A/N: This is a very…different story. One I would have never thought would come to fruition in a million years. Yet, here it is, in all its convoluted glory. The idea came to me one day in a history class, and it's been bouncing around my head ever since. Hopefully its enjoyable, as it's rid me of the massive writer's block I've had for my other story. Feedback is deeply appreciated.
. . . . . .
He often reminisced about the times before he took up the cloth.
Those dark, demented days in which he indulged himself in the deep, endless pleasure of sin.
Back then, when the world was crumbling and people had lost all hope of salvation. He remembered his life before the collapse, but nothing much after. When he fell into that void, minutes blended into days, and he lost all sense of time. Only when he found himself half-dead on the Bishop's steps did he begin to retain his memory.
He'd like to think he'd redeemed himself; he provided a vital need for the people of the small town he now inhabited. It wasn't something physical, or tangible, such as food or silver, but it was a nourishment that filled their entire being, and helped them strive down a path towards tomorrow.
Still, old habits die hard.
As he poured the amber liquid in the clouded crystal glass, he offered the fidgeting man sitting in front of him the bottle.
"Sure you don't want any?" he grunted, meeting the man's eyes. "Helps settle the nerves, which seems like something you need right now." He added, offering the man a wide grin, arm extending towards him.
A small smile formed on the man's lips as he coughed out a nervous chuckle. "No thank you Father, I've sworn off the sauce for good. Scatters the brain, you know?" He laughed again while gently rubbing his neck, eyes averting the priest's gaze.
A minute frown creased his brow. "Allen, please. I've asked you several times not to call me that. It's not Father, or Priest, it's just Bill." The frown disappeared, replaced with a small, but reassuring smile. "There's no need for such formalities, we've been friends for years."
Allen nodded apprehensively. "Of course Fath- I mean Bill." He said, correcting himself.
Sighing, Bill knocked back his glass, the burning sensation spilling over his tongue and down his throat, final settling deep in his belly. "God that's good." He coughed out. "Nothing like the old stuff, but it gets the job done, eh?"
Allen only nodded.
Bill sighed, his brief respite from the world now over.
"Right, so down to business." He muttered, shifting to open a drawer in the center of the desk.
"How long has she shown symptoms?" He asked, reaching into the interior space and pulling out the necessary equipment; the 'Tools of Salvation', he jokingly referred to them as.
Allen began to fidget once again, fear becoming more apparent the longer he spoke. "It's been about a week now Bill…..It's bad." He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the topic at hand. "The fever, the sweating, the tendency towards violence…. It's all there." He breathed out, shakily running a hand across his shaven head.
"I know I should've come to you sooner… but I just didn't wanna believe that…" Bill held up a hand to stop him, nodding in acceptance. Allen let out anther unsteady breath, relived that Bill hadn't chewed him out for endangering the whole community.
"It's fine Allen, honestly." He began. "The important thing is you came to me before things got out of hand." Bill began to chamber the metallic shells, rotating them with each filled space. The instrument glinted as the evening sunlight seeped through the office blinds, altering his image of Bill and his into something altogether otherworldly.
Truly, Allen believed God walked alongside Bill, guiding him in his practice.
Bill, however, simply himself as an individual who had the strength to do what others couldn't.
Shoving the chamber back into place, Bill made a move for the decanter, plucking off the top and pouring himself another drink. Quickly raising it to his lips and swallowing the burning liquid, he began to stand, holstering his tools and grabbing the long duster that sat on the back of the chair.
"C'mon then," he spoke, adorning his coat and making his way towards the door.
"Let's do this before the buzz wears off."
. . . . . .
The town of Harbor was a small, prosperous city nestled along the base of the Rocky Mountains in the former state of Colorado. Its location, while not necessarily inconspicuous, was just out of the way that it managed to withstand the brunt of the apocalypse.
Bill found it completely by accident, chalking it up to serendipity.
It was during his journey west that he stumbled across the burgeoning settlement; back then the place was nothing but a small hamlet, just a handful of refugee families banding together in an abandoned town. He had planned to stay only a few days, determined to pass through the mountains before the snow fell.
Then, of course, there was the incident.
Afterwards, the small community was in awe of him; who was this mysterious stranger from the east that had saved them all?
The rest, they say, is history, and five years later Bill remained, watching over the people of the ever-growing Harbor with care.
It wasn't without trouble though; the local leadership proving to be more of a nuisance over the past several years.
Well, it was really just one individual, if Bill was being honest.
No matter though, he had his duties, and was content to stay within his area of expertise.
Finally arriving at Allen's place, Bill reached into his pocket, and pulled a smoke from its pack and an old flip lighter. Touching the end to the steady flame, he began to pull the smoke into his lungs as he waited patiently for Bill to receive the shed keys from his home.
Deciding to make his way around back, Bill examined the property around the home as he began to move towards the shed. The house itself was in immaculate shape, thanks to the efforts of Allen and his wife, Sarah, who only wanted the absolute best for their children. It was small for a family of five, but it was theirs, and they were happy.
That is, until their youngest became ill.
Maria was an adventurous little girl; beloved by the community for her kind disposition and illustrious story-telling. One could listen to her weave an imaginative tale of distant lands and mighty kingdoms for hours. She had wormed her way into the hearts of even the most jaded individuals in Harbor, Bill being the most recent.
His first interaction with her was by chance, with her walking into his office one day and asking him a simple question.
"Why is your head so shiny?"
Now that caught him off guard.
"Because I'm a mutant." He replied.
She nodded and left
As strange as the whole thing was, he thought that would be the end of it, as most members of the community gave him a wide berth. However, she was back the next day. And the day after that, and the day after that.
She would often stop by his office after her schooling around noon, and simply talk about whatever had struck her fancy that day. If he was honest, it was a little annoying at first, but over time he had slowly come to cherish those small afternoon meetings.
The last time he saw her, she complained about feeling a little under the weather.
Now he knew why.
As Bill stared intently at the large wooden shed that filled the backyard, he heard the door to the house open as Allen stepped out onto the back deck, keys in his shaking hands.
He looked back to him, meeting his eyes and nodding. Allen only gave a slight inclination he noticed as he moved passed Bill, unsteadily trying to find the proper key on the small metal ring.
Grabbing the heavy padlock, Allen began to struggle to insert the key, hands shaking terribly as he tried to calm himself. Bill saw this and moved over to him, placing a firm hand on Allen's shoulder and gently pulling him aside. Allen had tears streaking down his face, eyes locked on the ground. Bill carefully pulled the keys from his hands and turned to the padlock, quickly inserting it and turning the key.
"If you want turn away Al, that would be ok." He said as he looked behind him, to which Allen responded with a stifled sniff.
"No, no Bill, it's fine. I'm her father, I should be there for her." He choked out.
Bill nodded, and turned back to the door, unlocking it and letting the padlock fall to the ground.
"You ready?" he spoke aloud, to which Allen replied with a small grunt.
"Alright then." He said, as he thrust the shed door open.
. . . . . .
A long time ago, in another life, Bill had been a soldier in the army. He had signed up when he was nineteen, just a kid really, and found that he was surprisingly good at it.
He performed so well at his job, in fact, that he began to receive special assignments; top secret missions that were hid from the public eye.
He didn't care though; it wasn't like he was in the business for notoriety.
During his time in the service he saw his fair share of death and destruction. It was the norm for him, and death was no stranger.
When they came, however, everything changed.
The world had rejoiced when first contact was established; the human race was no longer alone in the vast expanse of the galaxy.
Humanity, in all its hopeful naivety, sent a small delegation to meet them in orbit.
The Rocks, in return, sent a plague.
It was unlike anything the world had ever seen, and as it swept through the populace killing billions, those infected began to transform. Their skin began to calcify, crystals began to grow out of their skin, and their brain slowly began to turn into mush. They became increasingly aggressive as their mind succumbed to the Geode Plague, and soon the only vestige of humanity that remained was a primal lust for blood.
The victims soon began to turn on their brethren, spreading the disease with each individual they came into contact with. Luckily, they were easy to kill, the brain continuing to act as the command center for all neurological activity. Still, too many succumbed to the horrifying end, and by the time the Earth's governments had somewhat gained control of the situation, they had an entirely new problem.
The sentient rocks that had engineered it began a ground war against the survivors.
And it was the most depraved brutality Bill had experienced in his entire life.
Warfare on a scale never before imagined against a species that was made from the very same material they walked upon. Billions more died in the conflict, and as the war drove on, the human race was pushed to the edge of extinction.
However, when all hope was lost, salvation came in the form of a young man with a gemstone stuck in his bellybutton, and a small group of rebel Gems.
They petitioned the government for a small strike force and space-flight able ship, stating that they themselves where the only thing capable of defeating the invading armada.
Long story short, Bill was picked to accompany them on their mission to the mothership.
The horrors he saw in that place were…. indescribable…. And although they succeeded in saving the planet, Bill was never the same.
Yet they succeeded; the intergalactic fiends were driven back, their leader smashed into dust.
They were treated as heroes once they were planet-side again, but it was a hollow victory
The bioweapon was unstoppable; it couldn't be contained any longer, and it continued its path of destruction.
The numerous world government's collapsed, and there was no end to the sickness in sight.
So, Bill left his group of battle-born companions and threw himself into oblivion, leaving his fate to the forces that be.
. . . . .
Yet somehow, through it all, Bill had survived.
He chalked it up to sheer dumb luck.
He was lucky that he was miraculously immune to the disease.
He was lucky he had survived the war.
He was lucky to survive the pit the had thrown himself in to.
He was just lucky.
The same could not be said for young Maria.
As he examined the child, he knew immediately that there was no hope for her. The sickness had already dug itself in deep, the crystals forming through her skin, sparkling in the dimly-lit shed.
When she saw him, she rushed towards him teeth bared, ready to sink into his flesh. Allen, however, had chained her to a cement pole in the ground, the rusty links of metal snapping her back, the only thing keeping Bill from having his throat torn out.
When the child found that she could not reach her prey, she began to howl, swiping her elongated claws at him through the space of air.
Behind him, Bill heard Allen begin to sob harshly, his cries of anguish barely registering above Maria's bestial screams.
He knew it was now or never.
Dropping his cigarette and grinding it into the dirt floor, Bill began to recite a simple prayer aloud, one he used specifically for these types of circumstances.
"Cursed be the ground for our sake…" He began, Allen's sobs behind hid reaching a crescendo.
He removed his Tool from his belt.
"Both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for us…"
Maria's efforts to reach him became more desperate, the heavy chain now struggling to keep her back.
"For out of the ground we are taken, for the dust we are…."
He raised his right hand, lining up the crosshairs of his Tool with the former little girl's head.
"And to the dust we shall return."
He crossed himself with his left hand, and pulled the trigger.
. . . . .
Later that evening, as Bill sat at his desk nursing a glass of amber liquid, he grew introspective over his 'profession'.
The funeral for Maria wouldn't be held for several days; the body needed to be properly cremated, as to avoid any unnecessary infection. Allen and his family were in mourning, but they were grateful for the task Bill had performed.
A parent shouldn't have to put down their child, after all.
Such was the life of a Priest; they were there to perform the duties that others couldn't bring themselves carry out.
It was heavy burden to bear.
But somebody had to do it.
And this wasn't his first execution.
Sighing, Bill downed the remainder of his glass, the pleasant burning sensation covering his mouth and lips. Returning the glass to its position on the desk, he opened the middle drawer and withdrew his pistol, placing it back into its box. It had been with him through it all, and it was the closest thing he had to family left in this world.
Before closing drawer, Bill's eye was caught by a small, rectangular piece of paper, barely wider than his palm. It was yellow with age and folding at the edges, and something that Bill had carried with him since the Great Collapse.
It was a picture of seven individuals, all crowded around one another in joyous celebration, smiles plastered on each face. The photo had been taken once they landed back on Earth, before they discovered that the Geode Plague was incurable.
He smiled melancholically at the thought.
He wondered where they all were now, if any had survived after all these years. He had heard rumors, of course, but that's all they were; rumors.
He gently sild the picture back into the drawer, closing it gently. He got up and poured himself another drink, moving towards the window and staring out at the stars.
That life was over; he had other responsibilities to focus on now.
. . . . . .
A lone figure stood above the small town, it's lights a beacon in the perpetually dark world it now resided in.
She knew this had to be the place; if the rumors were anything to go by, then this is surely where she would find him.
Readjusting the sword strapped to her back, the young, short haired women began to make her way towards the bright settlement.
Their job wasn't finished, and the whole team was required to fight the coming storm.