Cruel World(88)

They dragged him from the room. He kicked and struggled but couldn’t break free of the men’s holds. Weakness pervaded his body, and each time he attempted to escape, his strength receded from him like the sun sliding behind the trees.

They hauled him out through Archer’s home and into the night. Crickets chirped. Insects hummed. But above all the other evening sounds was the singing.

The entire congregation was there, all of them holding candles. Men, women, children, young, old, their faces all danced in the glow of flames held near their chests. Quinn tried counting their number but lost track as the men holding him guided him through the watching crowd. The song they sang was something he’d never heard before, all the words Latin. He’d only learned a few phrases in the ancient language from Theresa, and the congregation was singing none of them.

They pulled him past the church, the steel Jesus looking down on him from his cross. The flickering shadows thrown by the candles changed the savior’s pain-stricken face into something malevolent and sneering as they passed by. Beyond the church was an open communal area ringed by tables and dozens of chairs. Several small fires burned in a broad circle, illuminating enough of the center for Quinn to see what waited there.

A post with thick rope attached through its middle sat amongst piles of dry bramble.

Quinn dug his heels into the ground, and the men forced him along. He glanced around the clearing. Beyond the sacrificial pyre was the wooden fence, a solid gate well over twelve feet high set into its length. Two guards stood watch there, rifles cradled in the crooks of their arms, their faces impassive. Several children skipped ahead of the mass, their laughter intermingling with the constant song rising from the people. Quinn threw all his weight to one side and then the other, but the men held fast, their fingers like bands of steel digging into his flesh.

They brought him to a stop before the post and its fuel beneath. He recognized one of his own gas cans beside the dry tinder.

Quinn began to shake, tremors flowing up from his feet to his shoulders and back down again. His bladder threatened to let go, but he managed to hold it as the song gradually came to an end and faded away. The gathering encircled him and stood watching as Archer stepped forward. He held a silver cup in one hand along with something that looked like a blunted spoon inside it. Liquid glinted within.

“I condemn thee, demon, of crimes against the faithful. For burdening our beautiful world with your presence and the pestilence your kind has brought upon us. With this holy water, your flesh is cleansed.” Archer made a flicking movement with his wrist, and droplets of the liquid speckled Quinn’s arms and face.

It burned like fire.

Quinn cried out and shook his head. The places where the water had landed were like wasp stings, burrowing beneath his skin. There was a collective gasp that ran through the crowd, and Archer turned to them, holding up the silver cup.

“You see, it cannot stand the sanctity of the church, the strength of our faith! It fears us, and in good right, for now we shall send it back to the hell whence it came!”

A roar of voices erupted from the congregation. The burns where the liquid had landed still stung, but he muscled past the pain and straightened. The people before him all had their candles raised in triumph. Some swayed in place, heads tilted back to the dark sky. Others merely stared at him, the flames they held illuminating the hatred in their eyes.

Archer motioned to the men holding Quinn, and they shoved him across the pile of brush and branches to a clear place before the vertical post. In a few quick movements, they bound him to it with the rope, wrapping his arms tight to his body and knotting it on the opposite side. When he was bound, they moved away to join their loved ones, lighting candles as they turned back to watch. Archer stepped closer, his deep-set eyes dancing, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“The acetic acid was a nice touch, don’t you think?” Archer whispered, swirling the cup around in front of Quinn’s face. “Pure inspiration.” Quinn tried not to tremble and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Quinn, for your sacrifice. I know it doesn’t mean a lot, but I really do appreciate it.”

“Fuck you,” Quinn said, staring into Archer’s eyes. Archer shrugged and stepped back before placing the silver cup on the ground. He grasped the open gas can in one hand and began to douse the branches near Quinn’s feet. With a toss, Archer sloshed some gas on the ropes binding him. The smell was overwhelming and Quinn gagged, the fumes in his nose and throat. His head floated above his body and he coughed, blinking away the tears that flooded his eyes.