The Paradise Prophecy

by Robert Browne

  – and now, nothing.

  The corridor was empty. Silent.

  What was going on here?

  They would do anything for you.

  Anything at all.

  The thought again. Slipping without warning into her brain. But like the corridor around her, it was different this time. She couldn’t be entirely sure that the thought was her own.

  She felt her forehead. Warm.

  A fever. She was definitely coming down with a fever. She needed that bed more than ever now.

  “Alejandro?” she called again, wondering for a moment if he and the others were hiding somewhere and this was some kind of prank. Retaliation for all the times she’d slipped away on her own.

  But, no, Alejandro would never do such a thing. Could never be so cruel. Even after she rejected him, he had continued to stay loyal to her. Always kind. Always loving. Always supportive.

  Alejandro was her rock.

  He would do anything for you.

  Anything at all.

  Gabriela stiffened, her gut tightening. She was no stranger to voices inside her head, but they always came to her in moments of prayer-not like this. This one wasn’t friendly. A voice she thought she recognized.

  What have you done for him, Gabriela?

  And what did you ever do for me?

  Sofie. It was Sofie.

  Not the young, vibrant Sofie that Gabriela had met in middle school, but the raspy-throated powder monkey who had huddled with her in that dirty, foul-smelling gas station bathroom, sucking in endless hits of Devil Dust.

  You left me to die.

  Why did you leave me to die?

  Sofie was right. Gabriela had left her. Had found her on the floor of that very same bathroom and watched her choke on her own vomit. But instead of helping her, instead of calling an ambulance, Gabriela had followed the rules of the jungle and fled. Had abandoned her best friend, leaving her to die in a puddle of urine.

  It had taken Gabriela many months to come to terms with this. To find herself again and beg for the Lord’s forgiveness. For Sofie’s forgiveness. When her career had taken off and money was easy to come by, she had formed a charity in Sofie’s honor. Several charities.

  And when God’s heavenly messenger spoke to her and asked her to be one of His soldiers, she had readily agreed. Had sacrificed her future with Alejandro for the honor.

  Yet none of this absolved her.

  She knew that.

  She would live with the guilt of Sofie’s death for the rest of her life. A constant reminder of what she had come from and who she had once been.

  Someone laughed, and Gabriela whirled again, her heart lifting slightly as she looked toward the end of the hall.

  “Alejandro?”

  There was an open door there. One she hadn’t noticed before. More flickering light inside.

  Convinced now that she was in the midst of some kind of fever dream, that she had passed out from exhaustion and was probably, at this very moment, in Alejandro’s arms, Gabriela moved cautiously toward the doorway and stepped inside, surprised by what she saw.

  The gas station bathroom.

  Just as she remembered it.

  The dingy walls, the toilet splattered with feces, the smell of urine and dried blood, the filthy sink, the splintered mirror with the words VA SE FODER spray-painted across it in big red letters. Go fuck yourself.

  And sitting on the edge of the sink, beneath that flickering light, was a familiar-looking glass pipe, once translucent, now scarred and blackened by years of abuse.

  Sofie’s pipe.

  And lying next to it was a small, battered lighter. A faded sticker on its side read GOT JESUS?

  Gabriela froze at the sight of them. Was barely able to suppress the feeling welling up inside her. A feeling of contempt, mixed with-dare she say it?

  Desire.

  She had long ago beat her addiction, had spent many torturous months in rehab to do so, but the dust was a powerful demon and it did not relinquish that power easily.

  What are you waiting for, my angel?

  A voice again. Not Sofie this time, but another woman. Soft. Soothing. Carrying a dark undercurrent that made Gabriela shiver.

  Frightened now, she turned to the door, but it swung shut with a resounding boom. Then the latch clicked, locking her inside.

  “Alejandro!” she shouted, pounding her fists against the wood, suddenly afraid that this wasn’t a nightmare after all. “Alejandro, help me!”

  He won’t help you, my darling. He doesn’t love you as I do.

  Gabriela spun, searching the small room, looking for the source of the voice. “What do you know about him? Who are you? What do want from me?”

  Only that you return my love.

  Gabriela shifted her gaze to the pipe again. Was it the dust speaking? How could that be possible?

  No, no, she thought. Like before, the voice was inside her head. Brought on by the fever. What else could it be?

  Tell me you love me, Gabriela.

  Gabriela turned, searching the room again. “I love only the Father.”

  Oh? Do you see Him anywhere? He cares for you even less than sweet, attentive Alejandro.

  “You’re wrong,” Gabriela cried. “He believes in me. He trusts me.”

  And how do you know this?

  “Why else would he send His angel to . . .”

  She stopped herself. All at once, she knew what this was about. And it had nothing to do with fevers or dreams at all.

  To what, my darling?

  Lowering her voice, she said, “Go away. You’re wasting your time. I’ll never give you what you want.”

  And what would that be?

  “To betray my oath.”

  The voice laughed. You make it sound so serious. But people break promises every day. What about all those promises you made to Sofie?

  “Leave me alone!”

  Not until you tell me what I need to know. Don’t worry about the Father. He abandoned us all a long, long time ago. There’s no place in his kingdom for you. You’re one of the forgotten.

  “You’re wrong,” Gabriela cried. “He believes in me. Trusts me. And I won’t betray that trust.”

  And what about all the scribbling in that precious book of yours? If that isn’t a betrayal, what is?

  Gabriela felt fingers skitter along her spine. “How do you know about that?”

  I know everything about you, my darling. I’m part of you. I always have been. I’m the desire you feel when you look at Alejandro. When you stare longingly at Sofie’s pipe.

  Gabriela shifted her gaze to the sink again and looked at the pipe and lighter sitting there, perched on the edge, calling to her. But she knew she had to resist. “No. I’ll never give in to you. Never.”

  Never is such a strong word, isn’t it? Your pathetic old friend said much the same to me, but in the end he was willing to compromise. Everyone is.

  “My friend?”

  The collector. One of your brethren.

  Mention of the collector startled Gabriela. If this woman knew about him and was now coming to her, then they were all at risk. And so was the secret they held. Despite the fear rocketing through her bloodstream, Gabriela could not let herself give in to her weaknesses. There was too much at stake.

  “No-you can’t seduce me. I’ll tell you nothing.”

  What harm would it do, my angel? Who would know?

  “I would know,” Gabriela shouted. “I would know.” Then she turned again, pounding her fists against the door. “Alejandro! Where are you? Help me!”

  But no one answered.

  Suddenly remembering the phone in her back pocket, and silently thanking Alejandro for his paranoia, she pulled it free and fumbled it in her hands, nearly dropping it. Clutching it tightly, she pressed speed dial, then put it to her ear, waiting for it to ring.

  But it didn’t. Went straight to voice mail.

  Damn him. Why was he always on the phone?

  Then, w
ithout warning, Gabriela was confronted by a blur of motion. Something swung out at her, knocking the cell phone from her hand. It flew to the floor, bounced once, and settled faceup under the feces-stained toilet.

  Startled, she snapped her head up and discovered that she was no longer alone in the room.

  Sofie was there, standing before her, the pipe and lighter in her hands. Her skin was bone white, festering sores on her cheeks and forehead. A dribble of vomit on her chin.

  It was far and away the most horrifying sight Gabriela had ever seen. She brought her hands to her mouth, stifling a scream, and backed away.

  Then Sofie spoke.

  “Look at you, so sweet and noble now. All those fools calling your name. What do you think they’d say if they knew you left me here to die?”

  Gabriela shook her head violently. “It was the dust that made me do it. You know that as well as I do.”

  “The dust? The dust was our friend, Gabriela. Remember how happy it made us feel? Remember how we laughed?” Sofie lifted the hand holding the pipe. “If you won’t tell us your secret, then why not take an offer of compromise? The same compromise the collector made. All we ask for is the name of one of your brethren. Nothing more.”

  “Stay away from me.”

  Sofie shoved the pipe toward her. “Give us a name, and this is yours. Just like old times. You can be with the ones who love you. Who love the real you, not this angelic monstrosity you pretend to be.”

  “No,” Gabriela shouted, and swung an arm out, knocking the pipe and lighter to the floor.

  Sofie watched them roll and land near the phone, then slowly lowered her head. She said nothing for a long moment. And when she spoke, there was sadness in her voice. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

  Suddenly the smell of gasoline filled the air, and Gabriela spun, saw liquid sluicing down the walls, coming down in sheets, pooling on the floor. Fumes rolled toward her and she began to choke and cough, feeling them burn her lungs.

  “Give us a name, Gabriela. Now!”

  “No.” She gagged. “. . . Leave me alone . . . leave me-”

  Sofie’s face churned up in fury as she grabbed Gabriela by the shoulders and threw her against the nearest wall. Gabriela hit it hard and pain tore through her, gasoline pouring onto her head, soaking her hair and clothes, plastering them to her skin.

  “Give us the name!” Sofia shouted, then grabbed her again, throwing her against the sink.

  Gabriela slammed headfirst into the mirror, splintering the glass. A shard pierced her forehead and blood poured from the wound, mixing with the gasoline as it rolled down her face and into her mouth.

  She hobbled forward, gagging and spitting. “. . . Please . . . ,” she begged, weeping now, adding tears to the mix.

  But Sofie grabbed her a third time and flung her toward the toilet. Gabriela stumbled into it, landing in a heap on the floor, still coughing, barely able to breathe. She rolled onto her back, and her gaze once again went to the pipe and lighter, which lay only inches from her now, miraculously dry, untouched by the gasoline.

  Tell me you love me, my angel.

  And despite herself, she felt that familiar urge well up inside her again, stronger than ever.

  “Give us a name,” Sofie said. “That’s all we ask. One simple name and you’ll be free.”

  Gabriela tried to resist. Tried with all her might. Sent a desperate prayer up to God, but got only silence in return.

  “Please,” she sobbed, “please . . . help me . . .”

  But no one heard. No one was listening.

  Maybe the voice had been right. God didn’t love her. And maybe He had been wrong to trust her. To think she was any different now than she was back then, all those nights so long ago.

  What Sofie had said was true. The dust had made them happy. So very happy.

  And what would be the harm in one small hit?

  The moment Gabriela thought this, the gasoline stopped flowing, leaving behind soaked walls, puddles on the floor, and a room full of fumes.

  Gabriela’s gut was churning. The dust still calling out to her.

  Tell me you love me, my darling.

  Giving in, she reached out, grabbed for the pipe. But just as her fingers were about to close around it, Sofie’s rotting bare foot pressed against her hand, stopping her.

  “A name,” she said. “That’s all we require.”

  Defeated, drained, no longer feeling as if she had a will of her own, Gabriela sputtered and coughed again, then finally relented, giving them what they wanted, letting the name flutter through her mind like a passing bird. And the moment it did, Sofie was gone, leaving Gabriela alone with the pipe, the lighter, and her discarded phone.

  Pulling herself up on her elbows, still crying, still coughing, but ever cognizant of the need burning inside her, Gabriela picked up the pipe and lighter with wet, trembling hands.

  She thought of Alejandro, how devastated he’d be. She thought about how weak she truly was, and how easily she’d given in to them. Her only saving grace was that she hadn’t given them everything. Hadn’t revealed the secret she was sworn to protect.

  That was something, wasn’t it?

  But she knew that she could no longer be trusted with that secret. That the dust had too strong of a hold on her. And with this knowledge, she leaned forward slightly, whispering softly into her cell phone, hoping someone out there would hear her and understand.

  It was time to let the Father take her now. If she couldn’t be useful to Him in this world, maybe she’d do better in His.

  Anticipating sweet relief, she put the pipe to her lips, tightened her grip on the lighter and sent up one last prayer for forgiveness as she rolled her thumb against the flint wheel.

  The explosion barely registered as Gabriela inhaled deeply, taking into herself that thing which had been missing from her life all these years.

  It felt transcendent.

  A split second later, however, when she realized that the smoke she was inhaling was no longer the narcotic she craved but the stinking, sweet essence of her own burning flesh, her final conscious thought arrived along with a searing, unbelievable pain.

  That was when Gabriela Zuada started screaming.

  BOOK III

  The Boy Who Couldn’t Forget The Girl Who Couldn’t Sleep

  Embryos and idiots, eremites and friars,

  White, black, and gray, with all their trumpery.

  -Paradise Lost, 1667 ed., III:474-75

  5

  HARRISON, LOUISIANA

  Every story has a hero,” he said. “Someone we invest ourselves in. But not all of those heroes are necessarily pretty. Or perfect. And I think any discussion of Milton’s masterpiece has to consider this.”

  Sebastian LaLaurie squinted out at a lecture hall full of Louisiana’s so-called best and brightest, almost daring one of them to contradict him.

  Nobody did.

  “Look at the stories we’ve talked about these past few weeks: Moses, Miriam, David, Gideon, Elijah, Noah, Ruth . . . The Old Testament is chock-full of heroic men and women.”

  A murmur of voices. Nods of agreement.

  “Throw in part two of our biblical canon and you’ve got the greatest hero of them all. A simple carpenter’s son who sacrificed his life to save every last one of us.”

  A chorus of amens filled the room, but Batty held up a hand, cutting them off. The last thing he wanted was to turn this lecture into some kind of revival meeting. He was here to educate, not run a cheerleading session.

  He stumbled slightly and grabbed hold of the lectern to steady himself, getting a tentative ripple of laughter for his trouble.

  He ignored it and pushed on. “But what if we adjust the lens a little, just like Milton did, and look at things from a slightly different angle? What if the true hero of Paradise is someone else entirely? Someone we traditionally think of as the villain.”

  Another ripple, but it wasn’t laughter this time, and there wasn’
t an amen within earshot. Instead, Batty saw enough startled frowns to know he’d hit a nerve. This wasn’t surprising, considering that Trinity Baptist College had been built on strict, orthodox beliefs, and few of the students here were brave enough to take the contrarian point of view.

  But Batty had always liked to shake things up a bit. These kids had no earthly idea what was going on out there.

  He, on the other hand, did-which was why he was currently about two drinks shy of a mid-afternoon bender.

  “Milton based much of his epic poem on the book of Genesis,” he continued. “And in that book, God creates a perfect paradise, populates it with a nice young couple and puts them to work in His garden. They spend their days slaving away, doing whatever God commands-only there’s this Tree of Knowledge nearby, bearing some nice juicy fruit, and it looks pretty damn tempting.”

  The fact that Batty could drink so much and still teach Religious Literature and Rhetoric without slurring his speech or falling flat on his face was something of a miracle. But he tried not to give it too much thought. If he did, he’d probably decide he wasn’t quite drunk enough.

  Images from his nightmare still lingered-

  – a screaming young girl consumed by a wall of fire.

  He had awakened to those screams in the middle of the night last night, disoriented and concerned, wondering if what he’d seen was real, and suddenly reminded of his own private horror.

  A horror he preferred not to relive.

  He said to the class, “But temptation or no temptation, God tells this nice young couple, ‘No, no, no, you keep your hands off that tree. That knowledge stuff, that’s a bad thing. You just listen to me, let me do the thinking, and I’ll take good care of you.’ ”

  Batty tried a smile, but figured it probably came off more like a grimace.

  “Then along comes our new hero in the form of a serpent. He sees what’s what and doesn’t like it one bit. So he tells Eve, ‘You know what? You go on, take a bite of that fruit if you want to. You deserve to live a little.’ ”