Godsend

“The Lord is my light and my salvation; Whom shall I fear?”

Ben hadn’t seen another car for miles. Not since that van turned onto a private dirt road…an hour ago? An hour and a half? He couldn’t remember. The van had insisted on tailing him instead of just passing. The sameness of his surroundings — vast tracts of farmland dedicated to the cultivation of corn or soybeans, depending on the season, no man-made structures apart from barns or silos or fences, and, above all, breathtakingly flat — scrambled his perception of time. It was as though he were driving along an agrarian Möbius strip with no beginning and no end. Only occasional landmarks disrupted the monotony, like the farm on which a lone black buffalo resided.

“The Lord is the strength of my life;

Of whom shall I be afraid?”

Ben loosened up after the van turned off the road. He’d been paranoid about being followed ever since he’d started the return trip. The van had nearly sent him into a tailspin. What if they knew? Knew who he was, where he was going, what he had in the back of his pickup?

Even inadvertent tailgaters like the van were a problem. He’d taken care to securely fasten the blue tarp over the pickup bed, but still, what if one of the cords came loose and the tarp flew into a field? The Prelate had stressed over and over how vital it was that no one saw what Ben was carrying in his truck. Ben had even filled up a half-dozen plastic gas cans and put them in the backseat so that he wouldn’t have to stop at a gas station on the way.

“One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to enquire in his temple.”

The drive was taking longer than usual. An extra two hours at least, give or take. He was staying off the highway, another precaution — he didn’t want to risk getting in an accident or a cop pulling him over for going five miles above the speed limit. He was going well above that, anywhere between ten and fifteen miles.

It didn’t matter, though. It was almost midnight, and it was as though someone had poured a can of the blackest black over the whole of the earth. Ben’s headlights cut through the darkness, carving out a narrow car-sized tunnel through which he could make out the road. If he looked out of the driver-side window he could see nothing, not even the outline of something that might be out somewhere in the distance. He couldn’t help but feel vulnerable. If his truck broke down, the darkness would swallow him whole and he’d never be seen again, leaving behind not even the trace of a man who had once lived.

“Hear, O Lord, when I cry with my voice: have mercy also upon me, and answer me.”

Ben took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. His stomach let out a loud gurgle. He hadn’t eaten anything since starting the trip. He’d made a mental note to stop at the grocery store and pick up some snacks for the road, but of course he forgot, because that’s what always happened when he made mental notes. And he couldn’t stop now. He’d need to wait. It’d be worth it once he was done.

Tonight had been a long time coming for Ben, the oldest of three children. His father was a forklift operator at a warehouse. His mom had wanted to stay at home with the kids just like her mom had but couldn’t because “regular people” like her husband didn’t earn those sorts of wages anymore, so she became a mail carrier. In school Ben had been a middle-of-the-road student, earning enough of a mix of Bs and Cs that his parents and teachers felt that he could do better if he tried but that also didn’t trigger parent-teacher conferences or rescinded privileges at home.

After graduating high school, Ben went to work at the local Quiky-Lube, a small chain of car maintenance shops. It’s not that he couldn’t have gotten into college, though he’d have had to take out loans and probably work a job or two, since his parents didn’t earn enough to cover the cost of even a single college education, never mind three. (Ben’s siblings, a brother and sister two and four years his junior, respectively, both went to college, paying their own way.)

Rather, Ben’s aspirations, such as they were, didn’t align with the college agenda. As Ben saw it, college was for those who wanted careers instead of jobs, people who saw what they did as an extension of who they were. Ben was more pragmatic: a job was a way to make money, nothing more. If you found meaning and purpose and satisfaction, great, but a job wasn’t worth dismissing just because it didn’t provide those things. Moreover, the pursuit of such abstract returns on top of — and potentially in lieu of — money didn’t always justify more years in school or loans that somehow never seemed to shrink even if you kept up with the monthly payments.

His life, while unremarkable, was satisfying.

For a while.

Ben’s contentment with his life began to falter somewhere around the fifth anniversary of his high school graduation. He’d been promoted to assistant manager of the Quiky-Lube the year before, after the previous assistant manager got his commercial driver’s license and committed himself to the monastic life of long-haul trucking. For someone with a profoundly utilitarian attitude towards capitalist employment, he was moving on up. He could become general manager one day, maybe even a franchisee.

And yet it wasn’t enough to disrupt what had become the increasing monotony of his day-to-day life. He woke up at the same time, ate the same breakfast, walked to work, performed more or less the same tasks, then walked home. On his days off, he’d sometimes visit his parents to have lunch or watch sports with his dad, but his schedule varied so much — even more so after his promotion — that most weeks he was on his own. He got along with the other mechanics at the Quiky-Lube just fine but he didn’t consider any of them friends outside of work. A few buddies from high school stuck around after graduation — or lived close enough to allow for occasional hangouts — but they too started to go their own ways.

Ben sought relief in two ways. The first was video games. He had one console when he moved into his apartment and eventually acquired two more, toggling amongst them and amongst games, replaying some but mostly adding new ones to his collection as soon as he finished the main story or collected every collectible or obtained every imaginable upgrade, chasing the high of digital triumph. He never got into multiplayer games, preferring to play solo.

And then there was porn. At first it was just one way that he entertained himself — video games one evening, porn another — but after a while it became a habit. He’d have breakfast, look at some porn, jerk off, go to work, come home, eat dinner, look at more porn, jerk off, and then watch TV or play a game before bed. The porn didn’t scratch the same itch as the video games, it didn’t give him XP against which he could measure the course of his life. But it did give him another sort of escapism. It allowed him to imagine that one day a gorgeous woman with a huge rack would come in for a tire rotation and then insist that he bend her over the hood of her car, or she might realize that she left her wallet at home and ask if there was another way she could pay for her oil change and next thing you knew she was sucking him off in a supply closet. In short, he could entertain the possibility, however outlandish, that today might not be like yesterday, or like tomorrow. Maybe, just maybe, one of his customers would want to take off his pants rather than stare straight ahead or down at their phones as though their car were being serviced by an automaton.

One day, Ben found a flyer left in the Quiky-Lube waiting room. The text was black, Times New Roman, centered, all set in the same large size. The flyer promised “FRIENDSHIP” and “FAMILY” and “COMMUNITY” and “THE TRUTH” — in all-caps — to anyone who joined the Church of Modern Miracles. He’d heard of the church but knew little about it. Its membership was small and tight-knit, and their services were held in a refurbished barn located right where the town center started giving way to farmland. He was surprised that they’d do something as bold as leaving an open invitation in a car shop.

Ben attended church as a child but, as evidenced by his logarithmically-intensifying porn addiction, fell off the wagon in adulthood. Evangelical Christianity was very much the name of the game in these parts — the town boasted a thoroughly milquetoast Methodist church, but its parking lot was never packed on Sunday mornings. Ben’s parents, like most of the adults in town, preferred the pastors who went on declensionist diatribes about how America had become a nation of sinners thanks to its embrace of abortion and no-fault divorce and the homosexuals and — yes — pornography. Like many of his generation, Ben’s relationship to the church had frayed once it was no longer a duty imposed by his parents, but sometimes he could still feel its presence like a phantom limb, like in the electrochemical jolt of guilt that sometimes coursed through his body when he climaxed after watching porn.

It had been almost four years since Ben found that flyer in the waiting room and, on that Sunday, attended his first service at the Church of Modern Miracles. If he were honest with himself, he’d gone mostly out of boredom and a desire to do something different. He probably could’ve scratched that ecclesiastical itch by going back to his childhood church or even visiting the s—y Methodist one, but the Church of Modern Miracles had an added quality that made it more enticing — it wasn’t the sort of place the typical God-fearing town denizen was likely to go. As far as he could tell, he was the only one who came because of the flyer. Ben learned that the church’s presence in the community went farther back than he realized, that the church had once been even smaller and more clandestine and had gone by other names, most recently the Church of Jesus Christ, the King of Kings. Even so, it managed to leave almost no mark on local history.

Ben’s enthusiasm made a strong impression early on. Just a month in, he confessed his porn addiction to the congregation. The Prelate encouraged him to bring his laptop the following week, and with the congregation cheering him on, he deleted all the porn he had on his hard drive and installed web blockers to prevent him from looking up more if he relapsed. Not long after that he gave up video games too, selling his consoles and games, not because the church looked down upon them, but because Ben no longer needed them. Days off became dedicated to church work. Most evenings after work he’d study the Bible or go through the church’s archives, reading books or sermons from prior Prelates. About two years after joining, the Prelate offered him an administrative role in the church. They couldn’t pay much, but the Prelate allowed him to live in a small apartment adjoining the church rent-free.

“When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.”

He tried to persuade his parents to join the church but they refused. As much as Ben tried to persuade them that the Church of Modern Miracles was actually Christian, they couldn’t shake their suspicions. They’d even use the dreaded c-word, which Ben couldn’t stomach, but he knew that’s what most of the town believed too. They were especially aghast when Ben quit the Quiky-Lube. Eventually he gave up trying. He’d still go over for meals and the occasional game, but that became more sporadic the longer he was in the church.

Then came the assignment. It happened on a Sunday morning. In the middle of a sermon, the Prelate suddenly froze and collapsed to the floor, convulsing. The Prelate had had a number of such episodes, though no one spoke openly about them, since up until then they had all happened at home and had lasted seconds at most. Whispers spread through the congregation that God was preparing the Prelate for a major revelation. And it seemed that the time had come, since this episode went on for several minutes and was more violent than the others. One of the newer members of the congregation wanted to call an ambulance but the old-timers stopped him. When the Prelate returned to them, he informed the congregation that God had given him instructions for a task. Not only that, God had also identified who was supposed to carry out this task.

“Teach me thy way, O Lord, and lead me in a plain path, because of mine enemies.”

Some of the old-timers resented Ben. They never said it openly, but Ben heard through the grapevine that some considered him too junior to receive such an important assignment. Ben was surprised too. After the service was over, Ben asked the Prelate why God had picked him. He insisted that he wasn’t second-guessing God — he only wondered if God had given the Prelate any insight as to why he’d been chosen over more senior members of the church. After a moment of silence, the Prelate said that he needed it more than the others. Ben wasn’t sure if the Prelate was passing along God’s words or speaking for himself. He didn’t elaborate, and Ben didn’t press him.

“Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart —”

There’d been months of watching involved. Apparently God had not provided the Prelate with a date or time or location, though there were signs to watch for. Not until that evening were they confident that the time had come.

“— wait, I say, on the Lord.”

Thankfully everything had gone smoothly so far. Just a little more to go.

Then everything would change.

Ben failed to register that a vehicle had turned onto the road and was now behind him. The vehicle sped up. Then waves of red and blue light burst out in all directions like shrapnel.

No. No no no no no no. Ben recalled the day that he’d come home from elementary school and said “goddamn” in his mother’s presence after learning the word from one of his classmates. His mother promptly bent him over her lap and smacked his ass. From that day on he’d had little appetite for profanity. But he sure felt like letting some loose right now. But any sort of outburst might arouse his passenger, and that was the last thing he needed right now. He briefly considered hitting the gas and trying to outrun the officer, but what good would that do?

The only way out, for better or worse, was through.

He pulled over to the side of the road, his tires making a crunching sound as they went off the pavement and onto gravel. The police car stopped about twenty or thirty feet behind him.

Officer Hamlin wasn’t supposed to be out here tonight. He’d answered a call about trespassing — apparently a group of teenagers were spotted cutting through one of the fields and upsetting the livestock. Nothing destructive, just the sort of mundane stupid s— young kids — especially young boys — got involved in. He drove out, talked with the property owner, and walked the field, but by that point the kids were already gone and probably harassing another farmer. The farms out here sat on sprawling tracts of land — your “next-door” neighbor could easily be miles down the road. These kids almost certainly weren’t local. Didn’t they have anything better to do? Where were their parents? Officer Hamlin shook his head. Now he was starting to sound like his parents.

Officer Hamlin was waiting at a stop sign when a blue pickup truck passed by. His eyes followed it, which was when he noticed something.

Ben inhaled deeply. When he exhaled his breath came out staggered, as though the temperature had plummeted in a matter of seconds. His eyes instinctively flicked over to the passenger seat. He should’ve kept it in his glove compartment, out of sight. But he’d wanted easy access to it if the need arose. He also hadn’t expected to get pulled over by a cop.

Hamlin got out of his car. In one hand he held his flashlight — the other rested atop his holster. He wouldn’t ordinarily be so guarded, but it was nighttime, and no one else was around. Uncertainty was baked into any interaction between police and civilians, all the more so when the sun went down. As far as he could tell there was only one person in the vehicle, a male. The truck looked like an older model, judging from its boxy design, the chipped paint, and the low rumble the engine made as it idled.

Hamlin approached the driver’s side door and gently tapped the window with his knuckles. The man rolled the window down with a manual crank, confirming Hamlin’s suspicions about the age of the truck.

“Evening, officer,” Ben said in a flat tone bereft of even any pretense of pleasantries. He faced forward, avoiding eye contact.

“Evening,” Hamlin replied. The driver was aggressively normal in appearance: short brown hair combed forward, thin frame, head slightly too big for his body. Hamlin spied a cross hanging from the rearview mirror. “You know why I pulled you over?”

Hamlin swung his flashlight to the backseat. Ben’s heart quickened. He knew what was about to happen but he was powerless to stop it. Maybe he could still floor it — by the time the officer got back to his car he could be out of sight.

“Couldn’t say,” Ben answered sincerely.

“Well, your taillights are out,” Hamlin told him. “That or they’re busted. Either way it’s damn near impossible to see —”

Hamlin’s flashlight landed on the passenger seat. Exactly where it inevitably would, and exactly where Ben hadn’t wanted it to. It fell first on the black leather Bible. And next to it —

Hamlin unbuttoned the strap that secured his pistol in his holster.

“Whatcha got that for?” Hamlin’s light was fixed on the handgun.

“Protection,” Ben said, continuing to not look at Hamlin.

Hamlin nodded, not entirely without sympathy — a lot of folks were armed out here. But the hmm he let out betrayed a measure of skepticism. “Protection…anyone in particular you’re scared of?”

Ben shrugged. “No. But you know how it is.”

“I sure do.” Hamlin’s right hand was now hugging his pistol grip. “I’m afraid I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle.”

Ben felt something catch in his chest, like a clot that made his heart stop. He stammered. “I — I don’t understand, Officer. I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong, I — this is just for protection, I swear —”

“I know, sir, I know. But when I catch someone driving in the dead of night with a handgun next to them, I just…I like to be sure everything’s on the up and up before I send you on your way. Make sure there’s no outstanding warrants or things of that nature. I’m sure you can see where I’m coming from.”

Ben’s eyes moved to the rearview mirror. This was getting worse. If he looked in the back…

“Please, Officer,” Ben pleaded, his voice cracking slightly. “I really need to get going. I’m —” He swallowed loudly. “— I can’t be late. It’s very important that I get to where I need to be.”

“And where’s that?”

Ben hesitated before answering. “Church. My congregation, they’re waiting for me. I have to get back.”

It was an honest answer, even if it omitted some facts. And one that Hamlin could respect — he and his wife were, after all, active members of the town’s Methodist church. But at this moment, he was, first and foremost, an officer of the law.

He tugged on his sleeve so he could check his watch. “Awfully late,” he observed. “I’m not here to judge, but your church sure sounds like it keeps odd hours.”

Thunk.

It came from the back of the truck. Ben squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that when he opened them he’d find that this was all a hallucination. When he opened his eyes, he found that he was still here, facing ruin.

Officer Hamlin now had his sidearm drawn and trained on Ben. All pretense of congeniality was gone.

“Out of the car!” he barked. “Now!”

Ben had no choice but to comply.

“Hands behind your head where I can see them! Facing the vehicle!” Hamlin ordered sharply as Ben stepped out.

As soon as he assumed the instructed position, Hamlin yanked his arms behind his back and cuffed his wrists.

Another thunk, this one more aggressive.

“Stay where you are,” Hamlin said as he went to the back of the truck.

Ben shook his head furiously. “Sir, please, it’ll be better for you if you just leave it alone.”

“That so?”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. They were getting louder and more frequent.

It was all falling apart. Ben was picturing everything that would come next. He might be charged and have to pay a fine or serve some jail time. But even if he wasn’t, the church would be exposed and he’d get kicked out for sure. He’d have to go back to the Quiky-Lube, assuming they’d even take him back. None of this would stay under wraps. He’d become the town pariah. He’d probably end up living with his parents again, or he’d have to stay with one of his aunts and uncles out of state, someplace where no one had heard of the Church of Modern Miracles. Maybe then he could start his life over, if there were anything of his life worth salvaging.

“You don’t understand.” He sounded like a parent trying to reason with a child. “You need to let me go, it’s very important —”

Hamlin had tuned Ben out. He didn’t know whether Ben was trying to trick him or just delusional, and at this point he didn’t care. It was looking more and more like Hamlin had stumbled on a kidnapping, or possibly human trafficking. The story about going to church was bunk, an attempt to get let off with a warning.

Hamlin started undoing the cords that held the tarp in place.

“OKOKOKOKOK.” It came out as one long word. Ben took a deep breath, trying as best he could to center himself. “If you’re gonna do this, there’s something I gotta ask you: have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?”

This stopped Hamlin. He turned back to Ben, one eyebrow turned up. He had, as a matter of fact. But it was an odd thing to ask right now. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Ben managed a wan smile. “Might matter more than you think.”

Hamlin yanked the tarp off, letting it float off into the adjacent field.

Even with the flashlight, it was hard to figure out exactly what he was seeing. They lay in a fetal position, arms and legs and head tucked into their chest, and they appeared to be wrapped in something black — maybe towels, maybe blankets. Without touching it, he couldn’t identify the material. They also seemed to be wearing some sort of black bodysuit. Even stranger than all of that — which was saying something — was that they hadn’t reacted to Hamlin removing the tarp. Not a minute earlier, it seemed like they were going out of their way to make their presence known, but now that he’d come to their aid, they’d gone still.

“Sir?” It came out tentatively. “Ma’am? Do you need medical attent —”

The occupant of the bed began to unfurl. First they stretched out their legs, then they removed whatever had been draped around them. They weren’t towels or blankets. They seemed to be moving on their own, attached at points along their back, like…wings.

The arms unfolded next, their massive hands — twice the size of an ordinary person’s, with unnaturally long fingers that curled at their tips like claws — grabbing the sides of the truck so they could lift themselves onto their feet. Back straight, chest open, they finally raised their head.

Hamlin didn’t know what he was looking at. But his belief that this was a person was rapidly hemorrhaging. Their head was narrow and oval and covered in white pupil-less eyes. It had no ears, no nose, nothing that looked like it could function as a mouth. All the eyes seemed to move independently, taking in a panoramic view of their surroundings.

The creature leapt from the truck. It stood at least seven feet tall, though it had a slight bend to its knees and elbows, meaning that it was actually even taller. Its skin was the color of tar, its bones protruding. It moved jerkily, as though its limbs were controlled by puppet strings. The creature tilted its head back and then to either side, like a dog sniffing the air. It made a noise resembling a soft throaty chirp. It then abruptly turned towards Officer Hamlin, as though noticing him for the first time.

Officer Hamlin staggered backwards. His training kicked in and he had his firearm fixed on the creature. He glanced back at Ben, whose demeanor had shifted dramatically. Before he was panicky, evasive, it was so obvious that he had something to hide — even the teens Hamlin busted for smoking joints put on better acts. But since the creature had emerged, he was flush with resolve. He stood straight, staring up at the creature hungrily, the corner of his mouth turned into a cocksure grin.

“Don’t be scared, Officer.” He pitched his voice as though he were talking over something. The creature regarded Ben, who was now walking towards Officer Hamlin. “You should be honored. You’re in the presence of one of God’s very own messengers. He’s here to help us.”

Officer Hamlin trained his weapon on Ben. “Stay where you are!” He had nothing but his scripted commands to rely on. The only thing that made less sense than the creature standing in front of him was Ben’s attempts at offering an explanation. “Don’t come any closer!”

“I saw also the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple.” Whether he was oblivious to the fact that Hamlin was pointing a gun at him or he just didn’t care, even Ben couldn’t say for sure.

Hamlin stepped one foot back, firming up his stance. “I’m warning you! I will shoot if you don’t stop!” The creature appeared to be watching both of them, savoring the tension, eager to see how this would end.

“Above it stood the seraphim: each one had six wings; with twain he covered his face, and with twain he covered his feet, and with twain he did fly.” Ben’s voice had an almost imperceptible tremor.

“I’M GOING TO SHOOT!”

Ben was handcuffed. He posed no threat. Officer Hamlin had, in fact, directed his attention away from the one that could actually hurt him if it wanted to. If he took just two seconds to think about it, or maybe if one of his buddies from the force had been here, it’d be so obvious. Or maybe they, like Ben, like him, would’ve regressed to a crude facsimile of themselves, a child of entropy and inertia.

“And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory.”

The bullet struck Ben at the base of the sternum. He staggered backwards, his skull making an ugly cracking sound as he hit the pavement.

Air caught in Hamlin’s lungs. He’d never shot anyone before. He’d never needed to. He still hadn’t needed to. If he could look away, he might be able to convince himself that he hadn’t done it, that some phantom had snatched the gun from him, pulled the trigger, then put the gun back in his hand to frame him. But he kept staring at Ben’s motionless body, and the longer he stared the deeper the image burned itself into his eyes, leaving him with no way of denying that he’d just shot a man whose hands were cuffed behind his back.

The creature lunged at him. Hamlin pulled himself together fast enough to get off a shot, but it went over the creature’s shoulder. Before he could fire another round, the creature had him by the neck, lifting him off the ground so that they were face-to-face. Hamlin’s pistol clattered to the pavement.

The creature pulled him close. Hamlin could now make out a groove that cut across the center of the creature’s face, weaving in between the eyes. Speaking of the eyes, it turned out they did have pupils, only every single one of them was covered in a cloudy gray occlusion. Was it blind? What a stupid thing to wonder about right now. Hamlin coughed as the creature’s grip on him tightened.

“Was he…right about you?” He struggled to breathe but he managed to grunt out the words. “Was he telling the truth?” He wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish. Stalling, maybe, or a distraction. He didn’t expect the creature to answer.

Then the groove on the creature’s face split open. Eyes were replaced by teeth, white and long and narrow and ending in points like icicles, there must’ve been two, maybe three dozen of them.

Before Hamlin could mount a fruitless defense, before he could even let out a cry, the creature had Officer Hamlin’s head in its mouth. Hamlin thrashed, arms and legs flailing with impotent violence. The creature bit down, its teeth easily piercing Hamlin’s neck, puncturing vessels and severing vertebrae. Officer Hamlin instantly went limp.

The creature held Hamlin’s head in its mouth like it was sucking a lollipop, as though it were trying to decide whether it wanted to tear his head from his body. Blood crept down Hamlin’s body from the puncture points in his neck in thin streams.

The creature opened its mouth as though intending to let him go — as its teeth pulled out, the trickle of blood turned into a thick stream that squirted out of his neck. But then its mouth continued to widen, seemingly unencumbered by flesh and bone, its skin stretching to grotesque lengths like some carnival act. At times the creature seemed to strain against the effort. The creature stopped only when its mouth was as wide as Officer Hamlin’s shoulders, at which point it consumed Hamlin’s torso, using its teeth to pull his body into itself like a snake, a grueling and grotesque procedure.

Once the creature reached Hamlin’s waist, it threw its head back so that Hamlin’s legs lifted into the air. The creature then let gravity do the rest.

When it was over, there were no cartoonish bulges on the creature’s body to indicate that it had just swallowed a man whole — Hamlin’s body had seemingly disappeared into the creature.

The creature turned back to Ben, lumbering over to his body. It crouched, studying the bullet wound in his chest. It then produced, from nowhere, a black stone that gave off faint wisps of smoke. It gently pressed the black stone against Ben’s lips and held it there.

Ben’s eyes opened groggily, as though waking up from a deep sleep. The creature stepped back, the black stone vanishing as abruptly as it had appeared.

Ben sat up. As he did the handcuffs fell off his wrists — whether they were damaged in the fall or the seraphim had somehow undone them, he couldn’t be sure. He rubbed the back of his head, expecting some swelling, but felt none. He touched the spot on his chest where the bullet had penetrated him. The wound was gone. He turned and saw the bullet lying on the road, flattened by the impact with his body. He picked it up. It was still warm. He turned it over between his thumb and forefinger before pocketing it.

He couldn’t remember anything that had happened between the time Hamlin shot him and now. Contrary to pop culture clichés and purported eyewitness accounts, there’d been no white light, no pearly gates. He’d been nowhere, scrubbed from any and every plane of existence until the seraphim had…what, exactly? Plucked him out of the great nothingness? Refashioned him from some primordial clay?

Ben looked to where the seraphim had been standing, but the seraphim was already returning to the truck bed, lifting its legs with a difficulty Ben hadn’t seen before. By the time Ben reached the truck, the seraphim had returned to the same fetal position in which Officer Hamlin had found it. Ben retrieved the tarp and secured it over the bed.

Before getting into the truck, Ben took one last look at Hamlin’s police cruiser. The red and blue lights were still flashing. He saw Hamlin’s handgun lying where he’d been standing when he shot Ben. He didn’t know if the seraphim would tell him what happened while he’d been dead. Maybe it was best that he didn’t know. But he thought that he now understood what the Prelate meant when he’d said that Ben had needed this assignment the most.

Ben started the engine and continued the drive. He checked the digital clock on the dash. The Prelate would ask what had taken so long. He’d taken the bullet as proof of the seraphim’s miracle, but he also recognized that telling the Prelate and the congregation about a standoff with a police officer might cause panic. Not that they had anything to worry about. The police department would launch an investigation. There was hardly any physical evidence at the scene so it would most likely go nowhere. But even if they somehow managed to confirm Ben’s presence, it wouldn’t make a difference. The Prelate had received additional revelations in the last couple of days. With the seraphim’s arrival, the church would move quickly.

Ben made a mental note to go to the auto parts store in the morning to pick up a new bulb for the taillights. Hopefully this time he’d remember.

Davor Mondom was born in Bosnia. He and his parents came to the United States as refugees following the civil war in the 1990s. He received his B.A., M.A., and Ph.D. in history from Syracuse University.