Hell Followed with Us(69)
That’s what breaks the spell of terror. People come up, one by one, slowly. Faith whispers, “Does it hurt?” Salvador picks me up off the ground in a hug, saying, “You freaky bastard!” Erin leans against the wall, slumping with relief. Nick smiles down at his feet. One of his hands is going tp tp tp, but there’s a happiness to it I’ve never seen before.
“So,” Alex says, watching me cautiously from beside the radio. “Why are you telling us this now? What’s wrong?”
“I’m, uh.” Sadaf leans forward to watch how my mouth works when I speak. “I’m turning into an abomination. A Grace. I—I grew up in New Nazareth. I was an Angel.” Cormac’s eyes snap to Nick, but he does nothing. A few people glance away, like they can’t bear to look at me while I speak. Like I’m something they have to reconcile now. “I ran away, but before I did, they infected me with a special strain of the Flood that’s turning me into a Grace called Seraph. It, uh, I can actually control other Graces, talk to them, ask them to help. So Seraph is really, really important to the Angels. And they’re not going to stop tearing apart the city until they get me back.”
A deep breath. A steadying one, long and slow.
“So I’m going to go back to New Nazareth,” I say, “and if you’ll have me—if you’ll help me—I’m going to burn it to the ground.”
Quiet.
Look at these people, the silence says, who have rejected you. You were wrong.
But Sadaf’s smile still gleams in her eyes. Aisha totters to her feet, pressing both hands to her mask. Salvador begins to laugh, and it is infectious. Cormac claps a hand on my shoulder, and Faith yanks me away to wrap me in her arms, and I am not alone, I am not alone.
“Looks like we can’t get rid of you that easy,” Alex sighs.
I will be good. I will make the Angels fucking suffer.
Do you believe in God?
—I do, please stop, there’s so much blood
Theo prays at the foot of the nest, and the words come out rotten; less words and more stomach acid or whatever terrible thing is forcing itself up this time. It’s taken root in his organs, festering with maggots and eating him alive. No matter how hard he pulls, he just can’t get the sick parts out.
He’s ruined everything. Like he always does.
So many people have been sacrificed to get Benji back. Squad Rapture, cut down by the heretics days ago; Squad Dominion, who haven’t returned from their hunt and probably never will; Squad Crucifix, who Sister Kipling says might still be out there, but there’s no use in hoping. The children, clergy, and everyone that day at Reformation. And all for what? For Theo to fail? Like he always does?
Theo presses his face into his dusty, torn-up palms. He’ll be lucky if his punishment is just execution in the culling fields. He’ll be hung from the gate. He’ll choke on his own intestines. Or maybe his father will drown him in the river like an unwanted newborn, hold his head underwater until his lungs flood and he slowly, slowly stops struggling.
This was supposed to be something wonderful. No, more than wonderful. Something perfect. He spent so long praying for this—a chance to get Benji back, to get his father back, to get his dignity back—and it was finally in his hands, glimmering like a star plucked from Heaven just for him. Sister Kipling’s own words: We need your help.
And he wasted it.
He has to make this right. He has no other choice. Reverend Mother Woodside made sure he knew, his father made sure he knew, every member of the death squads made sure he knew.
Make it right or die.
“O Lord,” he starts again, because he has to, he has to, “my heart is rotten with sin. It is in every cell, and there is no part of me that is good. Yet You still love me.” He has to keep saying it, or he’ll forget. It’s so easy to forget. “I have fallen short of Your infinite glory, but You are still here. I wash my soul in the blood of the Lamb and ask that You fill me with Your Spirit and guide me to where I need to be. Through Jesus Christ, I pray.”
When the prayers slow to a trickle, the last strings of bile on a sick man’s lips, finally, finally, Theo wipes his chin and faces Reformation Faith Evangelical Church.
Squad Absolution is falling apart at the seams. With two squads missing in as many days, they arrived last night on Mother Woodside’s orders, and now the soldiers pace like trapped animals. They snap at one another, snarling over imagined slights. A few hours ago, a knife was drawn over a stolen cigarette. Their white robes are speckled with gentle spots of color, rainbow light filtering through stained glass windows, and the beauty of it makes Theo’s breath catch for just a second—the Angels and their robes and the glory of God and everything—but one of the soldiers notices Theo is done praying and shoves him against the altar. The nest of Graces behind them keens, dozens of mouths wailing in unison.
“Don’t fucking look at me,” the soldier hisses. Brother Husock is twice Theo’s size and almost twice his age, a truck driver who found God just weeks before Judgment Day.
“I wasn’t,” Theo whimpers, but he stops because if God sees fit to punish him this way, then he should keep his mouth shut and take it. He was the one who let Benji leave the church. He’s the reason Heaven moves farther away every hour.
Forgive my unforgivable trespasses. Cleanse me from unrighteousness.