In Memoriam

by Matt James

  Flipping it open, I say, “Frank Moon, NYP—”

  Something bashes me in the face before I can finish introducing myself to our new friends, and I blackout. But before I do, the last thing I see is Jill stir awake and then scream as her door is flung open and she’s torn away from me. I try to hold onto her, but I can’t. The blow to my head is too much for me to fight and…

  6

  Muffled voices stir me awake. Two of them are men, but one belongs to a woman—and it’s not Jill. I can’t quite understand what they’re saying. My brain hasn’t fully rebooted yet. So, instead of rousing suspicion, I stay perfectly still, and I wait. If I’m successful, they won’t be the wiser, believing that I’m still unconscious.

  Even if I were to open my eyes, I suspect that my captors wouldn’t be able to see me do so. There’s something heavy and itchy over my head—a sack of some kind. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I’m in an old-timey gangster movie. I don’t recollect that last time I’ve heard of someone getting their head covered with a burlap sack.

  Is a guy in a trench coat about to snuff me out with a piano wire?

  “NYPD, huh?” the woman says, softly chuckling. Her voice is low and gravely like someone who smokes ten packs of cigarettes a day. “What the hell is a New York cop doing here?”

  My wrists are tied behind my back, but they aren’t attached to one another. They shift again. I think they’re lashed to a someone, not a something. The movement tells me something else. My gun is gone from under my left armpit. The weapon’s bulge is gone. The shoulder holster, however, was left behind.

  “Why are you doing this?” Jill asks, revealing the identity of my fellow inmate. As she speaks, my wrists are jostled. She’s either trying to wake me or attempting to free herself and beat our abductors to death.

  Either way, she gets no answer. The woman laughs again and seems to move off. I’m not sure if we’re alone or not, but the room—wherever we are—goes silent after a door slams shut. Scares the hell out of me too.

  I test my luck and softly graze Jill’s right hand with my left. They’re the ones that are shackled together. My right wrist is also ensnared with her left wrist. I’m not quite sure what’s between us. I can’t get a feel for it, and obviously I can’t see it. What I can tell is that it’s thick, wood, and square in shape. Since we’re inside, I’m guessing it’s a support post of some kind.

  A four-by-four?

  I’m going to have to figure out what they used to bind us to one another because I’m running out of usable adjectives. I move my left wrist and instantly know what tool of the trade they used. I’m a cop, after all. The jingle-jangle is a given.

  Handcuffs. And handcuffs always mean there’s a key nearby.

  “Frank?” Jill asks, keeping her voice down.

  It’s low, barely above a whisper. It must be safe to talk if she’s even attempting to do so. At least, I hope that’s the case. So, I answer her in the most innocuous way possible—with another rub of her hand. She rubs my hand back but stops when a door creaks opens. When it does, I let my arm fall limp, and once more, play dead.

  Whoever just entered must’ve been sent to check on me, because they don’t acknowledge Jill. Instead, I feel the newcomer tap my right foot. When I don’t respond, they kick it hard. It doesn’t hurt, but it is annoying! Next, the asshole nudges my head…then my crotch…with something hard and thin. I could conjure up a penis joke, and it would work flawlessly—but I don’t. I focus on the dickhead and take a stab at what he’s using.

  Rifle barrel?

  “He ever gonna wake up?” My creepy assailant asks. His accent is thick and twangy. I’m thinking that he’s a local, and a part of an End of Days militia.

  “I don’t know,” Jill replies, sounding frustrated. “You did hit us with a big rig, remember?”

  Big rig? I think. Is that what hit us?

  The metal object clunks against the side of my head again. That, plus the sound of it moving around in the man’s hands, confirms my earlier suspicions. It is, indeed, a rifle. Considering where we are, I’m going to say it's of the hunting variation. Its make, and model are impossible to figure out. I’m not exactly Superman with this damn bag over my head.

  “Why don’t you take the sack off his head and see for yourself?”

  Dammit, Jill! I need to keep the roust up for a little while longer, while I take in more of the situation. It’s a cinch to play possum when they can’t see your face.

  Seconds later, my covering is ripped from my head. In the time it takes to do that, I open my eyes for just a second and take in my surroundings. I keep my chin down against my collar bone, so I don’t see much. Luckily, I think we’re alone with “Junior” here.

  We’re also inside the Christ in the Smokies Museum and Gardens. It’s near the center of town and an odd place to set up shop. It’s also super creepy—especially—in the low light it’s in now. Junior steps up next to me and goes to nudge my crotch again with his rifle’s muzzle.

  What’s with this guy?

  I do the only thing I can think of. I kick him as hard as I can, right in the balls. He groans and loses his breath as most men will tell you when it happens, but he doesn’t go down. So…I kick him again. This time, his rifle, a factory AR-15, clatters to the floor, and he leans forward with the shot, grabbing himself with both hands. I quickly snap up my boot and catch him square in the face, dropping him next to me with a thud and a splatter of crimson.

  I caught him good, just underneath the nose. Junior’s face is a mess, but then again, it was a mess before I ever touched it. This guy makes Quasimodo look like Chris Hemsworth!

  “Geez,” Jill says, looking over my shoulder, “he went down easy.”

  I shrug. “I guess they don’t inbreed ’em like they used to.”

  Turning to look at her, I stop when I see a bloodied foot between us. Jill must not have noticed it since she’s behind it. Me? I’m staring right at it. Then, I work up the courage to see who its owner is.

  It’s Jesus Christ.

  No, I’m not kidding.

  Seriously, stop laughing.

  The post I thought we were tied to… It turns out that it’s the base of the cross used in Christ’s crucifixion. The foot is that of a wax figure depicting that of a dying Jesus. The blood I saw is nothing more than paint. And no, I have no idea why they decided to cuff us around this particular figure. Either way, I think they’re off their rockers—fucking batshit crazy. It’s strange since the woman that was in charge seemed reasonably level-headed.

  Whatever, I think. Now, where are those keys?

  I reach for them, but my hands don’t make it. Not even close. So, I try using my feet and scoot Quasi closer to me. No dice. I can’t get a good enough grip to do so. Biting my lip, I try to come up with another solution, but don’t have one.

  Jill does.

  “Stand,” she says, already moving.

  We lean into one another—and Jesus—and push ourselves up. It takes a few tries to get going, and once we do, we’re up on our feet and out of breath. Taking a second to regain our air, I study the room and I’m happy to see that we’re still alone.

  “Now what?” I ask. “We, uh, aren’t going anywhere like this.”

  “Not sure,” she replies, deflating me a little. “I just wanted to get up, you know?”

  I do know what she means, and I don’t push it.

  “So, ‘Christ in the Smokies,’ huh?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.

  The Christ in the Smokies Museum and Gardens is a popular stop for people when visiting Gatlinburg. It depicts famous scenes from the Bible, specifically those revolving around the life of Jesus. It’s roughly three miles southwest of Sanctuary. I have no idea if our abductors headed north up the hill after apprehending us. I hope not, though.

  “No idea why we’re here,” she replies. “They threatened to kill you if I kept fighting them.” I see that her right eye is swollen. “This is where we ended up.”
/>   “You okay?” I ask, happy to see that she still has her clothes on. I wouldn’t have put it past these guys to take advantage of Jill while she was in a weakened and subdued state.

  She grins. “The shiner is from the lady, not the guys.”

  “Really?” I’m honestly shocked…and impressed.

  Jill nods. “Total sucker punch, but, yes. Then, she put a gun to my head and threatened your life.”

  I try to turn a little to give her a thank-you kiss but don’t. I can’t. The crucifix doesn’t let me. What it does do is creak under the strain of me contorting it.

  Interesting.

  “Feel that?” I ask.

  Her eyes glance down to the wood post, and she smiles. We each back into the cross and grab it any way we can. Then, we rock it side to side as hard as we can. Slowly—and I mean slowly—it starts to come loose. It’s an awkward stance. I have to stop several times to fix my grip and to relax the strain in my thighs. It feels like I’m sitting against a wall with no chair beneath me. Instead of the weight being supported by my ass, it’s being held aloft by my legs.

  Jill’s own grunts tell me that she’s feeling the same discomfort that I am. Still, we need to keep going. We need to take this opportunity and run with it—literally. We also need to find our stuff.

  “Any…idea where…our gear…is?” I ask, in between growls.

  Jill stops and stretches. “I think they left everything out front in the atrium. Then again, my head was covered too. So…”

  So, our stuff could be anywhere.

  Muffled voices start up in the next room. The set of double doors to my right lead into another section of the museum as do a barricaded set to my left. I’m guessing the doors on the right is where our buddy Quasimodo came from. It means more will come looking for him, eventually.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  I feel her lean back into the cross. “No.”

  “One, two, three…”

  As one, we rock the post harder and harder. The wood begins cutting into my palms. It even feels like a couple of blisters have opened. But, the post creaks and tilts to my left. Without voicing any suggestions, Jill and I focus our efforts in that direction and stumble as the base beneath the diorama’s floor gives. Whatever Jesus’ support is attached to, it wasn’t meant to have a ton of pressure applied to it.

  I let out a snarl, drowning out Jill’s own guttural noise. Then, the crucifixion, Jesus and all, go crashing to the ground. It’s relatively weighty and I tell Jill to roll to her right side. I do the same but fall on my left shoulder. Getting pinned beneath the cross would’ve been a painful way to land.

  I land hard, take a couple of deep breaths, and immediately start squirming toward the top of the post. Luckily, one of the cross’ arms has broken off. So did one of Jesus’. Oops. Now, we only have to contend with the rest of him to set ourselves free.

  At my current angle, I’m forced to tilt my head down to look back toward the door. I yelp at what’s between the exit and me. Apparently, not only did we remove one of our Lord and Savior’s arms with our efforts, but we also decapitated him. And he’s looking right at me.

  Well, I think, feeling incredibly uncomfortable, we’re going to hell.

  “Let’s go,” I say, squirming like a worm. There’s no way to properly coordinate our moves, so I just wait for Jill and follow her lead.

  Eventually, we get to Jesus’ right arm—the one that’s still attached to his body. It’s sticking straight up in the air like a shark fin and is going to be extremely difficult to navigate.

  “Get on your knees,” I say, wondering just how in the hell I’m going to do that. “Then, reach as high as you can.”

  “Yeah,” Jill replies, “sure…”

  I lean right, or in this case up. Just when I think I’m about to tear something in my left hip, I get a knee up beneath me. Jill must have done the same thing because the tension in my shoulders lessens a second later.

  “How you doing, Babe?” I ask.

  She chuckles softly. “You have to ask?”

  With my left arm—and Jill’s right—still pinned beneath Jesus and the cross, the next phase of our escape plan isn’t going to be easy.

  “Ready?” I look over my shoulder and see her nod. “Okay… Reach!”

  As one entity, we lift our free, yet still constrained wrists into the air. Grunting in discomfort, we’re forced to halt our efforts, failing to get the chain up-and-over the end of the cross’s arm. We need to get higher.

  See ya later, shoulder!

  “Again.”

  We do, but this time I reach higher than my body is physically capable. I feel a burn in my shoulder, bite my lip, and keep going. Just when I think the joint is going to dislocate, the chain scrapes its way to freedom. Lowering my arm is the easy part. Lifting it again without it hurting like an SOB won’t be as simple.

  “Well,” Jill says, breathing as hard as me, “now what?”

  7

  It takes us a few tries, but Jill and I eventually wriggle free of the ruined crucifix. Unfortunately, we’re still cuffed to one another and won’t get too much further than this unless we can find the keys.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Jill says.

  I turn and make eye contact with her. She’s grinning, looking as worn down as me. It’s nice to see her sense of humor come out in a time like this. It means she’s almost entirely out of her mental funk. At least, I hope that’s what it means. I keep forgetting its only been a few weeks since both of her parents died.

  Before everything happened, time moved insanely fast, especially in the last few years. Lately, however, time seems to be at a standstill. It’s made every day feel like a month has passed versus just twenty-four short hours.

  We shamble over to Quasi and gingerly kneel. Inch by inch, we shimmy around on our knees and blindly grope at the unconscious man’s pockets. After we’ve checked every place we’re willing to touch, we give up and get back to our feet.

  Mr. Modo doesn’t have the keys. He does have a weapon, though. A lot of good it’ll do us right now. We need to improve our situation before even trying to use the gun.

  “We could at least try and change the way we’re facing for now,” I suggest, internally mapping out a way to do so. It can be done—but do we have that ability right now? I’m beaten up from the wreck and the ordeal of escaping the cross. I’d imagine Jill is too.

  “Sounds good,” she replies. “So, arms up?”

  “Uh, sure,” I say, feeling my strained shoulder protest the movements.

  Being the taller of the two of us, I have to crouch a little so Jill can extend her arms as high as possible. Then, we turn, almost like we’re dancing. I let Jill twirl underneath my hands, and I quickly catch up to her. Our wrists spin within the metal shackles, allowing us to look into one another’s eyes undisturbed. I go to hug her but can’t get my arms around her without uncomfortably pulling on her limbs.

  So, instead, I settle for another filthy kiss.

  We part and examine the room. The thieves that would usually accompany Jesus, one on his left, the other on his right, are MIA. Their bases, like Jesus’ now, are splintered and broken, making the whole scene feel eerie.

  The thief on the right is missing entirely. There’s no sign of him or his cross. The criminal on the left is still present. He’s been propped up against the rear wall…and he’s splattered in blood. A lot of the room is, in fact. The low light isn’t making it easy to see much of anything, but there is light!

  A window! I—we—bend and snag the felled AR-15.

  “Come on,” I say, leading Jill to the wall. The illumination is coming from behind a thick, floor-to-ceiling curtain. Sunlight glimpses through a rip in the fabric.

  “Break the glass?” Jill asks, thinking the same thing.

  “Sure,” I reply. “Then, we run like hell.”

  She nods and helps me pull back the velvety partition. On the other side of the window are the front parking lot and the en
trance of the museum. They’re a burned-out warzone. Numerous cars are now flipped, blackened, and charred, as are a multitude of bodies. The vehicles are riddled with bullet holes. So are the corpses.

  “Hmmm,” I mumble.

  “What?” Jill asks.

  “We’ve had some pretty rowdy neighbors and didn’t even realize it.” I tilt my chin to the scene before us. “None of this was here during our first trek through town.”

  “The explosion.”

  I nod. “Yep. I bet the people that snatched us are responsible for all of this.”

  A pair of armed gunmen waltz by us. Luckily, they’re far enough away that they don’t notice us watching them. One of the two is dressed in a hodgepodge of battle armor—riot gear, I recognize. Either he was a cop at some point, or he stole the equipment off of a cop after killing him.

  Do I know the guy killed a police officer? No, but I suspect these are some bad dudes we’re dealing with.

  Dudettes, too, I think, recalling the woman’s voice from earlier.

  “So, we aren’t busting out of here?” Jill asks, pointing at the window.

  Just as she says that four Unseen come sprinting at the duo outside. I watch in awed fascination as both quickly snap up their respective weapons and expertly mow down their attackers. One of the creatures detonates into a fireball. The window shakes, reminding me of the way it would during a thunderstorm back in Florida. The two men high-five each other in celebration, and whoop into the air. They’re loving every minute of it.

  Psychos.

  I look at Jill.

  “Nope,” she says. “Not going this way.” She holds up her left wrist. My right hand comes up with it. “Not like this, anyway.”

  We leave the window and redraw the curtain, returning the room to the soft light in which we found it. Jill and I head for the center of the room—but movement outside of the double doors stops us cold. The clunk of boots resonates in the still, dank air. If someone with a gun comes through those doors and finds Quasi in his current state…

  “Come on,” I say, hustling over to the limp man.