Messiahs, Matt Rogers [best 7 inch ereader TXT] 📗

built on the foundations of mind-bending drugs.

He and Slater merged with the rear of the flank and followed them through the giant double doors into the church. Neither of them had been inside yet, and they realised searching for Violetta and Alexis was pointless. The women would be somewhere in the sea of two hundred followers, ferried into one of the long pews.

King and Slater moved down the nave, the long rectangular base of the cross-shaped church layout. They could have shuffled into one of the empty pews up the back, but the disciples were disciplined in their quest to fill the seats at the front first. So King got caught up alongside Slater in the flow of traffic, and found himself naturally guided toward a pew with three spaces on the end.

A young man with considerable athleticism forced his way between King and Slater.

King stopped in his tracks. ‘You good?’

‘Yeah,’ the guy said, his face glistening with a thin layer of sweat. ‘Sorry.’

He was panting with nervous energy.

He stared at King for a little too long.

There was nothing King could do without causing a scene. He stepped into the pew and shuffled down to the furthest available seat.

The young man crammed in beside him, and before Slater could take the space closest to the aisle, another disciple wormed his way in.

Slater stared silently at King.

King stared back.

Slater walked off to another pew on his own.

The young sweaty guy stared at King without blinking.

His pupils were swollen.

60

King faced forward, trying not to react, but he soaked up details in his peripheral vision.

The guy was big and thick, maybe six feet tall and two hundred pounds. Beefy muscle and fat from eating at a calorie surplus coupled with long days of manual labour. Maeve seemed to go for a particular type with the young men she recruited. They all seemed physically powerful yet mentally lost, either not intelligent enough to know where they were headed, or burdened by an abundance of options with a nihilistic outlook on the future.

It was the perfect recipe for a place like this.

Mother Libertas simplified everything, made life straightforward, gave lost souls a trajectory.

That alone was appealing, and that didn’t include the Bodhi or Maeve’s skills as an orator and a persuader.

Altogether it was the perfect storm.

The young guy was high on Bodhi. Almost too high. He had abandoned all social niceties, staring unashamedly at King without concern.

King said, ‘Hey. What’s your name?’

‘Grayson.’

‘Jason,’ King said. ‘How’s that? They rhyme.’

There was a moment’s delay, too long to be natural, then the joke computed. Grayson laughed — shrill, discordant, detached from reality.

His face fell and he awkwardly faced forward, waiting for the sermon to begin.

The only sound came from the murmuring of the masses.

King stood rigid, and for the first time he tensed up. He didn’t like this. Slater was long gone, sucked into the crowd, and Violetta and Alexis were too short to be distinguishable amidst the sea of heads. The church stank of body odour and dirty clothes, but the electricity in the atmosphere overrode the smell.

Everyone was thrilled to be here.

Maeve appeared from a door that must have led to the sacristy — the private rooms behind the altar where the priest prepared for their service. She still wore her patented farm dress, which had a disarming effect. There were no robes or official garments. The beauty of the movement was in its simplicity. Maeve walked gracefully up to the altar and spread her arms wide.

The room fell silent.

She said, ‘We begin with the creed.’

Her voice naturally echoed through the nave. The space was engineered to perfection, an architectural wonder.

Maeve said, ‘Mother, lift me from despondency.’

Two hundred voices parroted in unison. ‘Mother, lift me from despondency.’

King jolted at the synchronisation. The noise was tremendous, then faded back to quiet.

It was unnerving.

‘Mother, free me from complacency.’

‘Mother, free me from complacency.’

It boomed off the walls, off the ceiling, then the echo dissipated.

‘Mother, bloom my power.’

‘Mother, bloom my power.’

The disciples were getting more energetic each time they recited the creed, as if they were drawing real strength from each command.

King stood stoically, refusing to join in, merely observing. Amidst the deafening voices, he looked to his right and saw Grayson had broken out in a full sweat. Perspiration ran down his face, down the sides of his skull.

‘Mother, bloom my spirit.’

‘Mother, bloom my spirit.’

Grayson looked to his left. Directly into King’s eyes. His pupils had been swollen before, but now they were almost doubled in size. There was barely any colour left in his eyes — his pupils swallowed his irises. His cheeks were red and beading with sweat.

A massive dose of Bodhi was hitting him.

‘Mother, give me strength.’

‘Mother, give me strength.’

King didn’t move a muscle.

When the congregation rallied to return the creed at an indescribable volume, Grayson reached into his waistband and came out with a knife.

‘Mother, be with me.’

‘Mother, be with me.’

Some of the disciples were screaming the creed.

Grayson kept his movements hidden as he jerked at the waist, bringing the switchblade around low, aiming for King’s stomach.

Aiming to tear his intestines, rupture his stomach, disembowel him in the church pew.

‘Mother, awaken.’

‘Mother, awaken.’

King slipped into survival mode. As the word, ‘Awaken!’ boomed through the church he caught Grayson’s wrist and stopped the blade inches shy of ripping his guts to pieces. He used animalistic strength, every vein pulsing with the exertion. Thankfully his determination went unnoticed amidst the communal fervour.

‘Mother, awaken!’

‘Mother, awaken!’

King broke one of Grayson’s fingers by snapping it back, successfully pried his hand open, and ripped the switchblade free.

‘MOTHER, AWAKEN!’

‘MOTHER, AWAKEN!’

As soon as the knife was clear, King brought Grayson’s wrist down, bent his knee, and brought it up. The two limbs clashed, and the knee emerged victorious. It was a shockingly fast movement, and it was lost in the midst of the disciples shouting and screaming, raising their arms to the heavens, some of them openly crying with joy.

Grayson wrenched his broken, mangled hand out of King’s grip and stood bolt upright,