When We Join Jesus in Hell by Lee Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

at the glass ceiling and the moon stamped there like the finger of God has drawn it just for him, to let Fist know he is one with the night, a child of darkness as much as he is of light. It rips him apart, the conflicting parts of his nature: the good that believes we dream for a reason, to reach beyond ourselves, to build something wonderful and lasting; and yet the bad manifests in a dark faith that after these few final moments he will have nothing left to live for, nothing to help him struggle forward but memories.
    He screams, “Say my name! Say it!”
    Fist , Karen whispers.
    Daddy , Bethany chokes out.
    He turns to them, hands full of steel, his eyes brimming with ghosts.
    Someone groans in the darkness. He can’t tell where it’s coming from.
    Bianca licks her eyes, shifts on his shoulder, her muzzle close to his neck.
    Fist grips the pistol and knife, but he wants to set them down and use his hands to take Jesus’ life. He tucks the pistol in his pants and pulls out his phone. He dials the number he dialed from the house he torched. A moment later another phone rings near the far left corner and Jesus lets out a sudden, scared breath.
    Fist drops his phone, grabs the pistol and fires six rounds into the darkness, the gunshots so loud he can barely see straight, can’t even feel his pulse for a moment, part of him hoping that one of the bullets found its mark.
    He kisses his wife and daughter and shifts position, sliding into the shadows of the closest machine, some type of bottler or another, its hulking mass like a long dead king. He waits, his breath misting from his lips. It’s colder than it should be. His shoulder weeps. The smell bothers him. He hopes it’s not infected but there’s nothing he can do about it right now. Looking around the machine, he sees something glimmer in the corner and jerks his head back right before an explosion rips through the building, a staccato drum beat that ping, ping, pings, off the rusty contraption shielding him. He sucks in a cold breath, wipes a hand down his pants. Bianca watches him. Her lips move and he can almost hear her talking. He can almost see the future in her blind eyes. Two black and sparkling crystal balls appraising him. He strokes her head as Jesus moves, the quick shuffle of feet as he repositions himself. Fist hopes he’s working his way closer, then thinks about the way the floor is probably laid out.
    Bianca says in Karen and Bethany’s voices, You can’t let him make it to the exit .
    A razor blade keeps working its way deeper into his heart and he can barely breathe but he gets his feet moving, gun raised, as he ducks around the machine and runs forward almost feeling like he could blast right from the ground like a missile and destroy his enemy upon impact. But it’s not like that. Dreams are not reality.
    There is a door on the side wall, a fire exit perhaps, and a dark shape is making tracks for it like Hell is on his heels. He’s nearly there. Fist’s instinct is to pursue him, but he knows how out of shape he is now after nearly a decade of sitting in an office, a small paunch hiding the button of his pants, his cheeks fattened and pale, a cold sweat brandishing his skin with shame. He pauses, raises the pistol and takes aim.
    The clock ticks…
    He squeezes the trigger with hate and hope running rampant through him, and he feels like he should be able to see the bullet traveling, blazing through the gloomy depths, until it pierces Jesus’ back and sends him sprawling.
    But Jesus slides left as a bullet slams the door. He’s on his hands and knees and Fist is closing in on him without thinking, the pistol still up, ready to jam it beneath the kid’s chin and send him into oblivion.
    Jesus springs from his crouch, raises his hand and fire flares and fills Fist’s vision. Half his face is burning up. He clamps down on the panic, fights all the images flashing through his head, forcing them to slow down because he doesn’t want to