"Does he have a name?" Dion asked.
"It doesn't matter. He's just the Priest. Might be the only one left too."
Apollo took two steps into the church courtyard and already a nervousness came upon his shoulders that made him shudder. It was the first time in a while since he had that visceral gut reaction like his belly had been punctured and everything acidic in him came out. His pace was slow and he looked with close attention at the miserable expressions on the statues around him. It was a mausoleum of pain. The statues of angels and of Virgin Mary and of Christ. His shoulders twitched again as he heard the sound of the giant wooden doors open. There was a clicking sound coming from within. The attendees were leaving and they wore on their face fresh humility.
“Ah, we missed the sermon.” Dion said.
"Good." Apollo said.
They slithered through the crowd, coming to the holy water and dipping their hands to put the wet cross on their foreheads. It tingled, it bit. It reminded them of what they were not. Human.
The halls were large and arched, the noise of their footsteps reverberated back to them. They looked at the Gothic pillars and the way they converged into a dome and they looked at the feet of those pillars where the devout sat on their knees. They locked their hands into unbreakable chains of faith. Past them was the Priest. He was smiling until he counted his money.
He jingled the basket and had disappointment on his face as he saw the yield.
“We’re here.” Apollo said. The painted glass followed them with their neon eyes. He looked side to side and swore their dull faces dragged.
“Who are you?” The Priest was shaking his little basket.
“The Vicars?” Dion said.
“Who?”
“Uh. Hmm. You texted us? Right?” Dion said.
“Mmm. Maybe.” The Priest looked up. “Follow me.” Perhaps he played stupid, perhaps he was stupid. Either way, it didn’t help Apollo from feeling that grating annoyance that made his eyes twitch.
They headed to the graves, through doors upon doors. Doors into doors. Just as Apollo's blood was beginning to boil they made it outside. To the grave and grass and chorus of chirping and of crickets. They were at the graves and Apollo looked down to the piles of dirt, more doors. Entrances into the lives of the long dead who breathed into the two men a sense of mortality as they went past the erected stones. The recent years were the most frightening and Dion felt life come out of him as he read over a strangers grave, '1996-2017'.
Gust broke into the yard. The sound of bells broke into them, their concentration scattered to the all-encompassing sounds. They were hollow tings all around them, coming from the graves. The bells were strung up on the tops of small plastic poles like broken pipeline.
“Why would a corpse want room service?” Apollo asked.
“What? Room service? Oh.” The Priest laughed. “Oh! The bells?”
“No, just the sound, really.” Apollo said.
“Aha. Yes. We install those into every grave.”
“Into? Install? What?” Apollo said.
“It's tradition mostly. Started out of a fear.” The Priest raised his hands up and away from himself like a whimsical jester. “We had an accident a few years back. We came around to move a body, Andrew Boyle - God rest his soul - Well about this Andrew Boyle,” The Priest stopped. Apollo sniffed, Dion rolled his eyes and looked at the butterflies along the slabs. "I’ll cut it short then. We found claw marks in his coffin.”
“What the heck.” Dion said. “Was it a dog?”
“In the coffin, you idiot.” Apollo said. “Not on. In. What kind of fucking dog digs six feet under anyway?”
“Yes, it was very strange. Poor guy must have suffocated.” The Priest stopped at a worn grave, made a gross expression and moved on. “You could see the stiff fear on his face, like a statue. Like those poor souls in Pompeii who I’m sure saw death the same way he did, superimposed on their eyes. Blackness.”
"How bleak." Dion said.
“Should have made sure he was dead.” Apollo looked around to spit and decided better to do it on the path than the graves.
“Aha. Yeah. Well it was a strange thing for us and since then we've added a bell and rope to every hole.”
“That’s some fucked up room service.” He rubbed the dirt off of a plaque. A small karmic gesture. “How can you tell if anyone's still alive when it's this windy?”
The Priest looked up. He closed his eyes and began scratching his head. That was all the answer the two needed to feel that sense of dread grow inside of them again.
“Why’d you move the body anyway?” Dion asked.
“Weirdest thing. His wife wanted it moved.” He looked back and Dion could feel the grin pierce him as if nails had been hammered into the gaps inside his vertebrae. He hunched and cringed and then the Priest continued out of enjoyment. “She said she had a dream about him, that he was drowning. She had it four days in a row before she had enough and well...”
“And well.” Dion repeated. Sweat collected on his forehead.
The Priest held the tension with his smile before he broke into a jovial mood. The laugh competed with the wind and it drove his hair up.
“Well, that was years ago. We’re better now. You make mistakes, you learn. That kind of thing.” The Priest said.
Out of fear, Dion laughed too.
The grounds keeper looked at them with his leaf blower aimed without care at a wall. He was driving grass trimmings up and to the vines that extended like green fingers. The Priest looked at him too and copied his dumb face.
“Who are you again?” The Priest said.
“Enough fucking around. We’re the Vicars from the Vatican.” Apollo’s loud voice straightened out Dion.
“How can I be sure of that?” The Priest said.
“On account of us being the only ones here and knowledgeable about the fact. You didn't exactly post up the job in the yellow papers. We have a schedule, a text, a name.” Apollo wanted to add more than that but tempered the thoughts.
“Us four. God is here too, you savages.” The Priest smiled.
“Us four.” Dion's face eased. He still smelled of sweat.
“You have quite a mouth.” He looked to Apollo who rolled his neck like a newborn child, he felt something was about to take off in his skull.
“But when you're right, you're right. Right? I’ve summoned you and for a reason. Come along.” He dangled a key. They were in front of a small shed, dense with the smell of dirt and oil. The planks on the wall were half eaten by termites, the room was full with tools; scythes, hammers, nails mostly. The Priest lurked inside of the darkness of the shed where they could only see the small rays of light from the holed ceiling and the ephemeral particles of dust.
He came out with two rusted shovels.
“I can’t kill anything with a shovel.” Dion said.
Apollo was still recovering from his headache and rubbed his temples. “I can come up with a couple ways.” He mumbled.
“You need to think harder.” The Priest pointed to Dion. “And you need to relax.” His finger shifted to Apollo. “Your friends brought your stuff in a very strange way. They buried it, didn't tell me where though."
"Because they told us." Apollo said. "It's under a 'Mrs. Ruth'"
“They didn't tell me.” Dion said.
"You'd probably forget it even if they did." Apollo said.
Dion kicked dirt towards him. The Priest kept shallow smile.
"Why's it so elaborate anyway?" Dion moaned. His spade dragged along the stony road and hit every bump along the curve up to the site.
“Because it's too dangerous otherwise." Apollo said. "They used to just hand them to the keeper but there was an incident before with a rogue entity. Killed the guy, stole the weapons and used them to kill the Vicars themselves. Real fucking character that one. They sent a dozen Vicars after her. Most of them never came back and those that did killed themselves shortly after. The church never made that mistake again and you shouldn’t either. Don’t trust a single soul.” Apollo blocked the sun with his hand. Dion’s eyes were wide.
"But...but. What was her name?" Dion asked.
"Justiciar Léona." Apollo said "Don't worry, this was a hundred and fifty years ago. I’m sure the hourglass turned her over long ago."
Dion could not close his eyes as he imagined it. Apollo looked to him, hoping to see a frightened expression but suddenly saw Dion's face contort and scrunch. He was smiling.
Dion came out of the imagination, he looked at Apollo and returned his face to neutral before running up the hill. Something felt raw to Apollo as he processed all the faces around, Dion's moment of gladness, the priest, the wandering mourning characters, all black. He shook his head, it was nothing, he thought. But as he pushed his thighs up and put his shovel behind his neck he felt in his belly that acidic tingling as if, instinctively, he knew that the day would only get worse and that fact dragged on his soul.
ns 15.158.61.6da2
