It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
And I feel fine
--from End of the World by REM
There was a scream.
The cornfield echoed with it. Echoed and rang and nearly vibrated with it until it seemed the stalks were screaming too. Screaming, screaming, screaming in pain and terror, screaming --
The boy ran.
He pumped his legs and forced air into his already burning lungs. He had to get away from the sound. They were screaming, the corn was screaming, everything was screaming -- he couldn't take the screaming... The boy stumbled and righted himself quickly. Run. Run. Run. Eventually, he could outrun the sound, and then the scream wouldn't be so clear and sharp in his ears. It wouldn't echo so terribly, it wouldn't pierce his mind, it wouldn't remind him of what he had just done--
No. No thinking. It was not time to think.
It was time to run.
---
The girl lit a candle carefully. It was nighttime, and without Mama and Papa home, she would not stay in the dark. Darkness was frightening, and it brought bad things on. She glanced out the window idly, shaking out the match. Full moon. Bad omen, her mind said quietly, and she shuddered. Bad omen.
There was a sudden thundering at the door.
The girl jumped, alarmed. Bad omen, her mind said again, not so quiet this time. She pushed a handful of brown hair out of her eyes.
"Being silly," she muttered, half to herself. Papa always told her she was too much like her mother, believing in silly things like omens and old wive's tales. The only thing that she should believe in was the Lord above and the miracles he made happen. Absently, she headed for the door and touched the handle. Bad omen! her mind cried, but she didn't pay it any mind. The door opened.
---
The boy took in his breath in great, heaving gulps. His chest was on fire. That's what it felt like, at least; he was sure he'd glance down and see his shirt aflame. And he couldn't breathe, oh he couldn't breathe--
He looked up in mild surprise to see the door open. It was a little house, modest and simple. Practical. Just like all the others. From the door flowed light, dim but comforting, and in the light stood a shadow. A person.
"I didn't mean to," he gasped, clutching his burning chest with one hand. "I'm sor--"
Then the ground was flying towards him with alarming speed and everything plunged into darkness.
---
She stared at him in abstract bewilderment. The boy now lay face-first in the dirt, his body heaving with irregular breaths. His hands, which were slender and unmoving, were covered in a dark, thick mud. It was quite obvious that something was not right in this situation. But Papa always says, her mind piped up eagerly. He always says to remember the lesson of the Good Samaritan. He helped one in need and was repayed tenfold. The girl hesitated, chewing her lower lip unsurely. Something wasn't right -- but it wouldn't be right to leave him out there in the dirt, either. She hurried down from the porch.
"Hello?" the girl murmured, swallowing uncertainty from her now narrow throat. "Sir? Boy?" She nudged him slightly with her toe. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to go back into the house, but she couldn't do it. The boy moaned softly. "Sir?" she said again.
"Mmph. Mm. Au-u-u-u-gh..." She drew back sharply. It was a horrible sound, a groan of agony and pure weariness. The girl dropped quickly to a knee, realizing that the scene was more serious than she had anticipated.
"Can you hear me?" she murmured. The words sounded silly to her ears; he looked to be in a dead faint. But there was always the chance. "Can you hear me, sir? Sir?"
"I'm hot," the boy whispered through too-dry lips. She sucked in her breath sharply, making her chest ache unexpectedly. So he was awake. Maybe not coherent, but awake.
"Into the house." The words were out before she could manage to repress them. "We're going to go into the house. Do you think you can try to stand?"
"I'm hot," he rasped again, as if it were a perfectly logical reason to stay face-first in the dirt. "Chest hurts. Can't breathe." The girl glanced around briefly. Shouldn't there be someone with him? She looked back down to the boy and felt a short wave of familiarity. Then it passed.
"Come on," she said gently, and slung his arm over her shoulder. "Try to put some weight on your feet. Try." The boy's legs buckled at first as they rose to a slight standing position. She almost fell herself with his weight -- he was surprisingly heavy.
"Can't breathe," he repeated.
"You're doing all right. Now see if we can get up the stairs, okay?" Slowly but surely, they took awkward steps and made it into the house.
---
The boy's vision had been lapsing into blurs of gray for the past couple of minutes. When he finally blinked it away, he found himself awkwardly situated on a bed. A fuzzy shadow was moving threateningly around in one corner.
"I didn't mean to," the boy said immediately, voice rising in high panic. "I didn't mean to, I didn't want to, but they--"
"You're awake," the shadow said calmly. It moved closer and slowly became a girl -- a teenage girl with tawny brown hair and pale green eyes. He swallowed the rising panic and fear from his throat.
"I didn't--"
"Calm down." She pressed her hand briefly against his cheek, and the boy jerked away, alarmed. "You're really warm." Her tanned face broke into a meek grin for a moment. "Be right back. I'm going to get some water, okay?" He swallowed again, forcing the lump of dread into his stomach.
"Please don't tell anyone," he pleaded, and clasped his dirty hands together in desperation. "Please don't tell. Please." The girl paused at the door, one palm pressed firmly against the wood.
"Don't tell anyone what?" she asked, sounding confused. Without waiting for an answer, she held up one long, slender finger for silence. "I'll be right back, I promise. Stay right there, don't get up." And the girl disappeared past the door.
---
She wiped her hand idly on the skirt of her pale blue dress. They'd become dirty with the mud the boy was covered with.
"Delirious," she whispered, hurrying into the kitchen for water. Because that's what he most certainly was, delirious; he was babbling. Pure and simple. The girl quickly filled a glass with water, then paused, considering. After a moment, she filled a bowl too and got a rag from the clean laundry. When she got back to her bedroom, the boy had stopped mumbling and was staring blankly at the ceiling.
"Didn't want to," he said softly as she entered. The girl sat beside his bed and offered the glass of water.
"Drink," she ordered. "You've got a fever. You need cold water." It wasn't as if he needed encouragement. The boy sipped eagerly, then took the glass from her with shaky hands. She dipped the rag briefly in the water and rung it out.
"Thank you," he said quietly, and took another gulp.
"You're welcome." The girl paused, watching him carefully. He looked so familiar... red hair with a slight curl; cloudy, mysterious eyes; surprisingly pale under his freckles. Where on earth had she seen him before? "What's your name?" she murmured, pressing the damp rag gently against his forehead. The boy jerked away, apparently surprised at the temperature of the water.
"Yours first," he said with a startling amount of caution. She blinked, then dipped the rag in the water.
"Olivia." She smiled warmly, forcing hospitality to her face. "Olivia Stratford." The girl dabbed carefully at his cheek and he flinched again. "Yours, Mr. Mystery?"
"Josiah," he muttered. And then it hit her.
"Josiah?" Olivia gasped, nearly dropping the rag into his lap. "As in-- Josiah, the Amazing Boy Preacher?" The boy's red brows knitted defensively.
"No," he said sullenly. "Just Josiah." Olivia paused, then forced another smile. This one didn't come out as warm as she had intended.
"Sorry. Just Josiah, I've got it." She mopped his brow gently and re-dipped the rag in the bowl. "What happened, Josiah?" Josiah didn't pull away this time; his hands twisted together nervously, then finally hid beneath the blankets.
"Nothing," he whispered, cloudy eyes narrowing. "Nothing happened."
---
Josiah was suddenly and fully aware of the danger of being here. The gray haze had slowly ebbed away, leaving him tired and sore but finally able to think clearly. The girl -- Olivia, was that her name? -- recognized him. Not good, his mind said dully, sounding rather like a sullen child pouting in the corner. Not good at all.
"I don't believe that," Olivia said casually, pressing the rag to his forehead again. Damnation, why did it have to be so cold? "Not one bit. No one runs like a madman and collapses on the ground when 'nothing happened'." Josiah let out a shaky sigh, half weary and half defeated. She wasn't so stupid as to put all the evidence behind her, he knew that. He was just hoping against it.
"Nothing important," he corrected quietly, and flinched as the rag was pressed against his neck. Sure, he felt like a human bonfire, but the sudden shock of cold wasn't so pleasant either. "Stop," Josiah complained, jerking violently out of reach. Olivia blinked in surprise, the rag poised in mid-air.
"What's wrong?"
"That's cold." He covered his face with his arms in a childish gesture of defense. "Stop it." There was a long silence before she pressed the rag to the nape of his neck, making Josiah yelp in surprise.
"I'm sorry, but you're running an awfully high fever, and your cheeks are really flushed. You have to cool down somehow."
"Stop," he said again, voice breaking into a whine. He lowered his arms to look at Olivia, who was re-wetting the rag in preparation for another onslaught.
"Josiah," she murmured, and he frowned at the fact that she was ignoring him. "What really happened? Who were you running from?"
"No one." Josiah stiffened stubbornly. "That's what I told you before."
"Stop being so hostile," Olivia said pleasantly, and pressed the rag to his cheek. He winced, but didn't complain this time. "Now, really -- tell me the truth. What happened?"
Josiah clenched his teeth, pressed his lips tightly together, and remained silent.
---
Olivia discarded the rag for the moment and reached for the glass of water he'd set aside. Its smooth surface was slick with beads of sweat -- much like Josiah's forehead.
"Fine. Don't talk if you don't want to." She offered the glass towards him and smiled carefully. "But at least drink. We have to get your temperature down." The boy's cloudy eyes narrowed; for one long moment she thought he was going to knock the glass out of her hands. Then Josiah took it from her and sipped obediently. Olivia's smile widened a little, mostly in relief. "Thank you."
"Mmph." He didn't say anything else, just took another gulp of water. It wasn't hard to get him to drink, at least.
But Olivia was certain of at least one thing -- this boy was Josiah the Amazing Boy Preacher. Mama and Papa had dragged her to a sermon months ago, and she had thought it was rather odd. It wasn't in a church, but rather in big airy tents. The hard-eyed preachers had taken their money with an almost startling eagerness, then lead them to the main tent. There were makeshift pews set up rather haphazardly, and before them all was an altar with an absurdly large cross adorning it. Behind it had stood a boy, no older than fourteen, dressed in the serious black garb of a priest. His red hair was hidden by a large black hat that seemed much too big for his small face. But he had remained solemn and stony -- then, when the pews were filled, he began to speak.
Oh, the feeling in his voice!
He spoke each reading and scripture with such deep intensity that Olivia was immediately shocked. It was almost frightening how pallid his face became, how tightly his skin became stretched across his cheeks as he told them the word of the Lord. And his eyes, oh God his eyes...
The whole experience had given Olivia the heebie-jeebies.
After the service, the preachers wouldn't allow Josiah to speak with the spectators. They ushered him away into another breezy tent -- but not before he stole a glance over his shoulder. The horrible sadness in his face was almost painful, Olivia had noted, and he was still terribly pale. She decided immediately she would not attend any more of Josiah's readings, and though Mama and Papa had tried, she wouldn't be budged. There was no God in those preachers -- only lust for money. It was painfully obvious, and her belief in the Lord was sure to be marred if she spent every Sunday there. And so her parents had gone, and Olivia hadn't seen Josiah since.
Until now.
---
Josiah watched as the girl drifted off into thought, wringing the rag slowly over the bowl. Thinking was not good, he noted dully -- it meant she was probably thinking of something... well, something not good. Thinking most likely meant plotting.
"Here--" Olivia suddenly snapped back to the here and now and took the glass from him. "--I'll go get you more water. Be right back." She heaved herself from the bedside chair and disappeared out the door. Josiah watched her leave with a kind of dull wariness.
"She knows," he muttered, bringing his palms to his sweaty face. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she knows--" His hands were slick with something other than sweat, however, and he pulled them quickly away from his cheeks to inspect them. Josiah's breath caught painfully in his throat. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he murmured again. His hands were covered with the blood of the preachers.
---
Olivia re-filled the glass with cold, clear water.
"Amazing Boy Preacher," she said softly, wiping her hands on her dress again. Something about the words sounded wrong. Olivia frowned slightly, then began for the bedroom again. She paused briefly and realized that there was a smear of mud on her cheek. Idly, a hand was brought up to wipe it away, but Olivia stopped to stare at the dark smear that was now on the back of her hand. It wasn't mud -- too dark to be mud. Too dark and too red.
Blood.
She looked frantically at the pale blue material of her skirt, where she had wiped the so-called "mud" earlier. The smears, in the messy shape of four fingers, were an ugly rust brown.
Blood.
And Josiah had been covered in it.
---
Josiah was desperately trying to get the drying blood off of his hands when Olivia returned. She had the promised water -- and an armful of gauzy bandages.
"You're bleeding," she said shortly, sitting down beside the bed. Josiah's brows met in confusion.
"What?" But by then, he had it figured out. The girl had seen the blood and thought it must be his. She's almost got it, Josiah thought drily.
"You're bleeding," she repeated patiently, and dipped the rag in the water again. "Let me see your hands." He shook his head slowly, but held out his hands anyway.
"I'm not--"
"Quiet." Olivia was cleaning his hands carefully with the rag, wiping away the ugly red-brown smears. After a few moments, when his fingers were clean, she lowered them and rinsed the rag in the bowl. "Doesn't seem to be your hands," she said almost conversationally, and wrung out the rag. Josiah saw with faint disgust that the water in the bowl had started to turn brownish.
"I'm not bleeding," he said stiffly. It was bad enough that she'd noticed, and now she was dragging it out. Olivia ignored him.
"Turn your head a little, please," she murmured. Josiah let out a breath of frustration.
"But I'm not bleeding!"
"Don't yell." Olivia was checking his face for cuts anyway, dabbing at the runnels of sweat and dirt on his temples. "There's no reason to be hostile."
"I have plenty of reason to be hostile," Josiah muttered, mostly to himself. Because he couldn't yell at her now; he'd noticed something behind her steady voice -- something that said, "I'm very nervous right now but I'm staying calm because I have to." He didn't like that undertone.
"I don't understand," Olivia mumbled, rinsing the rag again. Dirt and sweat mixed with the faintly blood-tainted water, and Josiah glanced away. The sight made his stomach turn.
"I told you," he said quietly, keeping his voice even. "I'm not bleeding." There was a short pause. Olivia set aside the bowl and offered him the glass of water.
"Drink." Josiah inhaled deeply and frowned.
"But--"
"Drink," she repeated, and Josiah drank.
---
As the boy gulped more of the cold water, Olivia watched impassively. Alarms were going off in her head so loudly that her ears were nearly ringing. It's not his blood, her mind whispered, sounding utterly shocked. It's not his, so it must be someone else's--
"Josiah," she said evenly, pulling away the glass. "What happened?" He stared at her for one long, silent moment, then wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand.
"I think you already know," he muttered. Olivia set the glass on the bedside table, making sure to keep her poker face steady. It was crucial to be calm at this point.
"Perhaps." She shot the bandages on the bed a sidelong glance. "I know we won't be needing those."
"No," Josiah murmured, his eyes darkening. "No, I don't think we'll be needing those." Olivia folded her hands neatly in her lap and hoped they'd stop shaking.
"You are the Amazing Boy Preacher, aren't you?" It wasn't a question, really; more of a statement. He nodded wordlessly. Olivia took a deep breath, then asked, "Josiah... what happened?" There was another long silence before the boy looked up. His eyes were cloudy and dark beneath the shadows, frightening in their intensity.
Almost immediately, she knew what had happened.
---
She wants to know, does she? his mind snarled as he stared at the girl. Fine, then. Fine. She'll know. And she'll regret it.
"Did you ever attend any of my readings?" Josiah asked softly. Olivia nodded.
"Once." He looked briefly up at the ceiling, then back to the girl.
"Then you saw the preachers." Her mouth twitched a bit, half grimace and half sneer.
"Yes," she murmured. "They didn't seem at all like messengers of God." Josiah blinked in surprise, then chuckled low under his breath.
"You're a good judge of character." It was slightly startling; no one ever seemed to think of the preachers as anything but pious. After all, they had taken in the pathetic, unwanted creature and taught him to love God, hadn't they?
"What do you mean?" asked Olivia slowly, startling him out of his thoughts. Josiah recovered by smiling thinly.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." The girl crossed her arms comfortably over her chest.
"How do you know?" she asked, voice even. "You haven't even given me a chance to listen." Her words surprised him; Josiah squinted a little. Did she really want to know the whole story? What if it's a trick? his mind asked tiredly, but it was too late for that. If she wanted him gone -- or worse -- she'd have plenty of chances to get rid of him. There was no turning back now. And besides -- Josiah's head was starting to ache. The dull pounding ruled out any more dodging of the truth. Olivia smiled reassuringly and gave him a little nod. "I wouldn't be so quick to judge. I just might prove you wrong."
"You might," he said shortly, and told her everything.