Hell Followed with Us(8)

A shout: “Nick!”

“No matter what,” Nick repeats and stands. “Aisha! Here!”

For a moment, the world is quiet. No gunfire. No screaming. Just footsteps on concrete. The cautious tweeting of birds.

A Black girl with tear streaks down her face steps into the café. I see her through the pastry case. Her black outfit is dirty at the knees, and her knuckles are raw. She sees Nick, stops, and jabs a trembling finger at him.

“You,” she whimpers, “were supposed to stay with us.”

It’s been so long since I’ve seen somebody cry. Her voice hitches, and tears hesitate at the corner of her eyes before finally falling, soaking the edge of her mask.

“You said you’d be right behind us,” she says. “You said.”

“I’m okay,” Nick says, impossibly calm. “You and Faith made it without me.”

“Fuck you!” The girl—Aisha—stamps her foot. “We thought you were dead too!”

Nick says nothing. Aisha’s lashes flutter pitifully as the tears come faster.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs. She can’t be any older than me. Her fingers still have a little bit of baby fat below the knuckle. “I’m sorry, I just…I need to find the others.”

“They can handle themselves.”

“No, I need to.”

“Okay. When you find Faith, bring her back here.”

Aisha’s bloodshot eyes go wide. “What’s wrong? I can’t handle anything else being wrong, I can’t.”

“Nothing else is wrong. Just bring her back.”

Aisha hiccups and leaves. As soon as she’s gone, Nick is back on the floor with me, his hands keeping me upright.

“Listen to me closely,” he says. “Do not call them Graces. Do not call it Judgment Day. And do not take this mask off. Okay?”

I say, “Okay.”

Nick says, “Breathe.”

A few minutes later, Aisha comes back with another girl in tow. Faith. She’s a white shaved-head butch, taller than any of us and a few years older. Aisha’s pinkie is hooked through hers.

“Was told you wanted me,” Faith says, voice hoarse.

“You okay?” Nick asks.

“Oh,” she says, “of course not.”

When they round the counter, they freeze.

Faith sums it up. “Shit.” She crouches, tilting her head. “Hey, bud. What’s your name?”

When I can’t answer, Nick cuts in. “This is Benji.” Not my deadname. Not Sister Woodside. My real name. “Help me get them up.”

The girls bring me to my feet as Nick deftly moves my jacket to hide the black stains on my shirt. One of my knees gives out, and I slump against Faith’s chest.

Aisha’s voice cracks when she speaks. “All right, we got you.”

I manage, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Faith says. “It’s okay.”

“The Angels are gone,” Nick says. He’s so close, I could rest my head on him if I wanted. I want to. I’m so tired. “You’re safe now. I promise.”

There’s a look in his eyes that’s nothing like the girls’. Like he’s found something he’d lost for years.

Like I’m the final piece of some terrible puzzle.





REJECT FEAR AND HYPOCRISY. FIND PURPOSE AND LOVE ON THE PATH OF THE LORD—JOIN HIM IN HIS GRACE AND WALK THE PATH OF ETERNAL LIFE. FIND SALVATION IN HIS PLAN!

—The Angelic Movement recruitment poster



What I remember:

Aisha and Faith holding me steady. One asks Nick if there’s any chance I’m infected. He shakes his head even though there’s a splatter of Flood rot on his sleeve.

A sunburned boy balancing Brother Hutch’s head in his hands, cutting off his left ear with a knife. He does the same thing to Steven but can’t walk by the boy smeared into the road. Bones stick out of him like monuments.

Nick standing by the Grace in silence. Finally, he wrenches out a tooth, prying it free with a knife of his own. My tongue running along my canines as I wonder how long it’ll be until my mouth looks just like that.

All of us standing together, perfect strangers on the battlefield, and it’s almost like my prayers have been answered, amen—but I don’t believe it for a second.



* * *





I wake up on the floor. I recognize that much immediately: the crick in my neck, the carpet that’s never plush enough to disguise the concrete underneath. I bury my face in my arms and groan.

“Finally, a sign of life,” says someone beside me. “You awake?”

“No.” I want to ask where I am, but it doesn’t matter. Anywhere is better than New Nazareth. I could wake up in a cell, and as long as it wasn’t Angels on the other side of the bars, I’d be better off than I was.

“No?” says the voice. “Damn, all right.”

After a minute, I sit up by propping myself against the desk behind me. The room looks like an office. Books are scattered in piles on messy shelves. Papers are on every available surface. Certifications, newspaper clippings, and photos hang on the walls, their glass frames dull like they haven’t been cleaned since Judgment Day.