Weekly Writing Challenge

God’s Chosen

This is my latest story in progress for my weekly writing challenge. Every week I’ll add an additional 500 words or more to this tale until it is finished. Then move onto the next one. Check back every week to read any updates.

“Why is it so hard for us to forgive?” Reverend Wickes asked from the pulpit as he scanned the parishioners gathered to hear his sermon. Many were fanning themselves with the days program, the heat inside stifling even with the windows open. Last night’s storm brought with it an intense heat wave that promised to be the worst they’d known in some time. The reverend also noted that Sally Umstead was shifting in her seat and he zeroed in on her. It was terrible what she and her sister were doing to the Plimpton girl. She’d never hurt anyone but to hear them tell it she was evil incarnate.

“Because the evil one is a good salesman.” Reverend Wilkes shouted, slamming his fist on the pulpit to get their attention. He was satisfied to see many of the younger ones stop their squirming and were sitting up straighter in their seats. They knew it was about to get interesting.

“He hates forgiveness because he knows that if he can persuade us not to forgive even one person, our own forgiveness from God will be cut off.” He stopped, letting his gaze linger across the parishioners who were all now paying close attention. For a moment it seemed the heat had been forgotten.

“The devil whispers very persuasive lies to us,” he said quietly, forcing the congregation to lean forward to catch his words.

“Did he lie to you?” He shouted, pointing at Sally.

“Did he lie to you?” He asked, shifting his attention to the widow Barnes. He knew she was responsible for the problems the Plimpton girl was experiencing.

Glancing to the back of the church he spotted the ushers gathered around one of the windows. Bobby Franklin pointed at something outside and turned to look in Reverend Wickes direction. The terror on his face was clearly transmitted across the room and a ripple of voices followed his gaze.

“What is it Bobby?” The reverend asked, wanting to get this issue out of the way so he could continue his sermon.

“It’s the widow Franklin, sir.”

That wasn’t possible, he’d personally overseen the widow’s grave side services less than a week ago. The scattering of voices became focused on Bobby’s words as several of the parishioners closest to the window left their seats to see for themselves. Several ‘Oh my gods’ were punctuated by a woman’s scream. Reverend Wickes pushed his way to the window.

The widow Franklin staggered down the center of main street dragging what looked like the lining of her coffin behind her on one foot. The clothes she’d been buried in were a muddy mess. Turning from the window Wickes pushed back through the crowd and crossed to the doors for the church.

“Where are you going?” Someone shouted behind him. He stopped and turned to face the crowd.

“I don’t know what happened but I’m going to find out.”

“Don’t, please, what if she hurts you?”

“What if she wasn’t dead when we laid her to rest.” Reverend Wilkes said, “certainly, she’s terrified by now and needs someone to help her understand what is going on.”

On the street the heat hit him with a physical force that slowed his steps. The widow Franklin approached, staggering down the center of main street. The mud was above her ankles and the bottom of her dress was covered in a thick layer. It was early yet, and though not all of the inhabitants of Whisper Cove attended services regularly, the streets were empty.

Where does she think she’s going, he wondered as he stepped off the curb and moved to intercept her. Moving carefully through the quagmire, choosing each step with caution. It wouldn’t do her any good for him to fall into the mud.

With every step closer his resolve began to wane. It wasn’t his job to maintain order on the streets. His was to protect the souls of his congregation. When he was a few feet away he stopped and pulled his kerchief from his breast pocket to place it over his nose. The smell coming from the old woman was overwhelmingly bad.

“Mrs. Franklin, are you all right?” It was a stupid question to ask. Obviously she was not all right. For one thing the odor rolling off of her reminded him of the grave. For another her eyes had taken on an unnatural cast, and as if to add insult to injury her lips had been sewn shut. She was far from all right.

She turned in his direction, her feet becoming tangled in the coffin lining, and she fell headlong into the mud. Reverend Wickes tried to catch her, but was too slow, and she hit the ground with a wet squishing sound that strayed dangerously close to unnatural. It was enough to give him pause, and he stepped back as she thrashed about in the mud, grunting and groaning in a primitive manner that further distanced her from the prim and proper matron she’d been when she lived.

But she was alive? Wasn’t she? He wondered as he remained rooted in place, afraid to get any closer.

The sound of an approaching horse drew his attention, and he looked up as Deputy Frank arrived astride his mount.

“What’s wrong reverend?” Deputy Frank asked as he climbed down out of the saddle.

“It’s Mrs. Franklin, we buried her last week, but it appears she wasn’t dead. How she got out I have no idea, but she needs help.”

“Well, what are you going to do?” the deputy asked.

“Me? What about you? Help the woman.”

Deputy Frank stepped closer, and though he stood a good six four, his expression collapsed into that of a frightened young boy confronting his worst nightmare. “I don’t even know what to do.”

“Let’s help her up,” Reverend Wikes said as he stepped forward and stooped down to grab one of the woman’s arms.

She nearly yanked him off his feet as she thrashed about, and the spongy way her arm felt under his hand left a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach. It felt like he was trying to grab something stuffed with wet noodles.

Deputy Frank managed to find his balls long enough to step forward and lend the reverend a hand, but he quickly backed away when she lunged at his hand with her face.

“She tried to bite me,” he said, his voice rising in an unmanly manner.

“Nonsense, her lips are sewn shut.”

“How do you even know that?” Deputy Frank’s expression had dissolved completely into that of a frightened schoolboy.

“I called for help,” Derrick, one of the ushers, said as he came up behind Father Wilkes who continued to struggle with the old woman. “Let me help you,”
 he said as he tried to slip the old lady’s loose arm over his shoulders. She lunged at his face, pulling at the stitches holding her mouth closed as she tried to bite him.

Derrick fell back with a cry of terror, the sudden movement coupled with Mrs. Franklin’s added weigh threw Reverend Wickes off balance. She felt like a sack of concrete and was just as graceful. They both went down in a jumbled heap and Reverend Wickes struggled to escape Mrs. Franklin’s grasp as they rolled through the sticky morass that most of the time was compacted hardpan. ground. She scratched him across his left cheek, a jagged fingernail tearing open a flap of skin that sent a shockwave of pain through his body as he untangled himself and rolled away.

He jumped back to his feet, one hand pressed over his injured cheek as blood flowed down his face. He felt the flap of skin beneath his palm and was struck by a sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Mrs. Franklin rolled back and forth on the ground, struggling to get up, yet unable to do so.

“What’s wrong with her?” Derrick said, his question followed by the clatter of an approaching wagon. On the seat Doctor Phillips sat with his nurse Willamette Billings, the daughter of Joshua Billings who served on the town council. Doctor Phillips crossed to Mrs. Franklin who was still thrashing around on the ground, creating mud angles, Willamette approached Reverend Wickes.

“How’s your father?” Reverend Wickes asked as she tended to his wound.

She smiled in a way that tried to warn him off the subject, but he had already opened that can of worms. “He’d my dad, and that about sums it up, you’ve got a nasty wound, how did it happen?” There was genuine concern in her voice and Reverend Wickes readily opened up, explaining what brough them to this point.

“I’ve heard of this happening before,” she said as he finished telling his story.

Reverend Wickes gaze drifted over to where Mrs. Franklin struggled against the Doctor Phillips. He briefly imagined what it might have felt like to be buried alive and quickly pushed the thought away as a chill whispered down his spine. His train of interrupted when Doctor Phillips joined them.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” he said in a near whisper. “She’s not breathing, there is no pulse, nor a heartbeat.”

“Can we transport her?” Willamette said.

“We’ll have to strap her down.”

“I’ll get the stretcher,” Willamette replied as she finished taping a bandage to his cheek. “I’d have your doctor look at that as soon as possible. I cleaned it up and used a bandage to close the wound, but it might need stitches.”

“I will, thank you, tell your father I said hi,” Reverend Wickes said.

“I don’t see my father that much anymore. You’re welcome and remember to have that looked at.”

Reverend Wickes watched as Willamette and Doctor Phillips strapped Mrs. Franklin to the stretcher and loaded it in the back of the ambulance. After they were gone he turned to his church where most of the parishioners were gathered on the front lawn, watching the events unfold. There was no sense continuing the sermon he had hoped would end the bullying he knew was taking place in their small corner of the world. Maybe next week he’d have a better chance of instilling some respect for others. As it stood he was tired from his ordeal and only wanted to go home lie down to rest.

“Everybody go home,” he told the parishioners, noting the happiness on some of their faces at escaping another of his boring sermons. After they left he returned to his own modest home behind the church and wearily climbed the steps to his bedroom where he promptly fell asleep.

His sleep was anything but restful. Fitfully he tossed and turned as the days events replayed themselves in his mind before sleep finally claimed him. He dreamt of being trapped in a coffin, the silk lining pressing against his face as he pushed uselessly against the lid held in place by nails and six feet of earth. Unable to see even his hand in front of his face he started hyperventilating as he kicked at the bottom of the casket with his feet. It all felt so real as he scratched at the lid, it even felt like he’d gotten splinters under his fingernails. A persistent whine filled the emptiness around him as he struggled against the cloying nature of the lining that had become wrapped around his head. He pulled at the fabric as a scream slowly built up in his chest.

A single thought drove through his mind. They had abandoned him in the grave while they returned home to enjoy the fruits of life. The taste of fresh mountain air carrying the crisp scent of the coming snow. The warmth of a fire roaring in the hearth. The touch of another living being. These things he would never know again, trapped in the eternal night of the grave, alone. This last was the most frightening and the scream that had been building since the realization of his predicament escaped its prison and roared from his chest, shattering his throat as he sat up in his bed.

He looked around his small room with uncomprehending eyes, aware of his clothes clinging to his sweaty flesh as the last of the terror from his dream drained away.

A knock came at his door, “are you okay sir?”

It was his housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey.

“Yes,” he replied in a shaky voice, “I just had a bad dream, I’ll be okay.”

“My gramma always said dreams were a brief glimpse of our future,” Mrs. Bailey said from the other side of the closed door.

“I’ll be okay Mrs. Bailey, thank you.” He certainly hoped this nightmare would not prove to be his future. We all died. It was this knowledge that separated them from the animals of the fields and the forest. To be aware of your impending death was both a blessing and a curse. Knowing it was coming allowed you to prepare yourself for your inevitable end, to get right with the lord and assure your place in heaven.   Everybody died.

Blessed and holy is the one who shares in the first resurrection. The passage came to him and offered some comfort. The first resurrection would be those who served the lord faithfully. As a man of god, he imagined he would be included in this first group when it came, as the second death would hold no power over them. Yet a small part of him knew it was blasphemous to assume the life he led would be sufficient to secure his place at the lord’s side.

A shout from outside drew his attention and he pushed himself off his bed to cross to the window. From his vantage point he had a clear view of main street alight in the shifting orange glow of the torches burning along both sides. A stranger was staggering down the center of the street and as they came into view he recognized them as Boris Jantz. Am immigrant from Germany who had been hanged three days ago for rustling cattle. The noose that took his life was still around his neck, the frayed end dangling from between his legs.

A gunshot rang out and Boris staggered back momentarily before pushing on. Another shot rang out as an inarticulate cry sliced across the night.

Is it the end? Reverend Wickes wondered as he stumbled back from the window. He was filled with a need to hide in the shadows he knew offered little comfort. Bad things hid in the shadows, this he had learned as a child. Wicked things lived in the shadowed places of our world. As the night closed around him, the faint light coming through the window offered little comfort. It revealed a world that had suddenly been turned upon its head. More shouts and gunshots came from outside as he pushed himself back into the corner of the room, his knees growing weak, forcing him to settle to the floor. He pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sounds of a world teetering on the brink of insanity. But all he accomplished was to awaken the inner voice that had been a constant companion his entire life.

A voice filled with all of the doubts he’d grown familiar with as he moved from childhood through puberty into adolescence before finally emerging into adulthood. Doubts that plagued his nights, keeping sleep at bay as he battled through every imagined slight and insult he believed had been directed at him. He had not felt like this in years, not since graduating from the seminary filled with the righteousness of a man of God.

It was this virtue that enabled him to carry out his sermons, that enabled him to lock away the voices that questioned every aspect of his life. Every decision, every word he had ever spoken in response to a question, or while just passing the time of the day. Every waking moment was scrutinized and replayed in his mind while he struggled to slip into a dreamless sleep.

Are they the chosen? Have the dead been called home?

Am I now immortal? If this was the first resurrection as spoken of in the bible, priests and the righteous followers of God would be granted immortality. The thought came without warning, and he cringed from its presumptive nature. It was not his place to say. He had led a virtuous life save for his constant worry, his never ending doubts about his own worth. Would these doubts be the one thing to keep him from the kingdom of heaven?

You are not worthy. The thought came in the form of a sweetly sinister voice whispering in his ear. It took him a moment to realize the shadows were indeed speaking to him in a voice he imagined as belonging to the defeated one, the archangel who had been cast down from heaven.

“I will not be deceived,” he whispered as that voice continued to speak to him with the soft hissing sound of a snake gliding through grass.

“I will not be deceived,” he said, louder this time, and the voice that had been teasing him softened even more.

“I will not be deceived!” He shouted as loud as he could and silenced the voice once and for all.

With this silence came the roar of a raging fire, and he looked at the window where reflected firelight danced across the glass. He crawled across the floor to see what was happening outside. Barrows Saloon was engulfed in towering flames that bathed main street in the light of day. Several people ran down the street, fleeing from a larger group of people who moved in a random, staggering, gait. They moved like a bunch of drunkards celebrating in slow motion.

A shadowy figure emerged from the dry goods store, it could have been Randall who owned the place with his wife, but it was too hard to tell even with the light cast by the burning saloon. Several of those staggering down the street turned towards the new arrival who tried to push through them and failed. The man fired several times into the crowd surrounding him, his bullets whistling harmlessly through the air as the group closed around him and his screams competed with the crackling roar of the fire. Whoever it had been was driven to the ground where the group knelt down around him and tore at his body while his screams dwindled to incoherent whimpers that finally fell silent.

Reverend Wickes fell back from the window crawling across the floor to vanish into the deeper shadows where the voices once confronted him. They were silent now, leaving him alone with his terror, the image of the man’s death replaying itself in his mind while the roar of the raging fire crackled into the night.

The call of a lonely bird pulled him from the restless sleep he’d fallen into and he rolled over onto his back, the stained and cracked ceiling of his bedroom shrouded by shadows as the false light of a new dawn painted the floor an effervescent gray.

Cautiously he crawled to the window, the flames from the saloon having died down and he looked down upon the deserted main street. Smoke drifted across the small town, casting its shadows on the street that appeared devoice of life. Here and there he spotted dark splotches in the dirt that marked the location of someone’s death.

Where did they go?

He pulled himself to his feet and left the bedroom, carefully moving down the stairs as other birds responded to that initial cry and the day was filled with the promise of new life as the bloodied street beyond came into view as he came down the last few stairs onto the first floor. At the door he hesitated, not entirely sure if it was safe for him to leave but leave he must. He couldn’t stay here. This was a dead town, and as he moved across the front porch of the hotel he spied his church sitting at the opposite end of main street. White and pristine amid all the chaos the spire rose towards a bright blue sky that carried the promise of a new day. It was a refuge among the insanity of everything that had transpired.

He raced down the steps, the church the only thing he was focused on, unaware of the multiple piles of what looked like discarded clothing littering the side street between the dry goods store and the hotel. As he moved down the street he became aware of movement to his right and swiveled his head to see these piles of clothing moving as the bodies they draped slowly climbed to their feet and turn to him.

They all appeared to have died and he hurried down the street, towards the imagined safety of the church while more piles of discarded clothing slowly stirred to life.

Reaching the doors for the church he glanced back over his shoulder. A crowd had formed behind him, a shambling assembly of the undead, wearing the faces of the people he had preached to during his tenure. Features twisted into caricatures of hate tinged with an unholy need.

Mr. Feely who ran the stable, a gruff old man who sat quietly through his sermons in the aisle seat of the last pew. As if he wanted to escape his weekly duty as soon as possible. Sally Umstad was there as well as the Plimpton girl. He’d never learned her name and for that he was ashamed. His job was to provide comfort, and he couldn’t even take the time to learn a little about her beyond the reason she had come to see him. Most of the rest of the townspeople were present as well. The widow Barnes stood next to Carl Bisby who ran the saloon. Among the familiar faces was a scattering of those he had met beyond the walls of the church. These people did not attend his weekly services, but he knew them none the less as that was his job.

All of them wore the same slack expression, their eyes glowing with an eerie light as he backed into the church and they followed him. Down the center aisle he moved carefully so as not to trip and fall. Surprisingly as the crowd entered the church they filled in the rows of pews, each taking a seat on its hard surface. Those who were not familiar with attending church wandered aimlessly until the others pointed out what they must do. In time they were all sitting, watching him with silvery eyes, the church filled with an expectant hush.

Reverend Wickes opened the bible to a random page, surprised to find he had come to Ephesians chapter two. Clearing his throat he began to read, his voice clear in the silent church. “And you hath he quickened, who were dead in trespasses and sin; Wherein in times past ye walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that now worketh in the children of disobedience:” He paused, aware that other forces were at now at play as those present grew restless with his silence.

He turned back to the bible and continued reading, his voice loud as the world around him became still. It seemed even the birds in the trees beyond the church settled into an eerie silence as he continued.

A tickle at the back of his throat warned him about a coming cough and he paused long enough to clear his throat before diving back in. He noticed in that brief moment of silence that those listening became agitated when he stopped reading.

Is my voice calming them? He wondered and decided upon a small test.

He stopped reading and closed the bible. The members of his congregation turned to one another as a restless wave washed across them. In the back he noted that several had pushed themselves to their feet and were even then making their way down the center aisle towards him.

Stepping back up to the pulpit he opened the bible to the beginning and started reading aloud once more. Those who had been approaching turned back to their seats and settled in as he continued.

What will I do when I get tired? Thirst? Hungry?

He would deal with that issue when it came up, for now he focused on the words on the page as his voice calmed the agitated crowd and they settled in to listen. Turning the page, he grabbed a quick drink of warm water from the glass under his pulpit.

What will I do when that runs out? He worried as he returned the glass and continued to read. Seconds tumbled into minutes as minutes stretched into hours. And still he continued to read, his voice still clear as the morning bled into afternoon and the days heat rose. Cicadas in the nearby forest competed with his voice and he noted that his glass had run empty. He needed more water, but to take a break and get some might end with his own death.

Mrs. Bailey, he had to signal her somehow to bring more water. His throat was already becoming dry and sore, making it difficult to speak. Not impossible, not yet, but soon the words would fail him.

What would he do then?

Die. The answer came unbidden from the depths of his consciousness.

Under the pulpit was a bell he’d used in the past to alert Mrs. Baily to his needs while he preached the Sunday sermon. He’d put it there the past winter when he came down with the flu and needed her to provide him with warm broth while he conducted his services. He rang it and waited for a response, occasionally glancing at the door through which she would come when she heard it. If she heard it. He rang again, more insistent this time, hoping she would hear his call and come to him. The door opened a sliver, and he waved for her to come out. She stayed back.

A cough was building in his throat as he continued to preach, his voice had lost much of its luster, and he struggled against the need to cough, trying to contain that which could not be stopped.

It hit him then, a coughing fit that stopped him in his tracks as he bent over the pulpit with his handkerchief over his mouth. When he pulled the white cloth away from his face he noted the spots of blood standing out against the fabric.

He needed a drink. Now.

The congregation had grown restless again, several having left their seats to come down the center aisle towards him. He tried to continue reading but his once sonorous voice came out as a squeak.

“Mrs. Baily,” he shouted in pain, “bring me some water.”

The door closed and he turned back to the congregation, picking up where he left off, his voice not as powerful as it once was, but still enough to return those of the congregation who had been approaching the pulpit.

As he continued, struggling against each word Mrs. Bailey appeared with a pitcher of water. He motioned for her to come over and she carefully crossed the small stage, her eyes glued on the congregation and what had become of it. She filled his glass and left the pitcher under the pulpit.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

It was a question for which he had no answer as he shrugged in response.

What am I going to do? The questions repeated itself in his mind as he continued to read and the congregation settled into their seats. I’m not going to last much longer, he realized as he pulled at his collar to get some air.

The heat hung lifeless and heavy around them, and he noted for the first time since he had begun preaching at this church that no one was fanning their faces or fidgeting in their seat. He’d always dreamed of a captive audience, but never once imagined it might be like this. How am I going to get out of this? The question loomed large in his mind, and he realized he had no real answer. The only thing he knew for sure was that he couldn’t go on forever.

To be continued!

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