The Crooked God Machine by Autumn Christian Read Free Book Online Page A

into the cold, viscous skin that the sun could not heat.
    "I'm going to be an archaeologist when I get out of here," Jeanine said, "uncover what we've lost. Unearth our history. What are you going to be?"
    I thought of Sissy and Momma back in the house bordering the swamp, crashing through the rooms in angry insect patterns. The two of them trapped in the rictus of a spell woven by God in his black mask, by Daddy's ancient taxidermy, by the space my dead baby brother left behind.
    Jeanine touched my cheek.
    “What is it, Charles?” she asked, “What's wrong?”
    I wanted to say, I want to be the murderer of the monster who took away my baby brother's spine. I want to be the one who finds a home so I can keep us all safe. I want to find the crystal breathing mask that will resuscitate the dead and bring them back to me.
    But dear God, I am only so much dirt, so I said nothing at all.

 
    Chapter Seven
    The shiny sphere on the back of Ezekiel's head resembled a warm bottomless pool, an empty eye with a rapacious gleam. God whispered through it to Ezekiel in the long nights. Its tiny, insistent voice slithered from the back of his brain down the wires to his cerebral cortex, through his basal ganglia with its jump hiss bundle of nerves, all the way to his temporal lobe.
    “What’s God like underneath his mask?” I asked Ezekiel once.
    "God is a wide black line," Ezekiel said, "this line that springs out from the center of the earth and won't stop running until it’s covered the entire planet. Until the entire planet is black."
    “I don’t understand,” I said.
    “Don’t worry about it, I’m tired of talking about God anyways,” Ezekiel said, and then he picked up a stack of resurrection pamphlets by the door, “I’ve got the resurrection in a few hours. Let’s go hunting.”
    ‘Let’s go hunting’ used to mean that Ezekiel took me out into the woods with a bow and arrow to shoot stray dogs or explore the ruins of abandoned houses. But as we grew older it meant walking the downtown streets in search of sinners to condemn.
    I walked with Ezekiel as he passed out resurrection pamphlets to the people left out on the street that night. He walked with a snap, spine like a pressed leaf. I tread a few steps behind him, dragging my feet in his bristled shadow.
    “Resurrection at midnight, watch a legitimate miracle of God and have your faith renewed,” Ezekiel repeated several times to no one in particular, in a flat, rehearsed tone as we marched down main street.
    Ezekiel held a pamphlet out to a man standing underneath a light pole like he was trying to meld into it. The man wouldn’t reach out to take the pamphlet. Ezekiel rolled his eyes, tossed the pamphlet onto the ground, and continued on his way.
    “Sorry,” I said to the man as I passed him by. The man’s hands clenched and unclenched. Dried vomit encrusted his fingers.
    “Just my luck, to get stuck with the grunt work,” Ezekiel said to me. Then, waving the pamphlets above his head, he shouted out, “get your salvation here! Make God happy! Come to the resurrection!”
    He continued on like this for several blocks, throwing pamphlets at the people that crouched on porch steps, the groups of ivy-skinned boys drinking mash underneath lights, girls like needles hiding behind steel grates. After a while Ezekiel handed a few of the pamphlets to me. I glanced at one. The cover featured block print that spelled out “RESURRECTION,” right underneath a skeleton dancing behind a heated shiny sphere. I stuffed the pamphlets in my jacket pocket.
    At the end of the street Ezekiel spotted a group of girls talking outside the liquor store, dripping over passersby to ask for change and smokes. He tossed the rest of the pamphlets into a trash can and motioned for me to follow him. He walked up to a silver haired girl with punching bag eyes, skin the color of chitin. He took her head in his hands and kissed her hard on the mouth.
    “Ezekiel,” she said, “where