And then his body toppled backwards, the phone still held in his hand, the camera capturing his humble, remorseful, utterly resigned face as he fell towards the fast-rushing waters of the river below.

LIES! He raged, struggling to spit that one word out, to force one piece of true emotion across, as he fell, and fell, and fell, endlessly backwards towards the water below, the wind of his fall rustling his hair, whistling past his ears, the heavy clouds of Zoe looming above, the bridge receding, out beyond the horror of the red TRANSMIT light on the screen of the phone held in his paralyzed hand.

LIES! He strained as he fell.

Then he crashed into the river and the waves swallowed him, his sincere, repentant face the last image the camera captured before darkness.

8
Back to Jesus

Saturday 2040.11.03

Rangan Shankari groaned as Earl and Emma Miller manhandled him into the truck and loaded him with blankets and food and water. The movement sent waves of agony through the throbbing bullet wound in his side, temporarily pushing aside his terror with even more visceral pain.

Earl Miller leaned over him to check Rangan’s safety belt. “Sorry, son,” he said. “Gotta get to town fore they close the noose.”

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He’d been going to hide at the Miller farm. Wait, for weeks if needed, until things cooled off. Then neighbors had sent word. Police were going door to door, searching homes, fields, barns, cellars. They had to get Rangan out. And St Mark’s, at least, had a hidden cellar, that might avoid detection in a search.

Rangan nodded feebly, his eyes closed, trying to express his thanks, his gratitude that they’d taken this risk for him. But he couldn’t breathe. The pain or the fear or the exertion of coming up the stairs and into the garage and then the truck were too much. There was sweat all over. He put a hand to his side, where a bandage covered the bullet wound. It was wet.

He opened his eyes. Miller wasn’t even in the truck with him. Earl and Emma were out in front of the truck, framed between the pickup and the wall of the garage, the older couple holding each other, the pudgy woman’s hands wrapped around her grey haired husband’s neck, their eyes closed. Were those tears on Emma’s face?

He closed his eyes to give them privacy.

More people sticking their necks out for me, he thought.

He opened his eyes again, and for a moment, it wasn’t Earl and Emma Miller out there. It was his own mom and dad. There was a knot in his stomach.

Earl Miller climbed into the cab, loading his shotgun and boxes of shells behind the seats. Then the garage door was opening, and the howling wind was coming for them.

Zoe was older and weaker, but she was still a monster.