Chapter one
Charley McCoy was a big, bald, friendly man who'd been in Gotham all his life. He was to serve as John's mentor and teacher.
"The thing to remember John, is that most of these kids have no hope. No hope, no way out. Gotham's streets are a tomb filled with the living dead as far as they can see. Our job is to give 'em that hope, because once they have that, they can start making their lives a little better." The two of them sat in their tiny chapel, dim and dingy and falling apart before their eyes.
"What is there about this city that makes them that way?" John had asked.
"I don't know. Gotham has always been a grim place. The weather's grim, the architecture's grim, and the people are grim. It's got more per capita crime than any other major city in the U.S., and more nut-jobs like the Joker than anywhere else in the world. The government's corrupt, and everyone knows it."
"What about Batman?"
Charley grinned. "Heard of him, have you? He's here all right, though I've never seen him myself. Sometimes it seems like he's everywhere at once, watching everything that goes down. He's got to be a good-sized legend, nowadays. Folks say he's ten feet tall, breathes fire, flies, has wings and claws, can walk through walls, that kind of thing."
"He's not that big, and he doesn't breathe fire. He might fly, though."
"You've seen Batman?"
"Once. I was just a kid. Came through the twelfth-story window right into our living room, scared the daylights out of me. Probably saved our lives."
Charley nodded thoughtfully, sucking a tooth. "That sounds like the Bat, all right. Say, why'd you come back to Gotham, anyway?"
John thought about it a while. "I guess I just had the call to be here. Guess God just had plans for me in this city."
"Maybe so. Meantime, this place could use a cleaning up before the evening service."
"Get a lot of people for the services?"
"More than you might think. Old folks, a few of the working men and their families. A couple of the street people who come in here for the soup kitchen during the week. Even some of the kids. They aren't all gang members, though too many are."
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A few weeks later, John got his first real encounter with Gotham's sickness. During the late midweek prayer meeting, when only he and a handful of the faithful were in the church, a group of young hoods came through the door. The five of them couldn't have averaged out at more than thirteen years old, but their knives were sharp, and their eyes had the hardness of practiced killers.
John moved between them and his flock. "May I help you gentlemen?" He asked as calmly as he could.
"Hey, brutha man, juss' stay outa our face. You got any cash in this dump?" The spokesman was a tall, gangly boy, with coal-black skin and kinky dreadlocks. His clothes were denim rags. Behind him, his cohorts, two lanky hispanics who looked like twins, a skinny white kid with a nasty scar on his face, and a couple of small black kids wearing clothes similar to the leader's, murmured assent and moved forward as a mass.
"I can't let you carry weapons in this church. Put down your knives, boys." John's tone was steel-hard. The young thug just laughed.
"Lissen, preacher. My boyz here are going to do whatever the hell they feel like doing, in this church, or out of it, and you can't stop us."
"I can do anything, with God on my side."
"I'll believe that when I see it, preacher."
"You'll see it now." He kicked the switchblade out of the kid's hand, pushed him aside, and disarmed the white boy. The younger black kid was going to pieces, and looked like retreating when he saw one of the hispanics go down. Two still had knives in their hands, and they were the two farthest back. John was unscathed. "I'll say this again, boys. Drop the blades, or get out. People are trying to pray." The little gang turned and ran. John grabbed the leader by the scruff of his neck, and hauled him off his feet.
"You stay, son. What's your name?" His young prisoner snarled incoherently. "Listen, son. Listen good. You're going to leave me and my congregation alone from here on out, and if you ever come back here, do it without your knives. You behave yourself, you're more than welcome."
"Yeah, whatever you say, preacher. Just let me go."
"If I catch word of you acting up like this again, I'm taking you down. Remember that. And remember that I have God on my side." He let the boy go, collected the dropped blades, and returned to his small and frightened flock.
Charley McCoy was a big, bald, friendly man who'd been in Gotham all his life. He was to serve as John's mentor and teacher.
"The thing to remember John, is that most of these kids have no hope. No hope, no way out. Gotham's streets are a tomb filled with the living dead as far as they can see. Our job is to give 'em that hope, because once they have that, they can start making their lives a little better." The two of them sat in their tiny chapel, dim and dingy and falling apart before their eyes.
"What is there about this city that makes them that way?" John had asked.
"I don't know. Gotham has always been a grim place. The weather's grim, the architecture's grim, and the people are grim. It's got more per capita crime than any other major city in the U.S., and more nut-jobs like the Joker than anywhere else in the world. The government's corrupt, and everyone knows it."
"What about Batman?"
Charley grinned. "Heard of him, have you? He's here all right, though I've never seen him myself. Sometimes it seems like he's everywhere at once, watching everything that goes down. He's got to be a good-sized legend, nowadays. Folks say he's ten feet tall, breathes fire, flies, has wings and claws, can walk through walls, that kind of thing."
"He's not that big, and he doesn't breathe fire. He might fly, though."
"You've seen Batman?"
"Once. I was just a kid. Came through the twelfth-story window right into our living room, scared the daylights out of me. Probably saved our lives."
Charley nodded thoughtfully, sucking a tooth. "That sounds like the Bat, all right. Say, why'd you come back to Gotham, anyway?"
John thought about it a while. "I guess I just had the call to be here. Guess God just had plans for me in this city."
"Maybe so. Meantime, this place could use a cleaning up before the evening service."
"Get a lot of people for the services?"
"More than you might think. Old folks, a few of the working men and their families. A couple of the street people who come in here for the soup kitchen during the week. Even some of the kids. They aren't all gang members, though too many are."
*******************************
A few weeks later, John got his first real encounter with Gotham's sickness. During the late midweek prayer meeting, when only he and a handful of the faithful were in the church, a group of young hoods came through the door. The five of them couldn't have averaged out at more than thirteen years old, but their knives were sharp, and their eyes had the hardness of practiced killers.
John moved between them and his flock. "May I help you gentlemen?" He asked as calmly as he could.
"Hey, brutha man, juss' stay outa our face. You got any cash in this dump?" The spokesman was a tall, gangly boy, with coal-black skin and kinky dreadlocks. His clothes were denim rags. Behind him, his cohorts, two lanky hispanics who looked like twins, a skinny white kid with a nasty scar on his face, and a couple of small black kids wearing clothes similar to the leader's, murmured assent and moved forward as a mass.
"I can't let you carry weapons in this church. Put down your knives, boys." John's tone was steel-hard. The young thug just laughed.
"Lissen, preacher. My boyz here are going to do whatever the hell they feel like doing, in this church, or out of it, and you can't stop us."
"I can do anything, with God on my side."
"I'll believe that when I see it, preacher."
"You'll see it now." He kicked the switchblade out of the kid's hand, pushed him aside, and disarmed the white boy. The younger black kid was going to pieces, and looked like retreating when he saw one of the hispanics go down. Two still had knives in their hands, and they were the two farthest back. John was unscathed. "I'll say this again, boys. Drop the blades, or get out. People are trying to pray." The little gang turned and ran. John grabbed the leader by the scruff of his neck, and hauled him off his feet.
"You stay, son. What's your name?" His young prisoner snarled incoherently. "Listen, son. Listen good. You're going to leave me and my congregation alone from here on out, and if you ever come back here, do it without your knives. You behave yourself, you're more than welcome."
"Yeah, whatever you say, preacher. Just let me go."
"If I catch word of you acting up like this again, I'm taking you down. Remember that. And remember that I have God on my side." He let the boy go, collected the dropped blades, and returned to his small and frightened flock.
