by Kevin Egan
"It's not your punishment to take."
"I'm Owen's proxy. You gotta give it to me."
"You won't survive."
"I'm a hell of a lot stronger than you think. You…you no good twerp."
Mr. Seaver spat on the porch step, just below Trey's boots.
"Are you disrespecting my boss?" BD said in his booming voice.
"And your mother," Mr. Seaver said. "You shoulda seen the damage I done to her last night."
Clem let out a laugh, and BD clocked him on the back of the head. He moved toward the old man. Trey knew it would be hard to stop the charging rhino.
"Mr. Seaver, don't be escalatin' this situation here."
"Oh, screw yourself, Trey. You're nothin' more than a disease in this county. A plague rottin' the futures of men, women, and children. A filthy, disgustin' disease."
In spite of himself, Trey flew down the steps and grabbed Mr. Seaver by his shirt. He was lighter than he had imagined. Mr. Seaver looked at Trey with raised eyebrows that showed hope, but then dropped to disappointment when Trey loosened his grip.
"And you're a coward too," Mr. Seaver said. "A weak little boy who used to get scared of grass snakes in trees. You can't keep runnin' an outfit like this."
The old man hawked a wad of spit in Trey's face. Trey decked him before he could stop himself. Mr. Seaver dropped to the dirt like a pile of wet rags. BD whooped. He and the junkies were on the senior citizen in seconds, kicking the shit out of him. Trey wiped the spit off his face and came to his senses.
"Hold up now. I said stop it!"
Trey yanked his .38 revolver from the back of his waistband and blasted it in the air.
The beating stopped. Trey looked down at the broken figure below covered in dust and blood. So much damage in under 30 seconds.
"Is he still alive?" he asked.
Clem dropped to the ground, putting his ear on Mr. Seaver's mouth. "The geezer's still breathin'!"
"That's Mr. Seaver, Clem."
"One stomp on his head and I can take him out of his misery," BD said.
Trey couldn't hold back a shiver. "Leave him alone, BD," he said with a crack in his voice. "And give him space to breathe, all of ya, dammit."
"I think he's sayin' somethin'," Clem said.
Trey fell to his knees. "Mr. Seaver, are you alright?"
Something raspy and guttural came out of his bloody lips.
"What's that?" Trey said, straining to listen.
"Are we…even…Trey?"
"Yes, sir. Slate's clean." Trey put his hand on the man's trembling body.
The faintest smile broke across the old man's lips as he closed his eyes, his body going slack.
"Clem, Jericho. Get Mr. Seaver to the hospital." The tweakers looked at Trey, confused. "Take his truck. Go!"
Clem hefted Mr. Seaver by his shoulders while Jericho grabbed his ankles.
"Be careful, now," Trey called after them.
"It don't matter none," BD said.
Trey turned to the beast, wanting to pull out his .38 again. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"This is the way he wanted to go out. The old coot thinks he sacrificed himself for his jonesin' grandson. I imagine he'll die today or tomorrow thinkin' he bought Owen some clemency." BD spat. "Damn old fool."
Trey watched Jericho back the old truck down the drive while Clem held Mr. Seaver's limp, bloody body up on the bench seat.
"You know Owen will be comin' back here," Trey said.
"Whatchya gonna do about it?" BD asked.
Trey chewed his lip. He'd been a man of his word, even as a drug dealer. But no man should ever proxy for Owen, especially somebody as blameless as Mr. Seaver.
"We spilled innocent blood today," Trey said, looking at BD.
He shrugged. "He asked for it. I don't feel bad at all." BD put his hands on his hips. "And if you want my opinion—"
"I don't," interrupted Trey.
"You got too much morality to be slingin' drugs in these parts. You should be workin' in a library or somethin'."
"Is that so?"
"Yep."
"And I suppose you're the one who thinks he oughta take over my operations if I were to leave the business, huh?"
That cruel smile spread across BD's lips. Was this it, the final throwdown? Trey's body steeled, ready to pull out his .38 and end this bullshit here and now. BD's Glock hung off his belt, his hand hanging in the nearby vicinity. This was a modern day showdown in the backwoods. They glared at each other, holding their stares. BD licked his lips, anticipation in his eyes. Yeah, it was on.
There was the sound of something coming up the drive, but neither man turned to look. A sideways glance equaled a death sentence. Trey was already at a disadvantage with his warm pistol tucked behind his waistband. He'd have to reach behind and pull it out as fast as possible to beat BD. One mistake, and it was all over.
A skinny body on a bike appeared in Trey's peripheral vision.
"Whassup Trey, BD?" a familiar voice shouted out.
Trey blinked. Fucking Owen Seaver. BD's shoulders relaxed an inch.
"What're you doing here, Owen? You know you shouldn't be showin' your face in these parts, ever," Trey said, still keeping his eyes on BD.
"Well, the way I hear it, we're good now."
Both Trey and BD turned to the skeletal addict on an undersized purple bike with streamers hanging off the handlebars. Somewhere out there, a girl was crying, missing her ride.
"And how did you hear that?" BD asked.
"I saw Jericho drivin' Grandpa's truck down the road. I waved him down and got the whole story." Owen gave that ugly yellow meth smile. "We're even-stevens now, man."
"So you were waiting down the road for your grandfather to plead your case, huh?" Trey said, feeling an anger swell up. "You asked him to come out here, didn't you?"
Owen shrugged. "A deal's a deal, right? You've always been true to your word, Trey." Nothing but hunger lingered in those desperate eyes. He only wanted to score, that was it. Didn't care a whit about his granddad.
"How was he doing when you saw him?" Trey asked.
"What's that?"
"Your grandfather. You know, the guy who proxied for you?"
"You boys done kicked the shit out of him," Owen said, shaking his head and smiling. "Sure glad that wasn't me." He reached into filthy denim pockets and pulled out a wad of cash. A portion of what he'd stolen from Trey no doubt. "How about you score me three grams. Your shit's better than the Buckley brothers."
Trey glanced over at BD. He arched his eyebrows, and Trey knew what he was thinking. He might well have asked what're you going to do about this, boss man?
"How's your tooth collection, BD?"
"I could use a few more."
"Well, go get yourself some more then."
BD smiled. Not his cruel grin, but one of respect. "Sure thing, boss."
Trey sauntered back to the porch, feeling the urge for a sip of hooch.
"Hey now, Trey. A deal's a deal," Owen cried before taking the first of what would be several blows.
Moses on the Hill, with Fire Following
by Paul J. Garth
David's bones shook with the smacking of the boxcar over the tracks, and the tips of his fingers began to itch as the train drew closer to the city. The lights of the buildings spread out cool and dim against a blanket of blowing snow.
Omaha. The city he'd been waiting for.
He'd heard other travelers speak of it in almost prayerful tones. The bisection of America. The center which all tracks passed through. Riders spoke of it as a kind of Temple—and in their stories, he had learned the layout and legends. He knew the train yard was on the south side, and all around it were buildings of old brick and aged wood and small houses hiding displaced Mexicans from the cold Nebraska nights. A man he'd ridden with, who'd jumped onboard west of Knoxville, had told of an area near the depot. The man said that at night, when the wind blew through the thin, ice-sheeted streets, you could he
ar the killing of cows, their sacrificial moans echoing from beyond the low walls of the stockyards.
"Blood comes so quick it stains the ground," the man had said. "Concrete and all."
David pictured the slaughter yard. Men walking back and forth, slicing the necks of animals that hung from the ceiling. Blood spilling onto tiled floors. A thousand acts of sacrifice an hour, like the slaughter of the Red Heifer required to open the Third Temple. He smiled at the thought. It was another sign of God's beauty and guidance. He stood and moved to the open doorway of the train car, his breath trapped inside his chest, his eyes wide, taking it all in. The first buildings of South Omaha flicked by, and he convinced himself he could taste the iron of blood on the thin cold air. There were signs all around, the air was charged with them, and he took their presence as celestial assurance he could recreate the Blessings he'd received in Louisville and Peoria.
The train slowed, rounded a corner, and then began to pass through the gate of the depot. He opened his pack and checked the contents. A hoodie for beneath his jacket if the night got too cold, spare socks, a copy of the Lord's book, a torn-up western paperback with a map stuffed in the middle, a box of kitchen matches, and an old yellow bottle of Ronsonol lighter fluid filled with siphoned gasoline.
David jumped from the train as his car entered the yard, his feet landing gracefully on the snow-covered concrete. He jogged away from the depot and found a corner on the street no light could penetrate and waited in the dark until the train had entirely entered the depot, until he felt safe the yardmaster would not come running after him, trying to plant new cracks in his skull.
His breath clouded the air and his ears took on the tinny buzzing of silent snowfall. He shook out of his jacket, put on the hoodie, pulled on the jacket again, then placed the matches and Ronsonol bottle in his pockets. David stepped from the corner.
He walked for blocks, seeing only an occasional car. He turned off Q Street and tucked south along an unlit side road. The houses on both sides of the street stood old and slanting, the snow pulling down their roofs. He eyed them all, searching for his next Church.
Halfway down the next block, he found it. An old house with a sagging stoop set back from the street. Its windows were broken, and sheets flapped from out the wrecked glass like white tongues.
For our God is a consuming Fire.
He said the words aloud. Felt warmth wash over him. The splintering wood and broken windows called to something inside of him, a mystery and a search for the root of that mystery started long ago under a warm sun.
The house was different than the homes that stood around where he'd grown up in South Carolina, and he recalled how his father had walked the dirt roads in his thick black shoes, his eyes examining every home, every tree, every bush, for signs of the Lord. They walked the roads, David waiting for his father's hand to fly out and smack him in the chest to point out a log fallen over an old brick fence, a dogwood deep in pink-purple bloom, or an outhouse leaning behind a three-story home. "A mark of the Lord," his father would say, and David would nod.
"Put here for us to examine and find meaning in the slants and air of the thing. The mystery of the every day. Wood and brick coming together in Grace, like men and nature. Monuments to our Father."
David moved from the street, snow falling around him, contemplating the house. The blackness of the windows and off-gray of the siding pulled at him, smacking him in the chest just as his father had done. It was perfect. His confidence grew.
Sure that this would be a place of his mark, Louisville but larger, David crunched through snow towards the house. He took the bottle from his pocket. Began squirting it on the rotted wood of the porch. He worried the wood would be too wet to catch, but gave up the fear, knowing it was in God's hands, that even if the wood were too wet, The Lord would provide. At the broken windows he reached inside and squirted the fluid, making sure to douse the sheets hanging from drooping curtain rods. He used all of the bottle, dripping the gasoline over the door frames and wood siding of the house until the smell of it hung in the air above the scent of snow.
He backed up, framing the home against the dark night and swirling flakes, creating the perfect image of how it had been presented to him. Blood beat through his ears and his entire body shook as he dug through the pockets of his coat, looking for matches.
Again the words of his father came to mind, as they did any time he contemplated the match.
"Moses didn't go up that hill an' find God burning in the bush. He lit the bush and found God in the flames."
He moved forward again. In the shadow of the house he slid open the box of matches and counted out three. Two between his teeth, he pinched the remainder between his thumb and forefinger. With his other hand he rubbed his thumb over the rough surface of the strike pad and waited for the perfect moment, for the snow to hang just so in the light of the moon, for the wind to slow to a whisper on his skin, for the entire essence of the house and the land and the blackness of the night to flow to him, to slip under his skin and announce itself.
He lit the match.
The flame turned to instant light in his hand and heat filled his cupped palm. He moved closer, giving himself completely over to the shadow of the rotting hulk before him. Just as the tongue of flame began to falter on the mouth of the match, he set it to the fluid-soaked banister of the stoop and watched the wood come to light.
The banister sprang to life and followed the splashed trail to the base of the stoop. In less than a minute, the door of the house was alight, the paneling of the house burning below the windows.
He stepped away, his skin stoked with heat, smiling.
The window panes caught then. Smoke filled the air and the rush of the moment dripped through his brain. Ran down his bones. The rags flapping out the window began to burn, like wings of light attempting flight, and inside his coat, the hair on David's arms stood.
The first floor of the home, his new Church, was burning with Grace and through the door and the windows, David saw flames licking up walls, writhing along the floor, hanging from the ceiling and moving up, towards the second floor.
Everything that was not flame dimmed to blackness, details hung by their own inconsequence. His eyes scanned the flames, the purple centers and orange and red flanks and white-capped tips. He focused on single areas and the entire tableau at once, his eyes flat and scanning, searching for the face of the Lord.
And then, in the back, up the top of the stairwell, he saw it. Bathed in flame, long hair burning. The Angel of the Lord gliding down the stairs, its heavenly arms outstretched, searching for earthly hold.
In the snow covered lawn, David fell to his knees. His eyes focused on the Angel. His mouth opened. The matches fell and a prayer slipped from his lips.
He'd seen fleeting glimpses of God, of the face of the Lord in the flames, but this was different. His encounters with the Divine had never lasted more than a fraction of a second, and in his darkest times aboard the boxcars, there were moments he doubted if he'd seen anything at all. But this was real, almost corporeal. He was in the Presence of the physical Ghost. God was coming to him. To give him a message. To pronounce David as his Prophet. To take him to Paradise. The Angel's mission did not matter. Whatever it might be, David knew, he would abide.
The Angel spoke then, its tongue forming a language he could not understand.
David continued to watch the Angel in Flames descend the stairs, his ears pained with focus, trying to decipher her words.
The Angel fell. Its wild hair and white skin alight, David watched it tumble from one of the last steps onto the flame-covered floor of the house.
He half-rose, startled and confused. How could an Angel fall? And then, he heard the Angel speak again and realized it was not speaking to him in a heavenly language. It was the voice of a woman, and the woman was screaming in pain.
David rose to his feet and ran towards the house but was stopped at the flaming stoop. Inside he could see her—the w
oman—rolling on the floor, attempting to extinguish the fire.
David turned from the house, the night suddenly stuffed with smoke and heat and noise. The blood in his arms and chest sang. His ears pried every sound from the street and blocks around, the burning house and the screams of the woman strangely muted the moment he turned away. From Q Street he heard the sounds of sirens.
He ran. Down the street. Away from the house. Away from Q. Away from the sirens. David ran until his lungs burned and flared match points swam in front of his vision. The snow still falling all around him, David ran into the night, into the silence of falling snow.
Lost, David wandered the streets, the snow sticking to his eyebrows and melting down his face, mixing with tears.
He recalled the stories he'd heard of the city and used starlight for guidance. Eventually he found an old warehouse and entered it through a pane of broken-out glass that had been hidden with plywood. He sat on the floor, shivering, trying to warm himself. The snow beat against the windows of the place. Pools of frozen water dotted the floors, and through the window he had entered from, the wind banged dull, droning notes against the far side of the building.
David thought of building a fire. He stood and gathered broken-out pieces of pallets and set them in a pile but could not bring himself to light the match.
In the cold of the empty building, he thought of his father, of the man's reaction upon learning the Reverend had decided to remove him and his family from the congregation. How he had grabbed David's hand and practically dragged him from the front porch of their home, his cheeks red with rage. Together they had walked in silence until they found a clearing off an old timber road and watched the sun come down and hide itself beneath the low hills of the mountains.
Finally, his father spoke. "In front of my own son. Course that'd be something Campbell would do. But he doesn't know. He doesn't have the faith. It ain't True like ours. We've been doing it this way longer than him and his have been here. And he thinks he can teach us from something so simple?" His father spat on the ground.