After the Fire

by Will Hill

I freeze. For several seconds I just stare at the phone, unable to say a word.

  “Hello?” says the voice.

  I summon an image of Honey, her skin reddening as the box heats up, her tongue hanging out of her mouth like a dog’s, her eyes rolled back to white. A shudder rattles up my spine and my paralysis breaks and I lift the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Layton County Sheriff’s Department,” repeats the voice. “How can I help you, ma’am?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, which I know must sound stupid, but it’s the truth. “I…I think I need help.”

  “Okay.” It’s a woman’s voice, and it sounds steady and it sounds kind and I suddenly find myself fighting back tears. “Try and stay calm, ma’am. Tell me what’s happening.”

  “I’m a member of The Lord’s Legion,” I say. My stomach is churning and I can hear my voice trembling. “Our Church is off State Highway 158, not far outside Layfield. Do you know where that is?”

  “Sure,” says the woman, but she doesn’t sound kind any more. She sounds annoyed. “The Lord’s Legion. Right.”

  “My name is—”

  I stop dead. I can’t give this woman my name. If she does send help and Father John finds out I’m the reason it came, he’ll kill me.

  I think he’ll actually kill me.

  “Go on, ma’am,” says the woman. “What’s your name?”

  “I can’t tell you,” I say. Panic is starting to rise in my chest because I don’t know how this is supposed to go and I’m sure I’m getting it wrong. “My friend Nate Childress gave me this number. Do you know him?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know any Nate Childress, ma’am.”

  I frown. “Are you sure?” I ask, because that can’t be right.

  “Pretty sure,” says the woman. “And you should be aware that making a false report to law enforcement is a crime in the state of Texas, so unless you have something real to tell me I’m going to terminate this call.”

  “Don’t,” I say, and I’m shocked by how desperate my voice sounds. “Please. I don’t…I don’t know what else to do. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” asks the woman, and some of the kindness has returned to her voice. “Do you need me to send someone to your location?”

  “Yes,” I say. “They locked Honey in a box and it’s really hot and she’s only fourteen and she didn’t do anything, not anything at all…”

  My voice breaks and I start to cry. Because it’s not right what they did to Honey, it’s not fair, and to Hell with anyone who thinks different.

  “Can you repeat that, ma’am?” asks the woman. “Are you saying someone has been locked inside a box?”

  I nod, then realize how dumb that is. “Yes,” I say. “My friend. Her name is Honey.”

  “Who locked her in the box?”

  “Father John did,” I say. “He said she had to marry him, but she didn’t want to. She’s only fourteen.”

  “Okay,” says the woman. Her voice is steady and she’s speaking more quickly, as though she’s suddenly all business. “What about you, ma’am? Are you somewhere safe?”

  “No,” I say. Tears spill from my eyes and stream down my face. “It’s not safe. I thought it was, but it isn’t.”

  “Give me your location again.”

  “The Holy Church of The Lord’s Legion,” I say. “Outside Layfield, off Highway 158. I don’t know the actual address.”

  “That’s okay,” says the woman. “Stay on the line while I—”

  I hear the distant snap of a dry branch, and my nerve finally fails me. “I can’t,” I whisper. “Please just help. I’m sorry.”

  I fumble the phone away from my ear with trembling hands and hold the green button down again until the screen goes blank. I shove it back into my pocket, take a futile couple of seconds to try and compose myself, then round the corner of the shed and head back towards the yard, my heart thudding against my ribs.

  I try to walk normally – not too fast, not too slow – and I force a smile onto my face that I hope will make it clear, to anyone who looks at me, that everything is absolutely fine.

  That I don’t have a care in the world.

  I started crying as I told Agent Carlyle and Doctor Hernandez what I did. I didn’t want to, I really didn’t want to, but I just couldn’t help it.

  I didn’t stop talking though. Once I’d started, once I’d decided I really was going to tell them the truth and to Hell with the consequences, I just wanted to get it over and done with.

  I stare at them, my tears drying on my cheeks, and wait for them to tell me how much trouble I’m in. While I wait, I search inside myself for the guilt that has been my constant companion ever since the tank appeared outside the Front Gate, but all I find is exhaustion and sweet, sickly relief.

  “Moonbeam,” says Doctor Hernandez, his voice low and thick. “I know that was extremely difficult for you. I want to thank you for finding the strength to be so brave.”

  I screw my face up so I don’t start crying again, and nod.

  “There’s something we need to tell you,” says Agent Carlyle. “Something it never occurred to us you didn’t know.”

  “What is it?”

  His eyes lock on mine. “We knew you called the Layton County Sheriff.”

  I stare at him. “What?”

  “We knew you made the call,” he says. “We’ve heard the recording.”

  No. That can’t be right.

  It just can’t be.

  If they knew what I did, knew it all along, then why have they been so nice to me? Why didn’t they call me a murderer and lock me up and tell me I’ll never see the sun again?

  But if they didn’t know, whispers the voice in the back of my head, why would they say they did? What would they have to gain from being so cruel?

  “I’m going to take this slow,” continues Agent Carlyle. “Because I need to make sure I’m understanding things correctly. You thought a joint task force of the FBI and the ATF, comprising more than two hundred agents and a dozen vehicles with tactical support and remote surveillance, was mobilized and despatched to The Lord’s Legion compound because you made a call to the local Sheriff’s Department?”

  I nod.

  Obviously.

  “And you now believe that making the call was a mistake, because you didn’t realize what would happen when help arrived? That Father John would really order your brothers and sisters to open fire on the authorities?”

  I nod again.

  “As far as you’re concerned, you called them, they came, and then everything went to Hell.”

  I stare at him.

  “So you think your brothers and sisters died because of what you did?”

  My stomach lurches, and I don’t respond.

  “And you’ve carried that around with you ever since?” he asks. His voice is trembling, as though he’s on the verge of tears. “The belief that everything that happened to The Lord’s Legion was your fault?”

  “It was,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper. “It was my fault.”

  Agent Carlyle gives me the smallest, most gentle smile I’ve ever seen. “No,” he says. “It really wasn’t. None of this is your fault, Moonbeam. Not even a single bit of it.”

  I stare at him. My whole body feels numb, and my mind feels thick and heavy.

  Listen, urges the voice in the back of my head. Listen to him.

  “What do you mean?” I manage, my voice barely audible.

  “The Holy Church of The Lord’s Legion had been under investigation by three separate federal agencies for more than two years,” says Agent Carlyle. “The file was opened after a UPS employee in Lubbock intercepted a package containing firearm conversion kits and blasting caps that was headed to a PO box in Layfield. It was addressed to James Carmel.”

  I frown. “It contained what?”

  “Firearm conversion kits let you change a gun from semi-automatic to fully automatic,” he says. “I’m
going to guess you understand the difference?”

  All too well.

  I nod.

  “Automatic weapons are legal in Texas, but they have to be registered on a database when you buy them,” he says. “Whereas you can buy a semi-automatic in Walmart with a valid driver’s licence. Converting them yourself is illegal, because it means you can amass an arsenal of automatic weapons that nobody knows you have. Does that sound familiar?”

  My head fills with the smell of smoke and the deafening rattle of gunfire. Nausea rises through me, but I manage to nod my head.

  “I thought it might,” he says. “And blasting caps are what they sound like. They’re used to trigger explosives.”

  “To make bombs,” I say.

  Agent Carlyle nods. “Even before the package was intercepted in Lubbock, The Lord’s Legion was under periodic surveillance as a potential domestic terrorism risk. The agencies had been building the case against John Parson and his closest associates for a long time, and the serving of the warrant that initiated the confrontation with the Legion members had been scheduled for more than a month. The fact that it took place the day after you made your call was nothing more than a coincidence. The Layton Sheriff’s Department entered the information you gave them into their system and it was immediately flagged by the FBI. They were specifically told to take no action, as there was an active investigation underway. So absolutely nothing that happened the following day was your fault, Moonbeam. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  I just stare at him, because I don’t know why he’s lying to me after all this time. But he has to be, because if he knew I made the call, if they both knew, then why wouldn’t they have told me so before now? Why would they have let me carry on believing it was all my fault?

  Because you never told them that’s what you thought, whispers the voice in the back of my head. You didn’t trust them enough to tell them.

  “We knew you made the call,” says Doctor Hernandez. “I didn’t want to rush you into talking about it, because I knew it would be hard for you, and I wanted to let you reach that place of trust on your own terms. But if I had known you were blaming yourself for what happened, I would have told you the truth straight away.”

  “I believe you,” I say, and I’m slightly surprised to find that I do.

  I genuinely do.

  The realization fills my head for a moment, but is then quickly pushed aside. The relief I felt when I finished telling them what I did has expanded into something vast and overwhelming, and I know everyone is still dead so I shouldn’t really be happy, but the thought filling my mind is They didn’t die because of me, it wasn’t my fault, and it’s all I can do not to burst into tears of joy.

  Agent Carlyle shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’ve been tormenting yourself with that,” he says. “You should have told us.”

  “I wanted to,” I say. My voice is high and unsteady, like I’m about to either laugh or cry. “I thought about it so often, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. I wasn’t even sure I was going to be able to go through with it today. You have to understand that every time I walked into SSI, I saw a group of children who were orphans because of me. Because of what I did.”

  “I’m so sorry,” says Doctor Hernandez.

  I take a deep breath. “It wasn’t my fault?” I ask, because I need to hear him say it again. “It really wasn’t?”

  He smiles at me, and shakes his head. “No, Moonbeam,” he says. “It really wasn’t.”

  I close my eyes. The wave of relief fills me to the tips of my fingers and toes, breaks, and rolls back. My mind starts to clear as it recedes, and something occurs to me. I open my eyes, and frown at Agent Carlyle.

  “How were you watching us?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry?” he says.

  “You said the Legion was under surveillance for a long time. How?”

  “Lots of ways,” says Agent Carlyle. “All mail in and out was being intercepted and opened, and we had long-range microphones that could hear what was being said inside the compound, cameras that could see what was happening.”

  What?

  My frown deepens. “So you saw what the Centurions did to Honey?” I say. “You saw Lucy get beaten senseless by a man ten times her size? And you didn’t do anything?”

  Agent Carlyle winces. “I wasn’t part of the task force,” he says. “I was brought in as part of a team to investigate what led to the fire. But I know they didn’t see and hear everything. Not even close.”

  “So they didn’t know what things were really like inside The Base?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. I just want to hear him admit it. “The cameras and microphones just somehow missed all the bad stuff?”

  “You have to understand how an investigation on this scale works,” he says. “The priority was gathering the necessary evidence for federal firearms and conspiracy indictments. They were building cases of illegal imprisonment and assault and pursuing about a dozen other charges at the same time, but it was the automatic weapons and blasting caps that were going to put John Parson away for the rest of his life.”

  “So in the meantime, they just watched people get hurt?” I ask. “They just let it happen?”

  He doesn’t drop his gaze from mine. “Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry, I know how callous that must sound. But these things take time, and they couldn’t risk alerting John Parson to their surveillance. So they watched, and listened, and waited until they were ready to move.”

  A terrible thought fills my head.

  Oh God.

  “Everything I’ve told you,” I say. “Did you know it all already?”

  Doctor Hernandez’s eyes widen. “Absolutely not,” he says. “Don’t think that, not even for a second. Everything you have told us has been vitally useful.”

  I stare at him. I see no deception in his eyes, just concern that this session has somehow started to go wrong.

  “Doctor Hernandez is telling you the truth,” says Agent Carlyle. “My brief when I came into these sessions was to ask you to expand our understanding of life inside The Lord’s Legion. To confirm things we suspected, yes, but to tell us things we didn’t know. I promise.”

  I nod. “Okay,” I say. “I believe you.”

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “I still don’t get it,” I say. “I don’t get how they could know people were being hurt and not do anything about it.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, they had a fail-safe inside the base,” he says. “In case things ever got really out of—”

  “Agent Carlyle,” says Doctor Hernandez sharply.

  I stare at the two men, a frown creasing my forehead. Then tumblers fall into place inside my head and I understand that Father John was right about one thing, if nothing else.

  “Nate,” I say. “You’re talking about Nate.”

  Agent Carlyle looks at me for a long moment, then nods.

  Nate and I are walking the eastern perimeter of The Base.

  The fence is almost twelve feet high: thick wooden posts driven into the ground with sheets of metal mesh strung between them and razor wire coiled along the top, its angular blades pointing out in a hundred different directions. It was strengthened and heightened after The Purge, and its maintenance is one of the most vital jobs on the work rota. Animals dig underneath it and fallen branches tear holes in the wire, which makes patching up the fence a daily chore.

  The sun is descending rapidly towards the western horizon, filling the sky with unearthly purple light. I was in the gardens all afternoon, pulling out weeds on my hands and knees, so I’m hot and tired and my forehead is coated with dust and sweat and my hair is glued to the back of my neck. All of which is obviously ideal on the day Nate decides to invite me to go for a walk after the Chapel bell rings to signal the end of the working day.

  We used to go walking pretty often, but everything has been weird lately. It’s nearly a month since Amos was attacked in Town, but it feels l
ike a lot of people are still on edge, as though they’re worried it was a sign of something else, maybe something worse. And even out here by the fence, about as far away from the building next to the Chapel as it’s possible to be, I can still hear Horizon coughing.

  Everyone is pretty much just waiting for him to Ascend, because nobody still believes that he’s going to get better, no matter how hard everyone prays. And although nobody would dream of saying so out loud, it’s really obvious that a lot of my Brothers and Sisters will be relieved when his time finally comes.

  I guess I can understand that though. Listening to someone die is hard, especially when it’s someone you love.

  Nate stops and raps his knuckles against one of the wooden posts. He seems distracted, like he has a lot on his mind.

  “Penny for them?” I ask.

  He smiles, because this is an old joke between the two of us. “Bad deal for you,” he says.

  “Everything okay?” I ask. “You’re pretty quiet.”

  He shrugs. “I’m fine,” he says. “Yourself?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Do you miss your mom?” he asks.

  I stare at him. I can feel my mouth hanging open and I’m sort of distantly aware that it must look ridiculous, but I can’t seem to do anything about it – because his question, so dangerous and so totally out of the blue, has sent my brain reeling away in search of an appropriate response.

  It’s absolutely forbidden to even mention former Brothers and Sisters who have been Banished from the Legion; we are supposed to act as though they literally never existed. If the question had come from anyone apart from Nate, I would have assumed it was some clumsy attempt at a trap – that whoever was asking had every intention of reporting me to the Centurions if I admitted such a profound failing.

  Nate wouldn’t do that to me though. He just wouldn’t. So I have to take his question at face value, and that means thinking about my mom, which is something I actually don’t do very often. Not because it’s forbidden – I care a lot less about what’s allowed and what isn’t these days – but because it’s still really painful to think about her; so much so that I’ve pretty much accepted that’s the way it’s always going to be.