The Apostates Book Two: Remnants

by Lars Teeney

  “Welcome Consuela Grajales—to a place I have named Golgotha, as a person who once followed the Bible I take it that I do not need to explain it to you,” The Monsignor said in a mocking tone to her.

  “Please—please! My brother and sister—” Consuela pleaded, but was cut off.

  “Oh no, those two will stay to witness what transpires here today. They will learn...” the Monsignor trailed off.

  “Please, I beg you!” Consuela cried. The Monsignor stood silently as she begged, then she presented the Spear of Destiny, and leaned her weight against it, with the butt-end planted in the ground.

  “This scene is almost as I exactly envisioned it. Consuela Grajales, here at my mercy. When you first came to the Order as a child I should have struck you down then. My mistake. I will atone for my lack of judgment,” the Monsignor said sternly. She handed the spear to Friar Fabian, then she picked up a handful of crudely fashioned iron nails, and a wooden mallet, holding them in one hand. With her free hand, she reached up toward her veil and unfastened it, to reveal the hideous scars and wounds underneath. A gaping hole exposed the interior of her mouth, and teeth. Skin had grown over wounds in an irregular manner, and light shown through the wound that entered through the other side of her face.

  “You did this to me! You did this to Christ’s true representative on Earth! And now you will pay, by receiving the Wounds of Christ!” the Monsignor exclaimed.

  “Recieve the Wounds of Christ!” All the other Friars repeated, save for Friar Fabian, who stood silently as usual. The Monsignor did not heed the muffled protests of Lupe or Javier or the cries from Consuela. Monsignor Francis stood straddling Consuela, then starting with the right hand placing a nail in the middle of the palm. Consuela tried to fight the Monsignor’s actions, but her hand was held in place by Friar Martin. With the cracking of wooden mallet on ion nail head, it pierced flesh and sank into the wood below. Consuela let out a blood-curdling scream. Her siblings wailed, and there was no way to mask their anguish even with gags. The nail was driven down securely with repeated strikes. The Monsignor attempted to form a smile with her broken face, but only a stream of saliva dribbled from her open wound.

  Suddenly, gunshots were heard in the distance, followed by sporadic explosions. There were yells of confusion and orders being barked. Friar Pius was silent, apparently as she received a report via his neural implant, then, he rushed over to the Monsignor.

  “Holiness! We are under attack!” Friar Pius exclaimed.

  “By who?” she demmanded to know, with the clicking of her incomplete set of teeth.

  “An army of checkered cabs—I don’t know what faction—but they all wear suits and hats!” Friar Pius reported.

  “Mount a counterattack! All of you Friars—now! I cannot be interrupted!” the Monsignor yelled out. The Friars, save for Fabian, rushed off toward the sound of battle. The Monsignor turned her attention to Consuela’s left hand, and she placed a nail and began striking the head with her mallet. Consuela shrieked in pain.

  “Dios Mio!” she screamed. Her siblings cried and screamed and struggled, to no avail. The sounds of battle intensified, the explosions were getting closer. Monsignor Francis finished with her left hand and moved down to Consuela’s feet, which were fastened to a platform on the cross. With one, then two, then three strikes, the nail was driven through the top of her right foot. At this point, the pain had become too much to bear for Consuela. She grew delirious in the agony. The Monsignor had finished securing the nails into her feet and ordered two militiamen to grab Consuela’s cross and lift it. The two men hoisted Consuela into the air, then she felt the sudden jolt of the cross being dropped by the men into the post hole, which sent shooting pain through her hands and feet.

  And, still the explosions and sounds of battle drew closer. Through vision marked by flashing lights of agony, Consuela looked up at the sky and witnessed churning, black clouds, coalescing in a swirling mass. An eye formed in the darkened cloud cover and a glowing light beamed down through the middle. Consuela then gazed down upon her tormentor, the Monsignor, who smirked through her facial wounds at her. Through hazy vision, she could see that the Monsignor brandished the Spear of Destiny in her hands, and she had ignited the plasma tip of the spear. Consuela looked up again at the morass of dark clouds and beaming luminescence in the sky, and she saw four-winged creatures emerging from the bright eye of the storm, souring in orbit around the eye, thousands upon thousands.

  “Receive the Fifth Wound of Christ!” the Monsignor proclaimed, drawing back the spear to prepare for the final thrust into her query. Consuela’s siblings screamed at the top of their lungs. Suddenly guttural shrieks emerged from behind Friar Fabian’s veil. The screams seemed to distract the Monsignor from her spear thrust. Annoyed, she turned to Friar Fabian who did not quiet herself.

  “What is it, Manuela?” she asked in a shrill voice. Friar Fabian unfastened her veil, to reveal her own broken and scarred face. She cried out with mouth agape, showing off the pathetic stump that had once been her tongue. She cried and moaned with monstrous fury, then she produced a pistol from under her Order cloak and took aim.

  “What do you think you’re—” Before the Monsignor could finish her question she took a bullet to the arm that clutched the spear. her arm was rendered useless by the wound. Another shot connected to her right knee, and the Monsignor let out a moan and fell to her other knee. The Monsignor struggled forward, supporting her weight against the spear. Another bullet passed through the Monsignor’s gut, she cringed in pain, but continued to advance. Friar Fabian squeezed the trigger again, grazing the Monsignor’s neck, but it did not halt her forward progress. The Monsignor lunged and thrust with the spear, sinking the glowing plasma blade into Friar Fabian’s chest. The stench of burning flesh permeated the air. Friar Fabian took aim at point blank range and with the remaining bullet, placed a shot between the Monsignor’s hatful eyes, depositing her head’s contents on the pavement behind her. A split second later both Monsignor and Friar fell dead. Consuela gazed at the carnage through tearful eyes, and her siblings screamed in disbelief.

  Consuela peered up at the sky and saw the winged creatures becoming more numberous, drawing closer. The explosions and sounds of fighting intensified, and she heard the roar of numerous engines of vehicles coming near. She let out a thunderous cry aimed at the heavens and the light that poured out through the wound in the cloud cover,

  “¡DIOS MIO! ¡DIOS MIO! ¿Por qué me has abandonado? (My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?)”

  After this, when she looked up, she saw the churning chaos of the black clouds began to subside, and the winged creatures started back toward the ray of light at the center of the storm, to disappear from sight. The sun broke the darkness. Then she saw a man frantically approach her cross, his face obscured by bright sun and her blurry vision.

  “It’s her! Help me take this damned thing down!” the man yelled. She felt the sensation of her cross being removed out of the post hole.

  “Sir! We have routed the Order of the Pentagram! It was weird, we heard many in their ranks begin babbling in tongues, then they turned on their own comrades! Their infighting allowed us to gain the upper hand!” a man reported to the sunlight obscured man. He turned back to Consuela, who once again laid on her back.

  “Get these damned nails out now! We need a medic here—you're going to be okay! You here me, Consuela Grajales?” the man exclaimed. She looked up and the sun formed a halo behind the man’s head and hat.

  “Rudie?” was all she could manage to say before she passed out from pain and shock.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  MOUTH FULL OF GRAVEL

  All the major city news outlets were present in the hall. Every newspaper and television station from one hundred miles around were represented, even a few national media organizations were present. The Philadelphia City Council had called an investigatory hearing into the ‘Action’ Organization siege of October 5, 1985. Leaders from all manner of
communities were present at the hearing: religious, business, neighborhood groups, civil liberties organizations, and of course, city and police officials. Also present to testify at the hearing was Kesha and Birdie Nubia, the only members of ‘Action’ to have survived the ordeal. Birdie took in the sight of the meeting hall with nervousness and intimidation. Many people sat in rows with hard, stern faces, dressed in fancy suits that were alien to him. At the front of the room, at a crescent-shaped altar, sat a panel of important people, who apparently, were high judges as far as he could tell. He sat beside his mother in the audience, and she patiently waited to speak her mind in front of the panel and the media about that fateful day.

  Birdie heard numerous people talk in mind-numbing detail, about minutia, for what had seemed like hours to him. There had been doctors, firefighters, lawyers, bystanders, reporters and officers called to the floor to give testimony.

  “We will have order in the hall. I am calling our next witness to give testimony. I call Kesha Jinkins, A.K.A. Kesha Nubia to the stand,” a city councilwoman summoned her.

  “That’s me, little man, you stay strong for your mother, hear?” Kesha said, rubbing Birdie’s head, then she made her way down to the floor, where she was given a Bible to place her hand upon and she was sworn in.

  “Miss Kesha Nubia, may I just call you, Kesha?” the councilwoman asked.

  “Yes, that’s fine,” she confirmed.

  “Kesha. I want to get some background into the daily life of the ‘Action’ Organization. I wanted to ask you about the one you called Johnny Nubia. Johnny Nubia considered himself a prophet, correct?” the councilwoman asked.

  “Johhny Nubia didn’t consider himself a prophet. He KNEW he was Jesus cometh, reborn for this last age,” Kesha stated, correcting the councilwoman.

  “I see. And you followed everything Johhny said? He wrote a book?” the councilwoman followed up.

  “Yes. What Johnny Nubia said was the truth. He laid out tenets of the truth in his book, the Book of Action,” she stated proudly.

  “Okay, and what did this book contain?” the councilwoman probed.

  “The truth,” Kesha replied simply.

  “Oh—yes, but uh—what were some of the tenets that Johnny Nubia wrote down?” the councilwoman pressed.

  “Well—for instance—he forbade us to gather in a place such as this, using microphones and T.V. cameras, to be showpieces for the ‘Powers That Be’s’ propaganda machine,” Kesha exclaimed with disgust in her voice.

  “Can you give specific examples of Johhny Nubia’s rules?” the councilwoman asked with annoyance.

  “Yes, Johnny Nubia though that modern technology evil and sinful. So we lived without it. We lived a wholesome life, separate from the taint of what you call “education”, and we grew our own food, from the Earth, free from chemicals and processing. I could go on,” Kesha announced.

  “No, thank you. I believe that covers it. Kesha, was it also a tenet of Johnny Nubia’s religion to provoke armed conflict with the society that you wanted to live separately from?” the councilwoman quipped.

  “Listen! We provoked nothing! ‘Action’ only wanted to be left alone to live in our own way. But, how can that be when Whitey paves over everything in sight, and butts into every aspect of life? There was going to be a confrontation whether we liked it or not, because we were different, and this country doesn’t tolerate people who are different!” Kesha nearly broke into a yelling fit, but she kept her composure.

  “Okay. That you, Kesha Nubia. No further questions, you may be excused,” the councilwoman stated. Kesha left the stand and walked back up the central aisle where Birdie waited for her return. It had been a month since he had seen his mom, as she was being held at the county jail and Birdie had been put into State custody. He was proud to see his mom stand up for the Nubians. She sat back down next to him and embraced Birdie.

  “This panel calls Police Commissioner Oscar Rodrigo to the floor.” the presiding councilwoman announced. Commissioner Rodrigo strutted to the witness box, sat down and straightened his tie, and tapped the microphone.

  “Commissioner Rodrigo. Can you tell me, what was the objective of the operation you led on October 5, 1985?” a councilman asked the questions this time.

  “Yes, uh—it was to evict the ‘Action’ Organization from the townhouse in the Walnut Hill neighborhood, at the Mayor’s behest,” Commissioner Rodrigo answered in a monotonous voice, displaying no emotion.

  “Commissioner, do you feel that the operation you led was a success?” the councilman asked.

  “Well—uh—yes, we achieved the objective we set, with no loss of police officer life or civilians casualties, so, uh—yes, I would say it was a success,” the Commissioner proclaimed, between coughs.

  “Thank you, Commissioner—can you give some background into why the operation was so dangerous for the officer’s involved in the siege? We have a scale model on the floor here if you would like...” the councilman trailed off, and the Commissioner got up from his seat and approached a scale model that had been crafted for the hearing, which showed the ‘Action’ Organization house, with rooftop bunker and the surrounding block.

  “Yes, councilman, as you can see here, there was a bunker that commanded the street from above. It offered a superior tactical position, and so, I deemed that an outright raid would be too costly for my officers, so an alternative method needed to be devised,” the Commissioner said matter-of-factly.

  “Commissioner, what was did Sergeant Zhukov suggest to you as an alternative?” the councilman asked.

  “Well, let me be clear that the Sergeant was adamant about wanting the raid to go ahead. He was near disobeying orders. But, then he suggested dropping a satchel charge to destroy the bunker, followed by a raid. I did identify the need to destroy the bunker so I greenlighted the plan,” the Commissioner answered.

  “—and, did the satchel charge work in disabling the bunker?” the councilman followed up.

  “Partially, the bunker was still a threat. It had not been totally destroyed,” the Commissioner stated.

  “At that point what was your decision?”

  “It had been reported to me that smoke was rising from the bunker and the roof of the house,” the Commissioner said.

  “Was there a fire burning at that point?”

  “It was hard to tell, but I had no way of knowing due to the danger the terrorists inside posed. I consulted the Mayor, and he said to hold,” the Commissioner reported.

  “The Mayor told you to hold?” the councilman repeated his words.

  “Correct,” the Commissioner said sternly.

  “Was there an attempt to put the fire out thereafter?” the councilman asked.

  “No sir, because at that time it was not apparent whether there was a fire or not—I’ve been in a war zone and have seen many explosions, the residual smoke can last hours. So, I wasn’t prepared to risk lives just then,” he concluded.

  “Thank you, Commissioner. No further questions from me,” the councilman yielded, and then a Church leader from the African American community leaned into his microphone.

  “Commissioner, thank you. I have just one question for you, so it’ll be short. Commissioner, when you were assessing the situation, and as you say, were thinking about protecting the lives of your officers as your first priority, and as the fire that later developed became apparent, did it ever occur to you that there were women and children in the ‘Action’ house? What of their lives, sir?” the Church leader asked somewhat profanely.

  “Thank you, sir. Yes, they did occur to me, but ‘Action’ had been known in the past to use innocents as human shields in previous raids. This despicable tactic was designed to set my officers up for tragedy and I wasn’t going to have my officers responsible for innocent deaths, sir!” the Commissioner blurted. It was the closest he had been to anger yet.

  “—and, yet, they died all the same. What a tragedy this turned out to be, indeed. Thank you, that is all,” the
Church leader announced. The Commissioner was excused and he returned to his corner.

  “I call Sergeant Vitaly Zhukov to the floor for some questions,” the councilwoman called out. Sergeant Zhukov came to the floor and took a seat.

  “Sergeant, you called for the satchel charge to be dropped on the bunker atop the ‘Action’ house, correct?” the councilwoman asked.

  “Yes, but, only after I had pleaded for a raid, to put a quick end to the siege,” Sergeant Zhukov stated.

  “Sergeant, were you aware of the fire that broke out?” the councilwoman inquired.

  “Yes! And I tried to get the Commissioner to organize an effort to put the fire out!” Sergeant Zhukov barked.

  “And what was the Commissioner’s response to your suggestions?” the councilwoman pressed.

  “He said that he needed to know that the bunker was completely destroyed before he committed any officers to the raid. He clearly saw that a fire had started. I requested for the water cannons to be aimed at the fire. He denied my request, and said, “Let the fire burn”,” Zhukov testified. Birdie looked at the man’s face who had saved his life. Zhukov looked around at his fellow officers in the audience, but to Birdie, Zhukov looked slightly regretful.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. One more question. You were aware of the altercation that had taken place in the alley behind the ‘Action’ house as your report states. Your action was commendable for rescuing Birdie Nubia’s life. Can you tell me what you found after the shooting of Jamal Nubia?” the councilwoman probed.

  “Yes, I responded to the scene, and checked it out personally. Officers involved in the shooting had stated hat Jamal Nubia pointed a gun at them, and they used deadly force, but when I had scaled the fence to retrieved the wounded child, I saw no gun near Jamal’s body, only a piece of two by four wood,” Sergeant Zhukov confessed.