by Simone Pond
“I’m tired in a different way. I’m tired of not being useful. Sometimes being in this library reminds me of getting passed up for the Project Manager gig. I know it was years ago, but right now, I’m feeling a little inadequate. And huge. I mean, look at me.” Suzanne started crying and laughing at the same time.
“You’re emotional, it’s okay. Your hormones are off. And for the record, you’re very useful. It was your idea to get everyone to move into the library. Where would we be if you hadn’t come up with this plan? Fighting for scraps of food, begging for work. You saved us.”
“I don’t know about all that.” Suzanne smiled, grateful she wasn’t just a hunk of clay taking up space.
They entered the kitchen to finish preparing the roasted potatoes and scrambled eggs. Suzanne stood next to the coffee machine, inhaling the rich scent as it dripped into the pot. It had been a long time since she enjoyed a piping hot cup of coffee. She was ready for this pregnancy to be over, regardless of how terrified she was to actually take care of the baby. Sure, she had read plenty of books on the subject of motherhood, but reading is a lot different than actual application.
The double doors leading to the kitchen shot open. Suzanne turned around, expecting to see one of the men. Instead there were two teenaged boys wearing all black, and aiming 9mm Glocks.
“Whoa, easy there!” Nan yelled, holding out her spatula as though that were a match to the guns.
“Don’t move!” The taller boy smirked and took a few steps, holding his gun inches from Nan’s open mouth.
The other one darted over to Suzanne and stopped short. He tucked his long greasy hair behind his pierced ears. “Uh, dude, this one’s pregnant.”
His buddy glared, his beady eyes boring into him. “So?”
Nan whipped her spatula across the boy’s face, then kicked him in the groin. He doubled over with a grunt, his gun firing. Nan stumbled back, gaping at her bloodied foot. She fell to the ground, screaming and rolling.
Suzanne pressed against the counter, her maternal instincts flooding her system. “What do you want? Are you hungry? There’s no need to shoot anyone. I can help you,” Suzanne pleaded.
“Shut up, bitch!” the other one yelled breathlessly, still doubled over.
Nan kicked him again with her good foot.
“Chill out, Mark. They’re women.”
“I don’t give a shit. And this stupid bitch, who do you think you are?” Mark stiffened his spine and pressed his 9mm against Nan’s cheek. Suzanne’s fear was tempered with pity. Both boys were probably homeless and motherless, thanks to the Repatterning.
“Please, don’t!” Suzanne shouted.
“Shut up, lady.” Mark kicked Nan in the head and she rolled off to the side, slipping into unconsciousness.
Suzanne’s eyes traveled from her injured friend to the blackened eggs sizzling in the iron skillet. She had to do something fast. “Let me at least turn off the stove before we burn down the place.”
“Go ahead and turn it off.” Mark pointed his gun at Suzanne. “But don’t try anything stupid.”
She edged her way over toward the stove, keeping her back pressed against the counter and her eyes on the boys. Along the way, she patted down the surface for a knife, or anything sharp.
“What do you want with us?” she asked, her fingers grazing over the point of the butcher knife. The one Nan had used to chop the potatoes.
“We’re hungry and we’re tired of runnin’. We’re thinkin’ about campin’ out with you all for a little while.” Mark smiled, looking at his partner and laughing.
“Are you alone?” She craned her head toward the double doors, hoping they’d do the same.
The boys jerked around to see what she was looking at––which was nothing––and she quickly scooped up the knife and placed it into the skillet. She turned off the flame and faced the stove, contemplating her next steps.
“How about I fix you something to eat? Eggs, toast, and potatoes? I can get you some coffee and we can figure things out. How’s that?” She tried to sound agreeable as she offered a solution. Being a project manager had trained her to always be diplomatic.
The kid with the greasy hair looked over to Mark. “That sounds fair to me. Whaddya say?”
Mark licked his lips and nodded. They sat at the counter while Suzanne scrambled a fresh batch of eggs. She buttered some toast, glancing over to the mesmerized boys. They stared at her with gaunt, drawn-out faces, drool practically dripping down their chins. She covertly tucked the butcher knife into the breadbasket under the freshly buttered toast, and carried everything over to the counter. They kept their guns aimed, but once the food was down, that was their main focus. Not waiting for forks, they shoved handfuls of scrambled eggs and potatoes into their mouths. Suzanne went to get the coffee, hearing the click of a gun as it cocked.
“Whaddya doing?” Mark mumbled through a mouthful of potatoes.
“Coffee?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
He grumbled and nodded.
Suzanne grabbed two white mugs and lifted the coffee pot off the burner. She walked over to the boys and set down the mugs, slowly pouring the coffee. Mark reached for a piece of toast and Suzanne lunged, pouring the scalding hot coffee over his hand. As he fumbled for his gun, she picked up a mug and threw it at his head. He fell backward, screeching. Her fingers curled around the knife’s hilt and she leapt forward, stabbing the other boy in the throat; he dropped next to Mark on the floor, clasping his bloody neck. She picked up one of the guns and fired at both of them until their bodies were still. A haze filled her vision and she sank to the kitchen floor, sobbing.
The double doors bolted open and Mo ran into the kitchen with John.
Mo bent to examine Suzanne. “Are you hurt? Dear God, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. But Nan’s been shot,” she cried into his shoulder.
John picked up Nan from the ground and rushed her off to Dr. Sarah’s makeshift office.
“I killed them, Mo. They were just boys and I killed them.”
“You did what you had to do to protect yourself and the baby. I’m proud of you, Suz. Let’s get you out of here and into a safe place.”
“Yeah, I’ve had enough action for one day.”
Mo helped Suzanne off the floor and escorted her out of the kitchen. She glanced down at the two bodies strewn on the black and white checkered floor. Her muscles unclenched; she and the baby were still alive. But the young boys were dead. “I’m sorry.” Her voice trembled.
“I’ll get a couple men to clean this up.” Mo held Suzanne’s chin with his rough hands; hands that used to be smooth. “Don’t look back, Suz. Gotta keep looking forward.”
She took a deep breath and lifted her head, looking up to the skylights. The sunlight warmed her cheeks and she wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. Mo was right; she needed to stop looking back so that she could move forward. The past was gone, and whatever she considered mistakes had only made her stronger. There was no telling what was coming next––not only regarding their child. The world had changed. She had changed. Walking down the hallway of the library she once loathed, she was grateful she could now call it home.
- The End -
The Revival
JAKE WADE HAD decided on Williamson County, Tennessee to set up shop. He picked the location because of the wealthy residents. From his experience, where there were gobs of money, there’d be lots of sinners. He was mostly interested in the affluent sinners who were ready to repent. Those who wouldn’t think twice about handing over their money for the promise of salvation. And that’s exactly what Pastor Wade was selling––a passport to heaven. It didn’t matter that he was a die-hard atheist, or that he only opened the Bible when he stood at the pulpit to recite a verse or two on Sundays. What mattered was his charisma and preternatural ability to sell the idea that it was possible to buy freedom from the fiery pits of hell––for a nominal fee. Jack Wade was best known for his zesty catch phrase:
Live to Give! Every Sunday those unsuspecting parishioners gave and gave. Good old Jack Wade took that money and gave it right back to himself––and the charlatans on his payroll.
About ten years earlier he had purchased a rickety pre-Civil War church on the outskirts of Franklin and started preaching to a small congregation. Over the years, he had amassed a following and a fortune. He purchased a ranch house that put the governor’s mansion to shame. Horses, cars, and a leer jet were added to his collection of “investments.” He carried on like a playboy, living to please himself. Meanwhile, the actual church structure had a bad case of toxic mold and was cracking at the seams. The building should’ve been condemned years ago, but Pastor Wade made sure he invited the right city officials to his house on the weekends to avoid the pesky task of keeping the building up to code. A handful of female companions living at the house helped entertain his guests.
“Our church is humble. We’re showing the devil that we don’t need fancy things to please our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. We don’t need flamboyant stained glass windows or marble alters to show the Lord we love Him. Ain’t that right?” Pastor Wade hollered out to the packed rows of people crammed into the old church for Sunday service.
He walked down the aisle, reaching out and touching the parishioners’ foreheads, screaming out incoherent words he hoped would pass for speaking in tongues. For inspiration on the cadence of his mutterings, he used Robert DeNiro’s performance in Cape Fear.
“The end draws near. We saw what happened in Los Angeles and San Francisco. The apocalypse tightened its tentacles around both of those wicked cities, tearing them down. Don’t you want to give your soul over to the Lord before the end reaches us?” He bent down and got in the face of stout man wearing a three-piece suit.
“I sure do, Pastor Wade.” The sweaty man patted his forehead with a silk handkerchief.
Air-conditioning was something else Pastor skimped on. Sometimes people fainted during the humid summer months. Whenever anyone fell, he used it to his advantage, proclaiming they had the Spirit. He was a dyed-in-the-wool opportunist.
“Prove it to me,” Pastor Wade yelled in the man’s face.
“I love the Lord!” The man stood up and shouted, raising his pudgy hands up to the mold-stained ceiling.
“What have you done for the Lord today?”
“I got up and came here to praise Him.”
“And how can you show that wily ol’ devil that you’ve been saved from the bondage of this sinful world? Or that it doesn’t matter if the apocalypse comes for us?”
“I can . . .” The man opened his eyes and looked at Pastor Wade sideways. “I can give?”
“You can give. That’s right––open up that wallet and give to the Lord. The Bible says to give. Give it all away!”
It didn’t matter that Pastor Wade was taking scripture out of context and contorting it to build his propaganda. If any of the unsuspecting churchgoers had ever taken the time to open the Bible and read scripture, they’d find specific instructions on giving––tithing only required ten percent, not a hundred. Pastor Wade was grateful they were a lazy congregation of non-readers. He stood next to the pudgy man and looked at the broken stained glass windows, with pieces of cardboard taped over the holes. He shouted out a string of mumbo jumbo, while the man in the suit wrote a check for twenty thousand dollars and slipped it into the Pastor’s suit pocket.
“You’ve been saved, my son!”
The audience cheered and clapped, and the band started playing a bluesy version of “I Saw the Light.” Pastor Wade clapped his hands and stomped his feet, encouraging the others to join along. As he danced in the aisle, the wealthy members ran to him and shoved checks and rolls of cash into his pockets. They sang and danced and praised the Lord until Pastor Wade settled down. Satisfied with his earnings, he dismissed them.
“When you leave here today, don’t you go listenin’ to the devil whisperin’ in your ears and questionin’ your giving hearts. You ignore those voices and trust in the Lord!”
After the last few people filed out of the church, Jack Wade left the main hall and went into his office. He opened a hidden door and walked down the cement steps to an underground tunnel leading to a private parking lot. His driver and white Cadillac waited under the shade of a maple tree to take him to his ranch house.
“Hot one today,” Sam, the driver said.
“Sure is.” Jack turned the vents to blast the cold air into his sweaty face.
He rested his head back on the leather seat and closed his eyes for a few minutes. After he cooled down, he removed the checks and wads of cash, straightening everything into neat stacks on the seat. He liked estimating how much money he had pulled in before counting everything. If he guessed within the thousand-dollar range he’d buy himself something special. With practice, he’d gotten really good at guessing his earnings. His record: eight hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. That was an exceptionally profitable service. Lately, his members had been scaling back on their offerings. Now he was competing with their extravagant summer vacations. He wasn’t too worried, though; the giving got really good during the holidays.
“Any guesses, Sam?” he asked the driver.
“Four hundred and thirty.” Sam’s light green eyes peered in the rearview mirror.
“Close, Sam. Close.”
That Sunday he had collected four hundred and ninety thousand. Not bad for an hour’s worth of work.
Sam pulled up to the front of the enormous mansion and opened the car door. Jack gave him a roll of hundreds and told him to buy something nice for his gal. Three of his beautiful “house ladies” greeted him at the front door. Each wore a chiffon robe with nothing underneath. Jack became aroused, but before he got to that order of business, he needed to put away his money and clean off the church grime. The women trailed behind him, trying to remove his jacket, and stroking their fingers through his thick gray hair.
“Ladies, you know the drill. I need a hot bath first. Then we can get to my massage.”
Massage was code for copulation. Somehow labeling it a massage seemed less licentious. Although, he wasn’t sure why he cared. Sometimes he wondered if all the phony God talk had started to penetrate his brain. Laughter overcame him at the thought, as he walked up the grand staircase to his master bathroom. He put the stack of checks and cash into the safe behind one the mirrors hanging on the wall, then removed his suit and stepped into the bubbling hot tub. After a few minutes, the door opened and the three house ladies joined him in the hot tub. At the age of seventy-two, good old Jack Wade still had it.
After his hot bath and “massage,” he sent the ladies off to their wing. He put on a robe and slippers and went to his study, where he sat on his leather couch to smoke his pipe and catch up on some reading. Somewhere in the middle of a sentence, Jack drifted to sleep.
In the dream, he stood in the middle of downtown Franklin, while people scattered through the streets. Missiles shot across the sky and blasted away buildings. Everything was in flames. Explosions and fires stretched for miles, the whole place was burning to the ground. Dead bodies piled in the streets, and people dropped, burning to death. A barrage of gunmen stormed through the town, picking off what the missiles had missed. The screams and howls of humans and animals grew louder and louder, but Pastor Jack Wade stood in the middle of the mayhem unscathed.
A shadowy figure walked through the flames of a nearby building, approaching Jack. The creature stretched opened its arms like two mighty black wings and spoke in an incomprehensible hum that scorched the apex of Jack’s brain.
“What do you want?!” Jack yelled.
“I want what’s mine,” he moaned.
The voice flooded through Jack’s body, knocking him to the ground. He crawled on all fours until he was able to pull himself up. Running down a back road, the shadow lingered over his shoulder. Jack turned down a street and ended up in front of his rickety dilapidated church––the only building that wasn’t
on fire. He started to run to the front entrance, but the shadow reached out and sucked Jack into the darkness . . .
###
“Ahhhhhh!” Jack woke up on the floor of his study; sweat soaked his robe and his trousers were soiled.
A house lady peeked her head around the door. “Pastor Wade, are you okay?” She ran over and tried to pick him up.
“Get out! Get the hell out!” he yelled, shoving her off.
He ran upstairs and showered. While the hot water beat down, he tried to piece together the dream. It wasn’t any ordinary dream; he felt as though he had entered another dimension. One he never wanted to see again. The water turned cold and a shadow eclipsed over the stall. He jumped out, quickly dried off, and put on a velour tracksuit to leave the house, but he didn’t know where to go.
“Anywhere is better than here,” he mumbled.
He walked down the grand staircase, feeling the shadow creeping behind. Turning around, he saw nothing. Something got under his feet and he tripped, tumbling down the stairs all the way to the marble foyer.
All three of the house ladies ran out to see what had happened.
“I thought I told you to get out! I want you all to pack your bags and get the hell out and never come back. You witches––you’re doing this to me!”
The lady he usually favored––a petite gal with long brown hair and big doe eyes––stepped over and touched his shoulder; her fingers seared his skin.
“Get out! You witch!”
“We don’t have anywhere to go,” the doe-eyed one said.
“You can go to the downtown apartment. Take any of the cars. I’ll send some money. A million? How about a million for each of you? Just get out!”
The ladies smiled in approval, then sashayed off to their wing to pack up their belongings. Jack Wade stayed face down on the cold marble floor until they left the premises. He tried to stand, but his right hip wouldn’t cooperate. He whimpered, covering his face with his hands. Had fate caught up with him? Was the shadow coming to claim his soul?