Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller

by Waller, Ryan Casey

  "He's gone," I say flatly, stunned by the quake. "He no longer suffers."

  When the earthquake finishes its rumble, the centurion standing closest to the cross turns toward us and, with amazement in his voice, says, "Truly this man was God's son!"

  His words cut me in half. Could this be right? Did the one true God send the Teacher? I stare up at his lifeless face and am haunted by my own thoughts: A messiah is either victorious or he dies.

  Maria runs toward the cross. I chase after her. "Maria! Wait. We must leave! Now!"

  She falls to her knees and reaches for his bloodied feet. His body doesn't move.

  I fall to my knees next to her as the sky finally releases its water. Everything inside me tells me to run, to take Maria and escape. My survival instincts roar within me. Get out! Do it now! While you still can!

  But I don't rise.

  Instead I sob for my sin.

  I sob for my betrayal.

  I sob for my parents.

  I sob for my dead army.

  I sob for my fellow Southerners.

  I sob for the innocent man I condemned.

  I sob for Maria, for not being the man she needs.

  I sob for fear that I have just killed God's son.

  Then it gets worse.

  I'm yanked from the mud by my shoulders. Shackles are quickly secured around my hands and legs. Another is fastened around my neck. A fresh-faced centurion, one who has just arrived at the scene, says, "King Charles heard that you were here, that you hadn't fled the city."

  "No!" Maria screams.

  "Shut up!" the centurion yells at her. He refocuses his murderous stare on me. With a smile he says, "The venerable King Charles wishes to see you."

  y meeting with King Charles was brief. All he said was, "You and I will speak in the North, after we've fled this Southern hell. If you behave yourself, I might let you speak to your mother."

  "What!"

  But the king just waved his hand in dismissal. "Take him away!"

  That was three days ago. My departure date has arrived.

  We board the train like cattle to the slaughter. We prisoners are herded en masse and without regard for individual dignity, for we have ceased to be human in the eyes of the Kingdom. All that matters now is that the group is shoved aboard and the train departs on time.

  The centurions don't show an ounce of concern for those among us who are so obviously ill that a long journey is the equivalent of a death sentence. It simply doesn't matter that a significant number of us won't be alive when we arrive at the station in the North.

  I'm shirtless, and shackles are latched around my wrists and ankles. The centurions prod us along with stun guns, shocking anyone who dares stumble or hesitate for even a fraction of a second. I've already been shocked once for a look of defiance, but I made a vow, and even now I won't bow my eyes to these men—the men who killed my Lord and stole my love from me.

  Most of the prisoners accept their fate stoically. But as we climb the ladder into the train, we hear cries from a woman in the next car over. She's wailing for her family, telling the guards her husband is ill and unable to care for their children. Taking her north will doom her entire family. I'm glad the same can't be said for Maria, who wasn't arrested. She'll survive with or without me; her spirit is untiring. But I worry about Alejandro. He's out there, looming, and Maria is alone.

  I'm badly injured and deeply depressed. I don't know if I believe King Charles, but if there's even the slightest chance my mother is alive, I must survive this train ride. This hope keeps me going.

  A centurion warns the sobbing woman to shut her mouth. The woman, however, doesn't heed the warning. The centurion warns her again and finally a third time. When the poor soul doesn't comply, we hear the sharp crack of a pistol, a sickening groan, and a deafening silence.

  The gunshot halts our progress, and we wait to hear what will happen next, but nothing does. The guards behind us bellow for us to keep moving, and we collectively realize they have no intention of removing the dead body from the train. The men in that car will make the journey with a bloody, rotting carcass in tow. It's nearly one hundred degrees outside; the stench will be unbearable by noon.

  I shuffle into the car and make my way to the rear, where I'm jammed against a small open window. Luckily it's wide enough for me to stick my head through and gulp a mouthful of fresh air. It's a small but magnificent stroke of good fortune, and I thank God for his small mercies.

  The guards pack our car tightly, shoulder to shoulder; there must be fifty people per car. We sit balled up on the bloodstained floor, our knees pulled high to our chins, doing our best to pretend we don't know what's already taken place on this train—that countless souls have been dragged away from life to death.

  Panic erupts in my brain, fast and searing. There's no room to move or to stretch. We're trapped. My eyes flash wildly at the people around me. The truth hits me. We're not in a train car—we're in a coffin.

  One man already has defecated on the floor near me. The fresh air from the window does nothing to mask the smell of human waste. The journey north will take at least twenty-four hours, and I suspect this car will arrive in hell long before we reach the North.

  Moments later the car door clangs shut, and the train slowly moves forward. And there it is; none of us will ever return home. We will never again lay eyes on the beautiful countryside of our ancestors, the land stolen from us before we were even born.

  As the train gathers speed, I hear my name called faintly in the distance. I turn toward the window, but no one is there. The train chugs on...faster and faster. The conductor pulls the whistle, and the steel beast screams the shrill cry of departure.

  I hear my name again. This time the voice is louder and more urgent.

  I jerk my head out the window, and there I see her, running in the light of the rising sun.

  Maria has lifted her dress just above her knees, and she runs recklessly toward the train. I struggle to move, to try to peel myself out of the doomed car, but I barely can move an inch. I crane my neck and perilously poke my head out the window. It's an excruciatingly awkward angle, like that of a baby born with its face pointing upward.

  "Maria!" I cry out. "Here! Maria! It's Deacon!"

  The woman I love sees me and manages to narrowly slip past a centurion who lunges for her. I see another raise his rifle and aim it directly at her chest. "No!" I scream. "No!"

  She cries out to me, running alongside our train, just as my mother did a lifetime ago. "Deacon! Deacon!" she hollers.

  "Yes! Maria! I'm right here!"

  She yells something, but the screaming whistle and the chug of engines drown out her voice.

  "What?" I say. "What is it?"

  She calls out again, but it's useless; I can't hear her. All I can think to do is say the only thing that still matters. "Maria! I love you!" I choke on my words, swallow hard, and yell again, "I love you!"

  "The Teacher!" she gasps, as the whistle finishes its scream. Maria reaches the end of the platform and stops hard to avoid tumbling off the edge and onto the tracks. The centurion fires, and Maria's chest splits open. Falling, she cries out, "He has risen!"

  Ryan Casey Waller was born and raised in Texas, and educated at the University of Southern California, Perkins School of Theology at SMU, and Dedman School of Law at SMU. You can find him at www.ryancaseywaller.com or somewhere in the great city of Dallas.