Revelations (28 page)

Assuming I ever get the chance to do so, that is.

I try to maneuver us into a better position, keeping Jesus behind me, until I can decide what to do to get him safely out of this situation. Unfortunately, there is only one way out of this cell, and that way takes us directly into their waiting arms.

Making a break for the door would be futile at best. We certainly won’t be able to squeeze through that sorry excuse for a window, which leaves us rather stuck between the proverbial rock and the hard place. Suddenly I feel a vacuum behind me as he moves away from what small protection I afford, exposing himself to them as he walks toward the bars. What in hell does he think he’s doing? Suddenly it occurs to me this door that lies between us and them isn’t even locked. Great. At least that would’ve been a measure of protection.

The jailhouse suddenly erupts into an angry seething maelstrom. The mob, as though lit by an internal incendiary bomb, has exploded into action. I hear one shot fired, and then another, before they overwhelm the sheriff’s wife, and she’s lost from view. I’m trying to deal with the ones that are straining to reach us through the bars, screaming obscenities as they grab at us, at whatever they can reach, or get a piece of. Some of them are hurling things at us, whatever is close at hand.

Luckily most of it can’t get past the bars. What little that does is mostly ineffective.

I reach out for Jesus. I’m trying to push him behind me, out of harm’s way, but for some reason he’s resisting my attempts to save him.

“Jude, we can’t fight it.” He turns his dark sorrowful eyes toward me.

“What? The hell we can’t!” I argue. I’m kicking at the hands trying to grab for him, futile as it might be, beating them back with all my strength. I growl at the pitiful bastards, warn them to get the fuck away from us or face the consequences.

This is no time for defeatism, we’re fighting for our lives here. Or are we? Is this Lucifer’s scheme, is this the part where he takes me out and makes a heroic last-minute appearance to save Jesus, covering himself in glory in the process?

This can’t be it, my logical mind insists, it shouldn’t happen until at least after the bail hearing, and that’s tomorrow. We have at least until tomorrow. It can’t be now. So, if it isn’t now, what is this? Dammit, no, no, no. Not now! Not now!

They’re pulling at the bars in their eagerness to get to him, inflamed beyond the capacity for rational thought by the rantings of their fearless leader, and by accident they discover the secret of the unlocked door. I frantically try again to push Jesus behind me, to protect him, but he remains infuriatingly immobile.

“Jude, just know that I love you. Always. Please remember that.”

“No, no, no, don’t say that.” I tug at his arm with renewed urgency, fighting the despair that his words invoke. “Move back here, quickly…” These people are armed in ways I’d not expected, and I just want him safe and out of harm’s way.

Lucifer, where the fuck are you? If this is it, let’s get this over with. Come and take him and let me die, but just come and get him!

They’re swarming us now, and I’m fighting them desperately, trying to keep them off of Jesus, but there are too many, and they have us caught up in their clutches, and before we know what’s happening we’re being passed over their heads, like moshers at some crazy kind of concert. And the whole group is exiting the jailhouse into the coolness of the night air. I’m still struggling against them as fiercely as I can, but I’ve lost sight of my Jesus.

“Jesus!” I cry out, but my voice is swallowed by the crowd. When I’m finally set onto my feet, in this sea of crazed zealots, I can see we’re in the town square, and they’ve taken Jesus into the middle of it, onto some sort of a raised platform, a rope looped around his neck. My blood runs cold at the sight.

“Beat the sinner!” an anonymous voice in the crowd rings out, and the bloodthirsty savages echo the cry. Why is this happening? This is every nightmare I’ve ever had come true. I made a deal with Lucifer, where the fuck is he? I struggle with the assholes who hold me. Why aren’t I up there, instead of him?

When is this miracle going to occur? It better be fuck-all soon, or there’ll be hell to pay.

Before my horrified eyes, a single man emerges from the crowd, approaching my Jesus. He kicks him, hard, causing him to fall to his knees. My screams of pain are lost in the cheers of the audience, the howls of, “Sinner! Sinner!” Jesus doesn’t fight back, of course. He never does. He accepts it all, almost passively.

“Jesus!” I scream again. Do I imagine that his eyes turn toward me? Dammit! I can’t tell as someone blocks my view, a new man, and this one has a whip in his upraised hand. He’s lashing him, in long even strokes… Oh merciful God in heaven, please, not again…Wailing sirens and flashing lights. Nothing makes sense to me anymore, as I struggle in vain against the anonymous strong arm that holds me back. That should be me, why the fuck isn’t it me? Let it be me, not him…Lucifer, you prick, what’ve you done? I try to move toward him, but it’s impossible. And then a voice whispers in my ear, and I know it’s him, the bastard, and I try to get at him, struggling to hurt him as much as I can, but he has me in a chokehold I cannot break until, starved for oxygen, I suddenly lose consciousness.

I have no idea how much time has elapsed before I open my eyes once more.

But everything’s changed. I’m not where I was. In fact, I’m back at the camp, somehow. By the pond, to be precise. And very much alone. I struggle to my feet, feeling very stiff and sore. My head aches, and I reach up to touch it. Is that dried blood? Where’s Jesus? What’s happened?

“Lucifer!” I scream helplessly into the night. “Get your fucking pansy ass self down here. Now!” I’m met with only silence…for all of ten seconds. But the voices I hear don’t belong to the Lightbringer. Another country heard from.

“Betrayer!” “Bastard!” “Liar!” They hurl their epithets at me. Who? The other apostles, of course. I don’t have time for their shit now, I need to find Jesus.

Quickly.

“Where is he?” I snarl. “Where have you taken him?” I wobble unsteadily upon my feet, staggering toward them with murderous intent.

“You did it again, you killed him,” an aggrieved voice makes itself heard. My eyes focus on the overly large form of Peter. What’s he babbling about now? “You betrayed him again. I hate you, Iscariot!”

Killed him again? Oh God no, tell me it’s not so. I look for confirmation in their eyes, their faces—they all reflect the truth. Jesus is dead. And it’s my fault.

Except it’s not, I made arrangements to protect him against this. What the fuck went wrong? It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, and I might as well be. I sink to my knees, a keening wail piercing the night.

It’s my voice, my cry, my mourning of my lost love.

But I’m not to be given time to mourn. What the fuck do they care? They hated me while he was here, they have no reason to love me now. And they have the whole blaming Judas thing going on. Not that I care what they think. My reason for living has just been taken away from me. Fuck them. Fuck them all. What can they do to me now? Not a damn thing. What haven’t they done to me before? Nothing.

They’ve done everything, if you want to know the fucking truth. Stoned me to death more than once. Drowned me. Beat me. Knifed me at least three times. Run me over with a horse. You know the story in the Bible where I hung myself? Not true. It’s always been them. They’ve always been responsible for my death. I’ve never committed suicide. Ever.

So let it be them now. Let them kill me. Why the fuck not? Then I’ll be with him that much sooner. I won’t fight them. Why bother? Let’s see, who can I provoke the easiest, who has the means to do it quickly and without hesitation? Of course. Obvious choice.

“Peter, how many times did you deny him this time?” I goad the slow-witted apostle. “Three? Four? Five?” C’mon, you big ox, I silently pray, c’mon and do your thing.

The others shout their encouragement at him, but it isn’t needed. He lumbers straight for me and begins to pummel me with those huge meaty fists. Not quite the broken neck I was hoping for, but it’ll have to do. That’s right, to the head, Peter, to the head. I think I hear Thomas calling my name, yelling at Peter to stop. And Mary M, too. But it’s too late…too late…going to Jesus…I’m going to Jesus…I’m going…

The concert is amazing! It’s the most incredible thing ever! That light show—I can’t even describe it, it’s just the best that ever was! Stupid Judas for not letting us have one before! When Jesus gets out of jail, we’re going to talk to him about it, see if he can’t make Judas let us have our own. We outnumber him, after all.

Surely that counts for something. Besides, it’s Judas’ fault the Master was arrested, his fault he’s in jail, so who cares what he thinks anyway?

You know what I wish? That Lucifer would take Judas away from us, so far away that he can never find his way back. We don’t need him, we never have.

After the concert’s over, and everyone’s gone, we all party together with some of Mary M’s music friends. They’re so cool, with a capital C! That one guy, the one Mary calls E, is flirting with some of us, but not me. Mary has her arm around my waist, and I’m so happy I think I’ll simply die. Not really, but you know, like figuratively.

We’re sitting around, doing shots, laughing and partying. Someone passes around a joint. I like the way it makes me feel, all light and fluffy, like a cloud. I rock back and forth, Mary and I together, and when she kisses me…it feels even better than it ever has, and I’m thinking I might ask her to stay with me tonight, it seems like she might want to…

Mary’s phone’s vibrating. I can feel it, since I’m touching her. Someone’s texting her. She’s so popular, she is, she’s the most beautiful woman in the wo

—”What’s wrong, Mary?” Something’s wrong, I can see it in her eyes. She’s just holding her phone, but she isn’t saying a word. “Mary, answer me, please?” She doesn’t respond, so I take the phone out of her hand.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It can’t be true, no, it can’t be.

“What’s up?” Andrew asks, his question echoed by the others. I don’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I have to tell them, they have a right to know.

“Jesus is dead.” I can’t even believe it, and neither can they. They’re all yelling and crying and the visitors are yelling and crying, too, though I don’t think they really get it. They think we’re talking about the lead singer of the Apostles, the one we had the benefit for, not Jesus Christ, our savior.

“I have to tell his mother,” Mary’s saying. She looks as stunned as we feel, but she gets up, shaking our her skirts—she’s wearing the most beautiful dress, even if we’re all sitting in the grass; she isn’t the kind of girl who worries about that sort of thing. She goes back to the tent. Mary’s sleeping there. I’m glad I don’t have to be the one to tell her that her son is dead—again.

“It’s his fault, you know.” Simon’s openly weeping. We all are.

“Whose?” Thomas asks. How can he be so blind? Who else? The betrayer, of course.

“Where is he?” I ask, not bothering to answer the stupid question. Without waiting for an answer we all head for the pond. Who knows if he’s there or not, but it’s the first place we think of. We’re almost there when we can hear him, screaming. Sounds like he’s yelling at Lucifer. I don’t care. I don’t care about him at all. He’s a worthless piece of slime. And he’s killed him again. Killed our Jesus.

I’m so angry, I could kill Judas myself.

There he is. Ranting and raving at no one. Everyone begins to yell at him, but he doesn’t seem to care. Looks like he’s been in a fight. He’s a coward, he should have died to save Jesus, but obviously he didn’t. And he has the nerve to yell at us now?

“Where is he? Where have you taken him?” he asks us.

Stupid ass. Do we look like we have him with us? You’re the one that betrayed him, left him to die, you coward.

Peter yells at Judas, telling him it’s his fault Jesus is dead. He acts like he didn’t know, but he had to. He’s putting on his own act now, trying to save his sorry skin. Well, it won’t help. I hope Peter kills him, I really do.

I grab Thomas, just in case he’s thinking about interfering, ’cause I know he’s soft on Judas. Thomas is screaming to Peter to stop, but it won’t help. Mary M is here now too, and she’s yelling, but it’s too late. Peter just killed Judas Iscariot.

Good work, Peter.

I will myself to stay calm, even as I look at the text message in disbelief. We just saw him a few hours ago, what could have possibly happened in that short time? What in the world’s going on here? I have to wake Mary, she has to know. I take my phone back from Matthew, getting up from the ground. My skirts are wet, but I don’t care. I have to sort out what’s going on, make some sense out of all of this.

As I approach the tent, I receive a call. Now what, I wonder, as I check the caller ID. This one’s from Sheriff Kaplan. My heart turns cold with dread, as I answer it.

“Miss Mary, there’s been some trouble at the jail,” he begins. I don’t want to hear what he’s about to tell me, don’t want to hear the actual words. I enter the tent apprehensively. I can see Mary’s awake, and she’s looking at me like she knows already. I’m not even sure how that’s possible, but she has her ways.

“He’s…he’s dead…” I blurt out the words into the phone, although I’m undoubtedly telling him something he already knows, but I have this desire to say it first, rather than listen to it, although there’s no way to make it any better no matter what I do. I reach for Mary’s hand, squeeze it, trying to convey all the sympathy and sorrow I can through my fingers, trying not to cry, but I know that won’t last long.

She returns my squeeze, whispers, “Stay strong.”

She
is comforting
me
? I should be comforting her. The world has truly gone insane. I almost miss what the sheriff is saying, but suddenly my attention is riveted on the phone in my hand.