GodBomb!

by Kit Power

  “Right. Right! And in dreams, anything’s possible! Don’t you see? Did you ever marvel at a sunrise, Deborah? Ever look at dawn or sunset and feel stirred by the majesty of it?”

  Deborah feels a bubble of anger rise at this. She grasps it frantically, a swimmer on the edge of exhaustion, reaching for driftwood.

  “YES, okay? Yes, of course. Everyone does.”

  He nods, eyes focussed on some internal landscape.

  “Right. Well, the sun is an explosion too. Just a ball of fire exploding and burning.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s just a matter of perspective. And anyway...”

  “Excuse me?”

  The voice is quiet and shaky, but it cuts through the babble behind Katie with its urgency, its need. She looks down at Emma, and sees her damp, scared eyes staring right back.

  “What?”

  “I think... I’m going to need you down there.” Her eyes look down, then back up. “I need Peter to stay with me. Can you...”

  “I’m not trained, I don’t...”

  “It’s okay. You’re here. Just do what you can. Will you?”

  She is terrified. So is Katie. Her breathing is coming hard, like she’s been running up stairs, and each inhale pushes the glass jar into her stomach. Alex’s last gift to her. She feels strongly that she needs it, that it will be vital, somehow, but she doesn’t know why or how, and she feels scared by it too, like its very existence in her possession is dangerous, marks her. This is not a game.

  And this woman is so pale and so scared, and so brave.

  “Yes, I’ll do what I can. Do I... When the baby comes, do I need to pull, or...”

  “No! No, just... cradle the head, gently. Tell us what you see. So I know.”

  “Yes, okay.”

  “Thank you. Peter?”

  “Yes, darling.”

  “Stay with me, now, would you? I’m close now. Do you have the water still? For the... you know?”

  “Yes.”

  Katie sees him hold up a plastic water bottle and shake it as she moves back, looking between Emma’s spread legs. She’s closer now to the madman and the girl in the chair, and their conversation begins to impose itself again.

  “You could end all this, you could let us go...” The blade is still at her throat, but this last seems at least to take that faraway look from his eyes.

  Deborah breathes.

  “No, no. Deborah, we have to play it out, don’t you see it? Don’t you feel it?” Too much focus now, too much intensity as he stares into her face. She reacts with honesty borne of surprise.

  “I just feel scared.”

  He nods, smile fading, but not entirely leaving.

  “This too shall pass. At least you know the hour of your calling. It’s a gift, if you really think about it. Something so few people ever get. There’s a dignity to it, don’t you agree?”

  The sharpness of the blade is causing her throat to itch. It's infuriating, terrifying. He's going to kill her. Nothing can stop him. She needs a...

  “Stop it! Please, just stop talking, stop this, this...”

  Emma screams.

  Katie has time to feel gratitude, even time to feel guilty for it, as the sound kills the argument. She feels their focus turn towards her and the scene in front of her. Katie watches with mute wonder as the lips of Emma’s vagina peel back, and a dark coloured dome emerges. Emma’s scream turns guttural, a growling yell that makes her whole body shudder, and Katie is aware that she’s sat up, bearing down and forwards with her whole body, and the dome slides forward, slowly, and there’s blood, and hair, Katie can see dark hair, stuck to the baby’s head in wet clumps, and the scream dies down and the muscles stop trembling and Katie sees the dome disappear back inside, but Emma is wide open now, and surely next time...

  “I can’t do it! Peter! Please! Please, I can’t do it, I can’t, it’s too much, make it stop, make it...”

  “The baby is coming!”

  Katie can’t keep the excitement out of her voice, or the fear.

  “I saw hair! It has hair! It’s coming! Next time, I think...”

  “Peter? Peter...”

  “Baby is coming. Our beautiful child. You can do it...”

  “I can’t, I...

  “...you can, you will. I love you. It’s going to be okay...”

  “No, it’s... oh GOD!”

  The word becomes a snarl, and it’s all lower registry now, the growl of a wounded and desperate animal, and this time Katie sees it really is coming. That dome, streaked with blood, pushes out, and as Emma exhales with that fearsome sound, Katie sees the brow clear, and beneath it a wrinkled blue face coming into view. The features are horribly squashed together, and Katie gets a flash in her memory of pictures of old men gurning in competitions, but everything looks to be there, eyes screwed shut and a flattened boxer's nose and tiny lips.

  “It’s coming! The head is out, Emma!”

  Deborah feels the blade fall away from her throat. She stares at the young man, his face in profile as he takes in the birth.

  Emma comes to the end of the breath, takes in more, but the contraction has passed. Katie places her hands under the head, just taking the weight, no more. The baby feels hot to the touch, sticky. Emma sees it has blood on its face. There’s more blood underneath, a steady stream trickling from Emma, starting to pool around Katie’s knees.

  “Next one, sweetheart. Next push does it.”

  Emma pants. Katie leans forward a little, kneeling in front of Emma, wondering why the baby isn’t crying, worrying that the contraction has ended too soon and the baby hasn’t arrived yet, terrified that she’s made it go wrong somehow, the blue colour and wrinkled face looking damaged, and then Emma screams again, wordless, elemental, and Katie can see the pressure and strain in Emma’s wobbling thighs, and more blood trills out from her, and just as Katie thinks that it’s not going to be enough, that the baby is stuck somehow, the shoulders pop clear and the rest of the baby comes flying out towards her, a tangle of pink limbs streaked with red, and Katie has no time, is forced to react on instinct, and she keeps one hand under the head and the other moves under the body that’s just appeared in her arms, like the messiest conjuring trick in the history of magic, and she holds the baby to her without thought, its body and head adding fresh red smears on the white fabric of her vest.

  Katie holds the newborn baby in her arms, and for just a second, everything and everyone is silent and still.

  The thin, hungry cry echoes throughout the silent church, and there’s a ripple of reaction, murmurs, a couple of laughs. Emma is prone again, the last push having taken it all out of her. She’s still in pain, and feels a terrible yawning emptiness down there, but the endorphins flood her system as she hears her baby cry, and the pain of her torn body barely registers. She holds her arms out from her prone position, and Katie hands her the baby, cord still sprung from the belly, and Emma lifts this, gently, then turns her head to her weeping, smiling husband.

  The killer places the sword on the edge of the stage. He glances at Deborah, then slides it back, pushing it beyond her reach. His eyes turn back to the bundle of bloody pink flesh. To Deborah, he looks hypnotised.

  “It’s a girl. We’ve got a daughter.”

  Peter nods, throat working, smiling fit to split, unable to talk. Emma holds the baby to her chest, feels the small form, so hot, resting against her, and she feels lightheaded. Dizzy, but elated. Her child. Her daughter. Here. Alive and crying. So beautiful.

  She takes one of the tiny hands, lifts it to her lips, faintly surprised at how hard it is to do such a simple task, how heavy her arm feels, and she kisses the fingers.

  “Sarah. Sarah.”

  She strokes the baby's head, then lifts her towards Peter. “Sarah, meet your daddy.”

  Peter takes the small pink/blue bundle carefully, and Emma feels her arms drop to her sides, exhausted.

  Peter turns the child so Emma can see the length of her. He is weepi
ng. She realises that her own cheeks are damp also.

  Katie watches as Peter unscrews the water bottle with one hand, eyes locked on his baby daughter.

  “I may not get all the words exactly right. I can’t remember...”

  “It’s fine, Peter. It’s fine. Let go and let God.”

  He nods, lips pressed together. To Katie it looks like he’s suppressing a sob, and her heart goes out to him.

  Then she feels movement next to her, and a figure squeezes between her and the edge of the stage. She turns and sees the madman. He is staring at Peter and the baby. Katie sees hunger and an awful eagerness in his face.

  Peter either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He holds the baby carefully in his arm. The bottle ready.

  “Sarah Annie Short, you are born in the sight and love of the Lord God, to loving parents Peter and Emma. Sarah, we ask that Jesus walk with you in your life, and that you know Him and love Him as He loves you.”

  The madman leans forward, and Katie realises his trigger hand is next to her, on the ground. He’s using the fist for balance as he squats. Katie stares at that pushed in red button until it seems to fill her entire mind. She sees without registering the growing pool of dark blood that surrounds his knuckles.

  “Lord God, we ask that you accept Sarah as one of your own, that you love her and keep her and protect her, first breath to last, bring her into your light, and that she serve your glory. We commend her soul to your loving care.”

  Katie feels the jar biting into her stomach as her breathing deepens, and still the madman is unaware of her attention, completely caught in the drama of the moment. She thinks. She hopes.

  Because he’s unarmed.

  Suddenly, she sees this is her shot. Alex’s shot. The moment. She can grab the hand, and hit him with the jar, and if she does it quick enough, and hard enough, and the girl in the wheelchair comes through, then maybe, just maybe...

  “In front of this congregation here present, and in the eyes of the Lord...”

  Katie places her left hand up under her shirt, gripping the top of the jar tight in her fist.

  “...I baptise you, Sarah Annie Short...”

  She rehearses it in her mind. Grab his hand first, then pull and swing as quick as you can. One shot. Hope the surprise is enough, grip super hard. Pull out and up in one move. Hit his head as hard as you can. Maybe the glass breaks, maybe...

  “...in the name of Our Lord God, and his risen son Jesus Christ.”

  ...he falls, so fall with him, but do it, do it...

  “May the Lord bless you and keep you, and...”

  Now!

  Katie’s right hand clamps over the madman’s fist, pushing his whole hand to the floor, and her left hand clenches as she rips the jar from her trousers. The adrenaline is singing and her muscles are over-tight from too much stress for far too long, and she’s sucked her stomach in with fear, instinctively, so the jar is loose and fucking flies out of her waistband, and her arm is moving in the wrong direction, away from her body, and she can see the madman, scary-quick, turn towards her, face shifting through surprise and straight to anger, rage, and she brings her left arm forward with a frantic jerk, and the fresh blood and fluids and sweat that coat her palm cause the jar to slip back, so she’s gripping the base, and as a stab of panic hits her she frantically tightens her grip, as hard as she can, and the momentum and the lubrication send the jar flying out of her hand, away from the madman and towards the aisle. She pictures it spinning in the air, over and over, away from her, and she hears it shatter, sees it in her mind, bursting over the mess where Alex bled out, sees the pink sparkles wash and mingle with the dark blood, and she doesn’t really have time to feel misery and despair and heartache and loss and the terror of having killed everyone, but she feels it all anyway, as her gaze moves up to that pale face, those glaring eyes, the features twisting into a hateful smile, a grimace of triumph...

  And that’s when a sharp and bloody blade appears under his jaw line and pushes into his skin. Katie sees the smile drop, sees something that might be fear or only resignation flash in those eyes. She has time to think finish it, sister. Send this man to Hell, and we can all go home.

  “I have very little reason to allow you to keep breathing. Resist my friend in any way, and I will open your throat. Clear?”

  Katie sees the madman start to nod, feel the blade, wince.

  “Clear. Now, look...”

  “Shut the fuck up. One more word, I gut you.”

  Katie clamps her empty hand over the full one, bringing all her strength and weight to bear, and as she twists around to do this, she looks up at the girl from the chair.

  She’s standing, long dark hair flowing to her waist. Her breathing is calm and steady. She’s standing over the madman, the sword in her right hand at arm’s length, and Katie sees it would take very little movement to act on her threat. Katie looks up to her face. She sees anger there, dark and terrible. They stare at each other. Nothing happens. The madman breathes next to her, and the girl does nothing. Katie feels something swelling up inside her.

  “Kill him! KILL HIM!” The words are raw in her throat, painful. The girl only stares back at her.

  And that’s when she hears the sound of a gun being cocked.

  “Put the fucking sword down.”

  Deborah looks up at Chris. Takes him in. She feels calm. Her mind open and aware like no time she can remember.

  He’s got the pistol pointed at her, gripped in both hands, legs braced. Like he’s about to yell ‘Freeze!’ His hands are trembling. The gun is trembling too, the barrel wavering as it points at her.

  She feels no fear. Only contempt, and this sense of heightened awareness, all senses on full.

  “Stop, Chris.”

  His face is contorting, like he’s trying not to cry. The tension of what he’s done, what he’s now being asked to do again, the emotional whiplash from homicidal to suicidal to calm, back to this – it’s too much for him. He’s so small, she thinks with no emotion at all. So tiny. So easily led.

  “I... Put the sword down!”

  “No.”

  He pushes the gun towards her in a jerk, but she is not surprised and does not flinch. He’s not going to pull the trigger.

  “I’ll shoot you!”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “What? Yes, yes, I...”

  “Do you want to know why you won’t?”

  Silence. They stare at each other.

  “Look.”

  She points at her chair. He’s too far away for her to rush him, but he takes his time just the same, cautious. She remains calm. Arm pointing, waiting.

  Finally, his gaze flickers away, along the length of her arm. His eyes widen in recognition, and she sees a bunch of feelings cross his face, but only one matters to her, and it’s fear. Maybe even terror. It’s there and gone, behind the mask, but she knows it’s what is in his mind.

  “That’s my wheelchair. I’ve sat in it, or a version of it, for seven years. Seven years, Chris.”

  His throat works, like he’s trying to find something to say. She ploughs on, calm and even, but relentless.

  “It was a spinal injury. Hit and run. Chris, I was never going to walk again.”

  She lets the moment hang. He’s beyond speech now. She sees his eyes fill with water, a single drop escaping from his left eye. From beneath her, she hears an animal groan. She moves the blade a fraction of an inch and the groan cuts off with a squeak that on any other day would be hilarious.

  “My spinal column was severed. That’s irreversible. Irreparable. There was no fix. There is no fix.”

  The lies flow easily, mixing with the truth, indistinguishable. She gestures up and down the length of her body with her free left hand.

  “And yet. Here I stand. Here I stand, Chris. In this house of the Lord, in the year nineteen ninety five, you are witness. The sick have been healed. The crippled walk.”

  Words she’s heard a thousand times, prayed ove
r, raged over, words that have caused bile to rise in her throat as another promise breaks, as all the promises break, endlessly, uselessly, like the useless faith beneath them, they flow out of her like water, clear and pure and easy. She sees Chris sobbing openly now, gun lowering, one hand swatting uselessly at his wet cheeks. She feels only a cold and distant contempt.

  “What do you call that, Chris? What would you say this is?”

  She waits. She can afford to. This is over. The young man on the end of her blade knew it from the first tear, and oh how he must be suffering now, twisting, and Deborah thinks that Katie might just need some help on that trigger now, because this is game over, and she’s sure ‘Isaac’ is a terrible loser.

  She waits and stares at Chris. He clears his throat once, twice. Looks down, away, up, then back, but he can’t hold her gaze, looks down and away again.

  “It’s a miracle.”

  His voice is low, but clear. It carries. Deborah hears a ripple through the crowd.

  Cattle.

  “I’m sorry! I...”

  She holds up her left hand, index finger up, and he quiets at once.

  “All part of the plan.”

  “How...” He can’t think how to formulate the sentence. She sees it, sees the strain on his mind, and she stays calm and quiet and neutral, knowing he’ll figure it out.

  Time ticks by. She’s aware of everything around her. The baby making sucking noises, already on the teat, the ragged breathing of her captive, the girl holding the trigger, the still-shallow panting of the new mother, and beyond that circle the breaths and sighs and creaks of the multitude. She feels as though she can hear their thoughts, their minds crying out as one. Help. Save us. Deliver us. She manages not to smile. Free will.

  It’s a few minutes, it’s a million years, it doesn’t matter. She is calm and in control, and eventually he says, as she knows he must,

  “What do you want me to do?”

  There’s another sigh at this, and a couple of maybe-coughs, maybe-yelps, maybe-sobs, and Deborah sends out the originators of those sounds murder thoughts, but her face remains neutral as she says