“Sweet!” Ben touched it to his tongue and felt the tingle of the short-lived amphetamine enter his system. Its power flooded through him as if he had been given birth by the sun.
Joshua consumed a similar portion. The two men stood between time and space until their bodies melded with the drug.
Joshua leaned over and gave Ben an open-mouthed kiss, their tongues sensually entwining before he broke the embrace. The two undressed and tossed their wadded clothes into an empty spot in the corner.
“What are you in the mood for?” Joshua asked.
“I’m think I’m joining the group over there,” Ben said.
“Suit yourself. I’m going over by the wall. Maybe I’ll see you later.” Joshua left and headed toward a line of men standing by the wall, waiting for their turn, and went down on the next in line.
Ben stepped to a small table stacked with towels and dipped his hand in a jar of Vaseline. He slathered his erect cock in a heavy coat and wiped his hand on one of the towels. He found a path between several couples enjoying the pleasures of the flesh that led him to an open ass pointing in his direction.
Chapter 21
The choir sang the last hymn as outlined in the Sunday bulletin. Reverend Will Hatfield waited for the congregation to take their seats before motioning the choir to follow. Standing at the podium with an expression on his face reminiscent of a starving vulture, he scanned the floor below, and the balcony above. The multitude awaited prim and proper, dressed in their Sunday finest to impress the Lord, waiting for their Shepherd to speak. The loyal flock filled nearly all of the nineteen hundred seats.
Hatfield stood a little over six-feet tall. His once rock hard, youthful features had given way to the pudginess of middle age. He would be fifty years old on his next birthday. With a smile showing his crooked teeth, he began, “My good friends and neighbors, God is glad you are here today, and so am I. I’d again like to thank all of you who attended the rally last week. It was a great time of fellowship. The message from God was proudly proclaimed, and His plans for our future clearly heard.”
Rick Poundstone sat calmly on a wooden bench behind the Reverend. His legs crossed, wearing a brown wool suit, and blue tie. A large, black leather Bible balanced on his right thigh.
Joshua Hatfield sat next to him, his eyes closed in prayer, his face a whiter shade of pale.
The Reverend continued, “As you know, the Streets of Gold Church and my ministry have thrown our support behind the Living Party this electoral season. While I have never—nor will I ever—use time dedicated to the worship of the Lord for political matters, our brother Rick Poundstone has asked if he could deliver this morning’s message. In the spirit of fairness, the Lord spoke to me, and said it was the right thing to do.”
Hatfield waved an open hand toward Rick. “If you have been with us for any period of time, then you should know Rick and his brother Byron have been lifelong members of this church. Byron recently went missing for two months, and as God willed, was united once again with Rick. Byron is undergoing rehabilitation for his unpleasant affliction. Though Rick’s and our prayers were answered for Byron’s return, there are new challenges he and Byron must face. Rick’s message will deal with our relationship with God when we are coping with adversity in our life. Brothers and Sisters, I give you our current House Representative, the honorable Mr. Rick Poundstone.”
Lisa waited in her car in the church parking lot. She pushed some stray hairs from the blonde wig under her pillbox hat and adjusted the veil. The birdcage netting attached to the front hung down to the tip of her nose, giving her the most fashionable of disguises.
When the phone rang she pushed it to speaker. It was James Calhoun.
“Rebecca and Ben are inside and ready, middle row all the way to the back. Two more of my friends are in position near the front ready to shoot as you come down the aisle and meet Hatfield. Harry’s got the camera zoomed in on the door attendant. He’s videoing from an angle to your right side. So when you talk to the attendant don’t turn your back toward Harry. Stand sideways so he can see your face. Is your microphone on?”
Lisa tapped the red crystal flower broach on her jacket. “Is this thing on?”
“Yep, it’s on.” James switched into his best director’s voice. “Okay, girlie, it’s show time.”
Lisa nervously laughed. “So this is what stage fright feels like.”
“Break a leg.”
“Uh, that doesn’t help. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.”
Lisa closed her phone and climbed out the car. She adjusted the long sleeves on the tan notched collar jacket that covered her beige camisole, and casually walked to the front of the steps with her gaze glued to the ground, coming to a stop as she reached the first step.
She lifted the right pant leg to keep from stepping on the cuff. The pant suit from the Goodwill store was the proper length when she tried it on. She had been wearing heels then, now, she was wearing flats.
The door attendant wore a bright blue, ill-fitting suit. He waited with feet spread wide and hands over his private parts. Lisa assumed from the color he had picked out the suit himself.
She kept her head down and took each step in slow determination, trying her best to keep her hips from calling attention as she made her ascent.
Her gaze met the attendant’s when she reached the top. He didn’t break his stance but did offer a smile. As she moved closer, he bowed slightly, and pushed the door partially open.
“Good morning, ma’am. Better hurry, service has already started.”
Lisa’s heart beat as fast as it did when she was a Living. The plan was going better than hoped. Now, if only she could follow it to completion once inside.
“Good morning, and thank you.”
Lisa reached out and put her hand on the door, making a quick entrance. The vestibule entry led to three large double doors. Lisa walked up to the middle set, took a deep breath, and slowly opened a door.
She had one foot in the sanctuary when the attendant arrived with a photograph in one hand.
In a low voice, the attendant said, “Excuse me, ma’am. Could you please take off your hat?
Lisa froze.
“I’m not trying to cause any trouble, ma’am. But you look an awful lot like that woman at the rally. I can’t let you go inside and start any trouble.”
Lisa shook her head and stepped into the sanctuary. Someone was speaking from the pulpit. She gambled the attendant wouldn’t create a scene and disrupt service.
“Wait, you can’t go in there!” The attendant shouted. He grabbed Lisa by the arm and pulled her backward. Lisa turned around, bringing her purse from down low and smashed him on top of his head.
The attendant brought his left arm up to block another blow and grabbed the first thing his hand met, her hat. The blonde wig came off with it.
The church was so quiet Lisa heard the pews creak as people turned to stare. Rick Poundstone lifted his gaze from the podium and stopped in midsentence. Reverend Hatfield sprang from the bench and rushed to the end of the stage, craning his neck as if trying to focus his eyes on the ruckus that had invaded his sanctuary. Every head of the congregation pointed toward her. Her hair had fallen down the sides of her head. There would be no mistaking her identity.
Rebecca and Ben were on their feet on the last row of pews. Ben clutched his Bible firmly in his right hand and nestled it between his arm and chest. The camera inside recorded everything as it happened.
“Get your hands off me!” Lisa’s demand echoed through the hush. She threw her elbows from side to side, shaking off the attendant.
The attendant took two steps backward with his face flushing red and hands held in the air, still holding onto the hat and wig.
Six deacons who had been seated at various locations hurried down the aisles toward her. She felt as if a pack of wolves were descending to rip the flesh from her body.
Rebecca turned her head and caught Ben’s gaze, her mouth
open, but no words followed. She moved her right foot one step toward the aisle, but went no farther.
“Don’t do it, Rebecca. She’s not worth it,” Ben whispered in her ear. “Don’t do this to your father. Don’t do this to your mother.”
Rebecca’s head twitched, and her mouth still searched for words. With a deep sigh, she dropped her gaze to the floor, and put her head against Ben’s chest as she fought back tears.
As the six deacons closed in around Lisa, a withered man who looked too old to walk rose from his pew.
His equally elderly wife grabbed his coat sleeve. “Where are you going? Let the deacons handle this.”
He promptly jerked his arm from her grasp and hobbled into the aisle.
Lisa put on her best angry face and pointed her finger. “Don’t any of you touch me.”
Two pairs of deacons’ hands grabbed the back of her jacket and started to pull her to the exit doors.
The old man leaned into his cane and stumped up the aisle.
“Hypocrites!” Lisa screamed and, letting her legs go limp, fell on her knees to the floor. The deacons held onto her jacket and half pulled it off.
Lisa twisted her body—wiggling free of the jacket—and fell flat on her stomach, right in front of the old man.
The man lifted his cane high in the air.
Lisa raised her arm to block the incoming blow.
“Leave her be!” the old man thundered.
The deacons stopped in their tracks.
Lisa crawled to the old man’s feet, climbed to his side, and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you. Thank you. Don’t let them hurt me,” she whispered between deep breaths.
Rick remained speechless.
Reverend Hatfield jumped to the microphone. “Brother Wesley? Brother Wesley, please sit down, and let the deacons handle the matter.”
“This young lady wants to come to church. Why won’t you let her?” Wesley asked.
One of the deacons closest to Lisa took a step forward. Wesley brought the cane swooping down through empty air between the would-be kidnapper and Lisa.
The deacon jumped back, and then poised himself as if he were going to try again.
The crowd murmured. Hatfield pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and mopped nervous sweat from his brow. “Brother Wesley, there’s no need for this type of behavior. The woman is a troublemaker. She doesn’t have a right to sit before the Lord in this house.”
“He’s my God too, Reverend Hatfield!” Lisa yelled.
“Woman, there is a place for your kind to seek God. It’s not here. Streets of Gold Ministry is very active in spreading the gospel to the Non-Dead. We cater to the needs of the afflicted in a setting that is more appropriate for their condition,” Hatfield said.
“This is something that has been gnawing on me for a long time. She called us hypocrites. Well, we are,” Wesley said, to the gasps of surprise from the congregation. “Back in my time that’s the way we treated the black folks. We kept them away from our doors. They weren’t good enough to worship our God. When we finally did start to let them in, we roped off a section of seats in the back. Treated them like cattle, we did, herding them in and out of the pews like animals.”
“Brother Wesley, the times demand we separate ourselves from the Non-Dead. It is God’s plan, and we do it out of perseverance, not malice. It is a center tenet of our church, and we shall not change our ways,” Reverend Hatfield said.
The closest deacon to Wesley lunged and firmly grabbed his cane.
Lisa closed her eyes and braced herself as two deacons peeled her arms off Wesley.
Another deacon rushed in and bear-hugged the old man. “Now, Brother Wesley. You need to calm down before you hurt yourself.”
Wesley’s wife had followed him down the aisle, raised her purse, and started beating the deacon that held her husband in check.
Hatfield called for order. The congregation was in a roar.
Tears streamed down Rebecca’s face as she tightly clung to Ben.
Lisa offered no further resistance as the deacons dragged her out. Another battle, another loss. The bitter taste of defeat more sour than before.
Chapter 22
Walter Simmons wearily strolled along a line of trees and bushes on the outskirts of Cedar Ridge Park. Life for him after The Dark Times was but a faint shadow of what he’d enjoyed before. He’d expected life to return to normal after the Z-gas ended the zombie plague. In some ways it had, but in some ways it hadn’t. Walter Simmons was not a happy man.
He put his hand to the side of his mouth, “Chuuuuuckleeees, here boy,” and then whistled for his dog.
He missed many things from the old days. Sporting events where crowds of fans would gather for mindless entertainment. The smell of charring meats wafting from the grills of food booths at spring and fall festivals. The magical sound of the calliope when the fair came to town. And children. He missed the sounds of playing children the most.
Few things in life offered innocent hope like hordes of romping, stomping children. Their precious curiosity discovering the world through naïve eyes made his heart swell.
Children weren’t as abundant as before. More than half had perished during The Dark Times, and few had been born since. For some unexplained reason, preteens had proved to be poor hosts for the alien virus. Once the deceased reanimated to life, the young victim of the virus expired within seventy-two hours. Walter saw this as a blessing of sorts. Nothing disturbed him more than a child’s dead stare above a gore-dripping mouth after it had fed on a human.
Walter called for his dog again. The empty leash dangled from his wrist. “Chuuuuuckleeees.”
The savor of life had waned. He often found his mind wandering through the past in an attempt to recreate the life he had loved so dearly. There had been a magic in the air, a sense of wonder, and a lust for conquest. The world had been ripe for easy pickings. Walter had feasted often on its tender bounties.
He was older now and thirty pounds overweight. Perhaps this is all just the natural cycle of life, he thought. Times change, people change, the world changes, and you change. Still, he longed to be happy. Opportunities for happiness didn’t come his way often.
“Chuuuuk—” he cut his call short when leaves rustled nearby, and then he saw a young boy come to a stop on his mountain bike.
“Can’t find your dog, mister?”
“No, I can’t. Chuckles and I were taking a walk—like we do every day. I guess I didn’t have his collar on tight enough.” Walter lifted the leash. The empty collar dangled on end. “Well, Chuckles saw a squirrel in the woods, and charged after it. I tried to hold him back, but his neck slipped out of his collar and he ran away.” He assessed the boy was no older than seven or eight.
“That’s too bad. I’ll watch out for him.”
“Thank you. I really need to find him soon. He has an appointment with the Vet in an hour. I need to take him in to get his medicine. He really needs his medicine.”
Eye’s glazed over in thought, the boy settled onto his bike seat.
“Say, do you think you could help me? I bet if he hears a little boy calling his name, he’ll come a running. He really likes to play with little boys.”
“Well, I guess so . . . .”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Ryan.”
“Thanks, Ryan. Let’s walk over by the trees and see if we can find him.” Walter turned and marched into the woods while calling for his dog.
Ryan dismounted the bike and pushed it along while following within a few feet of him, yelling for Chuckles, and blowing air between his lips in a poor attempt to whistle.
Near the other side of the tree line, Walter pointed to a white panel van. “You know what, Ryan? I’ve got a squeeze toy in my van over there. If Chuckles was to hear his favorite toy, he’d be sure to come. Why don’t you run over there and get it? It’s in the rear. Use the back door.”
Ryan looked at Walter, then at the van. He pushed his bik
e out of the rugged terrain and rode to the vehicle.
Walter placed his hands on his hips and scanned the dirt road in either direction. The area was a service road used to access overhead power lines and not permitted for unauthorized traffic.
When Ryan tugged on the door handle, his hand slipped off. “I can’t open it. It’s locked.”
“Oh, my goodness. I thought I left it open. Hang on, I’ll be right there.” A low-flying State Police helicopter passed overhead, nearly scaring Walter out of his skin. Lowering the brim of his hat, he slowed his pace until the roar of the blades faded into the distance.
He reached the van, looked both ways down the road again, and unlocked the door. “Go ahead, Ryan, open it.”
Ryan opened the door. All the seats, except for the driver’s and passenger’s, had been removed.
“There’s the squeaky toy right behind the driver’s seat. Go in and get it,” Walter said, opening the seal of a mylar bag, and removing a chloroformed soaked rag.
Ryan climbed in and crawled over to get the toy. “Got it.” He squeezed it a few times.
Walter crawled in and put his hand over the child’s mouth. Ryan’s muffled cry hastened Walter’s other hand over with the rag.
“Don’t fight it. Breathe it in, go on.” He held the boy in check with his whole body.
Ryan tried to tear himself free in a final surge of desperation.
A sharp elbow smacked into Walter’s stomach, Ooofff, and he nearly lost his grip for a moment. The blow took him by surprise, but he tightened his hold long enough for the boy’s body to go limp. He held the rag in place until he remained still for a full minute.
Getting lightheaded from the chloroform fumes, he left Ryan face-down on the floor, and climbed out the van. Once outside, he placed the rag back in the mylar bag, threw the bike in the back, and looked over the area while filling his lungs with fresh air.
Satisfied he was in the clear, Walter entered the van, and tossed the bag on the passenger’s seat. He cranked up the engine and sped away, turning onto the highway a quarter mile down the road.
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