by Owen Egerton
“Is it your birthday?” Brendan asked.
Hayden looked up and shook his head.
“I had always thought I carved this for someone’s birthday gift. Always waited to meet the birthday boy and present it! Ah, but it’s for you. I know that!”
“I wish I had something for you.” Hayden looked down in his lap at the prosthetic arm. He placed it on the table. “Here.”
Brendan stared at the arm for a long moment. Hayden was beginning to wonder if he’d committed some kind of monastic faux pas. Then he saw the tears racing down Brendan’s cheeks and into his beard. Brendan reached forward and touched the arm as if it were a king’s scepter.
“It really is Christmas,” he said in a quiet, awed voice. “Shall I make more coffee?”
“I’m okay.”
“Good, good.” Brendan looked into Hayden’s eyes and smiled. Hayden smiled back. A moment passed. And another. Hayden felt that the monk should stop smiling and staring and do something else. But Brendan didn’t look away. Hayden’s cheek twitched. He looked back down at the beads and back again. Brendan was still staring. Hayden had been stared at all his life: the Twix candy bar commercial at age two, the Wiggles Surf Special at age six, his role as Chimp-O at seven, his appearance on Matlock at nine, as Zack’s rebellious cousin Ronny on Saved by the Bell, his brief stint as intern Roddin on ER, his lead role on Earthquake: The Series, on and on to his current stardom. Always a camera, always eyes. There were stares of admiration, awe, lust, intrigue, fascination, even disapproval. But this stare was different. Because he’s crazy, Hayden thought. But that thought didn’t hold. Brendan was more than just crazy. He was holy.
Hayden had the impression that Brendan was seeing something no one else had seen, not just sleepless hallucinations. Hayden felt that this half-mad monk was gazing at a tiny, pebble-size chunk deep inside of him. A part of him that could not be called Hayden Brock the television star, or Hayden Brock the celebrity, or even Hayden Brock. Something deeper and closer to whomever Hayden really was. Hayden felt soul-naked in the gaze. Brendan kept smiling. Kept staring. Hayden took another sip of coffee and scratched his cheek. Still, Brendan smiled and stared.
After several minutes Brendan said in a voice just above a whisper, “Would you like to know the key to being a saint?”
Hayden nodded.
“The key is mystery.”
“A mystery?”
“No. Not a mystery. The key is mystery.” He stood, cradling the prosthetic arm. “You know who will absolutely love this? Brother Michael. He’ll be thrilled!”
This place will kill us
THE FIRST BAPTIST Church consisted of two buildings: a steepled sanctuary and a less impressive, long, one-story building. The truck skidded into the parking lot, dodging the dozen or so people sorting piles of clothes and groceries. War’s fist held firm against the horn as the truck hopped the curve and slammed to a halt on the grass beside a children’s swing set.
“They’ve set up in the basement. You can get help there.” War jumped from the cab.
“Hope to see you in heaven,” Famine said, and clambered after his friend.
Rica eased herself down from the cab, her belly feeling as tight and heavy as a bag of wet sand. War and Famine joined their third, the one Milton called Pestilence, in grabbing trash bags from the back.
“Can you cool it with the horn?” A tired-looking man with mussed charcoal hair and wrinkled blue scrubs approached them from a door in the side of the one-story building.
“We got medicine, Doc,” War said, grabbing a third bag. “Penicillin and shit.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding his palms in surrender. “Just bring it down.” The men hitched the bags over their shoulders and ran through the door.
“Roy,” Rica said. He was sitting up, almost clear-eyed. The left side of his face was purple with bruises and the shirt he was using on his neck wound was now soaked through with maroon blood, but he was awake. Milton was helping him out of the truck bed, a hand held against his back. “How do you feel?”
“Apart from the face wounds and bleeding neck, I feel pretty good.” Roy said. “It’s amazing how you can forget pain when you don’t feel it.”
“Gunshot?” the doctor asked.
“Minor,” Roy said.
“You look like shit,” the doctor said. “Can you walk?”
“Like a pro.”
“Good. Find a cot downstairs and I’ll check you out.”
The side door opened to a narrow stairwell leading down to a low-ceilinged basement. Two dozen cots filled most of the space. From somewhere a generator whirred, powering the basement’s few lights.
Bandaged patients. Head, hands, chests hidden beneath white bandages. Some moaned; some slept. A few others seemed to be helping, sitting by beds, holding shaking hands. One woman with her black hair in a bun sat on the edge of a little boy’s cot. She had made a puppet with her hand and was quacking to the boy’s amusement.
The woman looked over and smiled at Rica, quacking all the while.
In one corner the three men from the truck stood around a cot, anxiously bobbing on their feet. They were angry, speaking to the charcoal-haired doctor in fierce whispers.
“We can’t stay,” Milton said. “This place is dangerous. We’re supposed to be farther west. Near Marfa.”
Rica was too tired to say anything. They found some free cots and helped Roy lie down. Then Rica dropped on the closest cot, turned on her side. The whole place was quiet, muffled. Her body felt drained, every part of her empty.
“Potato chips,” she murmured.
“What?” Milton asked.
“I need potato chips right now.”
Milton nodded and wandered off through the maze of cots. The hunger had hit her fast. There was a wriggling panic to the hunger, an instinctual urge. Her body needed food and needed it now. For the baby. Rica closed her eyes and experienced something like sleep.
When she blinked her eyes half-open she could see the doctor, his back to Rica, bent over Roy.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood. But if we keep you rested up, you should be okay.”
“Any news? Do you know what’s happening?” Roy asked.
“Besides hail the size of easy chairs? Besides a pack of coyotes attacking the high school? Besides half the city disappearing? No. No news.”
“Glad to see you’ve maintained your sarcasm, Doc.”
“I’m just trying to keep my head above water here. I’ve got a load of injured people, low supplies, and the Four Stooges trying to run the place.” He gestured over to War and the others from the truck. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and finger. “We’ve heard nothing that makes any sense. Lots of rumors, that’s all.” He spun around to Rica. “Okay, let’s see how the baby’s doing.”
He looked exhausted. His face was drawn, his eyes dark and worn. He placed his hands on Rica’s belly. Immediately, tears filled Rica’s eyes. She had not realized how very frightened she was for her baby. Now, with the doctor’s palms pressing against her, the fear came strong. She closed her eyes, trying to control her concern of what he might find, what he might tell her. But even as she tried, the tears betrayed her.
“I don’t feel right,” she said.
“Hey, Doc,” one of the truck crew called from across the room. “He still looks bad. He’s getting paler.”
“Okay, hold on.” The doctor returned his attention to Rica. He didn’t acknowledge her tears. With cool professionalism, he continued the examination. “Hey, I felt a kick. He’s got some power legs.”
“She’s a girl.” Rica said, opening her eyes.
“You’ve had an ultrasound?”
“I just know.”
“Everyone thinks they know,” he said, pushing against the side of her abdomen. “Any bleeding? Anything unusual?”
“She’s pregnant.” Milton was standing behind the doctor, his arms filled with bags of barbecue Ruffles.
“Yes,” the doctor said. �
��I can see that.”
Without thinking, Rica reached up and grabbed a bag of Ruffles. She ripped it open and was two handfuls in before she realized what she was doing.
“Hungry?” the doctor asked. She nodded, a third handful poised for consumption.
“Doc, come on! He’s looking bad!” the blond from the truck was yelling.
The doctor rose to his feet with a weary sigh. “Well, as far as I can tell, you’re fine.” He smiled at Rica. The first smile she had seen on his face. “Rest up. Don’t strain yourself. In a month you’ll have a beautiful baby.” He turned to leave.
“A month?” Rica said through a mouthful. “I’m only four months pregnant.”
The doctor stopped. “Four months?” The worry in his voice sent stabs into Rica. “Are you sure?”
Rica shook her head. “Four months, two weeks.”
“Could you be wrong?”
“Hey, Doc, we need you now!” War was yelling.
“Okay. I’ll be right back. Just rest here. We’ll help you out and get you to a hospital ASAP.”
The doctor jogged over to the men. As soon as he was out of earshot, Milton bent down to Rica.
“We have to leave.”
“Milton, did you hear him? The baby . . . ”
“The baby is fine. She’s beautiful.”
“What are you saying?”
“She spats, Rica. That’s why she’s growing.”
“Milton, please . . . ”
“She’s better at it than I am. She ages weeks while I age years.”
“Something’s wrong. I shouldn’t be this big.”
“We have to go. This place will kill us.”
“Okay then,” Roy said, sitting up with a groan and starting to button his shirt. “Let’s go.”
“No. I am not leaving,” Rica said, her voice cracking.
“Death is going to happen here.” Milton reached out and took her arm.
“Don’t touch me!”
Milton flinched as if he’d been slapped. “Rica, the baby will die unless we leave.”
“This is crazy. I need a doctor. The baby needs a doctor. I am staying.”
His face, stone gray. Milton jumped to his feet and looked down at her. He was tall, gray, and towering like a winter oak. In that moment, Rica could see the years in his eyes, see the distances he claimed to have traveled. “Please,” he said.
But she was already shaking her head.
He lifted his face to the room and raised his arms. “Death is coming to this place,” he yelled, spit flying from his lips. “You will all die here.”
“Shut the fuck up, man,” War yelled back.
Milton screamed and ran through the cots and up the stairs.
“Well, crap,” Roy said, and quickly followed.
Rica closed her eyes and tried to breathe.
Yelling, pacing, preaching
ROY CAUGHT MILTON at the top of the stairs, standing at the door and glaring out at the people piling supplies in the parking lot.
“Milton,” Roy said, already out of breath. “What are you doing?”
“Roy, I know who I am,” he said. “I am called to tell those who will not listen.” He put a hand on Roy’s shoulder and laughed. “Ever hearing but never understanding!”
Milton rushed away into the small crowd of people. Roy chased after him. He wasn’t hard to track with his height and the gray mane flying behind him. But Roy’s legs felt like boiling water. The Vicodin was wearing off and the pain was stubbing out its cigarette and returning to work.
“Milton, wait!” Roy yelled.
Milton jumped on a picnic table. “Repent! Repent! Learn kindness if only for a day!” Volunteers stopped sorting for a moment and stared. “Your souls will have no home tomorrow. They will be sent begging.”
An older woman approached the table. “Sir, can we help . . . ”
But Milton screamed at her like a monkey and jumped from the table. He ran for the sanctuary. Roy stumbled after him mumbling an apology to the older woman. A man with a grocery cart full of canned food pushed in front of him. Roy stumbled and plowed into the cart, sending a hail of cans falling.
“Sorry, sorry,” Roy said, clambering to his feet and limping toward the church.
Inside it was cool and dark, lit only by the altar’s candles and the muted sunlight straining through the stained glass windows. Scattered in the pews were red-eyed mourners and petitioners. They gaped at the thin old man with wild gray hair and beard who had just sprung to the front of the sanctuary. Milton was yelling, pacing, preaching.
“And all this will be gone. All these bodies. Everything but your souls. Your souls are mad. Can you let go of the madness?” A few faces stared back. Some looked away. “Do not mourn your death,” Milton shouted at them. “Mourn your sad lives!”
Roy was breathing hard, warm wet pouring from his neck. He made his way forward.
“These prayers, these books of hymns,” Milton was yelling, his voice filled with anger and gravel. “They’re nothing more than rocks for drowning men. You have filled your pockets with rocks as the waters approach.”
Halfway to the altar, Roy summoned all his energy and rushed forward, sprinting the last steps and throwing himself into Milton’s stomach. With a thud, both fell to the floor, a vase of flowers shattering beside them. Roy pinned Milton’s shoulders down. Milton was squirming, his eyes wet and furious.
“Let me go!”
“Leave them alone, Milton,” Roy croaked out. “Let them be.”
“I have to tell them. I’m trying to help them.”
“You’re pissing on them, that’s all. Leave them alone.”
Milton stopped struggling and stared into Roy’s face. “And you! I see your future!”
“Come on, now, Milt,” Roy said slowly.
“You. You . . . ” Milton stuttered in rage. For a moment Roy thought Milton would try to bite him. Then the tide changed and Milton’s eyes grew calm, his jaw relaxed. Roy recognized his friend once again. “Roy . . . I’m sorry.”
Roy nodded. “Let’s get you out of here.”
But as they stood to their feet, the floor shifted violently and a rumble from somewhere miles below echoed through the hall.
Facts every time
“YOU OKAY?” THE doctor knelt by the cot. “Was that your father?”
“The baby’s father.” Rica tried to wipe away the tears and potato chip crumbs; they stuck to her skin like grainy sweat. The doctor placed a cool hand on her forehead.
“People respond in different ways when disasters strike. Some revert to religion, some shut down completely, some . . . ”
“Some scream that everyone in the room is going to die?”
“Yes. That, too.” He brushed back his hair and again rubbed his eyes. He glanced over to the truck crew who seemed to be arguing with one of the volunteers. “Some get damn pushy.” He looked back at Rica and half smiled. “Let’s see what we can do for you. Four months?”
“And two weeks.”
“I hope you’re mistaken. In truth, I think you are mistaken.” He paused and sucked his cheeks in. “You’re showing about thirty-three weeks. If you’ve been pregnant only eighteen weeks, then something is seriously wrong, but I could feel that baby kicking. Big kicks. I could make out the baby’s back. There’s no way he’s a—”
“She.”
He nodded. “There’s no way she’s an eighteen-week-old fetus.”
“I know my body,” Rica said.
“I know my profession.”
“Doctor! He needs something,” Pestilence yelled from the corner, his toothless mouth sending a spray of spit with each word.
Rica sat up on her cot and faced the doctor. “You don’t believe me?”
“Look, I can believe a person or I can believe the observable facts. I choose the facts every time.”
Rica paused. She looked down at her belly pushing tight against her dress. The world of facts is a world of systems. What doesn’t fit into
the system is rejected. What would a world of facts do to this baby?
She looked up at the doctor. There was no madness in him, not even the good kind.
“You don’t listen to jazz, do you?” she asked.
“What?” He was holding her wrist, taking her pulse.
“Jazz.”
“My wife likes Kenny G.” He could feel her blood pump; he could count the pumps per minute. Just blood to him, she could see that. Blood moved, blood carried oxygen, blood never burned.
“I should go,” she said.
His face scowled. “No. Not a chance. You need—”
“Doc!” Pestilence stomped over. “You’ve got to give him another pill. Hell, we’re the ones who stole them. You’re giving ’em out like candy to everybody else. Give him another!”
The doctor stood and crossed his arms. “They don’t work that way. They’re antibiotics.”
“Well, what if we just take those antibiotics back?” Pestilence pushed the greasy blond hair from his eyes.
“I’m doing everything I can here,” the doctor said.
“You can do more.” Pestilence pulled out his gun and aimed it at the doctor’s head. The doctor’s arms shot up.
“Whoa, now. Hang on,” the doctor stammered.
“It’s not loaded,” Rica said.
“Shut up, bitch.”
“It’s not.”
“Maybe I loaded it. You don’t know.”
Rica felt her cot vibrate. The ground rippled. For a second she thought it was in her head, but she saw the others sway on their feet. The stillness. For a second no one moved.
“What was that?” someone whispered.
A loud rumble, like a crashing wave, filled the basement. Pestilence stumbled to the side. The doctor jumped at him, pushing him back over an empty cot. As he fell the pistol fired and the doctor jerked back. He hit the floor, a dark red splotch expanding on his chest.
Pestilence pulled himself to his feet and stared at the motionless body. He turned to Rica. “You said it wasn’t loaded!”
Rica stood. The floor undulated like a water bed in the back of a dune buggy. Pieces of the ceiling fell around her and the low lights flickered like mute lightning.