The Reckoning

SEEK GOD NOT SHELTER, the sign read. Stuck to the underbelly of the rusty bridge above them. Dusted with dirt and irony. CHRIST HAS RISEN AND HE NEEDS YOU, another said. COME TO THE HILL. Both signs scrawled in blood.

She turned around towards the hill, her dirty blonde hair cascading over her tired eyes. She turned like it was beckoning her, calling her name through the wisps of wind that whiplashed her skin. She saw them all heading towards the hill, the preachers in white, the others in whatever they could scavenge.

"Are you sure we're doing the right thing?" she asked.

"Yes."

"They say he's risen, why couldn't it be true?"

"Look around."

He watched her eyes move across the landscape like drifting tumbleweed. He watched her see it all again. The empty sky. The pillaged streets above them. The ribcages. Broken. Poking out of the bodies smeared on the ground. The snow melting into murky water, digging potholes into the muddy earth. The sky mimicked their souls. It was sad. Ugly. Gray.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked her.

She looked at him. She felt everything, but she felt nothing. She was hollow. Emotionless. She grabbed his hand.

"There is no God," he went on. "No man with the power to create a galaxy would build a wasteland."

"Maybe."

He looked at her. He wanted to tell her, doubt will kill us. Doubt will kill us before they do. But he didn't tell her.

"Don't say that. You have to believe it. You have to believe me. Do you?"

She gripped harder. Looked back. Pointed towards the city.

"They all say he's risen. All of them. They say he's here. That he's walking with us. Maybe they're right."

"If Christ has risen, where are his footprints?" he asked.

He watched her eyes shift towards the untouched snow stretched ahead of them.

They walked on.

All was gray the next morning. Dirty. Dead. She woke up to silence. The sleeping bag beside her was empty. Cold. They'd camped under an old bridge, shielding themselves from view if one were to pass by quickly. But maybe someone had meandered on by slowly. She was the lookout.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, about to get up and investigate when he showed up, dripping wet. Chilled to the core with icicle hair. He sat down beside her, emptying his socks of the pounds of snow inside them. Finished, he placed his hands back inside his soaked jacket pockets.

"We need to eat," he said.

"You need to warm up."

"I was looking for food."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

He rubbed his eyes, running his hands through his melting hair as he spoke. "There wasn't a single car out there today. Wasn't anything."

She pulled her body up, pressing herself against the graffitied cement wall. GOD IS GOOD sprayed in red. Scratched out ten times over.

She peeked around the wall and stood up. "We have to go, then," she said. "We have to go to the next town."

"Do you know what town?"

"No."

"Okay."

They both stood up, packed their things into their backpacks and pockets. The lighter. The wire. The canteen. The switch knife. The socks. The earmuffs. The sheets and blankets. Sleeping bags on top.

They walked on.

Sometimes they remembered the days before the destruction. They'd reminisce. Drink nostalgia from their canteen instead of the limited supply of clean water they were carrying. They'd remember the smells. Roses. The tastes. Fresh bread. Fresh water. The sounds. Laughter. Music. The sights. The blue skies. The flowers growing between the sidewalks, before they became splattered with blood. They remembered when everything was beautiful.

Other times they would forget.

"What's green look like?" she would ask him.

"Green."

"You don't remember either."

The conversation would end, and they would walk on.

They reached a town a day later, weak from hunger. Running on empty. No different than any other day.

They walked down the lifeless but dirt street, full of bones and skulls and more bones and more skulls. He grimaced. Shifted his eyes towards his naked feet.

She saw the pain reflecting in his eyes. "Don't look," she said.

"They're already there."

"Where?"

"In my head."

She glanced at the bodies then, laying in piles. Hundreds upon hundreds. Laying on top of each other, placed as if built by careless giants trying to make a castle out of a deck of cards on a windy day.

Bones protruded out of each of them in the same place. All ribcages were slashed in half, dangling out of the chests like a man dangling off a cliff. Strings of dried blood clots hung off the ripped tissue, silk gossamer off the heaps.

He looked up, then quickly angled his gaze down once again. His eyes stumbled to words etched into the brown ground.

GIVE BACK TO GOD, it said.

He spat on it. Stamped it out with his foot.

"What's going on?" she asked, turning around.

"More propaganda,'" he said, clenching his hands.

"Don't get angry. Save your energy."

"They want us to praise god."

"I know."

"Do you know something?"

"You refuse."

"Yes. I refuse. Do you praise a fire for eating the trees? Oceans for swallowing cities? No. And so it goes. One does not deserve praise for turning the world into a wasteland."

She grabbed his hand, tried to calm him down. Rubbed his palm. Looked at his grimy fingers.

"Your ring is gone," she said.

"I lost it. In the last Reckoning."

"How?"

"In the paint jar when I stuck my hand in."

He remembered the feel of it. The thickness of the dye on his hand when he brushed it on his forehead. He didn't want to put the mark on, but blending in was key. Vital. It was the only way to survive.

The whistle blew after that, the high-pitched screech slicing through the air. The men had begun pouring out of the buildings, racing down the streets. He had turned to her, grabbed her by her long hair.

"Cut it off," she had said.

And so he did, in one swift chop. Then they were handed the blades and pointed towards the rebels.

"God needs us," one of men in white roared.

GOD HAS RISEN AND HE NEEDS YOU, the men chanted in reply. One of the men held their arms up high, making the symbol with his fingers. A cross. Two hundred more jutted out into the sky. It started.

And so they charged toward the small pack of rebels, holding their knives high above their heads. He blended in. Had been one of the first to reach them, had been one of the first to tackle the shaking man begging for food to the ground. One of the first to plunge the knife into a chest, to watch the blood bubble up from harmless veins and ooze out of the wound, bursting like a fireworks display neither of the men had witnessed in years.

She'd started pulling him. Yelling into his ear to STOP STOP STOP because WE CAN GO WE CAN RUN NOW THEY WON'T NOTICE and IT'S TIME TO GO and most importantly DON'T BE LIKE THEM. In a split second he'd stood up. She grabbed his sticky hand. They ran.

He fell back into reality as he felt her grip on his hand loosen. He looked at her. Collapsed at her touch.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she said. "It's alright. You're alright."

He looked at her. Lifted his lips a little like he used to do.

"Do you want to put the paint on again now?" she asked.

"No."

"It's safer."

"I refuse," he said. "I don't want the sign. Putting it on the first time was a mistake, even if it was safer. I was weak. Wanted bread. Now I want sustenance and Christ is not in my diet. There might be a soup kitchen somewhere near here."

Sometimes she worried he was too radical. Like the others, but on the opposite end of the spectrum. Sometimes she remembered he'd killed a man.

They trekked through the filthy streets towards the innards of the city, peeking into the alleys and buildings. Performing the routine checks. Looting the houses around them and checking for anything useful. Coming up with nothing.

And so they went. Trampling on down the empty road, each step more of a burden than the last.

At the start things had been different. They had worn shoes and mittens and scarves and hats. Had kept crates of vegetables, jars of fruit. They had been exponentially prepared. But supplies dwindled over the course of the years. Thieves. The needier. Shoes wearing out. Until all that was left was a pack full of nothing.

A man in white sat in the ditch of the road ahead of them. Two hundred feet, maybe two-fifty. She looked at him, pulled him off the street into an alley.

"There's someone there," she said.

"I see. He's one of them."

"What do you want to do?"

"Keep going."

"Could be dangerous."

"I'm starving."

They carefully trudged towards the man. He fingered the switch knife in his pocket.

They treaded closer and the man came into view. He was chubby. The first tip-off. Abnormal for times like these. The man rolled his head, caught sight of the pair. He angled his gaze towards them.

They inspected him more profusely. Saw the scarlet cross painted in blood on his forehead. The second sign. The man began to move. Shuffled his stained hands and extended his two pointer fingers. Held one up and put the other over it. Made the symbol.

They were supposed to sign back to the man. They were supposed to silently let him know that they were not searching for shelter, they were not scavenging for a morsel of food, they were not running from the preachers. No. They were supposed to sign, let him know they were heading towards the hill. Making their way to the place where they'd give their heart to the ghost of a ghost.

The man in the street waited.

Waited.

Waited.

He didn't sign.

She didn't either.

The man stood up. Placed his hands in his pockets. Brought out his whistle. Blew it.

People exploded into the street, all dressed in white. All wearing red symbols on their foreheads. Blood glistening in the sun.

They surrounded them, instructing them as they moved closer and closer. Hands up. Legs apart. Don't move a muscle. I said don't move.

They took their packs and sliced them open, flipped them upside down and watched their precious items plummet into the dirt with a dull thud. They stepped on them, rubbed their sheets into the grime. Poured their canteens into their mouths, gulping the water down like it was their own. One licked his lips while another began the interrogation.

"What were you doing out of your territory?

Why aren't you heading north?

What gives you the right to search for food on your own?

You are not God.

God will provide for you after it's over.

You are wrong. This is what God wanted. Thy will be done.

We are doing this in His holy name.

We all have to make sacrifices. We all must learn to live for Him."

He was out of saliva to spit. The man kicked him to the ground.

"Take this one first. Then the other."

The men followed his commands. One revealed a trash bag, heavy and dripping crimson. The others came forward towards the couple with silver knives. They slashed their clothes and dragged them off. Stabbed their chests, crushed their ribs, carved the hole. Reached in and plucked out their hearts and dumped them in the bag. Pulled out their scarlet blades and wiped them off. Dipped their fingers into their chests until they were dripping rubies. Reapplied the cross on their foreheads, and then

they walked on.