Apathetic God

by Ian Withrow

  “This land, Chicago, Where is it.”

  Natalie was caught by surprise; she very nearly laughed. That this mighty figure could appear out of thin air, pluck a new language from her mind, and be unaware of such a well-known place was oddly comical.

  “You’ve never heard of Chicago?”

  Weyland did not enjoy being the subject of humor.

  “Do you mock me?”

  His tone spoke danger and the smell of ashes grew stronger, until it filled the air between them. The veins in his arms, neck, and chest swelled and darkened before her eyes.

  Natalie watched the powerful man’s eyes begin to glow a deep red and felt terribly afraid.

  “No! No sir, I’m sorry. Chicago is in the United States of America.”

  Another new name. Weyland was growing frustrated. How would he find her, with so little information to aid him. No, better to go to a place of learning, where the scholars would certainly be able to provide him context.

  “You will accompany me.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he focused inward. In a flash he had once more disappeared, this time taking Natalie with him, leaving only smoldering stone as evidence.

  Natalie felt as though her insides were being ripped out through her skin, and then as if up was in several directions at once. The sensation seemed to last an eternity, and yet, in the blink of an eye she was laying face first on warm stone. The world was spinning violently, and she had little warning before she was emptying her stomach on the pavement.

  “Get up.”

  Weyland’s voice held no sympathy, no concern, only contempt.

  Weyland was satisfied the mortal was going to survive, she was moving and groaning on the stones of the courtyard. He was less satisfied, however, with the sight in front of him. The once proud monuments and splendid temples of the Acropolis were in ruin. Thousands of men, women, and children were running around wildly, oohing and ahhing over his favorite vacation spot. A thousand years ago none would dare enter this place without his good graces.

  Crowds were gathering around him. The people, all dressed in foreign garb, pointed tiny boxes at him and spoke animatedly in some unknown tongue. His brain began to pick through the languages. Some he could almost recognize, others were entirely new to him.

  This was not at all what Weyland had expected.

  When last he walked the earth he had been met with fear, respect, and worship. The people before him were surprised, certainly, but they were far more excited than afraid. They crowded around him, creeping closer and closer as they shoved each other out of the way to see him more clearly.

  Frustrated, Weyland realized that the whole world was almost certainly like this. He had been forgotten. His legacy was long gone. He had nothing to present to his bride, to his Lauren Corvidae. One thing the world still seemed to have in abundance was mortals. They had built monuments in his name before, they would do so again.

  At the moment though, they lacked respect. Lacked discipline. Lacked humility.

  Spare the rod, spoil the child.

  So be it.

  Weyland’s entrance, and the events that followed, would on any other day have been headline news. But attentions were already focusing 5,000 miles away.

  “This is Kent Dailey, reporting live from downtown Chicago. Lauren Corvidae, controversial healer and religious figure, has just been spotted flying above Michigan Avenue!”

  Kent’s excited face filled the frame of his news crew’s camera for a moment until Lauren came into sight.

  “Clark, there she is! Zoom in right there!”

  Lauren was wearing a sleek black evening gown, her hair whipping wildly in the turbulent air of the Windy City. Her serene, expressionless face was captured for the world to see as the helicopter neared her position.

  “As you can see from our vantage point up here in the chopper, she’s well over one thousand feet in the air right now. We’re being told she has been staying at a nearby hotel, where our sources tell us she broke out of a window near the top of the building. It’s possible she’s attempting to escape from the government agents who allegedly kidnapped her earlier in the week at O’hare International Airport.”

  Billions of eyes around the world were glued to computer screens, cell phones, and television sets. Every news network that had reporters in the area scrambled to get a scoop on their competition.

  “She’s been the subject of increasingly divisive debate over the past several months, which came to a bit of a head in Rome just a few days ago where her father was the latest victim of the violence that has followed her since - Wait, something is happening!”

  Lauren’s rising form was suddenly swan diving towards the streets below.

  “She’s falling now, um... she seems to be dropping quite low… I’m not sure if...”

  Kent stumbled into silence as she fell faster and faster.

  The world held its breath.

  The camera followed her streaking form all the way to the pavement. Lauren impacted the ground with bone-shattering speed. The footage was eerily silent except for the rotor-wash of the aircraft. The unblinking gaze of the telephoto lens caught every detail as a growing pool of red spread out from the pale form below them.

  “I… I don’t know if.. it’s impossible to say what caused her to fall.”

  Habit forced Kent to speak through the silence and say something, anything.

  “She’s um, not moving though...”

  Instantly, footage of Lauren plummeting from the sky was on a non-stop loop on every major network in the world. No amount of viewer discretion warnings could dissuade people from watching her crash to the pavement over and over. The heartbeat of the world seemed in tune with the steady thump of her televised impact.

  Seconds turned to minutes and people flooded into view of the TV cameras pointed at her from helicopters circling the scene as Lauren’s unmoving body was portrayed from every possible angle.

  Lauren’s wings stuck out at odd angles, her snowy feathers soaking up the dark blood covering the asphalt where she was lying. Her body was quickly surrounded by black vehicles with dark windows. Within a few minutes she had been covered with a sheet and was no longer visible to the clinical stares of the cameras.

  Already tens of thousands were taking to the streets where her crumpled form lay in the heart of Chicago. Police forces were quickly augmented with elements from the National Guard and a perimeter was established as medical and religious personnel filtered in and out of the large, green, multi-purpose military tent marking her resting place.

  Could she survive such an impact? Had the world finally seen the limit of her miraculous gifts? The uncertainty of the moment seemed to stifle the more violent urges of the people, at least in the city. Vigils sprang up as the hours lengthened without a sign of life. First around the city, then the country, and eventually all over the world.

  Chapter Two

  Caroline Adams hit the edge of the traffic jam leading into Chicago more than 100 miles from the city, and it was nearly fifteen hours before she was able to actually reach her goal; The Central Church of the Immaculate Child, the humble headquarters of her faith.

  By the time she arrived, around 50 of her fellow believers were already there, downtrodden and grim, but determined.

  “Are we ready?”

  Her tired voice got no verbal response, only solemn nods.

  The group set out on foot, the only reasonable method of travel left in the crowded city. Many of her companions were elderly. Hours ticked by as the small band moved through Chicago at a slow crawl. Finally though, somewhere around dawn, their pilgrimage was complete.

  People filled the street for blocks in every direction. Some were camping in tents, others in cars, some simply crawled into sleeping bags on the sidewalk. Stale smoke from cold campfires drifted in the air, lending the urban sprawl an uncharacteristically outdoorsy feel. A sleepy peace blanketed the area. Caroline and her fellow travellers were among the few people awa
ke at this hour. They picked their way carefully through the sleeping forms.

  In light of the peaceful nature of the gathered crowds, the National Guard had been recalled, and the police had brought the barricades inward, allowing people to get fairly near to the tent holding Lauren’s body.

  Caroline looked at the drab, olive green tent and strengthened her resolve. She grounded herself in her faith and approached a pair of officers chatting behind the bright orange temporary barriers.

  “Excuse me sir, my fellows and I have travelled a very long way to see Ms. Corvidae,” she began.

  “I was her caretaker after her return, you may have heard of me? Caroline Adams?”

  The officers looked relaxed when faced with the harmless looking group of older folks in front of them. They had in fact heard of Mrs. Adams, she had been a flash-in-the-pan celebrity after news sources had tracked her down at Cherry Hills. Her fame had been short lived, mostly because she refused to cooperate with the media. Her statements had been limited to unconditional support for Lauren, testimony of her divinity, and scripture. Within a few weeks most news outlets had determined she was boring, old news.

  “Um, yes ma’am, I’ve heard of you and it’s a real pleasure to meet you,” the younger of the two officers spoke while the older one disappeared into the bundle of tents within the barricades.

  “It’s just that all religious personnel are required to go through our executive liaison prior to entrance.”

  Caroline nodded.

  “Of course, we don’t want to cause any trouble for you at all officer. Could you direct us to them?”

  No sooner had the words left her lips than the older officer reappeared with a tired looking lady in tow.

  “Good morning,” the woman yawned.

  Caroline began again.

  “Good morning ma’am, I’m Caroline Adams, an elder with the Church of the Immaculate Child...”

  The woman didn’t seem to be terribly interested in the details, instead she simply pushed a battered clipboard into Caroline’s hands.

  “That’s nice ma’am. Please sign yourself and your companions in. We are currently only allowing bona fide religious personnel to see the body-”

  Caroline interjected.

  “You mean Lauren. To see Lauren.”

  The lady sighed.

  “Yeah, sure. You’ll need to provide identification and proof of your organizational affiliation. If you meet the criteria you’ll be allowed in groups of no more than ten. Please do not attempt to touch the body. Please do not take any photography, flash or otherwise. You will need to consent to a search and will not be allowed in with any kind of weaponry…”

  The officers began checking the small business cards that the elders carried with them, comparing them to unseen lists on grey tablet computers. Next came a brusque, but impartial search. In short order they were being separated into groups.

  Caroline, as one of the longest serving women in the church, found herself in the first group.

  The man escorting them was a walking stereotype, his clean black suit and dark shades were straight out of every spy novel ever written. He didn’t say a word as he led the clerics to the large tent. When they arrived, he held aside the large flap, allowing them to enter.

  The plain exterior hid a complex suite of medical equipment. Wires, tubes, and hoses led directly to the center of the room where a large cushioned table dominated the space. Lauren’s body was there, she had been clothed in something akin to a hospital gown. The garment left her arms, her face, and her legs from the knees down bare. Deep purple and black splotches covered every inch of her exposed skin, a testament to the incredible damage done to her. Her hands, fingers, jaw, feet, ankles, even her knees were splinted with thick metal wires. Her wings, similarly caged with pins and wires, were extended out to either side of her, drooping limp towards the floor.

  Other changes had been wrought by her impact as well. Just as dramatic were the differences in her hair and wings. Her golden locks had been turned a shiny opalescent black. The way it fell around her face, it looked as smooth and dark as refined oil. Her feathers were black as well. Though, to describe them as simply black seemed somehow blasphemous. Each feather was indistinguishable from the next, they were distilled night. Not simply dark, but the utter absence of light.

  Caroline tried and failed to stifle her shock.

  One exhausted doctor in bloody scrubs was leaning on a heart rate monitor wiping her brow. The flat green line on the screen captured Caroline’s eye. Other doctors in surgical gear were passed out on cots around the room, and they barely stirred at the group’s entrance.

  “Is she… alive?”

  Caroline whispered the question to the doctor, who seemed surprised to see them. The woman opened her mouth to speak, seemed to change her mind, and then tried again.

  “No, but then again also yes. Honestly, ma’am, I’m not sure what she is.”

  Shrugging helplessly, she cast a confused look at her patient on the gurney.

  “She’s got no pulse, she’s got less electrical activity in her brain than a wrist watch, she’s got 112 broken bones and her organs are soup.”

  Caroline was taken aback by the blunt assessment, but the lady wasn’t finished.

  “But that’s just it. Corpses don’t bruise. It’s a mechanism that the body uses to repair damage, it just... it just doesn’t happen to dead people. We operated for more than ten hours and I’ve never seen damage like that before. Never. If I was in medical school I’d say she was as dead as you could get.”

  The group of believers huddled closer together, a wave of sadness washing over them.

  “But.”

  Hope returned to the weary travellers.

  “She’s getting better. I can’t explain it, none of us can, but her body is repairing itself. We’ve all seen the news, heard the stories, but she isn’t healing as quickly as we expected. I was surprised we could even operate, but… maybe there’s just too much damage for her, uh, powers to keep up. There’s no telling how long it will take either, she’s sustained almost every kind of impact injury you can sustain. Frankly, we don’t know if she will wake up, or who she will be if she does.”

  Caroline nodded, it wasn’t the news she wanted but she would keep the faith. After a few minutes of prayer, the group was ushered out of the tent and back to the edge of the barricades.

  By the time the whole congregation was able to see their savior, the tent city surrounding them had begun to wake up.

  She was humbled by the kindness and solidarity she saw. Kids were playing, burning off the restless energy of youth. Parents and friends gathered around small propane stoves and grills. A compelling sense of community pervaded the entire area.

  Caroline breathed easy for what felt like the first time in years. Here was the power she believed in, here was the evidence of Lauren’s Truth. All of these people brought together from every social status, every religious and ethnic subgroup of the city. It was a peace that had eluded her since Lauren had flown away from her tiny church so long ago.

  Unfortunately, her duties could not wait. She and her congregation would minister to these people, would help them understand the gift that Lauren represented. Not simply as a healer of bodies, but as a healer of souls.

  After an hour or so of searching, the group found an area large enough for them to put down roots. A trash-filled alley that had been largely ignored would certainly suit their purposes, and at less than a block away, it was the closest open space to Lauren. After setting up a small camp, the group took to the streets in teams, walking from campsite to campsite looking for people who would listen to their gospel.

  Most people were fairly accepting, some had their own deeply held convictions, and an unfortunate few were openly hostile. Caroline’s band learned over the next several days which areas to avoid, and which would be more receptive.

  “We’re standing here on Michigan avenue, the site of Lauren Corvidae’s heartbreaking f
all, with some of the thousands of people who have turned out to see what many still see as their savior. Excuse me sir, would you like to tell us why you’re still here, after all this time with no real sign of life?”

  Kent was braving the chilly Chicago air, trying to drum up ratings by walking among the followers still gathered around Lauren’s resting place. In the past week his ratings had been tanking. Even the normally tunnel-visioned American viewers were tuning in to the unravelling mystery taking place in Greece.

  “You’re good Kent, we’re not live. They’re cutting over to Cyprus again.”

  Kent threw his hands up in frustration.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  His cameraman, Clark Reynolds, shook his moppish blonde head.

  “D-do you still need me to say somethin’ or nah man?”

  “No! Fuck, man, obviously not! Did you not notice the camera pointed at the goddamn ground?”

  Kent’s off-screen personality shone brightly as he caustically dismissed the citizen he had roped into an interview just minutes ago.

  “Did they say what’s going on over there?”

  Clark shook his head again, pausing a moment before he spoke.

  “Well, Valerie-”

  “Damn it! I knew you were gonna say Valerie. How the hell is she getting these stories over me? This is my beat, I invented this topic. I made this shit what it is. And now I’m stuck covering a damn vegetable.”

  Kent cast a wrathful look at the small but growing shrine a few dozen yards distant. Since the police had fully vacated the area, pilgrims had begun construction of a small temple. Depending on what particular brand of crazies you asked, it was called all sorts of things. The one thing these people could agree on was that it belonged to the “Interfaith Council,” a collection of crackpot mystics, priests, and reverends. The council members, led by a tight-lipped woman named Caroline, claimed that only through cooperation could Lauren’s powers be shared fully.

  What a crock.

  “C’mon, pack up your crap. We’re not sticking around here.”