Animal (Chapter 18 - Part 1)

Gabriel crosses the threshold of Father Maxwell's home. The door lies on the floor exposing the house to the twisting desert wind. Sand blows through the doorway, spreading across the rug and into the living room.
The lights are all extinguished. Outside, the evening moon begins its descent towards the other side of the earth. Rays of morning sun peak out upon the horizon but the room remains dark with no light reaching beyond the doorway.
Gabriel looks over the ravaged room. Chairs turned over. Pictures smashed. Maxwell's rifle lies on the floor, breech snapped open but two shells still inside.
Gabriel calls out for his mentor, his voice a hiss above the wind.
"Maxwell?"
He moves cautiously, one slow step at a time, watching for signs of movement. The rifle grows close. Sweat drenches his back, from the run, yes, but from something else as well, some unknown chill that burns his skin.
"Hello, Gabriel.”
Gabriel dives forward, snatching up the rifle and snapping the breech shut. He raises it steady against his shoulder, adjusting to the weight, and scans the darkness.
"Where is he, Peter? Where is Father Maxwell?"
Peter emerges from the black, bare hands raised up in forfeit.
"If I were you, my friend, I’d be concerned with more pressing matters, such as your own predicament."
Gabriel steps back. The howling wind roars in his ears. Its full force batters the house. Grains of sand flutter round his form. Peter raises his finger and wags it back and forth. His tangled hair spills across his brow.
"You have seen the envelope?" he asks.
"I have."
Peter drops his hands to his side and kneels. Sand piles shift as he slides his fingers through them tracing patterns unknown.
"I was afraid of that. You were always far too curious for your own good, far too free to accept what needed to be accepted, know when to not ask questions. Why couldn’t you have just let things be? Is that so hard?"
Peter slams his fist into the nearby table, sending up a cloud of dust and sand. He spits words through gritted teeth.
"Why couldn’t you just follow my will and keep your prying eyes from my goddamn business?"
Coldness enters the room, born from silence. Each man watches the other. Gabriel, with rifle ready. Peter, bowed before him, hands pressed into the earth that swallows the floor.
"I follow the will of only one, Peter, and that is a way you do not stray from," Gabriel replies with voice stoic despite the fear that grips his heart.
Peter erupts in a fit of laughter. His heckles echo into the surrounding field.
"And you think that I do not serve the Almighty? Fool, you have no idea what you are doing. There are heathens and beasts right at your doorstep yet you sit and wait as though He will simply wipe them all away and everything will be right again. We built these lands and birthed these beasts. It is up to us to burn them from the earth."
"And what of this family? What of Father Maxwell, where is he? What are you planning?"
"Maxwell is clean, purged from this place. Ridden from our midst just as the family will be," Peter whispers. His lips form a vicious sneer. He stops to let his words sink in.
Gabriel’s strength falters. Maxwell dead? Lost to the other world, drawn there by vile means. He glances across the body of the rifle. The metal glitters in the near dark. This cannot go on. Peter will not stop, not until they’re all dead.
No.
He raises the rifle against his shoulder and holds it level with Peter’s chest. His finger locks around the trigger. The roaring wind fills the room, drowning out Gabriel’s harsh breathing, the patter of rocks against the windows, the sound of boots falling against wood.
Gabriel sets his sight upon the murderer before him. He does not hear the men approach. He pulls the trigger as they fall upon him. The shot sails wide and bursts at Peter’s feet sending shards of wood flying. Peter shrieks as a chunk buries itself in his cheek, a long, thick gash. Blood spills from the cut as he stands, tearing the piece from his face and hurling it across the room.
Gabriel thrashes against the men that hold him, hand still locked upon the rifle as he tries to get another shot. A follower snaps a wooden rod down on Gabriel’s hand and shatters his wrist. He shrieks, the weapon freed from his grip.
Gabriel looks up from his useless hand to the man above, a man known to Gabriel and the entire town. A family man and caring husband named Luke who has watched him preach from the beginning stands placid, uncaring. He is Peter’s puppet now, nothing more.
Gabriel kicks and scratches, cursing under his breath, throwing damnations upon them. Peter watches him with quiet interest as though he were a doomed mouse caught in a trap, back broken but too stubborn to die. Gabriel finally tires. He bites his tongue and awaits the strike as Peter approaches.
"So heavy, the burden of man, the duty placed upon us to rid His kingdom of sin. But tarry we must. You were once a clean man, Gabriel, but now you stink of sin. You are a snake in our midst.”
Peter’s followers stand shoulder to shoulder, ready and willing. Their faces shine. They are warriors of God now, warriors all.
"And how do we rid ourselves of a snake hiding in our midst?" he asks, nodding to the men one by one.
Peter raises Gabriel’s head, gangly fingers bruising his cheeks. Gabriel stares into the face of a creature. Not a man, but a monster, guised in the cloth and preying upon his flock. A line of blood spreads down Peter’s neck and stains his robes. He pays it no heed.
"You cut off its head."
Peter raises his arm and slams his fist across the man’s face.
Light flashes in Gabriel’s eyes. Blackness follows.
The men let the unconscious priest drop. Peter taps Luke and a second upon the shoulder. He whispers in their ears, tongue dancing with the words.
"Take him to Maxwell’s corpse. Lay him before the pyre and wait for him to wake, that way he can see what awaits. Cut him open and leave him to die."
The men nod. Peter steps over his former brother and exits the house with the others close behind. He watches as the moon nears its end. In the distance, the smoke of the fire drifts into the darkness.

* * *

John reaches the top of the hill and brings his horse to a stop. The fire that fuels the pyre spits sparks in its last gasps of life yet smoke continues to rise. Maxwell has fallen to the earth, the ropes used to hold him burned away. His blackened body smolders, eyes turned to ash within their sockets. The desert breeze kicks dust atop his corpse. The acrid stench of death rises.
John dismounts and approaches the body. The man was burned alive, screaming when he died. John wishes he could ask himself what kind of monster could have committed such a violent act, but he already knows. Within the town, the priest awaits.
John stares at the dead man a moment longer and crosses his chest.
"Be at peace, brother."
He makes his way back to his horse and loops the frayed straps of his saddle bags tight, securing them for the ride ahead. His eyes drift over the town while he works. The hand of night shadows it. Dots of light that rise from windows are rare. This was once a peaceful place.
From behind a row of buildings two horses appear, galloping through the black. Two riders. A line of rope extends from one's saddle, dragging something behind. John ducks down and squints out over the road. The larger man pulls the line. Screams follow.
They're dragging a man.
John steps back and draws both revolvers. He rushes through the weeds and slides into a ditch just before the men arrive. Their laughter dies as they approach. John's horse stands alone in the clearing, ears twitching as it studies the strangers.
Peter’s men pull to a stop and dismount. The largest lets the rope drop. His bald head shines with sweat. His partner follows close behind with shoulders hunched, picking at his teeth and giggling loudly. His thin form shifts on stubby legs that scuttle across the ground as he struggles to keep up with the greater man.
Gabriel lies moaning in the dirt. He attempts to rise but the skinny man strikes him down with the back of his hand. Gabriel rolls onto his side and spits a tooth soaked in blood. His back is bare, robes shredded from the ride. His skin curls up in strips, back rubbed raw and torn in a dozen places. Blood stains the sand.
"Stray?" the skinny one asks, cocking his head towards John’s steed.
"No. That beast is well fed, saddled. Someone’s been here. Someone's seen the nonbeliever's corpse."
The weakling spits on Maxwell's body and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"So what? What's it matter? Nothing here but a dead tool of the devil, why should that be cause for worry?"
The bald man shakes his head.
"This was a holy cleansing, yes, but an outsider will not believe. It's just a murder to a blind man and they'll treat it as such. We can't have anyone interfering."
"The owner can't be far," the weakling says.
"Now you're thinking with a clear mind."
John watches the men as they scan the area. The steel of his revolvers chills his hands. He waits. Gabriel turns onto his stomach and drags himself along, glancing back to make sure the men are not watching. He reaches the nearest horse and grasps feebly at its reins.
"We can find him later, best toss this pig in the fire while it's still hot."
Gabriel picks up his pace. He grabs hold of the stirrups and tries to lift himself atop the steed. The bald man sprints forward and kicks out, his boot colliding with Gabriel's chest and sending him spinning. He lands hard, the impact costing him his breath, and raises his hands in feeble defense. The men pull him to his feet and drag him towards the pyre.
John grips the handle of his weapon. He will have to act, no time for waiting. His breath catches in his throat. He rises from the earth.
"Let him go!"
The believers watch the stranger advance, frozen in place. John’s eyes shift between the two. Neither man moves.
"Drop the man or I drop you. Do it now."
They release Gabriel who crumples to the ground whimpering in pain. He pulls himself into a ball, knees against his chest. The men look to one another. They don't appear armed. John trains his weapon on the bald man, the man Gabriel once trusted, the family man now twisted in mind.
"What's your name?" John asks.
"You asking me?"
"No, the dwarf."
The bald man scratches at the back of his sunburned neck. Flakes of dead skin flutter up beneath his nails.
"Name's Luke."
John nods, focused on the man, ignoring the second. The skinny man reaches behind his back, lifting his shirt where a hunting knife rests. He grasps the handle and pulls it from its sheath.
"Luke, I'm going to need you to get on your horses and ride away."
"Ride away where?" Luke asks.
"Anywhere but here."
The bald man smiles and glances back at the man behind him who shares his grin.
"Now that ain't happening. See, I’ve lived here all my life, and I plan to die here. Whether that's now or later, we'll just have to see, but I ain't leaving this place. Not anytime soon."
"Make no mistake, Luke, I will cut you down," John says. His finger slides across the trigger of his weapon.
"I believe you will."
Gabriel raises himself up. Hidden from John's view, the weakling turns the blade in his hands, preparing his assault. Gabriel calls out to his protector.
"Look out!"
The skinny man lets the knife fly. John dives to the side. The blade slides across his shoulder. Blood flows. He curses and raises his gun, firing into the man's face. The weakling flies back, head burst like a melon, twirling as he falls. Luke seizes his chance. He charges forward and knocks John off his feet.
The two land in the dirt. Luke locks his fingers around John's throat, screaming fire and fury, eyes bulging and face red. John grasps at the man's hand. He gasps for air and scratches at Luke’s face, his nail catching the side of his attacker’s eye and leaving a deep gash down his cheek. Luke screams in pain but keeps his hold strong.
John's hands cease their struggle and his mind begins to fog. His legs no longer thrash beneath his adversary. His lids grow heavy.
He shuts his eyes. A scream awakens him.
Luke reels away clutching at his back as he falls to the earth. Gabriel clings fast, driving the dead man's hunting knife deeper into his spine. Blood pools against the blade as he buries it to the hilt. Luke shrieks into the night. Gabriel holds him down, whispering to him over and over, begging forgiveness.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Luke. I'm so sorry."
Luke lays still, eyes wide, breath forever lost.
Gabriel sinks to the ground and stares down at his bloodied hands. He wipes his sweat drenched face. John sits up, coughing and clutching his bruised throat.

* * *

"Peter’s yet to act?"
"He plans the family’s death upon the mass. He’s mad enough to risk such an act and I fear my followers will permit it."
John spreads the final bandage across Gabriel's torn back, unraveling strands of cloth to compress the wound. He carefully loops the wrap around the priest’s torso and pulls it tight. Blood seeps against the material but does not spill. Gabriel winces with each touch.
"I need you to take one of these horses and leave this place,” John says as he finishes.
Gabriel rises to his feet clutching John's arm to steady himself.
"No way am I leaving my flock under the watch of that man," he replies, struggling to remain upright.
"I can take care of Peter. You need to tend to your wounds. Get to the next town and seek whatever help you can find."
Gabriel offers his savior a crooked grin. The smile fades as he speaks.
"Are you sure about that? Can you really face such a creature?"
"I've faced worse."
"Have you?"
"I have to believe I have."
"Then God had best be on your side, because if he's not…well I don’t have to say."
John leads the wounded man to one of the dead men’s horses. He drops to his knees and places his shoulder against the beast, creating an improvised footstep for the priest to use. Gabriel pulls himself up upon the animal, grabbing the reins and smoothing back the horse’s mane.
"Sometimes I wonder whose side God is on," John says.
Gabriel steadies himself and nudges the horse into a trot.
"Don't we all?" he whispers as he pushes the steed beyond the plains towards the dying night.

* * *

Robert brushes back the boy’s hair. The child sleeps peacefully, quietly, without fear or discomfort. Finally. The room is but a single bed. A small nightstand sits in the corner with a polished mirror hanging from the wall behind.
Robert rises from the boy's side and stares into the glass. He'll need to shave before the sermon. He scratches his chin and studies the room. It's comfortable, homely. It's the perfect place in a perfect town.
Then why does he feel so scared?
The men will be chasing him, but for how long? How long will he and his family have to keep moving? Months? Years? Will they ever truly be safe? Or will they forever be running? That’s no way to raise a child, no way to raise his son.
There comes a knock against the door. His brother's voice rises from the other side.
"Robert? Robert, it's me. Can you open the door?"
Robert crosses the room and unbolts the latch upon the door, letting it swing open. Jesse stands in the hallway already dressed in his mass clothes. He smiles as he dives past his brother.
"Hope I didn't wake Ben," he says.
"Jesse, what are you doing? Mass doesn't start for another three hours."
"I know, I know. I needed to talk with you before everything started."
"Okay, let's talk."
The two step out onto the balcony. All the colors of the sunrise spill out across the sky. Nothing moves in the streets.
Robert takes a seat in the rocking chair that faces out towards the street, sighing from the long absent comforts something so simple provides. Jesse wipes the dust from his seat, careful not to mess his suit. The two brothers sit without words, enjoying the view.
"What did you want to talk about, Jesse?"
Jesse rubs the back of his neck.
"You remember that old watering hole we used to hide when we were kids?" he asks.
"How could I forget?"
"Remember that one day when we were playing in the house and I knocked over that purple vase? That was Ma's favorite. I was terrified that Pa would give me a lashing when he got home, so I went and hid out at that water hole. How long did I stay there?"
"About a day," Robert replies. He smiles at the recollection.
"A whole day. Ma was hysterical, looking all over the place, tearing up the town. Mind you, we'd stayed out longer before but you were always with me. You figured out where I was when no one else could, even took the blame for breaking the vase. Ma and Pa were so happy you found me that they didn't even get mad. I just told them that I got lost in those woods. We got away with it."
Robert watches his brother absentmindedly bite his nails.
"Jesse, what's going on?"
Jesse stands, placing his hands upon the balcony edge, and breathes the cool air.
"This isn't like that. This isn't some vase we broke or some lashing we're scared of, this is life and death we're involved in. How are we going to deal with this, Robert? Can we really get away with it this time? What you did was right, I'm not questioning it, but the men who are chasing us are far worse than anything we could ever imagine. I don't know if we can escape them."
Robert rises from his chair. He places his hand upon his brother's shoulder and squeezes.
"As long as we stick together we can get through anything. We're going to be okay. No one will get us. Not you, not me, not Ben."
"You really believe that?”
Robert leans against the balcony and watches the sky change color in the distance.
"I have to."

* * *

Peter meticulously straightens his robes as he pulls them over his form. He stares into the massive mirror that sits in the corner of his office. He is clean. Majestic. Fit to lead this flock alone. He draws the bloodstained blade from his robes and turns it over in his hands. With the blood of the betrayers spilt he will have finally cleansed his town.
He slides the blade back into his pocket and rubs his hands through his hair. He approaches his desk and retrieves his private bible from the drawers, his father’s last gift, and smoothes out its pages, skimming through the works of gospel. The sermon calls for this work. The book will bring light to any moment. From its pages he will save his town.
The door to his office opens and a young man sticks his head in.
"Father Peter, everyone has arrived. We're waiting for you."
Peter nods, his eyes still focused upon the book.
"Take your seat, Alexander, I will be out shortly."
The youngster nods and shuts the door. A soft rumble of voices arises. His flock is waiting. He must not keep them. Peter shuts the bible and passes through the doorway, arms raised high, the stares of all upon him.
"Brothers! Sisters! Fathers, mothers, and friends! Listen to me and learn!"
Peter stands before his flock drinking in their faith. They wait in complete silence, every eye turned upon him.
"Listen to my words, my children, for they are the true words of the Father and no one else. You may have noticed that dear Father Gabriel and Maxwell are absent. They are attending business on your behalf and will not be returning for some time, I am sorry to say."
A murmur slithers through the crowd. Peter does not let the disruption escalate. He raises his hands. Silence.
"Do not feel saddened. Though they may be gone they shall return. For now, listen to my words. Today we are here to not only provide sermon upon God and all His glory but to bring comfort to believers who wish to be readministered to the faith of our lord. The Bell family, newcomers to our town, shall be cleansed and loved again. They sit in the back if you have not yet become acquainted. Please take a moment to welcome them to our humble home."
Minutes pass as Robert and Jesse are whispered words of welcome and comfort by the members of the church. They smile and shake hands, their eyes bright and fulfilled. Once the chatter subsides Peter begins anew.
"But before that glorious moment I have a few words I must offer."
Peter takes his bible from the podium and raises it for all to see.
"This is the book I shall be reading from today. We all recognize the name but this is not just any holy work. It is the bible that was given to me by the man who raised me, my father, hours before his death, God rest his soul. He confided in me his wish that I spread the word of God throughout the land, purge it of sin, and so I have. It was the book I used during the first sermon I ever taught. And now I pull it from my desk for a special day. Today I will read from this book and the sermon that follows will be one you shall never forget."
The crowd rumbles with excitement. Peter speaks, not in his usual glorious and inspiring tone, but in a whisper.
"We are God's children. We are put upon this earth to serve His will, are we not? We must rid the earth of the foul beasts and servants of Satan, must we not? God is all powerful, yes, but we are His soldiers. Just as His angels defend His dominion in Heaven so must we defend His makings on Earth. We must wash away sin with the blood of those who defy our Lord."
Peter steps from his podium and gestures towards the family.
"Come now, my children, we must wash you. Wash you so that sin shall flee. Wash you in the waters of the Lord."

* * *

John's steed gallops across the plains and into Garrison. The town sign hangs above, rocking in the wind. John passes under the arch and heads toward the saloon. He pulls the animal to a stop and leaps from the beast, bursting through the doorway and into the building. He shouts for the family, for anyone, but no one answers. He exits, scanning the town in desperation. No one roams the empty streets. The orange blob of a sun rises, yet no one stirs.
John turns. His eyes travel the length of the steeple that rises from the middle of the settlement. The church of Father Peter. The candlelight from the cathedral is all that burns within. The family must be there.
John kicks off, legs pummeling the earth with every step, arms pumping at his sides. His hat flies from his head and spins across the sand. His heart beats in his ears as he turns down the alley between the buildings, leaping over broken rocks and stumbling through a ditch, quickly regaining his stride. A circle of birds take to the sky as he passes through them.
The church lies straight ahead now. His guns shake in his holsters. Thick air fills his tired lungs. He races up the steps and grasps the handle of the door that separates him from the madness, ready to face what poisons the other side.