How many times must he go through this before God would end this madness? From what he was continually hearing on his radio The Dead were still increasing in their numbers and still no hope was in sight. The voices on his radio at night sometimes spoke about people mounting a counter-offensive against The Dead and taking back the world. Some even spoke of how the Army was planning their own solution.
But so far, Father Handel saw little progress on either front.
As he sat trying to regain his strength and hold back his tears Father Handel tried to imagine, as he had many times before, what had humanity done? What could the severity of their sin have been to bring about His wrath and in this magnitude?
Was this to be a cleansing as Sodom and Gomorrah had been?
Why had He turned His back on those who might serve Him?
The priest looked up toward the carved face of the figure hung from the cross for some assurance that this was all a part of His plan.
Where was the divine justice in any of this?
His supplication, as usual, went unanswered.
Now all that Father Handel had left was to continue teaching His word and to hope that God, in His eternal wisdom, would look kindly upon his acts. After all, wasn’t he merely trying to do that which he was meant to do as a part of His design? Had he, too, gone astray? He felt in his heart that God would surely look upon his acts with a certain amount of clemency, since the priest had acted in His name so that he could continue to teach His word.
He looked over at the body on the gurney and saw that there was hardly anything left of the bound boy now. His corpse had been practically picked clean. Father Handel looked up again to the carved representation of Christ above the altar, hung his head and wept quietly. His shoulders shook from his heaving sobs. His body was wracked by the depths of his sorrow. He sensed rather than saw Javier walk up softly and stand next to him. The boy waited patiently for the priest’s outburst to abate. Once Father Handel’s tears subsided, the priest felt a small hand gently touch his shoulder.
'Padre,' the boy said in the quietest of voices, 'I take you to your room now. You shower and change clothes. I clean up here.'
The priest, who was still only just a man, painfully stood and nodded wearily.
'Bless you, My Son,' he said in a hushed tone.
'Padre?' the boy asked sheepishly as they began to walk.
'Yes, Javier?'
'Will La Muerte stop coming one day?'
'I don’t know, My Son. I just don’t know. I’ve heard on the short-wave that the Army may be coming. Perhaps they will be able to get a handle on things. Honestly, I had thought The Dead would have all rotted away by now, but… they still come. We must remain patient and trust that it is all a part of God’s will.'
The boy walked and considered this. Absentmindedly, he wiped the blood on his hands on the seat of his pants. Deep red stains appeared on his already blood-spattered clothing.
'Padre?'
'Yes, Javier?'
'If La Muerte stops coming, who will be left for you to preach to?
'If The Dead were to ever stop coming, Javier, you and I would leave this place. I promise you that. We’d go and find ourselves someplace nice, someplace sunny and warm…' The priest raised his hand and gently mussed the front of the boy’s hair, '…someplace safe.' The old man looked into the deep brown eyes of the boy. 'How does that sound, eh?'
The boy broadly smiled up at the older man and nodded aggressively.
'Muy bien, Father,' he said with a wide grin, 'I would like that.'
Father Handel smiled and sighed quietly. He leaned gently against the boy, dropping his arm around the younger man’s shoulders for additional support. The boy shouldered the older man’s weight and led the way into the stygian shadows of the church.
Chikara
Cleese stepped out of the Training Hall and walked onto the large expanse of grass which separated the gymnasium from the fighter’s cribs. After a few minutes of walking, when his view was no longer obstructed by the surrounding buildings, he stopped and took in the setting sun. The slowly descending orb hung just above the horizon and bled the entire sky a deep red. The sight of the sun going down always filled him with a sense of wonder, as it had for his entire lifetime.
Some things in this oftentimes rotten life could be so beautiful.
He slowly ran a hand through his hair and pulled it back from his face. A small spasm twitched in his back and he stretched the aching muscles with a sigh. He straightened his legs and methodically bent over at the waist to touch his toes. His hamstrings burned and felt as if they were made out of razor wire. After a couple of bounces to pull the muscles loose, he stood up, spread his arms and arched his spine until he heard it crack. The pain he’d been feeling from all of the training created a fiery sensation down deep in his muscle fibers. Every movement he made now caused his muscles to cry out in a symphony of suffering.
He felt tired—damn tired—but in a good way. He was damn near dead on his feet, yet conversely felt like a million bucks. Pain was, after all, just weakness leaving the body. Or at least that was what Monk had told him. Monk was full of shit like that, little aphorisms that sounded like they’d come straight out of a Shaw Brothers movie.
'Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.'
'Pain is temporary. Pride is forever.'
To Cleese’s ears it was all 'snatch the pebble from my hand…' -type bullshit, but it had a way of sticking in your head like gum.
A sudden stinging sensation buzzed high on his left arm. He swatted at its source only to find that a mosquito had landed and just bitten him. A small smear of blood and bug guts greased his upper deltoid. He wiped the goo off and spread it on his pants. It was a little surprising how firmer his body felt even after only the short time he’d been here. He poked at his bicep and liked what he saw.
He’d packed on some pounds and dropped literally an ass-load of body fat since arriving here. As his body started to slim down, he’d felt a lot of the speed and alertness of his youth return. Before stepping out of that helicopter, he would’ve been lucky if he could have walked a mile. Now he was clearing the 'four minute' mark. At Monk’s suggestion, the blunts and alcohol stopped the minute Cleese had seen what he was going to be up against. Him being high as fuck had been fine for pulling his meat out of the grease before, but given the current situation he figured a straight head and a clear throat would be better if he wanted to keep his noggin’ on his neck.
A sudden, sunset breeze blew coolly across his face. He turned his head toward it and breathed in deeply. The chilled air felt good as it swirled deep down into his lungs. It sure beat the hell out of the salt and urine smell of The City that was for sure.
Cleese looked around and decided that since Monk had been called away for some face-time with Corporate and he had some free time to kill, he would take a little walk around the compound to check out some of the sights he’d not had a chance to see. He welcomed the alone time and the chance to clear his head. So much had happened so quickly since he’d arrived here he felt as if he needed a little perspective. Oftentimes perspective could only be achieved with time, distance and solitude.
He walked aimlessly across the grass, heading in the general direction of the shooting range. He could hear what sounded like somebody popping off rounds, but the noise now coming from the range was nothing like it was during the busy time of day. It was a given among the fighters that being proficient with a gun was not a matter of choice, but of necessity. Being good with a weapon—be it fists, blade or gun—was second in importance only to the 'Don’t Get Yourself Bit' credo.
For a few minutes he walked and did nothing but look at the sky and let his mind clear. Breathing in through
