by William Oday
He was all alone.
No. Worse.
He wasn’t alone.
“Praise the Lord,” the scarred man said as he kissed the cross hanging from his neck. “I am the Burned One, He who died and yet lived, the one true prophet of the Almighty. You may call me Father Roberts.”
He paused, his gaze boring into Elio like a diamond-coated drill bit.
Elio tried to look away, to cast his eyes in any direction other than the current one. A voice in his mind screamed to turn away before it shattered. Before his sanity cracked like an egg.
And yet, he couldn’t move. His will was not his own.
“You are here to repent of your sins. To seek His divine mercy. It is only through His grace that redemption can be found.” Father Roberts turned and gestured at all the monks gathered round. “As are all who live in these, the End of Times.”
“Amen,” the brown-robed monks spoke in unison.
“What is your name?”
Elio stood there in frozen terror.
A searing white pain lanced across his cheek.
He blinked in shock and touched his fingertips to the wet warmth there.
Father Roberts held out a long whip that ended in a thin strip of leather. He touched the tip to Elio’s forehead letting it cascade down his face. “You will answer when asked a question.” He lowered the whip to his side. “What is your name?”
“Elio Lopez.”
A lance of fire streaked across Elio’s other cheek. He moved so fast Elio barely saw it, much less had time to respond.
“No,” Father Roberts said. “Your name is Beelzebub, the Fallen One. You come to us with the devil in your heart, with black stains upon your soul.”
Despite Elio’s terror, despite his pain, despite the multitude of reasons that said he should remain silent and subservient, an indignant fire flared in his chest.
Why was he here?
He’d done nothing! Nothing!
It wasn’t that he didn’t care that people got hurt or killed. It was just that he didn’t do it and nobody seemed to care about that fact.
If the briefcase had been involved in the bombing, it wasn’t his fault. He’d done nothing more than do his job by delivering it as directed. Unfortunately, the DA didn’t agree and the crowd that nearly killed him definitely had him pegged as guilty.
And now he was here—wherever that was—getting whipped by a disfigured lunatic?
“I didn’t do anything!”
The monks surrounding Father Roberts sucked in their breath as one.
Good. The heat of his anger warmed his chest.
The lashing whip cut across his shoulders with speed and ferocity. Elio shrieked in agony. The whipping continued until he crumpled to the ground.
“Blasphemy will not be tolerated in this holy place!” Father Roberts stared down breathing hard from his exertion with the whip.
“Brothers, prepare the altar.”
A couple of the monks pulled Elio to his feet and then dragged him across the clearing. He couldn’t see where they were taking him because he didn’t have the strength to lift his head. He was done. Drained. Ready to die. Wishing he was already dead.
The two monks holding him up stopped and Elio managed to lift his head. Icy dread settled in his gut.
The altar was some kind of rudimentary table propped up at an angle. The naked figure strapped to it had the caked hair and filthy body typical of a delta. But the resemblance stopped there. This recently deceased woman, delta or not, spoke a silent tale of unimaginable suffering before the welcome release of death claimed her. Her legs ended in gory stumps above the ankle. A brown cross that looked like dried blood anointed her forehead.
The monks unstrapped her wrists and legs. The body slid to the ground and was dragged away into the darkness.
None of it seemed real. It couldn’t be.
Was it just last night that he’d had dinner at the West’s house?
How could that be?
That reality couldn’t coexist with this one, could it?
This was a nightmare. That had to be the answer.
Several monks hauled him against the table, yanking his arms and legs wide in an X. Rough rope bit into his flesh as the restraints pulled tighter, making his joints creak in protest.
Father Roberts appeared in front of him carrying a wicked looking knife.
“Gather round, Brothers,” he said. “It is the will of the Lord Almighty that we each submit to the Holy Word. And by His grace only can the darkness in our hearts be cleansed.”
“Amen, Father,” they spoke in unison.
“I ask you Brothers, what must be done when the tongue of a man condemns his soul to eternal damnation?”
The Brothers remained silent, either because nobody knew the answer or because everybody did.
Father Roberts turned back and held the knife in front of Elio’s face. He twisted it letting the mirror blade catch glints in the lantern light.
“The sin must be severed from the soul just as a cancer is cut from the body.”
25
BETH puffed a lock of dark hair out of her face and wiped away the beads of sweat gathering on her brow. If she kept at it long enough, hopefully sheer physical exhaustion would switch off her mind like a light losing power. She noticed another spot of soap scum on the chrome shower head and attacked it with the rough side of the sponge, rubbing so hard her shoulder muscles burned.
Cleaning bathrooms was a distant second best to wrenching on her old Kawasaki Vulcan, Spock. She missed her old motorcycle like a lost family member.
Practically, the Green Zone was small enough that a pedal bike could get you anywhere you needed to go. But a pedal bike offered none of the thrill of its beefier, pistoned cousin. None of the freedom.
Not enough, at least.
But Spock was wasting away outdoors in the courtyard of what was once Ahmed’s house. A bullet hole in the engine block.
Doomed to rot and rust.
With their abandoned house next door. And the abandoned house of the Crayfords next to that.
It was all gone. Never to return.
It was too heartbreaking to linger on.
She scrubbed at some brown gunk in the grout between the shower tiles.
Compared to working on Spock, cleaning bathrooms sucked hard. Still, the mindless physical labor was a welcome distraction. She kept scrubbing, ignoring her exhaustion.
Mason had whisked Elio away to safety several hours ago.
Only, he hadn’t.
Yes, her husband had saved him from the mob. But then he let the police take Elio away to only God knew where. Mason had texted her after Elio had been transferred to a new vehicle and driven away. He’d ended the text saying that he was busy but would get back with her as soon as possible.
She gritted her teeth and scrubbed harder.
That was hours ago. Hours.
And the not knowing anything was absolutely killing her.
Elio wasn’t her son, but she cared for him like one, like she was his second mother. And she fully expected to become that one day as a mother-in-law if the relationship between him and Theresa continued forward.
Would the marriage of their children finally heal the rift between Maria and her husband?
Not if the marriage never happened because Elio was rotting away in some prison cell. And not if it was Mason’s fault he ended up there.
Beth blinked to get the sweat out of her eyes. She switched hands because her right shoulder was numb with exhaustion.
“Hey, I got another anonymous admirer.”
Beth turned to see Iridia holding a folded piece of paper.
She opened it and turned it toward Beth.
YOUR DEAD! IRIDIA TRAITOR!
It was hand-written in red paint that was supposed to look like blood, but wouldn’t fool a ten-year-old.
Beth shook her head. “The idiot spelled “you’re” wrong. Throw it away.”
It was the second dea
th threat this week.
Iridia crumpled it into a tight ball and squeezed. “Be right back.”
She returned a minute later with a glass of wine in each hand. She shrugged. “I know, I know. Wine, like everything, is in short supply, but you look like you could use it. And I know I could.”
Beth nodded and reached for the offered glass. She took a big gulp savoring the burn as it slid down her throat.
Iridia gestured at the shower head. “I think you missed a spot.”
Beth glanced back at the gleaming object of her distraction. It looked clean, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Iridia was right. Maybe there was yet another spot ruining the finish.
Wasn’t that the honest truth?
There was always another spot. Always something screwing up their lives. From one disaster to the next in an almost unbroken line of tragedy.
What had their lives come to?
What had the world come to?
Was this new reality all they had to look forward to?
And if it was, what was the point?
Beth dropped the sponge into the tub and covered her face. Unwanted tears sprang from her eyes.
“Hey, I was kidding. It looks great!” Iridia said as she swept Beth up into a hug.
“It’s not that.”
“I know.” Iridia squeezed her tight. “Don’t worry. He’s going to be fine.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s the toughest kid I’ve ever met.”
Beth took another drink. Was that supposed to be reassuring?
Iridia arched a brow at her. “You’re thinking what would a spoiled brat supermodel know about being tough?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Not out loud, no. But you don’t know how I grew up. Before we escaped and made it to the West.” She dropped her eyes. “We didn’t all make it. My mother didn’t.”
Beth raised her glass. “ A toast.”
Iridia raised hers. “To what?”
“Misery.”
They clinked glasses and then each drained what remained. Beth looked around the bathroom. She’d been hitting it hard for over an hour and the place looked cleaner than it probably had in decades. “I think we’re done in here.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I’m more of a bring-the-wine girl rather than a scrub-the-toilet girl.”
“You don’t say?”
Iridia nodded as if the question was asked in earnest.
“How about you help me pick up Noor’s room?”
No matter how pristine, a few minutes of Noor and Clyde playing together left it looking like a tornado had touched down. Their play sessions were a daily extreme weather watch.
And Beth wasn’t about to intervene because they were one of the few times when Noor acted like a little girl. When the dark cloud of her father’s death receded and let the sun shine through.
The other benefit of picking up her room was the likelihood of recovering lost items. Clyde was an unrepentant thief and used her room to hide his ever-changing pile of loot.
Iridia wrinkled her too-cute button nose. “There won’t be any monkey poo, will there?”
Beth swallowed the desire to correct her classification of Clyde’s taxonomy. “No. Don’t think so, but I can’t guarantee it.”
Iridia considered for a second and then nodded. “Okay. Besides, I have a pair of dangly silver earrings that went missing yesterday. Guaranteed Clyde was involved.”
Beth chuckled. It felt weird bubbling up her throat and tripping out of her mouth. “I gave up on earrings weeks ago.”
Iridia looked shocked. “Never!”
They headed upstairs to Noor’s room. As soon as Beth opened the door, Clyde bolted out carrying something lavender in his hands. Noor flew out behind him. “Give back my underwear! Clyde!”
He paused at the top of the stairs and shook them in the air.
“I mean it!” Noor yelled as she snatched at the air, just missing them.
Clyde darted down the stairs hooting and huffing with glee as Noor charged after him.
“Kids,” Iridia said with a grin.
Beth pushed the door open and surveyed the destruction. What must’ve been every scrap of Noor’s clothing covered the bed while the bedsheets and quilt lay crumpled on the floor in the corner. All of the desk drawers were open and emptied of their contents.
The contents themselves were strung about the room like they’d been flung in random directions, which they probably had.
“And you think I’m a slob?” Iridia said.
“You’re comparing yourself to a chimpanzee.”
“I’m just saying that my room isn’t messier than this one.”
“Yeah, but it isn’t necessarily less messy either. Is it?”
Iridia shrugged.
“You start on the clothes,” Beth said. “I’ll put the desk back together.”
They both began their respective tasks in comfortable silence. Beth glanced at Iridia as she struggled to fold a shirt so that it would lay flat without wrinkles.
She worked at smoothing it and getting the creases just right.
And that was the amazing thing.
Both because it was a ridiculous thing to have trouble with, but also because she tried in the first place. The Iridia that had barged into their lives two months ago was not the same Iridia standing before her today.
The world had changed.
And the transformation had dragged Iridia right along with it. If the changes didn’t end up killing her, maybe they’d end up bringing out the best in her.
Maybe.
She was still Iridia. And she carried an unimaginably heavy burden. The kind that could end up killing you.
Beth had the contents of the desk mostly returned to their proper places when she noticed a black book with gold arabic lettering sticking out from under the bed. She recognized it at once.
It was Noor’s father’s diary. The one she’d found stashed in a shoebox in the back of his closet back in Venice. The shoebox contained old photos and other mementos that Beth hadn’t felt comfortable sorting through so she’d closed it up and taken it with them.
Noor’s parents were gone, but that didn’t mean she had to forget them. And the contents of the shoebox were her last link to that past.
Beth retrieved the book and stared at the black, leather cover. The gold, filigreed lettering was beautiful and totally indecipherable to anyone who didn’t read Arabic. Noor could read it, if she chose to.
Beth turned to replace the diary in the shoebox in the bottom desk drawer when something tumbled out onto the carpet. It clinked together as it landed.
Dog tags?
She stared at them in confusion. She’d never noticed them before. Not that she’d looked through the book. She’d never do that. Those were personal memories for Noor to explore when she was ready.
Flecks of brown covered the dulled silver surface. Blood most likely. Had Noor’s father served in the military of his native Iraq?
Beth was about to pick up the dog tags to see what they revealed about Ahmed’s past when Clyde and Noor raced into the room. Clyde danced back and forth still holding his prize. Noor stared at the book in Beth’s hands and her eyes opened wide.
Beth panicked.
“I wasn’t reading it. I, uhh, found it under the bed and was putting it away.” She swept up the dog tags, tucked them back inside the book, dropped them inside the shoe box, and then shoved the drawer shut.
Noor stood by the door with a pained expression. All the annoyed joy of the previous moment washed away.
Beth pulled her close in a hug. “Have you gone through your father’s things yet?”
Noor shook her head.
Beth squeezed her tight. She’d be ready someday. There was no reason to rush it.
26
Beth packaged up half of the chicken casserole she’d made and set it aside to take over to Maria’s. Theresa had gone home with her earlier in the day. Elio’s mother
had no other family, and there was no way she could be alone at a time like this. Bringing over some food was a good excuse to check in on them.
As much as Beth worried for Maria, she worried for her daughter more. It was the built-in bias that every parent has for their child.
She heard a knock at the front door. That would be Miro. The casserole had taken longer than expected and she’d texted Mason about it when she realized it would be too late for curfew. He’d replied that Miro had volunteered to drop by to escort her over.
Miro’s enthusiasm held no mystery.
“Coming!” Iridia shouted as she hurried to the door.
Beth emerged from the kitchen to see the couple locked together with their mouths speaking in a way that required no words.
One of Miro’s hands crept down and latched onto Iridia’s butt. She gasped when he squeezed tight.
“Ahem,” Beth said in a loud voice. Unlike Mason, she was supportive of their budding relationship. She just wasn’t in the mood to witness the details of the courtship.
“Sorry,” Miro said as he pulled away. “Hard to resist.”
“Get a room, Romeo,” Beth said. “And not in this house. The walls aren’t thick enough.”
Iridia giggled. “O-M-G! Are you talking about last weekend? My toes curled so hard they cramped!”
Beth sighed. “Too much information! And yes, that is the incident I’m referring to.”
Miro laughed and wasn’t embarrassed in the least. “What can I say? I aim to please.”
Beth groaned.
Iridia raised her pointer finger as if to make a comment, but then wisely thought better of it.
“You’re in charge until I get back,” Beth said. “Everyone’s in bed so it shouldn’t be a big deal. I’ll be back later with your lover boy.”
Iridia jutted her lower lip out and, annoyingly, it made her look twice as irresistible as normal.
“Babe,” Miro said as he kissed the puffy lip. “Did you know you’re insanely hot when you pout?”
Iridia looked up at him through her unfairly long, full eyelashes. “Really?” She batted the same at him.
“So this is what Theresa has felt like all these years,” Beth said.
They ignored her as they continued to ogle each other.