by Anthology
He had a list in his hand. Of all the things he wanted to do before the world died. Kiss a girl. Kiss the sun. Swallow the moon. Go fishing. Become a fish. Not die. Die over and over again. Live. Have something nice for dinner. Have someone nice for to dinner. To breathe again. To be again. Whole again. To raise a family. To raise the dead. To sing one last time. To have a sandwich. To try witchcraft. To burn the world. To be burned. To love. To live. To make something work. Just once. To make it work.
20
Breathe. Breathe. It felt so good to breathe without the mask on. Like breathing underwater. Walking like swimming. He no longer itched. It no longer hurt to paint. To do anything. Pain was distant. A memory. Like his childhood.
He leaned over. Kissed the glass. Where Emily's face was. Smiled. Her head burst. Blood. Pollen. And insects. Inside of her head was a tiny baby. An infant. Made of coiled up vines, and a face that was a flower blossoming. Two tiny eyes stared at him. Was it a boy? Benjamin hoped so. Emily would've been happy if it was a boy.
It crawled up to the window. Placed a hand against it. Benjamin felt connected to it. Wanted to take care of it. Felt something in his own mind. Growing.
He smashed the window. His basement door burst open. Now was the time for war. Now was the time to defend his lists. His sanctuary. His love.
City of Refuge
Jerry L. Gordon
David watched from behind the crowd, as two men led a young woman up a small set of steps to the hangman's noose. A razor-sharp wire replaced the traditional rope, ensuring a clean decapitation and a bigger spectacle of blood and death. The crowd's palpable sense of anticipation surprised him less than the calm demeanor of the accused. She faced the gallows with such serenity stepping to the noose as if receiving Holy Communion.
The Order's crest pinned to David's putrefying animal hide cloak parted the crowd as effectively as its foul odor. He approached the makeshift structure, sizing up the two men standing on either side of the woman. The tall man in the bowler hat appeared to be in charge, but David focused his steely gaze on the short one with the set jaw. The little man's face erupted with anger at the interruption.
"What can I do you for, Cardinal?" the tall man said, after looking down at the crest pinned to David's rotting coat.
"Bring me the accused."
"What?" the short man exclaimed, stepping forward.
"You heard me, boy."
"She killed my father. I have a right to---"
"Unless you'd like the archbishops cutting off trade to this little haven, you will mind your place." David stroked his unkempt beard, setting his jaw. "Do it. Now."
The man in the bowler hurried the accused forward. On closer inspection, she was more girl than woman. Her tangled black hair and vibrant blue eyes dwarfed her petite nose and mouth. She stood with both hands tied behind her back. Deep bruises marred both sides of her face.
"Are you Jenna, the miller's daughter?"
The girl bowed her head. "Yes, Cardinal."
David produced a handwritten document from a pouch inside his cloak. "You petitioned the archbishops for asylum?"
"Yes, Cardinal."
David handed the document to the short man. "The archbishops have granted Jenna an audience. If her claims are found wanting, she will be returned to you and you can continue," David motioned around, "this exhibition."
"Asylum?" The short man rifled through the document as though he wasn't illiterate like the rest of the peasants. "I've never heard of such a thing."
"It is an unusual request," David admitted, "but one the archbishops have agreed to hear."
"Then I will go with you and speak for my dead father."
"If your testimony is needed, the church will call for you. Until then, there will be no vengeance upon this girl or her family. Understood?"
"Whatever you say, Cardinal," the tall man in the bowler replied, stepping between David and the dead man's son to deliver the girl. "Please give our regards to the archbishops."
David yanked the girl toward him and turned to face the deflated crowd. People looked away, averting their gaze as he brushed past them with his prisoner. Like most havens, this one relied on the church for tools and guns. No one would question the archbishops' judgment.
David's mule grazed on a patch of grass near the front gate, obscured by a cloud of flies. The girl shuddered as she approached the rotting animal skins that covered the beast.
"Will I have to wear a cloak?" she asked, clearly blanching.
"Only if you want to live," David said. "The Fallen may have little interest in this high altitude settlement, but in the lowlands they'll pick your body clean if they think you're alive. Get used to wearing it."
David untied her hands and pulled a long coat of rotting flesh from the mule's saddlebags. The girl vomited twice before she settled into the foul garment. Even then, she retched and gagged uncontrollably. David retied her hands, this time in front of her, and leashed her to the mule with enough slack to allow her to walk.
With a nod to the gatekeeper, the tall wooden doors that protected the enclave parted. David chose to walk at first, leading the mule and his prisoner down a series of treacherous mountain switchbacks.
Here, above the dark clouds, he almost felt safe. As long as the Fallen could sustain themselves in the lowlands, they had no urge to feed in the mountains. For one stray moment he closed his eyes and felt the burn of the sun on his face. One day this will all be gone, he thought. Enjoy it while it lasts.
They reached a small lake halfway down the mountain. David stopped to water the mule and sat down to eat some dried jerky. After a few bites he felt guilty and untied the girl, giving her a small piece of meat.
"Thank you," she said.
David nodded, staring out across the sparkling lake. In his mind, this place could easily double for the Garden of Eden-a place of perfection in a world of death. He rarely entertained religious thoughts, but the lake possessed an untouched quality at odds with the devastation below. It reminded him that there were a few things still unspoiled in this world.
After a long silence, the girl finally spoke. "Aren't you going to ask me what happened?"
"No." David's back popped in three places when he stood. He had the distinct feeling the girl already knew that he did not care. "I'd like to hear more about this city of refuge idea you dreamed up. The archbishops seemed particularly interested in that."
The girl gave him a knowing smile and stood with her arms out, ready to be leashed to the mule. Something about her request had the archbishops up in arms, but they didn't share their thoughts on the matter with him. He buckled the saddlebags and tied her to the beast.
The steep switchback trail opened up, becoming broad and smooth as it descended below the dark clouds. Light rain obscured the twisted remains of a tourist village, nestled in a distant fork of the mountain. From this vantage point it looked deserted, but he knew better.
Giving the old resort town a wide berth, they left the muddy path for a thick canopy of trees. David expected the girl to complain about the never-ending thicket of thorny brambles that scraped, poked, and tore at even the smallest bit of exposed flesh, but she kept her mouth shut. Even the mule seemed mindful of the danger posed by their proximity to the settlement and stayed quiet.
They finally stopped at a dilapidated home in the middle of nowhere. The road leading to the hillside dwelling had lost its battle with the wilderness, and only a small portion of the house refused to yield to the encroaching vegetation. The Fallen had stripped the inside down to its studs, leaving just enough support to keep the house standing.
Almost like they knew exactly what they were doing.
David didn't trouble himself with questions about the Fallen's fascination with the remnants of humanity or the strange cities they built with the material they foraged. Only one thing mattered to him: they seldom returned to gutted buildings. He went from room to room, shotgun ready. With the exception of a few doors and a large, rust
ing washing machine stored in the back of the basement, the house stood empty. The old Maytag probably weighed too much for the Fallen to have bothered lugging upstairs.
He picked a small room in the damp basement to setup camp. Black mold crept up the back wall, and there was a half-window to contend with, but the room had a solid door he could block with the washing machine. He covered the window with one of his animal skins, lit a small lantern, and went outside to confirm that no light escaped. Satisfied with his handiwork, he fed the mule and stowed it in a windowless bathroom, then he carried the saddlebags downstairs.
The metal appliance mesmerized the girl. She examined every inch of the machine as if it contained some mythical gift from the gods. Whatever the archbishops hoped to get out of her, David sensed she'd disappoint them.
"Do you know what this is?" she asked, running her fingers along the control panel's buttons.
"It's a washing machine. People used them to clean their clothes. We're going to use this one to barricade the door."
She helped him push the old Maytag across the room.
"How old were you at the breaking of the world?" she asked.
"Old enough to wish I hadn't seen it." He shoved the washer one last time before he retired to the concrete floor. "Eleven or twelve."
"That's not very old. How did you survive?"
"My parents were nuts. That's how." He wedged his saddlebags against a corner of the basement and laid his head on the makeshift pillow. Closing his eyes, he hoped the question would die.
"I don't understand."
"Things were different then," David said without opening his eyes. "Not everyone believed in the Catholic Church. You could worship however or whatever you wanted. My parents were part of a group, a cult. They were brainwashed into believing the founder was Christ reborn. They gave up their worldly possessions to help him build a compound and stock it with a ridiculous amount of guns and food. Dad even named me after the son of a bitch."
"I'm sorry."
The saddlebags weren't as comfortable as David hoped. He shifted his weight and opened his eyes. "When the virus started spreading, it was pretty clear our Christ didn't know any more than anyone else. Our group held out longer than most, thanks to our well-armed religious paranoia, but it didn't take long for our fearless leader to decide we all needed to 'walk into God's arms' before the Fallen could take us."
"What did you do?"
"Me? I didn't do anything. I was a scared kid. After my dad watched another family forced into heaven, he tried to get us out of there. Our beloved Christ-on-Earth put a bullet in his back and two in my mom's chest. I'm the only one that got away. I ran...survived."
The girl leaned closer, clutching her dead animal cloak around her. She had adapted to the smell faster than most. "You don't believe in God any more, do you? You're a cardinal. How can you not believe?"
"It doesn't matter what I believe. It only matters that the human race survives. The Catholic Church has managed to keep New Hebron, and a couple other havens, from falling. They saved my life. Who cares if the rest is bullshit? I'm old enough to actually remember the Bible, and I can tell you for a fact it never said anything about the Fallen."
The girl leaned back against the wall. He could see her thinking through his story.
"And this shall be the plague where with the Lord shall strike all nations... the flesh of every one shall consume away while they stand upon their feet, and their eyes shall consume away in their holes, and their tongues shall consume away in their mouth."
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
"Zachariah, chapter fourteen, verse twelve."
"Is that supposed to impress me, some handed-down passage that sounds vaguely biblical? What version of the Bible is that supposed to be from?"
"And he shall snatch on the right hand, and be hungry; and he shall eat on the left hand, and they shall not be satisfied: they shall eat every man the flesh of his own arm." She looked deep into his eyes. "If Isaiah isn't talking about the Fallen, I don't know what he's talking about."
She waited for him to concede the point. When he didn't, she continued, "For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead."
David scrambled to his feet. He knew this quote from Corinthians. "I searched your house and the mill before going to that town square. I didn't find a Bible or any hint of religious material. Who the hell are you?"
"A messenger."
Something about the way she said it shook David to his core. Not because he believed her, but because he had seen the damage brainwashed people could do. He stood over her. "Where did you hide the Bible? Only an archbishop is pure enough to read one."
"There is no Bible." She stood and faced him, unafraid. "My father had something called Asperger's. Said it gave him a photographic memory. He used to have these visions, made me memorize them. He said one day the world would depend on the truth."
David looked for any hint of deception in her face. If it existed, he didn't spot it.
"Your father's supposed to be some kind of prophet then? And what about you? Here to save us all?"
"It's not like that."
"You know what?" David raised his hands in disgust. "I don't care. We've got a long day ahead of us, and I need some sleep. The archbishops can get it out of you." David returned to his saddlebag bed, closed his eyes, and ignored the girl's questions.
That night, he dreamed of the cult leader who shared his name. The false prophet submerged him in a baptismal filled with the blood of his parents. Their dead bodies floated and bumped against the edge of the tank. He pushed and kicked but strong hands held him in their rotting juices. His parents' bodies made a strange sound against the wall of the tank, screeching like metal on concrete. It took him a few seconds to realize the sound didn't belong to his nightmare.
He opened his eyes. The girl had pushed the washing machine away from the old wooden door. He could hear the sound of the Fallen on the other side.
"What are you doing?" he screamed, pulling out his handgun.
"You need proof, and I'm going to give it to you."
"Don't!" He cocked the gun, still not sure he was awake. "Let go of that door, or I'll shoot you dead."
For an instant, David could see fear play across the girl's face. She pulled her hand away from the door but then reached back. He shot her a second too late. The door opened, and in the harsh lantern light, a group of the Fallen stared back at him. With his free hand he reached for the shotgun next to his pack, pumping it on the way back up.
"Don't shoot," the girl yelled, as she clutched her wounded side. "They're not going to hurt you. They're here because I called out to them."
David stood his ground but didn't fire. The Fallen who stood in the doorway looked a little like his grandmother. Dried blood matted her hair, and her face held the slack-jawed appearance of a stroke victim. Something about the old woman lent a sliver of humanity to the maggot-ridden flesh standing behind her.
"Why are they just standing there?"
"Be quiet," she said with some effort while leaning against the doorframe. "I need to concentrate."
A lifetime of silence followed. The Fallen grunted simultaneously, turned their back on the open door, and shuffled their way up the basement steps. David had never seen anything like it. The Fallen didn't let people live.
David closed the door and moved the washing machine back, unable to let go of the ritual. The girl looked to be in bad shape. A dark pool of blood framed her midsection.
"What the hell was that about?" he asked, pulling a shirt out of his saddleback to press against the wound.
"I tried to tell you at the lake..."
Her lips formed the words that would explain, but her voice failed. Somehow, she reached out to him with her mind, giving him a vision of two men stumbling into her and a group of the Fallen by the mountain lake. The older man didn't hold his fire, and she couldn't stop the creatures. Things ended badly for him, but his son
managed to escape. The vision faltered as she passed out.
"Welcome back," David said when she opened her eyes again. "I wasn't sure you were going to make it."
He watched her adjust to the new surroundings. It was clear the bunker's electric lights and technology scared her, but she did an admirable job of processing it all.
"The Greenbrier Bunker is the heart of New Hebron. Before the breaking of the world, this place served as a nuclear fallout shelter for Congress." His eyes traced the musty concrete walls. "The infirmary is protected by two feet of solid steel. You are more than safe here."
Her attention shifted back to him. Safely tucked away from the Fallen, he had traded his rotting animal cloak for the deep red vestments of his office as cardinal. Outside of his ceremonial pistol, David looked a far cry from the mountain man who had saved her from the gallows.
"You didn't have to shoot me, you know."
"In my place, would you have done any different?" He reached out to her hand but stopped short of holding it. "As for your injury, I've told the archbishops that we had an accident."
"You didn't tell them the truth?"
"I fear they would take it as a sign you are some kind of devil woman. I may not understand what happened in that basement, but there's no reason to sacrifice you on the altar of misplaced faith. You'll have enough to deal with as it is."
Jenna thought about this for a moment and seemed to come to a decision. She looked around the small infirmary to reconfirm they were alone.
"The things I told you about my father, about his memory of the Bible and his prophecies. He never told me any of it."
"I don't understand."
"My father's visions gave him nightmares. He hid them from me. I looked into his mind to find the truth."
"Is that how you kept them from attacking us?" David asked. "Can you actually talk to them?"
"It's not easy to explain. Their minds are jumbled and cross. There are fragments of desire, glimmers of recognition, but it's all part of a puzzle that doesn't quite fit together. They can communicate with each other but not us. They don't really understand what's happened to them. You've seen the strange cities they're building. They're trying to adapt."