Hell Followed with Us(13)
What a terrible thing to wonder. That’s Mom in my head, all the Sunday school lessons, all the preachers at the pulpit, finding reasons for why the slaughter of nine billion people was God’s righteous plan.
I put on my shoes and push aside the curtain.
Outside the apartment, early-morning sun comes in through small windows at the gym ceiling. In the narrow path between rooms, I’m just someone else getting ready for the day—one of all the people stretching, leaning over the tops of their rooms to whisper to a friend, groggily wandering out to the lobby. More pride flags hang from the walls and drawings are tacked next to torn-out pages of books and other tokens, necklaces and charm bracelets and all sorts of things held up to ward off evil.
More than anything, the ALC is quiet. Good morning and wake up, asshole and go get the job before someone takes it are all whispers, from raspy to gentle and everything in between, but never loud. As if Angels are pressing their ears to the outside, waiting to strike if they hear the smallest sound.
Following a voice’s advice, I go out to the chalkboard. Forty names wait for the day’s chores, with the Watch in the corner. A boy picks up a piece of chalk from the bottom of the board and jots his name down for maintenance duty. Sarmat, he spells out and hands it to me.
I need to do something. Make up for the ALC taking me in. Or give my hands something to do to keep them from shaking, give my head something to focus on besides the rot trickling between my fingers.
I scrape my name down under cleaning duty.
Benji.
It’s the first time I’ve written it. That’s me. That’s me. I savor it until the person behind me clears their throat. I pass the chalk along.
I skip breakfast—I’m not hungry, and I don’t want to bother anyone by asking what the food protocols are here—and end up in the kitchen with a rag and a small bucket of soapy water. Gray water; no good for drinking. The kitchen is bright with glaring paint colors, trying and failing to liven up a Spartan room. A few people in the back huddle around plates of scavenged food.
By the sink, Faith makes coffee on a battery-operated heating coil. My head spins at the scent. I haven’t smelled coffee since Mom brought us to New Nazareth. It’s so sweet and strong, I can almost taste it.
I set my bucket down on the counter and lean against the sink—it’s not a sink that works, since there’s no running water, but still. Faith looks over with a start.
“Scared me for a second there,” she says, rubbing the bags under her eyes. Even though she has more muscle than most people and half a foot on me, she looks small. “You’re so quiet. Benji, right?”
“Yeah. I just wanted to…” How am I supposed to word this? “Thank you for what you guys did yesterday. I’m really sorry about your friend.”
“People die,” Faith says roughly. “He knew what he was getting into when he joined.” Her throat tenses as she turns back to the coffee, watching it brew. “You want some? This is for Aisha, but I think I made too much. She’ll be pissed if I waste it.”
“I’ll try it.”
Faith raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never had coffee before?”
“No? Should I have?”
“Hmm. Maybe not. You’re, like, what? Fourteen?”
Fourteen was probably just her being polite. I could be mistaken for twelve on a bad day. Dad used to say my baby face would serve me well when I grew up, so I consider it a waste. “Sixteen, actually.”
“I’m teasing,” Faith says. “Give it a shot.”
When the coffee’s done, she gives me a swallow’s worth in a mug. It smells amazing, but it’s so dark, it’s almost black. I remember it being a nice, warm brown in movies.
I carefully pull down my mask and bring it to my lips.
Oh no. I cough and splutter. A few heads turn. “This tastes like dirt!”
For the first time, Faith manages a laugh and takes a handful of brightly colored sugar packets from the drawer beside me. There aren’t many left. “Yeah, it’s awful. That’s why you don’t drink it plain. You want sugar? I think we can spare some.”
“No, thank you. I think you’ve put me off it forever.”
“More for the rest of us. Actually, have you seen Aisha? I don’t want this to get cold…”
Faith leans against the wall to wait, and I start scrubbing the counters. It’s relaxing: sweeping, cleaning up, doing things with my hands. In New Nazareth, it never mattered that I was the only child of Reverend Mother Woodside—I still had to do chores like everybody else. There’s something about menial work that lets your brain go quiet, something satisfying in the way your arms and feet ache afterward. Something to be proud of in looking across a clean room and knowing you’ve done your part.
Even then, I’m watching Faith from the corner of my eye, the shaved stubble of her head and the scars above her low-cut tank top. That kind of outfit would get her torn to pieces in New Nazareth. There’s so much freedom here. And so many different kinds of people too. I swear I’ve seen more nonwhite faces than white. I’ve spent the past five years of my life looking at so many shades of white people that I’ve been doing double takes, then gluing my eyes to my shoes, because that’s rude.
What gets me most of all, though, is that everybody here is a nonbeliever. All of them. Not a single one believes in the Angelic Movement. Not a single one has given themselves to God in the exact way the Angels demand it. Every person is someone I’ve been taught to hate since I first stepped foot in New Nazareth. I checked Nick and Erin for weapons and demanded they back away, I’ve held tension in my shoulders so hard for the past few hours that they hurt—and the ALC has done nothing but offer me coffee and a place to sleep.