by Katie French
“No!” I scream. I stagger toward them, hands out.
Clay slams his head into Kemuel's, their foreheads cracking with a sound like two eggs smashed in a bowl. The gun flops. Clay pins Kemuel to the concrete, teeth flashing, veins pulsing as he drops his forearm on the boy's neck.
The sound of thudding feet brings me out of my daze. Men latch onto Kemuel, pin him, and tie his hands. Another man grabs the gun. Clay staggers back and wipes blood out of his eyes, a bright red smear appearing across his forehead.
Behind the men, Andrew appears with the Messiah holding his arm. Mage runs to her father and jumps into his arms. Cradling her like a toddler, he strokes her golden curls as tears drip down his face. It's the first time I've ever seen the Messiah act like this…like a human being.
I stumble over to Clay. There’s a cut on his forehead that isn't too deep, but he needs medical attention. I press my sleeve to his head, wrap my other arm around his neck, and draw him close.
“God,” I whisper. “You know how to get a girl's blood pressure up.”
“If that's all I gotta do...” He wraps his arms around me. I know people are watching, but at this moment I don't care.
We pull apart. The Messiah stands, waiting for us. I blush and drop Clay's hand.
“Clay,” he says, “you saved my daughter’s life. I owe you my heart. Please, come. Let me repay you.” Mage is still wrapped around her father like a baby monkey.
Clay shakes his head. “It weren't nothing. I just hope she's okay.”
The Messiah nods. “She will be. Please, you must come. Both of you.” The Messiah gestures to Clay and me. “This way.”
Chapter 10
The Messiah's chambers swirl with incense that makes my head buzz. Clay and I sit on the couch in the candlelight, backs straight, ears alert. My eyes flit around the room as if by cataloging all the strange items I'll be able to figure out what this prophet has up his silk sleeve. To the right of our couch, paper calendars hang at odd angles. One calendar shows a pug-faced kitten in a shoe. Another has a watercolor painting of a sunset. Another shows a faded picture of a boy in a black cloak with round glasses and a wand. I peer closely at the black, numbered grids below the pictures. Each shows different months —January, July, April—and different days are circled violently with what looks like…blood? Many of those days are crossed out with a big black marker. What's the significance of those days? It might matter. Then again I don't even know what month we're in, let alone what day, and most of these calendars are decades old. Who can know the mind of a madman?
Every time I close my eyes I see Stephen twirling, arms out, the shocked expression spreading on his face just like the blood spreading on his chest. Dead. They covered him with a sheet and dragged him away. What'll happen to Kemuel? The boy was obviously sun-baked enough to think that he could take on a whole compound with one gun. Makes me wonder where he got that gun. Haven't seen any inside, but they gotta be stored somewhere.
I clench my hands together and look at Clay. “What d'you think he wants?”
Clay takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Probably just to congratulate us for helping Mage or somethin'. Don't worry,” he says, flashing a put-on smile. “I got this under control.”
It's the first time I've seen a smile on his face since we were taken. Saving Mage must have puffed him up some. At least all that awfulness did some good.
The door swings open and we both stiffen. The Messiah floats in with Andrew in tow. The prophet sweeps around, candles flickering. Andrew stands in the back, watching every move through his large, goggled eyes.
“Well, well, well. Our saviors,” the Messiah says, sweeping an arm grandly. “Thank you so much for joining me. We have much to discuss.”
I nod and Clay says, “Happy to help. Mage is a great kiddo.”
The Messiah nods. “My daughter is one of the greatest joys of my life.” But, no joy floods his face when he says this. Maybe they're different here, but when Mama talks about us, her eyes glow like a campfire. The Messiah's are dark as day-old ash.
He clasps his hands and continues. “I've been meaning to speak to you two for some time now, but the Gods have kept me busy these days.” He lifts his face to the ceiling, smiling as if his Gods watch us. He gestures to a side table. “Please, have some refreshments.”
I stare at the bounty: cheeses; big, plump fruits; a large jug of purple wine. My stomach lurches with want, but I don't trust the offering. Clay gets up and makes himself a heaping plate. I scowl at him when he sits down. What? he mouths.
The Messiah pours a glass of wine and sits in a plush chair across from us. He turns his cloudy eyes in my direction. “Riley, do tell me about your time in the Breeders hospital. Did they perform any of their experiments on you?”
I wrap my hand over my sleeve where the ankh brand rests. The images flash before my eyes before I can stop them: the lifeless women strapped to beds, Betsy on her final push in the delivery room, Clay's father bleeding out on the tile.
I shake my head. “Rather not.”
“I see.” The Messiah's voice is caked with disappointment. He turns to Clay. “Your father was the self-appointed Sheriff of a town north of here. Is this correct?” He runs a finger around his wine glass, though he hasn't taken a sip. Clay's finished half of his. I'd kick him, but there's no table to hide behind this time.
Clay's body goes stiff at the mention of his father. “Yes sir. My pa took care of the town, but was…overzealous in his practices.” He clears his throat. “We didn't see eye to eye on how he run things.”
“I gathered as much, since you killed him.” The Messiah leans back, tenting his hands.
“How d'you know so much about us?” I ask, leaning on my elbows. “You got someone inside the hospital? A spy?”
Clay sputters on his wine and shoots me a worried look. I ignore it. There's no more time for beating around the bush.
The Messiah's expression doesn't change. He strokes his trim beard thoughtfully. “You don't believe the Gods told me? You don't believe in prophetic sight?”
I shrug, picking my next words carefully. “The Gods never showed me nothing.”
“Are you sure?” he says, leaning in suddenly. “Are you sure you've never seen something from above?”
“I sure don't think so. And I don't know anyone who has.”
The Messiah stands, his face animating. “What about you?” he asks Clay, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Have you heard from them? Do they give you sight?”
Clay shakes his head. “Sorry.”
“I told you, sir,” Andrew says, stepping up. “They're nothing but filthy nonbelievers. They don't have the Sight. Let's put 'em back in the dust where they belong.” He leers at us through his goggles, his eyes bulging under the lenses.
“I don't believe it!” the Messiah shrieks, his arms flying up. “One of you.” He points an accusatory finger. “One of you has it. I was told.” He whirls around. “Andrew, get the sacrifice. We settle this now.”
“Sir.” Andrew places a tentative hand on the Messiah's sleeve, but draws it back when he sees the anger on his leader's face. He turns toward the door and leaves.
“What's goin' on?” Clay tries to stand.
The Messiah puts his hand out. “Please,” his voice is calmer, his eyes not so frenzied. “No harm will come to you, but I need you to do something for me. Just be patient.”
“I think we're done here.” I stand. “Thanks for the cheese.”
The Messiah strides to the door and blocks it. “Neither of you may leave or your families’ lives may be in danger.”
Goosebumps run up my arms. “You're gonna hurt them?”
He shakes his head, his brown hair whipping behind. “Not I.”
“I don't underst—”
Andrew slides back through the door with a small, squealing animal in his palm—a pink piglet, barely old enough to open its eyes. It thrashes its legs and makes a noise like a crying infant. Nothing about thi
s feels right.
“What's that for?” I ask, pointing at the little pig, my finger beginning to tremble. “What're you gonna do?”
Its little pink ears shake as it bucks in Andrew's hand. The Messiah draws a knife from his belt and begins muttering. That distant, frenzied look is on his face. He raises the knife. “Sight, Sight, Sight,” he murmurs.
“Don't!” I cry.
He plunges the knife into the bucking animal’s throat. The piglet lets out an awful, tortured squeal and then it's limp. The only sound is its blood pattering on the floor.
“Why did you…” I whisper, falling back to the couch. I've killed to survive, but never a baby and never with such awful joy. The Messiah's expression is one of pure rapture. My stomach churns.
The Messiah cups his hand under the dead piglet’s sliced neck and begins collecting blood. He's still murmuring something about “the gift of Sight, the gift of Sight.”
Clay pushes up, but Andrew draws his knife and points it at Clay. “Sit down.”
Clay sits, his hands fisted. He looks at me.
What the hell have we gotten into?
The Messiah strides forward, his hands dripping in pig blood. I shy away, but his fingers wipe the blood on my eyelids. I lurch back, the warm wetness slipping along the creases of my eyes. “Stop!”
But he doesn't stop. Still chanting, his eyes roll back until only the whites show. He does the same to Clay, smearing blood on his eyelids. Clay grits his teeth, both hands dug into the couch cushions.
“Are you satisfied now, you psychopath?” Clay asks, flashing a gunslinger look that means only trouble to the one receiving it. “No goddamned gift of Sight. Now let us outta here or we got trouble.”
But the Messiah's still murmuring. He goes back to the piglet in Andrew's hand and begins cutting. I can't look. I drop my head and try not to gag. The smell of blood is everywhere. When will this nightmare end?
When I look up again, the Messiah is chewing on something, his chin dripping with blood. He's eating the piglet's eyes. Through it all Andrew watches us, knife extended like his only desire is making sure we don't move.
Bile rises in my throat. The smell of blood is everywhere.
When the Messiah swallows and wipes the blood on his sleeve, he turns to us. The frenzied look is gone, replaced with the hopefulness of a child. “Well?” he asks like we've received a package and he can't wait to see what's inside. “What do you see?”
I shake my head, feeling sick. “A dead pig and a couple of sickos.”
“Yes, yes.” He dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “But do you see anything? From above?”
I grit my teeth. “I see pig blood on your beard.”
He scowls and turns to Clay. “What about you?”
“Tell yer man to get his pig-gutter out of my goddamn face before I use it on 'im.” The veins in Clay's neck throb. “Now.”
Andrew steps forward. His sneer is back. He'd love to gut us. “Listen, dust—”
The Messiah puts a hand to Andrew's chest. The prophet's hope has flown and now a sadness has crept into his features. “I don't understand,” he mutters, turning to looking at the books strewn on his desk. “One of you has the Sight. It was foretold to me.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say. “Can we get out of here?”
“Let me put 'em out.” Andrew smiles nastily. “If they don't have the sight, we don't need 'em.”
The Messiah shakes his head as he clutches some of the papers on his desk, smearing them with pig blood. “No,” he says. “No, they stay. Something will come clear to me. I just need… time.” He turns and gives us one more pleading look as if we're somehow choosing not to have his precious “Sight.” Then he turns back to his papers and holds them up to his face, smelling them.
“Come on,” Andrew says, tossing us each a towel. We wipe off the blood, but I can still smell it. “Back to your rooms.”
We turn to go, but the Messiah whirls around. “Wait!” He holds both hands out. “Maybe it's because you're still outsiders.” He rubs a hand through his beard. “We must induct you. You'll become Believers and then you'll have the Sight. Then you'll be able to stop the plagues.”
“Stop the plagues?” I ask, but he continues like he hasn't heard me.
“We'll have the ceremony tonight.” He turns toward Andrew.
“No!” I shout. “We are not joining you.” I cross my arms over my chest. “No.”
The Messiah's face falls. Andrew draws his knife again. “We could tie 'em up and force 'em to drink.”
“No, no,” the Messiah murmurs, shaking his head. “They have to be willing converts. No one can become a Believer unless their heart is open.” He turns to us, bloody palms out in a pleading gesture. “There are so many benefits to being one of us.”
“Our hearts are not open,” I say, thinking of the little pig heart that was beating a few minutes ago.
The Messiah blows out a breath. “You'll stay until I'm satisfied neither of you has the Sight. We can't take chances on the gifts the Gods have provided.”
Andrew opens the door and gestures us through. As we turn to leave, I think about the so-called gifts the Gods have provided. My eyes fall on the gutted body of the piglet lying discarded on the Messiah's floor. Was it a gift? Are we gifts to be consumed?
In the hallway outside, Mage is waiting for me, playing hopscotch on a board she has drawn with chalk onto the worn carpet. She looks up, teetering on one foot, hops down the rest of the squares, and lands in front of me. “Hi, Riley.” She looks at Andrew. “Want me to take her back?”
He shakes his head. “This one is…dangerous.”
“I can handle it.” She shuffles over, takes me by a wrist.
“But—” Andrew says.
“You're not allowed in the women's hallway at night.” Mage hops on the carpet like it's still a hopscotch board. Andrew tries to protest again, but she leads me away like she can't hear.
I glance over my shoulder at Clay. I need to talk to him about what just happened, but Andrew is already shepherding him back to the men's hall. Goddamn this place for always separating us just when I need him most.
Mage, still hopping, turns and looks over her shoulder. “Andrew is a bad apple,” she whispers. “You should stay away from him.”
“I'm trying.” My emotions are a stew of fear, confusion, and anger. I wipe at my eyes, still sticky though the blood is gone. “What's the 'Sight'?”
She stops hopping. “What do you mean?”
“Your dad said either Clay or I have 'the Sight'.” I step over a hole worn into the carpet. “What is it?”
Mage stuffs her hands in her jumper pockets and falls in step beside me. “My papa's worried that we're being punished for our sins.”
I frown. “The Gods are punishing you?”
She nods. We pass under a triangle of overhead light and she peers up into it, the beam illuminating her angelic face. “He thinks that if we don't fix whatever we've done, we're all going to die. Do you know that during the ten plagues of Egypt God killed all the first-born children?” She lolls her tongue out of her mouth and begins fake gagging. Then she stops, her face suddenly serious. “My papa is dying. He thinks I don't know, but I do.”
“I'm sorry.” I don't know what else to say. Plagues? Punishment from the Gods? Something's wrong with these people, but I'm not sure how much the Gods have to do with it. I am sure I'm not the one to save them.
I glance at her as we walk under another cone of light. Somehow she can look six and sixteen in the span of ten minutes. “I know how you feel about your dad,” I say. “My mama's not doing so hot either.”
She nods, kicking at a loose piece of carpeting.
While she's so chatty, I try again. “Why do men and women sleep in separate hallways with their grates locked? What are people afraid of?” I peer through the grate of a dark shop as we walk past and goose bumps break out on my arms. I think about the moaning echoing up from the crack. Maybe it wasn'
t human.
Mage plods along and doesn't meet my eyes. “You ask too many questions. You're gonna get in trouble, bubble.” She stops and turns to me. “I don't want you to end up like Kemuel.”
Goose bumps again. I wrap my arms around my torso. “There's too many secrets around here, Mage. I don't like it. No one will give me a straight answer.”
Mage nods like she isn't the one I'm talking about. “Just keep Ethan away from the Brotherhood as much as you can.”
“What about Clay?”
“Oh him,” she says, pulling a curl down and tucking it into her mouth. “It's too late for him.”
I whirl on her, my breath suddenly staggering in my chest, but she's jogged ahead and is standing at my open doorway. I can tell by her face that she won't answer any more of my questions.
Too late for Clay?
I crouch under the grate and she closes it behind me.
“More to protect you than to keep you in,” she says, spinning the padlock. “Only me and Stephen know…” her face drops, “knew the combination.”
She shuffles to bed and I curl up on my mattress. I fall asleep and dream of pig's blood.
A rattling, loud and insistent, pulls me out of my dreams. Always with the rattling. No one wants to let me rest. I swim up out of sleep and blink towards the light streaming in from the hallway.
Three figures stand at my grate. Mage, Clay, and Ethan. Where's Rayburn?
“What is it?” I say, pulling up, my hands gripping the metal grate. My little brother's face is ashen. Fear burns away all the sleep.
Tears pool in Ethan’s eyes. “Riley, come quick. It's Mama.”
Chapter 11
Our feet slap on the concrete as we sprint to the infirmary. People stare and pull their children out of the way, but I don't care. A cold sweat runs down my back, dampening my shirt. What's happening to my mother?
My mind races as we take a corner and the department store-turned-infirmary comes into view. A million scenarios run through my head of what's happening to her—none of them good. She was better, resting up, and getting fluids. There's no reason she should've taken a turn for the worse. My chest is heaving and my mouth is dry. I just need to see that's she's all right.