Apathetic God

by Ian Withrow

  It was music to his ears, a validation of his complete and utter omnipotence. He didn’t have to wait long for his errant subjects to come to him, begging for mercy and trembling with fear. After a few hours he was standing before a kneeling crowd of soldiers, officers and government officials.

  “Hear this, mortals. Let is be known that any nation who harbors my bride without informing me will be considered my enemy and will face my wrath...”

  Chapter Eight

  Kent Dailey was smiling so hard it hurt his face. His nose was pressed against the glass of a small window in the side of a massive gray C-130. The large military aircraft was descending rapidly. As they broke through the cloud cover, a spectacular view of Venice appeared before him.

  Valerie Chatwick was AWOL, and had been since her very public scandal hit headlines worldwide. Her misfortune was a godsend for Kent, as he was once again the foremost expert on all things Lauren Corvidae and, by extension, Weyland.

  Athens was still a hotspot, and planes had been avoiding England since Weyland’s display in London left more than a thousand people dead and injured. He’d managed to hitch a ride into Venice with the United States Air Force, but it was only a refueling point between Chicago and wherever they’d be headed next.

  Kent and his cameraman had jammed as much equipment as they could fit into a pair of large backpacks and crowded onboard with 70 or so tight-lipped soldiers armed to the teeth.

  A helmeted member of the air crew worked his way between the huddled troops and over to Kent’s side.

  “Mr. Dailey, we touch down in five. We’re staying long enough to refuel and then we are popping smoke. You’ve got until then to change your mind.”

  Clark was giving him a nervous look, but Kent knew he wouldn’t get another chance and he’d be damned if he was going to pass it up. He was scared, terrified of being closer to the monstrous man he had witnessed in Chicago a few months ago. But he gritted his teeth and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

  “Not a chance sir,” Kent replied.

  Sure enough, the moment their wheels hit the tarmac the pair were escorted from the aircraft amidst a flurry of activity by the crew.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dailey!”

  A portly fellow with a melodic italian accent was flagging them down and waving his arms to get their attention.

  “Welcome to Italy, Mr. Dailey. I’m Fernando Rilleri with Senator Fafoglia’s office. It’s a pleasure to meet you sir. If you’ll follow me, he’s waiting for you.”

  Kent was surprised, but hid it well. Roberto Fafoglia did not often grant audiences to the media. The controversial Cardinal was the subject of a very violent and public witch hunt after leading the Catholic Church into the Second Great Schism. As the furor over the Schism started to fade in the wake of Lauren’s fall, Fafoglia found himself abreast of a popular swell of support for the heroine and had secured a seat in the Italian Senate with it.

  That wasn’t the only reason Kent was taken by surprise, however. Fafoglia had been an unshakably outspoken advocate of Lauren’s within the Church as well as the government. A stance that seemed at odds with Kent’s less-than-loyal approach to her fame.

  Maybe the morbid events of the past few days had finally changed his mind?

  A small black car was waiting outside the airport for them, guarded by a singularly menacing looking man in a dark suit. He couldn’t have been more than 25 years old, but he had a prematurely aged face. As though he’d seen or done terrible things in his short life. A large scar, no more than a few months old, ran from his left ear to the middle of his throat and added to his threatening appearance.

  “This is Kaspar von Silenen, a former member of the Swiss Guard and a dear friend of mine. He generally sees to the security of the senator and will be escorting us during your interview.”

  Kent exchanged a handshake with the guard and tried not to wince at the pressure of the man’s strong grip. Kaspar didn’t speak, but the glare he was giving Kent indicated his strong dislike of the reporter and his cameraman.

  “So we’ll be granted an interview? On Camera?”

  Kent climbed into the car, leaving Clark to heave their baggage into the trunk alone.

  “A brief one, yes.”

  “You’ll have to forgive me Mr. Rilleri, I didn’t realize my editor had contacted your offices. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Your agency didn’t contact us, quite the opposite in fact. The senator reached out to your network this morning and requested this meeting.”

  The man exchanged a few words in Italian with Kaspar and the car rolled off with a purr. The ride only lasted a half hour, but the awkward silence seemed to stretch the time out inexorably.

  By the time the car pulled up in front of a run-down apartment building in the heart of the city, Kent was painfully aware of how his brow shined with nervous sweat and the seemingly thunderous sound of his own breathing. The moment the vehicle stopped he reached for the door handle and took a deep breath of the humid mediterranean air.

  The apartment overlooked one of the narrow canals that were the hallmark of Venice, but still managed to look a bit decrepit. An unlikely home for a senator at the very least.

  As the group ascended a small brick staircase Kent began to wonder if he was being led into some kind of trap. It was too late to back out now though. Kaspar was behind them and the stairs weren’t wide enough to give Kent any hope of slipping past him. With nowhere to go but up, Kent did his best to appear confident and calm.

  They reached a landing and a dark wooden door opened beside them.

  “Welcome Mr. Dailey, please come in.”

  Kent jumped, but recovered quickly.

  “Hello Senator, thank you so much for seeing-”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Dailey. Inside please.”

  Kent took the hint and the group moved inside. The apartment was small, but pleasant. His host compensated for a heavy limp with a sturdy cane and indicated they should follow him to a small kitchenette. After waving a hand at a small wooden table, Roberto turned to the stove to grab a small carafe and a handful of ceramic mugs.

  Kent sat dutifully and motioned for Clark to begin setting up the equipment immediately.

  Roberto looked very different from the man that had been plastered on television's the world over. Who had defied the largest religious institution and led what could only be called a revolution from within. Kent expected the fiery orator, the larger-than-life caricature of bravery and conviction that he had been portrayed as. But the Roberto that was smiling genially and pouring strong black coffee into mugs for them seemed more like a grandfather or a beloved uncle than a revolutionary.

  Clark gave Kent a subtle cue.

  “So, Senator Fafoglia, may I ask what you brought us here for?”

  “Please, call me Roberto.”

  He took a slow sip and stared deeply into Kent’s eyes.

  “You do not care for her, do you Mr. Dailey?”

  “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

  “Saint Corvidae. You have mocked her, ridiculed her, extorted her good will and abused her trust. All of these things you have done, for what? For money? For vanity?”

  Kent wasn’t sure what to do, he glanced nervously around the room for some way to shift the conversation. A small blinking light on the front end of Clark’s camera reminded him that he was trapped. He was about to make an excuse to put off the interview, but the senator spoke again.

  “So please, Mr. Dailey, let us talk.”

  His tone had turned jovial and innocent and he looked expectantly at his guest.

  “I, um. Alright sir. Ah, can you - would you care to tell the people a little bit about the past few months? Why you continue to support Lauren Cor-”

  “Saint Lauren Corvidae,” Roberto corrected him gently.

  “Sure.”

  “We have not lost faith in her, and I believe she must still have faith in us. Otherwise God would not have sent her back.”


  “But what about all the trouble she’s caused? War between Pakistan and India, chaos in North Africa, martial law in Russia? And that’s just in the past year!”

  Roberto nodded and waited for Kent to finish before responding.

  “Do you recall what God said to Adam and Eve in the garden?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “The lord said ‘But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.’ God’s children chose the path of wickedness when they listened to the serpent. As a result of that choice, they were punished, and knew good and evil, and were ashamed of their own nakedness before God.”

  “So you believe that these terrible things are our fault, humanity’s fault, rather than a result of Lauren’s meddling?”

  “I do.”

  “Well that’s a very convenient answer, isn’t it? We just blame all our problems on other people and not the person stirring up trouble?”

  “It is really quite simple, isn’t it? The answer is faith. I have met her, I have felt her power and seen the pain she bears for the good of us all.”

  “Well I’m sorry, but I have a hard time trusting someone who kills people because she’s be outed as a lesbian on international television.”

  The quiet that followed his inflammatory comment was palpably uncomfortable. Kaspar muttered something unintelligible, but Roberto gave him a low wave without breaking eye contact with Kent.

  “Mr. Dailey, I would caution you against blasphemy in my presence. I am a tolerant man, but my companion, Mr. von Silenen, is not. His dedication to God and our lady has been proven in blood, both his and that of others.”

  “A-and God approves of bloodshed, does he?”

  Kent shifted nervously as another long period of silence filled the room.

  “God allows us to experience the consequences of our mistakes. In many cases that manifests as bloodshed, yes. But as the scripture says, we reap what we sow. Mankind has sown the bitter seeds of violence for many, many years

  “Senator, you’re dodging my question. The world wants to know why Lauren killed those people. What gives her the right to murder a crowded room full police officers and innocent bystanders! Furthermore, how is she connected to this ‘Weyland’ figure that has the whole world trembling?”

  “Do I appear to be trembling, Mr. Dailey? If so then you have the wrong impression entirely. I trust that God will deliver me.”

  Indeed, the stony Senator and his bodyguard were utterly unmoving.

  “Even in the face of a being who kills tens of thousands at a whim? Who will defend you then, Lauren Corvidae?”

  “If God wills it.”

  Kent laughed bitterly. The stubbornness of the old man made for as perfect an argument against established religion as he could imagine. By the same token, he was getting nowhere with this impromptu interview. He needed to push the envelope.

  “So God willed that those folks in London should die, that their families should be torn apart. He willed that a man made of lava would burn a hole in the center of Athens and then London, specifically because of the actions of Lauren Corvidae?”

  “The scripture is full of wicked men being destroyed by the glory of God. Perhaps, Mr. Dailey, you are so afraid because you know you have wronged her? Perhaps it is because of your wickedness that you fear her, and I do not.”

  Kent put on a brave face, but could not deny the terror inside his soul.

  “Faith is my shield, Mr. Dailey. What is yours?”

  Kent cleared his throat loudly and stood to leave. He motioned to Clark to grab their gear and contemplated another handshake, but discarded the idea almost immediately.

  “Well Senator, I can’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

  “Of course, Mr. Dailey. May I ask where you will go now? To Athens, I presume?”

  Kent paused with a hand on the door.

  “No, actually. We’re headed to Rome and the Vatican. Our audiences want to know what the opinion of the real Catholic Church is.”

  Lauren wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. Her sleek black feathers cut through the warm air above Italy like a knife, propelling her to her destination like an arrow. She wasn’t familiar with the geography of the country, so she had to drop close enough to read highway signs. It was easy enough to decipher her target, ‘Roma’ wasn’t very different from ‘Rome’ after all.

  After more than a day of flying, she had yet to come down from the high she felt coursing through her. She smiled at the idea that her increased strength might be permanent.

  The sun was just starting to set when the city appeared on the horizon. The phone in her pocket had long since gone silent, though whether from a dead battery or Valerie giving up she hadn’t yet checked.

  Good.

  Her confused frustration with Valerie clouded her mind, and threatened to erode the singular purpose that consumed her. Revenge. Lauren had long ago accepted that she could not replace the people she had lost, or fix the damage she had done to the people she loved. Now though, she had a tool to even the score.

  As the city grew larger, she was accompanied once more by helicopters and throngs of people congesting the highways below her. Their gawking eyes and flashing camera-phones stoked the anger inside her. She knew they saw not an individual, but a symbol of their own selfish desires.

  By the time she reached the outer walls of the Vatican, she was a seething ball of anger once again. She landed with enough force to crack one of the ancient stones in the courtyard and her wingbeats sent plumes of dust into the air.

  More than a dozen soldiers ringed the courtyard, staring down the sights of their assault rifles at her and reminding her of the last time she’d seen this courtyard filled with armed men. The day her father had been murdered.

  Lauren’s eyes fell on the spot where he’d died. The stones had been washed clean but the blood was still fresh in her mind. Lauren’s blood pumped in her ears and her breathing quickened until she could hear nothing else.

  Lauren’s wings and shoulders heaved as she panted with exertion from her long flight. A thin sheen of sweat covered her exposed skin as she slowly cooled down in the soft breeze. Deep within her a small voice told her she should warn the men, give them a chance to drop their weapons or flee.

  She ignored it.

  A gnawing hunger gripped her and she clenched her fists. The voice grew more insistent, a nagging pressure on her conscience that became a frustrating buzz.

  Sighing with exasperation she shook her head and forced herself to unclench her whitened knuckles. Lauren opened her mouth to speak and took a small step forward.

  The world stopped with a bang.

  Smoke curled slowly from the barrel of the rifle held by the man in front of her. Lauren clutched her side, and gritted her teeth against a searing pain. She took stock of her injury. The bullet was lodged in one of her ribs, near the center of her chest. The bone was cracked, and the wound bled freely, but her newly empowered body had resisted the bulk of the damage.

  All thoughts of mercy were chased from her mind as a hot, flattened piece of lead slowly emerged from her rapidly healing side and fell to the ground with a dull clink.

  The nervous looking man’s eyes widened as he realized what he had done, and the barrel of his weapon drooped with disbelief. But it was too late, his errant bullet started a hailstorm of sizzling metal.

  Lauren’s wings snapped up into a protective barrier around her and she sprinted towards the terrified man. Bullets punched through her ebony feathers with little sprays of blood and impacted her body. But they could not stop her.

  She crossed the stones in a matter of seconds and snatched the man up by his collar, lifting him from the ground and letting the darkness within her consume him. Once again, Lauren’s veins flooded with a metallic silver and the man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as her power drained his life force. Lauren watched in detached pleasure as the man’s sk
in turned papery and pale. His hair turned gray and all the color left his body. When she finally dropped him to the ground again, he was a shell of his former self.

  Lauren’s body flooded with strength and her pulse quickened as it had before. The high was as powerful as she remembered and she could feel the welts and bullet holes in her body healing faster and faster. Lauren snapped her wings open and propelled herself across the courtyard in a flash, snatching up another guard, and then another.

  With every life she took, her power grew. She worked her way through half a dozen guards before the rest broke and ran. The men retreated inside behind a large wooden double door, leaving her alone in the courtyard once more.

  Lauren’s senses were deliciously heightened. She could smell a sweet, cloying smell that she instinctively knew was fear. It poured from the windows and doors around her, the testimony of fearful onlookers. A wicked grin appeared on her lips as her ears picked up the rapid heartbeats of cowering mortals nearby.

  Perhaps the most striking difference was the incredible detail and vibrancy of her vision. Every mote of dust in the air, every hairline crack in the stones below her, every grain in the wood of the door that protected her prey stood out in high definition.

  How had she gone through life so blindly before?

  No matter, she’d never be powerless again.

  Lauren sauntered to the door and put her hands against the ancient beams. They were rough and complex. Fossils from a time before her home country had even been born. Every fiber of the wood stood out with subtle differences in texture beneath her splayed finger tips.

  The skin of Lauren’s hands shone a mercurial silver, as though she wore skin-tight armor up to her wrists. From there, her veins ran brightly beneath her pale skin up her arms and into her chest. Her keen eyes picked up the faint pulse of each heartbeat as it pushed the blood through those veins, the faintest ripple that ran through her.

  She was aware of some small part of herself that called within her to be cautious. A drowning voice that told her she should be concerned, that she wasn’t herself. But Lauren was drunk with her own strength and high with the wild exhilaration that flooded her mind.