Dead Religion

by David Beers

  Pain exploded inside her head, starting in the center of her brain and rushing to her skull in milliseconds. Blooming from a single atom to a flower consisting of every nerve in her head. She couldn't think anything else and fell from her knees, collapsing to the floor—her eyes clinching shut.

  Whimpering, Abella clutched her head as if her hands could make the pain leave.

  “Please...” escaped from her mouth just as her feet began to twitch.

  She opened her eyes to mere slits, desperately trying to gain some sense of what was happening.

  What she saw made her wish the pain had killed her. The ugliest, most unnatural thing she ever witnessed looked at her with the pleasure of a man looking on a naked woman. Its mere existence pointed towards a Christian God of such perversity that no one should serve Him. A face of wax, pale and shiny—like oil might drip from it. Ears that were simply winding holes drilled into the side of his head. Not a single hair follicle protruded from his skin. The smile was the worst; the impossibility of his existence summed up in those teeth that didn't end. As his smile grew and his lips peeled back across the pointy flesh eaters, they only continued to stretch into his head, never ending. They ran like long knives from gums that reason said could not be that high in his face.

  “Hi, Abella,” he said. His teeth clinked off each other like a cartoon character as he spoke. “I see you've heard about me.” Smiling, teeth like needle points hitting each other—sounding like metal glancing off metal. “Is your crotch bleeding yet?”

  She glanced down, barely opening her eyes any wider, and saw the blood soaking through the jeans she wore. Not just her crotch though, but drenching her thighs—the flow having no end.

  “Come on, say something!” he cheered.

  She couldn't. She could barely understand what her bleeding vagina might mean—the pain in her head was too bright.

  “I'll help,” the thing said.

  Before he finished his words, the pain retreated—not back to the atom it began as, but enough to allow her eyes to open more.

  “Good. Now. Who were you speaking with before I showed up?”

  Abella clinched her eyes again, this time on her own volition, blocking out the hideous thing in front of her and trying to ignore the cooling liquid on her legs. “To God!” she screamed.

  “That's what I thought!” Teeth clanked and his face was a facade of glee. “So I came Abella!”

  She groaned, wanting this madness to end—wanting to die rather than hear those teeth smack against each other again. “What is this?” she breathed.

  “Well, I have a little freedom right now. Some things are happening that are allowing me to stretch my legs some, and since your daughter introduced us earlier, I thought I'd go ahead and bring you into the fold.”

  The form jumped from his seated position on the bed and took a knee next to Abella. He moved his mouth to her ear; his teeth jutting so far forward they nearly touched her skin. “You're mine now, sweetness. Maybe not tonight, and maybe not tomorrow, but you're not getting away. Neither is your daughter. I'm here right now to help you understand your decision to try and stay in this world—don't do it, I promise that this will get worse. Ask your daughter today when you see her; she'll be able to tell you how much worse.”

  Abella turned, trying to look at the thing speaking to her. She only saw those bone white teeth sticking out. She began screaming just as the mouth behind those teeth started laughing.

  Roberta walked with her purse hanging from her shoulder; the bus dropped her off a quarter mile from the hotel. She had made this walk countless times, but never with the dread she held now. Each time she planted a foot on the pavement, she wished to never lift it again. Just stand where she was and let the sun move across the horizon until darkness fell—remain until she died of dehydration. Even that seemed preferable to finding the bald man inside—and the prophesy of things she would do.

  She wouldn't.

  Whatever else happened inside that hotel—if she found him, she would not harm him. Not ever.

  As she neared the hotel, she sat down on one of the benches outside.

  “Momma said it wasn't real.”

  Her mother told her they would pray for God to show them a way through this. Roberta didn't believe that to be possible—too many dreams had passed, and then there was the phone, waking up next to it with vague memories of saying words like cock and kill. Even if God could take this all away, that didn't mean it was an illusion, or that the man she had cut in her dreams wouldn't be inside the hotel.

  She stood, her thoughts gathered only a bit more, and willed her feet on.

  With every second she spent inside the hotel, Roberta steeled her mind against the possibility she would see the pale American. She pushed her cart up and down the hallways—cleaning rooms, emptying trashcans, and hanging towels. She went through her job just as she had every other day, except for the light sweat across her forehead. She never perspired here; the hotel temperature was low enough to prevent that from happening—workers with sweat dripping from their brows didn't appear too cleanly. Today though, sweat drenched her.

  Roberta kept her eyes down when in the halls, smiling briefly at guests walking by but doing her best not to look up.

  She pushed her cart to the next room on her round. She knocked, hoping it was empty and she could get in and out quickly—moving through these last few floors as fast as her feet would let her.

  The door handle turned from the other side and Roberta knew she should run. Knew she should never have risked her soul for this shitty job. Knew with certainty that when this door opened, her soul was lost to her and no grand ideas about avoiding that man would save it.

  The door opened and Roberta looked at a thin, bald man. His glasses were off and his face graver than she had ever seen in her dreams, but he still tried to smile.

  “We don't need anything right now, ma'am.”

  Roberta watched the man from her dreams speak.

  Then she lost her sight.

  21

  Days Past

  Alex

  Alex went to the door not knowing what to expect. Brittany sat on the bed looking out the window at the storm still amassed.

  It would begin soon, but he didn't think quite yet; this was probably a hotel steward.

  He opened the door and a young woman stood in front of him.

  Then, Alex was introduced to pain, and his wife, fear.

  Part II

  Belief

  22

  Present Day

  James

  James Allison picked up his government issued cell phone, which was equipped with enough encryption to keep the rest of the world from hearing what he had to say. He looked away from the phone almost immediately, finding his two suitcases against the wall—packed, zipped, and ready to go. During the past two days, James had finished his work; collecting enough information from interviews and records appropriated from Valdez’s psychiatrist to virtually guarantee the truth of what happened. No terrorist plots, no hate crime, nothing to indict the U.S. The man lost his mind; his wife and therapist had followed him down here to bring him back.

  Why were they screaming then, James? Just going to leave that part out?

  Yes, he was. He didn’t have any fucking clue why Valdez’s wife had screamed—oh, but all you need to do is remember that picture—the therapist could have been raping her for all James knew. What was the alternative? They were crazy, too? Fine. James could walk that path; it didn’t change a goddamn thing, not what Samuel Taylor cared about anyway: the Valdez guy was a kook and Mexico needn’t worry about any similar atrocities occurring.

  He hit send; the phone dialed the only number programmed into it.

  “Agent Allison,” Taylor answered.

  “Sir, just wanted to confirm you received my final report.”

  “I did, looked over it last night. It seems to be on point; I’ll be forwarding it to the Mexican President within the hour. Obviously, they’ll con
tinue their own investigation, but it seems clear what happened. Good work.”

  James didn’t smile at the approval. He was heading home to Brandon now, and should be happy about that—about the whole damn thing really, but no smile came to his lips. “Thank you, sir. Sorry it took longer than you originally expected.”

  “These things happen. You’re coming back today, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come to my office the day after tomorrow. I’ll clear it with your supervisor.”

  “Yes, sir.” He should have smiled again, but his mouth remained still.

  The phone call ended and James looked at his suit cases again. He was leaving the rental down here and flying back; he needed to leave in an hour to be sure and make the flight.

  Brandon hadn’t called him back. Not last night and not this morning, even though it was nearing noon in D.C. A Wednesday, and that meant Brandon had school, but he could still call from there or have left a message this morning before he went. James wasn’t smiling at his job well done, or the prospect of leaving this country to return to his only relative, because something was wrong at home. If things were okay, Brandon would have called.

  He tossed the government phone to the bed and picked up his own cell. His neighbors could check on the house, maybe even within the hour and get back to him.

  Everything would be fine. It had to be; the alternative wasn’t a possibility. Something being wrong, quite simply, could not be allowed. Couldn’t be, despite the feeling in his stomach, the one weighing his entire body down.

  Why are you going to the worst possible conclusions? Maybe he’s sick, or not sleeping again, does that mean it’s the end of the goddamn world?

  It felt like the end. For some reason, this one missing call felt like the collapse of everything James cared about.

  You’re just freaking out. Call the neighbors, they’ll check and tell you the same.

  “James? How ya doin’, man? You back in town now?” Mark Dawkins answered his phone on the third ring.

  “No, I-I, um, am calling from Mexico. Sorry to bother you at work,” James said, trying to keep from stuttering, from breaking down into tears.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. Sitting in a cubicle reading ESPN isn’t exactly work. What’s going on?”

  “Well, Brandon is at home and he hasn’t answered in the past day or so. I’m flying out of here in the next few hours, but I’m getting a little worried—this isn’t like him at all. I was wondering if you could look in over there? See if everything is all right?”

  “Yeah, man, no problem. I actually have lunch here in about five minutes; I could spin by and check it out. Would that work?”

  James closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes, thank you so much—”

  “Have you called the school yet, to see if he’s there?”

  James paused briefly, his error setting in. “Jesus, no. I’m an idiot. I’ll call right now and call you right back. If he’s at school there’s no sense in going to the house.”

  “Nah, a teenager alone in a house is reason enough for me to stop by, regardless where he’s at. I’m actually surprised you didn’t ask before now. I’ll head over and call when I’m done, okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks a lot, Mark.”

  “No problem. Talk to ya soon.”

  Mark was a good neighbor, a good friend even. His help didn’t make the weight in James stomach dissipate, though. He looked at his suitcases again, as if the answer was zipped up inside them.

  Mark parked in James’s driveway—feeling different, given that he normally parked one house over. No sense in wasting time; he only had an hour and would need to grab some food on the way back.

  He opened the car door and stepped out, but didn’t walk forward.

  The air was different. Different than he had ever felt in his entire life. A current ran through it, like lightning might have touched down seconds before. The current seemed to pull him, tug on him the moment he stepped outside—directing him toward the house. It went deeper than simply something physical; there was an attraction moving through the air, like his body needed to get inside that house. Needed to run as fast as he could to it and...what? What the fuck was in there he needed to see?

  “Get a grip,” he mumbled. Mark closed the door, slowly, deliberately—doing everything he could to keep from rushing forward and scrambling inside, breaking a window with his fists if he had to, crawling over the broken glass—

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked his reflection in the car window. He swallowed and placed his hands on the roof. “Go over there, knock, see if the kid comes to the door. If he doesn’t, look in a few windows, check the place out. Then get back in your car and drive to work.”

  He turned his head, his hands still on the car. The house called, a ridiculous notion, and logically, his mind resisted the idea—but he still wanted to get inside. To look around.

  Mark started walking, consciously keeping his pace slow.

  By the time he reached the door step, the hair on his arms stood straight. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, causing his muscles to nearly twitch with excitement. Fear came too, because standing in front of the door, Mark knew none of it made sense. Even so, his hair still would not lay flat. He reached for the doorbell, coming within an inch of contact before stopping.

  He shook his head. “Don’t.”

  His hand dropped and he looked at the door a second longer.

  Get back in the car and leave. Tell James whatever he wants to hear, or make up what you think would’ve happened. Just don’t touch anything here. Don’t go another step forward.

  Mark looked back over his shoulder at his Volkswagen. The urge to ring the doorbell, to get inside somehow, was increasing--pulling harder by the second.

  He ran, jumping off the steps and landing in a sprint. He pulled the car door open and hopped inside with one smooth motion.

  Mark Dawkins didn’t worry about the speed limit as he drove. He didn’t worry about the lie he would tell James. He only worried about having to go back there tonight, about sleeping in a bed only one hundred yards from that door.

  James learned Brandon wasn’t at school. Hadn’t been yesterday either, and as a matter of fact, the school was a bit concerned with his streak of absences lately. Was something happening they should be aware about?

  James thought they should be aware of something; he just didn’t know what. No, no, James would take care of everything when he got home tonight, and the school could expect to see Brandon Allison tomorrow in first period.

  Mark said the house was quiet and clear. So that left James where? In another country with no more information than before? He would be home in seven hours--then he could figure this all out. There were no other options, so brooding about what he didn’t know was pointless. He went to his bags, picked them up, and left the hotel.

  James had not seen Roberta Munoz’s mother since his one visit. He thought about her more than he wanted--about that fucking dog. A lead he shouldn’t have followed opened up his mind to bullshit he didn’t need to think about.

  Then why are you considering going back there?

  He was driving towards the airport, but a simple left would take him to the woman’s shanty. He could tell her he knew what happened at the hotel, what happened with the man he was following. He could see how she was doing—

  WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU CARE HOW SHE IS DOING, JAMES? GO HOME, TO YOUR BROTHER. SEE HOW HE’S DOING.

  He took the left. He’d stop for a minute, maybe give her some sort of closure. Maybe not, but she’d know more than she did now.

  The voice inside him fell silent.

  Everything looked the same, which was just to say the place was still decrepit. James parked his car but didn’t get out. He looked up to the second floor, to where Abella Munoz lived. He still remembered her name, even after her entire conversation of psychotic babble. She was no psychic—knowing that James might be looking for a man after
a building exploded was no special feat. Her daughter had killed herself and that took a toll, a hell of a fucking toll.

  The apartment had been so dark. Maybe the darkness catalyzed everything he saw—her ridiculous crazy talk, then her pointing at something, and the shadows taking care of the rest. It was certainly possible, even probable, and what was the alternative? That he saw a dog mutate in a picture, from something alive and scruffy to something dead and rotten? Fucking ridiculous. The woman needed someone in her life, needed help with her daughter’s death, and he might be able to give her just a small bit of solace if she could understand her delusions—that the hotel had gone down because of a single damaged individual.

  He stepped from the car and sweat sprang from his pores almost immediately. The heat was merciless.

  He looked inside at his bags; he had placed his gun in the front one this morning. He didn’t want to wear the piece, but having it near—even if in a suitcase—would be better than locked inside his car down here. He grabbed the suitcase and then shut the door.

  James walked up the stairs, carrying the bag in his right hand. Three feet from the apartment, he dropped it, turned to the railing and vomited. He ejected everything in his stomach and then continued dry heaving, snot and spit dripping from his chin.

  The smell was putrid, grotesque. James choked and spit, trying to rid his body of this smell that threatened to overwhelm him. Something, somewhere near, was dead and rotting—the heat baking the flesh.

  Still leaning over the railing, he turned slightly and looked at the door to Munoz’s apartment. From here, he could see the door was slightly open. James pulled the bottom of his shirt up, covering his mouth and nose—trying in vain to stop the smell from entering him.

  “We’ve called the police but no one’s come. Most people have left to live with family until they clean that shit up.”