crossmyheartandhope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2019-06-13 08:34 pm
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2019-06-13 08:34 pm
Entry tags:
Memory 13: Cruel
The man with the megaphone is wearing long, white robes.
Or at least, they used to be white. They’re kind of a sickly grey now, especially near the hem, where they’re so caked with grime they come close to black.
He has a shaggy black beard, and dark, watchful eyes. Every now and then, he lowers the megaphone so that he can use his other hand to shield his eyes from the sun, peering out at the surrounding debris.
He hasn’t seen Hurricane yet, and that’s on purpose.
Hurricane’s been watching him for the better part of an hour, checking for tells.
He doesn’t know what to look for, is the problem. Last month, when the guy down by the docks pulled a gun on him, he’d seemed just fine, right up until he wasn’t.
"Therefore are they before the throne of God,” says the man, into the megaphone, “And serve him day and night in his temple: and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.”
He’s been saying things like that for as long as Hurricane’s been watching. It might be the Bible, he thinks. It’s definitely pretty preachy.
But the guy seems okay? Calm and coherent, like he’s trying to draw other people to him.
The church behind the guy seems okay, too. It’s mostly in one piece, even though the stained glass windows facing Hurricane’s hiding place have all been shattered. The roof is intact, and all the walls. There’s still a door that looks like it has working hinges.
If there was going to be a place for people to get together and take shelter, this wouldn’t be a bad one.
“For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them,” says the man with the megaphone. “And shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."
Hurricane takes a careful breath in, and he lets it out slow. He stands up, giving away his cover.
The man with the megaphone stops talking. His mouth falls open, and his eyes go wide.
“Hey,” says Hurricane, awkward.
The man smiles, and his grin is a flash of white in the dark tangle of his beard. “I had begun to lose faith,” he says, “that there was anyone left to find. And yet while I dwelled in despair, the Lord was guiding you to me.”
“Uh,” says Hurricane. “I guess?”
“Have you been on your own all this time?” says the man. “My word. You’re just a child.”
“I’m almost eleven,” says Hurricane.
“Ah,” says the man. “My mistake. Practically grown.” He lowers the megaphone to his side, posture open and unthreatening. “Still, it’s hard to be by yourself, when the city’s like this. There’s strength in numbers.”
Hurricane hesitates. He nods toward the church. “So you’ve got numbers?”
“Near thirty now,” says the man.
Hurricane cocks his head to one side, listening. He doesn’t hear the murmur of voices from inside the broken windows, but a moment later a woman’s voice rings out: “Have you found another, Father?”
“A boy,” says the man. “He’s on his own.”
“I’m not,” says Hurricane. “I mean, right now I am. But my ma’s waiting for me.”
The man nods, serenely. “Of course,” he says. “And your mother is welcome, too. There is plenty of space for wandering sheep in my flock.”
Hurricane pauses. He frowns at the man. He says, “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” says the man. “As God in heaven offers succor to those who have suffered, so too must I do what little I can here on earth.”
Hurricane fixes him with a long, evaluating look.
“Bring your mother,” says the man. “Before the day the skies were torn apart, we put away supplies against the great earthquake yet to come. No earthquake came, but behold: the city has fallen, and the food stores remain. God has provided.”
It seems to Hurricane that the people are the ones who provided, by getting ready for a disaster, but the man has been nothing but nice so far, so instead he says, “And you're just, like. You’re just giving it out?”
“Oh,” says the man, and his voice is low and sympathetic. “Oh, my dear child. You must be hungry. Come and eat. Meet the rest of my flock. You are welcome to stay, if you wish.”
Hurricane swallows, hard. Divine intervention or not, an actual meal seems a little like a miracle.
He glances the man over one last time: the robes, and the smile, and the mostly standing church. Then he starts to clamber down the incline of debris – the wreckage that used to be another building. He’s steady on his feet, one flesh and one metal; he walks on the prosthetic like it’s a part of him, though his gait is slightly crooked.
At ground level, the man looks less threatening. He’s tall and broad – almost two feet taller than Hurricane – but something about the way he stands is genuine and disarming. The shoes below the robe are sneakers. They were also white, once upon a time.
“Come now,” says the man. “Let’s get you taken care of.”
“You sure?” says Hurricane, though he falls in beside the man as he turns to walk toward the church. “Thirty people’s like. A ton to take care of already.”
“I’m quite sure,” says the man.
He pulls wide the door to the church. Inside, light is streaming in through the shattered windows, the late afternoon sun catching the dust motes, slow and lazy. The rest of the room is dark, all elegant lines and deep shadows. In the dim lighting, he can just make out a woman standing up near the altar, bent over like she’s tidying up.
The pews are full.
There are a lot of people – more people than he’s seen in one place since the day the skies were torn apart.
He squints, half sun-blind from stepping into the church from bright daylight; the silhouettes are men and women and children. They’re facing forward, as though expecting a sermon to begin at any moment.
Hurricane takes another step in, and then he smells it.
The scent of decay is overwhelming; it hits him like a fist to the gut. He’s seen enough corpses since the city fell to know the smell that comes with one, and his eyes sweep the room again, frantic – take in that not a single one of the figures in the pews has moved.
He hisses in a sharp breath – starts to back out.
The man with the megaphone says, “Hush,” and that’s when Hurricane realizes he’s making a small sound somewhere in this throat, reedy and frightened.
“Hush,” says the man again, and sets his hand on Hurricane’s shoulder just as he turns to bolt.
The grip is tight and then grows tighter.
“Mary,” says the man. “I’ve found another little lost lamb. Will you help me get him ready?”
“Of course, Father,” says the woman at the altar. She stands, and begins to walk down the stairs toward them. As Hurricane’s eyes adjust, he can see that she’s holding a knife.
He squirms – struggles to twist free.
“Look,” says Hurricane. “I don’t want to bug you. Just – just lemme go, okay? I won’t come by here again, I promise.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” says the man. “As I said: all are welcome.”
The woman from the altar is here, now. Her hair is lank and greasy; it hangs down in her face, and she smiles, but the smile is vacant. She holds the knife out, hilt first, and Hurricane’s breath catches in his throat.
He makes a grab for it, just a beat too late.
The man’s thick hand closes around the hilt before he gets there, and he lifts it up, casually, to wag it in front of Hurricane’s face, as though scolding a small child. “Now, now,” says the man. “Is that any way to say thank you for the hospitality?”
“No,” says Hurricane. “Sorry. Sorry, I –”
The knife closes in, until the blade presses against Hurricane’s right cheek. Then it keeps pressing, and keeps pressing, until the skin splits and blood spills down, only a little at first, but then a stream of it.
“Shhh,” says the man with the knife. “No need for apologies.”
He takes the knife away, solemn and almost reverent. Hurricane has started to cry; the tears are hot on his cheeks, and he can’t seem to get enough air.
“Mary,” says the man. “Clear a spot for him, won’t you?”
“Yes, Father,” says Mary, and turns to walk back up the aisle between the pews again.
Now, thinks Hurricane, half frantic. It has to be now.
He hasn’t had a martial arts class since he lost his leg, but the moves are on autopilot – and now, when he slams his right heel back into the man’s shin and follows it up with a knee to the gut, the limb is harder, heavier, and way less forgiving.
The man gasps in surprise and pain, hunching forward.
He’s blocking the door entirely, but Hurricane’s not a very large boy; he dives to the floor and squirms between his legs. A hand catches at his shirt, and he scrambles forward for all he’s worth; the fabric tears, and he’s free, face still streaming blood, eyes still streaming tears.
The man’s footsteps are heavy behind him as he follows – crooked, as though he’s limping.
Hurricane doesn’t stop to see. He doesn’t stop for anything, not until he’s twenty-three blocks away, wild-eyed and lungs burning, when he wedges himself into what’s left of a stairwell and cries until the sun goes down.
Or at least, they used to be white. They’re kind of a sickly grey now, especially near the hem, where they’re so caked with grime they come close to black.
He has a shaggy black beard, and dark, watchful eyes. Every now and then, he lowers the megaphone so that he can use his other hand to shield his eyes from the sun, peering out at the surrounding debris.
He hasn’t seen Hurricane yet, and that’s on purpose.
Hurricane’s been watching him for the better part of an hour, checking for tells.
He doesn’t know what to look for, is the problem. Last month, when the guy down by the docks pulled a gun on him, he’d seemed just fine, right up until he wasn’t.
"Therefore are they before the throne of God,” says the man, into the megaphone, “And serve him day and night in his temple: and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.”
He’s been saying things like that for as long as Hurricane’s been watching. It might be the Bible, he thinks. It’s definitely pretty preachy.
But the guy seems okay? Calm and coherent, like he’s trying to draw other people to him.
The church behind the guy seems okay, too. It’s mostly in one piece, even though the stained glass windows facing Hurricane’s hiding place have all been shattered. The roof is intact, and all the walls. There’s still a door that looks like it has working hinges.
If there was going to be a place for people to get together and take shelter, this wouldn’t be a bad one.
“For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them,” says the man with the megaphone. “And shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."
Hurricane takes a careful breath in, and he lets it out slow. He stands up, giving away his cover.
The man with the megaphone stops talking. His mouth falls open, and his eyes go wide.
“Hey,” says Hurricane, awkward.
The man smiles, and his grin is a flash of white in the dark tangle of his beard. “I had begun to lose faith,” he says, “that there was anyone left to find. And yet while I dwelled in despair, the Lord was guiding you to me.”
“Uh,” says Hurricane. “I guess?”
“Have you been on your own all this time?” says the man. “My word. You’re just a child.”
“I’m almost eleven,” says Hurricane.
“Ah,” says the man. “My mistake. Practically grown.” He lowers the megaphone to his side, posture open and unthreatening. “Still, it’s hard to be by yourself, when the city’s like this. There’s strength in numbers.”
Hurricane hesitates. He nods toward the church. “So you’ve got numbers?”
“Near thirty now,” says the man.
Hurricane cocks his head to one side, listening. He doesn’t hear the murmur of voices from inside the broken windows, but a moment later a woman’s voice rings out: “Have you found another, Father?”
“A boy,” says the man. “He’s on his own.”
“I’m not,” says Hurricane. “I mean, right now I am. But my ma’s waiting for me.”
The man nods, serenely. “Of course,” he says. “And your mother is welcome, too. There is plenty of space for wandering sheep in my flock.”
Hurricane pauses. He frowns at the man. He says, “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” says the man. “As God in heaven offers succor to those who have suffered, so too must I do what little I can here on earth.”
Hurricane fixes him with a long, evaluating look.
“Bring your mother,” says the man. “Before the day the skies were torn apart, we put away supplies against the great earthquake yet to come. No earthquake came, but behold: the city has fallen, and the food stores remain. God has provided.”
It seems to Hurricane that the people are the ones who provided, by getting ready for a disaster, but the man has been nothing but nice so far, so instead he says, “And you're just, like. You’re just giving it out?”
“Oh,” says the man, and his voice is low and sympathetic. “Oh, my dear child. You must be hungry. Come and eat. Meet the rest of my flock. You are welcome to stay, if you wish.”
Hurricane swallows, hard. Divine intervention or not, an actual meal seems a little like a miracle.
He glances the man over one last time: the robes, and the smile, and the mostly standing church. Then he starts to clamber down the incline of debris – the wreckage that used to be another building. He’s steady on his feet, one flesh and one metal; he walks on the prosthetic like it’s a part of him, though his gait is slightly crooked.
At ground level, the man looks less threatening. He’s tall and broad – almost two feet taller than Hurricane – but something about the way he stands is genuine and disarming. The shoes below the robe are sneakers. They were also white, once upon a time.
“Come now,” says the man. “Let’s get you taken care of.”
“You sure?” says Hurricane, though he falls in beside the man as he turns to walk toward the church. “Thirty people’s like. A ton to take care of already.”
“I’m quite sure,” says the man.
He pulls wide the door to the church. Inside, light is streaming in through the shattered windows, the late afternoon sun catching the dust motes, slow and lazy. The rest of the room is dark, all elegant lines and deep shadows. In the dim lighting, he can just make out a woman standing up near the altar, bent over like she’s tidying up.
The pews are full.
There are a lot of people – more people than he’s seen in one place since the day the skies were torn apart.
He squints, half sun-blind from stepping into the church from bright daylight; the silhouettes are men and women and children. They’re facing forward, as though expecting a sermon to begin at any moment.
Hurricane takes another step in, and then he smells it.
The scent of decay is overwhelming; it hits him like a fist to the gut. He’s seen enough corpses since the city fell to know the smell that comes with one, and his eyes sweep the room again, frantic – take in that not a single one of the figures in the pews has moved.
He hisses in a sharp breath – starts to back out.
The man with the megaphone says, “Hush,” and that’s when Hurricane realizes he’s making a small sound somewhere in this throat, reedy and frightened.
“Hush,” says the man again, and sets his hand on Hurricane’s shoulder just as he turns to bolt.
The grip is tight and then grows tighter.
“Mary,” says the man. “I’ve found another little lost lamb. Will you help me get him ready?”
“Of course, Father,” says the woman at the altar. She stands, and begins to walk down the stairs toward them. As Hurricane’s eyes adjust, he can see that she’s holding a knife.
He squirms – struggles to twist free.
“Look,” says Hurricane. “I don’t want to bug you. Just – just lemme go, okay? I won’t come by here again, I promise.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” says the man. “As I said: all are welcome.”
The woman from the altar is here, now. Her hair is lank and greasy; it hangs down in her face, and she smiles, but the smile is vacant. She holds the knife out, hilt first, and Hurricane’s breath catches in his throat.
He makes a grab for it, just a beat too late.
The man’s thick hand closes around the hilt before he gets there, and he lifts it up, casually, to wag it in front of Hurricane’s face, as though scolding a small child. “Now, now,” says the man. “Is that any way to say thank you for the hospitality?”
“No,” says Hurricane. “Sorry. Sorry, I –”
The knife closes in, until the blade presses against Hurricane’s right cheek. Then it keeps pressing, and keeps pressing, until the skin splits and blood spills down, only a little at first, but then a stream of it.
“Shhh,” says the man with the knife. “No need for apologies.”
He takes the knife away, solemn and almost reverent. Hurricane has started to cry; the tears are hot on his cheeks, and he can’t seem to get enough air.
“Mary,” says the man. “Clear a spot for him, won’t you?”
“Yes, Father,” says Mary, and turns to walk back up the aisle between the pews again.
Now, thinks Hurricane, half frantic. It has to be now.
He hasn’t had a martial arts class since he lost his leg, but the moves are on autopilot – and now, when he slams his right heel back into the man’s shin and follows it up with a knee to the gut, the limb is harder, heavier, and way less forgiving.
The man gasps in surprise and pain, hunching forward.
He’s blocking the door entirely, but Hurricane’s not a very large boy; he dives to the floor and squirms between his legs. A hand catches at his shirt, and he scrambles forward for all he’s worth; the fabric tears, and he’s free, face still streaming blood, eyes still streaming tears.
The man’s footsteps are heavy behind him as he follows – crooked, as though he’s limping.
Hurricane doesn’t stop to see. He doesn’t stop for anything, not until he’s twenty-three blocks away, wild-eyed and lungs burning, when he wedges himself into what’s left of a stairwell and cries until the sun goes down.