Madeline flexes her hands, rolling her fingers as she turns to the Challenger where Dr. Keller and the pastor wait. She rounds to the passenger side, opening the door and squeezing into the front seat. “It’s either going to hit the gas line or his moonshine collection, so you better back up a little.”
Father Johnstone taps down on the accelerator, backing up the Challenger another ten or so feet away from the house. He’s not exactly eager to leave. If Mason Hollis is about to die, he wants to make sure of it this time. Rumors and ghost stories aren’t going to muddy up the facts, nor will he build up his own legend the way Sheriff Morgan did by being a braggart. As far as Pratt is concerned, the two men being cremated in Clevenger’s living room never existed. They don’t need to know that they were responsible for the plague that fell over the town. They don’t need to know about Craft or how their Lord and Savior was a little more than what the scriptures made Him out to be. In the midst of all the panic a decaying town has brought, Father Johnstone is of a mind that some things are best kept secret. Perhaps this is why Madeline was never as transparent with him as she could have been. It was his purity of faith that made him an ideal partner, and shaking that might have introduced compli-cations—namely, him deserting Pratt and leaving her to fend for herself.
“And I do have feelings for you, Johnstone,” Madeline says, reading those intangibles, the pastor’s emotions. “I’ve had them for a while now, but it’s easy to make someone look bad when you don’t ask them the right questions.”
Father Johnstone watches old man Clevenger’s home turn to ash, fire spreading to the stale roof shingles. For reasons he can’t exactly discern, he remembers the kiss. Madeline’s lips caressed his and the relationship took on a different meaning, something not quite paternal but not purely romantic either. Too complex to summarize in words.
“Don’t try to define it,” she says. “Just know it’s there and that I feel it, too.”
The pastor turns over his right shoulder, looking to the backseat where Mary is resting in a pile of blankets and looking miserable. As much as he’d like to reach back and hold her, he’s not sure if her body could take it at the present time. Symptoms of the plague remain apparent. Mary continues to wheeze and leak from her eyes, mouth, and ears. The pastor can only assume that the debilitating effects will regress at the same pace they originally came about.
“We’ll fix her,” Madeline says. “All of this. We’ll bring back the crop, the flowers and gardens. Purify the water and earth. Repair the damage.”
Father Johnstone nods. For the first time in a while, he allows himself to feel relief. The crackle of the flames and the smoke calm him, ease his nerves.
“I could use your help as well…with the people,” Dr. Keller mentions, somewhat tentative. He’s unsure if he’s out of line with the request, or if Madeline can even do it.
“Of course,” she says, eyes never wavering from the house. The same brown eyes that Father Johnstone has now.
“The town needs to be pacified,” Dr. Keller says after a moment. “You haven’t seen what it’s become, and Mayor Farnsworth refuses to address the issue. He’s hiding. A pillar should step up in his absence.”
The pastor and Madeline exchange a knowing look. Farnsworth’s desperation notwithstanding, Father Johnstone has no forgiveness in his heart after what he witnessed. He was going to hand Pollux the town on a silver platter for the sake of commerce, to keep the cogs turning.
“We’ll handle him later,” Madeline answers for the both of them.
Father Johnstone looks towards the main part of town from the outskirts where old man Clevenger’s reclusive hovel lies. Smoke billows from numerous buildings in the distance. Other structures have already begun to collapse under the duress of weakened foundations.
“Do you sense them?” the pastor asks. He continues to watch the fire, the smoke, looking for unusual movement.
“No,” Madeline says. “They’re gone. We can go now.”
Father Johnstone shifts the Challenger into drive, pressing on the gas, although it’s not nearly as responsive as it was before Dr. Keller smashed it through a house. He mentally adds his vehicle to the list of things that need his attention. The Challenger and Mary, and maybe the church, too. The few roof leaks the Pratt bake-off was intended to remedy seem small in comparison to what he might be coming back to. His church was already falling apart; the plague may have finished the job.
“And we’ll rebuild that, too,” Madeline says.
Dr. Keller releases a frustrated sigh, turning to look at Madeline, then the pastor. “She’s reading your mind then, I take it?”
“Something like that,” the pastor answers.
Madeline doesn’t say anything, cooling off one of her palms by hanging out the passenger side window. Wind cuts through her fingers, still tinged with rot and not pleasant to breathe. Everything smells of poisoned dirt and engine smoke. Even the air itself has a brownish tinge to it, like a smog cloud you’d see in a major city. As the Challenger drives into the main population, people can be seen moving along sluggishly, almost too sick to stand. Stan Cordish, another one of Pratt’s debilitated, is in the midst of having his oxygen tank looted by a couple men. Houses are either on fire or collapsing. Stores are being looted for inedible food and tarnished goods. Not even a few blocks away from Kurt Clevenger’s property and already Father Johnstone can see he has his work cut out for him. Yet again, the town has turned—but not on any one person in particular. Pratt devours itself now, growing sicker, fearful, more violent with every moment that passes.
Father Johnstone finds himself distracted by all the bedlam happening that he doesn’t see what’s obstructing the road until Madeline curses, leaning across Dr. Keller’s body to yank the wheel hard-right. The Challenger careens into a crack in the earth, smashing in the front end entirely. A swan song of broken engine can be heard as black smoke rises from underneath the folded hood, obstructing their vision along with a windshield cracked to spider webs. They sit tilted forward at an odd angle, breathing smoke, poison, and dead dirt. Dr. Keller mashes his face into the crook of his arm, releasing large hacks and favoring a knee that hit the steering wheel during the crash. Mary grumbles from the backseat, sneezing granulated muck. Fortunately, the body of the cleric cushioned the impact.
“Fault lines,” Madeline says.
Much like the trees and beams of structures lose their integrity and decompose, so too does the earth. It dries out, unable to sustain life of crop or garden, then it begins to crack. Father Johnstone attempts to open his door but it’s stuck. The passenger side is wedged against a wall of dirt. Air is running out, becoming thinner by the moment.
The pastor reaches into the backseat, grabbing Mary by the scruff of her neck and holding her close. “Pop it,” he says, and Madeline places her palms to the roof, magnetically pushing it until it breaks free. Framing warps, flexing out until it breaks and the windows shatter, spilling down the front end of the Challenger in thick kibble. Madeline climbs out first, claiming Book XVIII and scaling over leather seats and the back end of the vehicle. Dr. Keller grabs his kit and follows with the pastor close behind, holding Mary tight against his ribs like a football.
Father Johnstone coughs a couple times, clearing this throat of smoke and dirt. “You okay?” he asks Madeline, but she’s staring off into the distance, back in the direction of Kurt Clevenger’s still-burning home. A column of smoke rises from the ground and mixes into the brown atmosphere above.
“We have to fight now.”
The pastor looks at her a moment, confused until he follows her sightline down the dead dirt road. Beyond a few random looters, he can see them coming: Pollux and Mason, their faces smudged black from soot and smoke. Shoulders covered in dust and small chunks of drywall from the breach. They approach side-by-side, a few bystanders giving pause when they recognize the face of Pratt’s most infamous ghost story back from the dead. Healthy, alive, smiling at the pastor from roughly two block
s away.
“Can you fight?” she asks. “Tell me what you want to do.”
Dr. Keller stands idly by, both he and Madeline waiting for an answer. People panic, scream. Dying birds flop around on the ground like fish, collected and stuffed into burlap sacks by those hoping to taste unspoiled meat. Another roof collapses on itself. Another fire breaks out inside a residence from a gas leak. Sam Cutting curls up in front of his own hardware store, vomiting in the streets between gasps for soured oxygen. He’s robbed by a couple local kids, unable to scream for help or defend himself. Limbs fall from large oak trees, breaking cleanly like elongated cigarette ash. The Challenger shifts, falling to its side when the crack lengthens. It gets worse, will continue to get worse until the living choke on dead air and the fault lines eat whatever remains. Everything dies. Ends. Returns to dust.
Father Johnstone gives a minute nod. To Dr. Keller, he hands Mary over and tells him, “Keep her safe for me.”
Madeline grabs the black medical bag, turning it upside-down and shaking out its contents onto the street. She rifles through the various items, tossing away rolls of gauze and bandages with shaky hands. Veins are popping in her arms and over metacarpals. “Shot’s really kicking in now,” she says, handing over an oxygen mask and the black medical bag back to Dr. Keller. Book XVIII now rests inside of it. “Page twenty-one. You should have everything you need.”
Dr. Keller stands stunned a moment, eyes darting from Madeline to Father Johnstone. In the distance, Pollux and Mason continue to gain ground at a brisk pace. He looks terrified, wanting to help but unsure of his ability to do so.
“It’s fine, David. Go,” the pastor says. He reaches out, giving Mary one final scratch on the chin. Despite the fact that she can barely lift her head, she gives his fingers a couple of affectionate licks. Father Johnstone smiles, telling the doctor, “You gotta go now.”
Dr. Keller purses his lips, nods. He navigates around the fault line and heads down the dirt road at a light jog.
“He’ll be fine.” Madeline uncaps a syringe and sticks it through the top of a small glass container no bigger than a golf ball. She says, “He’s the only medical resource left. They won’t hurt him if they think they might need him. Trust me.”
“What’s the deal with the book?” the pastor asks.
“Insurance.” Madeline pulls the plunger on the syringe, filling the plastic chamber with fluid. She holds it point-up, flicking it with her middle finger to shake loose the bubbles and pushing them out. “When you ordain something, you infuse it with holy properties. It’s not limited to communion wine and wafers.” Madeline gives the syringe a little squirt, readying it for injection. “Bless this for me,” she requests.
Father Johnstone doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t consider the contents of the syringe or what Madeline plans on doing with it. There’s no time. They’re getting closer, so he makes short work of it, bestowing the Lord’s sanction upon the object. One quick blessing, and then Madeline is injecting it into her own bicep, pushing the plunger down hard with her thumb before tossing the syringe behind her in the fault line.
“You’re stronger than me,” Madeline says. “Always have been. It’s why the paint peels and the walls start to bend sometimes…you’re too much.” Madeline sweats. Her skin flushes and the pastor notices veins popping in her neck and forehead, almost as if she’s been holding her breath for too long. “The reality here is that I’ve been holding you back.”
In laymen’s terms: the battery is too powerful for the device. Unlike the cleric lying in the backseat of the Challenger, Father Johnstone hasn’t once felt weak or fatigued. In fact, he feels more vital than his chronological years should allow.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Morphine,” she says. “Now I can be on your level.”
She turns and begins to walk toward Mason and Pollux, balling her fists tight and releasing, giving her hands a little shake. Father Johnstone notices small bolts of static flashing around her fingers. This is when Pollux extends his hand out to a nearby parked car, a red station wagon about fifty feet away from him. He pulls up, lifting it off the ground with magnetic force and guides it through the air, still on the approach.
“He’s a hunter, Johnstone,” Madeline says. She sounds calm, controlled. “The hunter always tries to strike from a distance first. Now get behind me.”
The station wagon hovers fifteen…twenty feet above street level, then a bit higher as it rises past the tops of the buildings. Pollux swings his arm slightly back before throwing it forward, aiming at Madeline and grunting slightly from the effort. 3,000 pounds of vehicle launches through the air, and although the pastor is tempted to dive out of the way, he holds firm, hand on Madeline’s hip and feeling a flush of warmth course through his system. He prays for her, prays that she can stop it.
“From Book VII, this is a spell developed by a group of witches in ancient Rome,” Madeline explains, watching the station wagon sail closer. They can hear it cutting through the wind now. It’s only seconds away from smashing into them head-on. “Primarily, it was used to stop the arrows of Roman soldiers attempting to persecute them,” Madeline says cooly. “Today, we’ll use it to stop a car.”
Father Johnstone sees it at the last possible moment, a thin sheen that has developed in front of Madeline’s extended hand. It’s just barely visible until the station wagon smashes into it, inciting a violent ripple. He flinches as the front end smashes in and the headlights burst against the transparent wall a mere five feet away, but the sound is all that gets through. Not one fragment of glass or steel touches them.
“Particle barrier,” Madeline says, flexing her hands again. She briefly peeks over the station wagon to gauge how close Pollux and Mason are before squatting down, motioning for the pastor to do the same. “He’ll toss another.”
“And will you stop it again?” the pastor asks.
“We won’t be here,” she says. “We use this as an opportunity to reposition…over there.” Madeline points to the right side of the street, near the hardware store.
“So we run?”
Madeline smiles. She takes Father Johnstone by the hand and tells him, “Walk, actually.”
Father Johnstone interlocks fingers with Madeline, feeling hot moisture and her pulse pumping so hard it reverberates throughout her entire appendage. Bystanders marvel as Pollux takes control of another vehicle—a gray pickup truck this time—and lifts it into the air nearly twenty feet above his head.
“So we’re seriously just going to walk?” the pastor asks, concern slipping into his voice.
“Watch his eyes. Stay close,” Madeline says. She stands, pulling the pastor up by the arm—it’s flushing with warmth again. They move off to the right of the smashed station wagon and walk parallel to the edge of the fault line, nearing a cracked length of sidewalk which is littered in various pieces of debris. The pastor and Madeline have since moved ten or so feet away, but Pollux hasn’t noticed. His eyes remain locked onto the space in front of the station wagon, arm positioned above his head.
“Does he not see us?” the pastor whispers into Madeline’s ear.
“Book IX,” she says softly. “Sometimes a witch needs to hide when there’s no cover. No caves or trees or tall grass. So they devised a method in which to appear invisible.” Madeline nods to the sky, tinged in smog. “They figured out how to bend light around them. Now watch.”
Pollux swings his arm forward, launching the pickup truck to the space between the front end of the station wagon and the nearest edge of the fault line. It sails, landing with a loud crunch that dislodges a section of the dead earth. Both vehicles fall beneath street level, sinking into the crater. Mason and Pollux continue on, the latter furrowing his brow, suspicious he’s missed his target for a second time. Pollux pauses a moment, motioning for his Secondary to stand behind him. Both men survey the area with extreme caution, unaware they’re about to pass their targets.
“He’s concerned for h
is Secondary,” Madeline whispers into the pastor’s ear. “We’re going to play off that.”
“Can’t you just bolt them?” the pastor offers, remembering what happened to Mary out in the fields. It seems like a reasonable plan of attack, but Madeline is already shaking her head.
“Lightning is composed of electrostatic charges, both in the sky and in the earth, and they’re walking on dead ground.” Madeline pulls the pastor along, stepping quietly until they’re standing just outside the hardware store. It appears to have been looted, although not much compared to the grocery stores and small markets that have been stripped bare in desperation for food. The battery rack by the front register has been cleaned out, but other things like paint supplies and small tools unfit for weaponry remain undisturbed. Madeline turns to pastor. “I got something we can try. Grab some nails,” she says. “Quietly.”
Father Johnstone backs into the store, careful to step over the various trash and tools still in their packages lying on the ground. He grabs a couple small boxes of ten penny nails from a nearby end-cap, sandwiching them between his palms to keep them silent. Upon exiting, the pastor sees Pollux and Mason stopped in the middle of the road. Thirty feet away, the Primary looks right, then left to where Madeline and the pastor are stationed. He still doesn’t see them.
“They’ve moved,” Pollux says. He walks a couple paces away from them, scanning his surroundings. He keeps Mason close behind him who currently is favoring his left arm. Fresh burns from the house fire blacken and distort the flesh.
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 39