Fifty Falling Stars

by Wesley Higginbotham

  Life went on this way until the Prophet led them to into Columbia, Kentucky. Sam’s back was sore and bleeding from the ritual flogging he had received the night before. If the Prophet was to be believed, Saint Paul had visited him during a dream two weeks ago and told him that, every day, seven members of the New Jews were to be flogged to atone for the sins of the group for that day. The Prophet had selected Sam yesterday. The Holy Circle, the ten high priests of the Prophet, had bound his hands that morning before the group departed. Seven of the Holy Circle had led the seven atoners by a lead tied around their necks. The other three of the circle had whipped the atoners until the group stopped for the night. Being an atoner did come with some perks. The day after their atonement, they were given extra food and allowed the privilege of walking at the head of the herd, side-by-side, with the Prophet. That was why Sam was one of the first people in the cult to see the town.

  The Prophet held up his hands and stopped the procession as Columbia came into view. Because of their elevated position on the Cumberland Parkway, they could see the entire town spread out before them. “Child Reeves,” the Prophet spoke in his low, grating voice, “what do you make of what the Almighty had put before us?”

  Sam looked over the same scene Priest Reeves surveyed. Thousands and thousands of people inhabited the town. The smoldering ruins of several homes spat acrid smoke into the sky. The wind changed direction and blew towards the southeast, carrying the smell of the burning homes and roasting meat with them. Sam saw the split second of fear in the priest’s eyes before the fanaticism returned. Whoever these people were, they were unlike any others the cult had encountered. They feared no attack. They had supplies, working trucks, and weapons. The cult had only a few guns, and those had been distributed to the Levites, the Prophets personal guard. Priest Reeves looked away from the town and stared at the Prophets shoes. Not even the priest were worthy to address the him directly. “Holy Prophet, chosen Guide of Mankind, I feel that God has given us warriors to convert.”

  As if summoned by his words, a large group of the people noticed the congregation. Well over a hundred armed men, several motorcycles, and trucks began to leave the town and head toward the cult.

  Vicio stood on top of one of his buses as the strange group was led into town. His thoughts were worried. His army had reached an equilibrium at a little over fifty-five hundred troops. He still brought in new troops from the towns he raided, but the logistics of taking care of that many people, or lack thereof, killed off as many as he brought in. He had reached the capacity of his skill and that of his underlings. What he needed was a place to settle down and establish a base of operations. He had hoped to make it further before having to do this, but it seemed that would be the only way he could maintain this level of strength.

  Of course, in order to establish his base, he would somehow have to turn his army’s lust for battle and conquest into a more settled society. He had worked out a rudimentary system to do this. He would establish a strict code of laws. Anyone that broke those laws would become a slave. He would send out raiding parties to collect people from the towns that remained and transport them back as slaves, not food. Well, maybe fifty-fifty. The only way he saw to make his establishment work was to return to a similar system of slavery used on the old plantations. He had once heard a joke where black people had been referred to as ‘antique farm equipment.’ The full scope of that joke had never hit him until he began to think about making his stronghold and how to feed it. The only difference now would be that color would have no bearing in the new slave trade. He would elevate a warrior class and build a base of slaves to feed them. His new kingdom would be one of soldiers and chattel. The only real decision to be made was where to seat his capital. He needed somewhere defensible, preferably with existing resources. Columbia was not such a place.

  His train of thought broke when he saw Don and one of his captains break ahead of the group and head toward him. Vicio climbed down to meet them. “So, who the fuck are these assholes?” Vicio asked.

  “They claim to be some kinda religious group, boss. The little bald cracker up front leads them. Calls himself the Prophet or some shit. Says they’s on a special mission from God. Weird thang, boss, when we approached them, they just gave up. Cue ball there just told them to put down their guns and ‘submit’ to us.”

  “Interesting.” Vicio looked over at the Prophet. “Give me ten minutes, then bring this Prophet and his deputy into my office.”

  “I don’t think he’s the type to have a deputy, boss. You see them ten dudes with the colored rope around their necks? They’re his high priest or some shit.”

  “Then grab one of them and bring him.” Vicio ordered.

  As he turned to leave and head toward the house he had claimed, Don asked, “Which one you want, boss?”

  “It doesn’t fucking matter. Just pick one of the bastards. He’ll be dead before nightfall anyway.”

  Ten minutes later, Vicio stood by the window as Don and three of his men led the Prophet and one of his priest into the dining room of the large, two-story brick house. Vicio studied the men as they entered. The Prophet wore what looked to be the remains of a bath robe and held a spark of cunning in his eyes. Just as Vicio suspected, the other man, the priest wearing a rag-like shirt and pants, held nothing but hollow fanaticism in his. While the priest was worthless, Vicio could use that sort of devotion, that sort of fanaticism, for his own means. He had been undecided about what to do with these ‘New Jews’ as they called themselves, until that moment. If he could harness that level of devotion, perhaps he could build himself a personal guard that would gladly die to protect him. The men he surrounded himself with now were adequate at best, held in check by a small amount of loyalty mixed with a larger portion of fear. Vicio knew that they would save their own necks before his. They just didn’t have the level of devotion that true religious zealots had. He began to formulate a plan.

  “Commander Vicio,” Don said, “This is the Prophet and his high priest, Mr. Reeves.”

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” Vicio said in his most charming voice and friendliest smile.

  “Greetings unto you, my child.” The Prophet said.

  Vicio smiled again, hiding his grinding teeth. Who the fuck is this to call me “my child? “I understand you holy men have come to convert me and my army to your religion. Tell me then, what would you have me believe?”

  “I have been sent by the Holy Father to gather all mankind as we writhe in the consequences of our sin and yoke them together to meet the Father of Lies in a holy battle. We need men like you, child. We need your army to join our forces to combat Satan!”

  Vicio listened to the man, letting silence build until the Prophet could take no more. “I have been visited by Moses and King David and Saint Paul himself. They have directed me to amass this holy army, for it is the will of God. We will march to the Father of Water, the mighty Mississippi River, where God will deliver unto us the Messiah who will lead us to victory against all that is evil in the world. This will be the last battle. Jesus, praise be unto him, will rule the world for a thousand years.

  “I come to prepare the way, to collect His new chosen people, and wage this holy war!” The Prophet almost yelled by the time he reached the end of his speech.

  Vicio continued to stare at the man. He wondered what was wrong with this man. Had he been a lunatic before the collapse and had run out of medication? Perhaps the collapse of everything he had ever loved had broken him? The only thing that mattered was how Vicio could use him.

  “You have done well, my Prophet. For I am your Messiah!” Vicio said.

  The Prophet shook his head. “You are not he, my child.”

  At the Prophet’s denial, the tall, zealot priest stepped toward Vicio. “How dare you blaspheme th….”

  Vicio punched the priest in the mouth, sending him collapsing on the floor. The priests did not follow suit with the Prophet and shave their heads. This man retained a head full of
long, dark brown hair. Vicio grabbed this and yanked the dazed man to his knees. He pulled out a four-inch long folding knife from his pocket. Vicio’s claim had failed, as he suspected it might. It was time for a new approach. He doubted that the crazy man cared for his own life. Maybe he cared about his followers. “Prophet, you will go out to your crowd and announce that I am your messiah or I will kill all of your people and serve them to my army as New Jew Barbeque, starting with this miserable piece of shit.”

  “I will not blaspheme at the threat to my people. He is but a servant of the true God. As am I.”

  Vicio put the knife up to the man’s head and jerked downward, severing the man’s ear. A stream of bloody spittle flew from the priest’s mouth as he yelled out. He raised his right hand to cover the bleeding hole that used to be his ear. Vicio grabbed the man’s hand and slammed it on the dining room table. The priest tried to rise, but Vicio slipped his knife behind the man’s right knee. The tendons and ligaments almost made an audible pop as the blade severed them. The man screamed again. Vicio held his splayed hand down. He placed the knife on the man’s little finger. He raised his left hand and slammed it down on the back edge of the knife, cutting the finger off and leaving a bloody gash in the table beneath. The priest yelled again. Vicio took hold of his hair and held the point of the knife to the man’s right eye.

  “You will do this, Prophet!” Vicio yelled.

  “I will not.” The bald man said.

  Something in the man’s tone caught Vicio’s attention. He studied the Prophet. He saw it, the perspiration on the man’s forehead. He had misjudged the Prophet, assuming his faith to be stronger than it was. No, the man did not care for his sheep. He might be insane, but he retained enough sense to realize that his life was in danger and to fear for it. Vicio smiled. It seemed physical violence might be all that was needed to turn this false prophet.

  Vicio released the priest’s hair and grabbed his ragged shirt collar. He used the knife to remove the shirt, stripping the man bare from the waist up. He reached around the man’s chest and rammed his knife under the man’s left ribcage. He yanked the knife across the man’s body, opening up his abdomen. The priest screamed a muted sound and tried to hold his intestines in with his hands. Vicio let him fall to the floor, dying in his futile effort.

  He stared at the Prophet. The sweat had developed into beads that ran down the man’s brow as he watched his dying high priest. Vicio locked eyes with one of his captains and gave him a nod. The man leapt forward, grabbed the Prophet, and slammed him onto the table. Another of the captains grabbed the Prophet’s right hand and held it out on the table.

  Vicio placed his knife on the last knuckle of the Prophet’s little finger. “I wonder how far we will have to go until you realize that I AM YOUR MESSIAH.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Vicio stood on top of the bus, gazing out at the cult members. The Prophet stood behind him, looking a little pale. The bloody stump where his right hand used to be was wrapped and tied in the shirt of his former high priest. The Prophet stepped up and addressed the crowd. “My children! My children, I bring you great news and holy tidings! We have found the Messiah! I declare that Commander Vicio is our Messiah! He will lead us to our victory against evil!”

  Some of the more devout in the crowd fell to their knees in worship. Some of the more skeptical shook their heads in disbelief. Some cried, and some shouted with joy. The Prophet held up his bloody stump and his left hand to quiet the crowd. Many noticed the missing hand. “My children, as you know, Saint Paul required a sacrifice of us! The Messiah also requires a sacrifice of us to prove our worthiness! Look upon my hand!” He thrust up his bloody stump. “The Messiah found that my hand had led me to sin! He declared that it was better for me to lose a hand to my sin than to lose myself in sinful ways! This! This is my sacrifice!”

  The Prophet looked over his people. He called forth his Levites. “You, faithful servants, move to stand at my left!” The men stepped forward and did as asked. The Prophet pointed down the center of the crowd. “Those who name yourselves God’s newly chosen, divide to the left and right!” It took a few minutes, but the crowd divided itself. The Prophet pointed to the group on the right. “You will honor God in the most holy of ways today! You will be with him in paradise this day! For you are to be our sacrifice!”

  The crowd began to react. Vicio nodded to one of his captains who had arranged his men in place around the crowd. The men sprang forward and restrained the two hundred cult members designated for sacrifice. Vicio looked out on the violence. The chosen people didn’t help the sacrifices. Vicio smiled to himself. He thought he was going to like being a god.

  Don stood on the ground beside the buss. He held up the letter that the Commander had given him before they left the house. He read it again. “Watch the Prophet closely for two days and make sure he keeps to the story. Make sure he dies as quiet and as unsuspicious death as you can arrange.”

  Sam stood in the front, only yards away from where the Prophet had just doomed him. Two men came forward and grabbed him. One held a long knife. His thoughts left him as he began to scream and kick. “Please! No!” He screamed as the men began to drag him away. He realized that his misplaced faith had screwed him. Throughout his time with the cult, he had never mentioned Celina because it brought up a bad taste in his mouth and because he knew the Prophet and his cult wouldn’t stand a chance against a place like that. As he looked around at the thousands of people the new Messiah led, he knew they might have a chance. The fleeting thought that his information on Celina could save his life raced through his mind. He had to get the Prophet or the Messiah’s attention. “Messiah! Messiah! I know where there is food! Lots of food!” The two men on the bus did not hear him. He yelled out one last time before his shouts would be lost in the chaos of the other struggling sacrifices. “Master! I can feed your army!”

  Sam’s last yell made it to the Commander’s ear. The man turned and looked right at him. Vicio heard him and liked the title ‘master.’ He would see what this man had to say. If it wasn’t worthy, he would kill him himself. “You there!” Vicio yelled. The two men restraining Sam stopped. “Bring that man to me!”

  The two men brought Sam to the bus. Vicio motioned for them to put the man in the pickup truck. Once the man was loaded into the truck, he climbed in. Moments later, Vicio, Don, the Prophet, several of Vicio’s captains, and Sam sat in the dining room of Vicio’s house. They took turns questioning Sam about his wild claims of food stores and farming activities. Vicio had been impressed when Sam described the food chip system. Even though over two months had passed since Sam had been exiled and a lot could change in that time, Vicio let himself believe the place Sam described existed. After hours of interrogation and light torture to ensure that the man spoke the truth, Vicio decided to let Sam live. He gave his normal daily orders to his commanders and instructed Ed to start monitoring radio transmissions in hope of corroborating Sam’s story about Celina. He knew that they were too far to receive anything, but they would be headed that way soon.

  Midnight found Vicio sitting alone in the living room of the house, studying the road atlas by the light of a flashlight. He looked at Celina. It looked almost perfect. The map gave some detail about flatlands surrounded by high hills. A river ran around the town providing protection and water. He decided this would be the place where he set up his capital. The only problem was the people defending it. Sam had described basic fortifications and a small population. Vicio thought his large army should be able to overwhelm the town. He just needed to figure out how to attack it to capture as many slaves as possible. Should he split his forces and attack from two sides or concentrate on just one? These were questions for another day. There were plenty of towns between Columbia and Celina. He could pick up more recruits as he went. With any luck, he would be able to compensate for any losses that his army suffered and capture some of Celina’s population to be his new slaves to work the fields.

  Chapter 30r />
  Will and Kirk waited in the lobby of the hospital for Sherry and Jenny. They had taken a break for lunch and decided to surprise their wives by bringing them lunch. They knew the girls were busy and wouldn’t have time to go get their own food. An outbreak of a stomach bug had assailed the town and flooded the hospital. It wasn’t serious, but the head of the medical staff requested anyone with symptoms to come in and get checked out to rule out any chance of a more serious outbreak. Both Will and Kirk appreciated the man’s protective nature of the community and its overall health, even if they did think he was over reacting.

  Lucy came down the hallway, Sherry and Jenny in tow. The girls made a big fuss about how nice it was that their husbands brought them lunch. Kirk didn’t have the heart to tell his new wife and Jenny that he and Will would be heading out for a week or more to scout out the conditions around Celina and maybe make contact with some of the nearby towns. That could wait for tonight.

  They sat, talking about current events around town and eating their small portions when the front door of the hospital opened. A young woman staggered in. She stumbled and barely caught herself as she crossed the threshold. Kirk inspected every detail of the woman. Her left cheek swelled, almost closing her eye. Her nose dribbled a small stream of blood onto her upper lip. Her thin lips were swollen, the bottom one busted. Bits of dry grass hung suspended in the wild strands of her hair. Her shirt was torn around the neck and was on backward. The front of her pants was torn, a dark stain of urine circled her crotch, and her knees were dirty. Will leapt up and rushed to help the woman. The woman confirmed Kirk’s suspicions when she jerked away from Will’s touch as he tried to put his arm around her.