Children of Chaos

by Greg F. Gifune

  Thrown into the sand at the farthest reaches of the compound and left to rot, severed limbs, bald heads and bodies were piled atop each other like garbage dumped at a curb. Ravaged by exposure and innumerable horrors perpetrated against them prior to death, few were even recognizable as human.

  Christ Almighty, I thought. Martin’s slaughtering his own people.

  The smells hit us next. The closer we got the harsher they became, smells of disease and death, fecal matter and urine, body odor and vomit, garbage, rotting flesh and burning wood. Holding the shotgun in one hand, Quid pulled a bandana from his back pocket with the other and tied it around the front of his face, covering his nose and mouth like a bandit in an old western. I was tempted to do the same, but resisted, instead allowing the reek of the place to fill me. I couldn’t see him, but I knew Martin was watching. I could feel his eyes on me, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The more I breathed in the horror the less pungent it became, but I could taste it, and my eyes began to sting.

  The closer we got to the people the more clearly we could make them out. They hadn’t just shaved their heads, they’d removed every bit of hair on their bodies, including eyebrows, armpits, and any facial, arm and leg hair. But in most cases the removal had been primitively executed, as many sported scabs and sores left in the wake of hastily wielded blades.

  A few held basic weapons—rusted knives, a machete here and there, clubs or baseball bats, even a few makeshift spears much like the one that had killed Rudy—but nothing sophisticated, not a firearm among them, and the majority were unarmed.

  They watched us as one, their wild eyes shifting in unison, as if they were individual parts of a greater single organism. They stared intently, but not one of them moved.

  We strode beyond the stake markers and burning torches and onto the compound proper. The church loomed before us, less than a hundred yards away. A very old structure, it looked like the entire thing might collapse at any moment, yet there it was, defiantly sturdy and ominous. There were a few windows on the main part of the building, rather ornate in shape, though any glass or shutters they had once possessed were long gone. Beyond the openings, more fires burned. I could see traces of flame flickering about inside.

  We kept on. The moon was retreating. Night was weakening. The very beginnings of daylight had begun to tear tiny smears along the distant horizon, but we were still too far from the light of day for my liking.

  When we were within twenty feet of the crowd a voice cut the night, and I saw someone move across the side of the church, approaching us quickly. “I know! Really, I know!” A woman in her thirties emerged from the shadows. A compact camcorder hung around her neck by a nylon strap, and her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail that stuck out the back of a soiled and worn baseball cap with Mexico emblazoned across the front of it in colors matching those of the national flag. Her skin was deeply tanned, lined and wrinkled, damaged by hours in the sun, dry, cracked, void of makeup and dirty. “It’s totally fine!” she said in a frenetic voice directed at us. “Really, it’s totally fine!”

  I could feel Quid tense up beside me.

  “Be cool,” I said.

  The others seemed unconcerned with the woman. In fact, for the most part they ignored her. Their attention remained on us. She slipped through their ranks with equal indifference—toward them and the horrors surrounding us—her ponytail bouncing from the rear of her cap in time with each overly-enthusiastic step. “It’s you!” she said cheerfully, closing on us with every indication she planned to welcome our arrival with open arms. “Fantastic!”

  I said nothing.

  The tighter she closed the gap between us, the more evident her waspish features became, and though she wasn’t unattractive, she possessed that slightly askew set to her eyes people with mental illness or severe drug addiction often project, and struck me as someone off her meds who couldn’t quite relax or focus without them. But beyond all else, it was her clothing that stood out most of all. She wore a hiking boot on one foot and a rugged, all-terrain sandal on the other. Her shorts and a buttoned shirt open at the collar (sleeves rolled up past her elbows) consisted of what looked to be various scraps of predominantly black and yellow colored clothing she’d sewn together in haphazard fashion to form a bizarre set of patchwork garments. She looked like a giant bumblebee. “He said you’d come!” She extended a hand, and I noticed that in the other she held a small Dictaphone tape recorder. All of her attention was directed at me, she barely acknowledged Quid. “Holly. Holly Quinn from Vancouver! This is—wow—this is something! You’re the final piece of the trinity Papá’s been talking about in his recent teachings! How cool is that? You’re him, right? You’re Phillip, the Phillip, right? What an amazing honor!”

  I left her hand hanging. “Who are you?”

  “Holly Quinn from Vancouver,” she said again, smiling widely to reveal brilliantly white teeth, surprising since she looked and smelled as if she hadn’t bathed in quite some time. “I’m a writer too, like you, but I’m a journalist. I’m—no, wait—I’m not comparing myself to your greatness, don’t get me wrong, I’d obviously never ever do that, I’m just saying it’s what I do.”

  Quid, who had been concentrating on watching the mass of people, took a second to glance at me with an expression just north of concern.

  “I’ve been in country two years,” Holly continued, wringing her hands and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “But I’ve been here with Papá and his people just over a year now. Originally I came to do a travel piece, if you can believe that’s what I was doing with my life at the time, but I heard the whispers, the stories about Papá and what he was doing out here, all the things happening out in the desert—amazing things, wonderful things, important things—I heard about them and I came to see for myself and…” She made a fist and put it to her lips as her eyes filled with tears. “I was nothing. Nothing. He could’ve cast me aside like dirt on the bottom of his foot. He—he could’ve killed me or banished me back to the world and all its lies. He could’ve made an example of me and my ignorance. But he didn’t. He accepted me, he—I’m not worthy yet, so I can’t call myself a true disciple, he hasn’t granted me that honor, but he will, he will. He took me in and he’s allowed me to stay here, among his people. And some days he let’s me talk with him—just the two us—we’ll walk or just sit somewhere and he lets me ask questions and even record it sometimes, so I can learn. That’s how generous he is. He gives me his time. I’m not sure I can even comprehend how precious that is! He said in the days before I arrived he’d had a dream about me. Me! Can you imagine? And in the dream I came to him and he helped me. So that’s what he’s done. He’s helping me learn the truth, helping me to open my eyes and see, really see!”

  I looked to the crosses. The crucified men had been dead for some time.

  “Yeah,” she said, intense eyes darting about the butchery surrounding us, “that stuff, well—OK—I mean, look he—here’s the thing, we’re talking about the price we all have to pay for paradise, right? It comes with a cost, a terrible cost. Papá doesn’t like it any more than anyone else, he—in fact it hurts him, it kills him to have to punish, I—I’ve seen him weep, OK? I’ve seen it, he—one day I’ll write his story, that’s why he lets me tape him sometimes, so I’ll remember because we can’t ever forget what he’s achieved here! But—OK, like any good father, he loves his children, and sometimes because he loves us so dearly he has to punish us. It’s the only way we can learn. It’s necessary. He doesn’t want to do it, he has to! As any benevolent god does! Through pain comes understanding and enlightenment, he’ll tell you that himself. But you, you’re Phillip, you already know all this—of course—you’re the third and final piece of Papá’s sacred trinity.”

  If Martin was the first piece and I was third, then obviously Jamie was the second. But in this madhouse who could be sure? “Who is the second piece?”

  Holly raised an eyebrow. “You already know, why wou
ld you ask me that?” She suddenly pointed a finger at me, as if picking me out of a crowd. “You’re testing me! Of course, I’m so sorry! Jameson is the second piece!”

  I looked beyond her, trying to see more of the church, but the disciples had very discreetly inched closer, effectively blocking everything behind her. Ranging in age from early twenties to a few elderly, they were largely male, but a few were women. The majority appeared to be American or Mexican, and they all shared the hairless bodies, shaved heads, deathly pale and unhealthy faces, and laser stares that went right through me. I was about to ask another question of Holly when I zeroed in on one man in the crowd who seemed to be looking at me differently than the others. Reading his eyes, I saw a hint of familiarity, and though it took me awhile, I eventually realized who I was looking at. Gone was the bushy mustache, and the cynical expression he’d worn in his photograph had been replaced with a more troubling look. But it was him. William Thompson, the private detective that had gone in search of Martin and never been heard from again. He wasn’t dead, he was alive and a part of the madness Martin had created here. He’d converted him, taken him into his fold as well.

  It was too late to mask my surprise, so I didn’t even try. “Where’s Jamie?” I asked Holly, forcing my eyes from Thompson’s death stare. “Is he here?”

  She smiled coyly, as if to let me know I hadn’t fooled her with more of my test questions. “No. Papá is the father, Jameson is the denier.” The smile faded and on a dime, she again became emotional. “Papá loved him so much! He still feels the pain, but it’s the way it has to be, everyone has a role that’s already been determined, that’s what Papá says. And we have to just play it out as intended, right? He offered Jameson paradise, a chance to join us here and he hurt Papá so desperately with his refusal, his denial. But it’s all part of the plan. It’s Jameson’s role, and what he has to do if the plan is to be fulfilled as it’s written in the sacred book. One will deny him, and Jameson is that one. His denial seals both their fates. Jameson dies soon thereafter, alone, frightened, lost and forever apart from the greatness that’s still to come! And Papá, having been denied by Jameson, summons the final piece of the trinity. You. Phillip.”

  “And what am I?” I asked, continuing the game. “Papá’s the father, Jameson is the denier. What am I?”

  “I can’t, that—it’s just too painful, I’m sorry—and besides, only you and Papá are supposed to discuss that.” Her expression went from intensely serious back to giddy. “See? I’ve been studying and trying my best to learn! Will you tell him? Will you tell him how hard I’ve studied?”

  In unison, the crowd shifted slightly and came a bit closer. Quid, who had been pointing his shotgun at the ground, raised it. “These people need to back up,” he said, his voice muffled by the bandana. “Right now, I’m not playing.”

  “Tell them to move away and give us some room,” I said.

  “I don’t have any power over them,” Holly explained. “They don’t listen to me, they only listen to Papá!”

  “They don’t back the fuck up they’re gonna be listening to harps.” Quid slowly panned the shotgun back and forth but the disciples never took their eyes from me. “They’re too close,” he said under his breath, as if only I might hear. “They’re getting too close, it’s not safe.”

  I put a hand on the shotgun and gently pushed down until he lowered it. “Go get Papá,” I told Holly. “Tell him I’m here and I want to see him. I’ll be sure to mention how hard you’ve studied.”

  She dramatically threw her arms in the air then let them fall back and slap against her sides. “I can’t—you don’t—OK—you don’t ‘get’ Papá!” She walked away and the wall of disciples parted, allowing her to pass. “He sees you when he decides, in his own time! You don’t summon him he summons you!”

  I’ll never know for sure if that was some sort of cue aimed at the others, but the crowd suddenly surged at us with more speed than they’d initially looked capable of. They hit us like a wave, all at once, a swarm of them grabbing at us and pulling us into the center of their mob. Quid fired once, and I heard someone cry out, but by then I was reaching behind me for the 10mm and already being dragged toward the church. Quid screamed something I couldn’t make out, and I heard sounds of a struggle just before he fell silent. As I stumbled forward I managed to slide the 10mm from my belt but it was quickly yanked away and I was swallowed by the mass of people, unable to see anything but occasional flashes of the dirt beneath my feet and a sea of filthy hands clutching and pulling and pushing me from all directions. I tried to fight them off, but there were so many of them and they were so close I didn’t have enough room to even throw a punch. I writhed about instead in an attempt to free myself from them, but the moment I began to make some headway I found myself floating. Carried now, my feet no longer touched the ground, and the crowd began to chant loudly, praying in a tongue I hadn’t heard since the night of the scarred man. Above me, the dead hung from crosses and fires singed the dark sky. All around, the stink of death closed in tighter, suffocating me with its awful stench.

  I called out for Quid but he didn’t answer.

  Then a mass of hands clamped onto my face, something crashed against the side of my head and everything went black.

  EIGHTEEN

  Nothing is right. Not sight, not sound, not feel. It’s all…off. Time and place is skewed, laced with disjointed images and strangely hollow sounds, echoes of voices, faraway tortured screams...

  I regained consciousness. My mind was hazy, my vision blurred. I tried to move, couldn’t. Mind whirling, I waited a few seconds then tried again.

  I was paralyzed.

  My arms were pinned to my sides, and though my feet were beneath me, it didn’t feel like I was standing, more like I’d been wrapped in a straightjacket or tight cocoon of some sort. I was able to move my eyes and lips, but nothing else.

  Panic took hold, throttling me. I tried to ignore the terror, certain that if I gave into it I’d lose my mind. Instead, I zeroed in on the tranquil inner voice telling me to stay calm, to breathe, and to stay in control. It worked enough that I was able to draw a few breaths and force a bone-dry swallow once or twice, but I still couldn’t move.

  Get your bearings, I told myself. Figure out where you are.

  I looked around best I could. I’m outside, I thought, somewhere outside.

  The sky was above me, looking even more vast and limitless than usual. It must’ve been dawn. The sun was creeping up over the horizon, the world suspended over that peculiar chasm between day and night, neither fully light nor totally dark. I blinked grit from my eyes and things became a bit clearer. The same horrible stench filled the air, and I felt my stomach turn. Though I could swallow, it was difficult, as my throat was parched to the point of feeling raw. I tried to look around some more, but could only do so by moving my eyes, as whenever I attempted to turn my head, something held me in place by the throat. My eyes slid first to the left: miles of desert, scrub brush, dirt, sand, rocks, some hills or perhaps even mountains far in the distance. Closer by, a few fires still burned. It was then that I realized my line of sight was nearly in line with the ground. Panic broke loose a second time, and I frantically looked to the right. At the very edge of my peripheral vision, I saw the church. All right, I thought, I’m behind the church, out here on open ground.

  On open ground?

  Oh Jesus Christ, I—no—I can’t move, I—

  They’d buried me, buried me standing. They’d buried me up to my neck.

  Abject terror took over as I struggled against my prison of tightly-packed earth. It wouldn’t give, I still could only move my head, and even then it was limited motion at best. Struggling would accomplish nothing but exhausting me further and making things worse, and though I knew this, I continued fighting anyway, draining myself until I’d nearly lost consciousness. At one point I tried screaming for help but was barely able to make a sound, my voice weak, the words slurred.

&nbs
p; Reality, such as it was, finally began to sink in. Logic eventually followed. I was trapped. There was nothing I could do. I could not get out of this grave. I had to remain calm and still as possible and reserve whatever strength and body fluids I had left. The sun was climbing; it would be high in the sky and burning harsh and bright in no time. And I’d be completely at its mercy. If they left me here I’d literally cook to death in my own skin. Frustrated, afraid and fatigued, I struggled to remain focused, unable to afford even the loss of tears my body so desperately wanted to shed. I chewed at my bottom lip. It was already badly chapped, and I tasted blood.

  There was no sign of Quid or anyone else.

  Thoughts of death and dying crept closer in ways I had never before experienced, and for a second or two I entertained the notion that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing given my circumstances. Did it have to necessarily be so horrible? Couldn’t it also be my savior?

  For some reason I found myself remembering the day I taught Gillian to ride a bicycle. I could see it all so clearly…laughing…she was laughing and I was running alongside her, no longer holding on, she…she was finally doing it herself and she was laughing. We were both laughing…

  A fly landed just below my right eye and snatched the laughter away. I could feel its tiny legs on me as it climbed upward. I closed my eye, felt it move across my lid and teeter along my eyebrow. More flies buzzed, and a second one landed on my cheek. My heart beat in time with a throbbing pain on the side of my head, and for the first time since it happened, the wound on my ear I’d sustained in Tijuana began to pulse with pain as well. I wondered if it had been reopened in the struggle. I couldn’t be sure.