Stephen Blackmoore: All Bad Things

Samson looks up to see a pair of Central Market snipers looking at him through crosshairs. Others are coming from the sides, leaving their regular patrol posts walking the Market’s perimeter.

“Come to trade,” Samson says, lifting a dirty duffel bag in one hand. “And spread the Good Word.”

“I’ve heard of the good word you been spreadin’. Seen the bodies, too. Getting’ yourself a reputation. Buildin’ yourself a nice little army out there in Echo Park.”

It’s true, though Samson doesn’t like to call them an army. In the last six months he’s visited camp after camp, converting the worthy and sending the souls of Unbelievers to the Lord. Those he’s brought into the fold have joined him and Cyrus at the studio, and it’s starting to get a little cramped. They’ll need to move soon.

“True believers,” Samson says. Almost a hundred of them now.

Bernie cocks his head, squints at Samson. “You’ve changed. I don’t know into what, but you’re different.”

“I found God and follow the teachings of our Savior, James King.”

“Uh–huh. Or you’ve just gone even more batshit crazy than you already were. Somebody told me you’re hearin’ voices. That true? You gone completely round the bend?”

“You gonna let me in, Bernie?”

“Answer my question, I’ll answer yours.”

“God’s grace lets me see the Reverend.”

“Got it. Batshit crazy.”

Samson’s smile never wavers, even though he’s never liked being called crazy. Likes it less even now, but that’s okay. Bernie doesn’t understand the gift God has granted him. Of course he thinks Samson is crazy.

“I answered your question, Bernie. Now answer mine. You gonna let me in?”

“No.”

“Just like that? I thought everyone was welcome at the Market.”

“Not murderers,” Bernie says.

“Not a soul inside those walls is free of that sin. If I kill, I kill for the Lord. Can those men up there say the same?”

“You want to get in, you’ll have to kill me.” Bernie cocks his head toward the snipers above. “Them, too.” A few have Samson in their sights, but most are just watching. None of them are at their assigned posts.

Samson’s smile grows, but it’s a little sad, a little wistful. “All right,” Samson says. “If you insist.”

Shots ring out from across the street and the snipers covering Samson drop, their heads exploding from high–caliber rounds. A couple start to raise their weapons to take out Samson, but they die before they can even get a bead on him. The others move to cover, try to find targets. Too preoccupied to notice the men and women who have climbed up from the inside of the Market behind them while they were watching Samson’s conversation with Bernie. By the time they figure it out, the knives have come out and it’s too late.

Samson heaves the duffel bag into the entrance to the Market, thumbs the detonator palmed in his other hand. The smoke grenades inside go off, spewing green and purple smoke in a hazy curtain too thick to see through.

The fighting inside is quick and brutal. Samson’s people have been in the Market for hours, getting in position, waiting for the smoke to hide their attack. Only a handful are up there taking care of the snipers. The rest are down below, rounding up the Market patrons, the shop owners.

Bernie pulls out a little Saturday night special, its grip covered in duct tape to keep it all together, and pops off a round. The bullet grazes Samson’s skull, and the sudden sharp pain takes him by surprise. Samson knocks the gun from the little man’s hands, picks him up by the neck.

Bernie stares at Samson, stunned, his face going red and purple. “What the fuck,” he says, wheezing. “This place is neutral. Everybody and their fuckin’ grandmother’s gonna be comin’ for your fuckin’ pea head.”

“You built your house on sand, Bernie, and great will be its fall.”

“The fuck does that even mean?” Bernie’s eyes bulge in their sockets.

Samson squeezes harder, hears something pop in Bernie’s neck. The man shudders, lets out a final, strangled gasp. Dies in Samson’s hands.

“I don’t really know,” Samson says, thinking about it for the first time. “Something the Reverend King says. I’ll be sure to ask him.”

“How many?” Cyrus says. Samson’s used to this. Cyrus doesn’t say hello, doesn’t ask how Samson is doing. Even if Samson comes back covered in blood, Cyrus doesn’t ask whose it is.

“Dead or with us?”

“With us. I don’t care about the dead.”

“Fifteen.” And forty–seven dead. Cyrus may not care, but Samson does. He’s the one consigning souls to Heaven, after all. It’s his job to care.

“Good.”

“None of ours fell.”

“Even better. Net gain. And the gear?”

“Cleared out. Building set on fire. Here’s the list.” Samson hands him a moldy ledger they found in the back of the studio that they’ve been using to track what they get from dead Unbelievers. Cyrus leafs through it. Samson’s learned to read a little, but he’s still not very good at it. All the words jumble together into a big mess in his head, so he always has someone on hand who can do it for him.

“Guns, good. Ammo, better.” Cyrus gives a low whistle. “This is what I was lookin’ for. Tess’s stash.” He runs a finger down the page and stops at one entry. “35884–77–6. Five—shit, no, fifteen canisters? Perfect. I’d heard she had some of these, but fifteen? I don’t even want to know how she got her hands on this stuff. She put up a fight?”

“Not much of one,” Samson says. He’d given her the choice the way he gave everyone the choice. She answered him with a bullet that missed him by a mile. He’d always respected her, so he made it fast. One blow from the sledgehammer was all it took.

“Is it safe to keep all that stuff here?” Samson asks. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Yeah. And we’re not gonna. Had a team scouting the last couple weeks. Found a new home. Bigger. We’ll keep this place as a—”

“Shrine,” Samson says. “This place is a shrine. We’ll move everything out and seal it up like we found it. This is where Reverend King died.”

“Sure. A shrine. Exactly what I was gonna say. I was thinking we should keep a few people here to guard it. Maybe some guns and ammunition. Supplies. You know, to keep it safe. We’ll seal off the studio where his bones are.”

Samson narrows his eyes at Cyrus. He knows he’s being played, but he can’t figure out how. “All right.”

“Good. Glad we’re on the same page. So this place I’m thinking is plenty big for us. And it’s close, too. I did some digging. Used to be a church. We’ll make it one again.”

Samson frowns. A church? Big enough for everyone? Right now most of their people are sleeping in a camp just outside the tunnel leading to the basement bunker. He knows only one building still standing nearby that might be big enough for everyone.

“The Arena? Over by the park?”

“That’s the one.”

The Arena is a big, semicircular building down on Glendale across from the flooded swamp that used to be Echo Park Lake. The Locos run a big fight club there every Friday night where half a dozen cage matches on a big stage end in at least one corpse being tossed out the back for their nuke–pooches to eat. Samson fought there back when he ran with the Leather Jerks, before the Locos ran the gang out of the area and over into Atwater.

“Used to be called the Angelus Temple,” Cyrus says. “Big enough for our needs. Great location. We can house everybody, fortify it, hold Church services. It’ll be great.”

“But the Locos. Cyrus, that’s their headquarters. They all live there. We don’t have enough people to take them on.”