RESURRECTION 

CHAPTER 1 

by Daniel R. Snyder 
 

There were, at best, five-hundred people. Perhaps in another few years, there would be no one here at all. The possibility did not sadden him. Jonas shuffled from foot to foot, listening to the complaints of the timbers, wondering if today would be the day the antiquated stage finally collapsed under its own weight. But it remained steadfast in the cold morning, while a biting wind slapped at his heavy robe.

A blanket of dark clouds threatened, but the people seemed to take no notice as they toyed with the sacks, black velvet purses emblazoned with purple crosses and laden with outdated tradition. From the stage in the courtyard of the palace, Jonas viewed the leviathan preparing to feed.

David, in white collar and gold braids, appeared calm and assured, a leather-clad testament tucked under his left arm. Between them stood the naked prisoner, wrists and ankles tied with thick rope, a gag trapped between blue lips, sweat glistening on his shaved head. Goose pimpled and shivering, the man defiantly met the gaze of the crowd. Jonas admired him. This was a brave man--foolish perhaps--but brave none-the-less.

Scanning the undulating sea of bodies, Jonas moved to the front, wishing this duty could be passed on, or better, passed over, but that was not yet to be. It still belonged to the Father President, and personal distaste would not stop it. Perhaps some day that would change.

      But not today.

      Lifting his arms and tilting his face to the sky, he closed his eyes, speaking the words that would cause a man’s death on this bitterly cold spring morning. “We are brothers in the Church.”

      “We are brothers in the Church!” Hundreds of voices returned the greeting.

      “And the Church serves the Lord.”

      “And the Church serves the Lord!”

  “The Church is our salvation.”

      “The Church is our salvation!”

      “Amen.”

      Jonas lowered his arms and moved toward the rear. His part was finished. David put a hand on the prisoner’s shoulder and guided him forward. The man offered no resistance. They stopped a few feet from the edge of the stage. Now it was David’s turn to speak.

      “He has blasphemed the Church.”

      “He has blasphemed the Church!”

      “He has blasphemed the Lord.”

      “He has blasphemed the Lord!”

      “Amen.” David slipped the testament into a pocket and untied the gag, tossing it into the maw of the ravenous beast. “The Church provides redemption, and if this man repents, She will have mercy on his soul.”

The crowd salivated in hungry anticipation. Jonas waited, knowing that, despite the salvation offered the man’s soul, his body would not escape what was to come. The prisoner stepped to the edge, teeth chattering, cleared his throat, and spoke.

      “The Church is an abomination!”

      Some people jeered, some gasped, others were stunned into silence.

      “It does not serve the Lord. Vishnu will destroy it!”

      Excited fingers played with the sacks. Jonas sighed, sadly noting that the sky remained unchanged. Vishnu did not part the black clouds, nor did He send Surya on a golden chariot to lay waste to the palace. He only provided a disappointing wind that numbed hands and sent David’s hair flying as he reached into a pocket to produce another gag.

      “He does not believe in the Church!” David secured the knot around the man’s mouth.

      “He does not believe in the Church!”

      For a moment, the clouds seemed to draw in upon themselves, plunging the courtyard further into darkness, and then lightning scorched the sky. A crack of thunder shook the stage, and Jonas felt a drop of rain land on his cheek.

      David brought the ceremony to a close. “He is a heretic.”

      “He is a heretic!”

      “And heretics must die.”

      “And heretics must die!”

      “Amen.”

      “Amen.”

      Another jagged spear of lightning sliced through the clouds. With a familiar sickness in his stomach, Jonas moved toward the stairs, and David followed. Thunder growled again as they descended, follow¬ing the cobblestone walk toward the glass corridor surrounding the courtyard.

      The sliding doors closed behind them, drowning the wail of the north tower bells. Jonas shivered despite the sudden warmth, refusing to look back. There was no need. In his mind, he clearly saw hundreds of sacks ripped open by hundreds of hands and heard the sound of each stone as it connected.

*****

      “That fat piece of shit.” Lila threw her feet on the table and laced her fingers behind her neck, staring at the ducts overhead. “He enjoys goddamned executions.”

      “And you had to watch it.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind.” Sitting at his desk, Chris removed his glasses, tossed them on a legal pad, and rubbed his eyes. It would be nice to actually see sunlight again. He spent far too much time in this basement. “I’m tired.”

  He picked up a pencil and pretended to work on his notes. This was his own fault. He should have known better than to provoke her. Making her way through the stacks of cardboard boxes holding this week’s run of pamphlets, she reached his desk, arms crossed, and glared down at him.

  “You know I’m right, Lambeth.”

      “No.” He tapped the pencil on the pad. “I do not.”

      “You are so goddamned self-righteous, you know that?”

      “Because I don’t want to kill anyone.”

      “Daniels doesn’t seem to have a problem with it.” 

` “We’re never going to agree on this.” He replaced his glasses and rifled through a stack of computer printouts. This was so frustrating.  She had not been like this originally. He thought she understood what they were doing here.

      “This is bullshit.” Lila slapped the papers, spilling them to the floor. “This isn’t accomplishing anything.”

  “Yes, it is.” He leaned over, collected the scattered sheets and placed them back on the desk, then stood to face her. “And I don’t see what killing the Father President will do.”

      “It’ll get you the attention you need.”

      “That’s not the kind we want.”

           Staring at her fists, for a moment he thought she might strike him. He had no doubt that, even though he outweighed her by a good fifty pounds, she could cause serious damage. He took what he thought to be a prudent step sideways and bumped into a stack of magazines.

           “You see this?” Lila rubbed a scar on her chin. “I got this when I was a kid. I’m telling you, the only thing the Church understands is violence.”

           “I don’t believe that.”

           “You weren’t raised by them.”

           The revelation took him by surprise. He actually knew very little about her, only that she had been Chief of Police in the capital, and then later, head of the Federal Investigative Commission, the position from which she had been dismissed almost a year ago. The rest was a mystery, although one he had been willing to accept, given her unique qualifications. But her attitude had changed recently. Her fits of anger had become more common, and it was time to do something about it. 

           “I think you need to leave us, Lila.”

           She raked her fingers through her short blonde hair. “You need me.”

           “What we need are people who want change without bloodshed.”

           “But without me--”

           “It may be more difficult, yes. But I don’t think you care about change, Lila. All you seem to care about lately is revenge.”

           “And you don’t?” She closed the distance between them and slammed her palms against his chest. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

           He smashed into a file cabinet, sending a cascade of videotapes to the floor as he raised his hands to ward off another attack.

           “What’s all this shit about?” She caught a tape as it bounced off his shoulder and shook it at his face. “The noble Christopher Lambeth tries to save the world?”

      “It’s not--”

      “What a crock of shit!” The tape exploded against the far wall. “Be honest with yourself for once, Lambeth. This isn’t about trying to change the world.  It’s about what they did to your goddamned father. You’re no different than me.”

           “That’s not true.” 

           “Yeah, right.” She swiped a hand across his desk and sent the papers flying again. “Such a load of bullshit.”

           Refusing to pick up the pile this time, he returned her stare. “I believe I asked you to leave.”

           “I could go to the Church and tell them where to find you.”

           “You won’t.” It was an idle threat. Turning him in would do nothing but implicate her, and that would do nothing to further her plans. “Now collect your things and go, please.”

           “Fine.” She crushed a tape under her heel. “I don’t need your help anyways.”

           “I’m sorry about this.”

      “No, you’re not.” She stormed across the room to the bank of printers, grabbed her leather jacket and suitcase, and moved toward the exit. “You’ll see. With Daniels dead, you’ll get what you want a lot faster.”

           And then she left, slamming the metal door. He shook his head, rubbing the small of his back, relieved it was finally over. Whatever she did now, at least their organization would have no ties to it.

      And whatever it was, it was probably going to get her killed.

*****

      David left the stage a step behind the Father President. as protocol demanded. Spring was late in coming this year, and he was cold, but at least the rain had waited until they were off-camera. When they reached the corridor, the doors opened and a guard waved them through.  

      Daniels started toward the north wing. Apparently, they wouldn’t be watching the rest of the ceremony. Out of view of the ignoble vulgas, they walked side-by-side toward the marble staircase, where a golden statue of St. Francis of Assisi stood with arms outstretched. They started up.

      David ran his fingers along the handrail, admiring the way it reflected light from the crystal chandeliers anchored to the frescoed ceiling. The President hadn’t spoken since they left the stage, and David made no attempt to disturb him as they made their way to his office.

      Brenda looked up from her desk. As usual, her makeup was applied too heavy, too much rouge on her cheeks, eyebrows penciled in a little too perfectly. If she were his secretary, he’d have someone take care of that.

“Good morning, Brother Sams.” She smiled, pressing a button on her desk with a nail painted a horrid shade of red. “And how are you today?”

           “Fine, and you, Brenda?”

           “Wonderful. The ceremony was beautiful.”

He followed Daniels through the massive walnut door into the inner office. The President moved toward the large desk, and a leather chair let out a cacophony of squeaks as he dropped into it.

David sat facing him, quiet for the moment, admiring the room. The gold trimmed tapestries, the leaded-glass bay window overlooking the courtyard, the vaulted ceiling--good up-bringing had taught him appreciation for these things, but Daniels seemed oblivious, or maybe after all those years in office, he simply took them for granted.  

After a minute or two, Daniels walked to the hand-carved cherry bureau, took out two crystal snifters and a bottle of brandy, and poured them both drinks. David took a slow sip of the imported liquor, feeling it glide down his throat. Daniels returned to his seat and lit a thick cigar.

           “God, I hate executions.” Exhaling a puff of smoke, Daniels studied it until it dissipated.

          “It’s a centuries-old tradition.” David set his brandy on a coaster on the side table. “Hardly something to be ashamed of.”

      “Is that so?” Daniels blew a perfect smoke ring. “I think it’s a tradition we’d be better off without.”

           “The people need traditions.”

      “Tradition is nothing more than unexamined habit.” 

      “Tradition is the cornerstone of faith.”

      “But faith needs no tangible proof.” Daniels pointed the cigar at him, dropping ash on the desktop. “So tell me, David.  Why is it we need executions?”

      “Bonis quod bene fit haud perit.”

      “Yes.” Daniels sighed. “But who is the judge of whether it’s good or not?”

      “It’s good if it teaches a lesson.”

      “And it does. Of that, I have no doubt.”

      Satisfied he’d won this particular debate, David crossed his legs, giving Daniels time to reflect on his words, and buffed at his left shoe. He needed to slip into a different pair and get these shined. They made him look like a pauper.

      “Things change, David.” Daniels took a sip of brandy and set the cigar in a silver ashtray. “Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. We never know which is which at the time. History is the judge.”

           “I suppose it is.”

           “At any rate, there’s no time for an old fat man to wax philosophical this morning. I have a meeting with Emit in a few minutes, so if you have any news to cheer me up, you have about five minutes.”

Unfortunately, David had nothing to offer. The low turnout at the ceremony was just another indication of how bad the situation was becoming. Over the last year, it seemed that every day brought another vandalized chapel or government facility. Just yesterday, eight students had been killed in a riot at Our Lady of Sorrows University, the third this month, and in the south, terrorists holding hostages and power plants down. 

      “Well, David?  I’m waiting.”

           “The college is back to normal.”

           “Is that so? And all it took was eight dead kids.”

           “That was...unfortunate.”

           “That was shameful.” Daniels unsnapped his collar, removed his robe, and tossed them on the floor as he moved to the window. He placed his fingertips on the glass. “It shouldn’t have happened.” 

           “They were heretics.”

           “They were kids.” Daniels spun around and folded his arms across his chest. “And kids question things. It’s their nature.”

           The President’s sympathy for the college students was more proof that it was time for change. The Church needed a new leader, someone strong enough to take the necessary steps to stop these insurrections. 

           “Anything else, David?”   

      “Lopez thinks he knows who’s responsible for distributing propaganda here in the capital.” He reached into the briefcase he’d left earlier and pulled out a report. “You might find this interesting.”

      “I don’t have time. Give me the abridged version.”

           “His name is Christopher Lambeth.”

           “Doesn’t ring any bells.” Daniels moved back to the desk, finished the last of his brandy, and snuffed out the cigar. “Should I know him?”

          “No.  But I do, or did, rather.”

  “Is that so? Care to enlighten me?”

      “Well educated. B.A. in History and M.A.’s in Sociology and Theology. He dropped out of divinity school when his father was executed. He’s been missing for almost eight years now.”

           “And how did you say you know him?”

           “We lived in the same dorm.”

           “A fallen angel.” Daniels slid into his chair and ran a thick finger along the snifter’s rim. “You keep interesting company, David.”

           “I always knew he was trouble.”

      “I’m sure. Does Tony have any idea where he might be?”

           “Somewhere in the capital, probably.” Obviously, the President was not interested in even looking at it, so David returned the report to his case. “It would be impossible to smuggle in so much printed material.”

           Daniels squinted and rubbed his temples.

      “Another headache?”

  “No. I’m fine. So I assume this is something I need not concern myself with, correct?”

      “I’ll keep you posted.” 

“Good. Then there’s something else before you go.” Daniels leaned on his elbows, chin on his hands. “I’d like to know if you plan to continue opposing me on my proposal.”

      “My thoughts have not changed on the matter.”

      “I was hoping, in light of recent events, you might have reconsidered.”

      “Recent events have only served to reaffirm my convictions.”

There had been many questionable changes under Jonas Daniels, but his latest proposal was simply insanity. Eliminating the presidency and establishing senate rule over the federal government undermined everything the Church stood for. It could not survive without a Father President.

“You must do what you think is right, David. I respect that, but I will continue to fight for it. One-man rule is not healthy. It gives him too much power. It’s too easy to abuse.”

           “God would not permit that.”

      “Perhaps not, but governments are run by men, not by God, and men make mistakes. With or without your support, I plan to be the last Father President.”

           “I will continue to debate you on this.”

         “I expect nothing less, but--” The intercom suddenly buzzed. “Yes Brenda?”

           “I’m sorry to disturb you, Father, but there’s been an accident at one of the west side chapels. Some kind of explosion.”

*****

The hellhole orphanage was only three blocks away, at St. Origen and Eucharist, and she always seemed to come back.

  Pathetic.

After Lambeth kicked her out, Lila walked around in the rain all morning, finally ducking into this dive on St. Anthony. The sun was shining now. Figures. From behind the plate glass window, she watched people with folded umbrellas, shopping or heading for midday worship. 

“More coffee?” The waitress came back. Big tits, black hair, streaked, braces, perky, no more than seventeen.

“Sure.” She pushed her cup to the edge of the table and glanced at the TV over the register as it zoomed in on Daniels, then on that little cocksucker, David Sams.

Grinding her teeth, she stabbed at her pie. Daniels, Lambeth, David, Daniels, Lambeth, David.  She knew better than to trust men, and like a fucking moron, she’d done it again, wasted six months of her life with another self-absorbed ambitious prick. Lambeth was an idiot. There was only one thing that would ever make a difference, and it was obviously going to take a woman to do it.

She shoved aside the mangled pie, scanning the drying street. These people needed her help. What did Lambeth know? He was just another full-of-shit, ineffective, useless man. Apparent¬ly, she was the only one with any balls in this town. The window rattled and she jerked her hand.

      “Shit.” Grabbing a handful of napkins, she wiped up the spilled coffee.

The sky started to get dark again. Naturally. She threw the soaked napkins in a pile, prepared to wait--she’d stay in this fucking booth all day if she had to--then picked up the classifieds from this morning’s Daily Testimonial. Exactly two minutes later, three ambulances raced by, then two ladder rigs, three para¬medic trucks, another ambulance, followed by four pig-rides with overheads gone Christmastime. Jamming the classifieds in her jeans, she tossed a five on the table and booked it outside.

She smelled fire. To the north, not more than a block away, the sky was turning black. Small pieces of ash falling on backed-up traffic, black-and-whites fighting their way though, sirens and alarms blaring, horns honking, people screaming. Moving toward the smoke, she elbowed her way through people lured out of stores by the commotion.

A fat man wearing a striped vest slammed into her, biting down on his fist, tears running down his blackened cheeks. She shoved him and he didn’t even notice. Neither did the woman in the red dress or the two teenagers with eyebrow rings, or the terrified man in the torn suit. Fighting her way to the end of the block, she finally reached the corner, and stopped dead.

           Our Mother the Church chapel was gone.

Just a burning pile of rubble puking black smoke. Huge slabs of twisted wood and concrete. Firefighters aiming streams of water that turned to steam as soon as they hit. Grunts screaming into bullhorns, people yanking bodies from the wreckage, waves of heat, stinging her eyes and nose.   

      “Back off!  Back off now!”

A dozen uniforms muscled through the crowd, stretching yellow tape into a containment perimeter. Someone smashed into her from behind. She fell, tearing the tape on her way down, glass biting into the palm of her left hand as she landed.

         “Back off now!” A kid barely out of diapers threatened with a billy club.

She got vertical, brushed blood on her pants, and turned her face.  Stupid. Even if this rook made her, he was up to his ass in crowd control. Besides, she had nothing to do with this, and it sure wasn’t Lambeth’s work. 

           “Back off!” The diaper’s face was red. “Everyone back!”

This was beautiful. Whoever blasted this chapel just got more attention than Lambeth would ever get. In a couple of minutes, this story would be on every station across the province, and an hour from now it would be in every newspaper. This was something the Church would notice. The bomber knew exactly what he was doing. The place was loaded with worshippers. No idea just how many, but dozens, probably more.

A timber collapsed into a black pile that might have been the remains of a pew. Two grunts heaved it aside, hands protected by insulated gloves and faces covered with oxygen masks. They reached for something. One of them ripped off his mask and fell to his knees. The other just stood there, holding a small arm attached to a piece of ribcage.

She stayed for maybe fifteen minutes. When the TV vultures started interviewing witnesses, she took it as her signal to leave. Besides, she’d seen enough. Maybe Lambeth was right. Violence was messy and ugly. Innocent people got hurt. This was a man’s way of doing things, with a cannon instead of a gun.

Most people were harmless. Leaders were the real problem.  Lambeth could pass out propaganda until he fucking turned blue in the face, but the real solution was simple. Jonas Daniels had to die.

She suddenly realized she’d left her suitcase at the restaurant. Damn. Hopefully, miss perky had kept it for her. She headed back. 
 
 

Bio 
 

Daniel R. Snyder is a native of Los Angeles, who years ago immigrated to the small haven of Saginaw, Michigan.  He lives with his wife Jennean and his cat Kizzie,  near his stepdaughter Megan and his two children, Cassi and Dylan, who still come to visit him on the occasional weekend.  When he’s not writing,  teaching, or studying, he can be found making huge piles of sawdust in his workshop and playing with the barn cats.  Please visit him at danielrsnyder.com