Burn

G
OOD
F
RIDAY

2015

Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.

—Jesus

Chapter 1

If we conclude that only the things which are in our power are good or bad,
we have no reason for finding fault with God or taking a hostile attitude to man.

—Marcus Aurelius

Father Luke Free encountered the line for confessions a block from Mary, Mother of Mercy Cathedral. He picked his way through the stalled traffic on the Avenue of the Martyrs and joined the line for confessions in the slim blade of shade beside the cathedral. He straightened his cassock, blotted his sweaty forehead with a sleeve, then walked slowly up the line, working his way against the flow of rosary vendors, holy-card vendors, Pope comic book vendors. He heard nothing but the blare of car horns, boom-boxes and hawkers as he walked, his gaze fixed a few paces ahead. The crowds and vendors parted for him with silence, a nod, a sign of the cross.

He knew better than to look up. Some people got nervous if the priest saw them in line. More than once when he stepped out of the stifling confessional for air, Father Free noticed that the first few in line when he left had moved to the end when he came back. Or to another priest’s line, on those rare occasions when there were two priests to spare in one region. Here, in La Libertad, there were the embassy priests, the seminary priests, the university priests and the hospital priests. Confessions would be heard in the capital city in time for Easter Duty, but in the
campo,
where he felt he belonged, there would be silence.

Father Free carried his Breviary in his left hand and a packet of schedules for the archbishop’s Broadcast Ministry. His turn in the hot seat began in a few minutes, and he hoped that Father Umberto had not spent his two hours eating raw onions again. Two Innocents charged batteries on a tandem Lightening just inside the double doors, the rasp of their chain and the squeak of their pedals a mantra to the god of electricity.

He set his straw hat and Breviary on the table in the vestibule. He placed most of the radio/TV schedules into an empty slot in the pamphlets rack, then fanned a few and laid them out for display. He heard with satisfaction the quick hands that snatched them up behind his back as soon as he entered the cathedral. The little broadcast station was popular enough that it just might get him killed.

The clamor and glare outside gave way to the cool spaciousness of the granite church. All of the statues huddled in their Lenten shrouds as two young seminarians prepared the altar. A
penitente
left one side of the confession-box, another entered, and Father Umberto heaved himself out of the center cubicle. He knelt for a moment, dripping sweat in the nearest pew, then greeted Father Free inside the doorway.

“Lo siento”
Father Umberto whispered, fanning his face with his hat. “I have been an hour thinking about the bathroom.”

He winked, availed himself of the holy water, genuflected and then left Father Free with a sweaty pat on the back and the unmistakable ripeness of raw onion in the air.

Father Free knelt for a moment, as Umberto had, gathering himself in the near pew for another bladder-busting marathon of guilt and despair. He used his hat and fanned the thick air out of the confessional before entering, and heard a few giggles up and down the line. He latched the door and sat on the bench, which switched on the light outside, identifying his presence.

How long will some Innocent have to pedal to keep my light on for two hours?

Father Free’s boot kicked against an empty bottle. In the dim light he saw the empties that Father Umberto left behind under the bench: EdenSprings Water. He himself never drank anything in the confessional; it was too risky on the bladder. And if he did, he wouldn’t drink EdenSprings because it was made by the competition, the Children of Eden. Competition who played dirty, very dirty.

He took a deep breath, let it out, touched his rosary and slid back the black wooden barrier.

“In the Name of the Father…”

Father Free recited his introductory in his most dispassionate voice, reserved for confessions and for the army roadblocks.

Mezcal,
he thought. He also smelled tobacco, sweat, Mayan incense.

The young man’s Spanish was bad. Father Free switched to Kakchiquel.

“Speak, Nephew. I am the ear of God.”

“Well, Holy,” he began, “I confessed two months last. I lied to my brother.”

Father Free waited the accustomed time.

“You lied to your brother,” he said. “What else?”

In the silence between them, Father Free felt the young man’s perfect posture, heard the liquid
click
of his eyelids and the skitter of something across the ceiling.

“I did the man and the woman thing with my brother’s wife, Holy.”

Kakchiquel was an adequate language for theological discussion, but not Father Free’s grasp of Kakchiquel. He did his best.

“Stay away from her,” Father Free said.

“Well, Holy, it is good. But we share a room, and I have to sleep some time. And that is when she has me, when I am asleep and can fight no more. She straddles me under my blanket, then takes my member. . . .”

“Wait, Nephew,” the priest interrupted. “You say you were asleep. Is this a dream? Did you commit adultery with your brother’s wife in a dream?”

“Well, Holy, it is true, when I wake she is not in my blanket. But it is so real! Every morning I must face my brother. Now he wonders what I, his closest of brothers, am keeping from him.”

“How often does this happen? Every night?”

“The once only, Holy.”

“You are confessing you had an affair with your brother’s wife in a dream one time, and you lied to him about it. It’s affecting your life with your brother.”

“Yes, Holy. And we work the coffee together.”

“So, this also affects your work, your pay.”

“Yes, Holy. It is a difficulty.”

“Well, Nephew,” Father Free said, “go home, and ask your brother and your sister-in-law to say a rosary with you. Tell them it is something I asked of you, that the three of you pray together that you might find a suitable bride.”

The miasma of tobacco and mezcal burst through the screen: “Yes, Holy.”

Father Free imagined a blushing smile on the slight figure behind the curtain. He coached the young man through his act of contrition, and passed absolution as he slid the barrier closed. He hesitated only a moment before sliding open the barrier on his other side.

As the barrier
banged
open in its slot, a tremendous explosion popped Father Free’s ears and set the confessional to rocking.

A woman across the screen shouted, “Jesus, Mary, Mother of God! Oh, I’m sorry, Father!” She hurried on, in a whisper, “If they’re going to kill us, please hear my confession now.”

He began, “In the Name of the Father . . .”

Many running inside the church. A knock on his closet door.

“Yes.”

“It is the embassy, Father. The U.S. Embassy. Many will be wounded and dying.”

“Thank you.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“These people, too, are wounded and dying,” he said.

Another knock, but Father Free ignored it. He turned instead to the mango and hot tortilla smell of the frightened woman sobbing her tiny sins into a handkerchief across the curtain.

Chapter 2

Fight to the death for Truth, and the Lord God will fight on your side.

—Ecclesiasticus

The retarded teenager struggled with his burden of cameras and cases, trying to get out the hangar door to the Mongoose, but a pair of pimply security guards wouldn’t let him through. The boy and the two Children of Eden guards sweated heavily in the still humidity of the unconditioned Costa Bravan afternoon.

Isaac Green saw the struggle from the back of the hangar and yelled, “Get that stuff on board, Paul, we’re late and there’s another load to go.”

Paul surged forward against the arms of the security guards, then one of them got rough with him and Paul started to cry in his peculiar bellow. It always put the hair up on Isaac’s neck when Paul did that. Mirian was sorting the last of their equipment from the pile of incoming bags and said, “You take care of it. I handled him last time.”

Isaac Green left Mirian and the other Innocents to prepare the second load for their hop out to ViraVax. The security guards were getting pushy, which made Paul bellow even louder. Isaac slapped the back of Paul’s head.

“Shut up!”

Paul turned to hug Isaac, but Isaac pushed him away. Paul shuffled to the back of the hangar and joined the other two Innocents, who tried to comfort him. Isaac turned to the dimwit security guards and indicated the Mongoose, idling on the lift pad outside.

“We’ve got to get this stuff aboard, we’re already behind schedule. . . .”

“Your crew stays here,” one of the guards said. He tapped his Sidekick for emphasis. “Orders.”

“But
we’re
the camera crew,” Isaac said. “The Master invited us here himself to document the Easter Sabbath. You’ve made a mistake.”

Isaac reached for the strap of one of the cameras, and the security guard tapped his wrist lightly with a rifle barrel. It sent a shock all the way up to Isaac’s teeth.

“You’re
making the mistake,” the blond kid said, his blue eyes as hard as his weapon. “Hump your stuff back there to your area, and wait.”

“But the Master himself . . .”

“. . . Handed me this manifest,” the guard said, brandishing a pokesheet on a clipboard, “and you’re not on it. Neither is your partner, or your three pets. I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know you’re not authorized on this lift.”

“Let me speak to your commanding officer.”

Both of the security guards smiled, and the Mongoose wound up in the background, screaming for vertical lift. Then it sucked in its landing gear and wallowed towards the Jaguar Mountains to the north.

“Shit!”

Isaac kicked at the canvas duffle at his feet.

“Yeah,” the younger guard laughed. “Now, what was it you wanted? The CO? He’ll see to the Sabbath shutdown out there, then he’ll be back here for shift relief.”

Isaac clenched his teeth and held his temper. Shouting would not get him what he wanted now. He spoke through a tight jaw, watching the heat ripple off the tarmac where the Mongoose had stood.

“And what time will that be?”

“They’ll shut down at eighteen hundred hours,” he said. “That’s six PM, your time. That’s three hours, you might as well get comfortable.” He pointed his weapon towards the back of the hangar.

Two cots sat next to their pile of bags and equipment, and Isaac had a bad feeling about how long they would be waiting in this oven of a hangar. Mirian had finished separating their gear from a supply shipment and was recording some background shots to test the cameras. She narrated as she shot.

“Good Friday afternoon, 27 March 2015, in the Confederation of Costa Brava, Central America. The Master goes on to the mystery facility without us and we’re stored here like these cases of vaccines and bottled water. . . .”

Isaac pulled his headset out of the duffle, plugged it into his Sidekick and keyed in his access to the Godwire. As his hardware snaked its way through the electronic maze between La Libertad, Costa Brava and McAllen, Texas, he noted the blinking time display in the lower, left-hand corner of his vision.

The highlighted numbers blinked
1500:00 low batt,
and Isaac mumbled to himself, “Good Friday, and Jesus died at three.” He felt he should honor the moment with a prayer, but worry drove prayer from his mind. Commander Noas had authorized them to accompany the Master for this story, but Isaac didn’t have the proper security access code to speak with Noas personally. He left a brief message on the Godwire, describing their situation, and requested permission to complete their mission.

The two security guards, knowing that the news team was stuck, retreated to their office beside the hangar doors and began stuffing themselves with illicit tamales in anticipation of the coming bread-and-water fast of the Sabbath.

“Hey!” Isaac hollered. “We’ve got some low batteries. Can we plug in here?”

“Not on our grid,” the youngest answered through a full mouth. He nodded to indicate a Lightening beside his office. “Put one of your pets on that ballbuster; you’re welcome to it.”

The Lightening would give all three Innocents a workout, but at least they’d be powered up if they ever had a story to chase.

“You should have argued with them,” Mirian grumbled. It seemed to Isaac that she grumbled a lot, lately. “There’s been a bombing at the U.S. Embassy. Things are happening down here.”

“We weren’t sent here to cover the politics.”

“Well, we aren’t going to cover diddly squat unless we get out of this hotbox.”

“The whole country’s a hotbox,” Isaac said.

Mirian powered down her camera and marched past him to the pair of cots and patch of concrete that was their new home. The three Innocents fussed over their blankets and belongings on the floor, nervous about the change in plan. At twelve, thirteen and fifteen, they humped bags of gear with the best of them, but to get the best out of them required delicate handling, a lot of hugging, patting, kind words and fresh fruit. Isaac swallowed his frustration as he watched the three glum Innocents unpack their few things.

“Put your beds together later,” Isaac said. “There’ll be plenty of time for that. Let’s get all of our batteries topped off, first. Who wants to be the Lightening Bug?”

Maggie, the twelve-year-old, stepped forward.

“I be the bug, Isaac!”

“No, me! Me!” Arthur insisted.

Paul sat on his blanket, arms folded, looking at the jungle hillsides past the open hangar door.

“Everybody will have a turn,” Isaac said. “Let’s let Maggie go first.”

Isaac pulled the Lightening away from the wall, set four of their batteries into the appropriate slots, and diverted overflow power to the hangar’s grid.

If we’re stuck here long, maybe we can deal on the power we produce.

Isaac figured that the security guards took a turn each shift on the Lightening, and they might look favorably on the chance for relief. He set the overflow meter to zero to record their contribution, adjusted the pedals for Maggie’s legs and said, “Go for it, Mag.”

Maggie worked the flywheel up to speed, and Isaac ran through the gears for her until she was comfortable. Then he poked a straw into a chilled bottle of EdenSprings water and fixed it into the clamp for her. She was the youngest, but she had good legs and excellent wind, and she had hardly begun to sweat.

Isaac patted her on the back, checked that the meter was running, and said, “Arthur will take his turn when you’re ready. We’ll have something for you to eat by then.”

Maggie flashed him a smile and concentrated on pedaling at a strong, regular rate. Many of the Down’s syndrome youngsters suffered from heart ailments, and Isaac believed that daily time on the Lightening was their key to longer life. He and Mirian also took shifts when necessary, though Mirian remained unenthusiastic throughout their two-year mission for the Children of Eden.

Isaac turned in time to bump into one of the ViraVax flight crewmembers, who was preparing a cold pallet for shipment. Metallic blankets called “chill-coats,” battery-powered coolers, covered the cargo.

“Hey,” Isaac said, “any chance we can hitch a ride with you guys? We missed our flight out to ViraVax.”

The loadmaster shook his head.

“Not going that way, bro. This here load’s going to Mexico City.”

The loadmaster guided Isaac aside as two forklift drivers squealed tires in their enthusiasm for loading the plane.

“The charge in these blankets don’t last forever,” he explained, “and we’ll be close getting off-loaded under the wire for the Sabbath, so we’ve got to make some time. Besides, this old 737 takes too much runway for the lift pad at ViraVax. There you need the Mongoose, a chopper or a parachute.”

Most of the bottled water was loaded already, along with a dozen pallets covered with chill-coats. All that remained were these last two. The loadmaster tapped his Sidekick display that showed his shipping manifest.

“Isn’t the Lord’s work the greatest job?” he asked, and flashed a genuine smile. “Look what I get to send out into the world: the purest water, medicines, vaccines. I like a job where I get to be the good guy.”

“What did you do before you joined the Church?”

The loadmaster ducked his head, scuffed a boot on the concrete.

“Point man for the Latin Death Boys in Tacoma.”

This was the kind of story that Isaac wanted: “Vicious Gangbanger Redeemed.” These real-life uplifting stories reaffirmed, for Isaac, a flagging faith. But the Godwire stringers got the human interest. Isaac and Mirian got the Master, and Isaac tried his best to accept the honor with grace. Mirian, however, grumbled the whole way that they were nothing more than cogs in a two-bit propaganda machine.

The loadmaster signaled the forklift operator, who tilted the forks back with a jerk and tumbled one of the luggage-sized stainless containers from under the blanket to the concrete. Condensation beaded the outside of the box immediately, and several smaller, thermos-like containers rolled out of the sprung lid.

Isaac saw that each bottle was marked with the characteristic “V/V” and a lot number. He also saw that Mirian was filming with the low-light unit.

“What’s this?” he asked.

The loadmaster checked his manifest.

“Some kind of vaccine. Goes to World Health Organization in Mexico City for distribution. Those other pallets”—he indicated a row of cartons lining one wall—“those are the EdenSprings water shipments, for the Sabbath ritual up north and for the airlines.”

“And those?” Isaac asked. He pointed to a palletload of larger cases covered with a chill-coat.

“ ‘Vaccine components’ is all it says here,” the loadmaster said. “Those go back to the U.S. of A.”

He turned his back on Isaac, then, and directed the loading of the smudge-winged cargo jet. Already Mirian was behind the stack of larger cases and under the chill-coat, out of sight of security and the flight crew.

“What’re you doing in there?” Isaac whispered.

“Snooping,” she said. “Isn’t that what real reporters do?”

Before he could object, Isaac heard the
click
of a latch, then a gasp.

“Omigod!” Mirian whispered. “Omigod!”

She burrowed farther under the heavy, cold blanket and shifted her feet. Isaac almost allowed himself to think that Mirian had a cute little butt.

She wriggled out from under the chill-coat wide-eyed, her palm-cam still recording, her face whiter than he’d ever seen it.

“What is it?”

Mirian pulled him by the sleeve and walked him to their cots. She plugged a small preview screen into the palmcam and took a deep breath.

“This is weird,” she said. “This is
way
weird.”

She pressed “play,” and the screen showed the lid of the metal case lift a little bit, displaying what appeared to be tidy packages of raw meat in some kind of solution.

But we’re all vegetarians,
he thought.

Then the palm-cam grabbed a close focus, and he saw a dozen neatly packaged hearts, just the size of human hearts, each awash in a very cold, clear liquid. A label on the closest package read: “15 y.o. male.” The lid dropped shut and
clicked
into place. A stencil on the top read: “MH, 12 ea., 3/27/15.” As the palm-cam pulled back, Isaac glimpsed the markings on the adjacent case: “FL, 4 ea., 3/27/15.” Mirian’s hand opened the latch, and he saw four livers packaged in the same clear solution.

Isaac took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and tried to drown out the voice in his brain that screamed, “Twelve male hearts, four female livers. Sixteen lives in two suitcases.”

“They’re human, aren’t they?” Mirian asked.

“Probably,” Isaac agreed, and tried not to sound shaken. “They’re obviously part of the transplant program. . . .”

“But why call them ‘vaccine components’? And where did they come from?”

“You mean
who.”

“Whom,” she corrected, and nodded towards the Innocents. “We’ve taken in thousands of Innocents in hundreds of special homes for almost twenty years. The ‘Down’s-Up’ program. Why don’t any of them come out to work in the community?”

“They’re all given jobs with the Church, like our assistants here.”

“Until when? Until some elder needs a pair of lungs? I
told
you it wasn’t just a rumor. . . .”

Isaac shushed her as the forklift driver returned for the pallet of organs.

“You don’t know for sure. . . .”

“And how are we
going
to know, stuck in this tin box on this two-bit airstrip. . . .”

“Our job . . .”

“Our
job,”
Mirian interrupted, with a finger to Isaac’s chest, “is to parrot what the Church says and keep our eyes on the horizon. We’re not reporters, we’re secretaries, shills for the Children of Eden PR staff. Now, I came here to report, and I’m not going to stay locked up while the real news is happening out there. You can stay here if you want, but
I’m
getting a ride to town.”

That was when they heard the
clang
and grind of the hangar door coming down, and the
snap
of the latch as the dark-haired guard secured the lock. He unplugged his Sidekick from the locking unit, winked a brown eye at Mirian and sauntered into the office. The blond guard shoved a rattling kitchen cart towards Isaac and let it go, where it petered out a few meters short. The guard shrugged, his attitude easier and his rifle slung.