Stephen Blackmoore: All Bad Things

“You can’t die yet, Samson,” King says close to his ear. “God isn’t done with you.” Samson jerks at the voice. Of all the time for King to come back for him he had to pick now.

“Was a trap,” he says. His tongue feels like shredded hamburger, his voice slurry thick.

“It was. You got your ass handed to you.”

“I deserve to die.”

“You do,” King says. “You failed. But God has bigger plans for you.”

“I’m not worthy of God’s grace.” He should have seen this as a trap, should have gone with his gut. Now his people are dead, the army shattered. Without them, the Church will be overrun by the Unbelievers in Hollywood. Everything they’ve done will be destroyed. God’s plan will be left unfulfilled.

“What, are you stupid? You presume to know God’s mind? Samson, if God wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Now get up.”

Samson gets his hands under him, sinks them into a foot of stinking tunnel mud, pushes hard. The rubble on top of him shifts, bricks falling to the side, dust and dirt pouring off of him in great clods that plop in the mud. He gasps as hot, stinging air hits his lungs, crawls out of the swampy, burning pit to the sidewalk high above him. It takes an hour.

Wilshire is a ten–block–long burning crater belching thick, oily smoke into the night sky. Troops from Hollywood patrol the sides, shooting down into it whenever they see movement. Samson’s salvation, it seems, is one of timing. He watches as a soldier tosses a grenade down into the pit where he had been only minutes before. Had he moved a little sooner or waited a little longer, he would have been caught.

“You need to go back,” King says. “Rebuild, grow stronger.”

“From this?” Samson says. “How? It’s gone. We have nothing . There is no army, there are no defenses. They’ll run us down like dogs. How do we rebuild from this?” Samson reaches out to grab King by his throat, the red haze descending on him, but his hands clutch at empty air as King fades away into the smoke.

Rebuild? Madness. There is no way they’re recovering from this. The Initiates and Novices who are left are all clerks and scribes, carpenters and plumbers. They’re people who keep the machines working, the lights on. But where will they be when there is no one to protect them?

Rebuilding simply isn’t an option. But King was right about one thing. He needs to go back. Warn everyone what’s happened here. Maybe they can move everyone up to the Bastion in Griffith Park. It’s almost ready and it has the last remaining soldiers.

Samson ducks through a space between two buildings, away from the killers mopping up in the street, careful not to trip over the cracked and uneven pavement. He wipes blood and sweat out of his good eye. One leg drags behind him. His vision blurs, the world tilts.

He falls and darkness takes him.

Somewhere along the line Samson has found a sledgehammer. Might be his, might not. He doesn’t really care. Its heft is comforting as he pushes past the pain and trudges slowly through the streets.

He knows at least a day has gone by since he passed out in the alley. He remembers drifting back to consciousness a few times to see the sun and the moon passing by overhead. He smelled the burning bodies, heard the screams and whimpers of survivors being put down. And then they stopped.

He presses on through empty streets, the only sounds his plodding footsteps, the metallic grind of the sledgehammer dragging behind him. Already deep within Church territory, he should be seeing people—not soldiers, they’re all dead—but the Church Faithful, the acolytes and followers. They’re not there. There is something deeply wrong.

It’s not until he gets to the Temple that he understands. The doors are flung open, the halls silent. Empty space glares up at him from the floor where furniture sat, doorknobs are conspicuous by their absence, bare wire hangs where light fixtures were torn away. The Temple is defined by what’s not in it.

A hundred scenarios spin through Samson’s addled mind. Horror stacks upon horror until he can’t think straight. Hollywood has been and gone and taken everything. He’s died and gone to Hell. Everyone in the Church has gone cannibal and eaten everyone else. He’s the only man left alive on Earth.

He shakes himself, takes a deep breath, pushes the crazy as far away as he can, knows it’s not far enough. Everyone is not dead, he tells himself. They haven’t eaten each other in an orgy of madness and blood. They’ve just realized that without an army to protect them they’d be sitting ducks for an invasion, so they’ve retreated to the Bastion.

Samson wanders the empty halls. He’s called this place home for years now, a thing he never really thought he would ever have. And now it’s been taken away from him. He tries to muster some rage, but mostly he’s just tired and sad. He tried to do a great thing here, tried to bring God to the Unbelievers.

“You failed.”

He turns, expecting to see King behind him, surprised when it’s not.

“Volkov?”

She stands inside the Relic Room, where they had brought all of King’s tapes and video equipment when they left the studio, filling it with banks of televisions and VCRs for the Faithful to watch. It’s empty now except for one cracked monitor and a VCR propped up against it, the readout blinking 12:00 over and over again, as if to say that time has run out.

“Do you even know what you were fighting for, Samson?”

“What are you doing here? How did you get out of the ambush?” He looks her over, his frown deepening. “Why aren’t you hurt?”

“Do you ever question God, Samson? Ever question your precious Reverend King?”

“What are you talking about?” He steps closer, hefts his sledgehammer over his shoulder. It feels like it weighs a ton, but he manages it, anyway. “Tell me how you survived the street collapsing, Volkov. Why didn’t you die like everyone else?”

“Or what, you’ll crush me with your hammer? Look at yourself. You can barely lift the thing. Fine. You want answers? Here are your answers.” She pushes the button on the VCR, and King’s image springs to life on the television screen.

Only it’s not King as Samson’s ever seen him. His face is haggard, hair disheveled, two–day stubble on his face. Tears streak his cheeks, his eyes red and puffy. He stares at the camera with his mouth half open.

“What is this?”

“His final show.”

“I’ve seen his final show.”

“No. This one was never aired. It’s from the day the bombs dropped.”

“Bullshit, there isn’t—”

“I don’t think I’ll live to see tomorrow,” King says, cutting Samson off. Samson stares. He knows that voice, knows its cadence. This is King, all right, but he sounds worn down, voice like gravel. “I don’t think any of us will.

“It’s time to come clean,” he says. “Whether my viewers see this or not, I don’t know that it will make any difference. But I wanted to say this before it’s too late. I… I’m sorry.”

Samson stares at the screen, his mind reeling. This can’t be happening. He’s watched every show King produced, saw every recorded image. Where did this one come from?

“I’ve said terrible things on this show. Terrible. Lies. Slander. Blasphemy, even. And for what?” King laughs, hollow and sick, like he can’t bear to answer his own question.

“I didn’t start this way. When I started in Cleveland, my show was the Hour of Light. I talked about spreading God’s love, about bringing peace to the world. Nobody watched it. I was canceled after one season. So I tried it again and again. Atlanta, Detroit, Chicago. And then one day I got mad on the air. Just couldn’t take it anymore. Went off on… I don’t even remember. Some teeny–bopper Madonna bullshit, or something.”