Losing My Religion

Losing My Religion
By:David Heringer

The revolver taunts him. Fully loaded, and within reach, it has sat mocking him for the past week. Calling out his cowardice with every glance. The pile of bottles littered through out the darkened room, evidence that no amount of liquid courage can con him into being anything, but the coward he truly is. Dusks final light is shimmering through the small cracks in the boarded up windows. The room is deathly quiet, save for the low fuzz of radio static, and the tick-tock tick-tock of the coo coo clock. A week ago, every noise, every creak, every groan of that damned old house terrified him for his life. Now that he welcomes, no, begs for it to be taken from him. He is answered with torturing silence. The reverend tears another page out of the good book, and rolls the last bit of tobacco in the house. Revelation chapter 6 seems a fitting irony for his last smoke. His food supply is nearly depleted. Electricity has been out since the incident. The plumbing stopped working properly two days ago, leaving a putrid smell through the house no man could get use to. With every breath, the sticky, southern heat only adds to the sting in his eyes, and the burning in his nose, and lungs. The sweet tobacco has been his only relief, but now even that is at its end. If he still believed hell to exist, this would be it. Because right now, this whole god damned planet, is as close to hell as he could ever imagined it to be.

         The only words he has heard in days, are the same words he continues to mutter aloud “God is not real. I am not real. All fades to nothing. All fades to nothing. Life is but a hellish dream. All fades to nothing. All fades.” Over and over, and over again he chants the words. The last bit of hope he has, is that it will all just stop. No having to press the cold steel to his head, and pull the revolvers trigger. No waiting for one of those things to burst through the door, and mutate him into some inhuman monster. But that it would all. Just. Stop. Fade to black. Fade into nothingness. Thats the only reasonable explanation, and conclusion his battered logic can seem to hope in anymore. Before this, he was a good man. Loved his family. Loved his country. He said his prayers, and was faithful to his wife. He was a reverend for christ sake! But two weeks ago… everything changed. It all began with a single meteor crash somewhere in Russia. He can remember the reports on all the news channels. It caused minimal damage, and Most people were hurt rushing to windows to catch a glimpse of the fireball, only to be met with a glass shattering sonic boom, as the meteor burst into the atmosphere. Interviews with ecstatic scientists claimed this to be a common occurrence every fifty to a hundred years. But still, fascinating in both display, and scientific discovery none the less. Just as the media buzz over the meteor grew cold, strange rumors of a deadly virus, and quarantined Russian cities were burning up the tabloids. Dawning the headlines with the likes of batboy, reptoids and brangelina scandals. Written off as merely another conspiracy theory. That is, until the other meteors made contact. The last live radio broadcast he heard said each continent, was berated by the meteors simultaneously. Surmising the first incident in Russia to be a test for a full scale strike.

         It was early on a Sunday morning when his small town was shaken awake from the sonic boom. Followed by what felt like an earthquake, as the smoldering form leveled part of town. Even then he was afraid. He barely held it together for his family, all he could think of is hiding somewhere till it was all over. It was the reverends wife who begged him to gather all of the town people to pray, and find safety, comfort, and peace inside the old chapel walls. A decision he now regrets ever conceding to. With no power, and the morning still black as night. The small chapel filled with candles, and oil lamps to light the way. The reverend recited a few words memorized from the numerous amount of funerals hes preached, and called his wife, and teenage daughter up for a scripture reading, and song of praise. As the frightened congregation lifted there shaking voices to join them. Something else could be heard above. At first it was barely noticeable, but with each stanza the noise grew louder, and louder. The voices dropped out one by one, as terror washed over the candle lit faces. The noise could be heard quite clearly now. It was the sound of screaming. The reverends wife and daughter the only ones still singing. Tears, and fear flooding over there face. He should have been by there side. His arms should have been strong around them, singing with them, comforting them. But his cowardice kept him towards the back of the stage. Always keeping clear view his escape of the back door. That was all he could think of. Not his family, not the frightened faces of the towns people. But his freedom, His escape, His own survival. Just as the screams started to die off, and the voices were to strained, and frightened to sing on. There came three knocks on the old wooden double doors. A deathly silence fell over the crowd. Slowly, everyone began moving towards the back of the chapel. Then again came three knocks, more intense then the last. The huddled mass pushed as far back as possible into the chapel, and then again loudly three knocks beat against the door. Then a fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and they kept on and on. Louder, and louder the door shook, and rattled the old locks, and hinges till they couldn't take any more. The door burst open, and a dark, deformed figure stood tall in the double opening. The reverend wants to stop looking. He longs for the door to freedom just steps away, but he cant stop staring at the eyes. Or rather the burning red orbs where its eyes should be. It stands motionless in the opening, the orbs surveying the room. The cries, and whimpers of the people bring a menacing smile to its face. It seems to mutate before there eyes as it moves into the light, and shows the barely recognizable face of John the towns mechanic. Keeping there distance some try to reason with it, to reason with John. but whatever this thing was before them, John is no longer there. Screams erupt from the group as the mutating form grows long needle like nails from its finger tips, and begins thrusting them through the bodies of the unfortunate souls in front, tossing them aside like dolls. People begin fighting there way back to the stage, Kicking, and knocking others into its path in an attempt to reach the back door. The bodies of the towns people, assumed dead, begin to mutate just as John must have in the beginning. Eyes opening revealing the burning red orbs. The reverend is paralyzed in fear, unable to run to his escape, or to avoid those glowing eyes. His wife, and daughter have stopped trying to get his attention, and are focused on helping the trampled up off the floor, and out the back before it reaches them. His wife loses her footing, and slips into the chaotic sea of bodies. He hears his daughter cry out for her, and beg for him to save her, but he cant, he wont. The form smiles an evil smile through jagged deformed teeth as it pierces the long sharp needles through his wifes chest, lifting her high enough above the crowd so the reverend can see her fighting frame go limp. “NO!”, The reverend screams as the beast throws her lifeless form effortlessly over the dwindling crowd, onto the stage in front of him. He drops to his knees, and kisses, and pulls her close. “NO GOD, PLEASE NO!” He cries, and screams over the bloody corpse. He knows whats coming next for her, and everyone else in the room. They are all as good as dead, and with every death another mutated beast in its place. Then, out of the corner of his eye he sees the only solution. Before he has time to think, the bottle of lamp oil is emptied over whats left of the crowd, the beast, and mutating bodies. Then starting for the back door, He grabs the glowing lamp from the stage and throws it high above the crowd. As if in slow motion his heart beats in his ears, and the lamp begins to slowly fall towards the crowd now littered with red orbs. His stomach becomes knots as the lamp bursts Showering A stream of flames over their head. Finally noticing, pinned near the foot of the stage is his daughter, screaming out for him, soaked in a lamp oil bath. He grabs the handle to the door as the liquid flame pours down, Igniting her small frame, still reaching for him, into a ball of fire. Its to late for her now, the blood curdling screams, and stench of burning flesh catch up to him as the old ceiling of the chapel burst into flames. He hits the door never looking back, feeling the heat of the building burning behind as he stumbles into the darkness. He can see the smoldering meteor, and runs the opposite direction of it. Looking for a safe place to hide, nearly out of breath, he runs up the steps and into an old shotgun style house, and bolts the locks behind him. He calls out to see if anyone is home, with no reply. pulling the lighter from his pocket, he lights it and sees that he wasn't the first to happen upon this house this morning. The windows have been partially boarded. Supplies have been piled in the center of the living room, consisting mainly of liqueur bottles, and water. Fearing he may not be alone he cautiously checks through the kitchen, and locks the back door. Then the bath, and two bedrooms. Hes alone. The sounds of screaming, the red orb eyes, his wifes dead body, and his little girl bursting into flames, haunt him in the darkness. The scenes playing over and over again send his stomach into convulsions. Only to become settled by the burn of the first bottle of whiskey. At first he was terrified of what was out there, lurking, waiting to bring his life to an end. More certain with every passing minute that it was his last. When he originally found the revolver, It was his protection from whatever might still be out there. Giving him a sense of security until help arrived. But as the hours became days, his food supply dwindled, and his pleading prayers became vulgar curses. His sense of security quickly became his last hope for escape.

         The glowing cracks in the windows have grown dark. Night has come once again, bringing with it the booming sounds of thunder, and a howling wind. He takes the last, long, drag on the cigarette, getting all the pleasure he can from it before the burn in his fingers becomes to much. The time for him to make a decision is quickly coming. In the first few days, radio announcers began giving stories of hope. Tales of troops marching through towns, rescuing survivors, and destroying the infected mutations flourished. He was hopeful, until those very same stations went silent. He left the radio on, playing its white noise, foolishly thinking he might here from them again. Now it serves as a constant reminder of hopelessness, and looming death. He then began praying, and crying out to God. Begging him to save him from this hell. He pleaded, and cried for hours, maybe even days, but no answer came. The more he drank to ease his mind, and the pain, the more hopeless he felt. How could this all knowing, all powerful being, let such a tragedy occur? Bitterness, and guilt ate at his thoughts. If God is real, why the Hell did his family have to die?! Why the Hell Couldn't God save them?! This is when He came to the conclusion that God cant be real. His religious beliefs in his time of need, no different from the radio announcers giving him a false hope of saving troops. It was all merely a smoke screen attempting to hide the truth. “God is not real. I am not real. All fades to nothing. All fades to nothing. Life is but a hellish dream. All fades to nothing. All fades.” He spews out loud once again, hoping to truly believe it this time. Heavy rain, and flashes of lighting join in the dark nights eerie symphony. Now he has ran out of food, finished the last cigarette, and is quickly emptying the liquor stock pile in his attempts to block it all out. Why doesn't he just blow his damned brains out and get it over with! Enraged he picks up the revolver, and shoots the white noise radio, immediately sending a deafening sound to his ears. In his fit of rage, He puts the gun to his temple, and pulls the trigger. The hammer pulls back, and a loud “CLACK” sounds. The gun drops to the floor, and the reverend begins throwing up a nasty mixture of bile, and whiskey. After all this time he finally gets the nerve, and the damn chamber is empty. He checks the gun, and except for the shot that killed the radio, and the empty chamber, the gun is fully loaded. He sets the gun back in its place, and takes his seat. He opens a bottle of whiskey, taking a large gulp. What are the odds that the second shot he fires is an empty? Is some other force at work here, keeping him alive? If so, Is it watching over him? Or condemning him here to atone for what hes done? He begins questioning the things he has lost hope in. If he has truly believed everything fades to nothing, and none of its real. Then why hasn't he ended it yet? Why is he so afraid to put that damned bullet through his brain? Chanting that nothing is real over, and over, trying to convince himself that its true. Its just his cowardice, hoping for an easy out for the things he might be held accountable for if this wasn't true. His thoughts are cut short by strange sounds coming from outside the house. Sounds no wind, or storm can make. Twigs snapping underfoot, and creaks, and groans from steps on the front porch. He grabs the revolver, and for the first time in days, he wants to use it not to harm himself, but as protection. Shaking, he stands several feet behind the door, and when the handle turns, sure one of those things is on the other side. He takes his shot. Once again the sound is deafening. He must have hit something because he can feel the loud heavy steps trampling the front porch. He aims once again at the door, but before he can get off a shot, the door explodes with holes. He drops the gun as his body is riddled over and over again with what feels like fiery darts, Bringing him to the floor. He can feel the warm puddle form under his cheek as he watches the military boots invade the room. It turns out to be the revolver that brings the end after all. Through the blood he gurgles out his last words “Is God real? Am I real? Does it all fade to nothing? Does it all fade?..