“Does anybody know what this is?” Dad asked his class, as he carefully unfolded an old piece of cloth.
Even I didn’t know the answer, despite everything Dad had taught me about religious history.
“I’ll give you a hint,” Dad said. “This cloth is nearly two hundred years old. It comes from the time of the Final Holy War.”
There were still no volunteers.
“Pieces of cloth like this were carried by those who had the target gene. In some cases, they were issued by local governments, but mostly they were an invention of the toxin victims themselves. Carrying one was just part of the culture of living in a Dead Zone. What do you think it was for?”
A woman from Montana guessed that they were used to signal for help, and a man in the live audience guessed that they were used to carry painkillers.
“This was known as a ‘screaming cloth,’” Dad said. “No painkillers were sufficient to dull the pain; there was no help coming to end the suffering. The culture of the Dead Zones was to at least be considerate enough to stuff one of these in your mouth so that those around you wouldn’t have to listen, as you screamed your way towards death.”
******
With my congregation doubled, we talk for several hours. Given the mix of faiths, I do my best to let them come to me with questions about Jesus, rather than overwhelming them. Dad always said it never works to be “a spiritual dump truck” where you try to bury someone in scripture. He knows that the Lord won’t be hurried, and will open a person’s heart at the pace He chooses.
Mostly we discuss plans to make The Zone a better place. We agree to make sure that everyone gets the food and water they need when they become too sick to get it for themselves, and that nobody will be left to die alone. Best of all, we agree to pray for each other.
The girls have been watching the entire time, but when I wave for them to join us, they disappear again.
“We need to talk,” J.W. says, after the meeting breaks up.
“How about if we go for a walk? I’ve been standing for hours.”
I speak before he gets the chance.
“The girls across the street are pretty skittish. How could we get them to join us?” I ask.
“Forget it,” he says. “They’re all too afraid of being raped. People come to The Zone to die, not start a family.”
“Then I should go to them …”
“They’re even more afraid of you,” he cuts me off. “In the early days of The Zone, there were girls who were captured by the gangs and forced to act as bait for the others. They’d never trust you.”
We walk silently for a while.
“None of that is what we need to talk about,” J.W. says.
He reaches down and takes my hand, but I gently shake loose.
“That’s not really appropriate,” I say.
“I only need to hold it for a few seconds,” he says, and takes it again.
We stop and he turns me to face him, with a huge smile on his face.
“Since you appeared out of the woods, everyone has been asking, ‘who are you?’ but it turns out that wasn’t the right question. We should have asked ‘what are you?’”
His grip tightens and he twists my arm around. The smile leaves his face and is replaced by anger.
“Look at your arm, Jocie. That wound is gone and there’s not even a scar. I watched it heal! There’s a small one on your face, and it’s already starting to heal.”
I look at my arm. The skin is smooth and perfect.
I have the gene that releases the toxin, but I also have the vaccine from the future.
J.W. releases my arm.
But the toxins are different. The vaccine must not work perfectly on the original version.
“Are you going to say something?” J.W. asks.
Something else is going on … but what?
He grabs me by the shoulders and looks at my face.
“Now the one on your face is almost gone. It’s like your body eats toxin for breakfast. What are you, Jocie? Are you immune? Are you some sort of genetic freak?”
That’s it. My genes slow the toxin down, but my body is creating an antivenin, just like Amelia predicted.
The scowl on his face reminds me of Austin. He has the same enthusiasm and unjustified confidence. One day, it will be replaced by patience and the confidence formed by experience.
“I’ve been looking for you, and only just now realized that I had found you,” I say. “As for whether I’m immune, the short answer is ‘yes’.”
“What’s the long answer?”
“We both have a mutant gene,” I say. “It slows our exposure and allows our bodies a chance to fight back.”
“I don’t heal before people’s eyes.”
“Maybe not, but your body is fighting back. The mutation is giving you a chance to heal the genetic damage.”
“I don’t feel like I’m healing, Jocie. Things are worse every day.”
“It’s the wind,” I say. “Over the winter, the area was getting more wind out of the north. Now, it’s getting more out of the west, which is bringing in more toxin. Everyone in this area with the gene is going to feel it. A lot will be lost before the wind pattern changes again.”
“Can we get out of its path?” he asks.
“It’ll be circling the earth for a decade. You can go live in a bubble, or you can face it head-on.”
“Head-on?”
“Keep breathing it in,” I say. “It won’t be easy or pleasant. It’s going to hurt, and there will be scars.”
A young man that everyone calls “Abbi” spots us and comes running.
“Jocie, Mrs. Turani sent me. They need a minister.”
J.W. nods that I should go, but the look on his face tells me that this conversation is not over.
Abbi leads me through a maze of container apartments. I see three different black coroner vans cruising the streets. They’re black like vultures, and they circle like vultures, waiting for people to die so they can swoop in on the remains.
When we reach the metal box occupied by the Turani family, Mr. Turani is on the floor, surrounded by his wife and four children. His clothes are drenched with sweat and his face is a mass of open sores. The rest of the family appear to be just days behind reaching the same state.
“How much painkiller have you given him?” I ask.
“Any more, and would kill him,” Mrs. Turani says.
She looks at me intently.
“Yes, I’ve thought of ending it that way, but Allah does not permit it,” she answers the unasked question.
“I know very little about your faith or customs,” I say.
“I know, young lady, but all are talking about what you did last night and this morning. Many are saying that God is with you. Will you just sit with us?”
“Of course.”
******
It’s nearly dusk, when I walk back to my new home. Mr. Turani’s death was violent. He writhed in pain for hours, while we all took turns holding him down. He didn’t have the strength or control to place the piece of cloth in his own mouth, so his family did it for him. His oldest son will be next, then Mrs. Turani. I vow that their younger sons will not die alone.
I hear someone step out from behind a tree after I pass it, and begin to follow me, but I keep walking. He speeds up and slows down as I do.
“I’m almost home Slash; so if there’s something on your mind, you should probably say it.”
I turn around. He looks awful.
“It’s not safe to walk around in The Zone by yourself, Jocie. If you had any sense, you’d be afraid.”
“If I was alone, I would be afraid,” I say.
He looks around.
“What I mean is, I’m never alone,” I say. “The Lord is with me.”
He looks at the ground.
“Two days ago, I never would have come here by myself,” he says. “I know I’m in Masonville turf, but when you say things like that, you make this place feel … safe.”
I sit on the curb, but say nothing. He sits beside me.
He needs to talk.
“I’m supposed to be a leader, you know?” he says. “I’m not supposed to be afraid of anything, but …”
“You’re afraid of death,” I say, and he nods.
“I’ve seen it plenty of times; I know that I don’t have long,” he says. “I’ve had a fever for days and I’m covered with sores. There are sores on the inside too, on all of my organs. I know it’s going to hurt, but I’m not afraid of the pain. I’m afraid of what comes next.”
“I thought you didn’t believe,” I say.
“How am I supposed to believe in a God who would allow this?” he asks.
“You say He loves me. Well, I say He has a funny way of showing it.”
“We’re all going to die …” I say, “… but I assure you: whether you get one year on earth or one hundred, it doesn’t change how much He loves you. Paul said it well in Romans: ‘And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow - not even the powers of hell can separate us from God's love.’”
As we’ve been speaking, the sun has set. Although my back is to him, I know that J.W. is quietly walking toward us.
“I should go,” Slash says, looking over my shoulder.
“You’re in the wrong section of town,” J.W. says, from behind me.
Slash jumps to his feet.
“Things are dangerous around here after dark,” J.W. continues. “A guy like you could get hurt.”
J.W.’s voice has changed.
Slash looks back and forth, searching for the rest of J.W.’s gang.
“So, you’d better come to my place,” J.W. says. “I’ve been saving up some chocolate bars for a special occasion. I think we should talk.”
Looking at me, J.W. throws me some sort of protein bar.
“Mrs. Henderson needs you,” he says. “It won’t be long.”
J.W. and Slash take turns checking in through the night, as I sit with Mrs. Henderson. Her sores are so bad that she bleeds through her clothes, so J.W. and Slash bring blankets. I pray almost
endlessly, and eventually fall asleep sitting up, mid-prayer. I awaken to find that J.W. has taken my place, with Slash nearby, reading a bible.
“It’s over,” J.W. says, then reaches up and flips on the red light.
******
The next two days go like that. Over and over, I’m called to every section of The Zone to pray for people who are near the end. It always ends with a cloth in the mouth, a red light, and vultures in black vans.
I find myself cursing the wind that’s been blowing since I arrived here, and wondering how many particles of toxin are kicked up, whenever I see dust in the air. Twice more, I catch J.W. cleaning his air filter and carefully picking toxin off it, as if he’s trying to clean up the atmosphere, one particle at a time.
His efforts don’t seem to be working. The number of sores on his face and arms have increased dramatically and he’s sweating constantly. Even so, it’s clear that his body is fighting back. The sores on his skin are smaller than anyone else’s and begin to close up after a few days, though they leave raised scars after they heal.
Slash is not so fortunate. His trip to find me was his last. Since then, he hasn’t left his apartment. Yesterday, the sores in his throat and digestive tract reached the point where he stopped eating. Today I heard he’s refusing water; so I’m going to check on him. There are lookouts on the edge of his territory, but I pass them, unchallenged. I can walk anywhere in The Zone, and runners who are looking for me can cross the invisible gang lines, as if just saying my name puts them under my protection.
“It looks like both me and J.W. are about done,” Slash says, without getting up.
His eyes are glassy from the high dose of painkiller he’s taken.
It’s his deathbed, and he knows it.
“We both talked to our guys,” he continues. “Everyone agrees that we’re done with gangs and turfs. We want to be one congregation. I think all of the other gangs will follow. Actually, I think they’ll follow you.”
“Not me,” I say. “They need to follow the Lord.”
“Jocie? Do you think Jesus sent you here? That’s what I think.”
“He sent us all here, Slash. He sent us here to love and comfort each other until we’re in His arms again.”
“Will you do me a favor?” Slash asks. “When it’s close to the end, will you send the guys away? I don’t want my friends to see me like that.”
My dear friend ... Dad’s prayer suddenly makes sense.
“Have you ever thought about why you like your friends, Slash? One reason is that you like who you are when you’re with them. My dad taught me to begin prayers by saying ‘My dear friend.’ I do it now, too, because I want Him close. I want to be the Jocie who can only exist when Jesus is near. Please let the guys be here for you.”
“Okay.”
Slash closes his eyes.
“Jocie? Will you read me the part in the bible where Jesus tells the thief on the cross that he’s going to heaven?”
I spend the next four hours reading the bible and praying over Slash, as he’s gripped with a pain that the drugs can’t relieve. Guys from his gang come to help me hold him down. When the time seems near, I get close to his ear and whisper to him.
“You can stop fighting, Slash. You’ve won. It’s time to go home.”
The thrashing slows and he lies so still, that I think he’s passed, when his eyes open.
“It’s so beautiful,” is the last thing he says.
I leave the gang inside the shipping container apartment so they can say goodbye to their leader in private, and walk into the darkness to cry a little. The only problem is, I don’t feel like crying. Before I know it, I’ve taken the extending fighting stick from where it hangs on my belt and start attacking a tree with it. I spin and weave and strike so fast that the world feels like a blur.
Yes, make the world a blur, so I don’t have to look at it anymore.
I stop when I’m unexpectedly bathed in red light. Someone flipped the switch to signal the coroners to come and pick up Slash.
I’ll never look at a red light the same way again.
The door is slightly open, with Babe’s head sticking out. He’s been watching my tantrum.
“Jocie? Are you okay?”
“No, Babe, I’m not okay. I want to smash things. I want to start with that red light and every other red light in The Zone. Then I want to travel to the next zone in the next city and smash those lights, too. I want to go to every city in the world and smash every red light so I never have to look at another one for the rest of my life.”
“Not you, Jocie!” he says. “Not now. I can handle it from anyone else … but not from you.”
“What?”
The door opens wider, as more members of the gang look out to see what’s happening.
“You can’t lose it on us, Jocie. You’re the only thing keeping us all going. You’re the only one who can bring peace to this place. You’re the only one who…”
“Stop it!” I cut him off. “Just stop talking to me!”
I begin to pace back and forth.
“Has every second I’ve spent here been wasted?” I ask. “Have none of you paid any attention?”
I receive blank stares.
“I’m not the only one to do anything!” I yell. “I am the weakest person on the entire earth. I have nothing special. I am nobody!”
More and more apartment doors are opening, and people are coming out to listen.
“Look at me! I’m short and skinny. Is this the body of someone who can beat up seven gang members at once? Do I look like I have the strength to pray for hours on end, while holding down a man who’s thrashing in pain?”
My voice drops to a whisper, but the growing crowd is so quiet that they can all hear me.
“Do you think it’s by the strength of my own will that I can watch someone die, and minutes later, move on to the next person who needs prayers? If that’s what you think, then my time here really has been wasted.”
The faces around me are mostly looking at the ground.
“I thought something was happening here. I thought you knew that when two or more are gathered in His name, He would be here with us. I thought you were ready to be a part of something more than yourselves. I thought you were ready to find out where true strength comes from.”
Nobody says a word, and I walk towards the edge of the crowd, away from that horrible red glow.
“Stay here and die alone,” I say. “I’m done with all of you.”
“Timothy!” a familiar voice yells.
I stop and turn to face Babe.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“My real name is Timothy. I’m ready to write the name He gave to me on that old bat, and use it to protect the weak in His name.”
“My name is Luke…” Wings says, “… and I stand with Timothy.”
One by one, the former gang members come to me and tell me their real names.
“Do you know what your name means in Greek, Timothy?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“It means ‘Honoring God.’”