Unfallen
I think I’m the Antichrist,” Rob Maguire said, handing me the stolen cigarette. His gaunt face, covered with moving leaf shadows, pulled in on itself under his messy dark hair.
I thought he was kidding.
I took a long drag, let it out. “Great. If you are, can you kill my dad and get me out of here?”
I was not kidding. I still had bruises from my last trip home. I’d lasted two days.
Rob gave me a sideways look, hunching his thin shoulders. He was like that, wouldn’t ever say you were being a jerk directly. He’d been knocking around Holy Camp at least as long as I had; we’d been quasi-friends, off and on, for a couple years. Lately he’d been hanging with me a lot, ever since his sixteenth birthday.
“So if you’re him , what are you doing at Camp, bigshot?” I couldn’t help myself.
He rolled his dark eyes. “Maybe I’m bored, Kingstree. Or maybe I just found out I’m a frigging supervillain recently , and decided to share the good news with you.”
“Way thoughtful.” We’d been meeting here under the big oak tree for a couple days, but it wouldn’t last. Holy Camp is like that—they always catch you. If someone doesn’t rat on you, one of the cherubs catches sight, and then you’re toast. I was up to my neck in demerits; if I did much more I would get an Incorrigible patch and maybe it would be de-resurrection into the mines for me once I hit eighteen.
Rob’s patches were Disobedience and Pride. Mine was a straight Disobedience, the green square sewn on the left breast and the sleeve of my gray uniform shirt. When we were caught together I’d probably get a Babylon. He wouldn’t; he was a guy.
Singing filtered out of the low white shell of the Community Building. We were skipping afternoon worship like we wanted to be caught. I took another drag, handed the smoke back.
“Julie.” Rob’s fingers touched mine. “If I was…you know. Would you hate me?”
I didn’t even think about it. “Of course not. You’re one of the few people I don’t hate, Robbie. Chill.”
He seemed about to say something else, but just then a head-sized silver orb drifted weightlessly through the branches of the trees above us, and a little red dot played over its surface as it hovered.
“A cherub.” I made the words a long, drawn-out, aggravated sigh. “Busted.”
Rob just stared up at it, his Adam’s apple working, and we waited for the ax to fall.
* * *
Five demerits for skipping worship, but Rob got the worst of it. He vanished between dinner and breakfast, and nobody said a word. That’s the worst thing about Holy Camps. Kids disappear, and you’re never sure if they’ve been derezzed into the mines or over the border, sent for Rechristening as an Incorrigible, taken home, or what the hell.
After breakfast—half a grapefruit and half a piece of bread with oleo spread thin, some watery skim milk—we all trooped into the Community Building, heads lowered to show the required humility. Kimmie, who was in my pod, pinched my upper arm. “Boyfriend’s not here,” she hissed, and made a slurping sound under the thunder of drums and a wailing guitar. The huge telescreens were flashing like strobes, the video some forgettable band mouthing a series of clichés about His Love.
“Go to hell,” I whispered back. She was a human cherub, that bitch, and I’d probably get another demerit.
The music wallowed to a crescendo, and before everyone was in their seats the opening montage started. The Crosses and Stars flag flapped against a blue sky, fluffy white clouds oddly foreshortened because of the angle of the telescreens, and the Pledge started. We mouthed along, everyone finally settling into their assigned seat. When the Pledge was over there was the Message, this time a recitation by Pastor Peter in Colorado Springs himself, his oil-black hair slicked back and his blue eyes piercing through the screen.
“Murica used to be a godless , sinful place!” he was
I think I’m the Antichrist,” Rob Maguire said, handing me the stolen cigarette. His gaunt face, covered with moving leaf shadows, pulled in on itself under his messy dark hair.
I thought he was kidding.
I took a long drag, let it out. “Great. If you are, can you kill my dad and get me out of here?”
I was not kidding. I still had bruises from my last trip home. I’d lasted two days.
Rob gave me a sideways look, hunching his thin shoulders. He was like that, wouldn’t ever say you were being a jerk directly. He’d been knocking around Holy Camp at least as long as I had; we’d been quasi-friends, off and on, for a couple years. Lately he’d been hanging with me a lot, ever since his sixteenth birthday.
“So if you’re him , what are you doing at Camp, bigshot?” I couldn’t help myself.
He rolled his dark eyes. “Maybe I’m bored, Kingstree. Or maybe I just found out I’m a frigging supervillain recently , and decided to share the good news with you.”
“Way thoughtful.” We’d been meeting here under the big oak tree for a couple days, but it wouldn’t last. Holy Camp is like that—they always catch you. If someone doesn’t rat on you, one of the cherubs catches sight, and then you’re toast. I was up to my neck in demerits; if I did much more I would get an Incorrigible patch and maybe it would be de-resurrection into the mines for me once I hit eighteen.
Rob’s patches were Disobedience and Pride. Mine was a straight Disobedience, the green square sewn on the left breast and the sleeve of my gray uniform shirt. When we were caught together I’d probably get a Babylon. He wouldn’t; he was a guy.
Singing filtered out of the low white shell of the Community Building. We were skipping afternoon worship like we wanted to be caught. I took another drag, handed the smoke back.
“Julie.” Rob’s fingers touched mine. “If I was…you know. Would you hate me?”
I didn’t even think about it. “Of course not. You’re one of the few people I don’t hate, Robbie. Chill.”
He seemed about to say something else, but just then a head-sized silver orb drifted weightlessly through the branches of the trees above us, and a little red dot played over its surface as it hovered.
“A cherub.” I made the words a long, drawn-out, aggravated sigh. “Busted.”
Rob just stared up at it, his Adam’s apple working, and we waited for the ax to fall.
* * *
Five demerits for skipping worship, but Rob got the worst of it. He vanished between dinner and breakfast, and nobody said a word. That’s the worst thing about Holy Camps. Kids disappear, and you’re never sure if they’ve been derezzed into the mines or over the border, sent for Rechristening as an Incorrigible, taken home, or what the hell.
After breakfast—half a grapefruit and half a piece of bread with oleo spread thin, some watery skim milk—we all trooped into the Community Building, heads lowered to show the required humility. Kimmie, who was in my pod, pinched my upper arm. “Boyfriend’s not here,” she hissed, and made a slurping sound under the thunder of drums and a wailing guitar. The huge telescreens were flashing like strobes, the video some forgettable band mouthing a series of clichés about His Love.
“Go to hell,” I whispered back. She was a human cherub, that bitch, and I’d probably get another demerit.
The music wallowed to a crescendo, and before everyone was in their seats the opening montage started. The Crosses and Stars flag flapped against a blue sky, fluffy white clouds oddly foreshortened because of the angle of the telescreens, and the Pledge started. We mouthed along, everyone finally settling into their assigned seat. When the Pledge was over there was the Message, this time a recitation by Pastor Peter in Colorado Springs himself, his oil-black hair slicked back and his blue eyes piercing through the screen.
“Murica used to be a godless , sinful place!” he was
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