The nun had reached the wheelchair now, and began pushing Rico down the street, dodging the husks of cars and the rotting bodies that littered the tarmac. Andy ran forward and launched another concrete missile. It bounced off Rico’s leg, and his scream brought glass tumbling from a broken storefront.
Andy whooped and pumped his arm. Sod made clucking noises. Tapeworm laughed himself into a coughing fit. A wad of brown mucous flew from Tapeworm’s mouth. Andy backed away. The bastard might be catching the Crimson.
“That’ll teach you to cross me,” Andy shouted after Rico. The nun bent and tended to the boy’s wound. As she pushed Rico’s robe up, Sod and Tapeworm fell silent.
Rico’s legs were swathed in soiled bandages. Even at that distance, the gang could see that the bones were unevenly set. Something sharp protruded from the gauze, a yellow and red stain expanding from the ruptured flesh.
“Holy hell,” Andy said, in the closest thing to an awed whisper that fell among the rubble these days.
A man shambled out from the foyer of a crumbling building, one arm hidden beneath his military jacket. Another man came from the opposite side of the street. This one had dark hair and deep bruises around his eyes, a Hispanic like Rico, only this Hispanic carried a metal bar as if he had used it before. More came, spilling out from the dark pockets of doorways and the scabs of windows, like maggots overflowing dead eyes. They moved silently, weaving between the vehicles toward Rico.
Sod and Tapeworm backed slowly into the alley. Andy tried to freeze them with a glare, but his eyes revealed the fear that his clenched jaw kept hidden. The two retreated faster, and Andy skulked after them.
He stopped at the corner and took a final look. The men had gathered around Rico and the Sister. The boy’s screams gained intensity, then died away. The nun’s eyes met Andy’s, and she smiled, her missing teeth making a black wedge of her mouth.
Andy looked away and drove a boot into the living rag pile at his feet. The Crimson victim gurgled, and a disturbed rat scrambled from the rotted cloth and disappeared down a sewer grate. Andy slipped through a gap in the wall and let the ruins absorb him, finding safety in the cool kiss of darkness.
The gang huddled around a fire, its oily smoke thick in the cramped room. The hang-out had once been a souvenir shop. Tattered movie posters and T-shirts moldered on the walls. Andy rubbed his eyes, trying to drive away the vision of Rico’s hobbled legs.
“Wall fell on him, sure as hell,” Tapeworm said. His voice died in the corners of the room as if swallowed by the hush of a high church.
“No damn way,” Sod said. “He was way too fast for that.”
“Maybe he tripped on a midnight run.”
“Or maybe he went over,” Andy said. He got up and took a T-shirt from the bargain rack. He studied the logo for a moment, then tossed the shirt on the fire and sat back down.
“He didn’t need to go fucking with them,” Tapeworm said, sniffling.
Andy stared at the fire in silence. The Christian Soldiers didn’t like noise. If you screamed, they’d get you. If you broke glass, they would be on you like flies on sugar. Only the nuns were left alone, were allowed to walk the streets unchallenged.
Tapeworm coughed and spat copiously into the fire. The skinny bastard was definitely going Crimson.
“Your hear that?” Sod said, eyes as wide as the commemorative Frisbees that were scattered on the floor.
“Hear what, fuckwit?” Andy said, lost in thought.
“Outside.”
The three fell silent. Footsteps crunched in the powdery grit on the other side of the wall. A flashlight played over the gap near the roofline.
“Goon Squad,” Andy whispered.
“Who’s in there?” growled a deep voice.
“The ghost of Howdy Dowdy,” Andy shouted back. Sod and Tapeworm snickered.
“You the punks been throwing rocks?” the voice thundered.
Andy hated cops as much as he hated nuns. Here the city was blown to hell, half of it slipped into the dark scar of the earth, the other half stubbled with ruins, and still the bastards in blue tried to impose law and order. Except in the case of the Christian Soldiers, who were avoided even by the cops. Well, it was a new order now, one built on cruelty and pain and the lack of laws.
“Up yours, pig.” Andy knew the cop wouldn’t try to climb through the narrow gap in the ceiling. A flashlight shined across a small window, the iron bars throwing the shadows of crosses on the far wall.
“You’d better be glad it’s dark, or I’d come in there and—”
“Save it for Judgment Day,” Tapeworm said.
“I’ll get you boys tomorrow. Soon as the sun’s out.”
Andy went to the corner, unzipped his pants, and urinated against the wall. The cops hadn’t caught them yet. The Christian Soldiers hadn’t caught them, either. They would outrun them all.
Except Rico hadn’t. And Rico had been the fastest in the gang. Now they had him, trussed up in his wheelchair, his legs in sodden ruin. Getting pushed around by a nun, his ears filled with prayers, his haunted eyes fixed on some invisible golden stairway that he’d never be able to climb.
The cop’s footsteps faded in the night. Andy returned to the warmth of the fire. Tapeworm coughed and spat, the saliva hissing as it hit the flames.
Andy shivered. There was one thing nobody could outrun: the Crimson.
They had made it, after hours of slinking through the streets. Before them, the old Catholic church rose like rock cliff, taller than any of the surrounding wreckage. The veiled sun sparkled off the stained glass, the blue, green, and amber chunks that were arranged in the form of that taunting bitch Mary. The glass had withstood the tremors, whether due to a miracle or luck. Andy could hardly wait to fling a brick through it.
Sod was with him. Tapeworm had stayed back in the hang-out, said he’d felt like six gallons of shit in a half-pint baggie. Son of a bitch had the Crimson, was what it was. Andy crouched behind a dead van and filled his pockets with rocks.
“You go that way.” Andy motioned Sod to circle around a fallen hotel and up an adjacent avenue. “If the cops come, we’ll be twice as hard to catch.”
Sod nodded at the senseless logic. “Can’t wait to pop her cherry,” he said, shaking his fist at the stained-glass image.
“You sure you got the balls for this? After seeing Rico?”
“They didn’t get Rico. He fell and got hurt, that’s all. And now they’re taking care of him.”
“Right, fuckface,” Andy said. “Begging forgiveness for his sins.”
A wind had arisen, sending grit toward the west. Sod tossed up a rock and caught it, then looked around the street. “You don’t think he went over?”
Andy stared at the glistening spire, the manhood of a God who let a woman do his work. He squinted against the sun. On the hill above the ravaged city, the letters W-O-O stood like teeth in a fractured grin. Maybe after the glass was broken, he’d hike up there and kick the letters over. Another false God to knock down a peg or two.
“You don’t think he did, do you?” Sod repeated.
“Don’t matter none. I’m going to stone his ass either way.” Andy curled his lips and hunched over, then crept up the street toward the church. He waited until Sod had disappeared among the scattered vehicles and then circled around behind him. Let the idiot serve as a minesweeper, flush the Soldiers if any were around.
Andy moved close enough to make out the haloed face of Mary, pacific in the sun, the leaden seams showing between the shards of colored glass. Andy clutched a baseball-sized rock. Right into that smug, sanctimonious face, that’s where this one was going.
Twenty feet more, and he’d be in range. Sod ought to be in position already. But Sod threw like a left-handed girl. He couldn’t hit the glass if the fate of his soul depended on it. He could barely bust a storefront window from ten feet away, and Mary was at least forty feet above street level.
Maybe Sod couldn’t, but Andy would do her, all
right.
Andy had the balls to bust up anything that dared to shine with grace and hope and color above a land littered with death and gray waste. The singing came over the wind, a hundred female voices lifted in honor to the God that had delivered them unto this imperfect day. A God that had pissed death from the sky. A god that was praised for wreaking massive destruction while Andy was condemned for tiny acts of vandalism.
Andy smiled as he listened. Just songs, that was all. Just words and sound and nothing. A hymn for the hopeless.
Where was that stupid Sod? Andy cursed under his breath and crept forward. He dodged behind the shell of a municipal bus. She was there, waiting.
Andy was so startled, he almost dropped the rock he’d been holding. The nun’s cloudy eyes held him with the force of searchlights. Her shabby habit was brown from dirt and dried blood, and scabs littered her mouth.
“He sees and forgives,” the old woman said.
Andy tried to step backward, but his legs were frozen. The nun lifted her arms, palms up. “Give me the rocks,” she said gently, her face cracked and creased from her long-suffering smile.
Even though some of her teeth were missing, the smile was peaceful, accepting, inviting. Confused, Andy glanced up at the plate-glass Mary, at an equal serenity mirrored in those amber features.
“Pass your troubles onto Him, and be free from anxiety,” the nun said. She moved forward with a rustle of torn robes.
The motion broke whatever spell Andy had been under, and he fumbled in his pocket for a rock. “Back away, bitch.”
“Your burden is heavy, my child.” Her wrinkled face was just as radiant as before, her eyes unblinking. “Your friend opened up his heart, and now is healed.”
“He’s healed like a damned pig in a meat case, maybe. Who fucked his legs up?”
“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”
“The meek can damn well have it, as far as I’m concerned. Now, back up, or I’ll bust your face with this rock.
“Whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.”
The choir’s vocals soared at that moment, as if some off-scene stage director had ordered it. Andy flung the rock at the old woman, then turned and fled before seeing if he’d hit his target. The hymn seemed to expand and fill the valley basin, to soothe the wounded structures, the scarred streets, the jagged hills. Andy covered his ears as he ran.
He rounded a corner and stooped to catch his breath, his hands on his knees. The fucking nerve of that bitch. Trying to shove the company line up his ass and down his throat, hoping the messages would meet in his heart. Well, he didn’t have a fucking heart.
He pulled more rocks from his pocket. He screamed as loudly as he could, rage and betrayal and false courage spewing from his lungs. As the echo died away, he heard the satisfying sound of distant breaking glass.
Then came a clatter from nearby. He turned. Had the nun followed him, even with her face caved in and bleeding?
He clenched a hand around the rock. Let her come. He had what he needed, a good hard rock that was more comforting than any rod and staff. Let them build a church to worship fallen things. He’d be there to tear it down.
He braced himself to leap around the corner. One more rock to the nun’s face, and she’d be no trouble. He could run past her and get the true target. The whore Mary, who would have saved the world a lot of trouble if only she’d kept her legs closed.
He stepped away from the wall, rock poised above his shoulder. Rico sat before him. A blanket covered Rico’s legs, and Andy gulped at the remembered sight of blood and pus. The nun stood patiently behind the wheelchair.
“Don’t, Andy,” Rico said. His eyes were bright with a strange fever.
“You went over,” Andy said.
“It’s not like you think.”
“Fucking bastard.” Andy dashed past Rico and the nun. Rico may have shouted something, but Andy couldn’t be sure over the blood roaring in his ears and the unceasing barrage of the hymns resonating from inside the church. All he could think of was shattering that stained glass, how that might stop the noise, stop the idiotic joy.
The boot came from nowhere, speared out from behind a rusted taxi and tripped him. He sprawled face-first, skidding on asphalt. His chin split open, the air knocked from his chest. Silently and quickly, they gathered around him. Andy could see their worn and dusty boots, smell their sweat and rotted injuries, taste the acrid and cold hate emanating from their bodies.
The Christian Soldiers. Drawn by his scream of anger.
They gathered Andy up and spread him across the hood of the taxi. The Hispanic with the bruised eyes lifted the metal bar while the others held the struggling boy. The bar descended, a punishing staff. The first blow landed on Andy’s fist, which still clenched the rock. Andy screamed and cursed, and the bar fell again, landing on his knee. Others joined in, their fists adding to the percussion. Two more blows from the bar, and Andy slipped into merciful unconsciousness.
The nun’s eyes were wet with tears as she balanced Andy on his crutch. They stood in the great open door of the church. “Careful, my child,” she said.
He let her help, unable to shove her away. His foot was swollen and sore, but, unlike Rico, he might one day walk again. But his rock-throwing days were over. His right arm dangled like a sock full of D batteries.
They’d taken him inside the church, harbored him from the wrath of the Soldiers, cops, and street gangs. Inside, as Andy lay healing, he’d seen other boys, all maimed refugees of this unholy crusade. During the long days of mending, he’d watched the sun tracking across the glass Mary, this time from the inside. He bathed himself in those rich and soothing colors.
Now he wanted to move around a little, to inhale some of the slow poison that passed for fresh air. The nun’s small, stooped form belied her strength. Arm around his waist, she eased him forward, into the city he hadn’t seen in weeks.
He gasped in pain as they hobbled down the stairs.
“Straight is the gate and narrow is the way,” the nun said.
They had gone ten painful steps when Sod stepped from behind a collapsed wall. He had a rock in each hand. Tapeworm skulked behind Sod, blood dotting his nostrils, the Crimson working non-stop to disintegrate his lungs.
“You bastard,” Sod said. “You went over.”
Andy shook his head and grunted. He wanted to tell them how it really was, that the way was narrow and the meek were blessed. But he couldn’t. The Soldiers had taken his tongue.
“After all that,” Sod said.
Tapeworm giggled, coughed, and cursed.
“Stone the fucker,” Sod commanded.
“Forgive them, for they know not what they do,” the nun whispered in Andy’s ear.
He leaned against the nun, and they struggled up the stairs as the stones fell about them. The sun made the colors of fire across the sky. High above, Mary stood fixed in glass, untouched, unbothered, enduring. Soaking up the hymns and the cries of pain with equal pleasure. Through it all, she smiled.
And the stones rained.
###
THE SHAPING
"One in a hundred."
"I've heard more like one in eighty."
"Possibly. Still, my chances are much tougher than yours. Haven't you heard the saying, 'Painter's plenty, one in twenty?'"
"Poppycock. The odds are better than that for gaining entry into the Areopagan Skyfleet."
"Arn, what do you care? You wouldn't be selected if the odds were one in two," a voice scornfully interjected from a nearby bunk.
Ryn put his pillow over his head. He had heard the same arguments nearly every night for two weeks. It had started out as good-natured ribbing, one or two voices reverberating down the long halls at bedtime. But as the day of the Trials approached, everyone was getting on edge. Now nearly four dozen voices were buzzing at once, and probably many times that in the other sleepless rooms that littered the sprawling grounds of the Akad
emeia. The room smelled of stones and sweat and fear.
Fools all, thought Ryn. This was time for concentration, self-reflection, and meditation. This was a time to scrutinize the mirror, to reach deep and tap into hidden wellsprings. To probe the pleasures and pains and all else that was kept buried. But he supposed each artist had his own methods.
Arn, for instance, was a painter. Such a crude and callous field might call for blustering. Why should Arn care about the inner nature when he only reproduced the external? He worked on a flat surface, in two dimensions. No inner truths to reveal. Arn, and all other painters, were tricksters and illusionists.
And poor Soph in the next bunk, prattling on about metaphors and misplaced modifiers. As a novelist, Soph had no discoveries to make, no secrets to unveil. The words already existed. All he had to do was arrange them. True, writing was a precise craft, but Soph could make revisions at any time. But Ryn was a sculptor. He had no such luxury.
Soph's voice came to him through the clamor. "Ryn? Ryn?"
Ryn lifted the pillow from his head. He turned toward Soph, the sackcloth blanket rasping his skin. "What?"
"What are you thinking about?"
"What else?"
"Are you afraid?"
Ryn searched inside the dark alleys of his head and heart. He knew himself well. He believed he had to, if he was to be selected.
"No," he said. "I just want it to be over." He tried to make out Soph's face in the half-light, but saw only his fuzzy, crown-wreathed shadow in the next bunk.
The windows were small slits set high in the walls, allowing only slivers of meek moonlight to penetrate the dormitory. Rumor had it that the windows were narrow so that no one could escape, but conjecture was a favorite pastime at the Akademeia. Ryn didn't think anyone would leave after being allowed inside the gates. At least, no one would leave as a failure.
After a moment filled with distant shouts and forced laughter, Soph said, "I'm afraid, a little."
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