Gabriel crosses the threshold of Father Maxwell's home. The door lies on the floor exposing the house to the twisting desert wind. Sand blows through the doorway, spreading across the rug and into the living room.
The lights are all extinguished. Outside, the evening moon begins its descent towards the other side of the earth. Rays of morning sun peak out upon the horizon but the room remains dark with no light reaching beyond the doorway.
Gabriel looks over the ravaged room. Chairs turned over. Pictures smashed. Maxwell's rifle lies on the floor, breech snapped open but two shells still inside.
Gabriel calls out for his mentor, his voice a hiss above the wind.
"Maxwell?"
He moves cautiously, one small step at a time, watching for signs of movement. The rifle grows close. Sweat drenches his back, from the run, yes, but from something else as well, some unknown chill that burns his skin.
"Hello, Gabriel.”
Gabriel dives forward, snatching up the rifle and snapping the breech shut. He raises it steady against his shoulder, adjusting to the weight, and scans the darkness.
"Where is he, Peter? Where is Father Maxwell?"
Peter emerges from the black, bare hands raised up in forfeit.
"If I were you, my friend, I’d be concerned with more pressing matters, such as your own predicament."
Gabriel steps back. The howling wind roars in his ears. Its full force batters the house. Grains of sand flutter round his form. Peter raises his finger and wags it back and forth. His tangled hair spills across his brow.
"You have seen the envelope?" he asks.
"I have."
Peter drops his hands to his side and kneels. Sand piles shift as he slides his fingers through them tracing patterns unknown.
"I was afraid of that. You were always far too curious for your own good, far too free to accept what needed to be accepted, now when to not ask questions. Why couldn’t you have just let things be? Is that so hard?"
Peter slams his fist into the nearby table, sending up a cloud of dust and sand. He spits words through gritted teeth.
"Why couldn’t you just follow my will and keep your prying eyes from my goddamn business?"
Coldness enters the room, born from silence. Each man watches the other. Gabriel, with rifle ready. Peter, bowed before him, hands pressed into the earth that swallows the floors.
"I follow the will of only one, Peter, and that is a way you do not stray from," Gabriel replies with voice stoic despite the fear that grips his heart.
Peter erupts in a fit of laughter. His heckles echo into the surrounding field.
"And you think that I do not serve the Almighty? Fool, you have no idea what you are doing. There are heathens and beasts right at your doorstep yet you sit and wait as though He will simply wipe them all away and everything will be right again. We built these lands and birthed these beasts. It is up to us to burn them from the earth."
"And what of this family? What of Father Maxwell, where is he? What are you planning?"
"Maxwell is clean, purged from this place. Ridden from our midst just as the family will be," Peter whispers. His lips form a vicious sneer. He stops to let his words sink in.
Gabriel’s strength falters. Maxwell dead? Lost to the other world, drawn there by vile means. He glances across the body of the rifle. The metal glitters in the near dark. This cannot go on. Peter will not stop, not until they’re all dead.
No.
He raises the rifle against his shoulder and holds it level with Peter’s chest. His finger locks around the trigger. The roaring wind fills the room, drowning out Gabriel’s harsh breathing, the patter of rocks against the windows, the sound of boots falling against wood.
Gabriel sets his sight upon the murderer before him. He does not hear the men approach. He pulls the trigger as they fall upon him. The shot sails wide and bursts at Peter’s feet sending shards of wood flying. Peter shrieks as a chunk buries itself in his cheek, a long, thin gash. Blood spills from the cut as he stands, tearing the piece from his face and hurling it across the room.
Gabriel thrashes against the men that hold him, hand still locked upon the rifle as he tries to get another shot. A follower snaps a wooden rod down on Gabriel’s hand and shatters his wrist. He shrieks, the weapon freed from his grip.
Gabriel looks up from his useless hand to the man above, a man known to Gabriel and the entire town. A family man and caring husband named Luke who has watched him preach from the beginning stands placid, uncaring. He is Peter’s puppet now, nothing more.
Gabriel kicks and scratches, cursing under his breath, throwing damnations upon them. Peter watches him with quiet interest as though he were a doomed mouse caught in a trap, back broken but too stubborn to die. Gabriel finally tires. He bites his tongue and awaits the strike as Peter approaches.
"So heavy, the burden of man, the duty placed upon us to rid His kingdom of sin. But tarry we must. You were once a clean man, Gabriel, but now you stink of sin. You are a snake in our midst.”
Peter’s followers stand shoulder to shoulder, ready and willing. Their faces shine. They are warriors of God now, warriors all.
"And how do we rid ourselves of a snake hiding in our midst?" he asks, nodding to the men one by one.
Peter raises Gabriel’s head, gangly fingers bruising his cheeks. Gabriel stares into the face of a creature. Not a man, but a monster, guised in the cloth and preying upon his flock. A line of blood spreads down Peter’s neck and stains his robes. He pays it no heed.
"You cut off its head."
Peter raises his arm and slams his fist across the man’s face.
Light flashes in Gabriel’s eyes. Blackness follows.
The men let the unconscious priest drop. Peter taps Luke and a second upon the shoulder. He whispers in their ears, tongue dancing with the words.
"Take him to Maxwell’s corpse. Lay him before the pyre and wait for him to wake, that way he can see what awaits. Cut him open and leave him to die."
The men nod. Peter steps over his former brother and exits the house with the others close behind. He watches as the moon nears its end. In the distance, the smoke of the fire drifts into the darkness.
***
John reaches the top of the hill and brings his horse to a stop. The fire that fuels the pyre spits sparks in its last gasps of life yet smoke continues to rise. Maxwell has fallen to the earth, the ropes used to hold him burned away. His blackened body smolders, eyes turned to ash within their sockets. The desert breeze kicks dust atop his corpse. The acrid stench of death rises in the air.
John dismounts and approaches the body. The man was burned alive, screaming when he died. John wishes he could ask himself what kind of monster could have committed such a violent act, but he already knows. Within the town, the priest awaits.
John stares at the dead man a moment longer and crosses his chest.
"Be at peace, brother. The man who did this will not go unpunished."
He makes his way back to his horse and loops the frayed straps of his saddle bags tight, securing them for the ride ahead. His eyes drift over the town while he works. The hand of night still shadows it. Dots of light that rise from windows are rare. This was once a peaceful place.
From behind a row of buildings two horses appear, galloping through the black. Two riders. A line of rope extends from one's saddle, dragging something behind. John ducks down and squints out over the road. The larger man pulls the line. Screams follow.
They're dragging a man.
John steps back and draws both revolvers. He rushes through the weeds and slides into a ditch just before the men arrive. Their laughter dies as they approach. John's horse stands alone in the clearing, ears twitching as it studies the strangers.
Peter’s men pull to a stop and dismount. The largest lets the rope drop. His bald head shines with sweat. His partner follows close behind with shoulders hunched, picking at his teeth and chuckling loudly. His thin form shifts on stubby legs that scuttle across the ground as he struggles to keep up with the greater man.
Gabriel lies moaning in the dirt. He attempts to rise but the skinny man strikes him down with the back of his hand. Gabriel rolls onto his side and spits a tooth soaked in blood. His back is bare, robes shredded from the ride. His skin curls up in strips, back rubbed raw and torn in a dozen places. Blood stains the sand.
"Stray?" the skinny one asks, cocking his head towards John’s steed.
"No. That beast is well fed, saddled. Someone’s been here. Someone's seen the nonbeliever's corpse."
The weakling spits on Maxwell's body and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"So what? What's it matter? Nothing here but a dead tool of the devil, why should that be cause for worry?"
The bald man shakes his head.
"This was a holy cleansing, yes, but an outsider will not believe. It's just a murder to a blind man and they'll treat it as such. We can't have anyone interfering."
"The owner can't be far," the weakling says.
"Now you're thinking with a clear mind."
John watches the men as they scan the area. The steel of his revolvers chills his hands. He waits. Gabriel turns onto his stomach and drags himself along, glancing back to make sure the men are not watching. He reaches the nearest horse and grasps feebly at its reins.
"We can find him later, best to toss this pig in the fire while it's still hot."
Gabriel picks up his pace. He grabs hold of the stirrups and tries to lift himself atop the steed. The bald man sprints forward and kicks out, his boot colliding with Gabriel's chest and sending him spinning. He lands hard, the impact costing him his breath, and raises his hands in feeble defense. The men pull him to his feet and drag him towards the pyre.
John grips the handle of his weapon. He will have to act, no time for waiting. His breath catches in his throat. He rises from the earth.
"Let him go!"
The believers watch the stranger advance, frozen in place. John’s eyes shift between the two. Neither man moves.
"Drop the man or I drop you. Do it now."
They release Gabriel who crumples to the ground whimpering in pain. He pulls himself into a ball, knees against his chest. The men look to one another. They don't appear armed. John trains his weapon on the bald man, the man Gabriel once trusted, the family man now twisted in mind.
"What's your name?" John asks.
"You asking me?"
"No, the other giant."
The bald man scratches at the back of his sunburned neck. Flakes of dead skin flutter up beneath his nails.
"Name's Luke."
John nods, focused on the man, ignoring the second. The skinny man reaches behind his back, lifting his shirt where his hunting knife rests. He grasps the handle and pulls it from its sheath.
"Luke, I'm going to need you to get on your horses and ride away."
"Ride away where?" Luke asks.
"Anywhere but here."
The bald man smiles and glances back at the man behind him who shares his grin.
"Now that ain't happening. See, I’ve lived here all my life, and I plan to die here. Whether that's now or later, we'll just have to see, but I ain't leaving this place. Not anytime soon."
"Make no mistake, Luke, I will cut you down," John says. His finger slides across the trigger of his weapon.
"I believe you will."
Gabriel raises himself up. Hidden from John's view, the weakling turns the blade in his hands, preparing his assault. Gabriel calls out to his protector.
"Look out!"
The skinny man lets the knife fly. John dives to the side. The blade slides across his shoulder. Blood flows. He curses and raises his gun, firing into the man's face. The weakling flies back, head burst open, twirling as he falls. Luke seizes his chance. He charges forward and knocks John off his feet.
The two land in the dirt. Luke locks his fingers around John's throat, screaming fire and fury, eyes bulging and face red. John grasps at the man's hand. He gasps for air and scratches at Luke’s face, his nail catching the side of his attacker’s eye and leaving a deep gash down his cheek. Luke screams in pain but keeps his hold strong.
John's hands cease their struggle and his mind begins to fog. His legs no longer thrash beneath his adversary. His lids grow heavy.
He shuts his eyes. A scream awakens him.
Luke reels away clutching at his back as he falls to the earth. Gabriel clings fast, driving the dead man's hunting knife deeper into his spine. Blood pools against the blade as he buries it to the hilt. Luke shrieks into the night. Gabriel holds him down, whispering to him over and over, begging forgiveness.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Luke. I'm so sorry."
Luke twitches once and lays still, eyes wide, breath forever lost.
Gabriel sinks to the ground and stares down at his bloodied hands. He wipes his sweat drenched face. John sits up, coughing and clutching his bruised throat.
"I'm John," he pants.
"Gabriel."
***
"Peter’s yet to act?"
"He plans the family’s death upon the mass. He’s mad enough to risk such an act and I fear my followers will permit it."
John spreads the final bandage across Gabriel's torn back, unraveling strands of cloth to compress the wound. He carefully loops the wrap around the priest’s torso and pulls it tight. Blood seeps against the material but does not spill. Gabriel winces with each touch.
"I need you to take one of these horses and leave this place,” John says as he finishes.
Gabriel rises to his feet clutching John's arm to steady himself.
"No way am I leaving my flock under the watch of that man," he replies, struggling to remain upright.
"I can take care of Peter. You need to tend to your wounds. Get to the next town and seek whatever help you can find."
Gabriel offers his savior a crooked grin. The smile fades as he speaks.
"Are you sure about that? Can you really face such a creature?"
"I've faced worse."
"Have you?"
"I have to believe I have."
"Then God had best be on your side, because if he's not…well I don’t have to say."
John leads the wounded man to one of the dead men’s horse. He drops to his knees and places his shoulder against the beast, creating a makeshift footstep for the priest to use. Gabriel pulls himself up upon the animal, grabbing the reins and smoothing back the horse’s mane.
"Sometimes I wonder whose side God is on," John says.
Gabriel steadies himself and nudges the horse into a trot.
"Don't we all?" he whispers as he pushes the steed beyond the plains towards the dying night.
***
Robert brushes back the boy’s hair. The child sleeps peacefully, quietly, without fear or discomfort. Finally. The room is but a single bed. A small nightstand sits in the corner with a clean mirror hanging from the wall behind.
Robert rises from the boy's side and stares into the glass. He'll need to shave before the sermon. He scratches his chin and studies the room. It's comfortable, homely. It's the perfect place in a perfect town.
Then why does he feel so scared?
The men will be chasing him, but for how long? How long will he and his family have to keep moving? Months? Years? Will they ever truly be safe? Or will they forever be running? That’s no way to raise a child, no way to raise his son.
There comes a knock against the door. His brother's voice rises from the other side.
"Robert? Robert, it's me. Can you open the door?"
Robert crosses the room and unbolts the latch upon the door, letting it swing open. Jesse stands in the hallway already dressed in his mass clothes. He smiles as he dives past his brother.
"Hope I didn't wake Michael," he says.
"Jesse, what are you doing? It's five in the morning. Mass doesn't start for another three hours."
"I know, I know. I needed to talk with you before everything started."
"Okay, let's talk."
The two step out onto the balcony. All the colors of the sunrise spill out across the sky. Nothing moves in the streets.
Robert takes a seat in the rocking chair that faces out towards the street, sighing from the long absent comforts something so simple provides. Jesse wipes the dust from his seat, careful not to mess his suit. The two brothers sit without words, enjoying the view.
"What did you want to talk about, Jesse?"
Jesse rubs the back of his neck.
"You remember that old watering hole we used to hide when we were kids?" he asks.
"How could I forget?"
"Remember that one day when we were playing in the house and I knocked over that purple vase? That was Ma's favorite. I was terrified that Pa would give me a lashing when he got home, so I went and hid out at that water hole. How long did I stay there?"
"About a day," Robert replies. He smiles at the recollection.
"A whole day. Ma was hysterical, looking all over the place, tearing up the town. Mind you, we'd stayed out longer before but you were always with me. You figured out where I was when no one else could, even took the blame for breaking the vase. Ma and Pa were so happy you found me that they didn't even get mad. I just told them that I got lost in those woods. We got away with it."
Robert watches his brother absentmindedly bite his nails.
"Jesse, what's going on?"
Jesse stands, placing his hands upon the balcony edge, and breathes the cool air.
"This isn't like that. This isn't some vase we broke or some lashing we're scared of, this is life and death we're involved in. How are we going to deal with this, brother? Can we really get away with it this time? What you did was right, I'm not questioning it, but the men who are chasing us are far worse than anything we could ever imagine. I don't know if we can escape them."
Robert rises from his chair. He places his hand upon his brother's shoulder and squeezes.
"As long as we stick together we can get through anything. We're going to be okay. No one will get us. Not you, not me, not Michael."
"You really believe that?”
Robert leans against the balcony and watches the sky change color in the distance.
"I have to."
***
Peter meticulously straightens his robes as he pulls them over his form. He stares into the massive mirror that sits in the corner of his office. He is clean. Majestic. Fit to lead this flock alone. He draws the bloodstained blade from his robes and turns it over in his hands. With the blood of the betrayers spilt he will have finally cleansed his town.
He slides the blade back into his pocket and rubs his hands through his hair. He approaches his desk and retrieves his private bible from the drawers, his father’s last gift, and smoothes out its pages, skimming through the works of gospel. The sermon calls for this work. The book will bring light to any moment. From its pages he will save his town.
The door to his office opens and a young man sticks his head in.
"Father Peter, everyone has arrived. We're waiting for you."
Peter nods, his eyes still focused upon the book.
"Take your seat, Alexander, I will be out shortly."
The youngster nods and shuts the door. A soft rumble of voices arises. His flock is waiting. He must not keep them. Peter shuts the bible and passes through the doorway, arms raised high, the stares of all upon him.
"Brothers! Sisters! Fathers, mothers, and friends! Listen to me and learn!"
Peter stands before his flock drinking in their faith. They wait in complete silence, every eye turned upon him.
"Listen to my words, my children, for they are the true words of the Father and no one else. You may have noticed that dear Father Gabriel and Maxwell are absent. They are attending business on your behalf and will not be returning for some time, I am sorry to say."
A murmur slithers through the crowd. Peter does not let the disruption escalate. He raises his hands. Silence.
"Do not feel saddened. Though they may be gone they shall return. For now, listen to my words. Today we are here to not only provide sermon upon God and all His glory but to bring comfort to believers who wish to be re-administered to the faith of our lord. The Bell family, newcomers to our town, shall be cleansed and loved again. They sit in the back if you have not yet become acquainted. Please take a moment to welcome them to our humble home."
Minutes pass as Robert and Jesse are whispered words of welcome and comfort by the members of the church. They smile and shake hands, their eyes bright and fulfilled. Once the chatter subsides Peter begins anew.
"But before that glorious moment I have a few words I must offer."
Peter takes his bible from the podium and raises it for all to see.
"This is the book I shall be reading from today. We all recognize the name but this is not just any holy work. It is the bible that was given to me by the man who raised me, my father, hours before his death, God rest his soul. He confided in me his wish that I spread the word of God throughout the land, purge it of sin, and so I have. It was the book I used during the first sermon I ever taught. And now I pull it from my desk for a special day. Today I will read from this book and the sermon that follows will be one you shall never forget."
The crowd rumbles with excitement. Peter speaks, not in his usual glorious and inspiring tone, but in a whisper.
"We are God's children. We are put upon this earth to serve His will, are we not? We must rid the earth of the foul beasts and servants of Satan, must we not? God is all powerful, yes, but we are His soldiers. Just as His angels defend His dominion in Heaven so must we defend His makings on Earth. We must wash away sin with the blood of those who defy our Lord."
Peter steps from his podium and gestures towards the family.
"Come now, my children, we must wash you. Wash you so that sin shall flee. Wash you in the waters of the Lord."
***
John's steed gallops across the plains and into Garrison. The town sign hangs above, rocking in the wind. John passes under the arch and heads toward the saloon. He pulls the animal to a stop and leaps from the beast, bursting through the doorway and into the building. He shouts for the family, for anyone, but no one answers. He exits, scanning the town in desperation. No one roams the empty streets. The orange blob of a sun lights the world, yet no one stirs.
John turns. His eyes travel the length of the steeple that rises from the middle of the settlement. The church of Father Peter. The candlelight from the cathedral is all that burns within. The family must be there.
John kicks off, legs pummeling the earth with every step, arms pumping at his sides. His hat flies from his head and spins across the sand. His heart beats in his ears as he turns down the alley between the buildings, leaping over broken rocks and stumbling through a ditch, quickly regaining his stride. A circle of birds take to the sky as he passes through them.
The church lies straight ahead now. His guns shake in his holsters. Thick air fills his tired lungs. He races up the steps and grasps the handle of the door that separates him from the madness, ready to face the cruelty that poisons the other side.
***
John stands in the doorway, the wind and sand passing around his form and into the church, gaze focused upon Father Peter. Peter stares down at him, the smile wiped from his lips. The family stands between them having not yet taken the stage. John's hands drift away from his weapons. He nods towards the priest. Peter nods back. A hush has fallen upon the believers. No one speaks. Their eyes lock upon the newcomer.
John takes his place in an empty pew at the far back.
Peter swallows hard. His hands shake. He glances around at the unfocused eyes of his followers, shifting from John to himself, their attention scattered. They will not follow his words, cannot accept the strike upon the family as it is.
He lets his hands drop and carefully closes his bible, tucking it in the pocket of his robes. He speaks.
"My friends, I’m afraid a chill has come over me. My head feels light. I must retire for the rest of the sermon, which means we must cut this mass short."
Whispers follow. Groans of sadness spill from the lips of his believers.
"I am so sorry, truly I am, but I must retire. I promise I will be well by the evening and we shall continue where we left off."
He steps down from the podium and makes his way to the front of the church, guided by the hands of his followers and their whispers and prayers for his safety. He smiles, accepting each word and praising their love, yet his face remains set forward, eyes heavy, shadows forming beneath their lids. He watches John and John stares back. He stands as Peter nears.
Peter passes through the doorway and out into the street with John close behind. The two walk side by side, neither speaking. John's hat has blown away somewhere across the street, disappeared with the sand.
They move through the alleys towards the saloon where the family stays.
***
John and Peter sit across from each other, waiting patiently for their server. The saloon owner places a set of glasses filled with water before them. A large stomach hangs over his belt, not quite covered by the apron he wears. Two faded menus tuck underneath his arm, not used in some time, brought out on the rare occasion someone as distinguished as Father Peter choose to dine in his tavern. Peter turns to the owner with a fake smile plastered across his face.
"Thank you, Richard."
"My pleasure, Reverend," the man replies, humbled by respect, "may I get you anything else?"
"No, I think I'm fine."
Peter nods towards his guest.
"What about you, John? Is there anything you need?"
"Nothing," John replies, not bothering to shift his attention away from the priest.
"Alright, you just call me if you need anything. I'll be right over there."
The owner turns and waddles away clutching the menus close to his chest, disheartened by the preacher’s decision to not sample his wears. He rounds the corner and resumes setting up shop.
Peter raises the glass to his lips and partakes the icy water. He sets it down and exhales, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"Now that is a fine drink, clean and pure.”
His eyes travel down his opponent's form, ending upon the silver revolvers tucked securely in his holsters.
"I should have known you wouldn't be far behind, you seemed most set in your pursuit of my master. Perhaps it would be best if you attended to your own needs, leave matters concerning me and my affairs well enough alone."
"You serve Anton, that means your affairs are mine as well," John says.
"Is that the way it is to be?"
"It is."
Peter reaches into his robes and removes his bible, setting it upon the table.
"I trust you've at least heard of this book.”
"I've read it my fair share of times."
"Then you know what happens to those who go against a servant of God,” Peter says.
"I wouldn’t call you that."
"Then we are in disagreement."
"So it seems."
Peter leans back in his seat, arms crossed.
"What would you consider me, John, if not a servant of God, a tool of the Devil? Is your mind so black and white?"
"No, I don't consider you a servant of the Devil. I consider you nothing more than Satan himself. You are a part of him, broken off from his side like so many pieces scattered across the earth."
Peter chuckles, waving his hand in grandiose fashion as he tries to regain his composure.
"Good analogy, but if I am Satan, how can you hope to defeat me?"
John's hand drifts down to his side. His fingers drum across the butt of his revolvers.
"I was thinking of shooting you in the head," he says.
"And how would that work out? Would you kill me here in cold blood, cut me down like a blade of grass? How far would you get?"
Peter nods in the direction of the portly saloon owner who stands behind the bar attending his wares.
"You've seen the way Richard looks at me. Such light in his eyes. He would die for me, can you not see it? He’s not even among my strongest followers. Would you risk killing me simply to save a family you do not know? Because if you drop me it will be the end of you and your quest to stop my master. The people of this town will not allow you to leave, on that I can assure you."
John grabs the glass of water with his free hand and drains it in one smooth motion.
"Then what do we do?"
The doors to the saloon swing open. Robert enters holding his son's hand as Jesse follows closely behind. He approaches John and Peter while Jesse leads his boy up the stairs.
"How are you feeling, Peter?" he asks.
"Much better, thank you."
"I hope you’re well enough to preach tonight."
"As do I. I wouldn’t worry though, I am quite certain I shall be."
Robert offers John his hand. John accepts.
"I don't believe we’ve met. My name is Robert."
"John."
"You live here in town, John?"
"No, just passing through,” John replies, “Taking care of some business on my way out."
Peter raises a hand to cover the laugh that rises in his throat. Robert doesn’t seem to notice.
"You a believer?"
"I have my faiths," John replies.
"Well I hope you're able to attend one of Father Peter's sermons before you leave. They'll change the way you view faith."
"I'm sure of that."
Robert laughs. He tucks his hands in his pockets and glances upstairs to where his family waits.
"Well, I must be going, Michael gets antsy whenever I’m out of sight too long. It’s been nice making your acquaintance.”
"Pleasure was all mine."
John watches as Robert makes his way up the stairs and into his room. Peter follows his eyes. He taps his fingers along the tabletop.
"You would risk yourself to save them?"
"Indeed I would.”
"Then perhaps you would do best to leave my presence. I don't believe we have anything further to discuss."
The two rise in unison. John nods curtly. His hands tighten at his sides.
"You're not a servant of God, Peter, you're trying to twist His people into your own image. You should be careful. You can't just make yourself into some sort of god and then wash your hands of the things you've created."
Peter returns the bible to his pocket and passes from the table without another word, moving through the doorway and out into the street.
***
Peter’s three closest believers surround him as he walks the familiar path towards his church. He lets them follow for some time, until certain that no prying eyes fall upon them. He speaks to the men, assuring them of his wellness and strength.
"Don't worry over me, my brothers, for I will return. It is time for us to prepare. We must ready ourselves for what is to come. There are snakes in our midst. Just as Father Maxwell slithered in so have these people. They take the form of outsiders, and we know what must be done with outsiders."
Peter motions for the men to prepare. As they separate he grabs one by the arm. His bulky form assures Peter of his abilities. The man listens intently to the preacher’s words, not wishing to betray his faith.
***
John leans back in a creaky chair and studies the saloon that sits across the street. The room he sits in is empty and dark, a part of a building long vacant. Cobwebs litter the corners and floors. Dust floats in the air, illuminated by the dying light that spills through the boarded windows.
No traffic passes through the lifeless saloon. It's as if the town has died without the sermon of the church. Inside, the saloon owner returns untouched glasses to the cupboards and prepares to close for the night.
John slides his shirt up and checks his knife wound. The stitch job holds. The wound is light, inconsequential, yet it burns beneath his touch.
The sun continues to fall, now halfway over the other side of the earth. John crosses his legs and waits, the rifle he received from the Comanche clasped in his hands.
An attempt will be made upon the family's life, but when? John fidgets in the chair. Darkness spreads across the land, reaching out with the falling sun.
John draws a rag from his pocket and lays it across his lap. He dismantles the rifle the way his father taught, sliding a second sheet against the steel of the weapon to clear away the dust and dirt from its metal frame. He works in silence, halting his process at the sight of movement.
The family emerges from the saloon with the owner close behind. Citizens of the town exit their houses and move down the now crowded street, each dressed in fancy clothes sewn of fine silk. The women carry gaudy parasols to shield themselves from the wind. The men don neatly pressed suits, kept close to their families, pushing their distracted children forward.
John tracks the band. The clamber of the townsfolk drowns out the quiet steps of the believer who approaches from behind.
"He's going to kill them during the sermon," John whispers.
Across the ground, a shadow moves. John stands. The dissembled rifle slides from his lap. A string of wire loops around his neck. John raises his hands up, blocking the razor line from cutting into his throat. He kicks back and slams the believer who holds him against the wall. The wire digs into his palm. Blood trickles from his hands as he fights, kicking out and driving the man back a second time.
John's hand burns like fire. He scans the room for anything of use. A rusted nail juts from a loose board in the wall. John twists to the side and pushes his attacker's back into the nail.
The follower shrieks in pain, the wire going slack against John's throat. John pushes forward, lifting the wire up and freeing himself from the man's hold. He spins and reaches for his revolver but the man falls upon him, grabbing a handful of hair and bashing his head into the side of the rotten wood. John grunts in pain. A flash of white obscures his vision as he latches onto the follower's shoulders and slams his forehead into the man's nose, shattering it. A second flash follows.
The attacker stumbles back, eyes watering, and strikes blindly, hoping for a lucky shot. John ducks the blow, head spinning and vision blurred, and lands a shot across the man's cheek. His jaw cracks with a satisfying crunch and the man crumbles. John passes the rifle and stumbles out into the street.
The road is empty. The light in the church ahead blazes. They're inside, inside with Peter.
John manages two more steps before he sinks to his knees, black spots dancing across his eyes. His temples throb. He tries to stand only to lose his balance and drop to the earth, the world around him passing from sight.
***
Peter dresses for his sermon, staring into his mirror once more. The shining blade rests inside his pocket, bible in his hand. He removes a black box from the cabinet and flips it open, spilling its contents; two formless shapes wrapped in cloth. He unravels one revealing a black revolver, the weapon he used to hunt the damned. He checks the chamber. Six bullets. He slides the weapon into his robe and breathes deep, reveling in the near silence, alone with his thoughts. Nothing will go wrong tonight. The clamor of his flock awaits him. John is dead, the family will soon follow.
Peter runs a hand across his face and wipes sleep from the corners of his eyes. He exits the room and walks into the light. The whispers of his followers die on his approach. He calls for silence and they obey.
Everyone is present. The runaways, his followers, even Mrs. Carlyle, her head slightly bowed and eyes deep red. She meets Peter's gaze and smiles. She has fallen to his will. All have fallen. It is time.
"I offer my apologies for cancelling this morning's sermon. Thankfully, whatever illness wronged me has since vanished. It is time that we begin the cleansing. Tonight, the Bell family will be washed in the waters of the Lord and all will be well. Arise, my friends, arise and take the stage."
Robert stands and ushers his child forth. Jesse follows close behind. Peter glances to the back where two of his followers stand awaiting his signal. With a quiet clank they bar the doors of the church and follow the family. Peter turns to Robert, his false smile bright.
"Who shall be washed first?"
Robert stoops before his son.
"I'll go first, Michael, stay with Uncle Jesse."
He rubs his son's cheek and turns to face the priest.
"I will.”
"Excellent."
Robert approaches Peter and takes his place upon the stage. He faces the crowd.
"Get down on your knees," Peter commands.
Robert complies. Peter stands behind him. He opens his bible and begins the rite.
"Ye who shall be washed in the blood of the lamb, do you accept Him?"
"I do," Robert says.
"Ye who are tainted with sin, do you allow Him into your heart?"
"I do."
"Ye who are his servant, are you prepared to give yourself to your Lord?"
"I am."
"Close your eyes."
Robert shuts his eyes. Peter takes the handle of the bucket from a member of his flock. He leans Robert's head back, smoothing his hair and pouring the water down his body. The water spills across Robert, soaking his clothes and covering his form.
"My friends, a day ago Father Maxwell cautioned us to be on watch for snakes in our midst and that if we were not careful these snakes would take hold of us and drag us to our deaths. Do you not recall?"
They remember. Mrs. Carlyle watches Peter with narrowed eyes.
"A tragedy has befallen us. Father Maxwell and Father Gabriel are dead."
A hush falls upon the crowd, followed by screams. People faint. Women weep. Worshippers shout denials at random.
"It is true. Returning to this town they were slain upon the outskirts, burned alive. Who could have done such a thing? Surely not one of us, no one who is faithful to this church, am I correct?"
The people shout their furies, fists raised, drinking in every word.
"No, no one here, but what of an outsider?"
The bucket empties. The final drops fall upon Robert's face. He opens his eyes.
"What of an outsider? What of a family who came into our town days before they died? Would these be the snakes in our midst? They are!"
Robert shakes his head and begins to rise. Peter pushes him down, hand locked around his shoulder. He glances down at the confused man.
"They are to blame. The people you see before you are the snakes poor Maxwell warned us of. And like all snakes they must be stopped. They must be stopped before they can poison us further. Their blood must be spilt."
Peter lets the bible fall from his hands. It lands against the wood of the podium with a soft thump that pierces the silence. He reaches into his pocket and draws from his robes the curved blade still stained with Maxwell's blood. Jesse starts forward but the men pull him back. Michael turns from his father to the man standing over him, screaming in protest. Robert shouts back.
"Shut your eyes, Michael. Look away, please!"
Michael buries his face into his uncle’s chest. Jesse holds the boy in his arms, his face white, watching his brother with unspoken terror. The roars of the believers echo throughout the church, spitting and screaming, calling for blood, lost in rage. Mrs. Carlyle watches with tears in her eyes, finally knowing what is to be done, finally understanding.
"Take care of him, Jesse," Robert whispers.
Robert glances up at Peter, his neck bared. He has no words for the priest. He smiles as if in defiance. Peter whispers in the man’s ear as he places the blade against his throat.
"They shall join you presently."
Peter slides the blade across Robert's throat. A wide gash opens and blood sprays forth, fountaining down Robert’s chest. He watches Jesse hold his son and scream his name, hears the cries of the crowd before him. He does not raise his arms to his throat for he knows nothing can be done. His vision slides away, his life spilling down his shirt. He wishes he could comfort his boy, leave him with some parting words of love and wisdom, but he’s already reached his end. If only there was more time.
Robert bows his head, closes his eyes, and surrenders to the black. He falls aside, legs thrashing, blood pooling, twitches once more and is done.
Peter raises his blade high, stained anew, red dripping from the end. His smile reflects in the bloodied steel, his true form revealed.
"They are clean,” he says.
He turns to Jesse and Michael. The smile returns.
"Bring me the boy."
***
John has returned to the room. His clothes are new once more, white and vibrant. The room stinks of death but something has changed.
The mirror is reformed. The bed re-stitched, blood vanished. The bulb hangs clean. A familiar voice calls to John and he turns to meet it.
His reflection has returned, cracked at the edges but mostly whole, the black robes that cloak its body neat and pressed. It approaches John without hesitation, determined and clear in message. It grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him furiously, bits of glass crumbling from its fingers.
"You cannot be here, John. Wake up. Wake now!"
Shadows spread around them, swallowing the room. The reflection grabs hold of the hanging switch and pulls, filling the room with pitiful light. The darkness presses in, threatening to swallow them both.
"I cannot hold it. Go!"
The reflection shoves John into the abyss. He flies backwards, pulled from the world. The reflection grabs hold of the bulb and shatters it, sparks and glass spilling over its body, the darkness complete.
***
John wakes with a gasp. He rises to his feet, mind fuzzy, trying to focus upon the vision. The light still blazes in the church. The sun has just passed beyond the horizon.
There’s still time.
John sprints down the now familiar path towards the church, leaping over rock and ditch. The wind burns in his ears. He mounts the steps and pulls against the door that blocks the entrance to the church. Locked.
John draws his revolver and fires three times into the doorway, shielding his eyes from the flying debris. The bolt cracks with a resounding clang. He kicks hard into the door, boot connecting with all his force. The door bursts open and John enters the church, the eyes of all upon him.
***
John approaches with revolver raised, focused on the podium. Peter stands upon the stage, the child between him and his enemy. He holds the blade steady. His eyes shine dark. He lets out a shrieking laugh as John nears.
"That's far enough, one more step and I bleed him."
Peter slides around the boy, moving from the left to the right, always keeping the boy ahead, his knife pressed against his neck. He studies his adversary, licking his lips.
"Go ahead, John, kill me, but remember what I told you. If I die you will never leave this town."
He pushes the edge of the blade to the boy's throat and draws a thin trickle of blood. Just enough. The child moans, his eyes stained red with tears. Jesse kicks and fights, spewing curses from his lips, elbowing one of his captors in the throat only to have the wind knocked out of him by the other.
The crowd shrieks at the insult of the outsider’s presence. People begin to rise and move towards the intruder. John draws his second weapon and scans the believers, daring them to act.
"Release them, Peter."
"I am! I've let one go already and I shall finish the job!"
Robert lies dead on the steps, throat slashed open, his draining blood pooled below.
John's grips the weapon between damp palms.
"I drop my gun, you let the boy go. I think Anton would be pleased to hear you've captured me. You've got who you've came for, let the other two go."
"And you would die in their place?" Peter asks.
John stares at the whimpering boy. He sees Samuel. He sees Charles. He sees Jane and Rose and his family.
"I would."
"Very well then."
Peter shoves Michael forward. The child falls from the stage and hits the ground hard, crying out in pain and fear. Jesse tears himself from the grip of his captors and runs to his nephew, gathering him up in his arms. He moves between the pews, eyes focused ahead, ignoring the jeers and shouts of the crowd.
He pauses before John.
"Thank you.” He passes on and out through the front of the church.
John lets his weapon drop, holstering the other, and lowers his arms. He is ready. Peter pulls from his robes the black revolver, polished to a blazing sheen, his hellish face reflected in the cold metal. He cocks the hammer and raises the weapon, aiming for John’s heart.
"I return you to the earth.”
"No!"
A shot rings out.
Silence falls over the church.
A member of the congregation screams. Peter gasps. A fountain of blood spits forth from his chest, soaking his robes and gathering at his feet. He drops his weapon and scans the crowd.
Mrs. Carlyle stands atop her pew, the single-shot pistol in her hands. Her eyes open wide, face transformed from fear to fury. She hurls the weapon to the ground and takes her place beside the newcomer. John kneels, his mind blank with shock, scooping up his weapon and holding it loose in his hands.
Peter touches his wound. His hand comes away slick with blood. He lets out a soft chuckle. His legs buckle and he sinks to his knees, breathing out a harsh stream, falling forward over the podium to the ground below. He stares up at the lights of the flickering candles. No light burns within him. Only darkness shrouds his mind.
"You killed him," a church member whispers.
The crowd begins to rise, some rushing forth towards Peter and weeping over his lifeless body. Others spit venom as they advance upon the two traitors. John lifts his weapon and draws his second in turn. A hand falls upon his arm. Mrs. Carlyle stands behind.
"We need to go.”
***
John and Mrs. Carlyle burst through the church entrance and sprint down the road. The shouts and screams of the flock follow. John glances back. They're no more than a hundred feet behind. Most follow with hands bare, hoping to beat and savage Peter’s killers. Others race to their houses to procure weapons.
They turn the corner, the saloon close. Jesse stands readying the carriage, prepping his escape. He turns, jaw dropping at the sight of the swarm behind them.
"Jesus Christ, move!" he shouts, grabbing hold of Mrs. Carlyle and lifting her into the carriage where Michael sits. He clambers to the top, rifle clenched in one hand and reins in the other.
John enters the abandoned building and snatches up his rifle. He sprints to his horse and returns the weapon to his bag, cutting the tethering rope and mounting the creature. A deafening burst of gunfire follows. A bullet whizzes past.
"Go!" he shouts, firing a warning shot that scatters the band.
The carriage rolls forward at a frightening speed. Angered cries and damnations follow them. Bullets bounce off the carriage and send chunks of wood flying. John rears his horse back and takes off, leaving Garrison forever in the dust.
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