Cruel World (22 page)

“So you’re a phony,” Quinn said, slowly trying to work his hands from beneath the straps, but they were too tight.

“Hey now, that hurts. I’m an opportunist, always have been. I got pissed on when I was younger, and I vowed never to let that happen again. But lately there’s been some dissent. This plague comes along and wipes out humanity, and you’d think it would be a minister’s dream, right? All these people looking to me for guidance and words of wisdom. Instead they’re frantic for an answer. Why did this happen? And doesn’t God love us?” Archer waved his hand through the air in disgust. “Bunch of fucking whiners.”

Quinn tried to slide his legs to one side beneath the strap, but there was no room to maneuver. And each time he moved, a bomb of pain would go off inside his skull. The room tilted and then leveled.

“Shit happens, that’s the absolute truth, one you can live by. And I’d quit trying to get out of bed; you’re going to make yourself pass out again. I’m guessing you’ve got a concussion, or two of them.”

“So I’m your answer,” Quinn said, closing his eyes as nausea surged inside him. “I’m your scapegoat.”

“Damn, Quinn, you’re a smart guy. I like you. I’d almost like to keep you around just to chat with. This has been really liberating for me since there’s zero people that I can speak freely with.” Archer rose from his seat and returned to the stove, banking it with another chunk of wood. “I know you didn’t cause the plague, Quinn. I’m guessing you just have some genetic disease that made you so ugly. But my congregation’s been looking for an answer, and if they don’t get it soon, I’ll be the one they blame. When I saw you, I planted the seed in their minds that you’re responsible somehow. And Helena, the woman who was questioning you, already told everyone you confessed to being a demon and promised their demise. Your fate was sealed even before we started talking. You see, we can kill the thin bastards all day long on the bridge and it won’t give the congregation what they want.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Quinn asked, trying to raise his head.

Archer prodded at the fire with a steel poker, his eyes focused on the flames.

“We’re going to burn you tonight, Quinn. That’s the answer they’re looking for.”

Without another word or glance back, Archer left the room, locking the door behind him.

~

The sun crossed the window of the room in a silent arc of time. Quinn watched it glide past when he wasn’t struggling against his restraints. Dizziness came and went, but the pain in his head was constant.

After hours alone, a woman entered the room carrying a glass of water. She was close to his age with dark red hair that hung down past her shoulders. As she approached the bed, her hand shook and some of the water slopped over the rim, spilling on the bed. Before he could say anything, she tipped the glass toward his mouth, pouring much too fast for him to drink. He choked and sputtered, turning his head away as the sheets beneath him became soaked. When the glass was empty, the woman hurried from the room, slamming the door behind her.

The room darkened further as the sun dropped below the horizon. Even though his nerves felt as though they were full of electricity, Quinn drifted off to sleep beneath the exhaustion of struggling to get free. When he awoke, the window next to the bed was a square of darkness, and the only light in the room came from the guttering fire. A sound rose moments later as he was trying to loosen the strap across his waist. It took him nearly a full minute to realize what it was.

People were singing outside the house.

The door to the room swung open, and Archer, along with half a dozen men, entered the room.

“We know that we are from God and the power of the whole world lies in the power of the evil one,” Archer said in his booming voice. “Be not afraid, brothers; the demon cannot harm you while in my presence. He may speak in lies, so do not listen, for then you shall be at the mercy of the burning evil that we fight day in and out.”

The men surrounded the bed and unstrapped the bindings across his body. As soon as they were loose, Quinn lunged sideways, bashing his fist into the nose of a scrawny man wearing a long beard. Blood poured from the man’s nose, but he merely wiped it away and helped the others grasp Quinn’s arms and legs.

“Stop! I didn’t do anything! I was just trying to cross the bridge,” Quinn said as the men stood him on his feet and held him fast by the arms.

“You were coming to destroy the last haven of the world, demon; do not lie,” Archer said, and drew the sign of the cross in the air before Quinn’s face. “Come, brothers, let us proceed before it can call its brethren.”

They dragged him from the room. He kicked and struggled but couldn’t break free of the men’s holds. Weakness pervaded his body, and each time he attempted to escape, his strength receded from him like the sun sliding behind the trees.

They hauled him out through Archer’s home and into the night. Crickets chirped. Insects hummed. But above all the other evening sounds was the singing.

The entire congregation was there, all of them holding candles. Men, women, children, young, old, their faces all danced in the glow of flames held near their chests. Quinn tried counting their number but lost track as the men holding him guided him through the watching crowd. The song they sang was something he’d never heard before, all the words Latin. He’d only learned a few phrases in the ancient language from Theresa, and the congregation was singing none of them.

They pulled him past the church, the steel Jesus looking down on him from his cross. The flickering shadows thrown by the candles changed the savior’s pain-stricken face into something malevolent and sneering as they passed by. Beyond the church was an open communal area ringed by tables and dozens of chairs. Several small fires burned in a broad circle, illuminating enough of the center for Quinn to see what waited there.

A post with thick rope attached through its middle sat amongst piles of dry bramble.

Quinn dug his heels into the ground, and the men forced him along. He glanced around the clearing. Beyond the sacrificial pyre was the wooden fence, a solid gate well over twelve feet high set into its length. Two guards stood watch there, rifles cradled in the crooks of their arms, their faces impassive. Several children skipped ahead of the mass, their laughter intermingling with the constant song rising from the people. Quinn threw all his weight to one side and then the other, but the men held fast, their fingers like bands of steel digging into his flesh.

They brought him to a stop before the post and its fuel beneath. He recognized one of his own gas cans beside the dry tinder.

Quinn began to shake, tremors flowing up from his feet to his shoulders and back down again. His bladder threatened to let go, but he managed to hold it as the song gradually came to an end and faded away. The gathering encircled him and stood watching as Archer stepped forward. He held a silver cup in one hand along with something that looked like a blunted spoon inside it. Liquid glinted within.

“I condemn thee, demon, of crimes against the faithful. For burdening our beautiful world with your presence and the pestilence your kind has brought upon us. With this holy water, your flesh is cleansed.” Archer made a flicking movement with his wrist, and droplets of the liquid speckled Quinn’s arms and face.

It burned like fire.

Quinn cried out and shook his head. The places where the water had landed were like wasp stings, burrowing beneath his skin. There was a collective gasp that ran through the crowd, and Archer turned to them, holding up the silver cup.

“You see, it cannot stand the sanctity of the church, the strength of our faith! It fears us, and in good right, for now we shall send it back to the hell whence it came!”

A roar of voices erupted from the congregation. The burns where the liquid had landed still stung, but he muscled past the pain and straightened. The people before him all had their candles raised in triumph. Some swayed in place, heads tilted back to the dark sky. Others merely stared at him, the flames they held illuminating the hatred in their eyes.

Archer motioned to the men holding Quinn, and they shoved him across the pile of brush and branches to a clear place before the vertical post. In a few quick movements, they bound him to it with the rope, wrapping his arms tight to his body and knotting it on the opposite side. When he was bound, they moved away to join their loved ones, lighting candles as they turned back to watch. Archer stepped closer, his deep-set eyes dancing, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“The acetic acid was a nice touch, don’t you think?” Archer whispered, swirling the cup around in front of Quinn’s face. “Pure inspiration.” Quinn tried not to tremble and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Quinn, for your sacrifice. I know it doesn’t mean a lot, but I really do appreciate it.”

“Fuck you,” Quinn said, staring into Archer’s eyes. Archer shrugged and stepped back before placing the silver cup on the ground. He grasped the open gas can in one hand and began to douse the branches near Quinn’s feet. With a toss, Archer sloshed some gas on the ropes binding him. The smell was overwhelming and Quinn gagged, the fumes in his nose and throat. His head floated above his body and he coughed, blinking away the tears that flooded his eyes.

It was almost here.

The pain was going to be immense. Beyond anything he’d ever felt before. How long after the flames reached him would it take to pass out? Seconds? Minutes? He shuddered and a sob escaped him. The cries of the mob rose as Archer emptied the last of the can and tossed it away. The minister accepted a long, black candle from a woman in the crowd and turned back to him.

“You came to destroy our home, our world, our faith. You have been defeated, demon, cast out by the righteous hand of God and now destroyed by his eternal servants of salvation.” Archer moved forward, the candle flame licking at the air.

Quinn tipped his head back, found the stars above.

They’ll be waiting when it’s over. I’ll be home again.

He tried to keep his focus upward and away from everything around him, but his eyes flitted down to Archer as he stopped at the edge of the pyre.

Archer winked and lowered the candle.

There was a buzzing sound and then a wet thock as Archer’s throat exploded in a spray of blood and bone.

Archer’s mouth dropped open, and he let the candle fall to the ground. It fluttered and went out as it hit the gravel. There was a silence, fathoms deep, and then a woman screamed.

Archer’s knees gave and he fell, his head tipping back to expose the open wound at his throat. It was wide and gushing blood. He brought a hand up as if to stanch it, but let it fall away. His eyes found Quinn’s, such disbelief there, and then he flopped forward onto his stomach.

Gunshots popped from the far side of the fence, and a guard near the gate fell clutching his shoulder. The congregation became a stampede of yelling people. Most ran toward the church, their cries trailing behind them as they left the circle of light. Candles fell and winked out. There was more gunfire, and Quinn squinted, trying to make out the shooter. A man with a shotgun pumped round after round into the darkness as he walked calmly toward the fence, his barrel spitting three feet of flame. He fired his last shot and waited, shoulders back, stance ready.

A muzzle flash came from twenty feet away, and his head snapped to the side, a chunk of skull spinning away like a hair-covered Frisbee. A black figure raced out of the darkness, an AR-15 swinging back and forth. There was something familiar about how the person moved.

One of the smaller fires flared, and Alice’s white face turned in his direction.

“Oh my God,” Quinn said as she neared. She wore black cargo pants, a black long-sleeve t-shirt, and black hiking boots. Alice swung her rifle around the yard once more and then leapt over the gas-soaked bramble.

“Hey. You look surprised to see me,” she said, moving past him to the back of the post. He felt a tug on the rope binding him as she began to work at the knot.

“I…I can’t…” Quinn said.

“You can’t go anywhere with this fucking pole on your back; that’s what you can’t do,” Alice replied, yanking harder. Quinn looked up, scanning the area for anyone, but it was only them and the men Alice had shot. As he watched, a bright ember floated away from the nearest fire and flew toward them. Instead of winking out, it glowed brighter and descended toward the base of the pyre.

“Shit. Alice, hurry,” he said leaning forward against the rope.

“I’m trying.”

The ember settled to the ground and out of sight.

He held his breath.

Nothing.

“Thank you,” Quinn said, all the strength going out of his body.

Fire leapt into the darkness, flowing like it was being poured into existence. It licked up through the dry tinder, tongues of flame rising higher and higher. The pressure on the ropes stopped. Quinn jerked his head to the side.

Alice was backing away, her rifle hanging from a sling around her shoulders. Her eyes were blank, hands up in a warding off gesture.

“What are you doing? Help me!”

She glanced up at him, but the glaze upon her eyes was a mile thick. She was gone.

“Alice, get the rope off me!”