I leaned hard on the barn door and finally got the two-by-four on the inside across it. And the pigs seemed to calm down a little once I got that door closed. In fact, the wind even felt like it had calmed down a little. Though, I would use a word other than “calm” to describe it—less angry, maybe.
I could still hear the howling, but the barn had stopped shaking, and then everything inside got very still. I stared at the pigs and they stared back—them and me frozen in time … and disbelief I suppose.
Then there was a huge CRACK! … and then the roof of the barn ripped completely off!
— CLXIII —
AFTER FILLING THE lost citizen’s cup with State swill, I leave the front of my church behind. The thirty-minute walk to the Mike is uneventful. I daydream about her for some of the way. I simply can’t help it. And as I approach the Mike’s razor-wired ally entrance ahead, my Shandian mind tries to break through her memory and tell me something.
Even this late in my life… I need to learn to clear my mind of her and listen faster.
A figure comes at me from behind the burned-out hulk of an abandoned guzzler. Almost made it, I think, as the broken bottle stabs toward my face. I spring sideways and grab the hand that’s holding it. Once I get the wrist I move with it—spinning into him—and using his own momentum I flip him over my leg and send him to the ground.
And I’m on that hand with both of mine and I go down with him and spin my leg around the arm. It’s all reaction now.
He groans and tries to pull back, but I’ve got that arm and what’s in his hand—that’s the threat—and I shove the wrong way on his elbow and I hear it crack and he screams and drops the bottle. His fingers are extended a little—less than I want, but I’m in a hurry and a little out of practice to tell you the truth.
Some of the students were luckier than others, but at seminary, everyone got at least one finger break. It was, we learned too late, the very best way to get someone’s undivided attention. It was also a very simple and easily executed maneuver to render any sized attacker more … “manageable.”
There’s just no way to describe the pain to you unless you have felt it. I’m not talking about a little twisted digit either. A broken finger takes about six weeks to heal and, depending on how much twisting the priest does afterward, the pain varies from excruciating to indescribably intolerable.
I watched each morning—standing at attention in formation—as the priests walked up and down the rows of us seminary students, searching for that day’s “fingerling.” Most of them usually went for the pinkie finger, but Father Dominic liked the middle finger best.
A little on the pudgy side and definitely shorter than me, what the sideways-smiling Father “D” lacked in height he made up for with a towering lust for inflicting pain.
A student’s pinkie finger broke easily when forced sideways instead of back, but the middle finger made a pretty audible “crack” when Dominic broke it straight back. And trust me when I say that you have never heard pain like the kind a barely acclimated seminary student experiences when he calls for “Jesus Christ” to help him with his broken finger. Sideways or touching the back of your hand hardly matters when your dangling digit is being twisted until you are writhing and begging to God on the concrete.
I’ll admit, in their defense, it was the best way to get everyone’s attention in the morning. Each day started off with compliant and very focused seminarians. And about an hour later we all got a reminder to stay vigilant when the day’s fingerling returned from being bandaged by the sympathetic, and much more compassionate, seminary Sisters.
Still, as a student winced and tried not to cry his way through the straightening and splinting, the Sisters were nice to look at. Though after seminary we all knew that the only way to catch a glimpse of a woman was to endure some type of excruciating pain. Then and only then would a student be allowed close contact with the female of our species. In hindsight, that kind of conditioning was part of our training.
Women equaled pain. The sooner we all understood that, the quicker the pain stopped. Some of us—I’m not naming names—learned slower than others. And some of us … have never learned at all.
I give this citizen’s arm a little more pressure before I get hold of an outstretched finger. And I think he figures it out, but by the time he does it’s too late and—SNAP!—I spare him the “Father D,” because I can tell that he’s gotten the message.
It hardly matters. And he’s squealing and writhing on the ground, holding his little finger, like I had seen so many of my classmates do. And now I know I have his undivided attention. I kick the broken bottle to the side and kneel down next to him. “I won’t send you to the Fifty,” I tell him, “but you need to clean yourself up and get off the street. You keep acting like this, sooner or later someone’s going to remand you. Trust me, you don’t want that.”
It’s the truth and even through the Judgment I think he understands that, because he nods and tries to stop squealing. “I’m”—he moans some more before he gets control of himself—“just… I need some J,” he says. “I saw … saw a crazy angel, and I barely got off the street before… They’re all … dead. And the PA’s… He was … he was naked, father, and he cut ’em up like they were nothing. He’s coming for our sins, isn’t he?”
I don’t know if that’s the Judgment or if my fallen archangel had a busy night last night. One thing I do know is that the whites of this citizen’s eyes aren’t dark enough for him to be in the hallucination part of his trip yet. Regardless, neither of us needs a pair of nosy Protection agents to show up, and this close to a Mike there is bound to be a patrol close by.
I need to get him up and on his way or we’ll both be headed to the Fifty. “We who are alive,” I tell him, “who are left standing, even those who pierced him, will always be with the Lord.”
Sure, it’s a mashup. Not like he knows. I told you already, it’s the tone and the messenger. That was drilled into us almost as painfully as our fingers.
I grab his good arm and help him to his feet. “I’m… I shouldn’t have…” he says, trying to apologize.
I really don’t have the time. “Calm yourself,” I say to him. If what he says is true, Protection will be looking for my dead angel. Only a matter of time before a drone spots the hole in the roof. “He will not be back to deal with sin, my son, but to save those who have eagerly waited for his return.”
And that calms him down a little, but the finger has still gotta hurt like—and he cries out and hunches over, clutching his elbow and trying not to move his shaking hand.
I look around nervously—he’s going to draw attention. So I grab the outside of his good wrist at the right spot and then the pressure point on his elbow, sending a few hundred thousand impulses through his ganglia.
He relaxes as the pain in his mind is replaced by a slightly euphoric tingle. I know the feeling well. I shuffle him back behind the burned out vehicle he came at me from, and then a light, but quick-jab to the pressure point behind his ear and he goes limp.
I lower him to the ground and lay his head gently on the pavement as I look around to make sure no one is watching. “Sleep well,” I say to him, “there are no angels coming for you today.”
It took me a few months to master the technique, but once I did, even the priests eyed me differently when they passed. Lowly fourth year Candidate that I was, knocking someone out with no more effort than lifting up the Eucharist cup on Sunday was something that few Candidates mastered as quickly as I did.
Just about now, I bet you are seriously confused. I mean, all you have ever seen me do is cower and drink and tremble. I’ll admit, it’s a pretty useful technique—hiding in plain sight. Most people don’t see what’s right in front of their face. That’s why the truth is so hard for them to grasp.
That’s how they taught us, if you can call the seminary’s brutality some type of instruction. But seminary isn’t just about finding faith and learning to defend yourself.
Sure, self-discipline is important and so is mastering one’s mind and body in the moment. But keeping yourself hidden until the right moment is also important. Had I learned that before they caught us and burned… Hmm, it’s too early for that.
Seminary Shandian—making one’s mind and body like lightning—teaches that violence is a reaction to failure. And I have only used my training as I just did when I was fighting an angel—men are much more easily deceived. Deception in battle spills less blood, draws less unwanted attention, and more often than not, achieves the desired result much quicker. Because the big picture—the “long game” my father liked to call it—is most important.
So sacrificing your ego and even your life if you have to in pursuit of the ultimate goal requires not only the ability to survive the here and the now, but the absolute certainty that you can do what it takes to win in the end. In the end, one simply must triumph over the loss of eternity to evil.
My sweet Mother of Mercy, listen to me. I sound like a first-year practical theology professor. But I’m not just talking about angels and demons and saving souls here. You have to understand, what’s at stake is the future of all the eternities—whether they become darkness or light. Barring saving each and every last one of them from the darkness, its inhabitants—souls, angels or flesh and bone human beings hardly matters—they won’t even know the difference between good and evil, much less that light is for the living.
Focus! My Shandian mind reminds me that I can get off track and that when I do—
I feel them behind me. Protection agents. The one on the left scans my ID badge. That’s the thing about letting your mind wander aimlessly—dangerous. Time to get back to my fine feathered friend. I jump up, but a spike of light shoots through my head and everything goes dark.
— CLXIV —
AS SOON AS the roof of our pig barn in Duvall ripped off, I got sucked straight up like a rocket. And then I was spinning and twirl-ing, and there were trees and boards from the barn and pigs all around me. The pigs squealed and cried … to be saved I suppose. For what? I thought.
It was an odd thing to think in that moment, but we were just go-ing to kill them anyway, what did they care if they died in the wind?
And hail pelted me in the face and I screamed with them. “Mom!” I screeched. But the noise inside that… I had no idea what it was, but the sound as I flew up was like a thousand guzzlers, revving their engines. The only thing missing was the smoke, replaced by an angry darkness I couldn’t describe. And stinging ice pellets peppered my face, and then a board hit me in the head and a bright light shot through my eyes and the pain!
I was scared and I couldn’t see. Even if it weren’t for the dark, I had lost my glasses and everything looked black. Not that dark blackness, but a shadowed haze of shades of gray. Then something stabbed me in the heart and it was—I couldn’t even… I screamed out for her again, “Mother!”
The pain was unbelievable and I grabbed at my chest and I could feel the hot blood … and the huge tree limb sticking out of my chest.
I coughed and choked on my own blood and a thought went through my head: You’re not coming back from this one, Benito.
How wrong I was.
When I woke up from that blackness, the first thing I did was grab for my chest. No hole, I thought. I tried to look around. Dark … again.
There was nothing around me, just emptiness and silence. If I was scared hurtling up in that… What was that? I asked myself. Twister? … Here? But those only happened in the Plains Quarter. That much I knew for sure. Still, there I was, shivering and shaking—dead again. I knew that much.
A foul stench made my nostrils flare. It smelled like rotting pig guts, and it burned at my nose hairs like it was hot, but more like the alcohol I’d snuck a sniff of in my father’s den. The smell was familiar like that, too.
And then the growl and the hot breath burned into the back of my neck. I could feel my skin burn and boil and bubble up, and I grabbed at it with my hand. I was too scared to turn around—move at all. But there was something … familiar through the pain.
“Benito,” the voice was raspy and raw. It spoke to me like it … knew me. “Always getting burned. How do you…? They sent you to the barn, you idiot! In a fucking tornado! You are the stupidest—how I ever picked you.” And then she—the voice was a woman—growled.
I jerked around. More scared that she was behind me than what she might look like. But what I saw…
The figure was … beautiful. Wheat field blonde hair and baby blue eyes like the sky, and I couldn’t help it—I smiled at her, but then I winced as I caught a whiff of her again. “Who…?” It was about all I could get out. I rubbed my chest to make sure I was dreaming. No blood or tree limb.
“Never get used to that shit, do you?” she said. “Bitch is heavy on theatrics, I’ll give her that.” And she looked up. Toward what I had no idea, because outside of her glow there was … nothing. “You think she just giggles down at us when she’s fucking with everyone?”
I had no idea what to say. I just stared, and then I glanced at her—
“Naughty little boy,” she said, following my eyes to her breasts.
I hadn’t noticed at first—too busy looking into her eyes—but she was naked. I’d never seen a naked … anyone but myself before. My face heated up and I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks and then to my… I quickly looked back up to her face—embarrassed and guilty. And I tried to reach down and adjust my pants.
It was strange, but the rotting smell was replaced by a sweet and pungent odor. Blackberries, I thought. Perfume? My mother wore it to church, but nothing that smelled that good.
And the woman—she was certainly not a girl—smiled a wide grin at me that was … huge. And her teeth were milky white gems, so perfectly aligned that they looked fake.
I stared at them as she spoke, “Ah, there you are, Benito,” she said, “hiding behind your mommy’s repressed pussy. You’re not fooling anyone with your lies. You left me to die!” she yelled. And then that angel—because she had to be another one of them—turned mean. “And you left me to him and he”—her face morphed and her eyes turned glowing red, and then boils formed on her cheeks and hideous green puss began leaking out of them—“he turned me into this!”
I tried to turn away, but a rough hand with long, sharp claws grabbed my face and she leaned her oozing cheeks in so close to mine that I thought she was going to bite me. And then the stench returned and I almost vomited. “Please,” I didn’t know what else to say.
She spit as she spoke at me, “Please, please, please,” she mocked. “You miserable pathetic excuse for a fucking man! I guess I was wrong—no need to cut yours off, is there? Dickless little shit. At least he can fuck. You… Never anything but a fumbling boy. Why did I even…? You’re not saving anyone, priest. You’re a cruel joke. Did she tell you that? Or is she still filling your head full of the lies in that Bible of hers?”
Her claw-hand cut into my face and her teeth turned to fangs and I could see the saliva dripping from them and the smell. Then I did vomit … right into her mouth.
But rather than let me go or throw me to the ground or eat me or whatever she was going to do with me, she put her mouth on mine and I felt something go in and down my throat.
Her tongue—only thing I could call it—was rough and scraped like a cat licking your hand, and when she pulled it out, she said, “Mmm, delicious. Putrid piss of fear.” She turned and spit. Then she looked back at me and her monster mouth smiled and green bile from her cheek dripped into it. “You were always good for that, weren’t you?”
I coughed and tried to spit, but it just dripped down my face.
The animal—a monster would be more accurate—eyed me and cocked its head to the side. And its glowing red eyes glowed brighter, and then they got hot. I could feel the fire sizzling and burning into my face and I screamed out.
“You’re a vagina, Benito,” she yelled at me over my cries. “Dripping and trembl
ing, waiting to be penetrated pussy! Get out of my sight!”
Then she spun my face sideways and I felt my neck break in a loud SNAP!
Then she was gone … or I was—dead.
— CLXV —
I WASN’T KEEPING count at the time, but that was the third time I died. It wouldn’t be the last … or the most terrifying. Before the fourth time I would wish I was actually dead … several times over.
When I woke up from the windstorm, I was in my bed. No hole in my chest, no lost glasses, and no snapped neck. I could hear the wind howling outside. Nowhere near as loud and angry as when I went to the barn, but God was clearly not done letting the world know—as far as I knew then—he was mad at it.
I could barely move though. It felt like all of the energy had left my body and I just laid there and stared up at the ceiling. I wondered what had actually happened, because that time I was certain I had died, but I would not have said that I went to Heaven. Not my mother’s version of it anyway.
Could I have…? Why would I end up there? But that woman—that creature was … evil. That could only mean one—
“How are you feeling?” my mother’s voice asked.
I looked over and she stood in the doorway to my room with her arms crossed. I could see my father sitting at the kitchen table across the living room behind her, sipping a glass of his whiskey like I wasn’t just sucked up in a tornado. “I don’t…” I said, “I feel tired.”
“You should be, young man!” she said. “You gave us a big scare out there, running out to the barn like that. You could’ve been killed. What were you thinking, Benito?”
What was I thinking? I remember frowning at her. I had never done that before, but she was acting like it was my fault.
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