GodBomb!

by Kit Power

  “Point the gun at Isaac. Shoot him if he so much as twitches.”

  Chris does so immediately. Deborah feels a surge of pleasure deep in her stomach, something slippery and sensual. Primal.

  She kneels down behind her captive. The bomber, the lunatic. The loser. He is frozen with fear, the one sure thing he had taken from him for good, forever, and she knows what she’s about to do is pointless, an act of purest malice, but she cannot stop herself.

  She leans in close to his head, lips close enough to his ear that she is almost kissing him. He stinks of sweat, sour and acrid. It is the smell of the defeated, and she inhales deeply through her nose, savouring it.

  “I don't care why you did this. Do you hear me? I. Don't. Care. There are no reasons. Only will. My will be done. What is left of you can be measured in minutes. Seconds. God is real, and He couldn’t care less about any of this. This is the end. Feel it. Know it.”

  The words are not spoken but exhaled into his ear, travelling only to his mind, and she sees the hairs of the back of his neck stand to attention, his breathing elevate, and she feels that low surge again. She turns away to stand, and her eyes meet Emma, staring at her with fear and confusion. Deborah holds her gaze and closes the eye that Chris cannot see in a slow wink. She sees confusion cross Katie’s face as Deborah stands, removes the blade from Isaac's throat, and steps into the aisle. Chris moves into her place, gun barrel pressed into the top of the kneeling bomber’s head.

  Deborah nods. She looks up, over the congregation, all eyes save the two killers now on her. She resists the urge to spread her arms and strike a pose. To laugh.

  She looks back, one last time, at the woman and the baby and the father and the killer and the gunman and the dumb girl. Soaking in the tableau, fixing it in her mind.

  The kneeling figures. The pool of dark blood. Spreading...

  “Emma? Emma, honey?”

  Deborah looks back at the mother. Sees the sheet white of her face, the slackness of her jaw. Her body is limp, not even cradling the baby at her breast as it guzzles, blissfully unaware.

  The baby.

  Her husband keeps saying her name, the same concerned, calm voice, like a broken record, the same gentle shake of her shoulder, over and over. Not a man, at this moment, thinks Deborah – some kind of broken robot, internal circuit out of true, looping uselessly.

  The words ring out, marked by an oppressive, shattered silence. It seems to Deborah that the words fall into that silence, passing through it without leaving a mark.

  Her eyes turn to the baby, to the cable that still runs from the child to the mother. Inside the mother.

  The baby.

  Her baby.

  Her miracle.

  She reaches a decision.

  She steps past Chris, around the sweaty bomber and the desperate girl gripping his fist. She kneels next to the husband. He continues saying his dead wife’s name, gently, shaking her as if to wake her from an afternoon nap.

  “Peter.” She rests her free hand on his shoulder as she speaks. Peter turns to her, slowly. His face shows concern, but nothing more.

  “Peter, we need to cut the cord. It’s not good for the baby.”

  “Sarah.”

  “Yes. It’s not good for Sarah to stay on the cord. We need to cut it, or she might get sick. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I... I was going to do it, but...”

  “It’s okay, Peter. I can do it. I just need you to hold Sarah while I do it. Can you do that?”

  Peter nods. He reaches for the feeding baby, hesitates, then says,

  “Sorry kiddo. Let’s just give your mum a rest, shall we?”

  His voice quavers on the word rest, but otherwise he is calm as he takes the child back into his arms. Those high thin cries begin again. Hunger. Fear.

  Deborah reaches past Peter, takes the cable in her hand. It is sticky and warm to the touch. She squeezes a loop together and places the blade inside it. She looks up at the bomber, but his gaze is fixed ahead and vacant, face frozen. The beads of sweat and shallow breaths give the only clue of life. Nevertheless, Deborah looks at him as she flexes her arm, slicing through the thick flesh with a grunt of effort.

  A small jet of near black fluid squirts from the open cord, spilling over the mother’s chest. Peter does not see this, bouncing the bundle in his arms, making shushing noises, smiling distractedly. Deborah thinks it’s the most awful thing she’s ever seen.

  “Peter?”

  He looks up at her. His eyes are still dry, face still politely concerned.

  “Yes?”

  “I think Sarah needs to leave here. Don’t you?”

  She sees a smile ghost onto his face, flicker and die.

  “Yes, but... Emma...”

  “Emma needs your help. I’ll take Sarah out, okay? Then once Emma is feeling better, you can both come out. Okay? We won’t be far – there’s an ambulance just outside.”

  Deborah reaches her arms out as she speaks, ready to receive the bundle of squalling flesh. She sees a flicker of something cross Peter’s face, a flash of thunder inside a cloud, but his voice is still even and calm as he says,

  “Yes, all right. All right.”

  He looks down at Sarah. Lifts her face to his.

  “I love you little girl. Mummy and daddy will see you soon. Okay?”

  He kisses the baby’s head, once, then holds the bundle out to Deborah. She places the sword carefully on the floor next to the mother, then takes the baby gently, cradling the head, but she does not look down at the child. She looks at Peter instead, trying hard to commit his face to her memory, to hold him in her mind just as she sees him now. She does not smile, and neither does he, but she nods, once, and he returns the gesture.

  She stands. The way out is blocked, the two kneeling figures of the bomber and Emma filling the path to the aisle, so Deborah sits on the edge of the stage, then swings her legs around, before getting them under her and rising. She wobbles a little but does not fall, and has time to marvel at this.

  Then she walks to the centre of the stage. She considers speaking, but she can think of nothing to say. Instead, she steps off the stage, into the central walkway. She takes a step, and whispers into Chris’ ear.

  “Count to twenty. Then shoot him.”

  She sees him stiffen, and their eyes lock – hers calm, his terrified, trapped. “God’s will?” His voice cracks.

  Close enough. “Yes.” She holds his eyes for a moment longer, and he nods again.

  She leaves him, leaves them all behind, walks down the aisle towards the door. Her feet carry her through the pool of blood and pink glitter left where Alex fell. Her footprints shimmer and sparkle in the afternoon sunlight that burns through the high glass windows. She passes the sweaty bald man, still curled upon the floor, sobbing into himself.

  A second darker, stickier pool, where the preacher fell (can I hear an amen?), then she reaches the door. Keeping the child in the crook of her right arm, she pulls the handle.

  The door opens a crack, but the body of the preacher stops it moving any further. She pulls again, harder, and he starts to roll, but then slumps back, pushing the door fully closed again.

  Behind her, she can hear muttering, confusion, the first sparks of anger.

  How fast is he counting?

  She looks down, into the sightless eyes of the preacher. Sees her own face reflected back at her. She looks scared. Mad.

  She yanks on the door, as hard as she can. Feels something twinge in her back, a little spike of pain. The preacher’s body rolls further, onto his side, teeters on the edge of the centre of gravity, then starts to fall back.

  She can hear more murmurs behind her, the first shuffles of movement.

  How fast?

  She hooks her foot under the neck of the corpse and pulls. The twinge in her back becomes a stabbing, ripping pain, and she grits her teeth, but finally the corpse moves, and the door opens wide enough for her to pass.

  She does not hesitat
e. She does not look back. She steps between the doors and out into the light of the world. The corpse of the preacher rolls back against the door, closing it behind her.

  There’s a huge bank of police cars, vans, an ambulance. A fire engine, lights blinking in the early evening sunlight. There’s a clamour of activity as she walks out, people in dark uniforms running about. She decides to take the initiative.

  “He’s letting me go! I have a newborn baby!” She holds the naked screaming child up and away from her body. On cue, it wriggles, reacting to the outside air, and she draws it back to her protectively. She sees a moment of conferring, then the man and woman near the ambulance gesture to her, calling her over. She walks towards them, quickly, words tumbling from her now.

  “He has a bomb! He’s got it strapped to him! He says he’s going to set it off and kill everyone if...”

  A pop of gunfire from behind her, then a roar, a great and terrible demon of rage, hot air pushing at her back. She staggers, trying to compensate for her increased momentum. Her vision catches sudden movement, shapes falling all around her. A huge lump of wood plants in the ground in front of her, she jumps desperately, then something solid connects with the side of her head and there is a moment of blackness.

  The hard ground under her back is agony, but she can still feel her legs, her toes. Her eyes open. There are blades of grass growing down from the ceiling. Beneath it, there are the ruins of a building. The door has been blown out from the inside and also lies on the ceiling, and the roof is splayed outwards and down like a pair of hands held open. There are shreds of cloth and limbs caught on parts of the ragged architecture. She feels movement in her arms, registers that the child clutched there is breathing, howling – she feels hot exhalation against the bare skin of her arm.

  There is no sound, only a single high note whining in both ears. A great ball of fire and black smoke falls from the ruins and rolls lazily down into the clear blue sky, falling towards the afternoon sun.

  It is horrible, she thinks.

  It is beautiful.

  We sure hope you enjoyed reading GodBomb! by Kit Power. If you can, we’d be terribly grateful if you head on over to wherever you bought this and leave a review. This way, Kit gets to hear what you thought and your words mean more people will get the chance to hear about this and read it too.

  Cheers

  It has famously been observed that it takes a village to raise a child. Given that authors often refer to their books as their children, it won't entirely surprise you to learn this book has a number of midwives associated with it. In deference to the narrative you've just read, I will abandon the 'difficult birth' analogy there, but I would be utterly remiss if I did not thanks the following people, without whom you would not be reading these words.

  Firstly, my critical readers, whose guidance, criticism, and judicious praise was, as ever, carefully balanced to ensure I get fixed what I need to get fixed without imploding with self doubt. For this novel, that includes David Baume, Samaya Lune, Carole Baume, Melissa Saxby, Rob and Jane, Marta Salek, Bruce Blanchard, Scott Lefebvre, Kayleigh Marie Edwards, Matt Andrew, Paul M. Feeney and Duncan Ralston. Every one of them helped make this book better. If it still sucks, that's all on me. And if I forgot anyone, well, I did warn you I suck at remembering names. Also thanks to Bracken MacLeod for the smell of gun smoke.

  Similarly, I must give huge thanks to Ingrid Hall, a talented and straight talking editor who told me exactly what I needed to hear, not what I wanted to hear. Any errors that you find in what has proceeded is entirely a by-product of my stubborn refusal to take her advice.

  Huge thanks and love must also go to Big Jim – Jim Mcleod, benevolent overlord of gingernutsofhorror.com, who took me on as a regular columnist in 2013 and whose passion and love of the genre is a constant course of inspiration. I'd also like to thank all my fellow Gingernutters, past and present, who have all provided inspiration of one kind or another along the long path to publication. It really does feel like family, you guys.

  Huge thanks to The Sinister Horror Company, for agreeing to take a flyer on a fresh name – I sincerely hope this book lives up to your hopes for it, and regardless, I will always be grateful for the opportunity and vote of confidence. Special thanks to Vincent Hunt for the outstanding cover art and J.R. Park & Duncan P. Bradshaw for the additional line edit and formatting work. Y'all ROCK. Also thanks to Chris Hall of DLS Reviews, whose superb interview brought the book to their attention in the first place. Cheers, feller.

  Thanks to Mark West, Nev Murray, Duncan Ralston, Daniel Chant, Jasper Bark, John Boden and Anna Belfrage for the advance notices - a novel lives or dies by word of mouth, so thank you so much for taking an early look at my work, and I'm so glad you enjoyed it.

  Finally, thanks must go to my infinitely patient and long suffering wife, who has sat through all the mood swings, crises of confidence, nagging doubts, complaints about bloody characters not doing what they are supposed to, without ever once saying 'shut the fuck up!' That woman, ladies and gentlemen is a saint. Any success I have, I owe it all to you, love. Your support means everything.

  Kit Power lives in Milton Keynes, England, and insists he’s fine with that. His short fiction has been widely submitted, and occasionally published, including in Splatterpunk magazine, The 'At Hells Gate' anthology series, and most recently by The Sinister Horror Company as part of 'The Black Room Manuscripts' anthology. His short story collection 'A Warning About Your Future Enslavement That You Will Dismiss As A Collection Of Short Ficton: Not A Novel: A Novel' will be released by Double Life Press in October 2015. Those of you who enjoy near-professional levels of prevarication are invited to check out his blog at:

  http://www.kitpowerwriter.blogspot.co.uk/

  He is also the lead singer and chief lyricist for legendary rock band The Disciples Of Gonzo, who have thus far managed to avoid world-conquering fame and fortune, though it’s clearly only a matter of time. They lurk online at:

  http://www.disciplesofgonzo.com/

  Also by

  The Sinister Horror Company

  Daniel Marc Chant

  Burning House

  Maldicion

  Mr Robespierre

  Duncan P. Bradshaw

  Class Three

  Class Four: Those Who Survive

  J.R. Park

  Terror Byte

  Punch

  Upon Waking

  The Black Room Manuscripts, Volume One

  Website:

  www.sinisterhorrorcompany.com

  Facebook:

  www.facebook.com/sinisterhorrorcompany

  Twitter:

  www.twitter.com/sinisterhc

  GodBomb! First Published in 2015

  Published by The Sinister Horror Company

  Copyright © 2015 Kit Power

  The right of Kit Power to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Vince Hunt.

  ISBN

  978-0993279393

  www.sinisterhorrorcompany.com

 

 

 
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