Revelations(81)

“We’ve been sent by Him,” the spokesman continues, “to take care of the sinner in our midst!” Suddenly all attention pivots toward us as he points a dramatic finger at the cell. Oh shit, this can’t be good.

“Him who?” Kathy remains calm, but she never lowers her weapon either.

“Never mind, that doesn’t matter. You all need to leave now. I won’t allow you to harm anyone. You all need to go.”

“God!” screams the man in reply to her question; his cry is taken up and echoed through the group. Along with other cries of heathen, sinner, and pervert.

They’re looking directly at us now. Before I have a chance to think, or devise a plan of action, they’re swarming toward us, like the insects that they are. I can’t help but think that right about now a gun of my own would be a very handy thing to have. But of course I don’t have one. I’ll have to remedy that when I can.

Assuming I ever get the chance to do so, that is.

I try to maneuver us into a better position, keeping Jesus behind me, until I can decide what to do to get him safely out of this situation. Unfortunately, there is only one way out of this cell, and that way takes us directly into their waiting arms.

Making a break for the door would be futile at best. We certainly won’t be able to squeeze through that sorry excuse for a window, which leaves us rather stuck between the proverbial rock and the hard place. Suddenly I feel a vacuum behind me as he moves away from what small protection I afford, exposing himself to them as he walks toward the bars. What in hell does he think he’s doing? Suddenly it occurs to me this door that lies between us and them isn’t even locked. Great. At least that would’ve been a measure of protection.

The jailhouse suddenly erupts into an angry seething maelstrom. The mob, as though lit by an internal incendiary bomb, has exploded into action. I hear one shot fired, and then another, before they overwhelm the sheriff’s wife, and she’s lost from view. I’m trying to deal with the ones that are straining to reach us through the bars, screaming obscenities as they grab at us, at whatever they can reach, or get a piece of. Some of them are hurling things at us, whatever is close at hand.

Luckily most of it can’t get past the bars. What little that does is mostly ineffective.

I reach out for Jesus. I’m trying to push him behind me, out of harm’s way, but for some reason he’s resisting my attempts to save him.



“Jude, we can’t fight it.” He turns his dark sorrowful eyes toward me.

“What? The hell we can’t!” I argue. I’m kicking at the hands trying to grab for him, futile as it might be, beating them back with all my strength. I growl at the pitiful bastards, warn them to get the fuck away from us or face the consequences.

This is no time for defeatism, we’re fighting for our lives here. Or are we? Is this Lucifer’s scheme, is this the part where he takes me out and makes a heroic last-minute appearance to save Jesus, covering himself in glory in the process?

This can’t be it, my logical mind insists, it shouldn’t happen until at least after the bail hearing, and that’s tomorrow. We have at least until tomorrow. It can’t be now. So, if it isn’t now, what is this? Dammit, no, no, no. Not now! Not now!

They’re pulling at the bars in their eagerness to get to him, inflamed beyond the capacity for rational thought by the rantings of their fearless leader, and by accident they discover the secret of the unlocked door. I frantically try again to push Jesus behind me, to protect him, but he remains infuriatingly immobile.

“Jude, just know that I love you. Always. Please remember that.”

“No, no, no, don’t say that.” I tug at his arm with renewed urgency, fighting the despair that his words invoke. “Move back here, quickly…” These people are armed in ways I’d not expected, and I just want him safe and out of harm’s way.

Lucifer, where the fuck are you? If this is it, let’s get this over with. Come and take him and let me die, but just come and get him!

They’re swarming us now, and I’m fighting them desperately, trying to keep them off of Jesus, but there are too many, and they have us caught up in their clutches, and before we know what’s happening we’re being passed over their heads, like moshers at some crazy kind of concert. And the whole group is exiting the jailhouse into the coolness of the night air. I’m still struggling against them as fiercely as I can, but I’ve lost sight of my Jesus.

“Jesus!” I cry out, but my voice is swallowed by the crowd. When I’m finally set onto my feet, in this sea of crazed zealots, I can see we’re in the town square, and they’ve taken Jesus into the middle of it, onto some sort of a raised platform, a rope looped around his neck. My blood runs cold at the sight.