“A harvest,” Madeline says. “They’re collecting ingredients.”
“For what?” the pastor asks.
Madeline shrugs, the leather of her jacket wrinkling at the shoulders. “I don’t know, but they’re gathering a lot of them.”
The man in black sticks his forefinger inside Cady Farnsworth, straight upon entry, but then he curls it like a hook to excavate more fluid into the bowl. Dirty fingers with soil from the fields under his nails. He repeats this a few more times while Cady continues to push, the inner labia spread wide like a yawn. Slick pink organ discharging fluid. It’s clear with only the occasional white morsel flowing into the bowl. The man in black stands up, uttering something to Cady that neither the pastor nor Madeline can hear. She remains on the credenza while the rest of the room continues to philander—to fuck. Slack faces and dead eyes. They don’t even appear to be enjoying it. Father Johnstone determines it isn’t lust he’s witnessing, but rather, a forgery of the act.
“We cross when his back is turned,” Madeline says. “The rest of them are too out of it to see anything.”
The pastor watches the cleric survey the room, checking couples with the bowl ready in his hands. Ready to collect tribute, to collect ingredients. Deputy Clarke climaxes joylessly, immediately reaching for his pistol lying in the holster on a nearby tabletop. He removes it, inserting the barrel of the firearm into the vaginal canal of Mrs. Halston who begins to push. The man in black sees this, hurrying over to assist, but Mrs. Halston is spilling everywhere, and the fluid is leaking into the bullet chamber where it will be difficult to harvest. He takes the pistol from the deputy, shaking it over the bowl, and this is when Father Johnstone feels Madeline give a firm push.
“Now,” she hisses.
They cross the stretch of window separating them from the party. It takes only about a second. Madeline checks to make sure none of them noticed, and it’s just as it was: people fornicating, the man in black shaking Deputy Clarke’s pistol over the stone bowl. With his back turned to them, she finally notices a searing in the fabric of the cleric’s shoulder. Wounds scabbed over with dry blood. Madeline was able to hit him with lightning, but not directly. The burn on his shoulder was the result of being grazed.
“As you probably guessed, that’s his Secondary in there,” Madeline says.
The battery, the power source, the counterpoint to Father Johnstone. Same function with differing usages. The pastor is tempted to storm into the room, gun aimed and level upon the cleric. He’d fire and it’d be over. He could end this calamity, put Pratt back on the Divine path. Begin the healing.
“No.” Madeline puts a hand on his shoulder. “We play it smart. We check all the angles before we attack.”
She heads towards the opposite end of the deck, passing two more sets of windows with bodies writhing inside. Father Johnstone follows, catching glimpses of skin, shreds of sex through the burgundy curtains. He can’t make out any of them, but the motion is familiar. Madeline doesn’t even bother touching the windowpanes this time, instead, proceeding to the wooden staircase that leads to the widow’s walk on the second level. Between wine tastings with friends or shopping trips, Cady Farnsworth used to sit up there for hours, either reading magazines or painting her nails. Gusts of wind would blow in from the east and all those beautiful crops would wave with it, almost like liquid.
Madeline sticks the scalpel into the handrail of the staircase, testing it, turning to Father Johnstone and whispering, “Careful. It’s not going to hold for much longer.”
The two of them ascend, conscious to keep their feet towards the end of the stairs where it’s reinforced instead of the middle. There’s plenty of give, the pastor notices. Each step is like walking on a gymnasium mat. The cedar compresses, leaving heel and boot-print impressions, but the two of them make it to the top without incident. Under the floodlight of the widow’s walk, Madeline and the pastor see Cady’s padded lounge chair, a small side table with a bottle of nail polish resting upon it. No people.
The two of them edge toward the door with an already-tarnishing brass knob. Windows are on either side, curtained, but not closed. One of them is cracked about an inch, allowing the conversation within the room to seep out to the widow’s walk. Yet again, Father Johnstone is conscious of holding a shotgun that he may soon have to use, but that’s when Madeline touches his hand, mouthing, “Relax. It’s okay.”
They level their ears to the crack in the window, eavesdropping. From within the room, the mayor says, “Town’s never taken well to outsiders.”
“I’m not an outsider,” a second voice responds. The tone is dulcet, almost raspy. “I’m from everywhere.” He pauses to the take a drink, the heel of the glass clunking gently on wood countertop. He sighs, continuing, “Besides, what these people think is of no consequence. They’re sheep.”
“Well, I’ve never stated it that bluntly,” Mayor Farnsworth says. “But a town can’t run without people. No people, no industry. No economy.”
“Oh, the people will stay,” the second man assures him. “They’re too stupid to leave. Most of them are praying the situation resolves itself when they should be packing. Being set in your ways can prove to be hazardous in times like these.”
“Will the situation resolve itself?” the mayor asks.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that. I’ll hold up my end of the deal,” the second man replies.
“You make a bold claim, Mr. Pollux.”
Madeline looks at Father Johnstone, nodding gravely. She pulls one of her jacket sleeves up, exposing an arm flecked with raised hairs. The pastor’s spiking again, nerves returning. Anxiety. She mouths to him, “Relax,” hand reaching over and landing on his, cradling it. Her thumb smoothes over his knuckles and the bandage. “It’s okay.” He nods, sighs softly. Pressure eases in his chest and shoulders. He prays for safety, prays they not be discovered.
“My demands are just as bold,” Pollux says. “Pratt is done. No industry, no economy, as you said. It’s a money pit. But more importantly, you’ve lost respect in this town.”
“Is that so?” the mayor argues. He’s none to pleased to hear this.
“It is. Because when they wake up tomorrow…when they walk out of their homes and everything around them is dead and the air tastes like rat poison—it’s not going to be you they turn to,” Pollux says. “They’ll flock to this Father Johnstone you’ve been telling me about.”
Upon hearing his name, the pastor emits another spike—this one powerful enough to crack and peel the paint off the house. The cedar of the widow’s walk shivers beneath the two of them, threatening to give way.
“A goddamn charlatan is more like it!” Mayor Farnsworth says heatedly. “The audacity of that man, thinking he can go over my head.”
“Mmm, yes, I’ve heard.”
“For thirty years he’s been as docile as a dead horse,” the mayor says. “Now I’m hearing about ‘miracles’ and an entire slew of other rumors. Revolting things, Mr. Pollux, as I’m sure you’re aware. It’s not a good look for this town.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of that. In fact, I daresay I’m more intimate with the situation than you are,” Pollux says. “And that’s why you’re going to allow me free rein to handle the situation as I see fit.”
“Within reason, of course,” the mayor says.
“Have you seen what’s become of your town?” Pollux asks. “I’d say the state of affairs in Pratt has become strikingly unrea- sonable.”
“As are your demands,” the mayor says. “Your associate…he won’t go over well here. Father Johnstone has swayed the people with his little performance. He’s got their allegiance.” “My associate will be fine. Curing a few debilitated is one thing. Curing a town is another,” he says. “People here…they’re fickle, I’ve learned. Simple. They like their routine. And if it’s one thing simple people absolutely loathe it’s complexity…makes them forget themselves, like this situation you’ve got on your hands,” Pollux s
ays. “Loyalty is always the first thing to go. When you’re starving…when you’re sick and tar is boiling in your lungs—you’ll take aid from just about anybody.”
Mayor Farnsworth clears his throat, unsettled. “Where might your associate be now?”
“Keeping an eye on things. I know you can’t feel them but we’ve got company lingering about,” Pollux says.
Father Johnstone spikes. Madeline can feel it in her teeth this time, like the nerves are being squeezed with pliers. She backs against the wall of the house, skin on fire. She can barely hold the scalpel. The pastor shakes, holding the gun tight to his chest as paint molts from the house and cedar strains beneath him. He can’t move. Can barely breathe.
“We’ve got two little mice sneaking around,” Pollux says. “And what do mice do? They stay very quiet and very still, and they watch you from the cracks.”
In the distance, Mary is barking. She’s staggering through what used to be the cornfields, barking as if someone has a hand around her throat. Father Johnstone looks to Madeline, hoping she’ll know what to do next or have some sort of a plan, but she’s shivering, nose bleeding.
“Stop,” she whispers. “Please.”
“And you let them watch, mayor. You let them think they’re safe,” Pollux says. “You let them think they’re nice and hidden, and that’s when you spring the trap.”
From just above the floodlight, something swings across the spectrum—an object long enough to clear the distance between the roof and Madeline’s face. She’s hit in the cheek by some blunt object, knocking a few teeth loose. Blood gushes and careens around her mouth, onto the window and wall. Instinctively, the pastor fires above him—not aiming—shooting at God knows what. Rock salt shatters the lights and the widow’s walk goes dark. It’s quiet for a moment. Quiet, except for Mary struggling to warn her owner and the sound of shifting weight on the roof shingles above. The pastor wants to run out to her, wants to pick her up and escape, but his cowardice of what lurks above prevents him.
So he prays. Father Johnstone prays and the Lord has nothing for him.
The cedar begins to crack, splitting like a sheet of ice under his feet. He presses his body against the wall, quiet, just like a little mouse. A helpless little mouse praying and hoping not to be caught.
“You can come on in, if you’d like, preacher,” Pollux says. “Join the party.”
He waits a moment for the pastor to answer, but there’s no response, no reasonable way he can be faced in the pastor’s mind. Not without Madeline, that is. He prays for her to wake up. Prays the impact didn’t kill her.
“No? You sure?” Pollux offers one more time, but again, no answer. “Have it your way.”
Not a moment later, an object hits the flooring of the widow’s walk originating from the roof, too light in weight to damage it any further. It takes a couple seconds for Father Johnstone to realize it’s hissing, emitting something into the surrounding air. It tastes pungent, and burns. He begins to cough, choke. His throat closes and he can’t breathe, can’t see anything because his eyes are burning and tearing up.
Father Johnstone staggers away from the wall, onto a section of the planking with less support. The cedar of the widow’s walk finally gives under his weight, breaking like Styrofoam. He falls through. Father Johnstone falls, and Pratt’s salvation falls with him.
On the Road with Billy Burke, Truck
Stop Preacher
“Been on the road a long time now. Long, long time. Can barely remember the place I used to call home. It’s almost as if it’s been burned right outta ol’ Billy’s mind. Don’t really matter because as long as I got the Lord in my heart, I’m right where I need to be. We all are. We got the road. We got each other. I’ve witnessed many of you come of age in your faith, and I’m mighty proud of that. You give me hope that the world ain’t gonna fall into the hands of the faggots, sand-niggers, and undesirables. When the Devil come at ya, I know you boys will do the right thing and punch him right in the fucking pie hole. Your bond with the Lord is strong now; you’re strong. These clueless assholes kneeling down on the prayer bars to give the Lord a hummer are just going through the motions. They’re scared…trying to take out an insurance policy for the afterlife. Their faith is passive and weak. They’d rather scrub the floors of the Lord’s Kingdom than fight alongside Him. I see a lot of brawlers in this room…got the cuts on your knuckles to prove it, too, don’t ya? Taken a few licks dishin’ out the Good Word. Well, I’ve got my scars, too, boys. I’m proud of them. Proud of every goddamn one of them. Ol’ Billy here…he’s inclined to add a few more to the collection before the winter ends.”
The Chairs
…hours later.
Father Johnstone wakes up in a room he doesn’t recognize, body aching and the burn of what feels like a large gash sweeping across his forehead. Another sears the side of his neck. Sweat pours into the wounds where the cedar of the widow’s walk bit into his skin, stinging him to a state of consciousness.
“You gotta keep this stuff warm or it’s worthless,” a man speaks low from the corner, almost too quiet to hear. “That’s the trick.”
Father Johnstone is disoriented, seated in a metal folding chair like the ones he keeps in storage at the church. Not seated by choice, though. Duct tape is wrapped around his ankles, binding him to the front legs. Many more lengths encompass the torso, from his stomach to his sternum—he’s held firmly to the backing of the chair. It makes it difficult to breathe, and the air he can take is rotten like old meat, testing his gag reflex. His wrists are taped together above his lap, hands purple and peppered with various splinters and cuts. The gauze dressing on his palm remains, although it’s now soiled with a rust-colored patch. It needs to be changed.
“No warmth, no life,” the man says.
Light pouring through the living room windows obscures his face, but the pastor can more or less see what he’s doing, even through the haze of residual tear gas coating his eyes that faintly burns. The man dips what looks to be a short-handled brush, coating thin bristles in some kind of liquid before applying it to a paper surface. He paints across it methodically, slowly.
“You don’t appreciate life until you have it threatened, preacher.”
This is neither Pollux nor the cleric that attempted to burn down Madeline’s home. He’s got a full head of hair with a lean, healthy build. His voice is a bit craggy, containing a hint of Midwestern twang that almost makes him sound local. Perhaps not from Pratt specifically, but one of the surrounding towns.
“Who are you?” Father Johnstone asks. His throat is raw, almost as if it’s been charred by vomit. It’s uncomfortable to speak.
The man chuckles at the question, dipping the brush into the bowl again and painting. Small careful strokes are used to apply the liquid on the page, glazing it in a thin coat. “Your friend is comin’ round.”
He points a finger past Father Johnstone. Sitting roughly five feet to his left is Madeline, also bound to a metal folding chair. Shades of eggplant and strawberry-red label the point where she was hit in the face. Dry blood crusts her lips, traveling all the way down to her collarbones. She spits and then immediately winces from the effort. Father Johnstone can only assume the inside of her mouth was split open by her own teeth.
“You okay?” he asks her.
Madeline sighs, eyes closed. Closed tight. She shakes her head, then gives a little wiggle of her arms to test the integrity of the tape. She can’t even push her own elbows off her ribcage.
“You were hit,” the pastor says.
“Figured.” Madeline spits blood again. It’s the same shade of brown as old motor oil. She connects eyes with Father Johnstone a moment before noticing the man in the corner, still toiling away: dipping the brush, painting, repeating. She nods towards the man, looking at the pastor as if to ask, ‘Who’s that?’
Father Johnstone attempts to raise his shoulders, failing to shrug because of the tape. He doesn’t know the man. He doesn’t recogn
ize the room they’re in or the dead tract of land beyond the dirty windows. Outside, he can see tiny lumps of animal twitching on the ground, but his vision is too blurry to make out what exactly.
“Birds,” Madeline says, testing the tape around her ankles now. It also holds.
Those last moments flash through the pastor’s mind: trapped on the widow’s walk with Pollux on one side and another man waiting on the roof, clutching onto the shotgun with no idea what to do. Mary was barking, trying to warn the two of them to get away. To escape. He doesn’t want to assume the worst, but the pastor can’t help but think Mary spent her last breaths out in those dark dead fields, trying to save the only family she’s ever known.
“It progresses,” the man says, still swiping that brush over the paper. Sunlight continues to obscure his features. He’s seen in outlines of gold. “Insecta first, then Rodentia and Aves,” the man says. “Proceeding to larger animalia. They, too, return to ash and dust. That’s what he tells me.”
From the next room over, Madeline and Father Johnstone hear the sound of two sets of footsteps. One is staggered but supportive; the other is intermittent, laced with the distinct sound of boots dragging over old flooring. After a moment, Pollux passes through the entryway with the cleric holding on to him, a slender arm wrapped around his neck. Tufts of thinning hair that he had the previous night have since molted away, leaving his scalp bald with the exception of a few random sores and lacerations. He’s weak, can barely open his eyes let alone walk. Pollux escorts him to the corner, shrugging him off. He doesn’t look how the pastor imagined he would, an assumption made having been acquainted with him through actions rather than conversation. Pollux is handsome, young, but there’s an exhaustion in his face that makes him appear strung out, as if he hasn’t slept in years. He lets the cleric’s body slide down the wall where he winds up crumpled on the floor, breathing shallowly. Twitching. Dying.
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