Hell Followed with Us(38)

“Already did.”

“—that isn’t I’m fine because holy shit, dude, none of us are.”

Nick kicks his feet up on the wall.

“Or we can just hang out,” I say. He snorts, almost as if he finds it funny, which would be a first. “That’s cool too.”

Theo and I used to do this kind of thing. New Nazareth rose from the ashes of a university in the northern quarter of Acheson, and we imagined the students would be jealous of the free rein we had of restricted areas and old basements. Our favorite place was the roof of the student union, where we would chase carrion birds, hide from our parents, and study the world beyond the gates. At first, we watched endless streams of cars and the flashing lights of the city, telling stories of the lives of nonbelievers far beyond us. Then, after Judgment Day, we stared at utter silence, at lights slowly snuffing out, at the world grinding to a bloody, sin-soaked halt.

I look over my shoulder at the city now; at the skyscrapers that are only just starting to bear the scars of abandonment, the green peeking through cracks in the sidewalk, ponds gathering in dips in the road. February is the end of spring. Soon, the city will become sweltering and nigh uninhabitable. Revelation 8:7—And the first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth; and the third part of trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up. Come April, the world will be parched. The river surrounding the city will become a siren song, coaxing animals toward the rapids and smashing them against the rocks. Dasheth thy little ones against the stones.

Theo’s back.

He still loves me.

If I could cry, I would. It’s only been a handful of weeks since I last saw him, but it feels like we’ve been apart forever. I had to pull a knife to keep from falling into his arms, begging him to forgive the transgression that made him raise a hand against me. He did it to me, he hurt me, and I wanted to apologize.

He came for me. And I’ll go back to him. I have to.

The two of us really have changed, haven’t we? In so little time? I skim my hand through my hair, and it flops in front of my eyes. He’s turned his back on the Angels, and I’m more a boy—more visibly a boy, I guess—than I ever was in New Nazareth. I blow the hair away, but it falls right back down.

Wait. I still have Nick’s bobby pins. I pull them from my pocket and try to slide them into place, get the shaggy hair out of my face, but they don’t stay. They come loose and sag.

Figures. I never learned how to do anything with my hair besides comb it and messily braid it. Mom practically had to hold me down to put flowers in my hair for the engagement blessing, like she was trying to wrestle girl back into my head.

Nick says, “You have them backward.”

“What?”

“Here.” He slings the binoculars around his neck. “Give them to me.”

I hand over the bobby pins. Nick pulls the sleeves of his jacket over his palms, almost like he’s trying to create sweater paws, and he sweeps my hair out of my face. My fingers curl against the concrete wall, and I stare at my feet, trying to keep myself as still as possible as his hands skim my scalp. This sort of touch between the unmarried was barely allowed in New Nazareth.

Theo is back. I am betrothed, and Theo is back.

Nick slides one bobby pin into place, sweeps back my hair again, and nestles the second one at my temple.

He steps away and lets his sleeves go. His right hand shakes for a second, like he’s trying to get something off it. “Ridged side goes against the skin,” he says and drops back into his chair.

I barely remember to reply, “Right. Thanks.”

“You did good at the church,” Nick says.

“I don’t feel like I did.” Dad’s meaning of the word or Nick’s, it doesn’t matter. I know I technically did, but I still ache in my chest. Like I did something wrong instead.

“We lost nobody to abominations. You did your job.”

“They didn’t want to hurt us.”

His throat bobs. His gaze focuses on a squirrel balancing on a phone pole, tail twitching as it surveys the rusting traffic jam.

He says, “How much longer do you have?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks at most.” The skin underneath my fingernails is a bit too pale, verging on gray. Nothing too wrong. But just wrong enough. “I’m throwing up all the time, and it’s getting worse.” I don’t mention the vision, or whatever it was, at Reformation. He might think I’m losing it and shove me over the side of the building. “But I’m all right for now.”

“It’s okay to be scared,” he says.

I say, “I’m scared all the time. I’m tired of it.”

“Then do something about it.”

Like what? What else is there to do but split open my skull, beg Theo to take out the rotten parts, peel Seraph out of me cell by cell? All I can do is run away. I ran from New Nazareth, I ran from the Angels and Theo and Mom, and I’m running from this too, as if closing my eyes against it will stop it from devouring me whole.

Maybe I have to run toward something for once.

Toward Theo. Toward the beast in the trees.

I say, “This was supposed to be me getting you to talk.”

Nick says, “Good fucking luck.”

I laugh.