark was going where she
thought he was, there wasn’t any time to spare. The clothes she had worn
yesterday were a good combination, a gray knee length skirt and peach long-
sleeved blouse. As much as she knew about fashion, she expected to clash with
Mark’s tan slacks and brilliant blue short-sleeved shirt. There was no time to
coordinate a new outfit. She did her best to shake out the wrinkles.
Antiperspirant and a little perfume topped off the morning’s preparation. She left
her hair tied back in a single ponytail.

“And?” Margot prompted.

“So I called headquarters this morning, as soon as I knew someone would be

there.”

“And?” Margot opened the door. Mark gave her a sidelong look. She knew it
was because she was recycling her clothes. “Listen, mister. I would have liked
time to take a shower, too. Maybe if you had called ahead, I would be more to
your taste. Just tell me what happened when you called headquarters.”

Mark raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

“C’mon, Mark.” Now Margot was the one rushing. She pulled the cushions from
her love seat. Her purse typically slipped behind them.
“Well, I asked if there was any development on the missing soldiers. There was.”

Margot found her purse. Mark went to the front door and opened it.

“Let’s go,” Margot said. “Tell me more.”

The pair hustled out the front of Margot’s building to Mark’s silver coupe.
Buying the Corbeta was the first thing he did after the birth of his stillborn child.
The purchase was either in defiance of added responsibility or celebration of
preservation of a degree of freedom. Mark caused a great deal of controversy
between their families, especially when Mark was more emotional over a fitted
car cover, than the approaching anniversary of his child’s death. He had
completely ignored Sarah’s bout of crippling depression. She had stayed with her
parents for a month; but then she came back.

Both sides of the street were like solid walls of parked cars. More sailed down
the road and all moved in one direction toward the freeway. Mark had parked in
front of a fire hydrant, a common practice. He was only taking advantage of the
available opening and parking zones weren’t enforced this early in the morning.
This time of the day, keeping freeway traffic moving was the chief concern of
the military. Resources would be dedicated to that.

Traffic control was a politically motivated mandate from the Church.

Concessions to the will of the populace, instead of dictates, were rare. Despite
the predictable routine, it was amazing there wasn’t more crime. Mark ascribed
the miracle to the hereditary decency of the Chosen people. He opened the
passenger door for Margot. He had left the car unlocked and the windows rolled
down.

Mark relayed the details to Margot during their stroll from her apartment to his
car. The missing guards had been reprimanded on numerous occasions. The
details were unavailable and probably not relevant. Typical causes included
drunkenness, tardiness, insubordination, or a combination of any or all of the ills
that plagued working career soldiers. Two extreme cases could be safely
assumed where soldiers weren’t fitting the military’s acceptable mold. Frequent
short-term assignments in diverse locations and guard duty drawn out over years
were signs of a troubled soldier.

These two particular soldiers were assigned to guard cargo stacked on the docks,
waiting to be packed into trucks. The pair worked the second shift during which
cargo was secured for the night and workers dismissed. The job entailed vacuous
circling of fenced loading zones, and ladened and locked trucks that could not
leave the yard due to curfew. Shipments were searched before they came off the
boat, and monitored as they were packed into waiting trucks. These two steps
held the highest potential for finding contraband or evidence of sabotage. The
missing soldiers weren’t responsible for those critical areas. All they did was
guarantee everything stayed where it was put. The task wasn’t difficult,
especially as the yard was emptied shortly after they began their guard. They
were the only two souls besides the random patrols in the harbor and streets
outside the yard’s chain link fences.

The third shift had arrived to relieve the two soldiers. Alpha, military jargon for
the station from which changing of the guard was staged, was abandoned. The
replacements waited a half hour before they began their patrol. The original two
guards didn’t return during that time, and they weren’t found during a
subsequent search. The superior officer was notified. No one knew precisely
when the two soldiers disappeared. The rounds’ checklist was also missing.
Mark interjected that the sheet wouldn’t have been any help. Chances are the
hours were ticked off at the beginning or the end of the shift. Paperwork was, in
most cases, merely a formality. The only certain thing was that both soldiers
were accounted for at the beginning of their shift. They had received the status
report from the guards they relieved and waved goodbye to a few acquaintances.
Gates remained locked and all areas were secured. Facts pointed to a couple of
malcontents going absent without leave.

“How did you find out all of this?” Margot asked. She suspected Mark had
charmed a clerk. That’s how he got his early leads. However, this amount of
detail suggested that he had made a connection higher up the rank and file. Mark
didn’t bother wading up to his waist in traffic. He stomped the accelerator and
jumped ahead of an elderly man who was attempting to be cautious, but who
was just slow. Mark waited for the bellow of honking to cease before he
answered.

“Experience,” he said. The answer was an unsatisfying morsel. “After awhile,

you learn who to talk to and what to ask. You learn to write the story even before
you start to investigate.”

“Well, that’s not hard to do, if it’s flagged for censorship.” Experience had taught
Margot that much. “Anyway, about the missing soldiers, what’s happened?”
“They found one.”

“What did he say?” Margot realized the question was presumptive as she asked
it. She waved her hands as a gesture meant to erase the premature query.

“Nothing. He was dead. They found him floating in the middle of the harbor.
The tide must have carried the body out, if he wasn’t dumped there
intentionally.”

“That would have been foolish to take a boat out at night. Patrols would easily
spot it.”

“Smart,” Mark said. The praise sounded condescending. Margot forgave the tone
in light of her earlier question. Mark continued.

“How do they know one didn’t kill the other?” Margot asked.

Mark hesitated. “They were Chosen. Chosen don’t kill each other.” He wasn’t
entirely convinced. Chosen lie to and cheat each other, but murder and theft were
different sins all together. Acts such as those were degenerative. To think one
Chosen would kill another was preposterous. Margot’s question reflected her
novice outlook on the world. She’d soon learn for herself and accept the way
things were.

“His throat was cut.” Mark stated flatly. “There was a Star of Lucifer carved on
his face.”

“That sounds like heathens. They might be upset about not getting their
manure.” Margot focused on other questions. She didn’t want to allow time for a
mental image of grisly mutilation to form in her mind. “What do you think? Are
heathens really in Capital? Do you think this might have anything to do with
Drystani himself?”

“Thinking Drystani is involved might be going too far, but I do think heathens
are here. That’s what we’re going to see for ourselves, once we get the
assignment. I imagine they’ll dredge the harbor for the other soldier.”

“We got this story?” Margot asked. She found it hard to believe. A mangled and
murdered soldier in a secured area was a high profile assignment, even higher
than a priest’s murder in a ghetto. The story would surely be handed directly to a
trusted reporter.

“Yeah, we got it. Well, we’re going to claim it if the primary doesn’t get to
headquarters in time. The story was assigned to Ralph Menton. Remember
him?”

“Sure,” Margot said. “He handled the Drystani stories for months at a time.”

“Well, he can’t be contacted. So it’s fair game for anyone on the list behind
him.”

“How do you know Ralph won’t turn up once we get to headquarters?” This was
too good to believe. Margot hated to see the opportunity dangled in front of her
nose, just to have it yanked away. If she was going to be disappointed, she
wanted to know which way to look to see it coming.

“Ralph’s a drunk,” Mark sneered. “We got this one, Margot. I’m on the list and
we know which story to ask for; we just have to pick it up before some rube gets
lucky.”

The traffic slowed as drivers waited turns at a blinking red light on the freeway
on-ramp. It was still early enough to get to headquarters with relative ease.
During the conversation’s intermission, Margot realized the significance of her
inclusion. Mark didn’t have to stop and pick her up. He didn’t even have to tell
her of the development. She half-expected if something of this magnitude had
come up, she’d never have heard about it. Mark would simply have gone
incommunicado, despite their joint effort and what they had shared last night.
That was the kind of world where reporters lived.

There was even a class at school called “Strategy and Tactics in Journalism.”
Margot thought the subject was a little over the top. The idea was that once a
doughboy like her graduated and started a career, she needed to think like a
soldier dropped behind enemy lines. Everyone was hostile-fellow reporters, the
military, the Church, everyone. Mark was breaking the rules for her.

“Mark,” Margot began sincerely. “I want to thank you for this. I know you could
have kept the assignment to yourself. You had every right to it.”

“We had a deal, remember?” Mark had sustained his sneer since commenting
about Ralph Menton. It changed to a genuine smile with an adorable smugness.
“Still, this is a big deal. I can almost forgive you for last night.”

“Margot, I told you I couldn’t stay, but thank you, just the same.”

“I did say almost.”

“Hey, before you get uptight again, and I have to say you are stunning when
you’re angry, we are sharing a byline. I think that’s worth a full pardon.”

Mark rolled up his window and pointed for Margot to do the same. The fumes on
the freeway would soon grow thick. Despite the roads being cleared nightly and
a loose breeze from the sea, a permanent, invisible cloud of cancer-causing
vapor formed. It clung to the cracks and crevices of overpasses; tentacles
wrapped around signposts, leaving greasy black soot. It scratched as it crept
through nasal passages and made throats raw. An open window was an invitation
and the intangible monster wanted nothing more than to seed a living lung.

“All right. You get this one; but with the number of times you’ve pulled that
stunt on other women, don’t think this means you have a clean slate.”

“Nobody does,” Mark mumbled. Margot didn’t hear the comment above the air
conditioning. “That makes me just about even.”
11 Assassin
Robber was done with the part of the job for which he was best suited. More
opportunities would abound as plans progressed, but for now, he had played his
part. In the meantime, he’d wait for his money and sniff out the other offer.
Robber was paid like a reporter - per assignment. Instead of writing stories,
however, for the most part, he created the stories. He murdered. That was
another exception; his stories were undeniable facts of death, with no room to
spin propaganda or bury the fact. Death was a message and it was accomplished
as a craft. Robber liked to think of himself as an artist, but he possessed just
enough talent to realize there was always room for improvement. One day, his
signature would be recognized.

Just like a reporter, Robber needed to supplement his income. As far as being on
the payroll of the heathens was concerned, money came in with the same regular
delay as it did for the military; so Robber freelanced. Crime lords in Church-
forsaken city-states often had need for his specialized services. The Batheirres in
Gomorrah were a reliable and secure source of work. The other offer was a
referral by way of that family. The Batheirres’ particularly strong ties to the
heathens meant offers came to him and he didn’t have to panhandle. The family
also respected his need for continued anonymity. Remaining faceless and
nameless was imperative. Robber’s current engagement for the heathens brought
him into Capital. A low profile was advisable, but he had to eat. Rent required
payment, as did his ‘secretary.’

This young man became at once Robber’s unwitting accomplice and his alias.
The role was an ingenious scheme, driven by paranoid dreams. Sleep is a rough
sea and insomnia was a hazard in his business. Any improvised tool to smooth
his nights wasn’t beyond experimentation. His secretary had found a way into
the Cap, but had no place to go. He was a young, atypically brown-haired man,
probably a pilgrim, who didn’t give any thought as to what to do or where to go
once inside the Wall.

The faith placed by Capital’s population on the military’s ability to keep out
immigrants and heathens was laughable. The Wall served as little more than a
facade. Hidden breaches to crawl through, broke open constantly. The only items
required for success were need and desperation. Unfortunately, Robber’s
secretary would have been found after curfew. That remained the bane of
interlopers. A stranger without a place to go was as good as caught, come
nightfall. The military had a purpose when they planned the layout of Capital.
Every obvious hiding place had been pinpointed.

As luck would have it, Robber found his secretary before the patrols did; but
then, luck didn’t have much of a say in the matter. He made his mark and
followed the young man; Robber waited until the approaching night brought on
panic. Darkness acted like a net in Capital. When it dropped, the trapped could
do little else than wait for a patrol to show up. The threat made an already
desperate person more compliant. His secretary would have quickly reached this
poor state; Robber then offered the deal.

The terms were simple and included employment. In exchange for a room and a
little cash, his secretary answered the phone, took messages, and swapped
identities. The improbable arrangement was the best that could have occurred,
under the circumstances. No time to think and nothing to lose, in the face of
losing everything.

So Robber’s secretary gave his name and ID cards away. He supposed they
weren’t of use anyway. No matter what name was used, cards or no cards,
trespassers were still detained. His employer became Robert Veritos. The new
Robert asked if his secretary had been called simply Rob or Bob in his former
life; Robber was fine. That’s what his friends teased him with, as he grew up.
His secretary became Jack Ferdin. The new Robber didn’t remember who that
had been. The name might have belonged to a long ago victim or he conjured it
up on the spot.

The inconsequential name would be forgotten a few minutes later. Robber only
provided it to solicit a disarming degree of faith. There weren’t any ID cards to
go with it. The whole point was to weave a twisted tapestry of false identities
and untraceable pasts. Robber laughed once they exchanged names. He was
amazed he had gotten so far with the crazy plan. The scheme had to fall apart
sooner or later. The new Jack nervously joined him. That’s when Robber
employed Jack under the official capacity of secretary. That was the Living
God’s truth, if anyone asked what the young man did to make money.

There was more, but nothing else could be revealed until the pair safely arrived
at the new Robber’s apartment, and night had solidly fallen. His secretary would
never be able to leave the apartment without Robber knowing. Even then, his
excursions would be rare occasions. There’d be no sneaking out. Robber
mentioned that he didn’t plan on being home often, but he’d find out if his
secretary betrayed Robber’s trust. That was a warning. Robber would stay in
contact to retrieve messages.

When his secretary answered calls, he needed to say Robber was busy, but could
call back. Name and phone number would be made available to Robber at the
next contact. Jack lived alone and didn’t entertain guests. The cloistered lifestyle
was a directive. If the military ever came knocking, he needed to get out and run
as fast and as far in the other direction as humanly possible. Robber assured his
secretary that secrecy was for the best. If either man was excised to a camp, it
didn’t serve anyone’s interest but the military’s. If his secretary wanted to quit,
Robber would honor the wish and promptly pass the ID card to the military with
a tip to look for a heathen sympathizer.

Robber was still amused every time he remembered the color running from his
secretary’s face as if his throat had been cut. The look was unmistakable. Robber
professed to be an expert, after all. His secretary’s lips even turned blue. Robber
had no intention of reporting his secretary to the military. The threat had been
merely funny and convenient. Still, his secretary got a good deal, the best
someone in his predicament could find. Robber assured him that everything
would work out for the best in the end. The comment carried no authority, and
the lack of empathy was distressingly obvious.

His secretary escaped one net to be snared in another. The alternative was to be
caught by the patrols. A long detention would be inevitable, if he wasn’t made an
example or pinned with a crime he didn’t commit. There was that priest who was
cut to pieces. An opening for a scapegoat in that piece of propaganda was still
available.

Robber remained generally aware of heathen activity in the Cap. He was a part
of it. Heathens weren’t involved with the priest’s murder, although Robber
wished knocking off random priests had been on the agenda. He’d even think
about throwing in a couple for free; but now there were the two recently
murdered soldiers. At least, they would be considered “killed” as soon as the
military figured out that they weren’t coming back. Then again, the military
wouldn’t pin that incident on his secretary. The magnitude was too great to
frame a transient. The military would be looking for someone like Robber.
The job had been botched and Robber had no one to blame but himself. That had
set him apart from true artists. The harsh personal critique wasn’t just a
reflection of humility. At his age, he should have learned already. He had to
remember to bide his time. The whole scene needed to be cased before making a
move. Most men his age were married, maybe had kids and a little something to
show for their careers. An equivalent achievement for Robber should be a
reputation. He fell behind in that respect. If he didn’t improve, he’d either be
caught or killed. In either case, it would be his death. Then again, it wasn’t
practical or even possible to practice every day. Exercise was confined to lustful
fantasies of infamous acts.

Robber had needed to devote painstaking attention to detail after that job. Being
so careful taxed his manic personality. The challenge had begun upon leaving the
shipyard. His black clothes were bloodied and dripping. Putting on a clean shirt
and pair of pants required hurdling a fence and locating his locked car, blocks
away from the scene. Darting into the shadows as patrols passed had been
difficult enough; he couldn’t risk leaving a trail of red splatters anywhere along
his escape route. There were two guards; Robber had been contracted to kill
both. The soldiers had no problem taking bribes to look the other way when
cargo disappeared from parked and locked trucks. They weren’t even concerned
when cargo was switched between vehicles. Yet they got uptight when they
learned heathens were part of the action; the two became downright
sanctimonious. Robber’s clients didn’t appreciate the disdain and lack of
cooperation.

Pressure had no affect on the two soldiers. They grew bold and stubborn,
instead, and had even delivered a vague threat. A hint had been dropped about
patrols stumbling across the nighttime activity. The reaction wasn’t unexpected
from Chosen. Arrogance flourished when lowly heathens were involved. Even
money couldn’t overcome the prejudice. It was a strange phenomenon that
corruption was often impossible among the lower echelon, when intolerance
persisted. The time had arrived when these two bigots would pay for their
pretension. They believed birth handed them crowns. In death, they would be
pawns.

Robber had entered the shipyard after waiting near his car and following a
patrol. The second shift came to an end, but guard duty was the kind of job for
which no one showed up early. The soldiers were alone for awhile longer.
Robber had scaled the fence at a dark spot between vaporous circles cast by
streetlights and went straight to the docks.

The air was cooler, closer to the water. The summer had been a hot one. The
blacktop of the yard hoarded the heat with miserly tightness. Before the
smugglers had been evicted, they reported either soldier would be on the docks
most of the time. That is where Robber had found them. One was already present
when he reached the water. The guard appeared to be alone. Robber unwound
his leather garrote.

He preferred bludgeoning, then strangling his victims. He’d knock them down
and trap the air from their windpipes. The victims stayed dazed and helpless
until it was too late to fight. By the time they realized what had happened, they
were too weak and clumsy from lack of oxygen.

Robber had heard that people being strangled were graced with a lightheaded
euphoria. Death arrived, ushered in with colorful hallucinations. He didn’t mind
allowing his victims that fleeting experience, if that’s what really happened.
From his perspective, however, the end came with the poor souls clawing at the
strap embedding and constricting around their necks. Their arms twirled out
from their sides like a kid imitating an airplane.

Robber watched the passing of life from behind, unseen most of the time. He felt
like a voyeur to himself. The exertion and pain in his hands, arms, and shoulders
would be forgotten as he floated above his own body. If a departing spirit truly
went heavenward, Robber never saw it from his vantage point. The victim only
fell limp and heavy. When Robber returned to his flesh, he still felt light. He had
to catch his breath as if he had been holding his own in synchronization with the
strangling. He never allowed himself to think much about it at the moment.
Everything became rushed after that point. A racing mind needed to be calmed.
The unpleasant task of cleaning up always needed to be performed as quickly as
possible.

Before Robber had reached his target, the other soldier suddenly had come
within view. Robber quickly drew and unfolded a lockback knife as he dropped
the garrote. Robber muffled the locking snap of the long blade with the palm of
his hand. It was too late to find a place to hide. Someone suddenly called the
guard whom he had slipped behind. He turned around to meet Robber face to
face.
When the soldier turned, Robber’s blade flew across the man’s throat. For a brief
second, there was no blood or other indication that Robber had struck. The guard
had started to draw his firearm from the holster under his arm, when he found he
couldn’t pull his next breath. A wide gash pulled his neck apart. The wound
looked like it ripped its own corners. Blood sprayed in rapid jets and covered
Robber. All he could think to do was kick the dying man away, so Robber threw
his foot into the soldier’s crotch. The pistol dangling from the soldier’s thumb
dropped into the water as the guard doubled over. Blood showered the oiled
wooden planks beneath him.

There wasn’t time for self-chastening. Robber darted for cover as the second
soldier ran over. The second guard had witnessed two men scuffling and
recognized the form of his partner. He pulled his firearm when he saw one figure
drop and the other run. The guard paused for a second to verify that his partner
was the one who fell. He uttered a sympathetic curse, but did nothing more for
the dying man. The second soldier had rightly believed there was nothing he
could do to help his fellow soldier. That, and the killer was within reach, so he
gave chase. The pause and distracted curse provided Robber all the time he
needed.

Robber whirled and doubled back as the second soldier bolted in his direction.
The soldier had no chance to even raise his pistol. Robber jabbed at the man’s
face with the knife. The surprised soldier recoiled. Jerking his head away from
the shining blade threw him off balance. His back arched and Robber drove a left
hook into the soldier’s solar plexus, which forced the air from him. Momentum
carried the man backwards, despite the reflex to fold in upon himself.

Robber immediately squatted on the downed man. He would have used his
garrote if he hadn’t dropped it, and, more importantly, if he hadn’t lost track of
the second soldier’s pistol. For his own safety, Robber slit this one’s throat, too.
Robber saw that the pistol was missing when the soldier’s hands reached up to
grasp his fiercely bleeding neck. The soldier tried in vain to stop his life from
completely pulsing out. Robber had learned this trick well. Slashing just wasn’t a
clean way to get a job done. Nothing could have prevented this man from dying
like the first, but there was no room for delay. Robber grabbed the soldier’s
wrists and pinned him to the ground. The soldier bucked and gurgled. The
spasms and sounds soon grew weak. The man fell unconscious, never to wake
again.
Sitting on the dying man had given Robber an idea. It occurred as more of a
whim as he had waited for the ride of the man’s death throes to finish. Robber
used his knife to carve a deep “X” on the man’s face. The cross went from the
temples to the opposite jaw on each side. The cuts went all the way to the bone.
Robber then cut down the middle of the man’s face, from his scalp, down the
bridge of his nose to his chin, with a perpendicular cut across his brow. The last
line was too high to represent an accurate Star of Lucifer. The cut should have
gone over the cheeks. Once Robber had finished, he regretted his idea. That sort
of graffiti was for children. The carving made him look like an amateur. It wasn’t
the kind of work for which he wanted to be known by a fearful public. That’s
why he had to dump the bodies. Despite his instructions to leave them in the
open to be discovered, he was embarrassed by his handiwork. These murders
had made a chink in his pride.

As that part was also not planned, he had improvised. Robber dragged the bodies
the short distance to the edge of the dock. He was familiar with hoisting dead
weight. He propped one body and then the other upright, with their backs to the
water and heads hung towards their laps. Blood still dripped from gaping
wounds. Robber grabbed the ankles of the soldier he had killed first. It seemed
only fair he wouldn’t have to wait a turn going to his impromptu resting place.
Robber tossed the dead man’s feet over his drooping head. The legs dropped
over the side of the dock, pulling the rest of the body with them. There was
enough of a distance from dock to the water for the body to tumble almost all the
way over. Robber dumped the second soldier into the water the same way. The
splash echoed through the thick pylons below. Good riddance to the self-
righteous grunts. They were but refuse now. Garbage had no claim to being
better than anything else in this world.

Robber had never seen the ocean before. He’d never seen a real river or lake, for
that matter. He had spent most of his life within the desert city-states. He didn’t
know what he was missing until he now stood at the edge of the sea. The
expanse of water was beautiful, even in the darkness. The moon and city lights
reflected in moving distortions on the surface of a deep world. Robber promised
himself a trip to the beach within the next few days.

An urge to learn to swim had come over him. Robber was curious if anyone
went into the water off the Cap. When he looked down, he had spotted the
bodies floating just beneath the surface. He grew anxious and shuffled around
for something to throw down at them,realizing that he should have tied
something heavy to the bodies. Robber gave up and hoped the tide would take
the dead soldiers away. All his effort to hide the evidence had accomplished
nothing. The killing ground was smeared and pooled with blood. This had been
another situation in which he needed to assess the whole incident. He decided
that one of his big areas of improvement was not to let one slip lead to another.
Once something had been screwed up, there was a better chance more would go
wrong, with little chance of a graceful recovery. This had been a lesson to him.
Robber determined that it was time to leave.

Before Robber turned, he peered across the water again. He saw flashing lights
crossing the harbor. They were the patrol boats. The way they zigzagged made it
appear the soldiers were joyriding. It looked like fun. Once Robber learned to
swim, he would venture out on a boat. The ocean had become a whole new
world to explore. It was so very different from the gully of the tall buildings
where he had grown up. As he watched the boats, something else caught his eye.
A dark shape much closer to him had broken the surface and risen up.

A large snake-like shape rode the waves. As it rose, long curved spines fanned
out and up. Moonlight shown through the veined membrane that stretched
between bony spires. The spines limped to one side. They fell with a fluid grace
like a string of dancers collapsing in a wave. More dark tubes rolled across the
surface of the water; they were smaller and spineless. Robber thought the thing
was some kind of huge fish with babies schooling around it. The water went still.
He didn’t really know what he had seen. The thing was a genuine sea monster to
him. He had never seen the ocean until tonight and there were all sorts of
mysteries to uncover. Robber looked toward the bobbing bodies. One had drifted
further from the dock; the other was missing, possibly washed underneath.
Robber couldn’t say which dead man was which. The soldiers had gone into the
water face down and wore the same uniform. Robber had determined not to be
concerned. He needed to leave, with no more delays.

Robber rushed back the way he had come, stopping in the tall grasses leading up
to the yard’s fence. He knew a patrol would make a round soon; he had hoped
that they would come and go before the graveyard shift had reported for work.
Robber was certain he left thick red footprints across the planks and blacktop of
the dock, as well as brushed blood from his clothes across the grass . A trail from
the scene to the fence was apparent for anyone to see. It didn’t matter. The point
of entrance had been a random one. He could have come in anywhere. He had
been more concerned with being tracked once on the other side.
When Robber had waited for the patrol, he had tried ringing the blood from his
clothes. Twisting the front of his jacket and pant legs had little effect. The juice
had squished in his fists and oozed between his fingers. Scraping off the slurry-
like fluid had worked to remove the wrung-out excess, but the clothes had stayed
wet. Robber had shaken off his hands. He had removed his shoes and hopped
into a cleaner patch of grass. He had rolled his pant legs up to his knees and had
taken his jacket off next. He had found a dry spot on its back and had wiped his
face and hands before turning the jacket inside out; he wrapped his shoes inside.
He had then knotted his jacket into a tight bundle. His skin had remained
smudged and pants stained, but it was the best he had been able to do until he got
to his car and the clean clothes.

The patrol had arrived. Robber had dropped to his belly and flattened in the
grass. He had seen the beam of the jeep’s mounted spotlight crawl over the yard,
a long infinite triangle that had dimmed as it grew wider. The light had been
powerful enough to catch anything that didn’t belong between the fence and the
sea. The patrol had lingered too long. Robber had wanted to stand up and see
what had caught their attention. They hadn’t looked in his direction or along the
trail he had created. He had hoped the smugglers hadn’t returned unannounced.
They may have anticipated the sudden demise of the soldiers and seized the
opportunity to attend to unfinished business. Robber had hoped the heathens had
better control of their operatives than to allow for such an untimely snafu. If the
military had been called in, Robber wasn’t sure he could have gotten out of the
yard. The smugglers would have been caught, too, but the most obvious and
condemning trail would have led to where he had hidden.

The sound of his booming heart had become unbearable. Its beat had amplified
as he held his breath. Neither the idling jeep nor slosh of ocean waves had been
able to drown it. Robber had already cursed the suspected incompetence, when
the spotlight finally switched off. For a moment, everything had gone black, as if
the streetlights and the moon had been snuffed out. The patrol had moved on.
Robber had risen to his knees to watch the shrinking tail lights disappear around
the block. He had looked in the other direction. The area was finally deserted.

Robber had tossed the package of shoes over the fence in a high arch. He had
hooked his fingers and toes into the chain link and cleared the fence easily. He
retrieved the jacket and shoes, and scanned the ground for footprints or other
marks. His jacket had created a smudge where it landed. The force of the fall had
pressed blood through the fabric. Robber wasn’t happy at the time, but as long as
the trail had ended there, he was heartened. He crept back to his car. Nobody had
spied his movement. Daybreak had been many hours away and driving was not
safe before then. Robber had known that he couldn’t be caught waiting inside
either, as a lone car always attracted attention. Patrols made a habit of peering
through windows. Robber had known that hiding there was unwise, and he
hadn’t even been able to change his clothes.

The last thing Robber had wanted was to be caught unawares, hunkered down in
his car, literally with his pants down. Robber carefully opened the car and
gathered his belongings. He had made certain he had everything he needed and
checked for marks. The car had stayed clean. He locked the doors and carried the
clean and soiled clothes into the shadows. Robber knew that the vehicle would
remain beyond suspicion until he was ready to return to it in the light. He
depended on it being there, waiting for him.

Robber had spent the remainder of the night crouching and running. He had
waited for a patrol to pass and had scampered into the nooks already checked.
This game of hide and seek had been played since he was a kid. Moving became
the key to his life. It was a good tactic even when he didn’t have to hide. Robber
needed to move to live, just like a shark. He’d chosen a shark as the creature he
would become in another life, but the crazy idea of reincarnation belonged
among cults far away from the city-states. Besides, he had to find out if he
enjoyed swimming first. If he truly wished to be reborn, he’d quietly beseech the
Living God, the omnipotent god of the heathens. He wouldn’t make demands or
even ask for a favor. That was a false belief of the Chosen, which led to wrath
and oblivion. Robber could only wish, with all his heart, and hope he would earn
some reward for all his good work below.

His skill at hiding was one of the reasons Robber believed he wouldn’t be too
shoddy at this sort of surreptitious work. His hatred of the Church and
everything it stood for was another factor. He was better at concealment than
killing, but there wasn’t glory in hiding. Being recognized for the ability to hide
was ironically incongruent, but Robber was masterful. The residential area
needed to be avoided. Some night owls, who always sat at their windows,
guaranteed to be too hasty with calling the military.

Robber had moved well away from the shipyard, but he had heard a number of
vehicles at its gate. The ocean breeze had carried distorted voices, which made
them sound like foreign tongues. Floodlights had filled the yard, so their glow
could have been spotted blocks away. The military had been occupied for the
next few minutes. Despite the hours before sunrise, Robber had decided to
change his clothes.

The dark ones were completely bloodied and had grown stiff as they dried.
Robber had started to grow sick of the putrid smell. The clean clothes, on the
other hand, were thin and light colored. They were the best camouflage in bright
sunshine. The hue would have made it more difficult to hide at night, but he
would take his chances. Robber moved away as the military widened their
search beyond the yard. At one point, Robber had determined that their coverage
would span too wide. He had planned to slip back to his car then. He placed all
the dark clothes into the bundle of the jacket. He had decided he’d even go
barefoot. The military had been given every small advantage to catch him.
Robber hadn’t thought they would. He had evaded these opening spiral search
patterns for as long as he remembered. He had his pursuers beat before they
started.

The trail to the fence had enlivened them. A rabid pursuit in the middle of the
night was the best tonic for caged dogs, but once they were over the fence,
clueless monotony had subdued them. When their circle had grown so wide that
they met another patrol uninvolved in the hunt, a hole had opened. The growing
area inside the perimeter had become just another nook that had been peeked
into previously, the safest place for prey to hide.

At the very first ray of daylight, Robber reached his car. The vehicle would have
already been scanned and forgotten. Nothing inside would have suggested
anything other than an ordinary vehicle. The blocks around the docks were
peppered with them. In most cases, their owners had grown sick of fighting
traffic and trying to find a place to park in the crowded surrounding
neighborhoods. They elected to walk home the extra hour. One could do worse
then a stroll in a summer sunset, especially if the alternative was still being in
their cars come curfew. Robber would be just another commuter making his way
back to his car. The rush of traffic and scattered patrols would overwhelm any
attempt to keep the area secure. Once morning came, the manhunt was
unofficially over.

Robber would have to intrude on his secretary for a few hours. He sorely needed
a nap and a shower. Then he’d go to the meeting for the other offer, which was
another murder. Robber did not yet know the details, but he could guess what the
request entailed, just listening to the prospective employer. Depending on his or
her stomach for such a despairing deed, his or her voice would tremble or
become stoic, detached, or barely hanging together. A face-to-face meeting
seemed to offer solace. Besides caution, that’s why Robber never asked for
information when he returned messages. If the job was acceptable, and the
money real, he arranged a rendezvous. Everything he needed would be collected
at the meeting, including half the cost.

This was a special job, almost a favor. A priest had asked for his help. Meeting a
member of the Church, other than the final kind of meeting, was a mad idea.
This priest, however, had no real part in the Church. He would still be just as
bigoted and deluded as the rest of the clergy, but he was somehow related to
Judah Batheirre, Robber’s preferred benefactor. The name was waved like a flag
of truce. There wasn’t any way the priest would know who Robber was, but the
priest came with his hands raised anyway. Despite the priest’s kin, the man’s
attitude reminded Robber that the two of them stood opposed when the lines of
faith and justice were drawn. As he thought before, Robber wouldn’t mind
knocking off a random priest for the heathens. Based on the rumors he had heard
throughout his years working with the Batheirre family, the priest’s untimely
death would be the real favor to Judah.
12 Wastrel Son
“Spiders have eight legs and bugs have six legs,” Davey informed Hen. Hen
didn’t disagree with the fact. The problem was that neither he nor Davey were
degreed entomologists. There wasn’t much difference between either’s
knowledge, compared to the great gulf that separated the two from an educated
specialist. However, it didn’t require an expert to determine that what they were
observing was something unnatural. Davey had found a strange fly, like those
that had been swept up with the feathers, huge with black and white stripes
running the length of its elongated abdomen. Little carcasses were located
everywhere, in overlooked cracks and corners. Their eternal fate would remain
hidden, and dry to dust, unless some adventurous or bored explorer discovered
them. The boy had taken to crawling under the pews to entertain himself. That’s
when he found the dead insect and showed it to Hen. Hen just couldn’t keep up
with Davey any longer. He watched and rested. More so, Hen worried; the stress
sapped his energy.

The teenager’s mother had left Davey with Hen all day yesterday. Tamara
believed the boy was under Ben’s care at St. Erasmus; that was never the truth.
Hen had usurped the role of sitter and monopolized the boy’s attention. They
disappeared for hours into the warm afternoon and returned with ice cream and
playing cards. Ben was happy for the arrangement; he hadn’t agreed to play
guardian, but Hen had thankfully found something productive and enjoyable to
pass his time. His single-minded focus to abandon the church was getting old
and vain. Ben used the respite to meditate and think about what he should be
doing. He knew he couldn’t continue drifting indefinitely. The Cortras brothers
would move on or something would eventually happen, making it unsafe to stay
at the church. Ben had to be prepared. He had to make a plan; he had to
remember what he was doing as recently as a week ago.

Tamara didn’t return until close to curfew. The woman was gushing; her
apologies and excuses sounded like they had been picked from a well-thumbed
stack of note cards. There was more work for her to do than she expected. The
dust piled like ash during hot days in the Cap. Specks floated in sun rays,
angling through half-shaded windows. The dirt thickened to brown haze across
the skyline. The cloud that clung to the surface of Capital wasn’t just dust, but
full of plenty of other noxious particles, all manufactured by its masochistic
residents through the daily course of their lives. As Tamara wasn’t able to leave
home, due to her difficulty finding someone to watch her son, the dirt waited for
her. She was happy to earn the money all at once. Even though it wasn’t much,
having a pocketbook of bills made her feel wealthy for a little while. Worrying
day to day over money was wearing on her aging heart; even one day of respite
was an answered prayer.

There was still much for her to do. Her advancing age slowed her down. A
younger person could accomplish in an afternoon what took the old woman two
full days. Tamara regretted being so slow, but she couldn’t charge by the hour.
She brought Davey back to the church the next morning. Ben suspected that she
hadn’t tried her neighbors, before coming straight to him. She had found a
willing gull in Hen.

Her son and Hen had become steadfast buddies immediately. They played all the
while Tamara was gone. Between the two of them, it didn’t seem like they’d ever
run out of ideas. They explored the church, repeating their games and gentle
teasing in each room. Ben was willing to bet Davey had been talking and singing
about Hen all night. The boy often lapsed into a singsong voice, which Ben and
Hen discovered for themselves. Where it was not unpleasant, the lack of rhyme
and mediocrity made it grating. To the boy’s credit, he would whisper his song if
he was asked to quiet down.

Hen may have been her only choice. If Davey were left with anyone else but his
new friend, the boy’s laughter would have probably turned to tears and an
overgrown temper tantrum. The fit would have been turbulence that his mother
could no longer weather. The boy was scrawny, but he was still a teenager. His
slow mind and growing body could potentially be very damaging to an old
woman. Her control waned over the years. Tamara could eventually do no more
than give in to her son’s perpetually childish demands. When the pair showed up
again at the church doors calling for Hen, Ben was happy for that, too. He had
spent the night coping with Hen’s indecision about lapsing into a nervous
breakdown. Davey was now available to keep him busy. Ben just hoped the
church wasn’t becoming a daycare.

Dil hadn’t returned last night. Tamara came and took Davey home. Curfew
began and the streets emptied. Hen risked the patrols and ran out into the
twilight to check the covered truck. Despite having the keys, he made certain a
dozen times that the vehicle was still parked a few blocks away. Wherever Dil
had gone, he was on foot. Hen immediately suspected that his older brother was
plucked up on orders from the sergeant at the Wall. The soldier did say the
brothers were under suspicion; the truck was still under surveillance. The
military knew their names; they were on a list. Even crossing the street at the
wrong spot could lead to detainment. Hen was so adamant in stressing the
mounting danger, the only way to restore peace was to point out the flaws in his
scrambled thinking.

Ben assured the younger Cortras that the military expending effort to find the
brothers wasn’t practical. Capital was a big city with a lot of its own problems.
The sergeant was merely making the customary threat to strangers upon
entrance. No one had come to the church looking for the two and that should be
proof enough. Starting at the stated destination would be the first logical step in
any search. The whole day had passed without Ben spotting a patrol; he told Hen
as much. After curfew, a squad drove past the church as if rushing to something
more urgent than usual rounds. The lone sighting amounted to the totality of
military presence in the neighborhood. No word of the brothers’ unaccounted
presence was announced on the radio that Hen and Davey had found upstairs and
switched on. There certainly weren’t any wanted posters for the Cortras brothers;
it appeared that they had been forgotten the moment they passed within the Wall.

Hen jumped to the next conclusion. His older brother must have done something
stupid. Dil had a problem controlling his temper. Most of the time it simmered in
slow rage, but bubbled up when it wasn’t closely watched. It was worse if he
drank. Ben rationalized, out loud for Hen’s benefit, that if something like that
had happened, the military would once again be at the church looking for the
other brother. The hypothesis was a shaky one, but Hen appeared to accept it.
Ben conjectured that Dil had lost track of the time; curfew had fallen and he was
safely holed up for the night. The older brother would likely return in the
morning.

Hen asked Ben to find an occupied station in the morning and make inquiries if
Dil didn’t return. Ben was a priest, after all, or at least passing as one. There
wouldn’t be anything unusual about him talking to the military. He could say he
was looking for a stray workman, but Ben didn’t like the idea. It didn’t make a
lot of sense and would attract attention. The request was driven by desperation,
which was to be expected of Hen. He agreed to Hen’s request only to calm him.
Ben added that he really didn’t think a visit to the military would be necessary
and that everything would be fine in the morning. The tepid promise was enough
to send Hen to bed.

Without his older brother, Hen would be lost, nearly paralyzed. Getting out of
Capital would be impossible after such a tragedy. He’d probably never leave the
ominous St. Erasmus. Hen would sink into helpless despair; nothing would
matter. If Hen were in peril from the military, he’d lose the will to escape out the
back. The younger Cortras would surrender without flight or resistance.
Catatonia wasn’t conducive to the long-honored instinct to survive.

Ben wasn’t able to look out for him. The only reason he was with the Cortras
brothers was his own lack of direction. Losing that ride, Ben would fare better
alone. He couldn’t bear the dead weight while trying to gather pieces of his past.
Becoming a surrogate brother was completely out of the picture. As far as Ben
was concerned, the debt for his rescue had been repaid. Once the brothers had
been brought into Capital, Ben and the Cortras brothers were square. The three
now coincidentally shared paths and spoils that they had stumbled upon; their
squatting was an arrangement of convenience.

The rising sun woke Hen. He behaved like it was Easter morning, a magical day
when prayers were answered and gifts stripped of their patterned bandages. Hen
wasted no time before waking Ben and imploring him to hurry downstairs. Ben
didn’t celebrate holidays; they were the province of the Chosen and the Church.
He found Easter, the most prolific holiday of Chosen and heathens alike, pitiful.
The celebration of the Resurrection was honored differently between the two
faiths. The Chosen beliefs were especially debauched. Ransoming the living
corpse of a mutilated deity for immortality was pathological. The theology of the
Chosen was wrought with abominations such as these.

The thought that Ben had once subscribed to these beliefs, made his stomach
churn. The heathen treated the day with more reverence. The rebirth was a
testament to the immortality and omnipotence of the Living God. Everlasting life
was not a birthright for the Chosen to take for granted. It was a grace to be
earned. Ben knew the truth; both beliefs were obsolete. In the absence of god,
there was only oblivion.

This day wasn’t a holiday; Easter had passed two seasons ago. The summer was
a long, dry stretch of uneventful days. The next holiday wasn’t until its end; the
date was the Chosen’s parade of saints. The day was otherwise meaningless.
Church and military bureaucracies shuttered offices for a long weekend. Graven
images were flaunted on the streets. Hen insisted that Ben wake anyway.

The pair went downstairs. Presents were waiting for them. A small hacksaw lay
on the kitchen table. An unopened bottle of Yowling Cat to replace the wine
consumed last night accompanied the tool. The presents were unmistakably from
Dil. Ben guessed that searching for the saw was the reason for Dil’s delay. They
had talked about cutting the bars from the windows yesterday. It appeared Dil
was willing to do anything Ben wanted to make the church a home. Dil must
have gone off on his errand during Tamara’s first visit. Ben had no clue where
Dil was and what he was doing now. Dil had taken the unfinished bottle of wine
with him. Hen was unburdened for a few short minutes. He rushed around the
church and out to the truck looking for his brother. Dil was nowhere to be found.
Hen’s brooding panic drove him to question Ben again. Tamara delivered Davey
just in time to stem the tirade.

The old woman offered apologies and thanks again. Before Ben could agree to
watch Davey, the boy was in the church sniffing out Hen. Tamara was at her job
by the time Ben, Hen, and Davey fixed breakfast together. The two men began
gathering their own meals until the boy insisted on helping. Ben coordinated the
effort to keep Davey out of the way. The boy became fixated on wanting to play
with the stick matches that Hen discovered on a shelf above the stove. Davey
was normal in respect to having the typical adolescent fascination with fire. Hen
encouraged the bad habit by striking a match to life between his front teeth and
spitting out the sulfurous bit. Davey was allowed to light the stove top burners
and no more. Watching the orange flash and blue circle was enough to keep the
boy content until the cooking was done.

The meal was a bland mix of rice, canned tomatoes, and refried beans, with the
tomatoes stirred into the rice, and the beans heated separately. Hen commented
happily that he felt like he had new brothers. He especially praised and played
with Davey throughout the preparation. He would’ve liked Dil to be there, but
what they were doing felt right, as in “normal.” The older Cortras would
hopefully be along at any time.

After dishing the rice and beans onto everyone’s plates, they mixed everything
together. Nobody grumbled. The only interaction throughout breakfast was
Davey teasing Ben about returning to the sink again and again to refill his glass.
Ben’s thirst wasn’t as intense as it had been, and he was grateful for that. He
spent most of his waking day drinking and pissing. Ben ignored Davey and
drank until he was content. The boy refused to wash his dishes until Hen took
responsibility. Davey then gladly helped with every chore Hen accepted or
invented, which included the continued trips to check the truck. Eventually Hen
and Davey rounded out the morning staked out on the corner, keeping an eye on
the covered vehicle and watching for Dil.

Ben used the time alone to resume his thinking from yesterday. He had no luck
uncovering any more pieces of his puzzle. The grandiosity of purpose and
destiny encompassing St. Erasmus in Capital had diminished. The importance
and imminence was gone; so was the voice. Ben may have been trying too hard
to listen. The same probably applied to Ben trying to figure out the necessity of
his presence there and then. Both the voice and sense of destiny were like his
new notion of faith. Acceptance was blind and immediate. As soon as a hard
look was warranted, it became insubstantial. There wasn’t as much as a fleeting
shadow from the corner of an eye. The only conclusion Ben arrived at yesterday
was that his sanity was restored. That had been enough for one day, but today
was a new one. Today he would need to establish a plan in case things went
wrong.

Hen’s doubt and general bad feeling were growing contagious, and Ben was
getting a little spooked. The feeling that he was supposed to be in Capital still
lingered. The fact just wasn’t the shining revelation that it may have been
intended to be. His entrance to the Cap was the condition of a mission. Ben
convinced himself of that. The idea seemed to be in line with his feeling that he
was a part of another’s agenda. He must have been on his way when something
happened in the desert.

He could have hit his head, although the fear of a concussion was groundless. He
didn’t suffer any symptoms, except the inner ringing he heard at the time and
there was no lump on his scalp. So the next questions were what was his mission
and how did he hit his head hard enough to knock out years of memory. If it
wasn’t for an insistent cautiousness, he may have been on legitimate business.
No particular affiliation with the Church or the heathens was apparent. Ben may
have been acting in the interest of a crime-lord of one of the poorer city-states
like Gomorrah. If so, there may be consequences for his failure and he may miss
an essential contact. That could apply to whomever he was working for, if what
he was doing was work.

Time skipped an hour while Ben sat in the kitchen thinking and staring at the
blank wall outside the window. His right leg had gone to sleep. The numbness
spread all the way up one side of his buttocks. When he stood, an electric jolt
stabbed through the sole of his foot and up his calf. Ben froze, hoping the muscle
wouldn’t cramp. He turned the hacksaw over. The best thing he and Hen could
do at the moment was keep busy, instead of share this state of limbo. Even if
they checked into different rooms, it was the same motel. Hen had Davey to
distract him. Ben decided he’d work on the bars in the nave. He’d open up a
window or two and see if it made any difference to the odd claustrophobia that
he experienced in the large room.

The window nearest the back hall was the ideal candidate, since it was the first
in line. To comfortably reach the base of the bars, Ben had to kneel. The bars
were so close to each other that the blade had to be removed from the bow. The
miniature wing nuts were loose; it was simple to take out the serrated metal strip.
The teeth were a straight line of vicious looking perpendicular triangles. They
were small, but belonged in the jaws of a piranha. A single swipe could razor off
a good bite of flesh. Ben held the blade carefully at one end between his thumb
and forefinger. He propped his elbows on the windowsill and sawed at the bar in
the center. Within a few minutes, Ben realized his approach was impossible. The
iron would only scratch if he continued to cut the metal delicately like a jeweler.
Frustration soon forced him to abandon the attempt. To get serious work
accomplished, he needed to stop worrying about himself and attack the bar. Ben
gripped the blade in his fist. The points were sharp, but didn’t break the skin.

When he started again, the reward was immediate. A cut a few millimeters deep
appeared in no time. Ben blew the scattered metal shavings out the window and
ran his finger over the scar. The only problem with the undertaking existed in his
head. The repetitive work had the same effect as a couple days past when he had
helped Dil scrape the mess from the floor. Ben didn’t believe he’d be able to
generate ideas or recover memories if he continued to work. Yet the emptiness
was addictive; it seemed safe and it was certainly serene.

Ben looked at the palm of his hand that held the blade. It was just as red as the
burned topside. A black line pressed into the skin. The indentation was evenly
dotted with small, but deep pits. The points matched the teeth of the blade
perfectly. It was just an impression, but the marks broke every major crease in
his palm. Ben mulled the significance. Any palm reader would probably say the
slice was temporary and artificial. Then again, fortune telling was nothing more
than a farce. What would they know of fate? They were all charlatans, offering
nothing more than entertainment. No one knew the future. Ben rubbed the slice
with his thumb, but the indent remained, as did the discoloration from the blade.

The day of the week was also a mystery. Ben realized the fact when he returned
to sawing at the bar. Any morning he could wake up to a slew of pious sheep
looking for a sermon. In this neighborhood, the flock would consist of
UnChosen making wishes and tossing whatever coins they pinched, into a
collection plate, voluntary taxes to the Church. Dil may be right. The church
could be just a way station for the military. The troubling part was that this also
made him feel secure. In the past few days, there hadn’t been many visitors.
Guests included the priest who presumed to be his superior, and the old woman
and her son. No soldiers or other neighbors even slowed down to look as they
passed. There was enough conspicuous comings and goings to indicate the
church was again occupied. Ben wondered what they were waiting for; there
wasn’t going to be a church newsletter. He wasn’t about to go knocking door to
door. Most of all, Ben couldn’t allow himself to get too comfortable with his
alias.

Protracted repairs would still keep the public out. Namely, the floor, but the back
door also needed to be replaced. As much as Ben desired to take the bars from
the windows, he wanted to be able to lock the entrances, front and back. The idle
curious needed to be kept out. The pile of sticky feathers in the back could raise
enough uncomfortable questions. Ben stopped sawing. He had cut through the
base of two bars before knowing it. He could finish them if he went outside and
cut the bars at their tops, or he could cut at the furthest point where he was able
to reach up from inside.

The latter would be more difficult. The bars would wobble with the motion of
the stroke. Ben decided he’d move his work outdoors. The side of the building
with his window would remain shaded from the sun for awhile longer. He
needed something to stand on; a pew turned on its end and leaned against the
church would work. Ben turned around. Hen was sitting in the pews at the back.
Ben hadn’t heard him come in. The younger Cortras brother’s face was long, and
his gaze was fixed and beyond the cross over the altar. He had the look of a man
who wanted to ask a favor, but knew he didn’t have any coming. The pews in
front of him bumped up and slid askew. Davey’s shriek sounded from beneath
them.

The boy jumped up, trotted around the pews, and then over to Hen. Davey
showed Hen something; Hen flickered back to the present. The pair started
arguing playfully.

“Count them again, Davey,” Hen said. He was poking into Davey’s open palm.
Ben needed a rest. His shirt was wet with sweat and he started to smell his own
musk. He’d make a point to change his clothes today. He was thirsty again, but
this time he had a reason. Before he went to the kitchen, he’d check on Hen. He
didn’t look very well. Ben knew it was because of his absent brother, but he
wanted to be certain Hen wasn’t scheming. Ben licked his dry lips, but it didn’t
help. His tongue was sticky and lacked moisture. He sucked the inside of his
cheeks to get saliva flowing and tried again. Water was absolutely necessary.

Davey held a dead fly in his hand. It lay on its back, with its numerous legs
curled up. The bug was just one of the hundreds that had succumbed to the gas.
It was huge. Being isolated from the dead swarm and clean of gelled blood
didn’t do anything to shrink the insect. Sitting in the thin hand of the boy made
the insect look sharp and dangerous, even in death. Ben felt a chill creep over his
shoulders and the back of his neck. The shiver made the sweat there feel like
melting ice.

“Eight legs,” Davey declared when he finished counting.

“You’re sure?” Hen asked, counting again. The bent legs made it difficult. Hen
came up with the same number, but thought he might be mistaking a pair of
antennae for legs, although the insect didn’t appear to have feelers. The head
consisted of big, green, faceted eyes that glittered gold in the light. More
distressing were the long mandibles that looked more like pincers belonging on a
beetle. This thing was a bunch of different bugs bred together into a single
blood-sucking monstrosity.

“I can count,” Davey said. He softly lay the insect down beside Hen, fearing he
might shatter it. Hen slid away in a jerking motion. Davey raised his fists close
to his tiny high-set ears, and blinked as he concentrated. The preparation was for
the sake of performance. Both Ben and Hen had seen Davey count quietly before
without the use of his fingers, but the boy didn’t have an audience then. As
Davey counted, he raised a finger for each number. When he reached ten, both
hands opened and fingers splayed. The boy paused and blinked again. His mouth
froze in an open smile, ready to move on to the number eleven. Before
continuing, he needed to remember which hand to use. Davey’s routine was
growing rusty. The hand that began the procession closed back into a fist. Davey
reached fifteen and closed the other one.

“Hey Davey, how high can you count?” Hen asked. He saw the boy was
determined to continue. If Hen could interrupt and explain that the boy didn’t
need to prove anything to him, he was going to try. Besides, his patience for the
show wasn’t as keen as he felt Davey deserved.

Davey ignored him and continued to count aloud. A very earnest look
monopolized his face. One hand would snap shut, as the other shot up fingers
one at a time. Davey looked like a mechanical traffic sign where the motion
indicated flashing. He didn’t stop until he reached one hundred. The boy
dropped his hands and waited.

Hen glanced up at Ben. Hen wasn’t paying close enough attention to know that
the boy had finished; Hen tried to pick up clues from the second member of the
audience. Ben was digging into the palm of his hand with his thumb, back to
thinking about the windows. Hen turned again to Davey.

“Well that’s fine,” Hen said. Davey waited quietly for more. He looked
disappointed. Hen was quick to correct his faux pas. “That’s real good!”

Davey laughed and snatched up his found bug. He cupped his fingers, forming a
cage. The insect rolled around inside like the muffled clapper of a bell. Davey
unfolded his hand in front of his grinning face. The dead fly was balanced on its
curled legs. Its translucent wings pointed upward as if the thing was about to
take flight. Hen almost tricked himself into seeing it revive before his eyes.

“I guess this spider has wings,” Hen said. Davey squinted one eye. His shoulders
became stuck to his jaw in a jammed shrug. The boy was contemplating the idea.
Davey wasn’t as sure of the possibility as he was with the number of legs that
insects were supposed to have.

“How ‘bout you throw it out the window?” Hen implored. His squeamishness
was building to a level that he could no longer handle. At the mention of a
window, Ben turned back around.

“It bit my mama,” Davey said. His grin was gone and a white light flashed in his
eye. “I’m going to eat it.”
Hen’s lips curled back. “No, Davey, don’t.”

“Don’t do that, kid,” Ben commanded. The warning was the first thing he had
said to Davey since saying goodbye last night. Ben wouldn’t have even given
that if the boy hadn’t demanded a farewell from everyone. He made it a
condition for going home.

“Why?” Davey asked defiantly.

“Because they’re poisoned,” Ben said, as a matter of fact.

“Oh, that’s right.” Hen jumped up. His hands jerked to his sides like a
gunslinger. If Davey made a move toward his mouth, Hen was ready to slap it
aside. “They killed ‘em with gas. If you eat it, you’ll get sick.”

“I don’t care. It bit mama.”

“You could die,” Hen upped the ante.

Davey paused and he grew serious. His revenge was stymied. He cupped his
hand again, and his tendons tightened as if he was resisting the urge to clench his
fist tightly. The carcass was about to pop and crunch inside.

“Go on and throw it out the window,” Hen suggested again.

Davey raised his arm above his head and whipped his hand down. The insect
bounced against the floor once and rolled over on its wings. It remained intact.
Davey followed the fall and stomped hard on the fly. The church echoed with the
flat boom. Ben and Hen jumped at the unexpected sound.

“Oh, Davey,” Hen said. “We just cleaned the floor.”

Davey ground his foot. The little pieces of chitin crunched like an eggshell. Hen
was relieved that he didn’t hear a squish. The boy laughed as if he was
possessed. He dragged the bottom of his foot backwards across the floor.
Thankfully there wasn’t a smudge, only a trail of tiny carapace shards.

“Davey, that wasn’t good,” Hen said, solemnly. “We’re in the house of the
Mortal God. If it gets dirty, who’s going to bless it?”
“Him!” Davey shot his finger at Ben.

“You’re out of luck, kid,” Ben answered.

Ben hoisted a pew up to his shoulder. It was heavier than he expected, and he
stumbled backward and forward trying to find his balance. His skin had grown
accustomed to the weight of his clothes. The burns, or rather the one
comprehensive burn, felt like they were well on their way to healing. Yet as soon
as the hard wood pressed on his shoulder, Ben was rudely reminded of his injury.
It felt like he was being branded with the flat part of a hot skillet.

Ben threw the pew off his shoulder as if he was fighting off a mountain lion. It
knocked into the other benches, raising a racket that dwarfed Davey’s stomping.
Ben reached inside his shirt. When he shrugged off the pew, it felt as if a swath
of skin ripped from his shoulder. As Ben patted his flesh, he realized he was still
whole. There was only pain. He held the fabric of his shirt away from his
shoulder. The area had grown incredibly intolerant again. Davey and Hen rushed
over to Ben.

“Are you okay?” Hen asked. “What are you doing? We can help.”

“We’ll help,” Davey repeated.

“Just take it outside,” Ben directed, pointing at the thrown pew. “Put it outside
the window.” He gestured to the window where he was sawing at the bars. He
dared to rub his shoulders, but stopped when he discovered it wasn’t helping.
“I’m going to get some water.”

“You cracked it,” Davey said.

The pew had a long split down the seat, running from one end to the other. As it
was lifted, the wood twisted and slightly separated like parting lips. It was still
solid enough to sit on, and Ben decided it was going to be strong enough to
support his weight when he stood on it. Hen instructed the boy not to mind the
damage and help him carry the pew outside. Ben went down the hall to the
kitchen, while Hen carried the pew through the front doors.
13 Gnashing Teeth
Robber had put his shoes back on, because his feet had grown cold once the
concrete lost all its absorbed heat from the previous day. In the spreading light of
dawn, he had seen what needed cleaning and had found dry spots on the
bloodied shirt to use for scrubbing. He had no problem getting back to his car in
the morning. He even had a short conversation with one of the workers walking
to his job at the dock. Robber let him in on the fact that the fellow would be
starting late this morning because there had been an incident the night before.
The military and a reporter or two may be in the way, scratching around the yard.
When the dockhand asked Robber how he knew something was happening,
Robber answered truthfully and nonchalantly. He had just come from the docks,
and was now heading back to his car. The dockhand walked with Robber for a
couple blocks and never asked questions about why this stranger had left the
docks or about the bundle of clothes tucked under his arm.

The two men parted when Robber went south to his car and the worker went the
opposite direction to the main gate of the dock. The dockhand expressed thanks
for the advance notice. He was at once concerned with being late, wondered if
there was going to be work that morning, and curious. Robber and the man bid
friendly farewells with smiles and waves. A jeep with three soldiers slowly
cruised past at that moment and Robber waved at the patrol, too. They continued
down the street. The two men on the street appeared to be old acquaintances off
to work, oblivious to the crime last night.

His secretary was in the apartment, as Robber expected him to be. The place was
cramped. An off color wallpaper had started bubbling away from the drywall.
The paper was new, but the summer had been hot. The heat inside the little oven
of a pad had melted the glue. Robber’s secretary was reading a book, which
looked like it had once been a paperback. The cover was gone and the yellow
pages had spoiled to a rusty orange at their edges. The black ink remained solid
and clear, despite the wear and age of the pages. Robber was instantly wary.

“Where did you get that?” he asked. “Books are banned, especially in Capital.”

“I brought it with me,” his secretary answered. He didn’t look at the man who
took his name. He flipped a page and then another, skipping over a thick,
continuous paragraph of text. “It’s a good thing. I’ve been going crazy, stuck in
here.”

Robber grunted. He peeked through the window out of habit and drew the fading
blue drapes. The room went dark, too dark for comfortable reading.

“Hey!” his secretary objected. “I can’t see the pages!”

The man got up. He wobbled on his long legs, as they had grown stiff sitting in
one position for a long time. He stepped across the room to open the drapes.

“Hey,” Robber held him with a stern look. His secretary froze as if turned to
stone by Robber’s face. “Only a crack.”

His secretary pulled the drapes open to allow a sliver of light to cast upon the
spot where he had been sitting. He peeked out the window, but there wasn’t
anything to see; just a barren courtyard surrounded by blind windows and locked
doors. All the neighbors had gone to work. The new Robber always picked
isolated times to visit.

“What’s it about?” Robber tossed the bundle of clothes into the chair where his
secretary had been sitting. There were only a few places for it to go, other than
the floor, and that was already scattered with clothes and strewn with trash. His
secretary didn’t look eager to get back to reading anyway. A dark brown crust
covered one of Robber’s hands. When he rubbed his fingers over the scab, it
flaked off and sprinkled on a clear spot of the dusty gray carpeting, blending in
with small chunks of dried mud and dropped crumbs.

The secretary stepped away from the window. He used a side of the beaten book
to push empty bottles, boxes, and cans around a small table. He cleared enough
space for the book to hang over the edge when he set it on the acrylic surface.
The bottles and cans were perched close to toppling off the other side; all it
would take was a gentle jolt.

“Nothing, really. Short stories. There’s a story about a cat out for vengeance. I
almost know it by heart.”

“Yeah, I like cats.” Robber wasn’t listening to more than a few keywords. He
heard “a book about cats” and assumed his secretary wanted to be a veterinarian.
Good luck to him. Chances were pretty slim he’d find a school within Capital
that would train a poor, illegal immigrant UnChosen.
“Why don’t you go out for a couple hours?” Robber proposed. “Go get breakfast
or lunch, brunch. I don’t have liquor rations, so no luck there.”

“I don’t have any money. You haven’t paid me yet.”

Robber reached into his front pocket and pulled out a loose roll of bills. He
handed a few to his secretary.

“It’s on me. I need the place for a while. I want to clean up. Take the keys. I
won’t be here when you get back. Don’t take the book with you.”

“I’m getting sick of this arrangement,” his secretary said. “What if I don’t come
back? How about I leave for the encampment? I was thinking, the military
doesn’t bother people leaving.”

“You’ll be back.” Robber grinned sardonically. “The money is good. That’s what
you came to the Cap for; you don’t need to test me. You don’t want to. Besides, I
got your book.”

“You can keep it.”

“Go. Get out of here. I’ll see you later.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“We really ought to be friendly with each other. I like you, kid.” Robber was
going to call his secretary by his alias, but forgot the name he had given him.
Robber was going to continue being the only Robber in the room. “If you
cleaned up around here, you’d have a nice little place to live. It’ll help you save
money for school.”

“What?”

“I’ll see you later.”

The secretary scanned the floor. He found a pastel, button-up shirt and shook it
out. Crumbs, among other motes, flew off. He turned his head to keep them out
of his eyes. He pulled his undershirt off over his head. His torso was pale
compared to the deep tan of his face and arms. He was as skinny as a fence post.
So many ribs were visible, Robber lost count during the glance he took.
“I’m going to be soaking those,” Robber said, pointing at the bundle of clothes
he had tossed in the chair. “I can throw in a couple of your shirts, if they need
it.”

His secretary looked at him with outrage. “Darks don’t go with whites. There’s
blood on your clothes, anyway.”

Robber nodded. Yes, there was. He wouldn’t need to clean them, otherwise. His
secretary walked across the room and moved faster as he neared the door. He
practically sprinted out of the empty courtyard. Robber hoped his secretary
wouldn’t get himself run over in traffic, in his haste to get away. He wouldn’t
have anyone to take care of him, if he lived through the accident. For better or
worse, his secretary would be an anonymous corpse if he died. His medical
report might just as well say he was an orphaned only child. His parents weren’t
around long to give him a proper name. That last thought struck close to the facts
of Robber’s own life; but Robber wasn’t thinking of himself. His secretary
needed to blow off steam, as he’d been cooped up too long. Once his secretary
was out of sight, Robber locked the door.

He went into the kitchen and cleared the sink of cans and plastic utensils. He and
his secretary didn’t have proper plates or glasses. They ate directly from boxes,
cans, or take-out containers. They didn’t even have a place to put their trash; that
accounted for all the garbage piled on the counter and table. They rinsed what
they had and found a second use for everything. Robber thought of it as bachelor
living. The reality was this place wasn’t his home; he didn’t have one. The
apartment was a makeshift safe house. Robber needed to keep moving. Once the
sink was empty, he stopped the drain and ran cold water into the basin. As the
sink filled, he collected the bundle of stained clothes from the chair.

The chair came with the apartment; the place was partially furnished, but
furniture wasn’t a criterion when he selected the apartment. He grabbed the first
available, anonymous, low rent dive he found; inheriting the table, chairs, and
sofa was a pleasant surprise. Any place Robber didn’t have to sleep on the floor
or sit in corners, was classy. Once he was finished cleaning up, he could afford
to take a short nap. The sofa was already inviting him. He still had some time
before his meeting with the priest.

Robber dropped the bundle of clothes on the black and white checkered linoleum
of the kitchen floor. He reached for the bottle of bleach beneath the sink, the
only cleaner in the apartment. It was the general purpose cleaner; in the right
amounts, it could be used for anything. A big bottle of bleach and a wardrobe of
clean and properly colored clothes were indispensable in his business. If he
could avoid the messy hits, the bleach would be less important. Using less
noxious stuff in turn would mean he wouldn’t have to continue ruining the
clothes he owned. The cleaner did the job well, but also ate the fabric.

Robber measured four overflowing capsful into the sink. The quantity was
arbitrary, but had become part of the ritual. The running water mixed with the
chemical. The whole apartment soon filled with sharp, stinging perfume and
made his eyes water. Robber liked the smell better then the unidentified,
undertone odors in the apartment. It must have been the smell of his secretary,
figuratively bricked into the small space during the warm days. The windows
would still stay shut; having them open would make the place vulnerable.
Robber turned off the faucet.

The clothes sank into the water, nearly overflowing the basin. Robber didn’t
bother to roll up his sleeves. He used his fingers to poke at the clothes until they
were submerged. When he stirred, water splashed out and soaked the front of his
shirt and flowed over the counter. A small, empty cardboard box skimmed the
surface of the spilled water. Robber pulled out his hands. He mumbled a quiet
curse for wetting his clean clothes. As he took off his shirt, he watched the water
turn red.

The color began as tendrils reaching up to the surface and down to the bottom of
the enameled white sink. The flimsy arms dissolved in the swirling water. The
water turned pink, then darkened evenly. Before Robber left, he would need to
drain the sink and soak the clothes again in cleaner water. This was a job he
wished his secretary was willing to do. Robber was sure this kind of work was
one of those shifting taboos of principle. Even if his secretary helped him, it
probably wouldn’t feel right. Robber needed to be responsible for his own
messes. Ideally, he wouldn’t create any. He would eventually be a maestro. For
now, he’d have to focus on covering up the imperfections.

Robber stripped off his clothes and dropped them to the floor on top of the others
belonging to him and his secretary. It was peculiar that two men sharing the
same slovenly habits met by chance. Then again, coincidence may not have
anything to do with it. All men may live as they did. Robber didn’t have a lot of
experience with roommates, so his observation was limited. He laid his knife on
his secretary’s book, then picked it up again and opened it. The blade was clean,
as were the pin, catch, and antler handle. His cuts last night had been fast and
accurate, confirmed by the lack of blood. The blade itself was sharp enough to
use for shaving, which Robber had done on a few occasions. This morning
would be another one, so he took the knife with him into the shower.

Shaving was about all Robber accomplished in the shower, since the water
wouldn’t heat past lukewarm. Even though it was adequate, he preferred
showering with scalding water. The room needed to be a sauna, because the
sultry air relaxed him. Robber lay on the sofa naked after showering. He decided
to nap while waiting to dry. His wet skin felt cool in the stagnant warmth of the
apartment. He may have fallen asleep, or he may have only been sucked into an
intense daydream. Whichever it was, dream or daydream, the vision was vivid
and rooted in the present.

Someone was outside the door. Whoever it was, crept along trying to be silent.
Robber hadn’t really heard the intruder, but a prickly aura pressed into him. He
rose, still nude. The locked door was off its hinges and lay on the wall to one
side of the opening that no longer went to the courtyard. It was replaced with
what looked like the inside of a covered garden where overgrown plants were
wilted black. The area resembled a big birdcage like those at a zoo, an aviary,
except there weren’t any birds. No sounds at all, not even a peep. It was dark,
even though the morning sun was climbing into a clear sky. The cage shed dense
shadows, their solid shapes building a maze where every turn ended with an
absence of light.

Robber didn’t leave the apartment. He remained lucid enough to realize he

wasn’t wearing clothes. A figure appeared as Robber was about to turn and find
his pants. It hadn’t come forward from the shadows. Instead, the dark receded
like a wave falling back to reveal beached jetsam. The figure was that of a short
man, wearing matching blue pants and long sleeve shirt, a workman’s outfit. His
skin was leathery, as if his life had been spent in the desert sun. Someone like
this didn’t belong inside Capital, nor inside a creepy oversized birdcage, either.

It was curious why this ordinary man was in Robber’s dream. He may have been
a past victim, a ghost, seeking revenge or trying to reclaim a lost name. Robber
didn’t ask and didn’t care, but the apparition outside still transfixed him. It
mangled a smile that may have well been a grimace. The stranger raised a knife
to his own outstretched neck. The knife belonged to Robber; the handle and
slightly curved blade were unmistakable. He remembered leaving it at the
bathroom sink. Robber was promptly inflamed with the instinct to run out and
recover his stolen property. The stranger twisted the knife back and forth, barely
touching the side of his throat. Robber wished the stranger would drive it in and
finish himself for his affront. If Robber could, he’d do it in an instant. However,
as it was, he was naked and could only stare. His body refused to move, not even
to recover his clothes.

A wet trickle rolled off Robber’s shoulder and down his chest. The liquid was
warmer than his shower and he mistook it for water dripping off his hair, but the
flow was steady. Robber dabbed at his neck; it was hot and sticky. He looked at
his fingers and they were covered in blood. Robber looked around to see where
it had come from. The source was nowhere to be seen and the blood still
streamed down his body. Panic began to take hold. He slapped his bloodied hand
to his neck and it splattered. There was no way he could have been cut. He didn’t
feel a thing, and no one had even been close to him. The figure in the courtyard
vanished during the building panic.

The blood oozed through Robber’s fingers. It flowed with the constancy of water
draining from a hole in the bottom of a bucket. Robber needed to stop it. He
reached up with his other hand, but his knife was now in his open palm, with the
blade folded back into its sheath. As Robber looked down, he saw his bright red
blood trace like branching veins outside his skin. The lines traveled down his
legs and between his toes, yet the floor was dry beneath. The inconsistency of
events and physics was too absurd. The quick rage had snared him in a
nightmare, but now he knew he was really asleep. He wasn’t staring through an
open doorway and he wasn’t bleeding. To allow this to go on was stupidity. He
knew he was dreaming and it was time to take control. With this realization,
Robber woke.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was his knife. It was sitting on
his secretary’s old book where Robber had left it. Robber wondered how much
he had actually dreamed. He was still naked and damp, especially on his side
facing the sofa. He felt his chin; he had shaved. Leaving the knife in the
bathroom was probably a memory from the dream. That wasn’t certain; his exact
steps between leaving the shower and lying down were fuzzy. Remembering was
unimportant, like the dream. The apartment was growing muggy, the low odor
increasing with the humidity. He told himself to leave before it became a stench.
Robber had an appointment, and he might as well be earlier than he usually was.
He always arrived early.

The clothes in the sink soaked, forgotten, as Robber rolled off the sofa and
dressed. He threw on the same clothes he had just taken off. He had checked
again and again for stains, and had determined that they passed inspection each
time. The attire was suitable for a daytime meeting. Robber checked his wallet
and knife before placing them into opposite back pockets, and his twisted garrote
into the front. Before leaving, he scanned the apartment. Robber had a disquieted
feeling that he was taking something with him. A brief scan of the room
confirmed that everything remained in its cluttered place. He thought he knew
the reason for the uneasy feeling. He didn’t want the dream to follow; it was a
bothersome feeling, but it was tenacious. Shaking it off wasn’t as easy as simply
waking up. Robber slipped outside with a quick sidestep and pulled the door
shut. He hoped he locked the threat inside, so it wouldn’t try to follow him. Let
his secretary deal with it.

True to habit, Robber arrived across the street from the meeting place, well
ahead of schedule. Robber attributed the practice to common sense in his
business, although the motivation was actually paranoia. Sometimes he showed
up hours before the meeting, depending on his impression of the client. A shaky
voice over the phone meant Robber would be there sooner; someone who
couldn’t stay level-headed wandered off the course of caution. Robber
considered looking out for himself as a service to his nervous client. Watching
his own back meant he kept his client an arm’s length from prying eyes and
military stings. Robber didn’t feel he needed to be as careful at this meeting.
This was a referral from a regular employer; but the fact that the client was a
priest raised alarm as well as hackles. For this meeting, Robber guaranteed he
would be early. Thanks to the unsettling dream, he was even earlier.

Robber parked his car the standard couple blocks away. His work involved quite
a bit of walking. Robber considered it a benefit; besides getting down to real
business, long walks were the most exercise he got. The car always remained out
of sight and pointed the opposite. That was one of those little details for which
Robber was proud of himself. He considered it skill, not common sense, along
with his timing. Being able to navigate Capital at those times when the roads
were least dense involved proficiency. Most people with regular jobs didn’t have
the luxury of avoiding the rush; but one still needed to time when the hive would
let out and swarm about during long lunches, and when the few who cut the day
short became a wave of buzzing traffic hazards. Robber was successful avoiding
commuters, even after punching out from his shift as butcher at the docks,
followed by a shower, shave, and a regrettable nap.

Something about last night should be on the radio soon. Robber had listened to
military news on his way to the apartment, and now, coming to his rendezvous.
So far there hadn’t been a word or he had missed it. That was a disappointment,
as Robber enjoyed hearing about himself, even if it was by way of his
anonymous work. The shame of his sloppy evening had passed. Forensics would
prove whomever wielded the blade was a master. The buckets of blood were
merely a consequence of opened arteries. Now he was hoping the bodies would
be found and the murders reported. The practice of knowing what the military
thought heathens were up to, and even what the Church wanted people to think,
was a sound one. If juggling a portable radio wasn’t such a possible distraction
or obstruction, Robber would still be listening.

Instead, he leaned quietly between storefronts watching for a priest to show up at

the unpretentious bistro across the street. Most of the compact tables stood
outside. It was a reasonable assumption that this was where a lone priest waiting
for a guest would be seated. When the priest showed up, Robber would make
him wait a little longer just to measure his movements. The priest may be
inadvertently watching for someone other than whom he was meeting. Robber
would leave if he didn’t like the look of his prospect. The two men would never
have met, and the advantage would be Robber’s for making the call.

He wished there was a better place to scope the restaurant, other than squarely in
the open. Loitering was too conspicuous in Capital. Robber paced a short part of
the block to mask his lurking. He peeked inside stores under the pretense of
window shopping, to catch anyone marking him. No one appeared to be paying
any special attention to what happened outside. He appreciated that. The
alternative was going across the street and taking a table at the very place he
surveyed. Boredom did manage to creep in. He wished he had brought his
secretary’s book about cats. Then again, if he was trying to avoid scrutiny, he
was in the last place for it. Leaning against a public building in broad daylight
with his nose in contraband, was begging for trouble.

The thought entertained Robber. He thought a little longer about the stares and
the ensuing trouble with the military, who would nab the smuggler in name only,
thanks to Robber’s confiscated cards. The distraction stopped being amusing
with how the story would really end. Whoever took the fall, always disappeared
in a detention camp. Being a creature of the city-states, Robber imagined the
camps were hells on earth, flat and smoldering patches in unmapped regions of
the Shur desert. When he was a kid, he heard the sun never set in the wastes.
That’s why the camps were built there. Robber had never seen a camp, but he
had crossed the desert at night a handful of times. There was an amazing sky of
stars barely visible in city lights. Every time he saw them, it was like looking
upon the sea for the first time. But even in his awe, he wanted nothing more than
to be back within the throngs of civilization.

The priest pulled up in a white limousine. It was amazing coincidence that a

space in front of the bistro, large enough for the vehicle, had opened up the
second before he arrived. Robber kicked off the corner he was leaning against
and took a short walk as he observed what happened next. The hostess escorted
the clergyman to an anticipated outside table. The priest was average in most
respects, wearing the standard uniform of black slacks and white collarless shirt.
This priest also wore a suit coat, which wasn’t so unusual, but it was summer
and a hot spell was simmering. The priest didn’t seem to suffer, other than being
a touch flushed in his cheeks. The redness could have also been due to the extra
weight he lugged around. The manner in which the priest dropped into his chair
suggested the blush was because of his stuffed girth. Robber hoped the man
wasn’t going to have lunch. Not only would it be disrespectful, implying
casualness grudgingly afforded to only well-paying clients, but Robber had a
quirk with seeing fat old men eat. The image typified a lifetime of gluttony
available to the least deserving. Robber watched to see if the priest requested a
menu. If he did, Robber would leave.

When the waitress arrived, the priest ordered a drink and nothing more. Business
would be conducted today. Robber strolled up the street again so that when he
approached, it would be from behind. Only parked and passing cars screened
him from the eyes of the priest. He could have easily spotted Robber if the priest
bothered to look around, but he didn’t. He was preoccupied with watching the
women at the bistro and counting the cash meant for Robber.

They were related activities; while the priest had the big wad of bills, he might
as well try to impress some working class girls. The priest’s drink arrived in a
tall glass with more ice than tea. The priest didn’t produce a ticket, so it was
obviously non-alcoholic. He flashed his money and made a coarse innuendo to
the waitress. Robber didn’t hear what the priest said, only that the woman
recoiled, followed by the priest calling her back with a wave and curt apology.
Robber stepped in and told the waitress they didn’t need anything else. She
relaxed her small and sloping shoulders, and retreated inside. Robber sat down
opposite the priest.

“You’re Kanen, right?” Robber asked. He was already sure he had the right
priest.

“Reverend,” the man remarked, aghast. He put the money back into his jacket.

“You’re not my daddy,” Robber snapped.

Josiah realized that the person he spoke with didn’t float in the sea of law-
abiding society, but he expected the respect that his position and rank granted. It
had been a long time since he had to put up with the lack of grace, other than
from his nephew, Judah. Josiah retorted with what he knew was at the core of the
meeting.

“I am the one paying you,” he uttered with all the snobbishness he could muster.

“I haven’t said I was doing anything for you yet.” Robber’s stomach began to
burn. The inside of his mouth tasted bitter. He wanted to spit, but sucked it back.
He wouldn’t give this priest even that much of himself.

“Listen,” Robber said. “You probably think you know who you’re dealing with,
but you better think again. I don’t have a rank pinned to my shirt. I’m not like
you in so many ways. I don’t play by your rules.”

“All right,” Josiah stated. He wasn’t agreeing, only forcing room for his reply.
“All I meant was, that you’re looking for a job, and I’m the one who’s paying.”

This meeting couldn’t possibly go smoothly. Robber knew it as he arranged it. It

may even end with a dead priest, which was the outcome he was looking
forward to, and he’d do it in front of witnesses there at the bistro and expect an
ovation. Strangely enough, Josiah Kanen was hoping for a dead priest, too. He
just didn’t know Robber was currently sitting across from his prospective target.

“Get this straight, priest.” Robber leaned over the table so he could drop his
voice. His close face and low tone was deliberately menacing. “I’m not a
migrant. I don’t have to beg for work. I like what I do. I’d do it for charity.”
Robber sat back. The priest huffed and swallowed an ice cube with a nervous
gulp of tea. He had to swallow again to encourage the frozen chunk to slide
down. The cold hurt his throat and made his temples ache. He squinted to push
back the pain. Robber was satisfied that the priest’s level of comfort was shaken.
His arrogance needed a few bites taken out of it.

“Let’s try this again,” Robber said. “Tell me what I need to know. If I have other
questions, I’ll ask you. If you open your mouth with anything other than an
answer to my question, there’s a good chance you’ll say something I won’t like.
I won’t stand for sermons or lectures on moral responsibilities. Where will that
get us? Your religion won’t get the job done.”

“Do you think I’d try to tell you this is part of some kind of crusade? What are
you talking about?” the priest spouted.

“Hey, I said I’d ask what I need to know. It wouldn’t be the only crusade I was
on. Anyway, the price has already been negotiated. I see you’ve got the down
payment.” Robber indicated the cash.

Josiah reached for the wad. He instantly forgot the affronts and everything else
Robber had told him. The killer’s thinking was distorted and he was probably
insane. To do the things he did for money, he would have to be a regular
psychopath. In any case, the end to Josiah’s desperation was within reach in a
few moments and the excitement made him giddy.

“Does that mean you’re going to do it?”

The priest was grounded again when Robber waved him to put the money away.
Josiah was hoping to ask for something else. If this piece of business were
concluded, he’d talk some more. He had emergency money available. It wasn’t
in his possession, but Josiah had planned to funnel it from the petty expenses to
conduct a certain funeral for which he’d soon be responsible. Josiah slouched.

“Who is this priest, Benedict Ishkott?” Robber asked. “The name sounds
familiar.”

“You want to know how I know him?”

“No. I want to know who he is. I recognize the name. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t care
less.”
“He’s from Gomorrah, but he was never at any parish for long. He’s just a leech,
a real cock.”

“That’s quite an animal, when you put those two together. I bet he fits right in at
that zoo of yours,” Robber quipped. “He’s alone?”

“Yes. At his parish in the slum.”

“Where? Be specific.”

“St. Erasmus. L99 and F66. It was an old barrack, made of red brick.”

Robber softly chanted the address aloud. He asked the priest to confirm it before
committing it to memory. The address was all he needed.

“That’s not too far from here, right?” Robber queried.

“Regrettably so. Too close for comfort,” the priest commented.

“What about the neighborhood? Don’t they visit and tithe like good little
lambs?”

A long silence swelled between the question and Josiah’s reply. The priest wasn’t
quite sure how to respond. The lowbrow sarcasm was difficult to forgive. Josiah
decided to ignore the part he didn’t like.

“No. The church needs to be refurbished. There was another priest murdered
inside.”

“One would think the clergy were dropping like flies after this. You aren’t
establishing a pattern, are you?” Robber hinted, sarcastically.

“I didn’t have anything to do with the first one. If we weren’t inside the Wall, I’d
think it was heathens.”

“I bet you would. As if they didn’t have bigger plans.”

“What are you saying?” Josiah asked. He knew he wasn’t making friends.
Neither man wanted that, but Josiah felt he was allowed to make some rules of
his own for the sake of being polite. If he was going to have to tolerate
disparages about the Church, he’d like them to be clear.

“You think I know something?” Robber stared at the priest, looking for
suspicion. Discerning the nature of the question was impossible over talk of
murder. “Why don’t you ask the military?”

Josiah wasn’t going to bicker over something that was best assumed to be a
misunderstanding. “I just want to solve my own problem.”

“And that’s the only reason we’re here, two men with business. Not a priest. Not
a, what you might call, independent contractor. Just a deal.”

“If you say so. I think that’s a good way to put it.”

Robber’s thinking was becoming slanted. The priest’s garb perturbed him. If he
pulled out one of those tacky key chains with a cross, Robber would jump on the
table and finish the priest for the sake of the heathen cause and good taste. He
reached at finding a mechanism for control and fell back on the concept of
business.

“Give me the money,” Robber said. “If you talk to Judah, tell him I was right by
you. Downright civil.”

Josiah pulled the wad out of his jacket pocket. The priest’s red cheeks flared like
beacons. He started to coo like an idiot. Robber reached over to take the money
and slap the priest’s wrinkled forehead, before catching a glimpse of a blue blur
across the street. It flashed between the storefronts where he himself had been
leaning a few minutes ago. The cash brushed against Robber’s aimless palm and
brought his attention back to the transaction. He took the money and quickly
deposited it into his only empty pocket. To stash it, Robber had to rock back and
stretch his leg out from beneath the table. As he did, he saw the blue again.

A workman had come out of one of the shops. His skin was as thick and dark as
oiled leather. He was a small man, the same one from Robber’s dream. For a
second, Robber thought he was hallucinating, but the apparition was really there,
and he was shopping. A paper bag knocked against the man’s blue slacks as he
strolled away. Robber didn’t know how to react. The scene was surreal. Still, the
gall of this stranger to threaten him in his dreams before tripping into the real
world to buy a new suit was infuriating. Robber started to get up to follow. The
priest snatched Robber’s forearm, stopping him from leaving.
“Wait,” Josiah begged, rubbing his stung head. He was so stunned with
expectation, he didn’t realize he’d been struck. “I was hoping there was
something else you could do for me.”

Robber tore his arm from the priest’s feeble grasp. It felt like a rodent
scrambling up his limb. The fierce reaction was reflex to shake it off. When
Robber realized the priest had touched him, he ground his teeth and scowled.
Robber stood and looked down on Josiah. The man from Robber’s dream was
fading away.

“I don’t have anyone here and I can’t go back to Gomorrah,” the priest rushed. “I
was wondering if you had any meth you could sell me.”

Robber fell stone silent. At first he was astonished the priest would ask him for
drugs. The assumption was depraved. His hand drifted into the pocket with his
garrote.

“Or if you know somebody.”

That somebody whom Robber knew was Judah Batheirre, but the priest knew
him too, and better than most. Robber didn’t mingle with pushers or users, other
than taking work from Judah. They weren’t his class of people. The scavenging
and desperation disgusted him. Addicts were the worst; they were the real two-
legged leeches. They latched onto the closest unsuspecting warm body and stole
life. There was no art or skill in any of it. They were lazy thieves and
opportunists. Family was the easiest mark. The reason behind the priest’s request
was suddenly evident. His flushed cheeks and the jacket betrayed his habit, once
one knew what to observe.

The Batheirre family lived in Gomorrah. They controlled it. If anyone decided
who was allowed to come and go, it was them. What Robber had heard was true.
The family wouldn’t tolerate a member of their clan using their own product. It
wasn’t good for business. Even if supply was unlimited, the image was
catastrophic to underground and legitimate dealings alike. The priest was lucky
if he was not already disowned. His practical use in the Church was likely his
salvation, but that wouldn’t help him today.

“Don’t touch me,” Robber growled. He brushed the sleeve of his shirt. He could
still feel the priest’s hand clamped around his wrist. Robber imagined he
contracted a fast rotting disease, gnawing at his skin.
“I don’t deal trash, and I don’t deal with it,” Robber proclaimed. Time was
wasting and he needed his composure to successfully trail the workman. “That’s
why you want the priest dead, isn’t it? Things aren’t going your way? Bad deal?
Are all you priests aped every day, except the Sabbath?”

Josiah sat with his mouth quivering open. He had heard the same revolt from
Judah and still had no reply. All he wanted was to get past this piece of dirty
work and put off the agonizing days when he would need to quit the drug.
Eventually the pain would come. The loss of chemical joy, ruin, or an exploded
heart were the final ends. Josiah wanted security. If he couldn’t have it from
Judah, he would be driven to deeper devotion in the Church. He just wanted to
stave off that day until he was ready.

Robber was angered over being distracted from his chase. If this meeting weren’t
wrapped up soon, he would lose the dream interloper. The man was no longer in
sight, and there were no obvious shops of interest along the man’s path. It wasn’t
likely he was inside any of them, yet he did pop into places where he didn’t fit.
Robber was about to leave when another thought occurred to him.

“You better have the rest of my money.”

“Oh, I do.” Josiah unfolded the paper napkin that had arrived with the tea. He
dragged it over his face. Josiah was relieved he could offer assurance instead of
empty excuses and justification for his addiction. He may not be getting any
drugs, but a problem they caused was going away. “Are we going to meet again?
I’ll bring it then.”

“I’ll be in touch when I’m ready to collect. Don’t be so eager. You won’t see me
until I’m done. Before then, you’ll have gotten the news. Listen to the radio.”

Robber glanced in the opposite direction where he had last spotted the workman.
Robber ruled out the minute possibility that the man had escaped being tracked.
The only place he could have gone was forward. Robber walked away without
another word. Disbelief that the meeting had taken place drifted in, but the bulge
of cash in his pocket was a solid anchor in reality. The best way to think of the
deal was as a truce for the sake of business. To make a living in this world,
allowances were required. Beliefs and principles still applied, they were only
shifted. A priest was going to die.

The pace of Robber’s walk quickened once he cleared the bistro. He followed
the steps of the workman. Soon he reached the place where the man had been
when Robber became distracted and lost him. He cupped his hands against the
window of the shop before him and took a long look inside. The shop was a
woman’s clothing store and Robber felt a little ashamed with his overt ogling
when the female clerks and customers stopped what they were doing and gazed
back. This would be the last place his pursuit would reasonably lead him. So it
was appropriate that the shop was the first place he checked. The workman
wasn’t inside. Robber raised his hand in apology to the ladies.

Robber moved from one shop, to the next. He jogged and sidestepped down the
block, spending only enough time at each window to confirm he needed to move
on. Once Robber reached the stranger, he didn’t know what he would do. If the
dream was a sign, he would find out then and there what it meant. He never liked
puzzles, but he did not dismiss omens lightly. If the future offered a clue to what
lay ahead, he would happily take it, especially if the message was as personal as
his dream had been. The irony didn’t escape him. When he left his apartment, he
was too willing to forget all about the vision. Now he chased it down the block,
peeking through windows as he went.

The streets began to fill. The lunch hour scramble came late, and rushed to make
up for lost time. The bees were loose and buzzing. Robber didn’t know if that
would help or hinder him. He became convinced, without luck, he’d have to give
up. Tracking across the concrete paths of a city was impossible. Being a scout
had never been a part of Robber’s forte to begin with; the only way to pursue
someone in a city was to tail him or her. If the line of sight was broken, the target
could easily disappear for good, and this was starting to look like the case.
Robber stopped at the intersection at the end of the block, peering in all four
directions. Tall trucks prevented him from seeing more than a few blocks. The
workman was gone.

The man had become a phantom; he could have been no more solid than the
apparition in Robber’s dream the first instant he saw the man on the street. He
could have materialized in Robber’s waking life, because he had so easily
disregarded it. The act of touting a bag when the phantom appeared, had been a
little subconscious addition to help it stick to the physical world. As visions
went, it was useless to go running after it. Like smoke, the more the air was
stirred about, the more diffuse it became. Soon it would vanish entirely. So if
there had been a message, what could it be? It could be a warning. Bleeding
profusely from one’s neck had some definite interpretations. As the act had been
something Robber had exercised on others, and very recently, the image had
become a firm fixture in his visual library. No matter how deeply he studied it, it
meant only death, an abrupt and messy end. The troubling part about that was
the possible prediction of his undoing. It may have been a warning of retribution
for so

mething he had done or something he was going to do. Messages arriving after
the fact seemed unlikely and futile. Regardless, whatever would come, was in
the future.

Robber needed to make a decision. The remainder of the day could be spent
fruitlessly looking for a living, breathing stranger, or Robber could make his way
through traffic back to his apartment. There he’d collect his thoughts and weigh
the killing that he was undertaking for a priest. Granted, the man he saw bore a
striking resemblance to the figure in his dream, right down to the common blue
work clothes. The power of that happenstance was nearly impossible to ignore.
There were plenty of open doors someone could duck into at the beginning of an
afternoon. If Robber continued his hunt, he’d have to resume it as soon as
possible. He picked the direction that seemed the most logical to easily slip
away.
14 Sabbath Eve
The trip downtown to military headquarters wasn’t as frustrating as it normally
would have been on any other day. Mark and Margot were fortunate. A few early
morning jams had converted the freeway’s emergency lane into a condoned
additional traffic route, at least until sharp debris caused the predictable flat tires
and blocked the alternative route. Drivers took their chances circumventing the
usual flow.

When accidents occurred, the shrapnel was usually brushed to the sides. An
occasional sweeper and winter rain would eventually carry it to the gutter and
down the ramps, where the piles were easier and safer to remove. In the
meantime, it glittered and threatened passing motorists. Colorful, misshapen, and
malicious ornaments were an established decoration on the freeway. The most
hazardous were the small metal pieces that caught in tire treads and were carried
back onto the road. They would twist and push through the rubber skin of tires.
One screw could claim victim after victim. When the tire blew, the spinning rim
shredded the flat and threw the screw back onto the road to reset its trap. The
tire’s strewn remains curled in on itself like the carcass of an animal racked with
a pain, following the creature into death. Big chunks of flesh were torn from its
body by claws disinterested in the meat. The lost fat and paws were a sacrifice to
a sadistic freeway. There was so much man-made road kill.

Mark was wise. He’d rather tolerate the frequent starts and stops, than chance
changing a flat tire during rush hour. The slow moving official lanes were safest.
Once the two reporters reached military headquarters, Mark asked Margot to
stay in the car. Margot didn’t have to ask why. She had already convinced herself
that Mark was going to see his contact and other lover. Walking in with another
woman might complicate the situation, even if Margot was introduced as a
colleague. No matter how brief or casual the introduction, intuition always
exposed unspoken realities. Insinuating verbal slips and guarded posturing were
dangerously unpredictable. In the end, a friendly exchange could damage trust
and cooperation. At the moment, it was better to continue skirting awkward
suspicions.

Mark did what was necessary to be successful. He had the assets for it, since his
looks and personality disarmed every woman he assailed. What bothered Margot
was the fact that he obviously enjoyed it. Privileges came so easily to him. It
hadn’t mattered so much before she had slept with him. Prior to last night, her
feeling was of general annoyance, a gender-shared distaste of chauvinism.
Margot needed to get over her growing jealousy. She needed to constantly
remind herself that Mark was married, yet a swinger at his core. He was not the
kind of man with whom a relationship of trust was possible. The most he could
offer was a fickle friendship and some risqu� fun.

Now Margot wished she had gone inside; Mark was taking too long. She could
have used the pretense of looking for another story. For appearances, she could
have even waited a minute after the door closed behind Mark before going in. If
he knew she was in the building, he may be inclined to rush. There were plenty
of janitor closets inside for a speedy romp with his contact. Margot could have
made that difficult if Mark knew she was watching. Anything would have been
better than to be left alone with time to think over her expectations, misgivings,
and envy. She needed to be more like him. Regrets and worries seemed to be
pains Mark would never suffer. He lived life without fear of repercussion.
Flaunting and risk-taking were paying off. The way he behaved made her
wonder if he possessed any level judgment at all, good or poor. She wondered
how much of herself she would have to lose to become that way.

After a few more endless minutes, Margot spotted Mark emerging from the
reinforced glass doors of the cinder block building. He was just in time; Margot
was about to go looking for him. Damn the sake of appearances. The momentum
of her mind was making her anxious. Flirting with causing a scene would have
released her pent-up energy. Thankfully Mark didn’t look rumpled; she couldn’t
have handled that in the state she had worked herself into. He carried a pale
green folder and a steaming floral patterned paper cup. They had gained the
assignment and the summary was gathered inside. Margot’s excitement drowned
out all other thoughts and emotions, even the relief she felt when her sour
rumination ended. She leaned over and opened the door for him.

“That’s what I think it is, right?” Margot had to ask to believe. She wasn’t going
to settle for a lower profile substitute.

“You bet,” Mark confirmed. He handed the cup to Margot. It was filled with
black coffee, and an oily curl floated on the liquid’s surface. He cautioned her
that it was hot.“Our story. The big one.”

Margot was impressed with Mark’s thoughtfulness. The lack of caffeine hadn’t
started driving the needle through her forehead. Margot was saved, so she
thanked him.

“What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

Mark smirked at Margot, with the keys already in the ignition.

“Not too long ago I couldn’t get you out of bed, now you’re pushing me
around.”

“You took me to bed, remember?” Margot thought about her remark after it was
loose. She either implied something or was just letting out a puff of steam. She
was still boiling over with fabricated details of Mark meeting his still
anonymous contact. Margot would stop there. They had a goal to reach. Mark
took the comment in a context of his own.

“How could I forget? It was magical.”

“Shut up.” Margot punched Mark’s thick bicep. The blow bounced off
harmlessly, and he only raised his brow. “Let me see the summary.”

Mark handed the folder to Margot. It was thick, stamped, and signed. Additional
stamps with the words “Priority” and “Assigned” were present. Mark’s name
was written twice, once after the standard “Authorized” and again next to the
new “Assigned” stamp. Margot paused as she set the difference of the two
signatures in her mind. She wondered if someone like a proxy could sign out
stories for assignees. That would save quite a bit of running around. The list of
perks of being an established reporter continued to grow. She would ask Mark
later.

The summary had been appended with a second summary sheet recycled from
last night’s story. The top sheet listed the names and ranks of the missing
soldiers. It failed to provide the estimated time of their disappearance. The next
shift had arrived, finding nobody to relieve. The premise was foul play, given the
amount of blood found on the docks. Nothing Mark had told her about the
soldiers had been reported. The information didn’t belong in the summary, but
the frugal sentences amplified the depth of the unreported background. Mark’s
contact at headquarters was someone privy to secrets and minutia. This contact
probably had an office. She and Mark wouldn’t need a closet; a twist of blinds
would provide instant privacy.
The second summary sheet was stapled beneath the first. One of the soldiers had
been found in the water not far from the dock. The listed cause of death was due
to his slit throat and ensuing blood loss. However, the report also included
evisceration and facial mutilation. This was a bit more than what Mark had
conveyed. Margot thought he was withholding details that she wouldn’t want to
hear first thing in the morning. She appreciated that to an extent, but as this was
an important story, she needed all the facts.

“Mark, did you know that the soldier’s organs were removed?”

“You mean his guts were cut out?”

“Grossly.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It doesn’t sound like your connection at headquarters knows everything after
all.” Margot was hoping for a reaction. With luck, Mark would betray some
details about his other lover.

“It’s in the summary, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then we got what we need and a little more.” Mark waited to get on the
freeway ramp. They were going to the docks where they could view the crime
scene and gather the minor details entailing good journalism. The docks weren’t
far from downtown, but as with traveling anywhere in Capital, the trip involved
a great deal of patience.

“Tell me more,” Mark said. “What else is there?”

It didn’t sound like he was going to play along. Margot thumbed between the
two sheets. She scanned them top to bottom, and back up again, looking for
keywords. They were difficult to find. Margot believed the military provided a
special course in summary writing: how to precisely execute spelling mistakes,
sentence fragments, and generally bad grammar. Each skill was refined to create
a confusing and cryptic propaganda template. The source was ripe with double
meaning and missing details. The Church and reporters were left with plenty of
gaps for their imagination to fill in.
“I’ve always hated these things,” Margot commented. She chewed her bottom lip
and folded back the first summary sheet. The page contained nothing of use. She
wished she had heard the embellished news story. Then at least she could have
had some entertainment, since becoming acquainted with the case. “The only
thing you probably didn’t know is the condition of the body, and I already told
you what’s here.”

“Anything on the second soldier? If they found him, it should be noted there.
That would be great. The rest of the story would be left to us.”

“No. There are the photos in the envelope.” Margot closed the folder. She had
the whole trip from headquarters to prepare for the black and white photos of a
scarred dead face, but she would need more time if there was gore.

“Give them to me,” Mark said. “I forgot you don’t like that kind of thing. I can
screen them for you.”

“But you’re driving.” The protest was worthless, since they were crawling along.
Margot had written whole stories driving in traffic like this, and she was able to
eat lunch at the same time. The objection was an attempt to avoid an accidental
glance at the photos. Mark rested his wrists on top of the steering wheel and
pointed out the windshield with strained fingers. He displayed his best mockery
of indignation.

“Oh, all right.” Margot opened the folder again and pulled out the envelope. She
peeked inside just enough to see which side was up. She flipped the envelope
and pulled the pictures out, face down. Mark waited with his hand held out. He
took the photos once Margot had tapped them into a neat pile. They fanned out
in his careless grip and Margot nearly gasped. She turned to watch the other
motorists. The coffee Mark had given her had lost just enough heat to make it
bearable. The taste was less so, but it was caffeine. She would take any source
available at the moment.

Being a passenger allowed her to act like a tourist. Sightseeing was possible any
time Margot was stuck in traffic, but she never looked. No other driver did,
either. Everyone’s attention was focused on springing into the fastest moving
lane or closing a sudden gap so they wouldn’t lose the car they were tailgating. A
showroom of makes and models surrounded her. Margot swore she could count
back all the years of her life just by finding a car built for each one. There were
handsome and beautiful cars.

She had never been very interested in vehicles, as her mindset had been geared
toward what was functional and affordable. But seeing a good-looking car in the
wild planted the seed for a change of heart. No single model had special appeal,
and she didn’t know the names of most cars, either. Both the molded curves and
acute angles fascinated her. If she made it big, she’d have a beautiful car. The
style didn’t matter, but the color did. It would be red, just like her current
economical Mariposa. The hot hue appealed to her. She liked how the sun
reflected in the gloss. It was like divining with fire. Of course, there were also
beaten boxes on wheels. Beautiful and ugly cars shared the common scratches
and dents. Margot’s enthusiasm for a new car sank when she realized that it
would only be a matter of days, or even hours, before it would be marred.
Everything nice was hard to come by, and more difficult to keep.

Margot turned to the people driving. Everyone stared, unmoving, dead ahead.
She doubted that they could even repeat the license plate on the car in front of
them. They probably didn’t see further than the inside of their skulls. Oddly,
every person behind a wheel seemed to have lost something. The look indicated
someone who had searched for a long time and then given up. Maybe they didn’t
know that they had stopped looking. Each day blended into the next. Small tasks
and diversions held dejection at bay. One day, they forgot to pursue the
misplaced “something.” The next day, they didn’t bother to look at all, and soon
unknowingly abandoned lifelong quests. For a chilling moment, Margot thought
she knew what these people had lost, what everyone on the planet discovered
was missing. They had lost their souls and now they sat upright in their coffins.
Margot didn’t want to think about it anymore. One moment, she was
daydreaming of a new car, and the next, she was filled with depressing
philosophy. She shivered, despite the hot coffee.

“The guy is an amateur. He’s sloppy,” Mark said.

“Who?” Margot turned. She made a concerted effort to look Mark directly in the
eyes. His voice brought her back to the present, but she didn’t want to freak
herself out again. “Wait. Don’t show me.”

Mark deftly placed the pictures in his lap. He kept the image right side down.
“The cut on the soldier’s face. It’s all wrong.”
“It’s not a star?”

“Well, a bad one. It looks like something from a kindergarten class.”

“I really doubt that.” Margot was going to have to harden herself for the day. She
was certain the rest of it was going to be filled with equally unpleasant
conversations and images. Margot knew she wanted to be a reporter. The career
was the one thing she had going for her and she had come further than most.
This big break was more than an opportunity; it was a test. She would have to
accept the gauntlet. Missing breakfast was a good turn of events this morning.
“What does it matter? I expect the murderer was in a hurry and it was dark.”

“Yeah. Good points.”

Mark handed the pictures back to Margot. She quickly stacked and slipped them
into their envelope. All the while, she stared straight ahead in case the photos
curled over and the sight petrified her. She slid them back into the folder and
under her seat. Margot stopped looking around once the photos were hidden. She
would spend the rest of the ride looking forward.

“Hey, that’s a smart place for that.” Mark looked pleased for learning a new
trick. “I should have thought of that a long time ago. It’s a pain taking it with
you wherever you go.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Margot agreed. “It’s like a badge. When people see you coming
with a folder like that, they suddenly don’t want to talk to you.”

Mark nodded as if he just learned another new thing. Margot was surprised he
was so successful and hadn’t picked up these little habits of the trade. He was all
good looks and personality, which appeared to be all that his success required.

“I don’t think it was heathens,” Mark declared. “I think it was personal.”

“Really? I don’t think that’s what military radio wants. You can tell that by
looking at those lousy photos?”

“We’ll give them what they want. That’s not going to be a problem. I’m afraid
we might be heading into just another dead end.”

“Mark, I wish you wouldn’t say that. I really need this.”

“I know you do. Believe me. I could use it, too.”

“What about the organs? That sounds like something a heathen would do,
doesn’t it?”

“Or a crazy guy with a grudge,” Mark said casually. “The soldier might have
been cut up really bad. They could have fallen out in the water. His intestines
might be at the bottom of bay feeding the crabs.”

“I would appreciate less colorful conjecture, please.” Margot recalled the story
she wrote on the priest’s murder. “Do you think it could be the same person from
the parish killing? This is someone who is out with his knife, after curfew,
looking for open doors and anyone who happens to be alone.”

“Could be.” Mark licked his lips. A small miracle blessed them when the road
suddenly opened. An accident must have been cleared and they were among the
first few out of the gate. “Except there were two soldiers, behind a fence, and
both were armed. That’s really stupid.”

“So is killing a priest. Insane. Good sense and insanity are rarely roommates.”

“You could be right. So we’ll check it out. Spin it for the military and see if it
matches your story.”

“Sounds like as good a plan as any.”

The two reached the docks within the hour. The gates had recently been opened
and workers were beginning to file in. IDs were checked at the gate, even though
most people waved and called the soldiers at the checkpoint by name. Mark
drove by, scouting for a place to pull over. The streets outside the shipyard were
restricted parking. The docks were a secured place and this was one street where
violations were not tolerated. Tickets and fines were dismissed in lieu of
immediate detainment. He and Margot were forced to walk from a residential
area a few blocks away. Mark made idle conversation. He believed people living
in the neighborhood all worked at the docks. They’d drive the short distance to
fill every nearby parking spot just to punish the people who could afford to live
further away in better parts of Capital. Margot agreed, even though if she
weren’t peeved at her own inconvenience, she would have readily dismissed
Mark’s flippant cynicism. She poured the remainder of her bitter brew on the
ground and left the cup with it.
Upon reaching the gate, Mark attempted to speak with the two guards. Mark
explained that he and Margot were reporters covering the dead soldiers’ story.
He asked if there was anyone he could talk to for details. Neither guard replied,
other than to demand identification. Reporter credentials gained them admission
into the shipyard. A swaying rifle barrel hastened them past the fence. The
motion wasn’t meant to threaten. It was habit.

“I guess we should go to the dock,” Mark decided. “The summary said the
murder was at the waterfront. There should be an officer around there. We can
talk with him.”

They began their trek toward the sea. A wide and straight stretch of blacktop
pointed the way. The yard was bustling. Trucks were being unloaded, inspected
and loaded again. The cargo was piled and scattered in every open space. If a
system existed to separate loads from each other, Margot couldn’t see it. It was
chaos. An armed soldier was present for every truck, as they oversaw the
operation. That made sense. Military personnel had experience with rushing
nonsensical tasks.

“What’s going on?” Margot asked Mark. “Those trucks looked like they were
ready to go.”

“There was a breach,” Mark answered. “I imagine dead and missing soldiers are
cause enough to think anything could have been smuggled in or out.”

“Maybe we should cover the story from that angle,” Margot said. She didn’t
want to go to the crime scene. Now that she was close, she decided she didn’t
need to see the evidence of carnage. The fumigation at St. Erasmus had saved
her the first time when she had believed she was ready.

“That’s not our story.” Mark’s tone became patronizing. “Margot, I have to tell
you…breaking news isn’t going to make you friends at military headquarters.
Those folks like to call the shots.”

Margot’s mouth dropped open. She had heard the same from her friends and
fellow reporters, but didn’t give it credence. They were as inexperienced as she
was. Yet now the same discouragement was coming from someone with
reputation and some success. She was hoping her creativity would land her
recognition, but that would be hamstrung if she couldn’t bring an unassigned
story to military radio. Mark might never have tried. He may have accepted the
rumors as fact and passed them along dutifully. Before she could refute the
claim, they were interrupted.

“Mark Adut,” a gruff voice called, filled with excited surprise. “Mark. Over
here.”

A short, older soldier behind a row of crates jumped up and down. The patch on
his arm identified him as a sergeant. He was about to climb on top of boxes,
when Margot pointed him out to Mark.

“Sergeant Meshonne!” Mark exclaimed.

“I thought you might know him,” Margot said.

“I know why you’re here,” the sergeant shouted. “Come over here. I’ll show you
around.”

“We just got luckier,” Mark whispered to Margot. He took her by the elbow and
hustled her across the blacktop and around the crates. The sound of the sea was
now discernible over the ruckus of trucks and dockhands. Gulls chuckled and
chastised each other, and soft, rolling crashes of waves hinted at the closeness of
the water.

“Why? Who is that?”

“Sergeant Meshonne. He used to lead squads deployed to crime scenes. We go

back to my starting days. I owe him a lot. I think he adopted me as a son and
drinking buddy. Nothing like knowing a sergeant to help you skirt curfew and
find free booze.”

The sergeant met the pair halfway. He grabbed Mark’s hand before Mark had
even raised it. Sergeant Meshonne squeezed Mark’s arm as he shook his hand.
Margot saw Mark wince. She was impressed. The sergeant was nearly a full
head and shoulders shorter, but he must have been forged out of folded steel.

“It’s been a long time,” the sergeant said. “I was hoping you’d turn up
sometime.”

“It’s good to see you, too, John.” Mark shook his fingers once the sergeant had
released his grip. “After you went to the Wall, I didn’t think I’d see you again. I
thought you’d finally give it up and retire.”

“Retire?” the sergeant looked outraged, but Margot couldn’t tell if it was an act.
“That’s why I’m here. I had some overdue leave. The commander told me to
take it or lose it. I said lose it. He said fifteen years without a vacation was too
long. Thank the Mortal God that they needed a hand on the docks. I was going
out of my mind.”

“You didn’t have that hairbrush under your nose the last time I saw you.”

“What, the mustache? I’m not trying to look pretty for you, boy. What do you
think ma’am? I’d appreciate the opinion of a woman, not a pantywaist punk like
this one.”

“He doesn’t get any more charming with a couple beers in him,” Mark
interjected.

“Shut your mouth a minute, will you? I’m trying to make acquaintances.” The
sergeant turned back to Margot. “I’m John Meshonne.”

“Hello, I’m Margot Sebash. The mustache is very distinctive.”

“Damned to the Shur! Now I know I’m getting old.” The sergeant brushed at his
whiskers. “Well, so much for stealing your girlfriend.”

“Margot and I are working together.”

“Sure. You’re here about those soldiers, right?”

“You’ve got us,” Mark said. “Could you help us out?”

“I’d be heading in the other direction if it was anyone but you. Sure, but no
quotes, you understand me?”

“Never, John. You ought to know me better than that.”

“Nothing personal. But you can’t trust a reporter as far as you can throw them,
even though I could toss your scrawny butt halfway across this yard.”

“I’ve put on a few pounds, John. I wouldn’t want you to hurt your back.”
“You know how it is. The censors can make life harder than it needs to be.”

Sergeant Meshonne ushered them on a short walk. The docks were very close,
behind a second row of crates. The trio moved parallel along the water.

“I like being down by the sea,” the sergeant said. “Especially since it’s been so
flaming hot. This job would have been a slice of heaven during the heat wave. I
was at the beach when those giant squids washed up on shore. Did you hear
about that? What a way to start a vacation. The stink was worse than any dead
heathen I ever smelled. As far as I’m concerned, they should have burned them
along with the flies.”

Mark and Margot recalled hearing tidbits about the events at the beach, with
prehistoric squids and a swarm of biting flies. The insects were probably the
same as those at St. Erasmus. The story was the biggest news of the week,
chiefly because it was oddly different from the barrage of military or Church
interests. Neither of them had paid much attention, since it wasn’t a part of their
myopic picture of the current events.

“Those things were huge and strange looking,” the sergeant continued.
“Tentacles ran up and down the body. I couldn’t count them in that tangled mess.
I didn’t want to hang around long enough to sort it out. What got me were the
teeth. They could have been spines, but they looked like shark teeth to me. At
one side, I couldn’t tell top from bottom, there were row after row of them. Hey,
if your story won’t have anything to do with heathens, you should squeeze those
things in. That would be something worth listening to. You can say these guys
were yanked off the dock by these things. Eaten alive. What do you think about
that?”

“I think we better stick to the heathen angle,” Mark said. “I don’t think big fish
bother carving stars on their dinner. That would be a tough sell.”

“Just leave that part out. Nobody cares anyway. This heathen crap in the Cap has
run its course. I for one can tell you nothing is getting through the Wall.”

“I do what I’m told,” Mark replied. “I’m just working for the military.”

“Aren’t we all? And the Church.” Sergeant Meshonne stopped. He pressed his
knuckles into his hips and hooked his thumbs into the black nylon belt. “Here we
are. This is the spot.”
They stood in a large open area. The clearing was out of place, given the stacks
of crates at either side. The perimeter was wet, as if it had recently been hosed
down. The rank stench of bleach replaced the ubiquitous salt smell of the sea.
Margot had to stop herself from laughing out loud. She was saved again, and the
relief was difficult to hide. Her career may yet survive. She had to learn to let go
and accept life as it was handed to her. A little faith was required; she wasted too
much energy playing ping pong with investigating crime scenes, and now her
more intimate relationship with Mark. There was so much being handed to her,
she had to learn to avoid being overwhelmed.

“The place has already been washed down. I’m sure you saw the photos.”
Sergeant Meshonne stepped into the middle of the soaked perimeter. He pointed
toward the fence across the yard. “But there’s a straight trail through the grass.
You can track it by the blood.”

“Sergeant,” Margot stated. “I heard the victims had some problems. Do you
think they were involved with smuggling or bribes?”

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to do with that kind of information,
but I’m not going to answer that.” The sergeant gave Margot a hardened look.
She glanced up to see the same face drawn on Mark. The point was obvious, but
she didn’t appreciate Mark’s disapproval as well.

“How about we stick to me showing you around?” the sergeant added.

“Thanks, John,” Mark said. “We’d appreciate that. Where was the body found?”

“Not far from the dock. Just out there.” The sergeant pointed opposite from the
path to the fence. “As luck would have it, the body bobbed up like a cork just
when there was somebody to see it. A private caught sight of it as he was
overseeing the cargo being cleared from the area. I don’t know what he was
thinking, looking out at the water instead of paying attention to his duty.
Something stirred the corpse up from the bottom. We fished it out before it could
sink again.”

“Any news on the second soldier?” Mark asked.

“Nope. We had a couple divers in this area. Now there’s a trawler in the harbor.
You can see it out there with the patrol boats.”
“So that’s pretty much it, then. The soldiers had their throats cut. Let’s say they
were outnumbered two to one. Then they were left for the next shift to find.
They were carved and guts cut out.” Mark summarized how the story would go.
He had been hoping the other body would have been found by the time they
arrived, so the fabricated facts could be riveted together. Everyone’s job would
be easier if the original story wasn’t continually appended with new discoveries,
and contradictions didn’t have to be flattened out.

“A little dry, but it will work,” the sergeant said. “The sea monster story would
be better radio.”

“So what happened last night after the second shift informed their superior?”
Mark asked.

“Well, the search of the yard turned up the trail. We found the location where the
killer came down on the other side of the fence. He must have been watching
from somewhere close, to avoid the patrols. Once inside, he had free reign. I’m
surprised those two soldiers even left the guardhouse. They might still be alive if
they didn’t do their job at all, instead of half-ass. Those last few bits are off the
record.”

Mark nodded, and the sergeant continued.

“A search pattern was initiated outside the yard. I suspect the killer got in and
out a lot quicker than what was reported. There was no trace of him.”

“Or he slipped into the home of a sympathizer,” Margot said.

“Now that’s thinking,” the sergeant smiled. His lips stayed hidden beneath the
graying mustache, but the whiskers went askew and soft lines folded into his
cheeks. “Go with this lady’s ideas, Mark. It’ll liven things up.”

“Yeah, that’s good, Margot,” Mark said. “We should use that.”

Margot smiled; she was afraid her earlier question had banished her from the
conversation. She ventured another.

“Are there any civilian witnesses? Someone who saw something out of place or
smelled something fishy?”
“Nope. Nobody knew anything before patrols started knocking on doors and
waking people up. Not a single civilian has come forward. That’s typical.”

“Any thought as to the direction of the escape?” Mark asked.

“The patrol circuit mainly runs northward, but they shake it up. The best guess
would be the killer followed a patrol on foot to the north.”

“What’s to the north?” Margot inquired.

“Private warehouses and a handful of residences. They were secured with the
first pass. A break and entry would have been a dead giveaway to the killer’s
hiding place. He had enough sense to avoid trying that trick.”

“How’s the search in the harbor going? Do you think they’ll find the other
soldier this morning?”

Sergeant Meshonne scratched through the bristles of his crew cut. The hair
stayed up on end when he took his hand away. “Nope. If they haven’t found him
by now, the body’s gone. I believe it’s out there, but we’re not going to find it.”

“Do you remember the priest’s murder not very long ago, at St. Erasmus?”
Margot changed the line of questioning abruptly.

“I sure do,” Sergeant Meshonne answered. “It’s funny you should bring that up. I
was on duty at the Wall when his replacement came in. He was in terrible shape.
The Church had given him up for dead. They thought the heathens had
kidnapped him as he came through the desert. It turned out he had car trouble. A
couple of brothers found him and gave him a ride to the Cap. Probably expecting
a reward. They were a goofy pair. Looking for Drystani. Can you believe that?
They wanted to collect the bounty.”

“That is strange,” Mark agreed. He looked at Margot, waiting for her to

continue.

“Do you think this could be the same killer?” Margot asked.

“I don’t know about that. Anything is possible. Is the Church trying to link the
two incidents?”
“Not right now, but there could be a connection. If they were going to put the
two together, we’d have the jump on the story,” Margot said. She stood at
attention, looking proud.

“Well, aren’t you ambitious,” the sergeant stated. “Mark, you could learn
something about hard work from this one. I can’t help you, Miss. I didn’t follow
that one beyond that radio broadcast.”

“That’ll do, then. I think that is about as much as we’re going to need, Margot,”
Mark said. “Let’s write the draft and get the story back to headquarters.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Margot replied.

“So after this, are you going back to the Wall?” Mark asked, trying to end the
conversation on a less business-like note.

“Yes, sir.”

“Sergeant, when do you think they’ll open that road that runs along the top?”
Margot asked. She was genuinely curious.

“That’s up to the Church, Miss. Personally I’d like to see it stay pristine. Once
it’s open to the public, it’ll be just as overrun as the freeways. A lot of blood
went into that Wall. The lives of Chosen and UnChosen alike were lost to
accidents and terrorist heathens. Do you know how many workers died?”

“I’ve heard the stories,” Mark replied, but he hoped the conversation was not
going to meander into gratuitous detail.

“Dozens,” the sergeant volunteered.

“Thirty-two,” Margot exacted.

“Close enough. One for every year of the Mortal God’s life on Earth. Heathens
claim the deaths were a small measure of god’s vengeance. Can you believe that
shit? Pardon me, ma’am.”

“They’re coming up short. He lived longer than that,” Margot added. She
couldn’t help but smile at the sergeant’s profane slip and subsequent blush.
“I believe you’re right. But then, who’s to really say?”

The awkward time for a friendly goodbye had arrived. The idle silence was a
signal.

“Hey Mark, it was good to see you again,” Sergeant Meshonne said warmly. The
wrinkles in his curved cheeks came back. “If you got the time, you should come
over to my place. You should come, too, Margot. We’ll show you what life is
like after curfew. You’ll have a great time.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Margot replied.

She shook the sergeant’s hand. She clenched her teeth expecting every bone in
her hand to snap in the sergeant’s grip, but he was very gentle. The thick calluses
on his palm and the shanks of his fingers were the only hard part of the clasp.
Margot decided she liked Sergeant Meshonne. Mark was fortunate in many ways
to find this sort of friend. They said their farewells, and Mark and Margot
returned the way they had come. Mark didn’t feel that exploring the bloody trail
was necessary. Military investigators would have scoured any evidence. Margot
agreed, for her own selfish reasons.

They discussed the details of the story during the walk to Mark’s car. He adhered
to the outline that he had provided to Sergeant Meshonne. Mark was probably
right. Give the military news only what they expected. It was a safe and sure
road. Mark surprised Margot with what he said as they pulled away from the
curb and cut a tight u-turn.

“You’re right about a connection. We should have gone back to the church when
we had a chance. When we turn our story in, I’ll talk to some people at
headquarters. I’ll tell them what you think and we’ll be at the front of the line, if
they bite. I think it is a serial killer. The pieces fit.”

Margot blushed. The warmth started in her bosom and spread upward until it
radiated from her cheeks.

“See what you get when you listen to your wiser friends?”

“I don’t think wise is a word I’d used to describe Sergeant John Meshonne. After
all, he’s more interested in spreading stories about monsters.”
“Just the same, I liked him.” Margot couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Her
warm feeling made her bold; there was something she wanted Mark to do.
“Mark, stay with me tonight.”

Mark clicked his tongue and squinted. He knew it wasn’t the smart thing to do.
His wife would be furious, but that was what he wanted. Margot would be in a
voraciously amorous mood. That was obvious, just by looking at her. He wanted
that, too. Tomorrow was the Sabbath, and no work was possible then, anyway.
The chance meeting with John Meshonne could be a handy excuse, so spending
the night with Margot sounded feasible.

“When are your friends coming over?” Mark remembered Margot’s weekly get-
togethers. He didn’t want to be caught lying in her bed, when a bunch of old
school buddies came to visit. He might even know a couple. Remaining coy was
essential to his image.

“I can cancel. They can meet at someone else’s place. So is that a yes?”

Mark’s face relaxed. A devilish grin spread, revealing his perfect teeth. “That’s a
yes.”

Margot squealed and tried to jump into Mark’s lap. The center console barred
her way. The jolt bruised her hip, but didn’t damage her enthusiasm. She leaned
over and kissed him hard on his lips. Mark swerved and recovered. They were
going to have fun tonight.
15 Blind Wanderer
The afternoon had faded away, but Ben hadn’t noticed. He was engrossed with
sawing bars from windows. He had completely removed the bars from two
adjacent windows, which lay in the breezeway where they fell. He had left the
cracked pew outside. It proved solid enough. The wood split again as Ben
shimmied up the leaning pew, but it held him. Ben would need it again as he
made progress on a third window. He was pleased with his work. He spent a few
minutes resting and admiring the unobstructed view of a plain block wall. The
view wasn’t the inspiring part; it was the unguarded opening. A man could climb
out without having to contort sideways through an impossible angle. The lack of
bars made Ben feel secure. He committed himself to finishing the monotonous
task. All the windows would be open when he was done.

The sound of knocking on the front doors interrupted him. The outside soft rap
rose to an echoing thunder inside the quiet nave. Ben reluctantly put down the
hacksaw and unlatched the front doors. He had an idea who it was. Tamara had
come to take Davey home. Ben had lost track of the whereabouts of Hen and
Davey. He hoped they hadn’t slipped out altogether, leaving Tamara here to wait
for them. She was already listing all the mundane details of her day, from the
discourteous drivers as she crossed the streets, to the one perpetually dusty shelf
she would never reach. Ben called out for Hen with a low voice that reverberated
through the church. This summons was like the crack of a whip. The call was
answered by pounding on stairs, like a pair of bowling bowls rolling down steps.
Despite the volume, it still sounded like a single person making the racket.
Davey appeared alone, with long black feathers jutted back from behind each
round, tiny ear. Tamara gasped.

“Oh, Davey! Not those feathers!” She yanked them out as soon as her son was
close enough. They sank straight to the floor as if pulled by a magnet. She turned
Davey’s face left, then right, as she checked behind his ears. She then examined
her own hands. They were clean. The old woman was looking for blood, but Ben
imagined she was also distressed over vile invisible contamination. She feared
her son was exposed to the same malevolent germs as those on that dusty top
shelf. Davey whined the whole time, but submitted without a struggle.

“You can get into so much trouble,” she scolded.

“Where’s Hen?” Ben asked the boy.

“In bed. He’s not sleeping. He’s just tired. Like you get mama.” Davey was still
full of energy. He jogged in place as he talked to his mother. “I’m hungry. We ate
beans.”

“Is that all?” Tamara asked. She looked disappointed.

Ben shrugged. He couldn’t recall what they had eaten that day. He wasn’t
interested in remembering and he wasn’t hungry, so the detail was unimportant.
What he ate later, if he felt like eating, wouldn’t matter either. Tamara
commented on having a tuna sandwich and a green salad for lunch. According to
her, that was a proper meal. Ben asked if Davey wanted whatever she had eaten,
and the boy said he would. He jumped up and down in place to amplify his
affirmation. Ben suggested that the woman take her son home and feed him.
Davey’s head rocked back and forth as if he was being shaken. Even though the
hint was obvious and plainly rude, Tamara missed it. She took Davey home only
because it was the lone thing she came to do, the last errand of her tiring day.
She rushed to get home before curfew. Ben would at least be spared her insipid
parade of small talk.

As soon as Tamara and Davey were gone, Ben picked up the saw and found the
unfinished bar. The rhythm of the saw created a numbing hum within the church
but it wasn’t long before he was interrupted again. This time the interruption was
a voice that had been missing for the past day and a half.

“If you’re staging an escape from jail, you should at least check the front door
first. It’s wide open.”

Ben set the saw down on the windowsill again and turned around. Dil stood in
the entranceway. One of the double doors was completely open; Tamara hadn’t
closed it when she left. Ben could only blame himself for not returning to throw
the latch shut. Dil was leaning unsteadily against the closed door. He wore new
clothes, replacing the old work outfit. This new ensemble consisted of black
slacks and a white long sleeve shirt, which bore a collar. The new shoes were
leather, with factory black polish. Dil raised his arms outward. He looked like he
could balance as long as he didn’t move.

“I liked your look. So I got new rags for myself.”

This was Dil’s shape, but the voice was the one from the desert. Ben stood his
ground. He was discouraged, hearing it again.

“Where have you been?” Ben asked.

Dil smiled and tapped his forehead with a stiff middle finger, causing himself to
stumble backward. Ben could almost hear the thumping against Dil’s skull; he
began to stagger toward Ben. “Sightseeing,” he said. “Visiting some people we
really don’t want to know. I’m busted. I need more money. Did you cash that
check?”

Before Dil came close, Ben could smell the grape and alcohol signature from the
cheap wine that the brothers liked. Dil’s exhalation was potent, almost
poisonous. He stopped and struck a lopsided pose. Before anything else was
said, the sound of pounding on the stairs in the back reverberated again. Hen had
caught the sound of his older brother’s voice. Hen’s weariness was miraculously
shaken off and he appeared in the hallway at the back, breathing heavily. He lost
some of his enthusiasm to see his brother upon realizing Dil was drunk. Seeing
his brother at least relieved Hen of his worry. Except for the voice inside Dil’s
form, Ben felt some normalcy was restored. Whatever came next, at least the
Cortras brothers had each other. Ben would be left to his own devices, and he
wanted it that way.

“I’m happy to see ya’, Dil,” Hen said, shuffling nervously. “I like your clothes.”

“Thank you. It was about time we became metropolitan. I think we should start
looking the part,” Dil said. “Why don’t you go out and find yourself a new
image?”

“Yeah, sure,” Hen agreed. He didn’t know what his brother meant. He liked the
simple clothes he wore. The rolled cuffs of his pants created his personal style.

“You have any more money?”

“Ben didn’t cash the check,” Hen replied. “I guess we were waiting for you.”

“No concern. We’ll have something to do tomorrow, as a family.” Dil pointed at

Hen and winked. “I believe I need to sit down. I’ve been on my feet since
yesterday.”
The pew which Dil collapsed into rocked and almost toppled backwards. Dil
didn’t notice. He only cared about resting his exhausted and inebriated body.

“What have you been doing, Dil?” Hen asked cautiously. He sat down in the pew
in front of his brother, just out of arm’s reach. Ben joined them, but didn’t sit
down. He had been kneeling and squatting all day, and didn’t feel comfortable
sitting at the moment.

“I brought you the saw and refreshments. I see you’ve been busy with one. I’d
be disappointed if you haven’t used the other. That is some incredible wine.”

“If you say so,” Hen said.

“That’s a trip of a few blocks,” Ben challenged. “You said you were visiting
people.”

“But we don’t know anyone in the Cap.” Hen’s comment was intended to defend
his brother.

“That’s right,” Dil replied. “The exception being our neighbors. What have you
been doing, Hen? What have you been up to with that boy?”

“Davey?” Hen asked, not expecting an answer. “That’s his name. His mother
didn’t have anyone to watch him. So I did. While you were away.”

“It looks like you’ve made a close friend. You think that’s a good idea?”

“Davey’s a good kid. I like him. And he likes me too. He’s harmless. I tried to
teach him how to play cards. He kept showing me his hand. He’s not very good
at the game.”

Dil laughed. The sound came from deep inside his belly, not from the usual place
in his throat. “Because he’s retarded.”

“No, he’s not,” Hen vehemently retorted. “He’s just a kid. He’s just a little slow.
You know what he said today? He said rich people should marry poor people,
tall people should marry short people, and fat people should marry skinny
people. That shows he’s thinking.”

“That’s just inane,” Dil judged. “Keep him around if it makes you happy. It
makes no difference to me. Just keep an eye on him and his mother. Let’s say we
make a point to have no more unexpected visitors.”

Ben had heard enough. There was something of Dil in his speech; the two
personalities must have agreed to share the same head simultaneously. He
wondered if the alcohol had anything to do with the phenomenon, but he didn’t
think so. Ben had witnessed Dil drinking when the voice was still over Ben’s
own left shoulder. He didn’t care, as long as the voice wasn’t following him
around, disembodied, testing his sanity. Whatever the arrangement was, the
voice had taken Dil somewhere. The new clothes and wine suggested that the
trip entailed a little corporeal hedonism.

However, there was someone they had seen on business that did not relate to the
Cortras brothers. Now the voice issued a warning for caution, but Ben didn’t
need to be told. The feeling was mutual. He hurried to lock the front doors. The
streets outside were filling with long shadows as the orange orb of the sun
dropped behind the western buildings. The skies were becoming overcast, but
they glowed rich pink in the sunset. The streetlights hadn’t flickered on yet, but
night seemed to be coming early for a summer day. Ben had lost track of time as
he worked, and consequently meditated. He felt strangely calm, compared to his
earlier determination to make back-up plans today. The urgency and need had
receded; the feeling that he belonged at the church grew intense once more.

Ben shut the door, locked it, and turned around. It was dark inside. Ben hadn’t
noticed before. His face had been turned toward an open window during the
hours that the shadows crept in. He didn’t see Dil. Hen was still sitting in the
pew he’d selected and gazing down at the spot where his brother had been. A
protracted snore vibrated the windows; it seemed too exaggerated to be genuine.

Dil had strewn himself across the pew. He had tipped over and slumbered where
he fell. Hen suggested that they take his brother upstairs. Ben rejected the idea;
he wasn’t going to endure that ordeal again. The pew was going to be fine for
tonight. Hen hooked his brother’s pant legs with his finger and hoisted Dil’s legs
up so he could lay flat. Hen was glad his brother was back. Hen wasn’t going to
lose Dil again. Hen slept in the pew next to Dil to keep tabs on him. There
wasn’t going to be any more wandering off without him knowing about it.
16 Sorrowful Birth
The night was long and desperate. It arrived earlier than she wanted. Sarah knew.
She had been watching the wall clock in the kitchen of the home she shared with
her husband, although it was questionable whether she was sharing the home, or
anything at all, with the man she married. Last night, Sarah re-enacted every
minute of the night before last. She sat on the same hard metal chair as before.
She kept her hands folded in her lap and her ankles crossed beneath her, exactly
as her previous posture had been twenty-four hours ago. Anyone observing the
pose before and visiting again would swear nothing had changed. Not a muscle
moved and each hair was in place. Every wrinkle of her sheer pink robe and
silken nightgown beneath it, was undisturbed. Sarah made herself into a bereft
living statue.

Even the scene around her had frozen in time. The napkins on the table were
folded and placed back into their machined wooden holders. The woven reed
place mats were carefully arranged to lie parallel and close to the table’s edge.
This was an artifice. Sarah refined the arrangement on the table dozens of time
to guarantee everything was perfectly in their customary places. When she was
satisfied, she returned to her rigid state. Too soon, the churning of confused
emotions inside her would well up. She would then rearrange and restore the
tabletop yet again, back to the way things were two days ago.

Crying was impossible. As much as Sarah wanted to spill the torrent of shame
and disgrace, she couldn’t find her way to that relief. All the passages out had
been sealed up a long time ago. Back then, the flow couldn’t be stopped. She
fought an endless battle to build a wall, defend it, and seal the ruptures. Now she
needed to cry for the preservation of her sanity.

The late hour, long after curfew, when her husband had previously returned, had
come and passed. She knew Mark wasn’t going to be home. He wouldn’t even
phone. She wasn’t worried for his safety; he was always fine. There was always
only one reason why he wasn’t home, and the same reason he didn’t call. He no
longer attempted to make excuses. The lies had become too frequent and
ridiculous to be believed. Now there was only silence.

The most terrible days of her life had returned. Those unforgotten days
embodied fear and lament. Sarah supposed they had never really gone. They
only waited for the moment when the devastation would be most severe. The
timing could have been worse. Those lingering demons could have sprung on
Sarah when she or someone in her family fell ill. A future misfortune when she
needed the semblance of a man in her life would have been the expected hour;
but these demons turned out to be impatient. They couldn’t hold back from
tormenting her again. When the torture arrived, that very hour became the worst
time imaginable to be revisited.

The demons beset her with horrible possibilities. Her marriage could completely
fall apart and she could lose her handsome husband. She could lose her
wonderful home. Owning an actual house in Capital was usually possible only
for the wealthy or highly privileged, such as members of the Church or officers
in the military. Luck had provided her and her husband with a rare and modern
two-story, two-bath home on a small lot. Sarah agonized most of all over the
thought of never having had a child. It was the one thing she wanted most dearly
in her life. She couldn’t allow these anguishes to cripple her; her marriage and
her house remained. The future could still bring a baby.

Just before dawn, Sarah went to the perpetual darkness of her bedroom to
continue her sullen mood. She didn’t expect to sleep. Much like a good cry, she
also wanted that escape, but her restless mind would deny her. Sarah had
suffered these nights before. At the same time, her thoughts robbed her of will
and strength; if she didn’t lie down, she would collapse. Her brooding would
continue relentlessly on the floor where she fell. Having been there before, she
knew she had to stay in the big, empty bed. This was not the future intended for
her - it couldn’t be. Everything had been in place. The life she wanted was to
have started the day she graduated from school; that much was destined.

Sarah remained young. She still possessed all her gifted beauty which she had
since she met Mark and fell in love. She was tall, almost as tall as her husband.
She was buxom, but not in the unappealing sense of a gently expressed
euphemism. Sarah had a wonderful shape, with a generous bosom and a slender
waist that a man could nearly wrap both hands around. She knew how desirable
she was. The baby hadn’t even marred her body. She was ageless, caught in
time. Her long brunette hair would ward off the graying of age. Her almond-
shaped green eyes sparkled even when she was unhappy.

Sadness seemed to be a constant state now. Mark had bumbled out that he
believed she was the sexiest woman alive, the first time he had spoken to her. Of
course, that was far from the first time she had heard that. If she didn’t already
know the impact she had on men, she would have been offended right then. Yet
she was aware that when men were struck, they could think of little else to say. If
she couldn’t forgive them for something she obviously caused, she would have
never held a conversation with the opposite sex.

When she met Mark, it was her turn to be dumbstruck. She held the same
shallow, yet overpowering, attraction for him. When he approached, she became
speechless. The man was gorgeous. His blond hair held the sun captive. Each
strand glowed, spreading a halo around his handsome face. Mark’s shoulders
were so thick and wide, Sarah couldn’t see around him if he stood close. This
man would surround her in his embrace and she could never escape once she
was seized in his long, strong arms. It took every bit of her demure dignity to
stop herself from diving straight into him. Everything she had ever wanted was
nothing compared to the desire for the man who stood before her on the college
lawn between lecture halls that day.

The fantastic moment of their first encounter would remain in her memory
forever. What followed a clumsy introduction was lost. The brightness of that
glorious initial minute washed out everything immediately before and after. It
wasn’t long before she did find herself in his arms. A short time after that, they
were in his bed. When they made love, she realized a lifetime of waiting. The
hectic pace of school, family, and friends had masked it. Yet when he entered
her, she knew her entire life up until then had been wasted time. Too much of it
had already been lived without him. They were perfect for each other. The
Mortal God would not dare forsake their meeting. He was bound to deliver Mark
to her as a husband, the only husband she would take until death.

Mark was majored in journalism; he was going to be a reporter. An adolescent

fascination with terrorist activity during his grandfather’s life before the Wall
was built, had persisted since he was a boy. By professional accounts, that
morbid interest following Mark into adulthood was a dangerous sign of a
festering psychosis. The fact that he was so enthralled as a child should have
prompted a few sessions with a therapist; but it was his grandfather, the wealthy
patriarch of the family, who exposed and encouraged the boy. If his grandson
appreciated spending quality time with an old man, no amount of protest would
have changed things. What he said was how it would be; no questions allowed.

Listening to Mark repeat the terrible stories of rape and torture that his
grandfather passed on to him, was torturous itself. When Mark and Sarah
gathered with friends and family, there was inevitably some reason to tell the
dozens of stories again and again. Sarah had heard them hundreds of times. She
knew someone was always permanently disfigured or lost their lives in each
story, but she could never remember the details. She didn’t care to learn them.
Her dreams would have remained docile and happy, if she had never heard of the
past atrocities, whether they were real or imagined.

Eventually she learned to leave the room when signs of a story materialized. The
conversation would turn into a spar of macho one-up-man-ship. That’s when
Mark would open his war chest. Sarah was always careful to solicit those whom
she knew would be offended, to accompany her. Her mother and her closest
girlfriend were typically a couple of those people. The small group of women
huddled in the kitchen until the stories were finished. Sarah knew the length of
the telling well enough to guess the timing of their conclusion. If she heard a
gasp or revolted grunt along the way back to the room where Mark was holding
audience, she turned back around. Her sensitive charges herded together into the
kitchen once more. The coast would be clear a few minutes later.

Marrying a reporter was never a wise decision. The chances of gaining a genuine
career, writing for military news, were slim to unrealistic. The pay was
impossible to live on, and unreliable. Sarah was once interested in becoming a
reporter, but decided against it when common sense and hindering pressure from
her family prevailed. The fact that Mark pursued her own secret dream was
another attraction that lured her. That life could still be lived vicariously through
him. To continue with the financial assistance from her parents, Sarah settled on
a practical skill. She finished her accounting courses with less than impressive,
but still passing scores. If it was necessary, she could support Mark as he
struggled to make a name for himself. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to
make a life together possible. She expected he would soon abandon the elusive
calling and find something more rewarding to do with his life, their life. In the
meantime, she would encourage him. The dream made them both happy.

As it turned out, Mark didn’t need her help. His wealthy grandfather was
extraordinarily generous. Years spent captivated by horrible stories had paid off.
The old man’s money was a godsend when Sarah became pregnant. Up until
then, Mark had hidden his resources well. She supposed he was afraid of being
taken advantage of, and his family probably warned him not to flaunt his wealth.
In any case, no one would have guessed. One would have believed Mark got by
on his handsome looks alone, which would not have been an unreasonable
assumption.

The baby revealed the truth. The pregnancy sealed Mark and Sarah’s future
together; the road ahead had been paved for their love. Mark could begin writing
and Sarah would start their family while they were still young. The typical worry
as to how both were possible, was lifted. There was no question. Money had
solved the problem and Sarah felt as if she had been graced.

When Sarah glanced around her classes at school, she realized accounting was
not for her. She didn’t fit the part. Physically she was very different from her
classmates. Everyone else was the sore thumb. Their pudgy bodies, and careless
and unflattering choice of clothing, made her a mythical visage of perfection.
Her classmates were so awed of her, that no one other than the instructor, spoke
to her. She couldn’t imagine being shackled to a desk, surrounded by these
trollish and silent figures for the rest of her professional life. Sarah imagined
herself better than this loutish breed. They could have all been UnChosen, as
much as she cared. The feeling of superiority was uncomfortable. She didn’t like
the person whom these people had turned her into. Fate didn’t need to offer her
any more clues.

At the time, Sarah didn’t know what else there was for her. Her general interest
classes were generally uninteresting and she was merely mediocre in all of them.
She chose accounting almost randomly. It was among the first of the classes
listed in the coursework pamphlet; after that was art. Even if she had any talent
in drawing, she had no wish to work in a factory where painters and sculptors
churned out icons for the Church and trinkets for the religious. That kind of
constant shift work didn’t sound appealing. There was no freedom in it. For
some inescapable reason, she didn’t apply the same thinking when she continued
signing up for the accounting classes that were required to finish her degree.
Sarah remembered that every time she opened the pamphlet, she grew so
exhausted after reviewing the first few pages, she just couldn’t continue. The
most time she ever spent flipping through its pages, was when she was hunting
down the prerequisite classes. The contents of the last few pages were forever a
mystery that she had no desire to discover.

In the happy ending, she didn’t need to pursue certification. She never had to
humble herself and beg her way into the crowded workforce of Capital, although
Sarah didn’t expect she would have had much difficulty. She was not without her
charms. As soon as she and Mark graduated, they were married. They would
have married even sooner, if the pressures and preparations of senior year didn’t
take precedence. The circumstances of the marriage weren’t exactly ideal, but it
didn’t matter. Regardless of the timing, she believed that they would have
eventually been married and had children. That was to be Sarah’s future and she
wanted it with all her heart.

The happy ending had come and gone. The real happiness lasted only throughout
the wedding day. After that ended, she found an eternity where she was
powerless and heartache was infinite. Sarah once believed everything started to
sour with the death of their child. That wasn’t entirely true. There were signs of
trouble with their relationship during her pregnancy. She was blind with
expectations, hoping Mark would be as ecstatic as she was, when he learned of
the pregnancy. Despite the impracticalities, their life together would work out. It
always did for the Chosen. If that was not enough, there was prayer. The fact that
Mark belonged to an upper class family was unknown at the time.

When Sarah told Mark that she was going to have his child, he didn’t say
anything. He went cold and pale, and asked what she wanted him to do, and if
she had told her family. She said she had told her family about the child and that
Mark was the father. Sarah wanted to marry and have the child. Mark said that
was what they would do, if that was what she wanted.

For a long time, Sarah believed Mark was content with having done the right
thing. It was amazing what she remembered later. She couldn’t believe that she
hadn’t acknowledged his proposal back when he made it. On the anniversary of
their child’s death, she remembered Mark suggesting they abort the pregnancy -
kill their baby! Their child had already lived and grown inside her for over two
months. Some gnawing and undefined doubt had delayed her telling Mark until
then. She didn’t want to admit it to herself after the first month, but she couldn’t
hide the fact much longer. When she finally confirmed her suspicions, she
embraced the news with joyfulness. Sarah naively believed Mark would feel the
same. She convinced herself he did, but in truth, he hesitated. His grandfather
had arranged the marriage and provided them with a house to raise a family.
Mark’s grandfather was happiest with the news; he wanted a grandchild and now
he would have one.

Once the baby arrived, the poor little boy failed to take his first breath. Mark
wept openly, but he didn’t really want the child. He didn’t care that the boy was
to bear the name of his grandfather. Mark simply didn’t want children. That
became devastatingly obvious in the long months following Sarah’s recovery
from childbirth. Sarah begged for another child. She promised she would be
more careful and this one would live As Mark’s wife, she promised not to
disappoint him.

All these things that Sarah told Mark, she really told herself. She cursed the
Mortal God and doubled her prayers. Mark was so grief-stricken, he bought a
sports car, a brand new Corbeta. He claimed it wouldn’t be prudent to have a
child when they were still paying for the vehicle. They had to start acting like
responsible adults. The young couple couldn’t continue relying on his
grandfather’s money, yet his grandfather provided the money for the down
payment on the vehicle. In one of many ensuing arguments, it was revealed that
the car was an incentive for Mark to stay married and try for another baby.

The anniversary of their child’s death was suddenly upon them. Time moved
slowly while putting distance from the tragedy, and days dragged by endlessly.
Then one morning the dull pain stirred, and spun into a sharp point. Sarah didn’t
need to consult a calendar to realize the significance of the coming day. She
wanted to visit the grave of their son; Mark didn’t. Excuses chiefly revolved
around the terrible traffic. To end a thorny discussion, Mark promised they’d go
the Saturday after the date, but Mark disappeared for that entire weekend.

He returned just after curfew on the Sabbath with a new lambskin cover for his
car. Mark explained that trying to find one had been nearly impossible. No
matter what corner of Capital he had traveled to, he met with disappointment. He
had spent the night before at the home of a friend, a sergeant in the military, so
that they could hook up in the morning with someone the sergeant knew. Not a
word was spoken about missing the visit to the grave, and no excuse was
offered; there would not be an apology and there were no tears. Mark was
jubilant about having bought something for a car.

Sarah couldn’t take any more. She started to sob and couldn’t stop. Her parents
took her home with them, where her tears eventually dried. Sleepless nights
plagued her. They grew numerous when she returned to her home with her
husband. Despite the terrible way he treated her, she still loved him. Mark could
do nothing to change that.

Sarah braved the indignation of her husband’s adultery. She had never met one
of his mistresses, but she knew their spoor. Their smell was constantly on Mark’s
clothes, a vile combination of perfume, sweat, and sex. She found long and short
strands of hair in his car. Most were black, as was the hair of most women of
Capital, but there was the occasional bleached blond, and once a clownish red.
The most infuriating were the phone calls.

It was a rare occasion to have her greeting answered. Most of the time, she’d
hear hushed breathing or the caller would just hang up. Sarah thought she was
being strong. She believed she was defending her home by being attentive, and
confronting Mark with every discovered offense. In reality, she was just
becoming weaker. She grew tired of hopelessly fighting, especially when Mark
continued cheating so effortlessly. Sarah was outclassed.

Eventually she stopped becoming upset. Instead, Sarah sought to remain numb.
She relied on small comforts. She loved her home and wanted to remain a
housewife. She wanted children and Mark may yet provide her with them.
Despite his philandering, he still had an occasional appetite for her. One night
the timing would be right. Mark coming home every night was the thing she held
on to most preciously. At least when he was home, she could pretend, even if
they only fought when they spoke to each other. Sarah could tell her family that
Mark was home. He would eat the dinner she prepared. Her husband would
sleep next to her in the bed they shared. Those common things were the vespers
of her dream that remained.

Contrary to what she expected, Sarah did fall asleep. The sun was coming up,
but she didn’t know. The bedroom shut out all the light and she rarely used the
single lamp on the dresser. Mark would always dress in the light that drifted in
from the hall. Sarah preferred it that way. If she did manage to fall asleep during
one of her many troubled nights, she didn’t want to be awakened until she had
her rest. She felt he owed her that much for her suffering. By some forgone
grace, her husband wasn’t home and she managed to fall asleep.

The dream itself was unclear and she forgot most of the details upon waking.
Trying to recall them was like following the sleek, changing outline of a fish
swimming out to sea. She knew it was there, beneath the shimmering surface,
and could even guess its direction. As it swam further away, however, all hopes
to catch it began to vanish. She wanted to say the dream was dark, like her
bedroom. It was not about seeing, but rather about feeling and knowing. Light
was not required for that, especially if it touched the heart. That’s what Sarah
remembered. She was visited deep inside; the dream spoke to her inner essence.
There was a promise of hope and deliverance.

If Sarah were to describe the vague experience, she would say in her dream, that
she had never fallen asleep. She had just rolled the deep blue comforter to the
foot of the bed and pulled the top sheet over her. Mark had then slipped into the
room softly; yet she wasn’t sure it was Mark. Sarah never opened her eyes. It
could have been anyone, but she accepted the presence as her husband. Mark
noiselessly crept in and bent over her. For the briefest moment, she felt his warm
breath upon her cheek.

At first, the smell was rank like the humid, fermented odor of rotting fruit. He
had probably been drinking and become sick. The smell almost shocked her
awake, but before she could open her eyes, a strong hand gripped her arm and
pressed her into the bed. Then he kissed her cheek. As the smell curdled in her
nostrils, it became sweet and adopted the aroma of wine. She couldn’t remember
the last time her husband had provided an affectionate touch. Sarah wanted to
turn around and wrap her arms around him, to pull him to her. She was instantly
in the mood to make love.

Yet, Sarah still didn’t open her eyes. She lay motionless except for a drifting
smile. The firm hand pinned her to the bed. They might have made love. The
pressure increased, pushing more of her against the mattress, as if a body slowly
descended upon her. His weight was greater than she remembered it to be. Had it
been so long since Mark had collapsed into her? The air was pushed from her
lungs and she felt as if she was going to suffocate. Then gravity suddenly lost its
hold and they floated. Her husband spoke to her. This was the part where she
was convinced she was dreaming. She heard his voice from inside her head. He
said he was waiting for her and he told her to look for him.

There was more, but Sarah woke. Everything but the pressure, the kiss, and his
few words, were chased away. Her heart sank when she remembered it was a
dream, yet it wasn’t just her imagination. She could still feel his hand upon her
arm, and her shoulder was cramped. The smell of his bitter, then sweet breath,
conjured sharp recall. Dreams never left her with memories such as these.
Wherever Mark had spent the night, he had called to her. He came home; in his
heart, he knew he belonged with his wife. They shared a dream of togetherness.
The power of the affirmation renewed her strength.
She hadn’t fought for him hard enough; the dream revealed that. She hadn’t
given him the overflowing demonstration of love he deserved. Sarah had been
selfish, accustomed to past lovers suffering in their romances for her affections.
Mark was like her. That should have been evident from the beginning, as maybe
yet another unacknowledged attraction. Mark was always going to be a
challenge to keep by her side. Women would always be tempting him, doing
whatever it took to gain his attention.

No man could resist a woman who decided she wanted him. The full spectrum of
seduction was available to them, from trashy to mysterious. All a woman had to
do was offer the latest flavor of fantasy. Sarah would combat that. Giving up was
the worst thing she could have done. Arguing with her husband had to end. Mark
couldn’t be expected to repent one day and take all the blame. She would still be
hopelessly waiting, if she continued to want that. She needed to fend off the
other women. If Sarah would confront the threat, instead of retreat to her home,
she could change everything. Sarah had to show her husband that she loved him,
because they were the same inside. She was his true love. There would be no
other for either of them.

Sarah went downstairs full of expectations. She thought the morning would have
long passed, but many hours remained. She hoped the dream last night was not
merely a dream and Mark would be sitting in the kitchen, drinking his coffee. He
would greet her with another affectionate kiss - but he wasn’t there. The kitchen
was still in its preserved state, just in a different light. The room was softer and
gentler. The morning glow was a rare sight for Sarah. She had forgotten how
comforting it could be. It didn’t matter that her husband wasn’t home.

She knew what she needed to do. The one expectation she gave up right away
was that things would change without her intervention. Life had stopped being
so easy since marrying. She stopped wishing the terrible events of the past had
never happened. Time couldn’t be stopped and wound back. It was the moment
for Sarah to take action.

The dream offered a direction. She would go searching for her husband. She
thought about the trails and clues that he was so careless to leave behind. In the
past, she would use them as evidence when she made accusations. Now they
would serve a different purpose; they would lead her to where he was, and they
would lead her to his latest Jezebel. The woman was the one who deserved her
wrath, the one upon whom Sarah would wholly unleash it. This was Sarah’s
home and her husband’s home. She would preserve it. Her very life was in
jeopardy. Woe would be visited upon any who threatened it; plenty had been
saved for her foes. The only thing that would remain when Sarah was done,
would be her unconditional love reserved for Mark, which would all be given to
him.

The old practices came back naturally, well-exercised habits. Mark always
emptied his pockets either into his jacket hanging on the rack by the front door
or into the desk in the hall. The desk was locked, but Sarah had made an extra
key when Mark had her run off on an errand to make a copy of his new car’s
key. That day Sarah had worked him into such a fury, he wasn’t thinking.

The argument was about a woman he constantly talked to at military

headquarters. He had tried to hide her under the pretense of being an asset to his
work. However, the late phone calls and whispered conversations had gone far
beyond business. Mark had become so distracted in his anger, he had tossed his
full keychain at Sarah and banished her, so he could write. Although Sarah
would normally rummage through his desk first, it had been awhile since she had
confronted him. He would have become lazy; so she went to his jacket instead.

The brown canvas jacket had hung on its hook all summer. There had never been
an occasion to need it, especially with the recent heat wave. Sarah checked the
inside pockets and then the outside. She found coins, trash, and scraps of paper.
Some had story notes scrawled on them, details of the crimes Mark was so
enthused to report. So far everything looked related to his work and all in his
handwriting - until she found the napkin. It looked older than it actually was, in
part because it was crumpled.

Everything about it looked suspicious. When Sarah straightened it, she instantly
knew she had found what she was looking for: an address, in a woman’s
handwriting. Sarah could spot these things; she knew the signs. This little piece
of information was more than enough. Mark looked like he was slumming. The
address wasn’t in a very good part of Capital; many of the UnChosen lived there.
Sarah felt ill that Mark would lower himself to see a woman of that status. She
was disgusted thinking she touched him after he had been with a woman like
that. Her first irrational instinct was to wash the bedding, but there would be
time for that when she finished fending off this threat. Sarah would act
immediately.
The low class of this hussy could be an advantage for Sarah. All her
righteousness could be brought to bear. This woman would regret the day she
seduced Mark. Someone of her inferior heritage had no right to threaten Sarah’s
life. She had no claim to Sarah’s husband, her wonderful house, and her hope for
a child. The woman may have thought she could better herself by sleeping with a
Chosen, but there would be a price to pay. Sarah would put that woman into her
place. She would remember what it was like to be scorned by the Mortal God.