The Seventh Day

by Scott Shepherd

  He turned his attention to Fixer.

  “We need to talk.”

  Sayers was less than thrilled as he locked the door at the top of the stairs. Every bone in his body ached to move on and not be sitting ducks for Primo and Secundo. Yes, they were five against two, but their foes possessed distinct advantages. One was their obsessive desire to avenge the death of their brothers, with Primo leading that charge in particular. His killer instinct made up for their paucity in numbers—neither Laura or Aurora were going to have to get into a physical confrontation with the siblings. Sayers and Fixer weren’t fighters either, leaving Joad’s plan their best shot at putting an end to this pursuit. Sayers still had heavy doubts, especially weighing the plan against the brother’s Gifts: Secundo’s incredible strength and Primo’s rage, manifested as storms with enough power to wipe out anything in his sight.

  He ceased his demands to leave Nemo once Laura voiced her intention to stick with Joad. The myth of the man continued to grow: warrior turned preacher, who acted like an earthbound archangel. How was Sayers supposed to compete with that? He had moved past any issues with Joad—he inwardly acknowledged the man had saved his life on more than one occasion and also helped bridge the emotional gap between him and his stepdaughter. He knew that running from another confrontation would knock him down a few notches in Laura’s eyes, which would be a shame after having climbed up that treacherous ladder of emotions back at Funland.

  And then there was Aurora. She had been very much on his mind since they left the amusement park; he had imagined all types of reunions. Hiding upstairs on the second floor of a wrecked rectory from burnt-to-a-crisp, vengeance-seeking siblings had not been one of them. Their current situation was as far removed from his romantic notions as a time when strangers were people you’d never met, and not a race determined to wipe you out.

  And that’s how he felt—like they were waiting to be obliterated. He told this to Aurora once they were alone. Laura had gone up into the bell tower, as instructed by Joad, to be on the lookout for the brothers.

  “I think Joad’s plan is the best anyone could come up with,” said Aurora as they settled on the mattress that once belonged to a reverend and his dearly departed wife.

  “A lot depends on Fixer,” said Sayers, worry etched across his face.

  “From what you all said, it worked out well back at the crater.”

  “This is a lot bigger.”

  “Joad’s gotten you this far,” Aurora observed. “We need to trust that the man knows what he’s doing.”

  Sayers considered the alternatives. Aurora was right: they’d thrown in their lot with Joad, and had to accept the consequences, for better or worse. He felt a melting begin in his heart. She had discarded Secundo’s oversized shirt and found an old blouse belonging to Joad’s wife. It was pure white and she looked totally effervescent, but he couldn’t shake the thought of what it had been like with Primo on the ground in the battlefield’s graveyard.

  “I told you, Doc. I’m okay,” Aurora assured again him after he voiced his concern. “A few scrapes and bruises, but Secundo made sure nothing else happened.”

  “Thank God.” His eyes drifted toward the window. “You didn’t have to come here.”

  “I know.”

  Aurora reached over and took his hand. Aurora clutched it tight, then leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. They lingered together. When they broke apart, her smile was tinged with affection, but more than a touch of sadness as well.

  “I also know if I’m not going to make it, I’d rather that happen when I am with you.”

  This time, Sayers initiated the kiss, realizing he felt the very same way.

  Primo stared at the vandalized highway sign; he couldn’t help grinning.

  N-O-M-O-R-E.

  Now that was a sense a humor he could get down with. He liked to think he would’ve thought of doing the same thing if some degenerate Remaining hadn’t beaten him to it. He said as much to Secundo, but the only response he got was a grunt.

  Primo thought his brother was becoming a real drag. The incident in the graveyard had just been the latest. He knew their past was filled with strife, culminating that day in the visitor’s room when Secundo (then Samuel) ordered him out of his life. Leave Primo did, filled with anguish and a ton of guilt he was loath to explain. But he thought that was all behind him after the Husky led Primo to the prison gates to rescue his emaciated sibling from frying to death under the blazing desert sun.

  In the days that followed, Primo totally embraced the nicknames from their youth. Even Secundo, always the moodiest of the quartet, had gotten caught up ransacking and conquering those left behind. But lately, Primo had noticed a reluctance creeping back into the second-born brother—especially after Quattro was crushed under the wheels of the pirate ship. Secundo had been ready to give up the hunt for Joad, constantly suggesting to Primo they should return to the Flats.

  But there hadn’t been an outright act of insubordination until the woman in the graveyard. Primo knew he had been out of line, but he had so much pent-up rage and frustration after losing Trey and Quattro, and the constant thwarting by Joad and the others. He got carried away in the moment. He wasn’t proud of losing control, but it had happened before and probably would again. He wasn’t looking for Secundo to condone these acts of brutality, but he didn’t expect his brother to try to stop him either.

  As much as that bothered Primo, he understood his brother’s actions—he presumed Secundo pulling him off the woman was reactive more than anything. Primo was more troubled by Aurora’s escape. Secundo said he’d put the restraints back on her but must not have tied them tightly enough. He had apologized profusely, but Primo wondered if there were more to the story. And figured he’d better keep a sharper eye on his brother.

  As if he didn’t have enough to think about.

  Primo turned to Secundo sitting directly behind him on their remaining jet-black horse. “Guess Joad’s not getting that welcome-home parade he was hoping for.”

  “He might not even be here,” mumbled Secundo.

  “Oh, he’s here,” Primo said confidently.

  “And just how are we supposed to find him?”

  “Shouldn’t be difficult. It’s not like the streets are overflowing with tourists,” replied Primo. He took in the carnage. “Or Remaining, for that matter.”

  Joad’s hometown looked like the wrath of God had swept through with reckless abandon. The church on the block in front of them appeared to be smack dab in the bull’s-eye—especially if the Lord in question were firing spacecrafts from its quiver.

  Even Secundo reacted. “Jesus.”

  Primo couldn’t have put it better—or been happier to see three jet-black steed’s tied to the church’s picket fence, along with two other horses.

  His malevolent grin was punctuated by the ringing of the church bell.

  Fixer hit the floor the moment he heard the bell, per Joad’s instructions. He presumed there was some sort of symbolism in lying prostrate on a church floor, especially one that had survived Armageddon, but Fixer figured Joad hadn’t put him in prayer mode. He wasn’t so certain, however, about the man’s plan.

  No question, Joad had gotten them this far safe and sound. And maybe he was getting a little help from above; Fixer was A-OK with that. But he thought the former soldier might be pushing his luck this time.

  Fixer saw a few problems, starting with the spaceship. It was wedged into the church wall and didn’t look like it was going anywhere so soon, even with a boost. And then there was Primo and Secundo. How did Joad expect to get them where he wanted?

  “Leave that to me,” Joad had answered.

  Fixer knew getting the man to elaborate on anything was pointless. He had walked up and down the middle aisle with Joad until they found the proper spot.

  Joad pointed at a pew three rows from the back. “Go halfway down the row. You should be able to watch over that broken one.”

  Sure enoug
h, the pew that Joad indicated was damaged enough for Fixer to see the altar, even from the floor.

  That was where Fixer ended up after the church bell rang, counting the minutes until their guests arrived.

  He hadn’t even reached two when the door crashed open.

  Primo burst through the door and immediately hurled something into the sanctuary.

  Joad made the big mistake of trying to see what.

  By the time he realized that he’d been distracted by the sign advertising his own sermon, it was way too late.

  Primo raised his crossbow and fired an arrow directly at him.

  Joad tried to spin out of the way, but the arrow plunged through his left shoulder. The force hurled him backwards, and the arrow, still embedded in his flesh, slammed into the wood behind him, impaling Joad.

  “Morning, Padre,” said Primo, calmly walking down the center aisle.

  Joad tried to pull out the arrow, but Primo reached him first and slapped his right hand away.

  “Let’s not have any of that. We haven’t even had time to chat,” said Primo.

  Joad gritted his teeth, the pain already throbbing unmercifully in his shoulder. Primo looked like something left in a toaster much longer than necessary. “What could I possibly want to talk to you about?”

  “I can think of plenty,” replied the eldest brother.

  Bully for you, thought Joad.

  Along with wondering what the hell Fixer was doing.

  Fixer didn’t remember Joad getting impaled by a crossbow arrow as being part of the plan. And Primo wasn’t supposed to be by himself either. Secundo should have been right beside him. But Primo was hovering over the fallen Joad all by his lonesome, and Fixer had no idea what to do.

  Where the hell was that blond-haired bastard?

  Fixer got on his knees for a better look, and was immediately aware of the shadows shifting.

  He whirled and saw Secundo looming above him.

  Then, his humongous fist.

  And finally, nothing.

  The crash in the pews made Joad swivel his head. The motion stretched his shoulder muscles and sent the biggest wave of pain he had ever experienced shooting through his body. He struggled to remain conscious as he saw Fixer crumple to the floor from Secundo’s sneak attack.

  Suddenly, Joad heard himself screaming out loud.

  Primo had grabbed his bloody shoulder and turned Joad toward his mangled face. “Where are the others?”

  “Not here.” Joad barely got the words out.

  “Right. I’m sure they walked into town for a malt and fries while leaving their horses tied to your fence.” Primo called out to Secundo. “Find them and bring them here.”

  Joad watched the blond brother march out of the sanctuary, then noticed that Primo had dropped his crossbow on the ground, and was staring up at the spacecraft.

  “Think someone was trying to tell you something?” Primo’s smile was as wicked as any Joad had ever seen.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” mumbled Joad.

  Primo dropped down to eye level with Joad.

  “I do have a question I’d like you to answer,” said Primo.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why are you so damn important?”

  “Important to what?” asked Joad, truly confused.

  “Everything. Everything since The Seventh Day. Why would someone want you dead so badly? Besides, the obvious stuff, like killing a person’s two brothers—but let’s put that aside… .” Primo leaned close. “You might as well tell me before I put you out of your misery.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Too bad. This seemed like the perfect place to let it all hang out.” He motioned behind Joad’s head.

  Joad was suddenly aware what the arrow had pinned him against.

  The confessional.

  Joad stared long and hard at Primo, trying to size up what was at play here.

  “What’s the deal, Primo? You got something you want to get off your chest?”

  Primo didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be lost in thought as well.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “Funny you should ask.”

  CLETUS

  The alarm blared throughout Donut World.

  Stan, who had been showing Cletus around the deep fry room, immediately stopped the tour, brought his doughy hands to his face, grabbed his sweaty cheeks, and screamed. “The cash box!”

  Cletus swore to himself. God damn it, Norman—can’t you do one fucking thing right in your life?

  Stan made a beeline for the door, and Cletus stuck out his leg to trip the Donut Man. But instead of doing a face plant on the fry room floor, Stan managed to sidestep Cletus’s leg, and shoved back.

  Cletus, caught totally unaware, stumbled backwards and crashed into Deep Fry #2 (used for glazed twists and raspberry crullers), and tumbled to the concrete floor.

  It only got worse.

  Cletus had slammed so hard into Deep Fry #2 that the contraption tipped over with him, including the vat of fiery hot oil (WE USE CANOLA; HEALTHIER DONUTS!) that spewed a huge dose directly into Cletus’s right eye.

  Suddenly, it just wasn’t Stan racing through the corridor of Donut World, yelling at the top of his lungs. (“My box! My box!”) Cletus was rolling around on the floor, screaming in agony (“My eye! My eye!”), but there was no one around to help. This was because the pimply-faced teens and overweight slobs that Stan hired to work for minimum wage were racing outside after their boss to see what all the commotion was about.

  Cletus struggled to his feet, half-blind, with his face feeling like it was on fire (which part of it was). He stumbled around the fry room until he located an industrial sink. He groped for the handle and yanked on the water. He cupped his hands and filled them, then dunked his red-hot face into the liquid.

  Not the best idea he’d ever had.

  His scream was extremely loud, as pain rocketed across his face; it felt like his eye had popped out of his head. Cletus shoved himself away from the sink and lumbered for the fry room exit.

  The last of the employees who had the misfortune of being both pimply and chubby waddled down the corridor, taking up most its breadth. Cletus shoved past him and out the door, clutching his smoking face; he found himself in a massive crowd in front of Donut World.

  The scene was so surreal that Cletus forgot about his excruciating pain and stared incredulously with his one good eye.

  Money, actual U.S. federal currency in every denomination up to twenty dollars (WE DO NOT ACCEPT 50 OR 100 DOLLAR BILLS read the sign on the counter next to the Donut of the Month Club ad), floated down from the sky like proverbial manna from heaven. The crowd reached up to grab the billowing bills, shoving each other out of the way, some stomping on the fingers and faces of the fallen. There, in the middle of it, wringing his hands, was Stan, screaming that he wanted his money back.

  Cletus looked up and lo and behold, there was his brother Norman—the ineffectual bumbling numbskull who couldn’t even manage a measly grab-the-cash-and-run job—standing on a window ledge with cops leaning out a window pointing guns at him.

  Jesus, thought Cletus, what the hell else could go wrong?

  Right then, people stopped clamoring for the floating Washingtons, Lincolns, Hamiltons, and Jacksons. They pointed at the sky instead, and screamed in fear.

  Cletus squinted because he couldn’t believe his one good eye.

  There was the biggest blimp he’d ever seen, and it was descending toward them at a ridiculously fast rate.

  At least it looked like a blimp … or …

  Nah. It couldn’t be a spaceship.

  Could it?

  Before Cletus could decide, the whole world went bright purple.

  At breakfast earlier that morning, none of them could ever have predicted what would occur by day’s end. Even if you’d let them play Twenty Questions and given them the word “strangers.”

  They were too busy ign
oring today’s date.

  Trey had a couple of buddies over for coffee and a handicapping session. They were talking about making a big score on some nag in the last race. Cletus figured that would turn out the way it always did—with his brother ripping up losing tickets and tossing them out the car window like black and white confetti, when he left the racetrack a pissed-off loser. Meanwhile, Cletus was going over the Donut World rip-off with Norman, making sure it would go like clockwork—synchronizing watches for when Cletus would do his drop-by to distract Norman’s nemesis, Stan. Stan the Donut Man.

  More importantly, Cletus was happy that neither of his siblings had shown any interest in spending the afternoon in a cramped viewing room watching the State of Nevada fry their brother Samuel to death.

  Norman, the softie of the siblings, had mentioned it a few times over the past month, but Cletus had convinced him it would be brutal and just play in an endless loop in his head for years to come. Besides which, he pointed out, Norman couldn’t even afford a bus ticket to Vegas, ergo the need to rip off that fuckhead of a Donut Man, Stan.

  Trey had been convinced of Sammy’s guilt right from the start. He said it didn’t surprise him that Darleen had been seeing someone else. He had told Cletus on numerous occasions he never knew how Samuel landed a good-lookin’ piece like her in the first place. No wonder he flipped out when he found those briefs in the wash—Sammy had been duped and getting all liquored up that night must’ve made him crack. Sure, Trey felt sorry for his big blond brother, but Sammy still deserved the Big Zap coming his way that afternoon, and Trey would be happy to miss that show, thank-you-very-much.