The Last Rebel: Survivor (10 page)

They had gone only a few miles when Bev said: “I think that the hardest part of religion is forgiving.”

“You’re probably right,” Jim said, “but you can’t forgive people like the Rejects.”

“I think you ultimately can. That’s the way of Christ.”

“Yeah, maybe ultimately. But the best way to handle them right now is to kill them.”

“Unfortunately,” Bev said, “I think you’re right.”

She paused.

“And what do you think, Reb?” she said.

Reb looked up at her.

“Look at the expression on his face. I swear that he seems depressed too.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Jim said. “He’s probably picking up on our moods. They say that while we can tell what dogs are feeling, they can do the same by us.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Bev said.

They had driven about five miles when they spotted a fair-sized white church set back a good hundred yards off the road with access to it by a narrow asphalt road.

“Could we stop?” Bev asked. “I’d like to say a few prayers for those poor souls back there.”

“Sure,” Jim said. “I wouldn’t mind going into God’s house myself.”

“I hope they haven’t wrecked it,” she said.

A minute later, Jim slowed the HumVee and made a right turn and went up the road toward the church.

From afar, they had seen that the church was lined with stained-glass windows, but when they got close enough they saw that it, too, had been visited by the Rejects. Every single one of the windows had been broken. Part of one looked like it been caved in, as if someone had driven into it.

“I guess,” Bev said, “that it was too much to hope for.”

The asphalt road widened into a lined parking area on the right. There were no cars in it. Jim drove through it, then followed the “road” around to the back of the church. There was a single vehicle there, an SUV, but it didn’t look like anyone was in it. Jim stopped abreast of the vehicle and confirmed that it was empty—of people. The back was filled with all kinds of boxes piled high to the ceiling. He had no way to tell what was in them. The presence of the vehicle meant that either someone was inside or had departed in haste or . . . Jim just wasn’t sure.

He continued driving down the other side of the church. There was a line of stained-glass windows there, too. All had been broken. Neither he nor Bev said anything, but their silence spoke volumes.

He stopped the HumVee in front of the church.

“What do you think we should do?” Bev asked.

“I’m going to check it out. It’s still a church. You can say a prayer if you want.”

“Maybe there’s somebody in there.”

“They’re not necessarily Rejects. When I first encountered the Rejects, all the vehicles they had were painted black. I would assume that they’re not. Or at least it’s not an official vehicle.”

“That doesn’t mean that some of them couldn’t be in there.”

“You can stay out here if you want.”

“No way,” Bev said. “I’m okay. I want to help you if you need help.”

She paused.

“It’s sad, though,” she said, “that we couldn’t find an intact church now. We’re afraid to go into a church—because something bad might be waiting. How bizarre.”

“I can imagine how the inside looks. This is not just any house but God’s house. I’m surprised, in a way, that they didn’t burn it to the ground.”

“So am I.”

Jim turned off the vehicle.

“We should go in loaded for bear,” he said.

“I got my TT-33.”

“Make sure the safety’s off.”

“It is.”

“Let’s go,” Jim said, grabbing his AK-47.

They got out of the HumVee and went up to the front door, a massive carved oak entry that had been left, for some strange reason, unmarred.

Jim, holding the AK-47 level with one hand, went first. Bev, also holding her gun up, followed him.

Jim turned the knob, it clicked, and then he pushed the door open with his foot, his body out of the line of possible fire, Bev behind him.

There was no sound, no gunfire. Nothing. Jim listened for ten seconds, then poked his head in.

The door let them into a kind of foyer that looked okay, except for a glass-encased announcement board on the wall to the left of the double doors that led into the church proper. The glass was intact, but someone had carefully spray-painted on it, again in red, a single sentence. GOD IS LOVE
 
. . . MAKING. But someone had crossed OUT LOVE . . . MAKING and had written above it in smaller letters FUCKING.

Jim was startled when Bev made a quick movement and smashed the glass with the heel of the gun, obliterating the words.

“Bastards!” she said.

Jim looked at her.

“I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“I’m sorry. A rage came over me.”

“Well, if there’s a reception committee in there, they know someone has arrived.”

“Wouldn’t they know that already,” Bev said, “us driving around the church?”

“Maybe so,” Jim said, and thought: This girl has grit.

He turned his attention back to the doors, first leveling the AK-47, and Bev the TT-33. He tried the doorknob, just as he did the outside one. It turned. He pushed one of the doors open with his foot and he and Bev looked in.

It was a disaster. The pews were smashed, in a jumble, obscenities were spray-painted in red on the walls and on the altar, and the things on the top, such as the tabernacle, and around it, such as candles, were smashed. Above the altar was a large crucifix. Someone had looped a rope around the neck of the statue of Jesus Christ and pulled it down to the point where it stayed on the cross but looked like it was in bowing position. The only thing that seemed to be intact were two side-by-side confessional booths on the right wall of the church, and the ceiling. Why they had missed them was anyone’s guess.

One thing particularly bothered Jim. In the corner of a church was a statue of the Virgin Mary carrying the Christ child. Both had been beheaded.

“Good Lord! “Jim said quietly.

“Yes,” Bev said flatly, almost rhetorically, “the Rejects were definitely here.”

“I’m going to check the sacristy,” he said, referring to the room in the rear of the church where the priests and altar boys changed clothes.

“Okay. I’ll check in here under the benches to see if I can find anyone—dead or maybe alive.”

“Good.”

Bev started to look carefully under the jumble of benches and debris, but had half an eye on Jim as he approached the sacristy door. He used the same caution as he had in entering the church foyer and the church itself. He pushed the door open, keeping his body out of the firing line, peeked in, then stepped inside.

Bev started to make a search of the church, looking as best she could in the dark spaces under the jumble of benches. And what if they found someone injured? Jim probably had some basic medical supplies, but they were not set up to help anyone seriously wounded.

But her mind was not totally focused. At any moment, she knew, she could hear the sound of gunfire.

Inside the sacristy, there did not appear to Jim to be anyone there. At least there was no one in the room. There were a couple of closets, and he knew he should check these out also.

He tapped on one with the muzzle of the AK-47, again keeping his body out of the line of fire. When there was no response he opened the door, stepping aside as much as he could.

The closet was empty, except for vestments and other priestly accouterments as well as shorter garments, red ones with white collars. Altar boy stuff, he thought.

Jim closed the door, then repeated the procedure for the remaining door, which was wider than the first one and, he guessed, a walk-in type.

It was a walk-in—but it wasn’t empty. On the floor were three bodies, a young man and woman and, next to them, a child, maybe five years old. There was a massive amount of fresh blood on the floor, so fresh it was still liquid, and Jim could see why. All three throats been cut ear to ear. A little blood, Jim knew, could always look like a lot of blood. But this scene looked like a lot of blood because there was a lot.

“Jesus,” he said softly, feeling a lump in his throat. Instinctively, he made the sign of the cross. There was just one shock after another. If it wasn’t plague it was murder. If it wasn’t murder it was nutcases running around the countryside.

He pondered what to do, and also wondered if he should tell Bev. She was obviously tough. So, he thought, was he. But why visit crap on people unless you had to? He would tell her what he had found, but in due time.

There was nothing more to do. He walked across the sacristy and opened the door, which he had closed on his way in, and stepped into the church.

An unpleasant surprise awaited him.

Bev was in an open space in the aisle and someone was behind her and had his arm around her neck, holding a pistol to her head. And the parts of his clothing Jim could see were gray. This was a Reject, up close and personal.

“Drop the hardware, big boy,” he said in a gravelly voice, “or I’ll put this sexy lady’s brains on the ceiling of this church, which would be a shame.”

Jim hesitated, but then he felt something behind him: a muzzle on his neck.

“Do what he says, or your brains will join hers,” a man with a high-pitched voice said.

Jim laid down his AK-47, and he felt his Glock being torn out of his belt. Bev’s gun was nowhere in sight. She looked very scared, and Jim was surprised. It was a very bad situation, but he wouldn’t have bet she’d act like this when in this type of situation. He had thought she was tougher than that.

He himself was very calm. Jim knew this attitude was invaluable in bad situations, though all it was was the ability to see and think clearly despite being in imminent danger of losing your life. It could lead to solutions to problems where nothing seemed possible.

“Tie him up,” Gravelly Voice said, “then we’ll get to the first order of business.”

“What’s that? “Jim said.

“Having sex in church for the first time,” Gravelly Voice said, “with both of you.” For a moment, Jim heard guttural laughter, and then he saw stars. He had been hit in the head from behind, and he fell to the floor. But adrenaline was surging and he knew that if he did not stay conscious he and Bev were dead. Bev had been released by the man. They knew that managing a woman was easy.

“You should have gone to confession,” the man behind him said. And both men laughed heartily. The other was also dressed in gray—another Reject. “That’s where we were.”

“Did you find that little family in the closet?” Gravelly Voice said.

“Yes,” Jim said.

“They believed in God,” Gravelly Voice continued.

“Do you believe in God?” High Voice asked Jim.

“Yes,” Jim said. Maybe, Jim thought, if he answered in the negative he could begin to talk his way out of the situation, but probably not. But he knew he had to tell the truth.

“I don’t believe in God!” Bev screeched. “I don’t believe. Look at what God has done to the world.”

“Our feelings exactly,” Gravelly Voice said. “But I want to see something.”

With that, Gravelly Voice reached down Bev’s shirt, grasped something and pulled it out, and held it up. It was a thin gold chain and, dangling, light reflecting off it, a cross.

“And this,” Gravelly Voice said, “is evidence of how much you hate God, right?”

Both Rejects laughed heartily.

“Well, don’t worry,” High Voice said, “me and my partner are going to give you plenty of opportunity to get down on your knees and adore Him.”

For a moment, Gravelly Voice didn’t get it, but then he did and laughed heartily as well.

“Just take me with you,” Bev pleaded, “then you can have me all the time.”

“I don’t know,” Gravelly Voice said.

On the floor on his belly, listening to this, Jim was appalled, but some part of him wondered. Could he have been that wrong about Bev? Was she that cowardly?
I guess
, he thought,
you never know people until it comes down to their survival. Still
. . .

Jim looked up at her as the Reject behind him started to tie him up. He caught Bev’s eye. Her face was terrified and pleading, but there was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she was thinking about something else.

Jim calculated what he might do. But there weren’t many options.

Then he was aware that Bev was falling forward, as if fainting, and he shouted, but her fall seemed controlled and then her hands contacted the floor and faster than his eye could follow, she whirled on her head like a break-dancer and her foot smashed first in the head of the gravelly-voiced Reject, and before the other could react he, too, had been smashed in the head by a high-powered kick. Jim was amazed. The central fact was that within milliseconds both men were on the floor and he saw that one was unconscious, the other semiconscious, and both of their weapons had gone clattering away harmlessly.

Jim was on his feet in seconds with renewed vigor, and he ran over and picked up one of the AK-47s and whirled. Speed, he saw, was not necessary. The Rejects were still sprawled on the floor, one still unconscious, the other semiconscious, neither with any ability to get up.