Pilate

by Reverend Steven Rage

  His belly tearing itself asunder and Judas had difficulty keeping upright. He heard the dogs from his vision snapping his feet and a choking sensation clutched his throat.

  It was nerves, he guessed.

  Immanuel left the chapel with head down, the door closing behind her. As soon as the door shut, Judas felt strange. He could no longer see the church, couldn’t even recall how it looked. A very strange feeling, like he’d lost his goddam keys, or something.

  As he watched her shuffle slowly toward him, Judas wondered why the disciples didn’t come out with her. They must have sensed something, or were cowards. Either way, her being alone made things easier for all.

  Judas reached Immanuel and embraced her.

  “After all we’ve been through,” she muttered, below any but Judas’ range of hearing, “I rank but a hug?”

  She peered through her curtain of hair. She parted it so he could see her face. Judas’ pains cranked up a notch and he winced.

  “Does it hurt thee?” she asked.

  “What do you want from me, woman?” Judas asked instead, irritated at both the questions and his agony.

  “A kiss,” she replied, “Give to me a kiss.”

  Judas stared at her a moment. She had never asked for a display of affection before. He certainly didn’t want to start now. He was in tremendous pain and sure as dogshit didn’t want to touch anyone, most especially her.

  Judas felt the heat before he felt the tugging on his nose. It felt like an invisible pair of iron strong fingers shoved up his nostrils and pulling him to her. Immanuel raised her head, offered her lips, and they did meet.

  Electrical current surged through Judas, heating core body temperature five degrees. His pupils dilated. She opened eyelids wide, shot darts of comprehension into him.

  Judas took a full blast of her celestial knowledge. When she released him from her kiss, Judas stumbled drunkenly about the parking lot to the delighted shouts of the police.

  They were shouting and laughing. Judas couldn’t hear the derisions heaped upon him. Judas couldn’t distinguish any sounds at all.

  He was already falling.

  Pilate saw Immanuel from the corner of the chapel wall. He saw two cops drag an unconscious man to a car. He wasn’t undercover po-po, so the poor, passed-out fuck must be Judas. No matter, Pilate knew who the young lady was. She was Immanuel the little preacher girl and she was about two seconds away from being gang raped.

  Pilate appeared at her side and had taloned fingers on the cop’s hair, wrapped in a death grip. He pulled down hard and brought the would-be rapist bitch to the asphalt eye-blink fast.

  The cop landed on the blacktop hard. Pilate then turned to the man who pressed her face into the cold metal trunk of the undercover car. The cop, shocked, said nothing.

  “Let go of her,” Pilate ordered, but he knew what they would do. The police always followed the playbook, so Pilate knew some asshole response was coming. So, before: ‘get on the ground!’ at full volume left his mouth, Pilate slammed a fist into the cop’s face, breaking everything.

  Pilate tugged free his hot, wet fist from the cavern of the cop’s face. He calmly wiped the bloody mess from his fist with the cop’s polo shirt. Pilate held the man up until it was clean. Then Pilate let him drop dead to the ground.

  The stopping of the rape and Pilate’s exchange happened so quickly no one had time to respond. He turned to the rest of the police when one did.

  Pilate heard the unmistakable sound of gunmetal scraping against leather. He saw the rapist/cop on the ground pull the service weapon from his shoulder holster, drew a bead on Pilate.

  Using vampire speed, Pilate dropped to one knee and grabbed hold the shooter’s wrist. He jerked the arm toward him and twisted it until the pointy bone of the elbow faced up. Pilate then placed his hand on the skyward elbow bone and applied vicious downward pressure.

  The cop’s arm broke. It cracked like a hard nutshell and Pilate pushed down on the elbow and up on the wrist until the arm folded back on itself, the gun pointing at its owner. The gun fired. One of the hollow points drove a wedge so deep in the cop’s brain you could see his filthy thoughts.

  Pilate snatched the gun as he fell dead to the ground. Pilate grabbed and held another one with the smoking gun to his temple, Pilate safely hidden behind the man’s bulk. Pilate found his own gun, under shirtfront, and aimed it over the shoulder of his cop/hostage.

  The hostage’s penis was still out. He’d been prepping himself, zipper undone. Pilate glanced down at it. It was flaccid, trying to turtle its way back inside.

  Pilate tugged the cop back so that his car was behind them. The others tried to outflank and encircle him.

  “Stop!” he shouted, “We have a truce. I’m under the protection of the Pharisees,” he said, “You can’t touch me and I won’t let you touch her.”

  “Fuck you, faggot!” one of the circlers replied, stepping up to Pilate. “You’re first,” Pilate said, stopping the rushing cop by sticking the 9mm in his face. “You wanna think about this,” Pilate told the fuming and defenseless rusher. His eyes crossed from staring at the gun. It was so close it almost kissed him. “Think about what you’re gonna lose if you make me open up your head like your buddy on the ground here,” Pilate advised, “No more wads of cash from taxing runners, no more free scotch from the liquor stores and no more blowjobs at gunpoint from high school girls.”

  The police all stopped where they were, contemplating and weighing options. “C’mon, be smart,” said Pilate before they had a chance to change their minds, “Give Matthias a call,” he told them, “While you’re still only down two.”

  Judas sat bolt upright, staring crazy through his car window. He was in the back seat and peered out at the empty parking lot of the chapel.

  He did a complete three-sixty and saw nothing. There was no one around.

  Judas released the handle, kicked open the door. He emerged from the vehicle, confused as all hell. He didn’t know what he was doing here. He wasn’t flush and he wasn’t hungry, so feeding wasn’t it.

  He scanned the area. His heart and mind slowed enough to enable clear thinking.

  “Now,” Judas asked himself, “what am I doing out here all by myself,” glancing quickly at his phone, “in the wee hours of the morning?”

  Judas was turning slowly around, seeking a memory spark, when he stopped to stare at the chapel.

  It was quite old and unpretentious. The church was a simply constructed clapboard affair. It had a steeple on top with a big ‘service is starting’ bell. A cross topped the steeple.

  Judas just gawked at it. It made his knees buckle and the vampire thought he would collapse.

  It sparked his memory, alright. He remembered all of it, the whole big bag of shit.

  It all came flooding back to him.

  CHAPTER 35

  “Y

  ou do not have to apologize for them,” she said as they drove. Pilate snapped shut his mouth. He was about to do exactly that. “How did you know?” he asked her. Pilate peeked at her as his car climbed the steeper street. “How did you know I was going to apologize for Herod’s police?”

  Immanuel was slumped in the front seat. The handcuffs on her wrists were gone. He gasped at the surprise of it. He blinked once and they were back on, hands folded obediently in her lap.

  “Are you going to answer me?” “Yes,” she replied, “as soon as you ask real questions.”

  They were getting closer to Herod’s compound and Pilate wanted some hard answers.

  “When I brought Mary to you, remember?”

  “Of course,” she said, “you need to know why I touched you.” Pilate nodded. “You need to know what it means, don’t you Pilate?”

  “Yes,” he replied, slowing to a stop at a light, “Tell me.”

  With Immanuel’s head still lowered and her body slumped, he looked at her. She reached up with a freed, cuffless hand and scratched her chin. Pilate did a double-take and the cuffs were
once more secure. She was quiet.

  Pilate looked at her and waited. The light turned green and he sped through the intersection.

  “Well,” he asked her, “are you going to tell me?”

  “There were hints, of course,” she explained, “Woven throughout your past lives, a redundant thread. It played out time and time again, you simply refused see it.”

  “Bullshit,” he hissed.

  “The next one,” she said, “that is when all will be made clear to you.”

  Pilate’s hands began to burn. He removed them one at a time and rubbed them on the material of his pant legs.

  “Perhaps they need to be washed,” Immanuel told him while staring out her passenger side window into the night. As soon as this was said, the sensation ceased and Pilate quit rubbing them.

  More bullshit games and Pilate had enough. He screeched a rubber laying stop in the middle of the busy street. People began shouting curses and they hurled rough insults. The vampire didn’t care. He had his full attention played on his prisoner, yelling at her:

  “BULLSHIT!” he cried, “This is all such bullshit! Why can’t you talk me straight?” Pilate’s eyes were yellow warning signs, but the vampire sensed no fear from Immanuel. “There is no common thread except I was a vampire in the visions you cursed me with. Is that my hint?” he asked, “because if it is I sure as shit don’t know what it means.” Pilate punched a gauge on the dashboard and cracked it, bleeding his hand a moment before it began healing itself. He sucked a bit of hard plastic from his hand and spat it out the window. He turned to her: “I’m warning you,” he growled, “tell me what you fucking know.”

  Immanuel threw hair out of her face and glared right back at the vampire. “Hold your tongue, young man,” she told him. He jerked away from her, recoiling in pure raw primal fear. He began to fumble with the door handle to escape. He’d never known such terror. Then, as quickly as it came, the fear leaked away. Pilate was left breathing heavy and heart pounding, but feeling as peaceful as if they were in grandma’s chocolate chip cookie scented kitchen.

  “But I s-saved your life,” he whined without thinking. “I just want to know what to do….”

  As Pilate trailed off in a little boy voice, Immanuel smiled at him.

  “You will, Pilate,” she assured him, “I promise.” She looked away once more, stating as a mater-of-fact: “When you experience your very last vision,” she said, “of your very first life. Then I will keep my promise to you and ye shall know all.” Immanuel looked up and raised her cuffed hands. “But what will he do then, Father?” she asked the sky, “When we give to him a second chance?”

  Pilate was straight up fucking losing it. He couldn’t seem to keep his wits around her. To give himself a moment, he pulled over to the curb. He put the stick-shift into neutral, set the parking brake. He turned to her.

  “One more question,” he said, “You do know where I am taking you, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “now ask your real question.”

  He paused, taking the sight of her in: powerful, subdued: allowing herself to remain cuffed. He asked: “who are you?”

  Without hesitation she told him: “I am Truth.”

  Pilate glanced out at the street, jaw clenching from frustration. He vividly recalled the terror he felt, so no more angry shouting from this boy, he thought. Blowing air out through clenched teeth, Pilate gunned the engine and merged into the center lane, driving once more. Pilate’s fingers bloodless pale as he gripped the wheel and cracked his tense neck.

  “Truth,” he muttered low, “just what the hell is that supposed to mean?” He forced himself to ignore the anger now boiling inside him. Pilate turned to her once more and asked: “Truth? Are you for real?” The soft question opened the dam to his frustrated anger, spittle rained from lips as he demanded: “What the fuck is TRUTH?”

  Pilate’s aggressive driving had caught them up to the thin night time traffic. He weaved in and out of it. The Harbor was a blur as he drove by.

  She sighed and said gently to him: “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” she explained, raspy and tired. “I am the Beginning and the End. I am,” she stated firmly, “Truth.” Immanuel let hair fall over her face. “I answered all your questions,” she told him. “Now leave me alone.”

  CHAPTER 36

  H erod’s compound loomed ahead, towering over The Harbor as a plague. Lights showed, here and there, in the old refinery. The wind howled like the unseen demons that were shrieking throughout the complex. Pilate hated this place he had brought the Christ, but his masters demanded such.

  Pilate looked at Immanuel. Her wrists were bare once again. Pilate sighed and shook his head. He exited the car, came round to the passenger side. He opened the door and helped her out. She seemed so small to him, deflated. Pilate could no longer sense her abundant power. She was drained, leeched…ordinary.

  Immanuel stood beside the car, saying nothing. Herod’s cops pulled up and parked behind Pilate. They filed out of the vehicles. Pilate saw a small glint of shiny metal, the cuffs returned to Immanuel’s wrists. Pilate looked at her and she not back. She was staring, out of focus, at the ground. She appeared to be praying.

  “Spare me this cup of suffering,” Pilate heard her whisper. Immanuel then said: “Not by my will, but Thine, be done.” And then she was silent.

  Herod’s cops aligned themselves in a concave wall in front of Immanuel and her captor. They did not take eyes off Pilate, their guns only a quick snatch away. No matter what Matthias said, if Pilate even so much as thought about pulling more shit like he did at the chapel, they were going to punch his motherfucking card. Dear God in Heaven did they wish he would. But the police smiled to themselves knowing they would get their chance to give the vampire what he’s got coming to him.

  Pilate, sensing this, gripped Immanuel’s bicep. He very carefully proceeded through the hole they made in their cop wall. Pilate guided a subdued Immanuel toward the entrance. The cops followed close behind as they entered the compound.

  Immanuel remained a passive prisoner as they made their progressive way through the layers of security to Herod’s Throne Room, deep in the subbasement of the refinery. Pilate knew the bastard was waiting there for them.

  Pilate was bringing him the Christ. He felt like he was drowning a puppy, but tried his level best to shake it off. His entire existence depended on the next few hours. Immanuel moved slowly, walking in her gallows gait like guilty prisoners whom had made their peace and resigned their fate.

  208 Steven Rage But, Pilate knew she hadn’t done a fucking thing to deserve what’s to be done to her. It made his hands burn.

  They were nearing the Throne Room entrance. They could hear Herod laughing right through the wall. It was well-oiled, Herod’s evil. Pilate could feel its thickness and depth. Herod was completely insane and his evil was true. He felt the unseen things whipping all around them, their shrieks he could hear. Pilate did not fear the unseen, but he was getting scared at what he was about to do.

  Pilate now realized this was not to be a simple execution. It was more than a business decision to correct their errant bottom line. It made Pilate’s heart lurch. The Pharisees were going to allow Herod to have his wicked way with this little one. He remembered the chapel parking lot. The police were ordered by Herod himself to damage Immanuel. He saw that now. If the lower ranks were ordered to run a train of pigs on the little preacher, then what in holy hell does Herod have in store for her?

  The group made it to the Throne Room with Immanuel’s cuffs still fixed firmly in place, her head lowered. She slumped submissively and resigned. She made not a sound. Wicked hatred filled the entire vicinity. It settled into the cracks and dark corners like a steamed mist. If the Throne Room was entered, it could not be avoided. It seemed to be waiting for them.

  They stopped at the threshold. The big iron door was closed and gave to Pilate the impression it was breathing. Pilate reached out for the long handle to slide the door open, but
stopped himself.

  This is wrong, he thought. Pilate turned back to the cops behind them. They had hands on their guns, taking no chances. They were aching for an excuse to end him. Immanuel remained impassive.

  It was at that moment, while he was on the verge of handing her over to Herod, that Pilate stopped fixating on revenge. He stopped worrying about the business that was stolen from him. He stopped using grief as the spark for his rage. And Pilate finally stopped brooding about his pilfered millions.

  Even though it was in his best interests, Pilate could not refrain from thinking how off beam this was. This thing he was helping to do to Immanuel was immoral and all the way wrong. He could not rationalize it away.

  Pilate removed his hand from the door. He bent and brushed away the hair from Immanuel’s face. She was downtrodden, defeated.

  “Who are you, little preacher?” Pilate asked her, “Who are you, really?”

  Immanuel then raised her head, straightened to her full height. A quick flick and hair fell behind her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were full and gleaming at Pilate. A fog formed around them as her power heated the brisk, dank air. She looked him straight, eye to eye.

  “Know this, vampire,” spoke Immanuel, “I am the Son of God.”

  Her hand cuffs opened and fell to the floor.

  J udas was surrounded by old trees. It was dark where he stood, naked to the bulging moon. He had arms flung out to his sides, his head thrown back in a savage howl.

  The paste spread all over his upper body pinked up. The rush was a sledgehammer to his spinal column. His blood pressure dropped as vessels first constricted then dilated and pooled the blood. The vessels began seeping excess fluid as they became increasingly porous and full. His heart skipped entire beats. A weakness, here before unknown, enveloped Judas in an unforgiving embrace. Talons and fangs stayed harnessed; the vampire in Judas asleep. He weakened further.

  The demons were coming for him. Judas could feel them getting close. They were waiting to drag him down to the abyss. There was rustling in the old trees where they stood and waited at the edge of the tree-line encircling Judas. From time to time they would creep closer to him. Judas had what they craved; he wore it like so much bling.