Capon Springs, West Virginia, 2203 A.D.
You Are.
That was Martha’s response when I asked her who was to lead Christians in the True Holy War.
How many times can those words echo in your head before they drive you insane?
You Are the leader of the True Holy War.
You Are a wanted man with a price on his head.
You Are the last hope for religious freedom.
You are in way over your head, Cephas Paulson.
A month ago I was on the shore of the Sea of Galilee listening as a risen Jesus Christ told me to “feed His sheep.” The Bible recorded Him as saying those words to my namesake, Simon Peter, but the third and final time He spoke those words to Peter, Jesus was staring over Peter’s shoulders and into my eyes. As I stood in Galilee, it all seemed simple. I would return to my own time and tell the godless world of 2202 that they had it all wrong, that Christ was the son of God and it was time to follow God’s plan rather than continue with the mess mankind had made of things. The future looks anything but simple now.
The day after I arrived in Capon Springs, West Virginia, Martha traveled to a secret Four safe house to share the news that we’d escaped from the Cult Hunter Corps. When she returned she barely spoke and wouldn’t look me in the eye. Since then she’s tried her best to avoid me; yet I find her constantly lurking on the far edge of my peripheral vision. She must know I’ll notice her, so I presume she’s doing it on purpose.
Martha brought “instructors” with her from the Four safe house who have been tasked with giving me basic training, including hand-to-hand combat, knife throwing, and the use of stun guns. They too, are always nearby.
“The training teams say you’ve made rapid and impressive progress,” Martha says as she joins the team escorting me to the knife throwing area.
“You gave someone with an attention for detail nothing else to do with his time,” I reply. “Which reminds me… is it normal to cut a trainee’s access to all computers and have them watched around the clock?”
She ignores the question.
“The lead instructor says you only stop to pray, eat and sleep,” she continues. “He says you voluntarily run laps for hours at a time.”
Running isn’t always for the body. Some people have running in their soul.
“Speaking of the lead instructor, is it part of training that nobody will tell me their names or speak with me other than giving instructions?”
Although she’s walking beside me and looking straight ahead, she now looks in the opposite direction rather than meeting my eyes to answer the question.
“I have to go,” she says. “Enjoy the training.”
Her response confirms what I’ve known for weeks, but didn’t want to admit. My instructors aren’t playing the part of drill sergeants. They’re always in the background watching, waiting for me to stray over some imaginary line that I can sense, but not see.
I reach the one area where I haven’t excelled, the knife throwing range.
One of the instructors stands beside me to demonstrate proper technique, then critique me while two others stand behind me.
Time to test the lines again.
After five terrible throws, I raise my knife into a throwing position but turn away from the target to face the men behind me.
“Can you tell from behind what I’m doing wrong?” I ask.
By the time I’m fully turned, their knives are ready to throw and the instructor standing next to me has lowered his knife to prepare for an upward thrust into my abdomen.
“So that’s a proper throwing stance? Thanks for the demonstration.”
Their response time is getting faster.
I turn back to the target.
They look gleeful, like they relish the possibility of killing me.
After knives, we go to a different range to practice shooting stun guns. This is my favorite training, probably because it comes so naturally to me. At first I was given stationary, human-sized targets that were either dressed in cult hunter uniforms or not. A screen would drop and I was given ten seconds to hit only the cult hunters. On my second try, I did it in six seconds. The next day, the figures started to move and I did it in five; so I suggested they challenge me by discarding the uniforms and distinguishing the targets with small purple earrings like those given to veteran cult hunters. The first time the earrings were actually in the ears, but they soon became hidden as necklaces, cuff links and even a shoe decoration. None of it has mattered. When I’m at the range, my eye for small detail allows me to neutralize the targets in seconds.
The fact that all my shots are to the head hasn’t gone unnoticed either.
I watch the faces and body language of my trainers as we walk to the gun range today. Sweat is forming on their foreheads and their eyes twitch as they think about what I can do with a stun gun in my hands. I won’t test them here. My gun is a training model locked in the lowest setting, while theirs are the full power variety.
Since they won’t tell me their names, I’ve given them each one based on their appearance or manners. The one I’ve named “Angry Eyebrows” speaks.
“Follow the same routine as always. Don’t approach the weapon that’s been set out for you until instructed. When you’re done, set it down and back two steps away from it before you turn to face us.”
And while I’m holding it you’ll have your guns on my back.
“Martha herself created today’s challenge,” he continues. “We’ve all been playing with it and I added a little twist just for you. There are ten combatants in the arena which you have ten minutes to neutralize. If you hit a non-combatant, a combatant you’ve already hit will come back to life. Nobody has ever hit all ten targets. I hold the record at six targets down when time expired. Don’t plan on beating it.”
The screen drops and a hundred or so small hover drones take off. The blue ones are the targets and the rest are black. They’re all the size and speed of a hummingbird, complete with a hummingbird’s ability to change direction and hover.
“There are only five targets,” I say.
I shoot.
“Make that four.”
One of the other instructors accuses Angry Eyebrows of cheating but he assures everyone that this is just his little twist and there are ten marked targets in the arena. The others remind him that his record was done with ten blue drones.
As they continue zipping this way and that around the target area, I can see that they’re not flying randomly. Each target has a unique pattern. As I hit my second target, I realize that the non-combatants are programmed to swarm around the targets, making it harder to get a clear shot. When I hit the third target, I see that - as a target is hit - the swarms randomly reorganize themselves around the remaining targets, giving me a brief window with a clear shot. I hit the fourth and fifth blue targets in rapid succession before I realize my mistake.
The five remaining targets aren’t blue. By saving them for last, I’ve made the job of finding them even harder as the swarms have grown around them. Angry Eyebrows has also made a mistake. He’s created a puzzle.
I set my gun down on the counter in front of me and watch the five remaining swarms. Each still has a unique internal pattern with a center marked by the target drone. It takes some time, but I see what I’ve been seeking.
“The other five targets are marked only with purple cult hunter earrings,” I say.
“I guess my record stands,” Angry Eyebrows replies.
I back away from my weapon; then turn to face him.
“I’m amazed you got six,” I say.
“Let him try with ten blue drones,” another guard says, but I reach up and hit the reset button.
“I said I’m amazed that you got six,” I say to Angry Eyebrows.
The screen drops again and all the drones return to flight. First I target the drones marked with purple stones. The first one goes down at the six-second mark and the second one is hit when it makes the mistake of hovering at the fourteen-second mark. The black drones race to reorganize themselves, marking the spot where the next target is to be found. I go after the targets farthest from the center to keep the black drones racing back and forth, unable to get organized around the targets. In less than a minute there are eight target drones on the ground. The last two blue targets are completely surrounded.
“Two to go smart guy,” Angry eyebrows says. “Just try to hit one and you’ll bring one of those others back to life.”
And that is the solution.
I hit a black drone in each of the remaining swarms. As two revived targets start to lift off the ground, the remaining swarms split and dive down to surround them and expose the two blue drones in the air. I dispatch the two in the air, then the two near the ground in rapid succession before the swarms can organize. The remaining black drones all land to signal the game is over.
The clock stops at three minutes and sixteen seconds elapsed time. I didn’t try to time it that way, but I smile anyway to make them think I did.
I’m so excited by the prospect of decreasing the time further that I forget to set my gun down before turning to face them. I don’t know if they’re stunned by what I accomplished or if my habit of setting the gun down has made them lazy, but all of their guns are either holstered or pointed at the ground. I point my gun downrange again, which is when they clue in to their mistake and train their guns on me.
Three dead men, and they know it. Why is there a gun in my hands, Lord? What do You want me, to learn?
I set the gun down and face them again. I’m expecting to see relief or gratitude on their faces, but instead I see only anger.
“Maybe I should quit early today,” I say. “I was thinking I’d like to hit the obstacle course anyway.”
“Good idea,” says Angry Eyebrows. “I just thought of a new training exercise you could do.”
I don’t like the look in his eye or the smirk on his face.
They don’t secure their stun guns in the range locker as usual.
“To teach you to keep your head down, you can do the obstacle course while we fire over your head.”
The course begins with a crawling portion. For anyone else I’m sure the shots would be a meter above their head for safety. For me, their shots are so close I can feel my hair standing up from the charge in the air. As I do a wall climbing section, a shot grazes my right foot, causing my entire leg to go numb; so I have to drag myself over the wall and then fall hard on the other side.
Next is a rope swing portion, where I’m hit in the left hand and fall into the muddy water below.
The last section requires me to zigzag while running through and jumping over various obstacles. The shots get closer and closer until one hits me square in the chest and I go down in a dusty heap. I feel like there’s an elephant sitting on me, but I continue to crawl. The shooting stops as they watch me move inch by inch through the remainder of the course, using just one arm and one leg.
I lock eyes with each of my guards in turn.
You can stun my arms and legs, but you will not steal the fire from my eyes.
“Just quit,” Angry Eyebrows yells.
“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed,” I yell back as I continue to claw my way along.
Hearing Bible verse from me angers them; so they resume shooting, causing dirt to spray into my mouth and eyes. Luckily, there are no more direct hits. The official finish line is painted on the ground. I reach just one hand across in defiance before I stop and close my eyes. I hear three sets of feet walk up to me, then a fourth set comes from a different direction.
“What happened here?” Martha’s voice asks from above me.
She already knows the answer. She was watching the entire time. The question is whether she allowed it happen or if she ordered it.
There’s no reply.
“Give me that stunner. If I don’t get an answer, I’m going to shoot all three of you using whatever setting you just shot him with.”
There’s a pause.
“It’s set on eight. What were you thinking?” Martha asks.
“Right now, I’m thinking I’ve never seen anyone keep moving after being shot once on eight, much less three times,” Angry Eyebrows replies. “Why can’t you see that he’s too dangerous to keep here?”
Lord, help them to see that I’m no longer their enemy.
I open my eyes to find Martha has the pistol aimed at his chest.
“Don’t shoot him, Martha. It was my idea,” I say. “I asked for tougher training and things just got carried away.”
Even through the dirt in my eyes, I can see Martha’s face. She knows I’m lying.
“Clean him up, feed him and put him in bed,” Martha says. “He’s going on a trip tomorrow.”
****
I wake at midnight to the shuffling of feet outside my door, when they change the instructors. I’ve never been shot with a stun gun before and I’m pleased to find that the numbness has worn off and that I’m not even sore as I make my way out of bed to listen to the conversation. Normally the daytime instructors would be here until midnight, but Martha must have reassigned them after what happened.
“You hear about what happened at the obstacle course?” the voice I know as “Razor Stubble” asks.
“Yeah, including that he took the blame himself. Whatever this scheme is all about, you have to admit that he’s all in,” the voice of “Light Foot” responds.
I named him that because he’s a good runner.
I bet Angry Eyebrows and the rest failed to mention that I could have shot them all at the range.
“So you’re not buying the holy act either?”
“Of course not. There’s no such thing as a retired cult hunter. He should know.”
They know the phrase I coined?
“I don’t care what he said in his big speech. He killed my aunt and would kill me next if given the chance.”
“Then why are we training him? Martha sent a report to the Council saying we captured him, but she’s treating him like a new recruit.”
“Beats me. Every time he picks up a gun it gives me the creeps.”
“Not me. I’m hoping he’ll try something, just to give me the pleasure of shooting him.”
They move out of earshot and leave me to ponder my new world as I drift back into sleep.
Why have you brought me here, Lord?
After first reading the Bible three years ago, I imagined what it would be like to join a church. I dreamed about being in the company of Christians and living my life free from the anger and violence of the Cult Hunter Corps.
‘Four’ definitely isn’t the church Jesus described.
****
When I was The Cult Hunter, my mornings used to begin with looking into a mirror and trying to convince myself that everything I saw could be explained by evolution. It was an empty, soulless exercise. Now that my days begin with prayer, looking into the mirror has become an exercise of joy and wonder as I see the handiwork of the expert craftsman that created me.
I pray for guidance; I pray for my guards; I pray for every Christian in the world and every atheist too, but there’s one person I’m having trouble praying for: Martha. As a Christian, I want her to be happy, but as a man there’s part of me that can’t stand the thought of her being happy without me. So I pray for Martha to receive grace, wisdom, patience and many other things, but not happiness, and certainly not love. I pray aloud, almost hoping that the room is bugged and she’ll notice what’s missing from my prayers.
One kindness that Martha did for me when I was back in time was going to my house in Colorado Springs and removing the copies of the Bible that I’d collected. All copies of the Bible are rare, but my favorite is still the one that I read first - the copy I later stole from the basement of the museum in my hometown. I’ve carried it nearly everywhere since Martha returned it to me.
After praying, I look out my room window and watch the guests who are visiting Capon Springs. Everywhere I look, they appear to be gathered in fellowship. Three times per day they eat together in a large dining hall and the rest of their days are spent playing games, swimming in a large spring-fed pool or just talking to each other. Martha told me that “Capon” is roughly translated as “medicine waters,” but as I watch the people below me, I can’t help but feel that this place is made for much more than healing our bodies.
The instructors from Four have made it clear that I’m not invited to the meals, the games, or the conversations I see taking place outside my window. I dine alone in my room, feeling that His church is right in front of me, but the closest I’m allowed to approach is standing in the shadow of its steeple.
Leaving my room is the signal for the daily dance to begin. My instructors will follow me around the grounds just like kill team agents from the Corps used to follow me to and from classes. They try to blend in, but I see them as just another set of puzzle pieces that have been jammed into the wrong places.
I do my best to enjoy the serenity of Capon Springs by myself. It seems like every day I find a new wonder of nature or history to captivate my thoughts as I wander the grounds. I walk past an immaculately kept garden; then stop at one of the spring-fed fountains that run continuously. I spend several minutes just watching the never-ending stream. Like everything else in this place, the fountain draws my mind to the Word of God.
And the LORD shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not.
Martha is also walking the grounds, but her gait tells me she’s here with a purpose. I watch as Martha approaches the instructors one by one and dismisses them. They look at me and confirm that she intends to guard me by herself, but they all leave without protest.
Is she confident that I won’t attack her? Or is she confident that she can beat me?
“You ready to go?” Martha asks.
“Would it matter?”
“No. They’ve been demanding this meeting for weeks.”
“They” are the Four Council, the leaders of the young Christians who are not content to hide in the shadows as Christians have done for generations. Just before rescuing me, Martha was promoted and is now one of “them.” Her official title is “team leader” and she’s been given command of a local Four unit called “Bethany House,” to which I’ve also been assigned.
“You told me I’m the leader in the True Holy War. So it seems only fair I should get to review my troops.”
My tone is acidic as I refer to myself as the leader of Four, which makes Martha frown.
“Like you, Cephas, sometimes my tongue gets ahead of my brain.”
“It’s nice to know we actually had something in common during your time as my student.”
Her eyes flash with anger, but she says nothing.
“If I’m not their new leader, what’s the purpose of the meeting?” I ask.
“I don’t know. All I know is that they’ve been demanding this meeting since I informed them of the rescue. I’ve put them off because I thought taking time here to adjust to your new life might give you a better shot at convincing them you’re a new man.”
“Or at least a model prisoner?”
“You’re not a prisoner.”
I feign a sudden move towards her and her hand goes to the hunting knife that hangs from her belt. I stand and stare at her hand, which is wrapped around the handle. I’d like to cry, but I just nod my head in understanding. If my dream of joining the church that Christ described has been crushed, then my dream of loving Martha has been shattered into a million pieces that no human puzzle master can ever put back together.
“I’m ready when you are, Warden.”