The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead 2 A Post-Apocalyptic Epic by Peter Meredith Page A
Authors: Peter Meredith
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air and the choking smoke and the blistering temperatures—all of which was a relief.
She wanted to lie there soaking up this new hell, because it was a vacation compared to what she had just gone through, but there was a crash from somewhere near and some part of the building deep in the smoke let out a loud urgent groan. She stood on shaking legs, but Jack would not move. He stared at the ceiling with blank eyes and a mouth hung open. There was so little soul left to him that he didn’t have the will to command his own body.
Cyn bent and dragged him across the warping boards. He was dead weight and she was panting by the time she managed to lug him out into the night, where he just laid there unblinking and unmoving. “Jack! Hey! Look at me,” she yelled. It was July but compared to the inferno it felt like deepest January and she began to shake and cough.
Jack only stared.
Eventually, a firetruck arrived, its sirens wailing and its lights flicking. Indifferent firemen stepped out to gaze at the fire. The miserable concept of a Sanctuary City had infected them as well. Few wanted to put their lives on the line for a city that no one cared about. There were whispered jokes: Let it burn—It could take out the entire block for all I care—Anyone got any marshmallows?
They were even blasé about Jack. Perhaps out of curiosity, two of them came by and glance down at him. “He’s breathing,” one stated and then turned away as if breathing was all that mattered.
“Get back here!” Cyn demanded. “He needs help. He’s bleeding and he needs oxygen.”
“We aren’t paramedics, lady. They’ll get here soon enough, so calm down.”
Cyn reached down and produced an ankle holstered, snub-nosed .38 and advanced on the firemen, pointing it expertly at the first man’s crotch. “You will help him right this second or I will pull the trigger. Now move!”
That got their attention and right quick. In a minute, Jack had an IV running into him and an oxygen mask over his face. His vest was removed and his wounds were being inspected when “her” priests arrived. That’s how she thought of whichever priests were assigned to Jack’s team at any time. Some lasted a single mission and she forgot their names within days of them leaving.
Until they left or were killed, they were hers.
“Okay, that’s enough. Get away,” she said to the firemen. When they backed off with their hands in the air, she practically threw herself down in front of Father Timmons and begged: “What can you do for him?”
They were hers but they weren’t her servants or her underlings, they were the people she turned to when she couldn’t turn to Jack, which was more than he knew. She thought of them as her personal priests and she was constantly going to them for spiritual advice, again, more than Jack knew. She was secretly a devout Catholic.
“He’s got almost nothing left,” she said in a rush. “I mean, nothing.”
Father Timmons knelt down and touched Jack’s hand; a shiver ran up him so that his shoulders shook in a spasm. He then bent his ear to Jack’s chest, listening for a long time before sitting up. He looked both confused and afraid. “Yes, he’s alive…but his soul…I don’t feel it.”
Jordan was slower to touch Jack and when he did, he left his palm flat on his sternum for so long that Cyn was practically out of her mind. “Please say something!”
“His soul is within him, still,” Jordan said, eventually.
“Thank you, God. Thank you, God,” Cyn whispered, her head bowed, tears running onto the pavement.
“His soul is there, but barely,” Father Jordan said in a warning tone. It suggested that she should not get her hopes up…only sometimes that’s all she had, and besides she would never count Jack out. She would hurt and she would cry, but if someone came to him with his body torn in half, she knew that there would be a part of her that firmly believed he would sew himself back together and
She wanted to lie there soaking up this new hell, because it was a vacation compared to what she had just gone through, but there was a crash from somewhere near and some part of the building deep in the smoke let out a loud urgent groan. She stood on shaking legs, but Jack would not move. He stared at the ceiling with blank eyes and a mouth hung open. There was so little soul left to him that he didn’t have the will to command his own body.
Cyn bent and dragged him across the warping boards. He was dead weight and she was panting by the time she managed to lug him out into the night, where he just laid there unblinking and unmoving. “Jack! Hey! Look at me,” she yelled. It was July but compared to the inferno it felt like deepest January and she began to shake and cough.
Jack only stared.
Eventually, a firetruck arrived, its sirens wailing and its lights flicking. Indifferent firemen stepped out to gaze at the fire. The miserable concept of a Sanctuary City had infected them as well. Few wanted to put their lives on the line for a city that no one cared about. There were whispered jokes: Let it burn—It could take out the entire block for all I care—Anyone got any marshmallows?
They were even blasé about Jack. Perhaps out of curiosity, two of them came by and glance down at him. “He’s breathing,” one stated and then turned away as if breathing was all that mattered.
“Get back here!” Cyn demanded. “He needs help. He’s bleeding and he needs oxygen.”
“We aren’t paramedics, lady. They’ll get here soon enough, so calm down.”
Cyn reached down and produced an ankle holstered, snub-nosed .38 and advanced on the firemen, pointing it expertly at the first man’s crotch. “You will help him right this second or I will pull the trigger. Now move!”
That got their attention and right quick. In a minute, Jack had an IV running into him and an oxygen mask over his face. His vest was removed and his wounds were being inspected when “her” priests arrived. That’s how she thought of whichever priests were assigned to Jack’s team at any time. Some lasted a single mission and she forgot their names within days of them leaving.
Until they left or were killed, they were hers.
“Okay, that’s enough. Get away,” she said to the firemen. When they backed off with their hands in the air, she practically threw herself down in front of Father Timmons and begged: “What can you do for him?”
They were hers but they weren’t her servants or her underlings, they were the people she turned to when she couldn’t turn to Jack, which was more than he knew. She thought of them as her personal priests and she was constantly going to them for spiritual advice, again, more than Jack knew. She was secretly a devout Catholic.
“He’s got almost nothing left,” she said in a rush. “I mean, nothing.”
Father Timmons knelt down and touched Jack’s hand; a shiver ran up him so that his shoulders shook in a spasm. He then bent his ear to Jack’s chest, listening for a long time before sitting up. He looked both confused and afraid. “Yes, he’s alive…but his soul…I don’t feel it.”
Jordan was slower to touch Jack and when he did, he left his palm flat on his sternum for so long that Cyn was practically out of her mind. “Please say something!”
“His soul is within him, still,” Jordan said, eventually.
“Thank you, God. Thank you, God,” Cyn whispered, her head bowed, tears running onto the pavement.
“His soul is there, but barely,” Father Jordan said in a warning tone. It suggested that she should not get her hopes up…only sometimes that’s all she had, and besides she would never count Jack out. She would hurt and she would cry, but if someone came to him with his body torn in half, she knew that there would be a part of her that firmly believed he would sew himself back together and
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