Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz (17 page)

“Mummy!”

Mel glanced at me and I nodded to her as if to say it’s okay.
Despite my attempt at reassurance, she appeared a little startled.
She switched back to the puppet farmyard.

“Five more minutes, Ollie. We’re about to eat dinner.
Then it’s bath time.” Mel didn’t correct Ollie when
she answered him.

Ollie stared at me as if it were my fault, then ruefully thumped Buzz
Lightyear into the rug. Buzz almost lost another arm.

I said my goodbyes and left for home.

Liam was nineteen and a laborer. He also worked for my brother.

I hated the little prick.

“It’s the fucking Muslims, and the gays, the women, too.”

I ignored him, lifted the wheelbarrow full of wet mortar and winced
at the immediate strain on my triceps. The sun was sweltering hot. My
skin was slick. I pushed the mortar over to David, where he was busy
laying bricks. Liam trotted after me. He had taken his t-shirt off at
the first glimpse of the sun, and his muscled chest, decorated with a
St. George’s cross tattoo, was already red–raw with burn.

Liam wore a stupid grin. “I’m not surprised. Only a
matter of time before some vicar lost it. Have you seen him? He looks
dead. But, I’m telling you, it’s the fucking Muslims, the
gays, and the women. They’re grinding this country into the
dirt.”

I tipped the mortar onto the board David used. He smirked at me then
looked at Liam. “Didn’t have you for a man of the cloth,
Liam?”

“I’m not, fucking kiddie-fiddlers the lot of’ ‘em.
All I’m saying is that if I were God, or even some poof vicar,
I’d be angry at all the foreigners and queers fucking up our
country.”

I shook my head, was tempted to tell Liam that if anyone could
provoke the wrath of God, it would most likely be an intolerant dick
like him. I snorted, more at myself than Liam. I had stopped
believing in God after Jess.

“Dave, you want a water?” I asked, ignoring Liam.

David gave me a thumb’s up.

“I’ll have one too, pal,” Liam said, scratching his
shaven head.

I glared at him, before walking to the garage where the Carringtons
had allowed us to store our tools and materials. They had a fridge in
there, full of bottles of water and cans of fizzy pop.

I entered, grateful to be in the shade. I wiped sweat from my brow
and walked to the fridge. Beer was stacked on either side of it. I
sweltered as I stared at the mountain of cans.

I imagined them at a barbecue, all the Carringtons, drinking beer and
flipping burgers, toasting to happy families.

My stomach rolled with nausea, and I leaned on the fridge for
balance. The garage became somehow smaller, the walls closing in. I
blinked, my hand on a can of beer. I didn’t recall putting it
there. I shook. The metal was cool on my skin, inviting.

One drink. I could handle one drink.

I fought my tumult, dismissed the voice inside that wanted me to peel
back the ring pull so I could hear the sweet sound of gas escaping
from the can. Better than beer, there were bottles of vodka and gin
in the fridge. Nobody would know. I laughed, a strangled sound. That
was the thing about alcoholics, they never
really
got drunk.
Not until they started to fuck things up, not until they went a
little crazy. I could handle one drink. Shit, I could handle a few.

My breath escaped in a hiss. I flung open the fridge door and took
out three bottles of water. My fingers brushed the perspiring glass
of the vodka bottle. I grimaced and rushed to the yard.

David and Liam were huddled around Liam’s phone. Liam saw me
and grinned. “Check this out.”

I hurried over, wanting to be as far away from the garage as
possible.

Liam held up his phone so I could see the clip playing. “Yesterday,
this crazy bastard got a couple of million hits. He should top that
today.”

A priest was being interviewed in a television studio. I gasped when
I saw him. He hardly appeared human, more like a corpse. His hair,
what was left of it, was pure white, and the majority of it had
fallen out leaving only sporadic tufts. The skin on his face was
loose and ashen colored, and beneath it there were blue veins
dangerously close to the surface. And yet the worse thing about the
priest’s appearance was his eyes. They were colorless, two
boiled egg-like sphere’s set back in sunken, blood-red sockets.

“
Shit
. Did he always look like that?” I asked.

Liam beamed. “No—he reckoned he saw God … and it
properly fucked him up. They did before and after photos of him
yesterday. They’re calling him Zombie Priest on the internet.”

“He’s the one you’ve been talking about?”

“Yes, Dr. Finius Anthony, the Bishop of Manchester,”
David chipped in.

Liam snatched the water and took a slug. He smacked his lips. “It’ll
happen tonight. Zombie Priest reckons God will flex His muscles
tonight.”

David had to pick up some piping from the wholesalers, which meant
that Ollie was asleep by the time we reached David’s house.

I set off for home with a heavy heart, lingered by the off license
for as long as it took me to beat down the urge to go inside and buy
everything the contents of my wallet would allow. I got home,
showered and had a microwave lasagne for one. I watched TV as the sun
went down.

I hated the nights. I was alone with my thoughts then, and the voice
in my head didn’t stop at justifying my need to drink. Nights
were when I remembered Jess, when I remembered how the cancer changed
her from a normal thirty year old woman to some decrepit shell. How
she refused to even talk about getting rid of the baby, how the flesh
fell off her and the pain made her cry herself to sleep. Treatment
would harm the baby, so we had to make a choice. Or rather
she
had to make a choice. And Jess chose Ollie.

We had three months together as a family but she never really
recovered from the trauma of the pregnancy. Her cancer was unchecked
during that time. It ravaged her. Back then, my grief was all denial.
I never thought I’d actually lose her until I did.

The nights were hardest because, sometimes, when I was alone, I still
heard her weeping with pain.

I reached for the remote control. My hands trembled. A thousand
agitated butterflies fluttered inside me. I wouldn’t sleep that
night. I would lie in the dark and think about things again and
again, no matter how much I didn’t want to.

I’d considered speaking to David, addressing the elephant in
the room, talking about when I could have Ollie back.

It couldn’t possibly go well.

Mel didn’t understand, would never understand, what it was like
to see your wife reflected in your child. I had felt such
debilitating conflict. Why couldn’t I have them both? All Mel
knew was that I had abandoned my son. I had lost my job and my home,
and then drank to glorious oblivion.

I still saw Jess in Ollie, but I’d moved past my agony. I
needed to make things right.

David never gave up on me. It was David who staged the intervention.
It was David who saved my life. Maybe my brother would listen if I
spoke to him about Ollie. Maybe I could do it. I was a good man once,
a decorated marksman, the pride of my community.

But my shaking hands gave me away, and from time to time, that voice
inside whispered about the sweet release a drink would bring.

I sighed as I switched channels, wondered if I would ever be ready,
wondered if I could ever face David and Mel. And how would Ollie
react if I brought him home? To
my
home?

Who was I kidding? I would never be his father, at least not in his
eyes.

I stumbled upon a news channel. I recognized Manchester. The
cathedral was cordoned off, hundreds of people gathered outside.
There were lighted candles, cameras on every corner.

The shot showed Zombie Priest. He had reporters on either side.

The Bishop of Manchester moved to the front of the crowd. He threw
back his head and reached his arms into the sky.

Nothing happened.

Laughter echoed around the crowd. The bishop didn’t move. He
was freeze-framed in position.

There was a huge rumble and the mikes picked up on it. I adjusted
myself on the sofa, transfixed. The laughter in the crowd stopped.

Lightning flashed. People screamed.

A second bolt. It hit the cathedral, as did the third and the fourth
strikes. The crowd split, panic ensued. Zombie Priest remained
unmoved, hands aloft, head tilted to the sky.

Open mouthed, I checked the glass in my hand to make sure it was
filled with water and nothing stronger.

Manchester Cathedral burned, live on TV. Screaming people sprinted in
all directions. One of the reporters had the ambition to ignore the
melee. He grabbed Zombie Priest by the arm, shouted into the feed.
“Doctor Anthony! Is this the act of God, is this the
demonstration of the Almighty’s power you prophesied?”

The bishop lowered his arms slowly and faced the camera. His white
eyes stared relentlessly. “Who is God? Why should we obey?”

The reporter held the microphone still before the bishop. Neither of
them spoke until Zombie Priest raised five fingers. The cathedral
blazed behind him.

“The flock will know the power of the Shepherd.”

“Doctor Anthony, why the cathedral? Why would God strike down
His own house?”

Zombie Priest smiled, revealing blackened teeth. His fingers were
still outstretched.

“Faith is no longer enough. Sinners need to witness His power.
We cannot continue to let the filth of our sins destroy His world.”

The reporter frowned. “What does that mean? Are you predicting
Armageddon?”

“God gave us the light. He will take it back. For five days,
the sun will not rise.

And in the darkness, the spirit of the Lord will pass through …
and the slaughter of the first born will commence, until every
household laments and understands the folly of their sins.”

The screen froze, leaving a flickering image of the bishop’s
dead stare. I reached for the remote, my hand steady for the first
time that evening, and sent the room into darkness.

I woke to the sound of sirens rather than my alarm.

8:00 a.m.

It was pitch black outside. I peered from my window and shook off the
remnants of sleep. I checked my watch as opposed to the clock. The
hands pointed to eight.

It should have been light, the cold light of the morning. Instead, it
was thick, impenetrable night. I remembered the crazed words of the
bishop and shuddered.
Five days of darkness.
Patches of yellow
glowered above the skyline. Fires burned all over the city. My blood
ran cold. It couldn’t be true.

I switched on the TV as I hurriedly got dressed. I stopped and sat in
stunned silence as the panic gripping the country unfolded before me.

People had taken to the streets in the hundreds and thousands. There
were thin lines of police, almost invisible next to the armies of
people gathered.

“
No scientific reason for eclipse
.”

I changed the channel.

“
Government pressed for explanation
.”

I changed the channel again and again. It was the same thing on every
station.

Wrath of God: First Born At Risk?

I read the headline and dizzied. My son, my brother, they were the
first born in my extended family.

I didn’t shower, or brush my teeth, or comb my hair. I grabbed
the handgun I kept beneath my bed and ran through the streets to
David’s.

We stayed together. Three days and nights passed, although it got
harder to tell as the darkness lingered. We were down to the tinned
food, having demolished the contents of David and Mel’s fridge.
David and I had boarded the windows and the doors. Outside, the
sirens worsened, as did the screams. The madness was not just
confined to the cities. We feared it would find us.

I didn’t sleep. I don’t think David or Mel did either.

The TV coverage continued throughout. It was our only connection with
the world outside. We huddled in David and Mel’s bedroom,
watching with the lights off and the volume on low. The streets I
grew up on, the familiar landmarks from my childhood, were
transformed. Manchester ran amok with rioters. Mosques burned, people
were executed in public. This was not the time to be different in the
eyes of the newly religious. It got worse as time passed. The army
were called in. They were the last line of defense. Even in the
darkness, the smoke could be seen billowing from the cities.

Zombie Priest, no longer representing the Church of England and skin
putrefying by the hour, led sermons from the shell of the burned out
cathedral, beyond a wall of military guard. The feeling was that the
government allowed him a voice, through fear of making things worse
by silencing him. His congregation was an ocean of people, either
watching in the square, or tuning in from their homes.

Reports revealed tales of widespread death. The killing of the first
born. The spirit of the Lord was passing through, although nobody had
seen it. Nobody could finger the perpetrator. The survivors knew only
the aftermath, the cooling corpses of their loved ones, taken in the
blink of an eye.

“
You will believe. You will know His power
.”

People pleaded for forgiveness, they prayed for a way out. Someone
pointed out that, in the book of Exodus, God offered the children of
Israel safe passage from the spirit of the Lord’s retribution.

“That was then,” Zombie Priest answered solemnly.

On the fourth black day, something happened.

Ollie peeled himself away from David and Mel. He came and hugged me,
sat on my lap.

“You look sad, Daddy.”

I held him, lost in pride and grief, and for the first time felt like
a father. I couldn’t lose him. I couldn’t lose David
either.