by Sean Platt
Desmond wasn’t sure if Linc was asking for himself, or if someone had sent him to find out. And really, Desmond didn’t trust him either way. Linc had gotten too friendly with the others during their short time there. He’d steadily drifted to his own side of The Sanctuary from Day One forward, and wasn’t really talking with the Drury Crew as much. Desmond felt bad for not trusting him since Linc had always been so nice to them, and had saved their asses more than a few times in the prior months. But survival meant staying alive, and that meant keeping watch over both sides of your shoulder. Linc was so spooked by what happened at the farmhouse, he was more than willing to trade freedom for safety. If Linc was comfortable living with a cult, he had to be willing to pay the rent, even if that meant turning on his old friends.
“I don’t know,” Desmond said. “Mary thinks we’re safer staying here. Why is Will leaving? Are they forcing him out? Isn’t there anything you can do to get Brother Rei to change his mind?”
Desmond didn’t think Linc had a shred of influence over Brother Rei, or any of the brothers for that matter. But this could provide a good indication of Linc’s loyalties.
“Would if I could, believe me,” Linc said as they entered the house and walked to the dining room. “I like the crazy old coot as much as you, but from the way I hear it, Will wants to leave. Was his idea to go. Said he had itchy feet and wanted to get to someplace where the spring would come up pretty.”
“I haven’t seen Will since this morning, and he didn’t say anything about leaving, so I’m pretty sure that Brother Rei must have something to do with this,” Desmond said.
Luca said, “That will be great when Will’s gone.”
Linc raised his eyebrows. “You know something I don’t?”
“I’m using sarcasm!” Luca said.
Everyone laughed, and Luca blushed. He’d been trying to use sarcasm for the last few days, but had yet to properly use it a single time. Desmond put his arm around Luca and pulled him close. He wanted to ask the boy if he was okay, dig deeper to see if he knew anything, since he didn’t seem particularly surprised. But he didn’t want to do it in front of Linc.
“Well, see ya,” Linc said, then took his seat at another table beside Brothers Reginald and Mark.
As soon as Linc was out of earshot, Luca whispered. “Will told me to tell you all to let him go. He has a plan and he said you have to trust him.”
Desmond had to swallow every one of his 17 questions as John approached the table, pulled out a chair, then sat directly across from them. John never sat at their table. “Good evening, Brother Desmond,” he said.
Desmond nodded, and even managed to speak without gritting his teeth. “Good evening, Brother John.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard the news,” John said. “Brother Will will no longer be with us here at New Unity after dinner. He has decided to leave the safety of The Sanctuary to embrace the unknown beyond our walls.”
Desmond didn’t have time to respond. John had barely shut his mouth when Rei commanded the head of the main table, hands folded and head bowed, patiently waiting to make his announcement.
With every set of eyes upon him, Rei parted his arms and raised his chin to the sky. Desmond made it through the prayer with gritted teeth, then chewed his bottom lip as Rei went through his song and dance of an announcement, spilling nothing but the scum on the surface of empty lies.
“I regret to inform you that tonight is our final evening with Brother Will,” he started. Will entered the dining room with two brothers a little too close behind him. Escorts for the prisoner. Will smiled, then took the seat closest to the door. Rei smiled at Will, then continued. “I have begged and pleaded with Brother Will. I’ve practically fallen to my knees to keep him here with us. But he must heed the call of his heart, even if it sends him into the foaming mouth of Satan himself.”
Rei stared at the floor, as though Will’s decision was breaking his heart. “But we will wish him well on his way, and pray for him daily. Perhaps our collective spirit here can help to quell whatever unfortunate calamity awaits our Brother on the other side of The Sanctuary walls.”
Rei shook his head and hovered in silence, like a televangelist’s pregnant moments, just before he asks for the sale. If Rei was auditioning to take over The Prophet’s role, he’d nailed the performance. When he raised his face to the crowd, Rei said, “There is no solace beyond our walls. But the Good Lord does, and always will, see fit to protect the soil of our Holy Land. We pray he sees fit to protect one of our Brothers, too.”
Rei raised his glass in the air. “We wish you well in the world outside!”
“We wish you well in the world outside,” the room repeated, glasses in the air.
Fifty-Two
Boricio Wolfe
The Sanctuary
March 25
6:40 p.m.
Dinner tasted about one short and curly better than a sack of fresh mildew and old pussy, but what the fuck did you expect from a bunch of cornbread eating Bible fuckers? Boricio had offered to go into their kitchen and turn their slop all sweet and spicy, but the Bible fuckers had declined. They liked their food like they liked their lives, boring.
Just one of the billion and one dumbfuck decisions they seemed to specialize in, here in Bibleburg. The place had approximately dick in common with what Boricio had expected to see. It was nothing like it had been the previous fall, enough to make Boricio figure Bibleburg was under new management. The motherfuckers in Round One had meant business. And while there was business going on up in here – that you could guaran-fucking-tee– but what it was, Boricio didn’t have a goddamned clue.
He’d figure it out, though. And he wouldn’t waste his fucking time looking for a needle in a haystack. Best way to find a needle was to torch the entire fucking haystack, then come back with a magnet. So as soon as Boricio figured out what sort of needle he was looking for, he’d come back with the flamethrower.
Of all the dumbfuck decisions Boricio had seen so far in Bibleburg, the inconsistent guard shifts and unlocked houses were by far the dumbest. He would have little problem ruling this roost. But for now, he’d examine the situation.
Patience wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in Boricio’s box. And while he liked playing character, and watching gullible fucks suck on his lies like they were the throb of a cock, he’d waltzed through the front gates looking for answers. But he had yet to find a single fucking one. No Charlie, no Adam, no Vic. And the bitch he killed back in New Orleans on Oct. 14, the one he’d seen two times since, both up in that window in the house across the way, and on the side of the road – both places fucking with his ability to see shit clearly – well, she was nowhere to be found either.
Boricio also wanted to know how many of the motherfuckers behind the walls were sipping the Kool-Aid because they liked the sweet taste of the sugar, and how many of them were pretending to like it since they weren’t serving it outside The Sanctuary, where the “demons crawled through the forest.” Boricio smiled. To hear the folks in charge tell it, the world was crawling with monsters like crabs in the cunt hair of a French Quarter whore. But that was bullshit. They were out there, sure, but any cocksucker with a few full clips had little more than dick to worry about. Boricio could smell bullshit, whether it got flushed or not. And it was ripe as a maggot-covered body behind the gates of ye ole Sanctuary.
Of course, the place did have a few amenities.
Even though he’d been close enough to smell the slick of a slit, he’d not tasted the dew. And there wasn’t much worse than getting clearance from Mission Control and losing the blastoff. Fortunately, The Sanctuary had a few women Boricio could split right open. Even better, they were the sort of bitches Boricio liked. Churchgoing chicks were always the biggest sluts in the bedroom, down and dirty, and ready to do the kinkiest shit. Took them a while to start, but once you got them going, well ye-fucking-haw!
Boricio figured he had everyone’s number, except the fucker with the quiet eye
s full of ideas, the one who knew Boricio was beer battering a pan full of bullshit. Boricio had played the I should’ve known there was evil in the house, what with all those Demons circling their part of the woods banshee ripping off a Band-Aid bullshit with just about every fucker in the place. Quiet Eyes was the only one who’d stared right through it.
The one fucker, John, he knew Boricio was full of shit, too. His eyes said so. But whatever his game, Boricio’s seemed to fit in with his plans, whatever they were. That wouldn’t keep John alive forever, but it would sure as hell keep him alive for now.
The Sanctuary seemed to be split into three camps. Those with The Prophet, which Boricio hadn’t seen hide nor hair of yet, and those with Brother Rei. There was a revolution coming, Boricio could smell it like a rotting corpse. Then there was the third group, led by Quiet Eyes. The fucker with the quiet eyes had a few other fuckers in his group, though Boricio couldn’t tell exactly who all quite yet. The Godfather had taught Boricio a helluva lot of shit worth learning, but none more important than keep your enemies closer. He had a lot of shit to figure out before he burned the haystack to ash. Who better to ask than the one fucker in the place who probably wouldn’t want him to know shit?
Boricio slid between Quiet Eyes and the stuck-up looking bitch, who were knee deep in private conversation. The two of them had been trying to grab some minutes together all day, and you’d have to be retarded, blind, or all of the above not to notice. Boricio wedged himself between them, then pointed out the window toward the large wooden box it seemed like everyone inside Sanctuary was trying too hard to ignore. Boricio knew what it was, figured it was the same box Dead Guard Walking had been talking about when he had ole Boricio on his knees, just before Boricio made him eat the fat side of his baseball bat.
“What’s in the box?” he said.
“What do you think it is?” Quiet Eyes didn’t turn from Stuck-Up Bitch.
“I think it’s a punishment box,” Boricio said.
Quiet Eyes moved from Stuck-Up Bitch to Boricio. “A punishment box? You say that with familiarity.”
“Oh, yeah,” Boricio nodded. “I went to school up in Arkansas. Was a small school that my daddy said would give me a good education, of the sort that came with The Good Lord’s blessing. I never had to do no time in the box, but my friend Jimmy Appel had to do a full day on account of him taking the Lord’s name. And my other friend Robby did two days for taking Sleazy Suzy off-campus without a chaperone.”
Boricio wanted to laugh out loud at how Quiet Eyes wasn’t buying a syllable of his bullshit. Boricio almost took it for granted, how easy it was to fool the foolish, since 49 out of 50 fuckers would believe whatever shit you told them, so long as you stared ‘em in the eyes when you said it, and made sure to throw in an ‘aw shucks’ every once in a while.
“Where in Arkansas?” Quiet Eyes asked.
“Up around Subiaco,” Boricio said, not missing a beat.
Quiet Eyes didn’t push the point. He said, “Yeah, it’s a punishment box. Right now it’s holding a little girl named Rebecca.”
Boricio whistled. “What’d she do?”
“She snuck out of here with an older boy. The two of them went on a picnic.” He turned to Boricio. “What do you think? Does the punishment fit the crime?”
“Well,” Boricio said. “That does seem mighty harsh to me, but if we ever needed to refine the old rules, it’s now. Wouldn’t you say?”
Quiet Eyes didn’t answer. Neither did Stuck-Up Bitch. A young guy who must’ve been part of his crew answered instead. “That’s my friend, Rebecca, in there. And she doesn’t deserve to be in there at all.”
Boricio got a sudden flash of something he didn’t like, and he got it from the kid, who had his hand out before Boricio even knew what he was doing. The kid’s hand was halfway to his when Boricio realized where he’d seen him before.
It’s the kid from my fucking dreams.
The one who goes from young fucker to old.
The one who can see right through to Boricio’s middle.
On the outside, the kid looked like he could’ve been anywhere from 17 to 20. But Boricio could see right through to his middle, too, and could hear the chanting of awe-awe-awe-awesome looping in his mind.
Boricio shook the kid’s hand, holding it as long as he could, absorbing the boy’s memories, watching him play in the bedroom of an empty house with a young bald girl, Legos assembled in half-finished wedges scattered across the floor. Boricio pulled back with a horrible feeling that he’d lost some of his life as time turned soupy inside him.
What the fuck?
The man-boy stared at Boricio, and the mind fuck he was feeling was like nothing else he’d ever felt before, at least not on this side of being awake.
Boricio went on autopilot, answering questions and doing his best to make sure everyone felt comfortable and relaxed around him, except for Man Boy and Quiet Eyes and Stuck-Up Bitch, and teenage Stuck-Up Bitch who had come up beside her. People thickened around them as more members of the congregation crowed about to hear Boricio’s tales of survival and hunting Demons on the way to his new life at The Sanctuary.
The more the congregation laughed, the more Boricio could feel Quiet Eyes and his Three Fuckerteers pulling farther away.
Boricio wanted to break from conversation and follow the Fuckerteers so he could see where they were going, but John was suddenly beside Boricio with his hand on his shoulder. Boricio pretended that the hand on his shoulder didn’t make him want to break it off at the wrist and find some wolves to feed it to. He said, “Yes, Brother John, how can I be of service?” instead.
John said, “I’d like for you to come with me, if you can spare a minute. I think you’d enjoy talking to Brother Rei. He’s dying to learn more about you. Not just your past, but what you’re good at now. He wants to make sure you’re as happy here at The Sanctuary as you can be. He’d like to talk to you about how you see yourself fitting in.”
John walked off toward the main house, and Boricio followed.
He had to get his shit together. He was losing himself to the mess in his mind. He didn’t know what to do, where to go, whom to kill, or how to do it. As is, shit was bad. Boricio always had the edge because he was always in control. If Boricio lost control, he’d lose the edge, and anything could happen then.
Boricio was also pissed as fuck that his crew had decided to bail. Maybe he’d made a mistake coming back out here to find them. Sure would be fucking nice to have some back-up right about now. Maybe Chuckie Fuckstick would have an idea or two.
What the fuck, Boricio? Get your fuckin’ act together. Who the fuck cares if those twats go their own merry fuckin’ way. Team Boricio only needs its star playa to be a winner, and that’s its hung-like-a-lion, blood of a pirate, captain.
That pep talk and his holier-than-thou surroundings had never made Boricio want to kill more.
No one was safe.
He wanted to kill all the Bible fuckers for fucking the Bible, the Stuck-Up Bitch for looking like a stuck-up bitch, and her daughter for sharing the bitchy DNA.
Boricio figured he’d have no choice but to kill the kid who could see to his middle.
But Boricio would have to start with Quiet Eyes, especially since he finally figured out what it was that pissed him off so much about the motherfucker.
Quiet Eyes thought he was better than Boricio.
Boricio could practically smell it, like a stench on his body.
And no one was better than Boricio.
Fifty-Three
Will Bishop
Fort Lauderdale, Florida
Nov. 11, 1995
Morning
It was one of those dreams. The kind he hadn’t had since a year earlier, when he’d first been warned that Sam would be injured by the drunk driver.
In this dream, warning, or blackened promise, Sam died lying in his hospital bed. Never opened his eyes, never said a word, never saw that Will was beside him. He just faded into
the long kiss goodnight. In the dream, Will cried out to whatever thing pulled the strings above the prophetic dreams that plagued him, “Why?! Why couldn’t you warn me?”
“We did, last year, and you found a loophole,” an unknown voice whispered from the warm womb in the middle of his dream. “We found a loophole to your loophole. You can’t change fate. And now it’s time to correct the error. Loopholes go round, Will. Everything in a circle. No escape.”
“But he wasn’t supposed to die in the original plan! He’d only been paralyzed,” Will shouted to the unseen voice.
“And he was . . . until you interfered.”
Will woke to the ache of the uncomfortable waiting room chair, the sound of Trudy’s voice pulling him from the mire. “Do you want to see him?”
“I thought I wasn’t allowed,” Will said, surprised.
“Yeah, well, you know how I can be,” she said, attempting a smile. Her eyes and nose were red from a long night of crying.
“How is he?”
“Not good,” she said. “There is a lot of swelling in his brain, and right now, anything could happen. He could wake up and be fine, or wake up with brain damage, or . . . He could stay in a coma and be a vegetable, or . . . die.”
Trudy’s mouth opened into a painful grimace, a long string of saliva hanging until it popped, as she let out a long wail.
Will hugged her, and held her tight as she cried on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” Will said, now crying himself.
“He really loves you,” Trudy said. “I’m so sorry that I gave you such a hard time. He must hate me so much.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Will said, hugging her harder. “He loves you, too. He thinks the world of you, Trudy. He could never hate you. Not ever.”
They hugged a while longer, until the nurse appeared, a broomstick-thin black woman who looked like she just started her shift. The same nurse from his dream.