He points me to where, and as soon as I’m out of his sight, I yank open the back door of Reformation Faith Evangelical Church and leave.

I do not look back, not once.

And when I reach the Acheson LGBTQ+ Center, it’s burning.

Chapter 19

Those who obey God and His commands shall be blessed, the way faithful men have always been blessed. But to those who turn from Him, He is wrath. He is fire. He tells us where to burn.

—Reverend Mother Woodside’s sermon

Genesis 19:28—And he looked toward Sodom and Gomorrah, and toward all the land of the plain, and beheld, and, lo, the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace.

Hebrews 12:29—For our God is a consuming fire.

Luke 3:16—He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. O Lord our God, what the fuck happened?

The planks that used to seal the front doors of the Acheson LGBTQ+ Center lie in shards across the steps. Flames billow out of the gaping hole left behind and reach through every broken window, up to the sky, with a low, demonic rumble cut by the high-pitch cracking of embers. Just like the bridges burning on Judgment Day, columns of smoke rising high over Acheson as they all crashed into the water.

A gunshot, and another, and a scream, and a shriek. Long, high, and furious.

I would recognize the cry of a Grace anywhere.

I put on my mask and sprint toward the flames.

The heat hits half a block away. It’s a dry heat that sucks the moisture from my eyes and makes me choke. Bright white flame shines in shards of glass on the road, on abandoned cars, doubled in storefront windows, hemming me in like the Lord casting us from Him. Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire.

I’ve kept running through worse.

The courtyard fence is demolished, broken to pieces just like the front door. I clamber over splinters and nails, and I scrape my palm on a jagged edge.

An Angel. There, flinging open the back entrance of the ALC, raising a hand against the smoke that comes out to greet him. And a Grace. A Grace built like they were gutted doing a backbend bridge, stretched to grotesque proportions, extra arms lashed to limbs, another face peeking from their neck.

They see me.

The Angel sees me too.

He lifts his gun. He can’t pull the trigger, he wouldn’t dare kill me, but can he tell who I am? With the smoke, the fire, and the screaming? Dad’s bloody-flower face comes crashing back, teeth and tongue gleaming in his broken head and it’s all I can see, it’s all I can taste, until the Angel opens fire on the Grace.