Wrath James White and Maurice Broaddus (13 page)

“Samuel! Oh God! Samuel no!” Samson rushed over to hold his brother, gathering up the broken pieces of his corpse. He cradled his brother’s head in his lap and rocked back and forth, eyes squeezed shut, holding back hot tears. Clinging to the darkness of grief and regret, not giving voice to the pain that ached his soul. If the beast wanted to take him now, it was more than welcome to.

Like an enormous tidal wave of unrepentant fury, it crashed against his brother, its force abated. It slowly withdrew to whatever raging sea of chaos, whatever fearsome place it called home. Not that Samson cared. The sound of a vacuum being filled, the sounds of wet slithering retreat, the cursing howl of an enraged creature as if stabbed in the heart, nothing mattered to him. He clutched his brother, praying perhaps that sheer force of will might stitch him back together and bring him back.

“It’s gone, buddy,” the taxi driver said. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

“Yes. Yes he is.”

His brother had died for him, died to keep Satan from getting the souls Samson had stolen, the souls he’d stolen to save Samuel’s life. None of it made sense. Everything he’d done to save his brother and now Samuel was dead anyway.

“It should have been me, little brother. Why’d you do it? I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve it. You shouldn’t have done it for me. Not for me. I’m not worthy of this. All those people I killed. I’m not worthy of this.”

He knew what his brother would have said. With the cacophony of restless souls now gone he could hear his brother’s voice in his head as clearly as he had heard theirs.

“Then become worthy of it.”

21

The tabloids speculated wide and far about the fate of Samson. Rumors floated around that he had checked himself into the Crossroads Center for rehab for an undetermined amount of time, desperately in need of mental rest. After all, he was questioned as a “person of interest” in connection to the disappearance of famous photographer Jacque Willet. His name had surfaced in the events surrounding the tragic incident at a night club. Some news rags went so far as to ask if the loss of his brother, a priest, in a senseless accident might have been what pushed Samson over the edge and off the celebrity radar.

None of that mattered to Samson.

Mysterious circumstances. Tragic accidents. Evil could hide in plain sight because everyone would ignore it unless its wake splashed onto them. Like a bad dream they had to rationalize, but Samson didn’t have anything to say. Witnesses couldn’t accept what they saw. The jumbled mess of contradictory statements convinced police of psychedelic drugs being dealt out of Requiem. When asked about what happened that night, Samson stuck to the only refrain he knew for sure.

“I don’t know.”

Samson pulled into a parking lot and sat there. During his times of doubt, the thought of prayer still held the ring of something ridiculous, the superstitious mumblings to an invisible friend. These days, he liked the idea of being still. Of listening.

Samuel was the one for those higher ideas, wrestling with the theological implications of everything. Being caught up in a cosmological battle between good and evil, that was for better men to argue. Men like his brother. In a world of chance and random accidents—when the tumbling of natural selection led to the genetic fall of a man named Samuel and another man named Samson, with the odds of these two men meeting, much less being brothers, being beyond calculation—in such a meaningless world, why was there was still so much beauty and laughter?

“I don’t know.”

Samson walked the hallways, searching for the room number. All his designer clothes were gone now; he shambled along in clothes picked from Salvation Army bins. His hair was wild and unkempt and his eyes dark and heavy. Orderlies scrutinized then turned away from him. Nurses pointed him in the right direction, but with a wary, searching-for-security manner. No matter, Samson ignored them, choosing to focus on what he came to do.

He knew what it was like to be alone.

The room stank of grief and fear. The machines bleeped and chirped, exhaled and inhaled, a cacophony of life-prolonging measures. A black woman’s thin frame barely disturbed the sheets as she slept. Samson closed the door behind them but was overwhelmed by the feeling of not knowing what to do next. Guilt whispered like dry leaves across pavement. How many times had Samuel done this? He had been such a natural at this. Samson stumbled over the bedside chair, catching it but silently cursing himself for making such a racket. The woman stirred.

“Who is this handsome man?” she asked with an accented croak of a voice. She fluttered in and out of a dream state.

“I heard there was a beautiful woman here who I ought to get to know.”

“You look familiar.”

“You knew my brother, Samuel. I’m here to finish what he started.” With that, Samson took her hand.

And listened.

Afterword

Samuel had to die. There was just no other way to end it. See, I don’t believe in God, but Maurice does, very much so. That could have turned this into one long theological debate between an atheist and a faithful Christian rehashing the Evidential Argument from Evil.
Why does an all-powerful omni-benevolent deity allow terrible things to happen to people? Why does it seem that good befalls the bad and bad befalls the good?
Be thankful that we didn’t take it there. It would have made the book three times as long and could have gotten ugly. Besides, that’s what non-fiction is for. Maybe one day.

Our purpose here was to set up the premises of the argument for you: a pious and devout priest dying of AIDS, a vain hedonistic sinner living a life of fame and prosperity. What we could not do is answer the question for you because our answers would have been different. Very, very different.

I would have said that it is because God is an illusion at best and indifferent or even hostile to man at worst. Maurice would have said that it is because God is testing us or because you can’t have good without evil or because man brought all of the world’s evil onto himself by abusing his freewill. Or, we could do the honorable thing and admit that neither of us know anything about these big cosmological questions with anything approaching absolute certainty and put it all back on you to figure out while entertaining you a little in the process. So, we tried to present both perspectives but allow you to ultimately answer the question for yourself.

That’s why Samuel had to die and Samson had to live. Because if Samson died it would have seemed like a judgment on his sinful lifestyle. If God had come down from heaven and saved them both then Maurice would have jumped up and yelled, “Aha! So you do believe!” This way, the status quo remains and the question still lingers:
Why does God allow terrible things to happen to good people and why does it seem like some of the worst people have the best luck?

Why did Samuel sacrifice himself for his murderous brother? Because he loved him and he was the good one and that’s what good people do. That’s what a good Christian would do. I like to think that that’s what Maurice would have done. He would have had faith that his sacrifice would not be in vain and it would give his brother another chance to redeem himself. Will Samson turn his life around? Who knows? I did. But then, I’m not quite as good-looking as Samson and not nearly so conflicted.

It all sounds so civilized doesn’t it? Surely there must have been bloody feuds during the writing of this? Surely Maurice must have shouted, “Damned heathenous infidel!” after reading my description of a woman being hacked in half with a samurai sword? Surely he must have at least written me back and asked me to tone that shit down a little? After all, some of the members of his church will probably read this; the same ones who already look at him sideways for writing horror in the first place. Certainly, he must have arm-wrestled with me over putting some of my own atheistic ideas into the story? Surely I must have battled with him over keeping his religious dogma out of it? What you just read could not have come out as smoothly as it now appears. Well, actually, it did.

See, the only way we could have written together in the first place is if we both had respect for one another. If I was going to use this as an opportunity to challenge Maurice over his beliefs or if Maurice was going to use this as an opportunity to save the non-believer then it wouldn’t have worked. So, if you were hoping for an ideological cage match between The Sinister Minister and Wrath then I do apologize. Maybe next time. This wasn’t about that. This was about telling a good story.

Oh, I’m sure Pastor Broaddus had a few moments of hesitation after reading one of my more graphic sex scenes. One of them did not make the cut I might add but I’ll blame that on the editor. And yeah, I must admit that I had to resist the urge to screw with the priest and make him a child molester or a frequent patron of street prostitutes or something, or to make him call out in vain for God to come save him and then renounce his faith when his prayer went unanswered. But that would have been inauthentic. What kept us in check was both our mutual respect for one another and the story. The story was ultimately more important than our own agendas. The story demanded honesty. And that’s why Samuel had to die; for the story. I hope you enjoyed it.

—Wrath James White

Maurice Broaddus’s work has appeared in
Weird Tales
,
Horror Literature Quarterly
, and a wide variety of anthologies. His story “Family Business” won first prize at the World Horror Convention Story Competition in 2003. Often known as the “Sinister Minister,” Broaddus says of the religious aspects of his writing: “As writers, our worldviews–from nihilistic to religious–are a part of us and thus a part of our writing. What we believe, why we believe, it’s all in there.”

Wrath James White is a professional fighter and writer, two pursuits that blend together to create unrelenting prose. His novels include
Teratologist
(co-written with Edward Lee),
Poisoning Eros
(co-written with Monica O’Rourke), and
Succulent Prey
. “If you have a weak stomach, a closed mind, rigid morals, and Victorian sexual ethics, then avoid my writing like the plague,” says Wrath. If, on the other hand, you want hard-hitting fiction where nothing is taboo, you've found the right author.

D.E. Christman is an artist that simply wants to scare the hell out of you. And he takes great pleasure in doing so. His Lovecraftian inspired work has been described as “Twisted, demented and wonderfully creepy,” a description he takes great pride in. Today he lives in Philadelphia, PA where he is regarded as one of the city’s premier zombie experts and has given various interviews and lectures regarding his knowledge of both the Living Dead and slaves of the famous Voodoo curse.

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