The Killing League

13.

The Messiah

The small group walked into the desert, without words, without sound. The moon lit up the sand, and the stars turned the contingent’s shadows into thick, dark beings that mirrored their masters.

There were six men in all. They formed a loose circle with the sixth man in the middle. He was tall with long hair. He wore linen peasant pants and a loose cotton shirt.

The others had neat crewcuts and wore black shorts with black tank tops. Their skin glinted in the moonlight.

They crested a small rise in the desert sand and the man in the middle stopped. The others stopped like dogs on one leash.

The leader surmised the surroundings, looked to the heavens, exhaled a deep breath. His body relaxed.

“Disciples disrobe,” he said.

The others immediately pulled off their shirts, and dropped their shorts. Soon, all of them stood naked, save for the man in the middle.

The leader let his eyes roam his followers until he settled on one of the men.

“Bartholomew,” the leader said. The third man in the circle, tall and athletically built, left his spot and stood in front of the leader.

The others in the circle turned around, and faced outward, away from the leader.

The man known to the others as The Messiah, nodded to the man now standing in front of him. The follower dropped to his knees. The leader freed himself, then reached down, palmed Bartholomew’s head, and slowed the man’s ministrations, until he was moving at an unhurried, leisurely pace.

“Jedidiah and Matthew, prepare Joseph,” the leader said. Immediately, two of the men led a third to the center of the circle, within a few feet of The Messiah. They put their hands on his shoulders and guided him to the ground. Joseph was the youngest of the group, and also the slightest. His body trembled beneath the moonlight.

One of the men took Joseph’s hands and gently pulled outward, so that he was kneeling on all fours.

The desert wind picked up and sent a fine spray of sand over the group.

The Messiah lifted Bartholomew up and gently pushed him back toward the circle where he resumed his place, facing away from the drama unfolding in the center.

The Messiah walked to the three men in the middle and observed the youth. He knelt down behind the young man who tried to turn, but one of the disciples held him in place.

The Messiah lifted his shirt and tossed it to the ground behind him. A large chain with a heavy crucifix was around his neck.

He shoved himself roughly inside the youth. The Messiah reached up and took the heavy chain crucifix from his neck, leaned forward and wrapped it around the young man’s neck. He took the loose ends of the chain and wound them around his hands, like a garrote.

The Messiah felt the desert wind on his face, the slight sting of granules of sand. He thought of the ancients, of the Hebrews and the Philistines, of great treks across deserts like this one. Lost souls looking for a light, a spirit, guidance. He imagined a white-hot light radiating from his very essence, brighter than the burning salvation of Jesus, Mohammed, and Shiva combined.

He rode the young man and his hands slammed apart, tightening the chain garrote. The youth began to snort and twist, but the Messiah maintained his hold.

The young man’s tongue shot from his mouth, his face turned purple.

The Messiah’s eyes blazed. He thought of a majestic mountain circled by millions of his followers, kneeling, all begging him for final salvation.

The Messiah kept the chain tight around the youth’s throat, the links tearing through the skin, blood soaking the sand below.

When the Messiah heard the young man give his death rattle, and when he felt the body relax as the last bit of life ebbed from the youth beneath him, he stood, breathing heavily.

When he spoke, he felt as if the voice of God himself poured like pure oxygen from his lungs.

“Prepare the grave,” he said, his voice thick with exertion.

Immediately, the remaining four men dug into the sand with their bare hands.