by Katie French
“Riley, it’s not what I want. It's what the Gods want. What they want, we must provide. You know that, don't you?”
“Yeah, sure. Like how you butcher and burn those pigs. For the Gods.” I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “I hope they like pork.”
“You don't believe in the Gods? That they can save us? That they need to be appeased?”
“No, I don't.” I fold my arms across my chest, suddenly angry and unsure why.
“Why don't you believe?” He walks over and lifts one of the burning sticks, wafting more incense into the air. The smoke curls up in cloudy ribbons.
I take a deep breath and fix him with my eyes. “I don’t believe because I see no reason to. The Gods have never blessed me one day of my life. This world is hell. I've seen people die. They're scared out of their minds. There's no glowing light. No joy.” I stare at him, my heart pounding. I feel like crying, but won’t give him the satisfaction. “We live, we sweat, we bleed. Then we go into the ground. That's it.”
The Messiah stares at me for a moment. Then he pouts his lower lip. “How sad.”
“Yeah, it's sad,” I say, folding my arms over my chest like I need the barrier from him and his religion. “Life is a sad, sad thing.”
“What of death?” He lifts one knee over the other, his robe rising with it. “Is there any joy in death for you, non-believer?”
“Who has joy in death?” I ask.
A wide smile breaks out on the Messiah's face. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “For the Believers there is much joy in death, for it is only through death that we fulfill our truest potential.”
A chill breaks out over my arms even though it's nearly eighty degrees in the room. The Messiah's eyes are too wide, his smile too broad. I don't like how he's speaking about death. I think of the liquid in the barrel. “For 14:13” scrawled so violently on top.
“Do you want to die?” I ask slowly.
The Messiah turns on me. His face is stone serious. “Why do you ask?” He snuffs out a candle with the pads of two fingers. “Do you wish to kill me?”
I shake my head, forgetting he can’t see me. “Nope.”
“Many have, you know. Many have tried to kill me over the years.” He shuffles back to the couch and sits. “They’ve all failed. Only the Gods can end me. And my days are marked.” His gaze drifts off. “Just like Moses never seeing the glory that is the Promised Land, I will not see the deliverance of my people.” He bows his head as if sorry for what's to come. Maybe the poison's only for him. Then again I note the wide, weeping sores on his neck, his hands. The red, hairless patch on the back of his scalp. Even with all the incense, he smells like something is dead inside him. He doesn't need poison.
When I say nothing, he turns in my direction. “Riley, your mother, you love her, yes?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “She thinks she’s going to die.” I clench my jaw. “That the baby'll kill her.”
“Whatever the Gods will, that is what is to occur.” He folds his hands on his lap again. One finger traces the skin around the open sore.
“Well, the Gods will have me to answer to if they kill her.”
“Do you think,” he says slowly, “that you’d be better equipped to save her if you were to leave here?”
“Yeah.” I draw out the word slowly. Do I believe that? Could I save her on the road? “Are you giving us permission to leave?”
“I've never stopped you,” he says, rising, the incense swirling up with him. He walks over and blows out a guttering candle. “You were always free to go.”
I step back, taking in what he's saying. “But, the guards… They locked us in.”
“For your own protection.” He takes a step my way, enough that I can see the flesh colored make-up on the sores around his face. So many sores. “Has anyone locked you in lately?”
Slowly, I shake my head. “No, but…”
“I cannot keep you prisoner. The Gods won't allow it.” His voice is almost coy. “Did you know, Riley, I was not born in this mall?”
I shake my head.
“I was born in the back of a Volkswagen. At eight months old I was abducted, with my mother, by a road gang. I have no idea what happened to my mother. The road gang warrior who became my father of sorts never would tell me, so I can imagine it wasn’t…pleasant.” He pauses and looks up, his face tightening with the memory.
“The man who raised me was not a kind man. He wasn’t raising me to be his son, you see. He was raising me to be a warrior.” His hands fold together and squeeze. “I killed my first man at age eight.”
Ethan's age. I swallow hard. The heat seems to intensify. Why’s he telling me this?
“I grew up in the most vicious road gang in the area. We had everything: food, shelter, guns. But, even as a child, I knew this wasn't what the Gods wanted for my life. When I was fifteen, I was separated from my people on a raid. I wandered the desert until I knew I'd die. Half buried in sand, my hands clawing for life, the Gods gave me a vision of this mall. It was then I knew I was a prophet.”
He looks at me, but I have no words.
“So, you see, I know the ways of the road. What I don’t understand is why you’d prefer that to this.” He spreads his hands wide, indicating his dominion.
I press my sweating palms together. “Can I be blunt?”
He nods, one strand of wavy brown hair cascading over his angular cheekbone. “Please.”
“I think you’re crazy.” I take a deep breath. “I think you’re gonna kill us all.”
He pauses, and I wonder if I just spoke my death sentence.
He bobs his head slowly. “I see.” When he rises, my body tightens, ready to fight or run, but instead he wanders to his desk, slides out a drawer, and lifts a book from it. He strides over and holds it out to me. It’s a slimmer, more tattered version of the book I was attempting to steal. A Bible.
He holds the book out to me. “Consider it a gift from a madman.”
I slip my hand around the book and draw it slowly to my chest. “Thank you,” I manage.
“You are free to leave any time.” He swishes to another candle and blows it out. The room grows darker. I shift toward the door. I don't want to be in a dark room with the Messiah. “But, if you stay…” He smiles like a cat about to pounce.
“But, if I stay what?”
“Tomorrow night we have a communion ceremony. It is a very holy time for us. All I ask is that you participate. After that, I will give you a truck and some spare fuel.” A dark smile finds his face. “We lunatics can be generous, too.”
My jaw drops open. “Th-thanks,” I stammer. None of this computes. Why’s he being so kind?
He waves to the door. “You may go now. Just please try to keep out of trouble until communion.” He smirks. “A large feat, I know.”
“Yeah,” I say, my tongue-tied. “Thanks.”
Freedom. I can almost taste it, but then why is it so bittersweet?
The next morning I wake to the sound of gusting winds screaming, shaking the roof and rattling items outside. When I get to the dining hall, an effort to block the open roof is in full swing. Squinting through the dust, Andrew stands in the center of the food court, shouting above the wind. Men climb up ladders steadied by fellow Believers as they attempt to raise planks and nail them at mismatched angles over the opening. Dust whips their faces as they pound the boards in place. Already the air churns with fine particles of sand. One of the tarps that shaded the eating area rips from its ties and blows halfway across the food court. It wraps around a support beam and flutters.
I find Mage looking up with wide eyes, her hands stuffed in her jumper pockets, a strip of blue cloth tied over her mouth and nose.
“What's going on?” I shout over the racket. My lungs already laden, I pull my shirt over my mouth.
“Sand storm,” she says, glancing at me. “Bad one. Papa says the Gods willed it.”
I snort, but don't say anything. “It'l
l be over in a couple of hours.” I pat her dusty curls.
She looks at me with solemn eyes. “No, Riley,” she says without blinking. “I don't think so.”
With breakfast suspended due to the storm, everyone is ushered back down the hall to the grow house. Farmers hand out plump round tomatoes and sugar snap peas for breakfast. I eat a hard, orange tomato, the juice spilling down my wrist, while I search for Ethan, Clay, and Rayburn. I find Ethan and Rayburn stepping out of line, handfuls of blueberries cupped in their palms.
“Did you get breakfast, Riley?” Rayburn says, as he lowers his head and awkwardly hunts for a few berries with his teeth. Blue juice dribbles on his lip.
I nod and put a hand on Ethan's shoulder. “Okay, my man?”
He nods, showing me teeth stained blueberry blue. Then he hacks until his lips turn a matching shade. This dust storm will be awful for his asthma. God, can it get any worse?
I gaze out over the dust-covered crowd. “We need a family meeting in ten minutes. Where's Clay?” Both boys stare at me, their faces twisted like they know a horrible secret they don't wanna tell.
“What?” I ask. They say nothing. “Where is he?”
My heart begins pounding and I don't know why. I swivel around and stare through the crowds of gritty people lined in rows. No Clay. I turn back and then I see him. Muscle-bound Brotherhood thugs are hauling bags of grain from the back of the grow house. Clay is one of them, though he seems to have dropped his grain bag off at the distribution table and struck up a conversation with the buxom brunette running it. He leans in, pressing his palms to the chipped tabletop. She smiles radiantly and tosses a long, chocolate-colored lock over her shoulder.
I want to kill her. I want to kill him.
“Riley.” Rayburn's hand settles on my bicep.
I shrug him off. I'm stomping over to Clay, both fists clenched, before I know what I'm doing.
“Riley!” Rayburn calls again, though I can barely hear him over the wind and the pounding of my chest.
As I near, the girl notices me and her smile falls. Suddenly she's very interested in the lists she's made on a piece of an old bed sheet. Clay turns, his own smile fading.
“Hey,” he says, his tone happy and false. “Mornin',” he reaches for me, but I stand stiffly to the side. “Did you get somethin' to eat?” he asks, nodding to the bag of grain at his feet. “I was asked to bring out some of the stored grain, so…I did.”
“Yep.” I stare. My arms do not leave my chest.
He swallows hard and runs a hand over the back of his neck. His injured hand unbandaged, something he never would've done on the road. “I'll be done in a little bit. We could…” he pauses, chewing his lip. “We could take a walk 'round the mall when I'm done.”
“No thanks.” I say flatly. “We're having a family,” I flash the girl a look, “meeting in thirty minutes. Meet us at my mother's room.”
He nods. “I'll probably be done by then.”
As I walk away, I fight the urge to cry.
Rayburn, Ethan, and I walk through the hordes of wide-eyed people to the hospital wing. The guard at the entrance is gone, probably either nailing boards to the ceiling or slinging feedbags up from storage.
Rayburn eyes the empty stool, and his face tightens. “It's only a matter of time before I'm, uh, I'm called up to help with the s-s-storm.” He pushes up his glasses. “We'd better make this fast.”
“It's important,” I say. The Bible rubs against my back where it's tucked in my waistband. Last night I skimmed through the ridiculously small print until my eyes crossed. I found Revelations 14:13. I tried to read the whole chapter, but it was dense and wordy. Today, with help, maybe we'll figure it out, but maybe we don't need to. Maybe we'll be out of here before he plans to use it anyway.
We find Mama sitting on one of the cots in the large open space that serves as the general hospital ward. Her cheeks are still sunken, her skin pale, but she looks a bit healthier. As we stride up, she hands a cup to an elderly woman in the cot across from her. The woman takes it and lifts it to her lips with trembling hands. That's my mama, nursing the sick even when she's hurting.
“Hi, my dears.” She waves and then rises slowly. Her hand finds her rounding belly.
“Hi,” I say, drawing up to her. Ethan wraps his arms around her waist. I lean in for a hug. The woman on the cot begins hacking.
My mother looks down in worry, but a Middie is walking toward the woman, ready to take Mama's place.
“We need a family meeting. Can we use the fitting room?”
“No one's been moved into it yet. I don't think they'll mind.” We follow her into the dark hallway and past the musty change rooms to the back. The fitting room is tight for four of us, but we all manage to squeeze inside, sitting Indian-style on the floor. Above, the howling wind sounds like it’s tearing the roof off and the sand peppering the building is making me tense. I stare at the slatted door. Where is Clay? Should we just…start without him?
“What's going on?” Mama asks. She pulls Ethan into her, her arm around his shoulder. “Is it about the storm?”
I pause and look at Rayburn. “The Messiah's letting us go. Once their blasted communion ceremony is over tonight he'll give us a truck and gas.” I look up at the three faces staring at me. A long pause. “We can get the hell out.”
“He said this?” Mama asks, tightening her grip on Ethan. “He said he would let us go?”
I nod, folding my hands together, squeezing. “He said we weren't prisoners. We can get back on the road. Leave these lunatics behind.”
Rayburn leans back, blowing out a breath. “I-I-I'm not going.”
“What?” I dig my hands into the carpet. “You're really gonna stay?”
He nods, not looking at me.
“Rayburn,” I say, pushing up onto my knees. “That's crazy. They'll make you join the Brotherhood. You'll get sick.” I gesture out toward the mall.
His black curls jiggle as he shakes his head. “I can't go back on the road. I'll d-d-die out there. In here,” he says, lifting his eyes, “Here I can live, work, even find a companion.”
“But you'll end up like them. Believing every word that lunatic says.” I run my hand through my hair. “I don't get it.”
“I do,” Mama says quietly.
I look over at her. “What?!”
“I understand why Ray would want to stay. We can't force him to go, nor should we. It's his decision.” She runs her hand up and down Ethan's arm. “If we didn't have Auntie to go back for, I'd advise we all stay.”
“I can't believe this,” I say, slapping my hands onto my thighs. “These people are totally batty. The leader told me his days are numbered. We found a barrel with poison labeled for 14:13. I think he's gonna to kill everyone.” I punch my fist into my thigh. “We can't stay.”
Mama raises her eyebrows. “A barrel of poison?”
Rayburn shakes his head. “We have no proof it’s for anything other than, uh, cleaning the f-f-floor.”
I shoot Rayburn a pained look. “He told Mage that they'd be better off dead than with the Breeders.”
Rayburn pushed up to his knees. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“Enough fighting.” Mama grabs Ethan's hand. “We aren't staying, poison or no poison. I'm just saying that the road is hard and dangerous. I hate to put you through that again.”
Ethan curls into her arm. “I'm going where you and Riley are going.”
“What about Janine?” Rayburn says, pointing to my mother. “They've slowed the fetus growth with the drugs they're giving her. On the road she'll have n-n-none of that.”
“That's why we need you,” I say, leaning across the dusty little changing room. “You have to come, Ray. You have to help her.”
He shakes his head. “I can't help. It's beyond me.”
“No!” I shout, clenching my fists. “I refuse to believe that.”
“What's going on?”
We swivel. Clay stands in the doorway
, hands on his hips, looking down at us. The concern on his face is real. So is the red, nickel-sized sore at the corner of his mouth.
“Clay!” Ethan says, brightening. Then his brow furrows. “Riley says we're leaving.”
“We are?” he asks, turning to me.
I nod, flicking my eyes to a spider-webbed corner. “After the ceremony.”
He frowns and pushes up the hair on his crown, his unconscious gesture of thumbing back his hat still clinging to him even when the hat is gone. “Can we just hold our horses for a minute?”
“We gotta go,” I say, standing. “I think the Messiah's planning on killing everybody. Rayburn and I found a barrel of something I think is poison, big enough to wipe out New Mexico. We think he's gonna use it soon. Don't know when, but I got this.” I pull the slender Bible from under my shirt and hold it up to him.
He stares at it, confusion flooding his face. “A book?”
“The Bible. There's gotta be something in here about when he plans to wipe out everyone, but I can't find it. Maybe if you'd help…” Suddenly heat's burning up my cheeks. Why does it embarrass me to ask my boyfriend for help? Maybe it's because our relationship is as thin as my threadbare shirt.
“Do ya know how plum crazy you sound? The Messiah's not gonna kill his people,” Clay says, shaking his head. “I talked to him this mornin'. He was busy organizin' the workload to batten down for the storm. Why would he care if he was gonna end 'em all?”
I open my mouth, but no response comes out.
“Maybe he just wants to kill the bad guys?” Ethan offers.
“Maybe, little man.” Clay crouches down and smiles at Ethan. “We don't got to worry none. I got us covered.”
I scoff. Clay flashes me a look. “You got something to say?” he asks, anger finally creeping into his voice.
Is that what I wanted all along? To stir him up just to prove I still could? I shrug, looking over at Mama. Now it’s her turn to stare at the carpet.
“Say it.” He steps forward until his chest is a foot from mine. “Go on. Say it.”