by Peter Clines
I took a few steps off the track and yelled, “Is everything all right, Debra?”
Debra didn’t answer. She had whipped out her cell phone and was dialing 911. I ran toward the kids.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as I slowed and placed my hand on a pig-tailed girl lying on her back on the table.
“We must’ve gotten food poisoning or something,” one of the workers said. She was covered in sweat, panicking. “Everyone’s stomach hurts. Some of them can’t breathe.”
“Don’t worry. I can help”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No.”
The worker stepped forward. Her eyes searched me hard. “You’re that guy from The Real Church, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Owen. Owen McKinney, right?”
I nodded.
“The Owen who supposedly healed Melinda Brown?”
I nodded again then focused my attention on the little girl. I healed her and moved on the next kid. And the next. And the next. Then I laid hands on Debra and all the workers. Then, just in case, the three kids who said they didn’t have any stomach pain or problems breathing. Before the ambulance and police arrived, most of the kids were playing again.
I had to answer questions for almost two hours. I was never a suspect. They couldn’t test the Kool-Aid since it had all been drunk, the pitchers rinsed out and filled with water afterward. And since the kids were all fine, no blood tests were administered. That’s small towns for you. The police and most others in Dresden assumed that it was accidental food poisoning.
But what they didn’t find accidental was my healing abilities. The following Sunday, so many people showed up at The Real Church that we didn’t have enough chairs. People stood along the back wall and sat on the cement floor to hear me talk about how Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead.
So many people hung around to talk to me about the healings after the service that I didn’t get to eat lunch until three o’clock.
I know Mom watched everything from Heaven, but I wish she could’ve been there with me.
#
I’ve healed one other man, Mr. Turner, the owner of Lenny’s Liquor Store, after a masked man took a baseball bat to his seventy-year-old legs (supposedly in an attempt to rob him) as he locked up the store late one Saturday. I healed him at the hospital that night. I was there counseling a pregnant nurse who attends my church.
So far, I’ve had only a few random requests for healings, but I know that eventually, these requests will become more frequent. I did lay hands on those who’ve asked, and I hope some will heal, but I’ll remind those who don’t that Jesus didn’t heal everyone either.
Though The Real Church continues its policy of not asking for donations, we are getting them left and right now. Ms. Brown has taken over the church’s financial and organizational responsibilities. She suggested we use the money to upgrade to a bigger location downtown. I agreed but only on the condition that we wouldn’t make it showy or fancy like the G.C.C.s and that we would furnish it with used items, nothing new or colorful.
In two weeks, I’m driving to Dallas with Ms. Brown. She wants me to speak to a group of women from her mother’s Catholic church and try to convert them to our side. I’m going even though I would normally never step foot in the place. I’ve been doing a lot of internet research over the last month, and I think that Dallas is a prime place for a terrorist attack.
Who knows? A horrible fire could torch the hotel we’re staying at. Or maybe a homemade explosive will be tossed into a nearby church. Or maybe a car bomb will go off in a high-traffic area. As long as I’m in the proper place when whatever happens happens, I’ll heal everyone I can. And think of the possibilities. A healing on that stage, in that media spotlight. The Real Church would springboard to heights unrivaled by the G.C.C.s. Maybe I could even get The Real Church on television—compete with money-hungry, rich fakes like Joyce Meyer and Joel Osteen. How many people could I lead to salvation then?
Finally, everything that Mom and I knew would happen is about to happen.
Something Big. Something Great.
Ozymandias Revisited
A.S. Fox
Gravity’s a funny thing. You know it’s there and you know you’re supposed to understand it, but really, you can’t. It is. Like I am. I am the new gravity, baby. And you know what? I’m fucking bored. Bored, bored, bored. Didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect a lot of things.
Does my name matter? Call me Ozymandias. You know the poem—we all know it. It’s the high school bullshit they make you read because they’re morally bankrupt, and trying to justify the shit they’ve done to your world, they offer you this frankly brilliant, ironic self-despair and claim Shelley was warning us. Like hell he was. It’s about Shelley and about being brilliant, not about being the arrogant, asshole Ozymandias. Still, call me Oz.
And I quote: “I met a traveler from an antique land who said: Fuck You.” Or something like that.
I live somewhere in a city you know and revere. It’s open twenty-four-seven, and you want to be as cool as the kids in the street, wearing black to look like they belong there. I’m an artist but not like any you’ve known. I sculpt reality. Like those guys in that book by Zelazny. Look it sheep. Only better. I’m subtler, and it takes longer, and the world simply bends to my vision. And you don’t believe me, by the way, because I don’t want you to. Dwell on that for a while.
If you did believe me, well, wouldn’t life get real interesting real quick? Nuking my city might take me out—if I didn’t know it was coming. Then again, maybe I’m out of town that week. Feel free to wipe out every major city on Earth looking for me. That would make things exciting for a while, and I really need a new thrill.
Ah…superpowers. Supposed to be awesome, right? C’mon; genie in the bottle, three wishes, stranded on a desert island with only ten people, bitten by a radioactive space alien—we’ve all played the game. Wishing for more wishes? Doesn’t work by the way. You get five, and you get them by saving a magic fish in Lake Michigan. Not really, but it sounds better than what happened to me. Let’s just say I did some research and found a book, which led me to a few other books. Let’s for sake of argument pretend Alexandretta did burn to the crisp you were led to believe, and some of the ancient texts survived. And for argument’s sake, let’s assume some dick—we’ll call him Ozzy—pieces together all that conspiracy crap and old legends and blah and—voila!—finds the Book. A book stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed. The one that really grants wishes.
I got what I wanted. Which is not what I asked for by the way. Ever wonder what Hell looks like? It looks like a suburban Thursday night, where you can score as much coke, meth, girls, and danger as your body can endure and come away unscathed. It means crashing your car, killing six pedestrians, and having the cop thank you for sticking around to sign the accident report. It means fucking every girl you ever wanted, hated, or noticed or who put you down or screwed your best friend and then fucking their moms, sisters, daughters, and hot exchange student friends visiting from Europe. Imagine me: my cool face in the mirror Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command.
Everything and nothing, and no one and everyone matters. I simply have to will it, and sooner or later, it happens. There are no consequences, no limits, no challenges, no enemies, no obstacles. No one left to say, “no.” Every woman wants me, every man wants to be me, every cat sits in my lap or pisses off or does that one trick that’s soooo cute.
Yesterday, I killed a busload of Brownies on their way to camp and then made the evening news claim they were terrorist drones and publicly decry the grieving parents. Within hours, their houses were gone, they were in the hospital having been stoned (like, with real stones), and I managed to engineer two lynchings. Imagine. And no one came looking for me. I’ve blown planes out of the air, savaged three islands with Freak St
orms of the Millennium. I made it snow in Disneyland in July for two weeks running. Nothing.
Just for fun, I killed everyone who deserved the Rapture. Really. I mean, why not? They think God is going to take them up in a big trumpet call. Morons. If there was a God, would I be here? I’m immortal now. This shit is forever, and it’s getting worse every day. I kill the PM of Russia. Nothing. I cure cancer. Nothing. I make all the elephants shed their tusks and make monkey noises. Nothing.
The Book said—I actually don’t remember what it said. It wasn’t in English anyway, so what does it matter? Cuneiform if you want to know. Oldest written language. The Epistle of Gilgamesh. You know, the lost manuscript where he achieves immortality after telling Inanna to go fuck herself? Complete with instructions. All you have to do is speak a few dead languages and know where to look. Hint—it’s not in Egypt, asshole. It’s not even near the Levant. Everyone looks there. Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. News flash, asshole, you’re looking in the wrong place.
Did I mention the Rapture? Funny part is, the bubba preachers all stayed. I only killed like, two million people worldwide: true and faithful believers. The rest of them got to stay. Suck on that, Billy Graham. I am the new light, and you’ll worship me whenever I want you to. Or die or dance or shoot your neighbor or dress your dog up as Stalin. It’s whatever I want, whenever I want.
Only what do you want when you can have anything? I had this kind of thing for my professor. Let’s call her Natalie because, well, her name is—get this—Natalie. She was smart, gorgeous, and—I had to assume—a total freak in bed. It was the way she sucked on her pen caps when she was thinking. She taught me cuneiform, and I think she knew what I was hunting. Anyway, here’s me, skinny as hell, tall, pimply, and haven’t seen the sun in years, totally hot for teacher. Know what happens after your drink the Elixir of Life and grasp the Mantel of the Stars? Anything you damn please.
Natalie happens. I was coming back from Place X. That’s all you get, asshole. Go find it yourself. I came through Paris and had this kind of amazing frisson going. I sort of hoped that maybe I could work up the nerve to call her. I didn’t quite understand what I had done yet. The books don’t explain what it means to be a god, only how to become one. If they did, well, who’d do such a stupid thing?
She’s there, in the airport, kind of hanging out in open sight, wearing this really clingy red dress. Just happens to be on vacation, her flight canceled due to a freak tornado, and she’s caught between Barcelona and Singapore. She’s there, and I’m thrilled to see her. Can’t bring myself to admit I stole the cookie from the cookie jar. Just want to—you know—have a drink, soak up her dress, ogle her nipples, and kind of feel like a lucky kid who won the school lottery.
She’s everything I dreamt. Exactly like I dreamt. For four days, we break the hotel bed, shatter two mirrors, light a bar on fire in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré (say that nine times fast), and have the BEST time ever. She’s in love with me, always has been, and wants to be my everything, but you know, no pressure, and would you like a blowjob before or after I bring you a hot buttered croissant? She’s so much the thing I wanted and needed. The weather is perfect every day, the lights twinkle just right, and it’s going better than I could ever have imagined it. The world has started to yield to my hand: Tell that its sculptor well those passions read, Which yet survive.
Then I tell her. I expect a fight. Something. She just says, “I know,” and proceeds to undress and make love to me like a storm rising over the Mediterranean. It’s magical and terrifying, and my body drowns in the ecstasy. But not totally, you know. There’s a piece of me, the controlling bastard who pored over thousands of pages of dead books looking for scraps of Gilgamesh. He’s not having any of this, and he’s the one inside me. So I almost drown in the ecstasy but have total control and don’t succumb, don’t fall prey to her wiles, don’t break or stumble or make an ass of myself. I get it right. Every time. Do you know what it’s like to never make a mistake? To not want to make a mistake and be able to mold all of time and space to ensure it?
Three weeks in, I realize she laughs at all my jokes. Even ones I make up to test her. Whatever I want, I can have. We have sex in public, and I get an ovation. We overdose on heroin and wake up healthier. We want to find this one book by Alexandre Dumas, fils, supposedly the revised Musketeer novella, the last taste of the Father and his magic. We find it just where and how I expected. The dust looked right, the bookseller was the right kind of old, ignorant, run-down, Parisian scumbag I wanted him to be. We made love reading pages from the book.
And I knew. I knew I could make it rain or snow or shine. I knew Natalie would love me forever just as I wanted her to and how I wanted. Because I wanted it. She was mine because I willed it. And the whole of the law shall be rule in Hell rather than suck dick in Heaven. Seriously. I have it all.
So I killed her. I took the hotel’s fire axe and told her I was going to murder her. She lay on the bed and let me, thanking me as I hacked her to pieces because I wanted it. The hotel gave me a new room and apologized for the hassle. I burned the book because I could.
Ever wonder what it takes to be the best at what you do? Think about the pinnacle of human achievement, those obsessive, power-mongering, demented geniuses who really did stuff. Fuck Einstein. I mean Genghis Khan and Richelieu and Picasso: men who forged a new consciousness or nation or ideal or mentality. Guys like me. I found the well of souls and drank. I had it all figured out and missed the point. The guy who finds the well of souls is by definition the kind of man who can find the well of souls.
You think—right, Indiana Jones. Not a bad guess, but let’s examine that notion. This dick travels the world killing people and stealing stuff. He tricks his old teenage lover into helping him desecrate a scared tomb and steal the most valued and beloved artifact of the One True God. For glory and money. So yes, I am just like Indiana Jones.
How many people did I kill before I got to the place? I see what you did there, and I like it. Questions are did you do it because I wanted you to, and do I like you because I made you that way? I killed exactly two people before becoming immortal: my parents. They were old, I was broke, and the nursing home was eating into what little equity we had in the family home. So I added some pills to Mom and Pop’s noon meal; made sure they had a glass of wine at dinner; and, like a good son, was on hand to grieve their natural deaths at the ripe age of seventy and sixty-five—two people who had maybe three years of shitting in their pants and drooling over Wopner and Donahue reruns. Seriously—Donahue? How is that even on?
Three years of indignity and suffering, and I helped them walk away a little early. Took the cash and went south, then east, then to my little wall, bricked in from the sands and jungle and rivers of blood. Like I’ll tell you where it is. Give up already. But it nagged me. That I did it for me and not them, that I killed my own parents, that I had never really appreciated or loved them enough. That, you know, I was, deep down, an undeserving asshole. There’s no one left now to tell me I still am.
That’s who finds it. People who are sufficiently broken that they would have superpowers anyway. Batman and Iron Man and Zorro. Motherfuckers with a grudge and an obsession and some tragic backstory so you ignore the horrible things they do mainly because Natalie isn’t sucking them dry and keeping them busy.
One time, I made a three-day Donahue marathon play on every set in Mexico. Didn’t even make the news. I met a traveler from an antique land, Who said: Donahue for everyone.
Doesn’t matter, and you can’t prove it. That should bother you, but it’s not going to. You are not here, these are not the droids you’re looking for, move along. I change movie plots. Was bored so I went to see a Star Wars marathon, and Jar Jar Binks got wasted ten minutes into the first episode. It was glorious until I found out no one knew who he was. Wikipedia listed him as a minor character, and that amazing cartoon with Lucas firing Jar Jar
—I erased it by mistake.
I fucked up the world in an Ohio movie theater. The Bible is missing three books, and I can’t remember what they were to add them back. TL; DR. Stefan Keppelberg, the most famous American of all time? No one knows who the fucker is or what he did. Walked on the Moon for Apollo 19. Claimed it for the world and was arrested for un-American activities. Ended manned spaceflight for generations because he was, you know, a hippie and believed in the world. I hated him as a kid mainly because my dad was a Korean War vet and claimed Kep had cost him a platoon with “his little propaganda stunt.” I erased him just to see if I could.
But I can’t seem to put it all back. It makes me wonder. I can do any amount of damage I want. I erase and desecrate and destroy at will. But I can’t add back what I took away. Not properly. I tried six times to get Kep back in the scene, as it were, and every time, it got worse, and the world distorted some more. Every god has his limits, and I am apparently gravity: good and bad. I warp the world, and it bows to me. But I leave it warped, and I can’t make it new again.
Want to know the worst part? I really enjoyed killing Natalie. Just like it feels good to wipe out school buses and convention centers. I should hate it, should feel badly about the loss of life. But I feel good because that’s what I wanted. I feel no guilt, sin, or sense of limitation or transgression. The infusion of power stripped away my humanity, which pretty much means feeling afraid, dirty, guilty, and unworthy as well as not knowing what will happen: being out of control and made to suffer the whims of fate. Who wants that? To be a loser, to be weak, to die, to know you’re going to slave away, end up being some blip on the radar and die alone, shitting your shorts in some smelly home? Your kids will despise you. I know. I can read minds, and they do. They think you’re a joke.