Read Online WIPE (A Post-Apocalyptic Story) by Joseph Turkot - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Turkot
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hug. And then, she looks at Maze. It’s the cold, loveless stare I know all too well. The only thing I truly despise about my mom, other than her firm and closed-minded conviction in the dogma of the Fatherhood.
“You’re responsible for this,” she says to Maze. Maze doesn’t flinch, and just nods, waiting, knowing it’s not the time to argue. That she has to wait out the chastisement.
“What’s it going to take before you learn, before you stop— endangering the lives of our loved ones?” she says.
And I know the wording— our loved ones. Maze has only opened up about it a few times, but I know how much it bothers her. The way that everyone in Acadia sees her as something separate, a non-member of the community, because she wasn’t born here. Because she was brought in against the consensus of the townsfolk. And it was Father James, as old as he is, and closed-minded like the rest of them, who had made the case for her originally. That it was God’s will to foster her here in Acadia. Even as much as he’s come to regret that act of compassion over the past eight years, I can’t ever take that piece of respect I have for him away. But I hate that my mother treats Maze the same as the rest of the town, even though she is my closest friend. And now, even the Fathers have started to view her that way—the sin-minded outsider that the rest of town has silently convicted her of being. I know that Maze is so used to it now that it must hardly bother her anymore. Still, sometimes I wonder, even though I’m afraid to ask. And she just keeps nodding for my mother, and when she senses the rant is over, she speaks up to confirm that it’s true—to appease her for my sake.
“You’re right. I will change. I can’t keep pulling Wills into my stupid stunts.”
And then, before my mother has a chance to reject this placation, Father James signals to us.
“Father Gold will see you now,” he says. And just like that, after one final squeeze for me and admonishment for both of us, my mother leaves.
“I’ll see you at home,” she says in the worst kind of way as she goes. And all that crawls through my head is that I don’t ever want to go back home. I don’t want to deal with this anymore. That I want to ask Maze if we can leave—run away together. Get to the bottom of the mirrors and the tower and the Ark. Expose the Fatherhood for all of its chicanery and pseudoscience. But as quickly as the explosion of rebelliousness courses through my blood, it dries up when we get into Father Gold’s sanctuary.
The walls are covered with metal relics—most of them are not only the kind that only Fathers can touch, as is the case for all metal, but the kind only a Head Father can touch. The most sacred and dangerous of metals. Gold and silver and polished steel ornaments. Some of them are swords, and some of them are relics from the ancient world—unrecognizable gears and shafts and rings. One looks like a pre-Wipe memory circuit board. Some kind of computer artifact that serves as a reminder of what true sin looks like. The Fatherhood has from my earliest years worked hard to explain their need to keep the forbidden objects so close to places of worship— let us keep close and in plain sight the sins of the past, lest they are lost to memory and destined to be repeated. The floors and walls are otherwise plain, a contradiction to the shiny and elaborate decorations and statues. Three high candles burn on his desk, and from the soft glow of their light in the windowless room, he studies our faces.
“Sit down,” he instructs from sagging jowls. The bags under his eyes look heavier than usual, and it again crosses through my mind the impossibility that he’s younger than Father James. But I know he is—I’ve
“You’re responsible for this,” she says to Maze. Maze doesn’t flinch, and just nods, waiting, knowing it’s not the time to argue. That she has to wait out the chastisement.
“What’s it going to take before you learn, before you stop— endangering the lives of our loved ones?” she says.
And I know the wording— our loved ones. Maze has only opened up about it a few times, but I know how much it bothers her. The way that everyone in Acadia sees her as something separate, a non-member of the community, because she wasn’t born here. Because she was brought in against the consensus of the townsfolk. And it was Father James, as old as he is, and closed-minded like the rest of them, who had made the case for her originally. That it was God’s will to foster her here in Acadia. Even as much as he’s come to regret that act of compassion over the past eight years, I can’t ever take that piece of respect I have for him away. But I hate that my mother treats Maze the same as the rest of the town, even though she is my closest friend. And now, even the Fathers have started to view her that way—the sin-minded outsider that the rest of town has silently convicted her of being. I know that Maze is so used to it now that it must hardly bother her anymore. Still, sometimes I wonder, even though I’m afraid to ask. And she just keeps nodding for my mother, and when she senses the rant is over, she speaks up to confirm that it’s true—to appease her for my sake.
“You’re right. I will change. I can’t keep pulling Wills into my stupid stunts.”
And then, before my mother has a chance to reject this placation, Father James signals to us.
“Father Gold will see you now,” he says. And just like that, after one final squeeze for me and admonishment for both of us, my mother leaves.
“I’ll see you at home,” she says in the worst kind of way as she goes. And all that crawls through my head is that I don’t ever want to go back home. I don’t want to deal with this anymore. That I want to ask Maze if we can leave—run away together. Get to the bottom of the mirrors and the tower and the Ark. Expose the Fatherhood for all of its chicanery and pseudoscience. But as quickly as the explosion of rebelliousness courses through my blood, it dries up when we get into Father Gold’s sanctuary.
The walls are covered with metal relics—most of them are not only the kind that only Fathers can touch, as is the case for all metal, but the kind only a Head Father can touch. The most sacred and dangerous of metals. Gold and silver and polished steel ornaments. Some of them are swords, and some of them are relics from the ancient world—unrecognizable gears and shafts and rings. One looks like a pre-Wipe memory circuit board. Some kind of computer artifact that serves as a reminder of what true sin looks like. The Fatherhood has from my earliest years worked hard to explain their need to keep the forbidden objects so close to places of worship— let us keep close and in plain sight the sins of the past, lest they are lost to memory and destined to be repeated. The floors and walls are otherwise plain, a contradiction to the shiny and elaborate decorations and statues. Three high candles burn on his desk, and from the soft glow of their light in the windowless room, he studies our faces.
“Sit down,” he instructs from sagging jowls. The bags under his eyes look heavier than usual, and it again crosses through my mind the impossibility that he’s younger than Father James. But I know he is—I’ve
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