“I’m gonna give them a little distraction.” Madeline says this so quietly the pastor almost can’t hear it. “When I do that—throw.”
He nods, holding both boxes of nails tightly in his right hand and ready to toss. Yet again, warmth flushes through his body, burning at the tips of his fingers. Father Johnstone looks skyward, noticing a small patch of clouds forming over the far end of the fault line. Although Pratt is covered in a shell of dead earth, the cracks have exposed the healthy soil that lies underneath. Madeline appears to be aiming her hand past Mason and Pollux, close to the spot where the Challenger is buried.
“Almost,” Madeline whispers, arm tensing as electrostatic charge builds in the sky and earth. Father Johnstone readies himself, waiting. The first flicker of light manifests in the distance and Pollux swiftly puts himself between it and his Secondary, arms extended and ready to defend. The pastor tosses the two boxes of nails at Mason’s back, but neither Pollux nor Mason hear them over the thunderclap. They’re still distracted by a cast that seemingly missed the mark, vulnerable to the 200 nails nearing their proximity.
They burst from their boxes and Madeline buries every one of them into Mason Hollis’s ribcage, spine, and shoulders. He screams, arching his back and falling onto the dead earth, writhing in pain. Pollux whips around and sees it: his Secondary, nails dug deep into his skin, pouring blood into the dirt. Precious blood. Blood he can use. He yanks on Mason’s shirt collar and stands him up, magnetically popping out the nails. They hover around the two men, glistening under the sun as Mason continues to bleed from the holes in his back. So much wasted blood. Pollux cups his hand against his Secondary’s back and gathers a palm’s worth of it, bringing it to his lips and slurping.
“Nails,” he says, talking to himself, a grin spreading across his face. “Where can a guy get nails in this town?”
Before Madeline can fully react, Pollux is shooting every piece of steel in the direction of the hardware store they’re stationed in front of—not focused on any one point in particular. The nails spray wide, covering the entire face of the store and shooting through windows. Madeline had attempted to shield them again, but the particle barrier couldn’t be formed in time to stop the few that make contact. Four or five stick in her torso; another couple have pierced clean through her right hand. She doesn’t wince or cry out in pain. With all the chemicals coursing through her system, the wounds are barely felt.
“There you are,” Pollux says, now able to see Madeline and the pastor. She pops out the two nails in her hand and attempts to shoot them back, but he’s ready this time. The steel abruptly stops mid-air, crackles against his own barrier, and falls to the street. “I read Book VII long before you did, my dear. You’re going to have to show me something new.”
Madeline smirks. “Very well.”
She turns, pushing Father Johnstone back through the entrance of the hardware store while items jump off the shelves and zip past them. Saw blades, shovels, and power tools—anything metal. It’s as if the entire contents of the store are being sucked out by a vacuum. Every box of nails, nuts, and bolts zips past them and out the front entrance and windows, heading towards Pollux where they hit the particle barrier. Cans of paint and tins of brass polish flood by the pastor and Madeline, enabling them to put distance between their party and the one being barraged in hardware supplies just outside.
“There’s something you should know,” Madeline says, pushing Father Johnstone along through the hardware store as a flurry of screwdrivers and wrenches whips past him. She plucks the nails out of her torso by hand, one-by-one; they fly backwards with the rest. Blood drips from her right hand and the puncture wounds in her stomach as they walk through, splattering on the shop linoleum. Madeline says, “Anything the plague kills can’t be brought back. Not even by someone like me.”
It doesn’t take long for Father Johnstone to surmise what she’s referring to. She’s not talking about the flock or any specific person. If the plague moves up the food chain as Mason said, that means Mary hasn’t got much longer. She was already having a rough time in the car. God only knows how long she can hang on.
“I’m sorry,” Madeline says, still ushering the pastor through the hardware store, which is very nearly out of metallic objects to propel backwards. Only a few items such as wood and plastic rakes and ceramic tiling remain on their respective shelves.
“What can we do?” He feels slightly guilty because he knows Madeline can tell that’s not the real question. In actuality, what he really wants to know is how he can assist her in killing this man in as little time as possible. On the brink of losing Pratt and the only real family he’s ever known, what Madeline foretold has finally become true: he has compromised. He is now willing to cross the threshold, and the Lord need only look into his heart to understand why.
Near the back wall of the hardware store, Madeline checks to make sure they haven’t been followed in. “We’re going to try something,” she says vaguely.
“Can I help?” Father Johnstone isn’t sure if he’s supposed to go out the back door or wait for further instructions.
“You stay on my back. Keep close,” she says. “He’s already healed his Secondary by now so we’ll bend light again and circle around.”
Madeline steps in front of the pastor and opens the back door leading outside. It’s raining. Over the sound of metal objects whipping by and making contact with mortar and windows, the patter of the downpour on the roof couldn’t be heard clearly. Clouds have rolled in as well, all but cutting off natural light as dead earth loses its firmness. Madeline pauses in the doorway as the rain gets heavier.
“You can’t do it again?” the pastor asks.
“He’s read everything I have. Can’t bend light if you don’t have any,” she says.
Through the roof, another vehicle plummets their way, slamming nose-first into the flooring a few feet behind the pastor and Madeline. They flinch, flooring cracking underneath their feet. The Ford truck crunches a flashlight display and tips over sideways onto some of the empty racks. Heavy rain falls through the hole in the roof, patting on the truck’s driver side. Unlike the first two vehicles that Pollux launched at them in the street, this one was tossed while it was still running, and occupied. Mr. Hudson is hanging limp behind the steering wheel, held in place by a seatbelt. The blood curling around his features makes him almost unrecognizable.
“The hunter knows where we are and is now trying to force us out. He’s going to start killing people,” Madeline says.
“I can’t have that,” the pastor says. He looks at Mr. Hudson, limp and bleeding in his vehicle. It’s one more person he’ll have to bury if he ever makes it out of this alive.
“He knows you’d feel that way. He’s playing off your sense of obligation to these people,” she explains. “These are pawns meant to draw you to him.”
Two months ago, Father Johntone would have taken great offense to Madeline’s usage of the word ‘pawns’ in reference to Pratt’s innocent bystanders. He would have lectured her on the importance of life and how they’re equal in capacity. That’s not the case anymore. His days of thinking in absolutes have ended with Mr. Hudson and whomever else Pollux decides to use to bait the pastor out.
“He’ll keep showing you bodies until your guilt gets the best of you. Either that, or he’ll toss another car and the roof might collapse in on us,” she says. “And if we go outside, we’ll be out in the open with no cover.”
“You’re saying he wants us to come at him head on,” the pastor says.
“He always did prefer having the target come to him.” Madeline looks at the hole in the ceiling, then the truck. Rain continues to pound through the opening, beating on the vehicle and shop flooring. It pours in so thick the column of wet is almost impossible to see through. “We take high ground,” she says.
Naturally, Father Johnstone scans the room for a ladder they can prop up against one side of the truck’s entry point, allowing them to climb up to t
he roof. This is when notices Madeline moving the truck, magnetically tilting it until it’s sitting on four wheels again. Mr. Hudson’s body, of course, is shifting around on the inside as she does this. He deserves better, the pastor thinks. “No time to move him, I’m afraid.” Madeline addresses the issue before he can bring it up. “Get in the bed there. He’s moving.”
“Pollux is?” The pastor checks the front windows. Not much is visible with all the rain, and the few feet of ground he gains by hopping into the truck bed doesn’t help.
“Don’t worry. He won’t come in,” Madeline assures him. “He’s got the advantage in open space, so he’ll try to force us out to him.” She hops in the truck bed, which is now aligned underneath the hole in the ceiling. They’re drenched. Blood and dirt washes away from their skin. “When we get up there, you let him see you.”
“I’m bait?” he asks.
“He still thinks he can use you,” she says. “So he won’t kill you if he can help it.”
“You don’t sound sure,” the pastor says.
Madeline smiles in the rain, flashing those campfire eyes and the smile just as warm. “Have faith,” she says, and the truck elevates, suspension creaking as the tires hang dead weight on their axles. Standing within the bed, he watches the space between Madeline’s crown and the ceiling decrease, shrinking until they’re able to see the poorly tarred roof of the hardware store. The two of them jump out of the bed, rolling into the inch of rainwater coating the surface. Father Johnstone looks at Madeline, noticing veins popping in her arms and forehead, skin looking flushed despite the coolness of the downpour. Perhaps it’s all the chemicals in her system finally having an adverse reaction.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m holding a truck.” She looks down. The Ford is still hovering in the middle of the hardware store. “Look over the edge.” Madeline nods towards the perimeter.
The pastor finds himself cowering as he walks towards the fringe, concerned that by peeking over he’s putting himself at risk to have his head blown off or worse: tampered with again. He has no idea what Madeline plans on doing, but he prays it works. He prays whatever idea she’s attempting to execute, that it comes to fruition.
Father Johnstone makes his way up to the front of the building, the various tools and metal objects scattered in the street. They slowly drown in rainwater, muck, and the multicolored innards of busted paint cans and wood varnishes. No sign of Pollux or Mason. Just an unpopulated stretch of dead road and supplies sinking into the earth. He heads over to the west side of the roof, creeping his eyes over the crumbling edge. Father Johnstone sees the two men sidling the building, ready to ambush the back door. Mason turns. He connects eyes with the pastor, grinning. Pollux immediately whips around, running full-sprint down the alley with an arm extended. Rain begins to twist unnaturally in front of his palm like a small cyclone. The pastor knows it’s useless to duck for cover. Whatever is about to happen, a few inches of rotting mortar won’t be able to stop it, but he prays he survives. Prays the Lord intervenes.
The truck smashes through the wall.
Madeline tosses the Ford through the hardware store’s western perimeter. It throws off Pollux’s cast just enough so that it doesn’t hit the pastor directly, but rather, takes out all the supporting brick and framework of the corner the pastor is on. He falls with the collapsing roof, losing sight of Mason and Pollux. Madeline watches helplessly as her Secondary falls over twenty feet onto rubble and random metal, calling out for him. Father Johnstone feels a hard snap in his lower leg upon impact. The mud helps soften the fall, but he’s now looking at bone fragment bursting forth from one of his pant legs.
“Wait there,” Madeline shouts from the roof. “I’m coming down.”
Pain hasn’t hit yet, but it will. It’s on its way. He tries not to look at it, tries not to accept that a half a foot of bone is sticking out of his leg. Madeline can fix this, he thinks. If she can cure a cripple, she can take care of this with ease.
He yells for her to hurry, praying. Father Johnstone prays she can mend his wound. He prays to the good Lord almighty that she reaches him before Mason or Pollux does. With every fiber in his being, he pleads that the truck has finished what the fire at old man Clevenger’s did not. If not death, then at least an injury worse than his own.
“Hold still. I’m coming.” Madeline navigates the collapsed section of roof in which Father Johnstone lies incapacitated at the bottom. He looks at where the truck came through the wall, and although it’s obscured by rain, there doesn’t appear to be any movement by either man. There’s no way that Pollux could have defended himself in time, he thinks. He was too distracted by the pastor on the roof to even realize it was coming.
Father Johnstone forces a smile. “I think your plan worked,” he says.
“Not exactly.” Madeline kneels down in the mud, examining the piece of bone sticking out of the leg and swiping wet hair back behind an ear. “I can’t just wave my hand and make this better. I’d have to set it first,” she says, arms shaking—not from the frigid downpour or chemicals allowing her to ignore her own wounds. It’s concern, maybe even fear. Madeline looks at the bone, tentative. She’s either unsure of how to do it or scared she might make the situation worse.
She looks away from the bone, gasping, and the pastor turns to see what’s caught her attention. He’s expecting to see Mason and Pollux, the two of them striding confidently toward a disabled Secondary and Madeline. Fortunately, this is not the case.
“I thought we told you to go home, Keller,” Madeline says, pushing off the muck and ready to greet him. He’s soaked, pacing through the terrain of rubble and mud in a clumsy fashion. “You’re going to have to work fast,” she says.
Dr. Keller gives a concurrent nod, stepping over a particularly large section of wall and bringing his eyes down to the pastor’s leg. He’s empty-handed. No medical bag or tools of any kind. Father Johnstone looks at him, searching for the reason why he would return when he was specifically asked to tend to Mary and the book. His guilt of their original capture might be the event that brought him back.
“How is she?” the pastor asks.
“Fine.” It comes out raspy, so low over the rain that it can barely be heard. He offers a smile of encouragement, which puts the pastor’s mind at ease somewhat.
“It’s my fault. I should have been able to stop it.” Madeline hunkers down next to Dr. Keller, watching him examine the wound. She looks contrite. Clearly, her assumption that Pollux would never do anything to injure the pastor was in error. He’s lucky to be alive right now, and she’s well aware of that. “I can help with the pain,” she offers, placing her fingers on the leg and manipulating nerve function. Father Johnstone feels everything below the knee go numb, past his ankle all the way down to his toes.
“Do it. Quick.” Even though he’s lost sensation in that particular appendage, the pastor braces himself anyway. He waits for the distinct sound of bone snapping over the patter of rain, shutting his eyes tight. There’s no need to see it.
The following noise is sharp, as is the gasp that follows.
Father Johnstone opens his eyes to Madeline’s ribcage housing a screwdriver. Dr. Keller’s fist grips the handle, digging into her. Twisting. Her mouth is gaping, not screaming. Not even breathing. “Imitator spell,” Pollux’s voice emerges from Dr. Keller’s mouth. “See, it’s all that junk in your system. You can’t feel pain, can’t feel your lung collapsing on this screwdriver right now,” he says, pinning Madeline’s body to the ground, locking her arms in so she’s unable to cast. “You can’t feel me, either. We’ll change that.” His frown lines and crow’s feet fade smooth, features change, hair goes from thin and white to lush and dark. Even his clothes change. “You’ll feel me again—don’t you worry about that. I got a little something here for you.”
He pulls out a small syringe, capped in a plastic sheath on the needle. It’s the M99 shot, the one Dr. Keller gave to Madeline. Pollux plans on
knocking her out with it. The pastor screams, curses, tries to intervene. He feels one of Mason’s arms slip around his neck from behind and lock him in, cutting his air off.
Pollux removes the cap with his teeth and spits it out, telling her, “Next time you wake up, it’s not gonna be taped up in a chair. That was me being nice. You’re going to fulfill your duty to me and then you’re gonna feel me harvest you for everything you’ve got, you little cunt.” He laughs in her ear, giving it a lick and bringing the needle to her neck, pushing his forearm into her throat to keep her still.
Father Johnstone can only watch as Madeline struggles to breathe, let alone move. Pollux is too strong. She can’t budge. The metal is inches away from her skin when the pastor notices the end of the syringe bending like string, then snapping. Liquid bursts out of the plastic housing and Madeline navigates the metal through one of Pollux’s eyes. He immediately rolls off of her, clutching his face and screaming.
“YOU CUNT! YOU FUCKING CUNT! YOU TOOK MY FUCKING EYE, BITCH!”
Blood and optical jelly seeps through his fingers, washing away in the rain. He screams. Pollux screams, digging shaking fingers into his eye cavity to pull out the needle fragment. Mason releases the pastor, opting to take Madeline out while she’s still wounded and relatively helpless on the ground. He runs full speed through the muck and mortar with nothing but his fists drawn. Instinctively, she thrusts out a hand and flash-fries the space in front of Mason’s torso and face. It’s so hot the rain turns to steam and burns him, loosening the top few layers of skin and scar tissue. Mason Hollis falls sideways onto the ground, wincing in pain. Father Johnstone can see his face is already bubbling and filling with yellow fluid.
Madeline rolls over to her stomach, crawling on hands and knees to Father Johnstone who is reclined in the wreckage. She doesn’t even bother to pull the screwdriver out of her side, panting, “I’m sorry…I’m sorry,” so quiet that the pastor can’t even hear it over Pollux’s screams. He has to read her lips to understand it.
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 40