Hell Followed with Us(87)
It’s the beast. Taking Benji’s powers and making a mockery of them.
Nick has been away from the Angels for too long. The virus has gotten weak in his head, away from other carriers, dormant and isolated all those months. And that means he has time.
He drags the Angel’s broken body over his, wearing the mangled corpse like armor as he forces himself up to his knees—despite the pain, Jesus Christ the pain—just high enough to see over the edge of the wall. His hands tremble, little pieces of bone jutting out from under his skin. Weakness can only be an excuse for so long. Breathe, in, out. Pull the gun closer, settle the stock against his shoulder. Breathe.
On the lawn, Benji is on all fours, wings tucked in close, shoulders down like a cowed dog even as he gnashes his teeth at the beast towering over him. The twisted thing flaps its broken limbs and howls.
Nick was an Angel. He was made for war.
Breathe.
Benji lunges, tearing a bright streak from the Grace’s stomach and exposing a pit of pulsing muscle. A string of what looks like intestines catches in his teeth, unraveling a nest of pink organs and yellow fat before the beast grabs Benji by the neck and smashes him into the broken tangle of crosses like a ragdoll.
The Flood sinks its claws into the empty space of Nick’s skull. The wound on his face pulses with his heartbeat. He remembers how Benji talked to the Graces without ever speaking, how he could barely move his lips, and they would understand.
For the first time in a long time, Nick puts his faith in something and prays.
Benji. Can you hear me?
Benji makes an awful whimpering sound and pulls himself from the wreckage, splinters falling off his wings in a chorus. The Grace screams a war cry.
He prays, I’m here. I’m ready.
Sometimes the martyrs speak of a place beyond us—beyond the understanding of those here on this Earth. As my faith wavers and wanes, most days, I wonder. Is it Heaven? Could it be?
—Sister Kipling’s notes on the Flood
Red, bloody water drips off the sharp point of the stone, off Theo’s fingers, falling in rivers down his pale cheeks. It’s stained his robes pink, the same festering shade as infected gums. His head is still shaved, his robes still soldier robes, there’s a hitch to his shoulders when he moves—and a curl to his lip, his cupid’s bow twisted into a sneer.
He’s crying.
I’ve never seen him cry before. He didn’t cry when his mother martyred herself on Judgment Day. He didn’t cry when his father flayed him alive. A teardrop traces its way through the slick water on his face, his eyes are red, and he’s crying.
The blood water bubbles from my mouth. My normal human mouth, no fangs, no wounds. Without the Flood, I’m just a boy. No Graces to call, no Angels to shatter. I don’t even have the testosterone to back me up on the boy part. And Theo has half a foot and fifty pounds on me—a cis boy who could shatter me if he put his mind to it. Who has done it before. Who is more than happy to do it again.
He raises the rock to point at me, his arm shaking.
“What,” he gasps, “is wrong with you?”
I step back. My shoes sink into the slurry of mud and grass. “Theo, I—we—” Is this what I sounded like just days ago? How could anyone have seen me as a guy with a voice, a body, like this? “Put that down. Please.”
“They gave you everything!” He closes the space between us and then some. He’s almost within arm’s reach, close enough that the rock could almost smash into my skull. “Do you even understand how much you’re throwing away? How many people you’re fucking over?”
His name comes out of me like a prayer, like reminding him he’s human will snap him out of this. “Theo, please.”
“All because you don’t like it.” He laughs, and his pale, pretty face twists into something more like Dominion than the boy I fell in love with. I take another step back and nearly trip over the submerged sidewalk. “You’ve never liked anything about yourself, have you? Always trying to change it. You’ve never accepted what you’ve been given by God.”
He was the one who told me being trans wasn’t a mistake, that God made me trans on purpose. Did he never actually believe it? “Shut up. Don’t you dare.”
“You’d burn the world down if you thought it’d finally make you happy with what you’re supposed to be in this life. This life. You’d have a perfect one waiting for you if you just swallowed it like everyone else!”
But that would never work! Because—
Because I don’t believe in Heaven.
The realization crashes down, sinks its claws into me, threatening to drag me to the water. I don’t believe in it. I never have. I could tell myself that it all existed, I was just too wrong to feel it, that I had faith no matter how broken I was, but—oh God, I never believed.
That’s it. That’s what it comes down to. We exist in two entirely different versions of the world. Theo sees Heaven waiting for him when he dies, a life beyond this, something more. I see Dad’s face and a fucking black hole. No matter how much I tell myself that there’s a Heaven, I just can’t believe it. My mind refuses to grasp it; it recognizes the idea, but as soon as I try to say it’s true, I hit a wall. The same wall I’d hit if someone told me sewer water could be fresh and clean and clear if I swallowed and believed hard enough. It would be such a relief if I could just believe there was something after this, but I can’t.