The Apostates

by Lars Teeney

  Their village was situated on the banks of Lake Nicaragua and was just off what used to be Route Twenty-five. It had been peaceful, but then things had been changing around the region. Stories had been circulated from traveling merchants that a great faction to the north had been conquering and united villages, one after another. It had been a new black market cartel that grew stronger. The cartel was named for the town from which it had originated from: El Paradiso. The Cartel had steadily been moving south, looking to expand markets, usurp resources and establish smuggling routes. It had not taken long for the El Paradiso Cartel to move as far south as Angel’s village.

  “Sounds like that’s a beautiful place. What made you leave?” Blaze asked.

  “It was when Cartel came. New Megiddo want ‘Database’—they bring it. We helped,” Angel explained with a forlorn look.

  “I see. That must have changed things quite a bit. I could see why you didn’t want to stay.” Blaze was empathetic. The two of them stood by the bulwark looking toward far off land on the horizon.

  “No, Cartel not why I left. Things changed but still had my family. After that the Church came,” Angel said with a frown.

  “Oh, The Church of New Megiddo was that far south?” Blaze asked with some surprise.

  “No. Not New Megiddo. Hard to explain. Do you know of Crusades?” Angel tried as best she could to explain the concept.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of the Crusades. What about it?” Blaze confirmed, eager to hear more.

  “Si, well, you know Templars or Hospitaller? Knights, but monks?” Angel asked.

  “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of the Templars,” Blaze acknowledged, giving her a smile.

  “They were like Templars. Bad people, but I join them. Didn’t know then,” Angel stated. She had a troubled look on her face, like reliving unpleasant memories in her head.

  “Forgive me. I don’t want to make you talk about difficult things.” Blaze put a hand on her shoulder.

  “No, okay. Helps to talk,” Angel told the story. Back in those times she was known as Consuela. This time she couldn’t help but pour the details of the story out.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Consuela was awoken early by the crowing of the family’s proud, black rooster. She could see that it was still dark outside, and guessed that it must have been around six A.M. Consuela would need to get up to help with the family chores on the homestead. There was breakfast that needed cooking, goats would need to be milked, and eggs would have to be collected. Later on that morning the family would work their modest field and they would collect the bounty. They would gather the banana crop, avocados, cantaloupe, and plantains. The total would have to be portioned. The majority would be for the family's consumption, but a good portion would go to market in the village square.

  Ingredients were gathered for the family meal: gallo pinto. They had soaked red beans the previous night, and a pot of rice was steaming. Consuela mixed the two together and added egg and cheese. Grated coconut was sprinkled over the top, then, it was served with warm tortillas, coffee, and mango juice. The family converged on a table positioned on the patio of the cinderblock and plaster house. There was her little brother Javier, her father Juan Carlos, her mother Christina, and younger sister, Lupe. The family sat down and gave thanks to God for the meal, and dished up. They ate fairly quickly but still had time to jest and bond. Consuela’s father had told her that their family, The Grajales, had immigrated in centuries past from the island of Cuba. Her father was proud of the fact that they had descended from an ancient folk hero: a freedom fighter—she couldn’t remember the name.

  “Niños. Tenemos que recoger la cosecha rápidamente. Entonces se puede llegar a la escuela a tiempo. (Children. We have to gather the harvest quickly. Then you can get to school on time.)” Her father, Juan Carlos instructed. The school was nothing fancy but it taught the children how to read and write, also they were instructed in principles of agriculture. The schoolhouse was an open-air structure with a thatched roof, and wooden benches.

  Consuela had been much more gifted intellectually than anything the village school could have taught her. Her parents had realized this. When Consuela was younger her father would head out on scavenging trips to surrounding ruins to find ancient books for her. She had a particular interest in linguistics. With the amount of material that her father had claimed for her she had over the years, taught herself multiple languages: Hungarian, Latin, Italian, and she had dabbled a little in English.

  “Estamos siempre en el campo. Puedo hacer todo el dinero que necesitamos para el año. Voy a ir a trabajar para el Cártel. (We are always in the field. I can make all the money we need for the year. I will go to work for the Cartel.)” Javier had been talking about the Cartel lately. He would say that he had a friend who left the village to work for theCartel and now carries wads of money with him. Consuela and his father had both told him to stay away from the Cartel, but sometimes prohibition was the greatest encouragement.

  “Ya sabes lo que dije. Los carteles no se preocupan por playita. Esa cosa va a que te maten. (You know what I said. Those cartels don’t care about the people! That thing will get you killed,)” Juan Carlos had warned his son. He could remember the days before the popularity of ‘Database’ skyrocketed in New Megiddo, and before the rise of the cartels. He wanted his children to grow up in a similar environment, but there was no turning back the clock.

  “Jesús! Papá. ¿Usted quiere cavar suciedad por el resto de nuestras vidas? (Jesus! Dad. You want to dig dirt for the rest of our lives?)” Javier complained. What his father did not know was that Javier had quit going to school and he had been hanging out with children who had joined the cartel as errand boys. There were even boys from a neighboring village that were dealing to more affluent citizens from the cities with neural implants, looking for ‘Database’. He intended to find his own supply.

  “Voy a escuchar nada más. Ir al campo. Termine su cosecha. (I will hear no more. Go to the field. Finish your harvest.)” Juan Carlos was short and to the point. He knocked back the remainder of his coffee, slammed the cup on the table, and excused himself. He headed toward the field to tend crops.

  “¡Hay un insecto en el culo de papá! (There’s a bug up dad’s ass!)” Javier exclaimed. He couldn’t understand what was wrong with making more money. After all, he just wanted to help his family out.

  “Cállate, Javier. Usted no va a insultar a su padre. (Shut up, Javier. You will not insult your father,)” his mother would hear no more. She dismissed Javier. Javier got up from the table and rushed out the door. Consuela and Lupe sat in silence at the table as their mother cleared plates, clearly annoyed. Consuela left the table and helped her mother clean up. Little Lupe pretended to be contributing to the clean up effort even though she was too short to reach the counter top.

  That morning Javier had not gone to the field to tend the crops. He also did not go to school. The family would not see Javier that day. On the second day Juan Carlos, grabbed his old bolt action Mosin–Nagant, despite being an ancient firearm he had kept it in perfect condition. He checked the gun and gathered ammunition. Juan Carlos grabbed supplies and provisions of dried fruits and meats and packed his bedroll. He was preparing to venture out to search for Javier.

  “Padre. Voy contigo. (Father, I’m coming with you,)” Consuela demanded. She had her own hiking pack ready, and she had her bolt-action Twenty-two caliber rifle at her side. Juan Carlos had taught his children how to shoot guns at a young age so that they could hunt if needed. He knew that Consuela would not take no for an answer so he did not protest. He gestured for her to follow, and the two set out on the trail to the neighboring villages.

  It had been a humid day, and the trail harvested their sweat. The jungle called to them from all sides. They had checked in with a village to the east and no one had seen Javier. Later that day they had turned to the north to head for another settlement. A mid-afternoon storm composed itself and dumped its payload, forcing the pair to break ou
t ponchos. They had been eating dried mango and various mixed nuts, as they moved along.

  At last they came upon the medium-sized village of Masaya. It was named for a city that used to exist at the site, on the edge of Laguna de Masaya. They walked by patchwork houses and thatched-roof cottages, asking about Javier at several corner bazaars. Finally, a shopkeeper had tipped them off about an incident that had occurred the day before. It had to do with a kid fitting the description of Javier thieving ‘Database’ applicators, and that he had been caught. The shopkeeper told them he had been punished by the dealer, and that the kid was taken to the old cathedral: Iglesia de San Jerónimo. He was being treated there for a wound, but the shopkeeper had no details. Consuela and her father had feared the worst. Somehow, she knew that the kid had to be Javier.

  Consuela and her father had rushed to Iglesia de San Jerónimo, anxious to uncover the fate of Javier. The morbid scenarios coursing through Consuela’s mind did not help her mood. She tried to put the thoughts out of her head. The cathedral was a large rectangular, white structure with chipped-off stucco and a coating of soot from a century of build-up. The cathedral had seen better days. Her father had reached the large, wood and bronze doors leading to the worship chamber. There was a smaller, human sized cut-out in the door. Juan Carlos swung it open and entered. Consuela and her father walked on smooth marble floors. The echoes of their footsteps bounced around the space.

  They walked up the central isle toward the altar in silence. As they approached they could make out a standard depiction of a crucified Christ. To the left of the altar was a portrait of San Jerónimo: the namesake of the cathedral. The portrait showed a troubled looking Saint Jerome, leaning over a table in his study. He had the bible opened to the Book of Revelations and was pointing to a skull that rest upon the table. Next to the skull was a draining hourglass. Above Saint Jerome on the wall was the Latin phrase “Cogita Mori” carved on a plaque. Consuela got an uneasy feeling from viewing the old painting.

  A woman approached the two. She wore a modest grayish dress, with a long-sleeved white collared shirt underneath. She had a matching veil over her hair. The two surmised that she was a Sister of the church.

  “Buena noches. Bendición a usted. ¿Puedo hacer por usted? (Good evening. Blessings to you. Can I help you?)” she asked them, not failing to notice that they were armed.

  “Hermana. Le ruego me disculpe. ¿Has visto a un chico por aquí? (Sister. I beg your pardon. Have you seen a boy around here?)” Juan Carlos had asked her with a sound of desperation in his voice. The sister looked at him with a sympathetic eye. She put a hand on his forearm.

  “Sí. Por favor, sígueme. (Yes. Please follow me,)” she said solemnly. She led the two over to a drawn curtain across a door frame. She drew the curtain back, gesturing to enter the anti-chamber. It acted as an infirmary. Javier laid in a bed next to a stain glass window. Consuela rushed over to his bed and inspected him. Javier was conscientious. He cried when he saw his sister and it was contagious. Juan Carlos came to the side of the bed. He looked at his son. His face was scraped and bruised, with a black eye. But, the wound that really made his blood boil was the bandage that adorned Javier’s right arm. It was missing below the elbow; the stump was wrapped in gauze and bandage. Juan Carlos embraced his son.

  Javier had explained what had transpired. He had left his village and came to Masaya, to seek out a ‘Database’ dealer. He had begged the dealer to allow him to distribute a quantity, but the dealer had refused. So, Javier stole a few applicators from the dealer’s stash, but the dealer had noticed. The dealer said he was going to make an example of Javier: the thief. After beating Javier severely, he went about the business of removing the forearm with a machete. It was the hand Javier had used to steal the ‘Database’. Javier had been left for dead in the street. Fortunately, sympathetic shopkeepers had carried Javier to the cathedral, where priests had been physicians. They saved his life.

  Consuela had sworn revenge against the dealer and the Cartel. She pleaded with her father for the two of them to kill the dealer with their weapons. Her father refused. Juan Carlos tried to explain to Consuela how retaliating against the Cartel would mean a death sentence for the entire family, possibly the whole village. He would not allow it. They would end up arranging transport for Javier back to their village without exacting revenge. Javier in time would learn to live with his new handicap. He never did entertain the idea of joining the Cartel again. But as he got older he would come to notice the impact of the Cartel presence on his village. Javier watched as schoolmates joined up with the Cartel, becoming soldiers in territorial disputes among the cartels. Some came back to the village in wooden boxes.

  As her family had moved on from the tragedy, Consuela did not. She kept a fiery hatred burning inside her for what the Cartel had done to her brother. So, she threw herself into Old Testament teachings and tales of revenge. She began to worship this wrathful God of the Old Book. It hadn’t been long before tales had reached the village about a new force that was active in the region. Merchants had brought tales of Crusaders, battling against the cartels. They told of knights clad in white, liberating towns and village from the strangle of sin. She was intrigued. Consuela pictured herself as a white knight, riding roughshod over the Cartel and avenging her brother. She began to practice her marksmanship daily and, drilling with rifle and bayonet. Juan Carlos gave her his Mosin-Nagant rifle with the accompanying dagger-bayonet.

  It was no surprise to her parents that one fateful summer day, Consuela had declared to them that she was setting out to join the Order that everyone had heard much about. She had turned eighteen and was a crack shot with her bolt-action rifle. Consuela had spent an entire summer studying an old World War One era treatise on bayonet combat that she had scrounged from town ruins, practicing until her hands were blister-ridden. Consuela had packed her hiking kit and her weapon and was on her way. She did not regret leaving her small, stifling village behind, but she would miss her family.

  According to the latest reports from the market square, traveling merchants had said that to the east, numerous villages and towns had been liberated from the black market cartels. The mysterious Order had defeated the cartels and the entire Caribbean coast was now free. This Order was pushing west and was fighting against the El Paradiso cartel: the cartel that had taken her brother’s arm, and made her family live in fear. Consuela struck out east, determined to make contact with this Order that she knew very little about.

  Consuela had caught a ferry across the Lago Nicaragua, a massive lake that lie between her and the other side of the country. Once she made the crossing she figured she would take the old Route Seven east, which converged with the Rio Escondido at a small settlement called Rama. And so she set out, down Route Seven on foot. She estimated it a good sixty miles to Rama. She walked during the day and camped just off the road, out of sight at night. Avoiding campfires, she ate just dried foods. Slowly but surely she had made her way down the old highway. Every once in a while she would run into a traveling merchant and would take on new supplies. Consuela was told by one merchant that she could find the Order at Rama, and so she double-timed it the last ten miles that she traveled.

  Consuela had come upon an old, rusted road sign that indicated she was entering Rama. She rounded a bank of a thick growth of trees, and then she witnessed the town gate. She was taken aback when she made out three large, wooden crucifixes that had been erected to the side of the gate. Bound to the crosses were bodies, nailed up in the manner of Jesus Christ. The victims were dressed only in loin clothes, and had a large open wound to each of their chests. They seemed recently deceased. The bodies had wooden signs draped around their necks, they said: “Los pecadores recibir las Llagas de Cristo. (Sinners receive the Wounds of Christ)”. The letters were crude and looked as if they were burnt into the wood. Consuela was horrified, but also invigorated. She thought that it was about time someone had the spine to stand up to the cartels. She was eager to make the acqu
aintance of this Order. As she entered the town square of Rama townspeople had marked her appearance with suspicion. The inhabitants were silent and solemn but shot her looks of distrust. She wondered what troubled them. There was no town hall or central structure except for the cathedral so she traveled in that direction. She gazed at the cathedral steeple across a plaza with a broken fountain erected in the center. She crossed the plaza, coming toward the main entrance. Consuela glanced upon a crude banner that had been draped above the entrance. It was white fabric and displayed a hastily painted black, encircled pentagram. She wondered what this signified.

  A woman seemed to appear from nowhere. She was clad in a white cloak and hood. The woman stopped several feet from Consuela and lowered her hood. She was a pale woman with a pointed nose, with dark hair and eyes. Consuela noticed that her physical appearance resembled the portraits of the Virgin Mary.

  “Saludos niño. Veo que usted está armado. ¿Es usted parte de un cartel? (Greetings child. I see that you are armed. Are you part of a cartel?)” the woman had asked while keeping a hand near the hilt of the sword affixed at her waist.

  Consuela carefully considered her answer. She could see that this woman was at the ready and would try to strike her down if she answered wrongly, “No, nunca. Buscando justicia contra el cártel. (No, never. Seeking justice against the cartel,)” she replied.

  “Ah, sí. Y tú eres un hijo de Dios? (Ah, yes. And you are a child of God?)” the woman tilted her head as she asked, circling Consuela.

  Consuela knew that this was the most important question that the woman had asked so far. She felt like the woman was judging her suitability for life based upon Consuela’s answer.