GodBomb!

by Kit Power

  This could be trouble.

  “Okay.” Says the bomber, eyes not moving from the face of his patient. “Now, I think I need...”

  And that’s when Twitch wakes up – eyes burst open, bugged and staring, mouth gaping, stretched, back arching up from the floor like it’s on fire, screaming an awful, throat-shredding yelp. Arms shot out to the side, hands like claws, tendons in the neck standing out like wires, screaming, screaming, then total collapse, the last of his breath leaving in a whispering sigh.

  People freak out, jump back, flinch, there’s some yelps and screams, and Chris feels his heart sink into his belly, because he’s no kind of medic, but he’s pretty sure this unfortunate young man just passed on, and sure enough, he sees the bomber check for a pulse in the neck, and the slump of his shoulders confirms it.

  The hand on the neck moves back to the cheek, and the bombers eyes are closed again, screwed shut, brow furrowed, head trembling. For a minute, Chris, as spooked as he can remember ever feeling in his life, thinks maybe the bomber is trying for some outrageous Hail Mary, some Lazarus type thing. He has time enough to feel terror at the thought, blind horror, because what if he does it? What if he can bring another man back to life with his touch? What then?

  But then he sees the tears running down the bomber's face, sees the tremble spread to his lips, his shoulders, and he feels a powerful wave of relief, mixed with a faintly nauseating shame.

  He watches the bomber weep, silent sobs shaking his body, and his eyes are drawn as if by magnetism to the closed fist in the air. The hand is shaking a little but the thumb stays clamped down, knuckle white with the effort, and that’s obviously not good, but it’s better than the alternative.

  The tableau holds for what feels like many minutes, the bomber sobbing, eyes closed, free hand stroking the cheek of the dead man. The bomber's tears run down his nose, drip onto the face of the body beneath until it looks like the corpse is crying too. Baptized with salt thinks Chris, and shudders.

  The bomber opens his eyes, red and watery, hand still stroking the cheek of the dead man. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His voice is cracked, choked.

  Chris picks up on the movement and looks up in time to see the priest moving forward, arms raised. The look he’d seen before has passed, and what Chris sees now is compassion, concern. And something else, but Chris can’t read it; he’s too stoked, too frazzled.

  “Son...” The priest reaches out, places his hand on the bomber’s left shoulder. The bomber seems to flinch or freeze at the contact, momentarily, but then carries on breathing, the sobbing tapering off.

  “Son. Please. Please.”

  The bomber does not raise his head, continues to stare into the face of the dead man.

  “You have a good heart, son. I can see that now. You didn’t want this to happen, did you? You didn’t want this man to die. I don’t think you want any of us to die, do you?”

  There’s a huge pause at this, and all Chris can seem to hear is the breathing of the two men – the bomber's, ragged and damp, slowing, the priest's calm and even.

  “No.”

  “No. Of course you don’t. Of course. You’re just angry; that’s all. You’ve been hurt son; I can see that, and you’re angry about that pain. I want to tell you that I’m sorry about that. Truly I am.”

  The priest’s grip tightens just a little on this last. Chris sees the fingers flex and observes the stiffening in the bomber’s shoulders again.

  “None of us want to hurt you, son. We want to help you. We love you.”

  The bomber’s breath has been calming throughout this, but here it catches, and again Chris sees his lips tremble, a fresh tear squeeze out.

  “I... I know you do.”

  Still raw, still wet. What the hell is going on inside that voice?

  “Good. That’s good.” The priest actually smiles, and it looks warm and genuine.

  “Then join us son, why don’t you? Join us in fellowship, and renounce this path you’re on.”

  Slowly, so slowly, the bomber raises his head, eyes moving from the body in front of him to the man standing over him, searching out the face, the eyes, of the priest. The priest waits for him and holds his gaze when their eyes do meet. Chris looks from one to the other, takes in the calm sincerity of the priest, and the sweaty, pale face of the bomber. To Chris, the bomber looks trapped, suspended between hope and despair, fear and love.

  “Is it time to lay down the sword, preacher. Is that what you tell me?”

  The priest nods. “It is, yes.”

  “And it’s God’s will that I do this?” Something – in his eyes, in his voice, Chris couldn’t tell you what, but something – makes Chris’ belly turn to lead. He feels a drawing back, like he’s going to faint or something, and he wants to yell out, to scream at the priest to stop...

  “It is, son.”

  ...stop, stop now, there’s still time, a chance, but you have to stop right now, or we’re all going to die. Chris knows it, he feels it, but he’s paralysed by fear, by the forces at work between these two men, he’s trapped in a nightmare and he cannot speak, cannot act...

  “God has told me to tell you this. To lay down your sword, and let Him into your heart. Will you do it?”

  The bomber takes a deep breath, holds it. On the exhale, he brings his left arm down slowly, still stiff-arm straight, until the fist holding the trigger rests on the priest’s shoulder. At the same time, he rises from his crouch, one of his knees cracking loud enough to make Chris flinch.

  They hold it for a second, looking into each others’ eyes. Like soldiers, Chris thinks, and he is so afraid now. The bomber takes a half step back and reaches his right hand up his left sleeve, and there’s a ripple of panic, people staggering away from the bomber. Chris takes two quick steps back, not thinking, and feels his heels hit something solid.

  Holy shit. The door, or the wall?

  Doesn’t matter. He can’t look away. Can’t take his eyes off the bomber. If he’s about to die, so be it. The bomber struggles for a second with his sleeve, and the priest’s eyes narrow, a half flinch, and then the bomber pulls his right fist from his arm, revealing the blade in a clean drawing motion. As it slides out smoothly, Chris notices his arm bend for the first time, and now he understands the theatrical stiff-arm, and as he thinks this, even in his terror mentally slapping his own forehead, the two foot blade is out and the priest finally sees what lies beneath the bomber's eyes. Too late, he tries to move backwards and turn all at once and manages neither, feet tangling together. He staggers back, swaying on his centre of gravity, overcorrects, and his body is still moving forwards, back towards the bomber, when the blade enters his belly.

  The bomber has actually crouched and turned before plunging, like a corkscrew. The blade enters the priest low in the stomach, on an inexorable upward trajectory, driven hard and fast and true. Chris sees the blood bloom immediately on the priest’s shirt, and observes with a detached air the blade pass into the priest’s body until the hilt, and the bomber's fist, rest against the red stain.

  The priest opens his mouth, makes a single choking noise which turns into a gargle as blood first drools then erupts from his open mouth. Chris sees the priest’s legs give way, and the bomber falls to his knees in perfect sync, like ballet, still holding the metal in place. The priest is looking up, still gargling and rattling his death, arms low and spread as if in supplication, fingers trembling. Then the head slowly lowers, and Chris sees those eyes meet the gaze of his killer one final time, before the pupils dilate, and the head drops completely.

  The bomber leans forward, touches his forehead briefly to the priest's, then uses his shoulder to push the body off of the sword, grunting with the effort. It takes a few seconds, but the blade is finally withdrawn, the priest’s body slumping to one side, blood flowing from the entry wound, pooling on the wooden floor.

  The room is silent. All Chris can hear is breathing – his own, the others, the bomber. The priest lays there an
d bleeds, from his mouth and belly, and the bomber kneels, looking down. No-one moves, no-one says a word.

  Chris is suddenly aware of a pressure in the small of his back, and he realises he’s leaning against the door handle.

  It’s a big pull handle, brass effect, fire door with a weighted automatic closer. Chris sees it in his mind as surely as if he’s looking at it, perfect recall from when he walked into here, a million years ago – and did it make any noise when it opened, when it shut? It did not. He keeps his head stock still, and allows his eyes to do the walking.

  No-one is looking at him at all, not even close. All eyes are on the slaughter, and Chris realises this is it.

  This is it.

  He allows himself one more breath to think about it, but nothing changes. He still doesn’t want to die here.

  It feels to Chris like it’s the very second before he starts to reach for the door that the bomber's head snaps up, and his eyes root Chris to the spot like a bug under a pin.

  The bomber is still on his knees, the blood now darkening the knees of his trousers, and he raises his reddened fist and points the blade right at Chris. Chris has time to see the spray of blood that comes off the blade as he does this. Has time to see a drop, big and fat and pregnant, roll and drip off the point, splashing on the ground.

  “If you want to go, go. But do it now.”

  Chris pants, a cornered animal, but he makes no effort to move. He can’t. He can’t. He just fucking can’t. The moment holds; the bomber pointing, eyes on Chris but performing just the same, thinks Chris, letting the whole room know for sure who’s in charge now. And is it just a game? Could Chris call his bluff?

  Too late.

  “I need you all to understand what will happen if you lie to me. If you mistake the voice of your mind for the voice of God. You will be cast down. Do you see that now?”

  Chris sees nods out of the corner of his eyes.

  The bomber pulls himself back to his feet, and Chris could swear he looks taller, somehow. He tries to reconcile the expression he sees now with the crying man of a few long minutes ago, and he can’t do it. There’s something happening here...

  And is this the mask, or was the other?

  We’re dead, thinks Chris. I’m dead.

  The blade is still pointing at him, and now it flicks to the overturned bench, and Chris hears the quiet rat-a-tat-tat as another blood splatter hits the floor. Chris feels his flinch, and sees a flicker of what has to be amusement on the bomber's face – something that happens at the corner of his eyes and then is gone.

  “Pick up the bench. Put it back.”

  At first Chris thinks he won’t be able to move. That he’ll just stand there frozen until the bomber loses patience and guts him like a pig, but, of course, this isn’t that kind of nightmare. Now that it’s too late, he finds his limbs respond to his commands just fine, thanks, and he does as he’s told.

  The blade points at the corpse of the young man, face still wet with the tears of the killer.

  “Move him into the aisle, would you? Lay him next to the preacher.”

  The tone is calm, conversational, perfectly in control, and Chris feels a surge of hatred that he’d never suspected was in him. It washes in fast and then fades, leaving a sick churning in his gut and a metallic taste in his throat. He bends over the dead man, and hooks his armpits; head turned to one side, so he doesn’t have to look at that slack, damp face. He tries to ignore the smell, body odour like rotting bin bags mixed with the unmistakeable stench of fresh shit. The body is heavy, dead weight, haha, and it’s an awkward angle, especially with his own neck twisting away to avoid looking, but fear is a powerful motivator, and Chris manages to drag the body out into the aisle without dropping him.

  As he lays the body down, he staggers back a step, then shakily returns to his seat. Once there, he turns and watches as the killer goes back on his knees and kisses the forehead of the dead man, eyes shut.

  Then he stands and does a slow turn, pointing at the entire room with his blade. Marking them. Then it points at the big clock, impossibly reading 10:47, as if all that has passed could possibly have occurred in ten minutes, as opposed to the five point four years Chris is sure he’s just lived through.

  “The preacher was a dead end. More prayer, I think. Take a knee, if that’s what works for you. Either way, do what you’ve got to do, but do it quietly. Pray now.”

  The blade dips to the floor. The bomber stands in the aisle, back to the stage, the two bodies side by side, the blood from the priest oozing under the corpse of the young man. Chris hears nothing but the breathing of the survivors.

  The killer turns and strides back down the aisle towards the stage. Chris lowers his head and closes his eyes.

  Alex is breathing hard. She doesn’t know it, but her nostrils are flaring, and her pupils are dilated.

  She was ready five minutes ago. Five minutes ago, she had it all so clear she could picture it. The dickhead would walk back up the aisle towards the stage, arm either straight out or straight up, and when he passed Alex, she’d just grab his fist in both her hands and fucking crush his thumb against the button. Tangle his legs, make him fall and land on top of him, yell “Get him! Get him!” She knows the sax player will be there because she’s been in near constant contact with him since the dickhead left the stage. Eyes flicking, facial twitches, significant head inclinations – it’s been a regular Jane Austen novel. She’s gonna jump this dickless wonder on his way back to the stage, and Mr. Sax player, all six lovely tough feet of him, is gonna be there in about four seconds even if nobody else grows a pair, and then the party is over, hasta la vista baby, book him, Danno.

  But that was five minutes ago. A lifetime has passed since then. Now the scumbag is walking back down the aisle towards her with a fucking sword still dripping blood in his right hand, and the left hand, the one with the switch, the one she was going to grab, is swaying by his hip as he strides towards the stage, and she has maybe three seconds to make a decision, and she can feel her hands trembling but that’s not going to stop her, fuck that, this is still her best shot, he has to be stopped. She tries not to think about the sword. About whether or not it’ll hurt. About if she can avoid it for long enough for her knight to arrive. She glances over, quickly, makes eye contact one last time, set, and that’s when the sax player shakes his head, just once.

  Mike sees the fury, the disbelief in the girl’s face, and for a horrible moment, he thinks maybe she’s going to just go anyway, but she doesn’t. She holds her place, and the boy walks past her with no idea how close he came, and Mike permits himself a long, slow exhale. It’s going to be okay. The moment of maximum danger has passed. God is with him, with them. In God, he trusts.

  He meets her gaze again, once the boy retakes the stage, and her lips are a thin line, her eyes blazing, and he bobs his head slightly. His right eyebrow flickers. He twitches his sax with his arm, as though shifting the weight, and looks at the sword, then back at the girl. She swallows hard, still angry, but finally nods back.

  Good.

  Mike takes in the scene. The bodies in the aisle, side by side, the blood pooling out, dark against the wooden flooring. There’s a lot of pale faces out there, a lot of dark rings under eyes. Some tears too, people trying to cry quietly, couples comforting each other as best they can.

  He takes in the front row. Sees the two wheelchairs, the parent with the boy, the girl that spoke up, head lowered now in prayer or fear, and the couples lined up on his side. In particular, he takes in the pregnant woman. He knows her; at least, he’s seen her before, at the born again services, knows her to say hello to.

  Her head is lowered, her husband’s arm around her, neither of them looking up, and Mike takes them in. He sees her heightened breathing, the hunched shoulders. He wonders how long she has left to run.

  Mike clasps his hands in front of him and lowers his head. He waits. For God.

  Emma’s not doing so good.

  She’s
sweating too much, for one. No, perspiring, ladies perspire, she tries to focus on that but it doesn’t help, because she’s blinking well sweating, that’s all. Her belly is rolling, like there are stones in there, and she’s pretty sure the cramps she’s feeling are not indigestion.

  She’s pretty sure they’re contractions.

  Peter has his hands on her shoulders, is rubbing them and breathing calming words into her ear, a rolling prayer, “Lord Jesus help us. Lord Jesus we thank you for the life you have entrusted to us. Lord God help us to be strong. Lord Jesus help us to stand in your light. Lord God help us to do your will.”

  On and on, a mantra of hope, of supplication. It’s like cold water on third-degree burns; it helps, but not enough. Dear Lord not enough, because her baby is coming now, she’s sure of it. She’s tried to ignore it and tried to fight it and begged for it not to happen but now it’s happening, and oh dear Lord she is so afraid now, so very, very afraid.

  Another wave of cramps come, more powerful than the last, and she can’t help the low moan that escapes her lips, and Peter stiffens, stops rubbing momentarily, and she knows that he knows.

  What are they going to do?

  On the other side of the aisle, Deborah hears that moan, like the lowing of a hungry calf. She does not look around, does not raise her head. Her frustration has turned to fury that she now experiences as a physical thing, no longer hot but a cold ball of lead in her gut. Deborah has decided to kill this young man. She doesn’t know how, no clue, but she has promised herself that she will.

  It’s not the death of the priest, exactly – Deborah has suffered enough heartache and false hope at the hands of such men that tears would be hypocritical. No, it’s the callousness with which it was done that upsets her. The calculated nature of it.

  The theatre.

  You’re no better than him. He may have claimed hope, and you fear, but I think it’s just the same bullshit either way. You took him to make a point to the rest of us. We’re all just pawns to you.