The Comfort of the Shriek
By Scott Crowder
Published by r[E]volution Press at Smashwords
Contents copyright © 2011 Scott Crowder / r[E]volution Press
All rights reserved. Any reproduction, sale, or commercial use of this book without express written permission of the author is strictly forbidden.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are inventions of the author. Any resemblance to actual events or people, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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The Comfort of the Shriek
If he’d never touched her, she never would have asked him to love her, and if she’d never asked him to love her, he never would have fallen in love with her, and if he’d never fallen in love with her, his hands wouldn’t be itching for the axe he planned to use when he murdered everyone around him.
Ryan O’Malley knelt on the dirt floor of the shabby little church he shared with these same people, men and women and children alike. Their arms were thrown wide, their heads back, eyes screwed shut against the sting of the smoke from the torches that were even now beginning to burn out.
Ryan watched them all through bleary eyes, wondering if their faith would be enough, or if he'd have to use the axe he'd hidden in a back corner of the church.
They'd been here for nearly four hours now, praying and singing, searching in their hearts for signs that they were indeed on the right road, now that they were nearing the end of it.
Apocalypse, Reverent Blight had called it. Armageddon.
Whatever name it went by, its angel lay prostrate on the altar at the front of the church.
Its skin was as black as jet, carved with intricate and indecipherable words that surely spelled out the end of times; its heavy-lidded eyes as blue-white as the light of distant stars in the night sky. It lay motionless and weak, seemingly near to whatever death might claim an angel of the Lord.
"What a friend we have in Je-zuss, my lambs, what a friend indeed we have in Je-zuss," Reverend Blight continued now that the last amens had whispered away to nothing in the hissing half-light of their swamp-bound church. "He has sent us this messenger to tell us that the time is now, the end of days is upon us. Oh, we thought we know when Lincoln died, did we not, my lambs …?"
…amen, amen…
"… but the Great Emancipator passed, the Rail-splitter himself shuffled off his mortal coil and still we heeded not the signs."
… amen, amen …
"And so Je-zuss in His infinite wisdom did send us one of this own angels. Not as a shepherd, my lambs, no, not to show us the way, for we know the way, don't we, my lambs, indeed we know the way …"
… amen, amen …
"… but merely as a messenger to tell us the time is now, the hour is at hand for us to walk up to the gates of heaven and not retreat again the way we did lo those many moons ago …"
… amen, amen …
"… but to pass through into righteousness and salvation."
Ryan continued looking around at the others and his eyes burned with wood smoke. At the Reverend Daniel Blight, whose faith, whose real faith, the faith not in his God but in himself, was as weak as his chin. At Mary Hallowell, who wanted to go inside the gates of Heaven almost as much as she wanted the Reverend Blight to come inside her. At all the others: Joe Banion, Andrew Hewett, Barbara Pulaski.
The face of the little black boy came into his mind again and he at last shut his eyes and shook his head to clear it of sobriety’s guilt. The little boy had died when Ryan and his brother, Neal, drunk off of cheap and looted whiskey, had tied the boy up to a tree, doused him with lamp oil and set him alight.
This had been two years ago in 1863, and just as the boy had burned screaming, Ryan and Neal had felt themselves consumed with hate and righteousness.
Conscription into the Union army had come to their Irish Ghetto in New York and those without the three hundred dollars necessary to buy their way out or to pay a replacement would die on the battlefields of Virginia and Kentucky, die to defend darkies likes that screaming boy, die to defend niggers who wouldn't defend themselves.
Ryan had deserved a better life than that, hadn't he? Hadn't he certainly deserved a better death? And so they'd rioted in New York, him and hundreds like him, daring to defy the draft notices, daring to defy the Union troops, daring to defy Lincoln's proclamations about the equality of man. They'd rioted and they'd looted and they'd burned and they'd murdered.
Ryan had been lucky enough to escape the Union troops sent in to stop the riots; not so lucky his brother. Neal and several of their friends had been hung from lamp-posts and shot. Ryan had run; he'd run through burning city blocks and through more riots and even into a black neighborhood where people could smell booze and the smoke of riot fires on him. They'd beat him mercilessly until he'd vomited up cheap whiskey and panic all over himself and then they'd backed away in disgust. He'd stumbled up and run some more.
He'd run and he'd stolen horses and he'd stowed away on munitions trains until some three months later, he'd found himself begging for scraps on the streets of New Orleans. It was here that he'd met the Reverend Daniel Blight, pastor of the Church of the Revelation Star, and the Reverent Blight had taken him in. They and several dozen others had gone deep into the bayou to meet the apocalypse. There they'd found and occupied an old and long-abandoned Chitimacha Indian village. There they'd built their own church, an ugly and rough-hewn thing built with cypress logs and swamp mud.
And it was in this church now that Ryan opened his eyes again, fighting the smoke and dim light for another glimpse of their so-called angel.
They'd found her a week ago while they'd been out hunting turtles for their meat. Blight had seen long black hair like dark worms floating listlessly in stagnant water. They'd dug her out of the mud of the creek's bottom and cleaned her off as best they could, and then she'd startled them all mightily by opening her eyes.
The first thought that had entered Ryan's mind as he'd watched swamp slime spill from her mouth was: devil. Crawling alive from her own muddy grave? Surely a devil.
But the Reverent Blight had had other ideas and so they'd gathered around her to pull her from the mud. Ryan had slid his hands into the muck beneath her shoulders and picked her up, and that was when the words chiseled so finely into her skin had begun to hum like white noise against his palms. The white noise had risen to a whine in his head and then had shaped itself into words. Will you love me?, he heard through his hands as they’d hauled her back to the church. Will you love me? Can you love me? He’d only just managed to hide his shock even as he’d realized that no one else could feel it.
When Blight had begun to use the word "angel" to describe her to the congregation, though, Ryan had realized that he hadn't cared what words Blight used. Indeed, didn't care what this creature really was: devil, angel, or something in between. At the first touch of her cool, unyielding skin Ryan had known. Instantly, he'd known. He was Hers and he would forever be Hers. And he would never be able to share what he'd found in Her with the rest of these people.
Simply by existing, by taking up space in this pathetic church, she'd convinced the others that it was time to die.
In much the same way, she'd convinced Ryan that it was time to live.
After they'd gotten her back here, they'd begun to prepare in earnest for the Armageddon that they were now sure was imminent. They'd begun to pray and to fast and after nearly three days of praying and fasting, they'd decided in a blinding religious fervor to use the hemlock that grew so abundantly just north of their little village. It was this foul smelling liquid, steaming in its kettle at the front of the church, that would send them flying into the arms of their Maker.
And what the hemlock didn't finish, Ryan's axe would.
Around Ryan some of the churchgoers were beginning to sway in religious ecstasy as Reverend Blight spoke again.
"The manna that will transport us from the failing kingdom of man and into the House of God is ready, my lambs. Are we?
… amen, amen …
"Our search for the House of God is nearing its end, my lambs, for we are nearly in His presence even now."
… amen, amen …
"Can you not feel the presence of God here among us? Can you not feel Him through this, His Holy messenger, sent to help deliver us to His Holy House?"
… amen, amen …
"Then stand now with me, children of God. Stand now with me at the gates of His Kingdom and rejoice in His glory."
… amen, amen …
"Remember, children of God. Remember now that the path is laid out clearly before us. God has left no doubt in the minds of true believers where we are headed or what awaits us when we arrive there." He stepped closer to the altar and its weak occupant, and gestured to her with a sweeping motion of his hands.
"Look upon His word made flesh and believe."
Ryan looked around at the others, trying to gauge them. Would any of them doubt the path again, or would they all believe?
Mary Hallowell, probably, would turn her yellow belly up for all to see again. It had been Mary Hallowell who last time had panicked in the final few moments, throwing such a scare into everyone that they'd all backed out quietly rather than die as a screaming mob.
Ryan had been madder than a nest of summer’s hornets; the little black boy’s face had been haunting him ever since disappearing behind sheets of flaming oil, and Ryan had been eager to wash it away, even in death.
He was happy for Mary’s cowardice now. They'd found Blight's angel since then and she in turn had burned away Ryan's self-pity, his aching guilt.
Mary Hallowell might well try to back out again, she whose loins burned hotter than her faith. This time, though, Ryan wouldn't let her. She'd take the path so clearly laid out for her by God or Daniel Blight or whoever.
Or she'd die wishing she had.
"Oh, children of God," Blight whispered.
Our father, who art in Heaven, the congregation whispered back.
"Here we are at the gates of Heaven."
…hallowed be thy name …
"Won't you join me, my lambs, by stepping into the Kingdom of God?"
Reverend Blight took a small china cup from the altar on which the angel lay. He knelt and dipped the cup into the cast iron pot.
"Won't you join me," he whispered, "my lambs?"
And one by one the others stood up and took their own cups, of hand-carved wood or more chipped china or tin, to the pot, filled them and knelt back down on the floor as the rest continued to whisper the Lord's Prayer.
… thy kingdom come …
Even Ryan took his own cup and filled it, unable to take his eyes off the angel.
… thy will be done …
As he knelt back down, he tipped his cup surreptitiously and its contents poured out onto the dirt floor, which drank it up quickly. He looked around to make sure no one had seen him and then held the cup before him as if it still held its liquid.
… on earth as it is in Heaven …
Soon everyone was back in their places, cups held before them, hands trembling with anxiety or excitement.
… give us this day our daily bread …
At the altar Blight bent over and gently kissed the angel's forehead. Her skin, Ryan knew, would be as hard and cool as stone beneath his lips.
… and forgive us our trespasses …
Blight looked out at the congregation.
"Let us go now, my lambs, and let none tarry behind. Follow me into Heaven, follow me into salvation, follow me into eternal life."
… as we forgive those who trespass against us …
At that, the Reverend Daniel Blight turned his cup up and drained its contents in two large swallows. Most of the others did the same.
Ryan upended his own cup, and swallowed two large mouthfuls of air, which he promptly belched back up. Several of the others giggled nervously. Blight smiled.
… lead us not into temptation …
A few members had yet to drink from their cups, Mary Hallowell and Joe Banion among them. Joe's son, Joe Junior, who everyone had taken to calling J.J., had already drunk happily from his own cup and after a few minutes of nervous tension was starting to convulse.
… but deliver us from evil …
Tears ran down Mary Hallowell's face and she let her cup fall from her hands. It splashed on the floor and she sobbed. Beside her, Joe Senior had dropped his own cup and was shaking his son, calling his name, even as the boy grew still.
… for thine is the Kingdom …
Blight had fallen to the floor and lie writhing in the dirt, foam spackling his lips. Ryan stood up, the weakness he'd been feeling from the fasting gone, replaced by a new and wondrous energy. He moved toward her as she lay on the altar, a living mercy, a living salvation. Her eyes burned with the light of blue moons, and legend had it that anything was possible when blue moons rose.
… and the power …
He would take her away from this horrid swamp, and she would teach him whatever an angel or a devil had to teach. They would love each other in ways that made Mary Hallowell's desperate couplings seem trivial and empty.
At Ryan's feet, Barbara Pulaski writhed and croaked. She reached for his leg with a hand that pain had twisted into a claw and he kicked her away.
… and the glory …
In a moment only Joe Banion, who was trying to awaken his dead son, and Mary Hallowell, who between sobs was still trying to finish the Lord's Prayer, were moving.
Joe turned to Ryan as Ryan stepped over Barbara Pulaski's body and reached into the shadowed corner.
"Ryan?" the man asked as if he hoped to be waking from a nightmare.
… forever …
"Amen," Ryan said.
And picked up the axe.
* * *
Ryan wrenched the axe blade from Joe Banion’s back, smiling at the way a jag of bone screed across the metal as he pulled it free.
Mary Hallowell still knelt stupidly on her knees, watching with eyes like saucers as Ryan turned to her. She began to stutter out the Lord’s Prayer once more.
“Oh no, Miss Hallowell,” he told her. “We don’t have time for that again.” He raised the axe and split her head in two.
Then he began moving from the back of the church to the altar at its front, chopping and hacking indiscriminately at the bodies at his feet as he passed.
On the other side of the altar, Ryan could just make out the body of the Reverend Daniel Blight by the fitful light of failing torches. The Reverend’s eyes were open and sightless. A tiny endless smile graced his foamy lips.
With three short, sharp chops, Ryan cut the dead man’s head from his body. He tossed the axe away and it landed with a thunk on Joe Banion’s chest.
Ryan stood back up, Blight’s head in his hands, and the angel watched him with burning eyes.
What was it that the two of them would do now together? Where would they go?
Ryan held the head up so that she could see it. Blood dripped from his hands onto her glistening black skin.
She gazed emotionlessly at Blight’s severed head for a moment, and then looked back at Ryan. When she did, he let the head drop to the floor at his feet.
For a moment, he was aware of the silence in this stinking little church, broken only by the harsh blundering of his own heart, the sputtering of a torch as it finally died.
What do you say, he wondered, to an angel? How do you talk to a devil?
He placed his bloody hands on the altar and leaned in slightly to ask her these questions when a sun suddenly exploded behind his eyes. He staggered under the force of some cataclysmic impact but managed to keep his feet and wondered for one panic-stricken instant if this was Blight’s Armageddon after all and if he’d made a mistake by not joining the others.
His head was jerked back and forth as something was wrenched from his skull and he turned, kicking Blight’s head as he did so.
Joe Banion stood there, even now dropping the axe, even now falling back with the lumbering grace of a felled tree.
The axe …
The axe …?
Ryan put his hands to the top of his head and felt the cave-like wound splitting his skull. He realized suddenly that there were brains on the back of his tongue, at his throat.
He tried very hard not to swallow.
Reverend Blight’s head got between his feet when he tried to turn back to her and his knees gave way. His legs seemed to twist in on themselves.
No, no, please. I can love you, I can…
He was dead before he hit the floor.
* * *
She waited and she watched, her eyes never closing, even as the last torches died, even as night brought a darkness absolute.
The bodies around her would turn to mud in the swamp.
Because they must.
This pitiful little building would fall to splinters and mulch.
Because it had to.
And still she’d wait for him to find her, to come to her, to hold her, to kiss her, to love her all over again.
Whoever he may be.
And so, in darkness absolute, with the last torches dead, with the patience of desert sand reclaiming the ruins of an ancient city, with the patience of a glacier …
… she waited.
And in the darkness she smiled.