Hell Followed with Us(52)
Those who obey God and His commands shall be blessed, the way faithful men have always been blessed. But to those who turn from Him, He is wrath. He is fire. He tells us where to burn.
—Reverend Mother Woodside’s sermon
Genesis 19:28—And he looked toward Sodom and Gomorrah, and toward all the land of the plain, and beheld, and, lo, the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace.
Hebrews 12:29—For our God is a consuming fire.
Luke 3:16—He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. O Lord our God, what the fuck happened?
The planks that used to seal the front doors of the Acheson LGBTQ+ Center lie in shards across the steps. Flames billow out of the gaping hole left behind and reach through every broken window, up to the sky, with a low, demonic rumble cut by the high-pitch cracking of embers. Just like the bridges burning on Judgment Day, columns of smoke rising high over Acheson as they all crashed into the water.
A gunshot, and another, and a scream, and a shriek. Long, high, and furious.
I would recognize the cry of a Grace anywhere.
I put on my mask and sprint toward the flames.
The heat hits half a block away. It’s a dry heat that sucks the moisture from my eyes and makes me choke. Bright white flame shines in shards of glass on the road, on abandoned cars, doubled in storefront windows, hemming me in like the Lord casting us from Him. Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire.
I’ve kept running through worse.
The courtyard fence is demolished, broken to pieces just like the front door. I clamber over splinters and nails, and I scrape my palm on a jagged edge.
An Angel. There, flinging open the back entrance of the ALC, raising a hand against the smoke that comes out to greet him. And a Grace. A Grace built like they were gutted doing a backbend bridge, stretched to grotesque proportions, extra arms lashed to limbs, another face peeking from their neck.
They see me.
The Angel sees me too.
He lifts his gun. He can’t pull the trigger, he wouldn’t dare kill me, but can he tell who I am? With the smoke, the fire, and the screaming? Dad’s bloody-flower face comes crashing back, teeth and tongue gleaming in his broken head and it’s all I can see, it’s all I can taste, until the Angel opens fire on the Grace.
The Grace wails, heartbroken and pitiful, staggering back and hitting the courtyard wall. Too-long arms wrap around their head to protect their brain. The flash of gunfire and the orange glow of the blaze lights up the Angel’s robes like twilight, looking more like one of Lucifer’s angels than God’s.
I plunge into the smoke and throw my body into his.
My shoulder hits his ribs. We both fall to the weeds. The gun keeps chattering until it drops, shooting bullets into the sky. The Angel roars and rolls on top of me, blood streaming from his temple where he hit a rock, grabbing me like he’s going to rip me apart.
Then he doesn’t have a head anymore. His spine snaps cleanly as his skull comes off in the Grace’s mouth. The body collapses onto my chest. The Grace toys with the severed head, turning it over and testing each angle with their tongue before finally biting down. Bone gives instantly under their teeth.
I stay in the grass, gasping for air under the weight of the Angel, watching the Grace and the wounds on their body. The Angel did recognize me. Why else would he have turned on the Grace? They’re God’s holy warriors, blessed and perfect, and a soldier only has orders to put them down if they become too dangerous.
I make them too dangerous.
The Angels know I’m at the ALC.
The ALC is burning because of me. This is my fault, oh God, it’s my fault. My fingers dig into the Angel’s rancid robes as the Grace whines and the neck stump spits blood. It’s my fault.
I have to stop this.
I shove the Angel’s body off mine and reach for the Grace. Part of their jaw was torn off by a bullet, the wound trickling black sludge between their eyes. They have so many limbs, some touching the ground and some not, grasping and reaching with so many hands. I let them touch me. I lean forward so they can grab my hair and pull me close. They smell like rot and Dad’s corpse.
I whisper, “Help us.”
The answer I get is soft and perfect. Their eyes flutter closed. A hum shakes deep in their broken-open chest. It’s all I need to hear.
They press their shoulder against me to steady me, nudging their face against my stomach. I leave a red handprint on their neck.
We enter the burning building together.
Fire lights the narrow halls an otherworldly pink and orange, smoke muffling it all under an ugly gray. Roiling flames lick across the ceiling and devour pride flags and old posters. I raise my hand against the haze. But there’s so little oxygen, my lungs scream. It’s so hot, the soles of my shoes are going to melt to the floor. There’s so much noise it’s all a roar, so loud it hurts, all the fire and my own heartbeat and ragged breathing. There’s more gunshots, more Angels, and I pray: O God, Your shade is what protects me, our struggle against flesh and blood, against wickedness in heavenly places.
The Grace charges ahead, barreling through furniture and barricaded fire doors. We weave through back halls and erupt into the lobby, where flames have engulfed everything, even the bodies on the floor. The Angels broke through a defensive line here. Spent bullet casings shimmer; two Angels burn in the doorway, between the bodies of people I know. Don, who helped me do my laundry a few days ago; Lindsey, who laughed when my jacket sleeves fell over my hands.