Under Dark Sky

Introduction: Wallace Drew, a simple man with the common sense of his father’s bad experiences, goes door to door preaching the Good Word. He ends up meeting a man who changes his life and disturbs his faith.

Fiction with some adult language and themes.

Chapter 1

The sky was bruised with slowly churning clouds. The wind increased, pushing against him and stirring up dust from the road into his eyes. He blinked hard to clear them.

It’s gonna rain, Wallace thought. Soon. It would fall in a heavy wash.

Thunder sounded in the distance. Wallace could see no lightning.

He hated lightning.

He pulled together the collar of his suit jacket. He held his Bible to his head to hold down his hat.

Thunder rumbled. It took him back to when his Grandpa had been struck by lightning many years ago.

“But Grandpa was doing it,” Wallace had declared, no mind that he had just ratted on the ol’ codger. He wanted to make the point that if a man as great and wise as Grandpa did or said something, well then, by George, his not-so-worldly mother would just have to capitulate.

She hadn’t.

“One day you’ll find out that Grandpa doesn’t always think before he does things,” she had said.

Before he could think of the right words to fill his surprised open mouth, she patted a hat onto his head and pushed him out the door to follow the old man. At times like this, she often referred to him as the old man.

“Remember to use some common sense. Lord knows he doesn’t have any. And stay out of trouble when you’re with him.”

There it was. That common sense statement again. Wallace didn’t know much about common sense back then — didn’t even know what the words actually meant. He only knew Mother liked talking about how Grandpa had little of it.

Wallace hadn’t liked the way his mother used the words. He stomped out of the house after Grandpa, determined to get things done the way men were supposed to do them. They were men, and she wasn’t. She simply didn’t understand.

He followed Grandpa out to the back of the shed to the hay cutter he was adjusting. Tiny and Josh, their horses, had been strapped to the metal contraption and were flicking their tails at the horseflies. Grandpa finished tying the harness. Above them, clouds folded darkness over light.

“Come on, Wallace,” he said. Grandpa never used Wally, saying it was his name and that was that. “We gotta cut before the rain hits.”

Thunder cracked in the distance. Wallace jumped. Grandpa laughed.

“Don’t worry. God ain’t sparked one of us yet. The Drew line goes way back for a reason.”

Wallace felt good about that. He moved closer. Grandpa worked the nut loose on the sickle arm — a long metal frame where the triangular-shaped blades would slide back and forth once the horses got moving. Grandpa cursed as the nut was giving him some difficulty. He had just moved his hand off of it to go get his wrench, when the meaning to common sense struck.

A flash existed where a moment before it had not.

Wallace had been inches from resting his hand on a metal lever when the loudest CRACK he had ever heard shattered the air around him. He screamed and felt a small string of electricity jolt up his arm. It lifted his hair. Somewhere in all of it, he heard another scream and Grandpa’s eye exploded and his shirt lit in flames.

Wallace couldn’t recall actually seeing the eye shoot out, but he did remember the after: the hollow filled with blood and juice and soft strings. There was the smell of charred flesh. Grandpa fell forward onto his fiery shirt, which, while he struggled in pain, put out the fire .

Wallace couldn’t think of anything. He could only stare as nausea climbed up his throat. Then thoughts came back to him, and he ran to the house to get his mother.

Wallace didn’t have a mother to run to now. She had passed several years ago — two after his father.

He was a man now, all his own. No children, but a wife that warmed him in her generous way.

Grandpa’s lesson hadn’t left him. The old man had survived for seven more years after the strike. His cheek often twitched just below the patch that covered his smooshed eye socket.

Since that time, Wallace had a new respect for all things electric.

The sky grumbled again, and he cringed.

He looked about to make sure that he wasn’t the tallest object in the area.

He wasn’t.

Along the road he walked, an orange grove stretched far and away to his right. The wind bathed him in its sweet rush. It helped take his mind off his childhood and the common sense that was rattling in the clouds above.

He felt the urge to get to cover, even if it meant walking all the way back to his car.

But this was the Lord’s work, and, as such, he felt he was protected. The Good Book backed him up on that.

He thought about the fact that he was actually using his Bible atop his head as a shield of sorts. He wasn’t stupid. If he were struck by lightning, the Bible itself would protect him.

He was certain of it.

He moved at a faster pace, nonetheless.

As he walked, the scent of the orange blossoms filled him. It was rich in hue and heavy enough to be a color. He sighed with pleasure. In truth, the orchard was the only reason he chose to work this particular subdivision.

Paradise Valley.

The orange blossoms could qualify for paradise, but one had to have a sprightly imagination to envision a valley around here. Florida was as flat as his feet.

He stopped and looked around. His surroundings had changed. After a moment of gazing, he wondered just how far he had walked.

Behind him, he couldn’t see his car or the other houses he had earlier visited.

He thought about turning around, when another crack across the sky helped make his decision.

Before him and to the left sat a sun-beaten, one-level apartment surrounded by trees that had seen better days. A maroon, nineteen-eighty Caddie was parked out front.

Any port in a storm, he thought.

Wallace stepped off the dusty road and made for the apartment. His fingers were getting tingly from holding the Bible on his head.

He made his way across the sparse lawn and past a large wooden sign, the letters of which were barely visible. Time had clawed off the words, leaving only the faint remains of red lettering against a broken white peel.

He paused a moment, realizing the wind had died down to almost nothing. He pulled his hand down off his head.

Wallace looked above and behind him. The sky still roiled. Nearby, orange tree leaves clacked in an angry language he hadn’t earlier noticed. The grass at his feet wasn’t moving. He tilted his head and took a step back from the building. The trees around the apartment complex weren’t moving either. A quick glance across the road showed just the opposite. The orange grove was a mass of agitated deep green and white petals carried away in the wind like flocks of tiny birds.

“Huh,” he said, unable to make sense of it.

He turned back to the apartment, trying his best to straighten up for his presentation. He adjusted his collar and tie, and tucked his Bible under his left wing. He tilted his hat back for easy removal.

Ready for take off, he thought. If he were successful with the landlord — who he assumed owned the Cadillac — he could come back next week with a line on some of the other residents. Wallace just had to show the man the Light and the Way.

Wallace looked over at the empty parking area next to the Caddie.

If there were any other residents.

Wallace stepped forward, calm and certain. He was out of danger with the weather, and that was a load off his beating heart. Talking and sharing the good word was something he was born to do, it seemed. He never spooked at getting in front of people like this. Whatever the outcome, he knew he walked with the Lord, and his words would be guided properly. This was all about planting the seeds.

He knew how to plant.

He put on a genuine smile and followed the arrow on the wall to the apartment indicating the landlord’s residence.

A nameplate on the door read, Devilin Saunters.

Wallace paused.

Devilin Saunters.

“Huh.”

Thunder cracked closer this time, and suddenly Wallace felt sick. Bile etched a nauseating slice up the middle of this throat. He swallowed, barely able to keep it under control.

No!

He most definitely was not going to throw up on the front of this man’s door. It wouldn’t help his mission at all.

He inhaled deeply and held it, placing his hand on the wall of the building for support. Sweat broke out over his body. He immediately ran through all the things he had eaten today and could only think of the milk with his baloney and cheese sandwich. But the milk had smelled good. It tasted good. The sandwich, too. He relied on his nose for such things, and it had never failed him. It was not his food. And nobody he knew was sick.

He was always careful shaking hands, never touching his face with the same hand afterward and always using his pocket bottle of sanitizer after each visit.

Regardless the cause, he was going to throw up.

Wallace turned from the door and looked to the grass not far away. He exhaled, took a shallow breath and one step away from the door.

Just then, the door to the apartment opened.

On instinct, Wallace turned to present a better version of himself than the stooping weakling he had just been.

A man with sparkling blue eyes set firmly in an intense red, sunburned face stepped out from the door. The man’s arms and legs were sunburned. He wore a thin, plaid shirt with black shorts — the kind of shorts found on phys-ed teachers in everyone’s childhood. He was barefoot.

“Can I help you, sir?” the man asked. His voice was strong, gruff, calloused, as if from decades of having to reach the back pews of a large church or auditorium.

Smoker, as well, Wallace thought. Or asthma.

Wallace swallowed hard and was surprised to find his nausea had vanished. The sweat that had broken out over his body was drying.

The man looked at him sharply.

Wallace sent off a brief thanks to the Man upstairs and then straightened. He cleared his throat and put on his most gracious smile.

“Oh, just giving thanks. Mr. Saunters, is it?” Wallace said, stepping forward and extending his hand.

“It is,” Mr. Saunters said, his brows lowering, a slight challenging grin coming to his face as he accepted Wallace’s hand and shook it.

“Wonderful day isn’t it? Power of nature and all…holy…wow, your hand is hot!” It was also mushy, the kind of handshake a large, weak woman would give. Wallace fought the desire to scrunch his face.

“The sunburn,” Mr. Saunters said, “all the way down to my fingertips.”

They disengaged.

“What can I do for you?” Mr. Saunters asked. There was a certain intensity to his voice that held no warmth.

In that moment, Wallace had summed up Mr. Saunters. This was a man who was used to getting his way, used to a position of authority over others. His sparkling blue eyes never wavered. They added a certain charisma Wallace couldn’t quite understand. It was there, nonetheless. Mr. Saunters was someone men would follow to war, regardless of his attire. The man was the epitome of confidence.

He was not going to be an easy sell. Wallace switched tactics.

“I know your time is valuable. I shall not linger long. I was just wondering if I could seek your help with some questions I’ve been pondering?” Wallace asked.

Mr. Saunters opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it and stared at Wallace, giving his thin form a quick once-over.

Wallace had the feeling he was being sized up in his totality. He suddenly felt all of two-years old: self-conscious and belittled.

“…if I’m not troubling you,” Wallace added, feeling the need to get some of his control back.

Mr. Saunter’s laughed then, his voice trailing off in a wheeze. “No, not at all. Come in. Bring in your faith, too.” He chuckled again, this time mockingly.

Wallace hesitated a second before following the man. He then crossed the threshold and felt a weight press on his mind, as if he were suddenly in school and hadn’t studied for the test he was about to take.

His stomach tightened beneath his belt.

Wallace exhaled, stepped farther inside, and closed the door behind him.

Chapter 2

The apartment smelled of old smoke. It also smelled of mold growing over soot.

Must’ve had fire damage at some point, Wallace thought. The smell was distinctive. Likely, the water hadn’t dried properly after putting out the fire, and mold had found a home.

Either way, Wallace didn’t want to stay long breathing it.

He scolded himself. If it were the Lord’s will to have him here, who was he to balk at the invitation?

Besides, he had been through worse. Mrs. Jeb Tinsel came to mind. Seventeen dogs — all horrendously in need of baths and grooming. She also had three pot-bellied pigs trained only to defecate in their personal room in the house. They were neat and tidy as you please. Mrs. Tinsel was proud showing off their room.

Wallace had just looked at her, fighting to raise a smile. It took great effort to hide his disgust.

Her dogs weren’t well-trained or regularly walked. Poop smears marked the floors, some of them fresh. The couch was unusable. He spent the entire hour speaking to her standing up.

Mr. Saunters’ apartment was pristine in comparison. In fact, except for the smell and a pile of newspapers in a corner by the door, it was fairly well-kept.

Wallace glanced at the newspapers casually as he stepped further into the apartment. The top one showcased a rather serious man wearing a jeweled sultan’s turban. The text surrounding the image was curvy and blocky and reminded Wallace of his rather poor attempts at learning calligraphy when he was in his twenties. It bore some resemblance to Hebrew, but he could understand none of it.

“Don’t dally too long,” Mr. Saunters said, stepping into his kitchen and pulling open the refrigerator door. “Your thirst won’t take it.”

“Oh, I’m not thirsty,” Wallace said, turning away from the papers. He made his way to a bar stool at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. He sat down and stopped himself from spinning on it. He hadn’t been thirsty, but suddenly, something dry clicked in his throat. He felt parched.

“Well,” Wallace swallowed. “I guess I am a little thirsty at that.”

“Of course you are,” Mr. Saunters said. He set a pitcher of tea and a glass on the counter next to Wallace. “Sorry. No ice. Help yourself.”

Wallace smiled, this was going to be easier than he thought. One didn’t set out a pitcher that big, if one didn’t expect a long engagement. Scripture started to rise in Wallace’s mind. He placed his Bible on the counter.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Wallace said, pouring himself a glass.

Mr. Saunters turned his blue eyes on him.

Wallace took a sip and then a swig. “That’s mighty fine tea, Mr. Saunters.”

Something in Mr. Saunters’ posture turned predatory, as if he were a slow beast capable of great and deadly surprise.

Wallace gripped his glass tighter and unconsciously slid father back on the stool. He forced a smile. He cleared his throat.

He took one more swallow of the cool, sweet drink, and decided to get on with his work.

“I was wondering if you had any family, Mr. Saunters? Such a big apartment and all.”

Mr. Saunters looked slyly at him and then settled against the sink counter. It creaked. He shook his head. “None worth mentioning.”

“Well, I was just thinking of the saying that a man without family is poorest of all,” Wallace said, running his finger along his Bible’s outer edge.

“I’m the black sheep of the family,” Mr. Saunters said.

Wallace applied a gentle smile. “There are all sorts of family, Mr. Saunters. When one disavows family, often, another finds you.”

“No one wants me,” Mr. Saunters said, readily.

Wallace was aware Mr. Saunters was testing him. He didn’t like it. Mr. Saunters was probably hardened against family and similar values because of pain he associated with them. Was probably atheist or on his way toward it. Many turned to logic to avoid the difficulty of their feelings.

Wallace held some pride for having converted men like Mr. Saunters in the past. In fact, his church boasted several former atheists now praising the Lord. Wallace wasn’t supposed to be prideful, but if there were a reason to be, he thought this was one of them.

“All are welcome where I come from,” Wallace said. He wasn’t going to win this man over with anything but the truth.

“Oh, I don’t think you’d care for my kind,” Mr. Saunters said.

Thunder rumbled overhead, shaking the walls of the apartment enough to vibrate the windows.

Mr. Saunters peered up with a sly grin. He looked back at Wallace, paused, and then laughed.

Wallace smiled. He wasn’t going to be diverted easily. “You’d be surprised at the people I know who’ve said those very words. Many don’t think they’re worthy. But we’re all sinners. God won’t turn you away. I consider you a brother whose only been away for a time.”

This seemed to have an effect.

Mr. Saunters — his bearing again intimidating — stepped out of the kitchen. He moved to the living room where a single corner lamp illuminated his form against the closed blinds. A hard wind whipped against the building. Mr. Saunters moved his head as if he were looking across a vast plain. Finally, he turned and faced Wallace.

“You would welcome someone who’s committed such atrocities there aren’t words to describe them?” Mr. Saunters said, baiting him.

The room seemed to darken a little as Mr. Saunters spoke. Wallace glanced about the apartment quickly to be sure it wasn’t just his imagination.

It wasn’t.

The room had grown dimmer.

Wallace turned fully on his stool, slipping his Bible into his lap out of habit. It was, in essence, no different than the keys in his pocket. He always kept them both close. His keys had a small mace canister attached to them, but his Bible had something more meaningful.

“If you were truly sorry for what you did,” Wallace said with some measure, “and If you asked for forgiveness and repented, you would be accepted into His house. Yes.”

Mr. Saunters smiled again and turned his palms up, as if encompassing all around him. “We’re not worthy of forgiveness. See? That’s God’s failing. And our failing for creating a God that acts that way. If you think about it, it simply doesn’t make sense.”

Wallace folded his hands across the Bible in his lap. “Corinthians…“

“Don’t quote me the Book, Wallace,” Mr. Saunters said, deadly serious. “Quote from your heart. Your humanity. Or I’ll show you those atrocities of which I spoke.”

Wallace swallowed. Words left him.

Mr. Saunters had the practice of his particular pulpit, Wallace thought. This was certain. Probably a lot of it from the ease of his delivery and command of the room.

Believing this, however, didn’t stop the slight quivering in his chest or the shaking of his fingers. He gripped his Bible tighter to still them.

He was unprepared for Mr. Saunters, was all. Just a little nervousness at the challenge before him.

The storm outside, the lights dimming…just added theater to his imagination. Nothing more. His Bible was his shield to such things. The words it contained…if he could just use them.

Wallace looked down a moment to find his own words, preferably ones that wouldn’t get him kicked out.

Show you the atrocities of which I speak…

They were just words. Mr. Saunters was just a man.

“We didn’t create God,” Wallace said simply, trying to diffuse the mood.

“Suppose you’re right,” Mr. Saunters said, “It still doesn’t make sense to forgive sinners.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Really? Letting sinners pollute the flock? How can there ever be purity that way? All sinners need to go to hell.”

Wallace didn’t know what to say. He waited. Inspiration would come.

“See,” Mr. Saunters continued, “hell has a pure line all the way. Everyone is a sinner. Purity. Even with your forgiveness policy, you all still claim to be sinners. That, sir, doesn’t make a bit of sense. That would mean heaven is no better than hell. Filled with sinners. The only difference is that heaven sinners keep reaching for that gold and only get to kneel and bow and be subservient. Swimming in some supposed bliss while doing that. Hell sinners get to do what the hell they want.”

“They live in torment,” Wallace said, disliking Mr. Saunters now.

“Now, how would you know that? Because someone wrote it down claiming God said it?” Mr. Saunters said. “Can you hear yourself? What’s the best way for God to keep and collect servants?” Mr. Saunters paused. “Tell them the alternative is far, far worse.”

“I don’t…”

“And doesn’t it make just a bit of sense that sex has been historically piled up on the bad side of things?” Mr. Saunters said, seeing Wallace’s discomfort. “Beautiful, wonderful, moist, uncontrolled, ravenous sex. Satan in the garden — apple my ass! It was the power of a woman flexing her nature. It was an attempt at religion to suppress her power by casting her nature — her sensuality and sexuality — in one evil lump sum. A true God would exalt her as his greatest creation. And look what your man-God has done with her. It’s a disgusting travesty to a glorious creature.”

Wallace shook his head. Too much was coming at him, things were getting muddled. He wanted a chance to think. “Hold it. Just hold it a moment.”

“You’ve got a wife, don’t you, Wallace?” Mr. Saunters said, leering.

Wallace looked at him, trying his best to contain the anger that rose up in him.

“You know her scent don’t you? Her power to bend you to her will at the slightest movement of her hips. Heaven or hell Wallace? Which one? People in your world still dehumanize women, fear their — pardon the expression — fucking power! Does your religion place them beneath you? Behind you?“

“We respect our women,” Wallace said, firmly.

“Ah, the possessiveness. Your women? Not all women?”

“All women. All of God’s creatures.”

A subtle shift took place outside. The light behind the window blinds had turned reddish, making Mr. Saunters appear as a partial silhouette against it.

Wallace’s heart tightened in his chest, his breathing almost stopped as that silhouette took on a vaguely demonic aura. In the next heartbeat, a wail arose outside, and the sounds of soft objects — bodies — hit the building.

Wallace gripped his Bible tightly, the Lord’s Prayer filling in his mind. He heard another sound, like that of a whimpering dog, only to realize it was he himself who was making it.

“STOP THAT PRAYER!” Mr. Saunters yelled, his voice commanding the entire room. The entire earth, it seemed.

Wallace stopped.

“No harm shall come to you…for the moment.” Mr. Saunters said, his voice softer. “And, contrary to published belief, I often tell the truth. I find it a valuable tool.”

Wallace concentrated on the Bible in his hands, letting the feeling of its worn leather cover ground him.

His shaking subsided, his breathing eased and his whimpering stopped. Outside, a horrible wailing and ripping and screams of ecstasy and pain arose.

“W-why?” Wallace said, weakly.

Mr. Saunters grinned widely. “He’s found his voice! Hallelujah!”

He stepped closer to Wallace and looked him over, inspecting him, trying to see past the thin, frightened shell. After a few seconds, irritation flickered in his eyes.

“You came to me,” Mr. Saunters said, “and, quite simply, I don’t know why. I don’t see anything particularly special about you. Maybe your God got tired of you and wants you out of the way.” He laughed. “Far out of the way.”

Mr. Saunters stepped closer, his frightful bearing paralyzing Wallace. He came right up to Wallace’s face, moving his head to the side, up and down, sniffing.

“I like your fear. That’s purity too,” Mr. Saunters said, stepping away. He tilted up his head, inhaling deeply through his nose and teeth like an animal that had just caught scent of weak prey. Or a mate.

He looked back at Wallace, and, for a second, Wallace thought he was going to be eaten alive.

“Come,” Mr. Saunters said, daintily. “I’m going to show you something.”

Mr. Saunters walked over to the door, placed his hand on it, and turned the knob.

Chapter 3

Wretched sounds and the light of hell poured through the crack of the door. Mr. Saunters teased opening it further.

Fear gripped Wallace’s bones tight and held him still. He could barely breathe.

“I love the human body’s ability to register fear! Fuck! I love it!” Mr. Saunters said. He curled a finger at Wallace and spoke as if to a baby. “Come. Come on. You can do it. That-a-boy.” He laughed.

Wallace felt something else in that moment. Anger. It filled him and seemed to loosen his tendons, his muscles and nerves. His paralysis lessened. His right hand remained tightly squeezing his Bible. At least that part of his common sense hadn’t left him.

Wallace had the instinctive feeling that staying where he was would invite a horrible, drawn-out death.

He put one foot to the floor, followed by the other and was surprised to find he didn’t collapse. Though, his knees threatened to bend too far. He focused hard to make sure they didn’t fail him.

“That’s it. You can do it,” Mr. Saunters taunted.

Wallace’s teeth hurt; he had been clenching them. He inhaled a stuttering breath and moved his jaw around a little to ease the pain. He took a couple more steps.

“W-why. What am I to see?” Wallace said, his words were gravel to his ears.

Mr. Saunters lost his smile, and he looked past Wallace. A nearly orgasmic look pinched his eyes. His mouth parted, and he spoke slowly. “I’m going to show you what truth is. What true bliss is.”

Wallace found his breathing easier. He straightened, most of his shaking under control.

He knew what truth was.

No matter what else may befall him, no matter how slow his mind worked under the onslaught of Mr. Saunters’ words, he knew truth.

And he would speak it.

If he was capable.

Wallace didn’t want to be anywhere near Mr. Saunters, but he was compelled forward. If it weren’t for the Bible in his hands, he would have fled to some other room to cry or scream back to his childhood.

He was able to make the final steps that put him at arm’s length of Mr. Saunters. Heat warmed the side of his face, and a powerful smell of sex and blood and decay came from the crack in the door. He winced and tried not to gag.

Without another word, Mr. Saunters pulled open the door.

Wallace gasped as a fiery valley opened up before him. Screams and guttural moans raked across his mind, threatening to rip at his sanity. The scent of hell wrapped about him, filling his nostrils and entering his lungs like sin smoke. He could feel it become a part of him. It filtered into his skin and clothing and stirred him physically against his will.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Mr. Saunters inhaled deeply and waved his arm to direct Wallace through the door.

“Lord, help me,” Wallace whispered harshly. He stepped out onto the path that led into the sublime torrent.

“It’s not up to Him, now,” Mr. Saunters said, following him. “Behold! Bliss!”

Before them, an ever-changing, red-orange mass of lust and abomination writhed. Sexual deviation of every kind thrust into Wallace’s mind. He was unable to close his eyes or turn away. Even his lower body betrayed him. With difficulty, he moved his hand, sliding the Bible over his erection.

In the midst of the ecstasy in front of him, a horrid chaos bloomed ripe and full. Figure after figure tore into each other’s flesh — some actually rending skin and limb — amid the mass raping of both males and females. Victim and attacker intermingled. Figures, some winged, moved about preying on others in seeming bliss and murdering in rageful release. Wallace was incapable of vomiting, though it was high in his throat.

“This is bliss!” Mr. Saunters exclaimed, grasping the air and making fists. “This is the truth your man-God won’t let you enjoy. This is the freedom of sin! You water it down, you pray to sooth its edges, and still it remains in you as deeply true as a glorious sunrise.”

Wallace forced himself to turn and look at Mr. Saunters, whose form bore less and less resemblance to his prior one. The shadow of leathery wings and sharpened teeth solidified about the man.

Disgust broke on Wallace’s face, even as his body betrayed him with a shaking orgasm. Still, he was denied vomiting from the horror that was now his own body.

Newfound rage made Wallace want to throw his Bible at the beast next to him. He wanted to rend his own clothes from his body and claw out his own eyes for having seen what was before him — worse, for his body having exalted in it.

The feeling of the Bible in his hand was a thread to his sanity. He used all his strength to stay with it, to prevent losing his mind. His soul.

“Ha! See! Your body knows this intimately. Revels in it! You fight, and you fight the taste of fire. It is pure expression! Your body releases in harmony with it. Whenever has that happened kneeling before a God who takes your humanity away? Who boxes you up in nice and tidy lines of conformity — the walls of which dull your greater senses and all your potential.”

Mr. Saunters got closer. He looked down at the Bible in Wallace’s hand. “That sickens me! As it should you. A conflicting rulebook of a benevolent, and yet arbitrarily vengeful, God? His rules are that you follow the words of men who wrote down His word? Oh, make me laugh! It could only have been man-written. A perfect God shining his purity — which is so pure, mind you, that the slightest whim of dull minds muddled the passages into such subjectivity that hundreds of religions shot off from it like fireworks. Each claiming the truth their own way.

“The purity I offer here is never in question. There is never a subjective quality to this expression of truth. This is purity! Those who come here are in the purest state in which they were made. And make no mistake, that is your legacy. That is your intrinsic base. You were made for this. How easily any of you are brought to this state,” Mr. Saunters pointed to the scene that continued on, endlessly. “Doesn’t that tell you something? If the most difficult thing for you is to rise above it, then what the hell was in His mind when he ‘made’ you?” Mr. Saunters turned mocking, “He makes your base a sin and then tells you to fight it. What?” Mr. Saunters moved closer, conspiratorially. “That, my dear man, makes little sense. I worship what you truly are. He demands you worship Him and makes you try to reach something you can never attain. What a twisted bunch of fuckin’ cruelty that is.”

Mr. Saunters laughed hard. “You should see yourselves! How damned funny it is telling each other to act this way or that way against your nature, when none of you can ever hope to attain that goal. Ever! And then your ‘leader’ of the flock goes off and fucks thirty whores behind your back for a nickel, while his wife dreams of the powerful loins of the usher who gently touched her back when guiding her way through the rest of the congregation. The wife is seldom discovered at this — beautiful and smart creature she — but the man is so damn dumb. He cannot help but fumble his way out into the open. And, then,” Mr. Saunters laughed again, “he has the weakness to beg — I repeat — beg for your forgiveness. As if any of you are the better and have the power and standing to grant it to the other.

“Remember, I see it all,” Mr. Saunters added with a slight touch of disgust. “I feel it all, I watch it all. None of you is the better. When you deny your truth, you’re even less.”

Mr. Saunters watched Wallace try and collect himself. “Come.” He grabbed Wallace by the wrist and stepped onto an outcropping that suddenly appeared.

To Wallace, his touch was fire. He made a token attempt to resist, but he had neither the strength nor will to succeed. As he was dragged forward into the mass of bodies, he felt his humanity slipping away.

“You’ve never realized your humanity, Wallace,” Mr. Saunters said to his thought.

A path was made for them. Nude bodies, delectable and wretched, slithered just out of reach. All eyes were on their master as he brought Wallace among them.

Mr. Saunters smiled lewdly and fierce, gazing at them, reveling in their attention and expression of fear and need.

He released Wallace and took a step away.

Wallace gasped, and they closed in around him. He closed his eyes, pulling his Bible close to his chest, as the heat of their touch moved up his legs, his groin. He felt a body press against his back, breasts pushing into him, and heard moist mouths and tongues and teeth tease at the edges of his ears. His legs buckled once and hands, arms, and bodies shored up against him, keeping him upright.

Wallace cried. He held back crying out to God, for if it was His will he be here, then His will be carried out. He cried because he enjoyed what he felt against him. He felt his pants being removed, his genitals blissfully cupped and moistened —

“No!” Wallace yelled. He opened his eyes and found the horde drawing back from touching him. His pants were still on him. “But…”

“Powerful, isn’t it?” Mr. Saunters said, close again. “How you can be so easily brought to your base with pheromones, temperature, humidity, a slight change in electric field. Oh, they touched you, to a point. Then it was all me.”

Mr. Saunters moved forward. He touched a wretched soul on her jaw with a delicate finger. He turned the back of his hand to her and she devoured it with kisses and licking. After a few seconds, he turned his attention back to Wallace.

“Ever get in a shouting match?” Mr. Saunters asked. “Car cut you off in heavy traffic on a hot day and you’re feeling irritated or spunky? Feeling your oats? Remember the fire that instantly lights in your mind, your chest, your very soul — to the point that all rational thought is a tiny memory in another fucking language you don’t speak? Doesn’t matter that the guy driving the other car is thirty pounds heavier than you. Doesn’t matter that you professed to God to deny Satan not three days ago amid your arm-swaying flock. In heavy traffic with the stereo thumping you full of your brashness, you fire off your mouth. You make a few pointed hand gestures and feel your feet and hands pushing your car to express the very heat that is all around you right here, right now — in this place, Wallace! Here! Feel it? Same — I repeat — the very same heat from which your core burns!”

Mr. Saunters moved his mouth next to Wallace’s ear and gently, surely, spoke. “You didn’t come from God or Eden, Wallace,” he whispered. “You and your entire race came from hell.”

Wallace felt his life pour out of him. Tears and drool spilled down his face, as he fell to his knees before Mr. Saunters. He opened his mouth, silently crying out, as the weight of Mr. Saunters’ truth bore down on him. His hands dropped to his side. His fingers loosened. His Bible fell to the hard, dusty surface beside him.

Mr. Saunters smiled. The mass of souls around Wallace moved in sympathetically to comfort him.

To welcome him home.

Chapter 4

When his tears were gone, Wallace cried from his soul. Fire erupted in him, from the core of every cell. The mass of hate and lust and fear and ecstasy surrounding him was also inside him. He felt that fully now, felt the threads of it reach into all of his experience — his every sense alive to the point of burning out, ripping away his awareness of anything else.

Fingers clutched at him, pulled him in directions his body protested and yet wished to go. He felt the dichotomy of his existence: the holy, the evil, and the sliver wedged between the two that was his mind. His wishes. His dreams and desires. His hates, his joys, his…

Wallace opened his eyes and found himself covered in bodies clawing and stimulating him raw. He saw Devlin Saunters just beyond them, reveling in the lust of the moment that he had inspired.

In it all, Wallace moved his fingers from the moist parting of a tormented soul near him. He felt with those fingers along the hard surface on which he lay and found it. His leather-bound Bible. It had been completely untouched.

He touched it.

“No,” Wallace whispered.

A mild shock wave spread through the bodies on and around him. They became still, then fearful. They moved away from him.

“No,” Wallace repeated, forcing himself to a sitting position. He was nude. The others gave him a foot or so of space, none willing to touch him. They looked to Mr. Saunters, frightened. Pleading.

Wallace struggled to his hands and knees. The surface was hard, painful, and hot. Dirt and dust covered much of his reddened skin, which bled from claw marks over much of his body. Ignoring the pain of his flesh, he struggled to stand.

“What’s this?” Mr. Saunters said. “What are you doing now, Wallace? Have you found the image of what you wanted to be again? Is that pushing you away from your truth? Well, come then. I will enjoy putting you back where you belong. The fight against it is hell, and, if you wish for hell, you’ve come to the right place. I can literally do this forever.”

Wallace finally managed to stand. His legs, his breathing, were shaky. He still held his Bible. He covered himself with it as best he could. He looked up at Mr. Saunters’ eager face.

“No,” Wallace repeated the third time.

“No what?!” Mr. Saunters said. His face flushed red with anger.

Wallace took a moment to organize his thoughts, trying desperately to keep them from going to the rape he had just experienced. The experience he secretly wanted to relive.

“Love.” Wallace said, simply.

Mr. Saunters stared blankly. He put his hands palm up, not understanding and further irritated.

“I’ve heard you,” Wallace started, swallowing and straightening his posture. “I’ve heard your ranting, your proclamations, your casting of humanity. But in all of this — in all of your truth — you’ve left out one thing. Love.”

The mass of bodies split their attention, their pleading, between Mr. Saunters and Wallace now. Wallace looked around him and, perhaps, imagined that he saw longing in some of their faces.

Mr. Saunters face was hate, a hate that had power behind it. Power to rend a world.

“You may, in fact, be right on many of those other things,” Wallace continued sadly. “How we treat women…how we treat each other…maybe even where we come from. How we lie to ourselves.” Wallace stood even straighter, defiant. “But in all of this,” he nodded to those around him, “you have no appreciation, no understanding of what it means to love.”

Mr. Saunters bared his teeth unintentionally, his eyes squinting.

“For claiming to have so much understanding, so much ownership of truth,” Wallace said, “you cannot exalt in the simplest, and I believe the most powerful and important, pleasure of all. That of love.”

Wallace was silent.

“Is that it?” Mr. Saunters said, casually waving away the argument and his bad mood. “That I don’t know love? Ha!”

Mr. Saunters spread his arms to encompass all around him, the mass of souls responded — some afraid he was going to strike them, others seemingly welcoming even that. “I love this!”

Wallace took a step, then another, toward Mr. Saunters. He felt calm now. “No, you don’t. You can dismiss this. These people. These souls,” Wallace said with sad compassion. “You can dismiss these experiences too easily. You couldn’t do that if you loved. True love is not easily dismissed. It stays with us forever. It is renewed in others we meet. It doesn’t end.”

The faces of the souls around Wallace were rapt with attention. Many wept uncontrollably. Wallace wept quietly for them. “Even here,” he said.

Mr. Saunters became aware of the change in his subjects. He cried out, a horrible sound that reverberated throughout the mass of the damned, stirring them to flee in a frenzy of panic that became insanity. His form increased in height until it seemed it could no more, and then it returned to its former size and shape again. Gone were even the semblance of wings and death that had been his aura. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled. He then walked up to Wallace’s face and opened his penetrating blue eyes.

“Wallace, my dear man,” Mr. Saunters said softly. His voice backed by a dark knowledge. “You’ll see me again. You’ll see me in men and women all around you. You won’t be able to help it now that you know I am your truth. The seed of it keeps getting planted with every child. And it grows with your ignorance. Love…love is a dream.”

Mr. Saunters stepped back slightly and turned sideways. “Enjoy the dream for now, Wallace. I will always be with you to remind you of your reality. You just have to look. And when you don’t look,” Mr. Saunters turned back to face him. He smiled. “Well…that’s when you’ll end up right…back…here.”

Wallace found himself standing outside on the road next to the orange grove. A gentle wind dispersed the remnants of dark clouds overhead. The tree leaves clicked lightly against each other with the breeze. The scent of orange blossoms filled the air.

Tears wet his cheeks. He looked down.

He was clothed. His Bible was in his hands. He felt his hat on his head.

He inhaled a shuddering breath and felt several sharp tugs along his chest and back, as if an insect were biting him. In a panic, an image of a roach came to his mind. He tore open his shirt and saw dried blood and bite and claw marks all over him.

Wallace closed his shirt again, just as quickly, and looked around. He was alone.

In the distance, his car sat reflecting the bright sun.

He walked toward it, his legs shaking, not looking back.

Not ever looking back.

He then stopped. He could hear his own breathing. Felt the beating of his heart under his reddened, marked skin.

“And when you don’t look….”

Wallace swallowed. He turned around to look.