The One That's Coming

Father Emmanuelle jolted awake, the Bible falling off his lap and landing with a crack on the floor. He lowered his legs, eyes wide, but not seeing the dim room in front of him. He’d been dreaming. It was still vivid. They knelt in front of him, eyes downcast. Then one of their heads had exploded, followed by a bang—which was what had woken him.

The Father tasted salt. A trickle of sweat had reached the corner of his lips. The room ahead of him came into focus. A dull yellow light cast an eerie glow on the beaten leather sofa opposite him with tufts of white sticking out here and there. A mothballed fireplace sat to his right, blackened and empty, without even a grate. The table in front of him was empty as well, with the exception of a mug of what had earlier been coffee. The windows above the couch were dirty, but something shone through one of the panes. A little light.

Getting to his feet with the speed of a much older man, the young Father edged around the furniture to the window. The dirt had turned the small rectangular pains into ovals looking out into what was usually just circles of midnight blue, but not tonight. Tonight there was a light in his church. Father Emmanuelle cast a look at the rusted clock on the mantle above the deceased fireplace. If the nineteenth century relic hadn’t finally broken, it was past midnight. His eyes returned to the glowing, which had now left the entryway of the church and was now a multi-colored circle, moving across the stained-glass windows of the little church.

Moving much faster now, the father went to the door, slid on his boots, pulled on an overcoat, and grabbed the empty shotgun leaning against the wall. He put on his hat and then opened the door silently, closing it just as quietly behind him.

The tips of the blades of grass glistened in the little light the few stars emitted through the holes in the clouds. The ground was soft beneath Father Emmanuelle’s feet, but not soft enough to hinder his progress across the overgrown field, leaving his minuscule cottage behind in the shadow of the trees. At first he made for the front door, but then thought better of it and headed around back, thanking god for the stained glass windows that masked his movement past them. The circle of colored light now came from somewhere on level with the alter, and tempted as he was, the Father did not press his eye against one of the panes of glass, but instead continued to the back of the church. He slipped a large iron key from his pocket and unlocked the door as quietly and as slowly as he could manage. Maybe it was the dream, maybe it was the reality that had caused the dream, but his hands were quite steady.

Remembering just in time the rarity of this door closing with anything resembling silence, he left it ajar. As he edged into his office, he registered muffled voices coming through the closed door that led to the small hallway and subsequently the chapel. The voices spoke French, mercifully enough. The Father stopped at his own door and knelt to the keyhole.

“There’s a light on in the priest’s house,” said a gruff, yet worried voice.

“It’s been on,” said another carelessly.

“Well, what exactly are we doing here, Frederick?” Asked a woman.

“We’re waiting for Jacques of course,” said the careless voice.

There was an exasperated intake of breath from the woman. “You know what I mean.”

“I’d like to know that too,” said the gruff voice.

“Soon enough, Patrick. I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“So we just sit here drawing attention to ourselves until Jacques graces us with his presence,” said the woman in annoyance.

“Jacqueline,” said Patrick in a warning tone.

“What?” Jacqueline snapped back. “This is too risky. Why are we meeting out in the open like this?”

“The open?” scoffed Frederick, “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Which means we stand out more,” said Jacqueline. Then after a pause she added, “it’s got something to do with this place, hasn’t it?”

Silence.

“It does,” she said in a satisfactory tone.

The silence stretched on.

The Priest’s thighs were beginning to burn, but he didn’t dare sit down for fear of not being mobile enough to react, nor stand should he miss even a word of the conversation.

“And if Jacques isn’t coming?” asked the woman after a time.

“Fine, I’ll give you something if it’ll get you to sit quietly and wait.”

“Fine.”

“There’s something here that we need, but we can’t get at it without the information Jacques is bringing.”

“Well the mystery has been solved,” said Jacqueline in a loud, sarcastic voice.

“Shhh,” said Patrick.

“Oh the Christ-Killers have long since left this place, whose gonna hear us?”

“Well the good father that Patrick is so worried about for one,” said Frederick. “And they’re not all gone… not yet.”

“Right so shouldn’t we be out working on that, rather than just hanging out in here waiting to get caught?” asked Jacqueline.

“What we’re after here is way more important than a few Jews,” said Frederick. “You want to win the war?”

“War?” asked Patrick, breaking his silence. “What war?”

“The one that’s coming, Doorstop,” said Jacqueline.

“The Fuhrer wants peace,” said Patrick.

“God he’s stupid,” said Jacqueline, “thank god he’s good for something.”

“What the fuck did you say?” asked Patrick loudly, almost shouting.

“Patrick, lower your voice. And you,” said Frederick, “shut the hell up would you.”

It seemed to the Father that Jacqueline had actually listened this time, but there was a rustle of movement and then a new, quieter voice spoke. “The Priest’s house is empty.”

“Fuck, Jacques, you trying to get shot?” asked Frederick.

Father Emmanuelle froze. He considered running for the forest, but he could already hear the footsteps getting louder as the entourage entered the hallway. So he stood, flung the door open, and leveled his shotgun on what must’ve been Jacqueline. Behind her stood a short, yet giant of a man judging from his shoulders, holding a flickering lantern. The other man had a thin mustache, wider than the Fuhrer’s, but not full. The gun in his hand was pointed at the entrance to the church where Jacques’s voice had emanated from, but the eyes buried in the hollows beneath his brows were trained on Father Emmanuelle.

The Father opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find anything to say. The man with the mustache moved forward and handed his gun to Jacqueline who trained it on Father Emmanuelle.

“This doesn’t have to get out of hand, Father,” said Frederick, in a much smoother tone than the one he’d used to dress down his compatriots. “You’re a man of God, and I’m sure no one wants to kill anyone here.” His grey eyes glistened and his lip curled slightly.

Perhaps it was the conversation he’d overheard, but Father Emmanuelle had never seen a man who embodied evil more than the one in front of him. For the first time since he’d quit the army, he wished his gun was loaded. This was a man who belonged in Hell, yet somehow, he was here, walking amongst the living, in purgatory and not yet condemned.

“What’s your plan here?” asked Frederick, stepping closer. He was now just a few feet from the barrel of the gun. “You shoot one of us, the rest of us kill you? That doesn’t seem very smart.”

“What are you looking for?” asked the Father steadily, again surprising himself with his calm.

“Nothing we need your help to find, I can assure you of that.”

“Can I kill him yet?” Asked Jacqueline, her face hard, but laughter in her eyes.

“No,” said Frederick without turning around. “You’re young,” he added to Father Emmanuelle. “Generally don’t see such young priests in this day and age. How’d you end up here?” But he didn’t give the Father Time to answer. “You were a soldier weren’t you. I can tell by your posture, and your steady hand. So… what? You were discharged? No.” Frederick took another step forward, his eyes locked with Emmanuelle’s. “You left. You saw the light. Which leads me to wonder, if that shotgun is even loaded.” He stepped up to the barrel itself, pressing his chest against it.

The Father felt the resistance at the other end. He did have shells. He kept some under a floorboard in the kitchen, but they were useless to him now.

“No,” said Frederick, smiling widely. “I don’t think it is. And even if it is. You’re a man of god now, are you really going to kill me?”

Father Emmanuelle said nothing.

“You see the problem is, we can’t have you running around talking about what you overheard here, however much that was. And I’m pretty sure this doesn’t fall under the purview of a confession.”

Patrick chuckled.

Frederick grimaced slightly, seemingly frustrated that one of his lieutenants had found his joke funny. “And I’m also sure, that once you know what we’re after, you’ll fight a hell of a lot harder to keep us from getting it.”

“I’ve already got it,” said Jacques from the shadowed arch that led to the vestibule.

Jacqueline spun around, Patrick moving his bulk at a speed more in line with his size. Frederick just spun his head, flicking his gaze over his shoulder. “Already?”

Something moved and the shadows seemed to stretch out from the archway, clinging to the black figure. The shadows snapped as Patrick’s lantern swung towards the newcomer. He stood not particularly tall, with bleach blonde hair and porcelain white skin. Underneath one arm he held a small package carefully wrapped in brown paper.

“Well,” said Frederick, his eyes returning to Father Emmanuelle. “That’s that then. Makes my decision, well, not easier, as it wasn’t particularly difficult to start with, but—”

Father Emmanuelle jolted the barrel of the gun up, and it slammed into Frederick’s chin, knocking his head back with a crack.

Two flashes, two eruptions of pain, two bangs. The Father slid to the ground, choking on thick, metallic blood welling up in his throat. He tried to say something, but warm blood just splattered out over his chin instead of words. His eyes locked onto the innocuous package under the newcomer’s arm and his heart went cold. Then he felt himself falling sideways, never to feel his body hit the floor.