The Sermon

Disclaimer: This chapter of "Prime" purposely discusses Christian theological ideas, and is, in no way, intended to question or influence the beliefs of the reader. It is meant to be a mechanism to advance the story's narrative.

“Claire?” asked the familiar, yet unknown, voice.

She didn’t remember falling asleep but opened her eyes to the sunshine beaming in through the living room window. To move was an effort like moving a boulder. Her left cheek was numb where it had rested on the floor, and her hips were on fire from the uncomfortable position in which she found herself. Max’s corpse lay close to her, and tears immediately welled up in her eyes. She promised the cat that she would bury him once she was cleaned up.

“Claire… are you here?” asked the voice again.

She furrowed her brow at the recognition of the voice, but she still had no idea who it was. The sound of the woman climbing the stairs sent her heart to racing, the memories of the attack from the night before fresh in her mind. Standing as quickly as she could, her vision threatened to blank out as the blood in her body righted itself. The sound of her pumping blood was like a raging river in her ears, and she put one hand against the wall to steady herself.

“Oh my God, Claire, are you okay?!” The woman’s voice was bordering on frantic. Claire felt a hand on her shoulder.

The world came back into focus, and her bowed head gave her eyes a direct line to the dried blood on her sweater. In the same instant, her nose caught the putrid odor and she retched uncontrollably. Claire backed violently away from the hand on her shoulder and quickly and painfully took a seat on the step leading to the bathroom. In a frenzy she tore the ruined the sweater from her body and threw it across the room. Her dry heaves morphed into tears and cries.

The sobs were hysterical, and the woman quickly knelt before her and and hugged her shirtless form. The good Samaritan's body was blessingly warm, and she hugged the woman tighter. She smelled of vanilla cream, and Claire took in the aroma and felt the calm begin to sweep through her.

Her embrace lasted for several long moments before pulling back and looking at Claire. She did know this woman; her long and thick curled brown hair, straight eyebrows and almond-shaped brown eyes sitting atop generous, high cheekbones, and full teeth barely hiding behind thin, pink lips.

Claire’s voice came raspy and wispy, “I delivered food to you on Friday.”

The woman’s nose crinkled above her confused smile. “That’s impossible, we were at work together on Friday, Claire.”

“What?... No… I don’t even know you. Who are you?”

“What do you mean, Claire? We’ve been working together for weeks at the factory,” a nervous laugh escaped her lips.

“No,” her mood quickly turning to exasperation. “No, I delivered to you and your kids on Friday, in Colonial Village.”

“What happened to you last night?” Then she shook her head and flicked her hands in the air. “C’mon, Claire, let’s get you in the shower. You look like hell.”

Claire snickered and accepted the woman’s help to stand, “I could definitely use one. Who are you?”

The woman shrugged her shoulders and gave a slight roll of her eyes, “I’m Julie, Claire, your downstairs neighbor.”

Claire put her hands to her temples and focused on getting into the shower, hoping that the water would be steaming hot. She felt disgusting, and she just wanted to drown her thoughts in steam and water.

She couldn’t have guessed how long of a shower she took, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that Julie had found her some clean clothing and was waiting with a cup of tea in her hand.

“How do you feel, hun?” Julie’s look of concern felt genuine and elicited a smile from Claire.

“Confused… sore… and hungry.” She took the towel off of the hook to the left of the shower, the chilly apartment air giving her wet skin goosebumps. “So, your name’s Julie, huh? And we’ve been working together at a factory?”

“Since Labor Day, yes. With the men all off fighting, we need to build the war machines.”

Claire hung up the towel and began dressing, sneaking in a sip of her tea. “War? The militia only just attacked last night…” Reflexively, she grabbed onto the sink next to her, tears again welling up as she thought of Eric. “They killed Eric last night.”

“Killed Eric?” Julie’s face twisted in a grimace. “How do you know that?”

“Because I watched it happen… right here! Last night!” She lifted her arm, palm up, in the direction of the living room.

“Claire, there hasn’t been an attack here in town for months. Eric is at the front. He left after July fourth. What is going on with you, dear?!” And she stepped forward to try and put a comforting hand on Claire’s shoulder.

Claire jerked back from her hand, “Don’t!... Damn it! What the fuck is going on around here?!” She slammed her hand down on the sink. “I work for GrubHub! I delivered food to you on Friday! And a militia attacked us last night, led by John Friedman, and I watched Eric get shot and die in that room!”

She stood up straight and made her way to the window in the back of the bathroom. The view showed their backyard, the white garage stood stark against the black of the asphalt parking lot behind it. The firehouse stood behind the parking lot and it was in a state of terrible disrepair. No fire engines were parked in the bay, and the windows were all broken out. Vines of ivy had just about overtaken the entire east wall. And that’s when she saw it, a wisp of gray at the far end of the garage, in the alley. She swore that she had seen a man in a gray suit and fedora. But as quickly as it was in her peripheral vision, it was gone. The back of her mind tickled at the notion of what she saw, as it made her think of what she had seen through the rain the night before.

She lowered her gaze to the floor and stiffened slightly, a mild vibration coursing through her body. The whole attack ran through her mind, inch by inch, second by second. Claire, again feeling outside of time, did not register whether she stood at the window for only moments, or a thousand years. Two questions hung in the air before her; whose blood had stained her sweater, and whose shoulders had she grabbed in the instant before the blood appeared? Unable to answer those, she thought of two more questions; why was she now a friend of Julie’s, and why was she so sure that Eric was still alive? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Just go with the flow, Claire.

“I’m sorry, Julie. I think I’m just stressed out. Maybe it was just a nightmare…” and she walked over to her ‘friend’ and gave her a hug. “Thank you for being here for me.”

“Oh, Claire,” her smile like a little girl’s after seeing her new kitten for the first time. “Think nothing of it! We live in strange days.”

Claire finished getting dressed and went to her bedroom for a blanket. She returned to the living room and gently rolled Max into the blanket. As she carried him downstairs and out onto the porch, Julie followed, quiet and solemn. She stepped off the porch’s left side staircase, hung another left, and walked through the fence where the gate no longer existed. In the backyard, she went to the first shell crater she found and gently placed the cat’s body in it. Julie helped her kick dirt over Max, both with tears streaming down their faces.

“Ok… Let’s gather my kids and head to the church, we have forty-five minutes.”

Claire nodded and followed Julie to the sliding glass door that was the rear entrance to the lower apartment. Pulling open the door, Julie spoke with a raised, forceful voice, “Kids, let’s go! Church time!”

Julie’s four kids bounded out the door, bastions of positive energy that Claire didn’t expect. She couldn’t help but smile at them, wishing that she could feel that kind of happiness again.

“Where’s the baby?” she asked, remembering Julie’s five kids from the delivery on Friday.

“Baby? Sweetheart, I ain’t been with a man for three years! I’ve given up on that bullshit,” and she laughed as though Claire had told a joke, the kids joining her in her laughter.

“Right,” Claire said with a sigh. She feared that she would have a lot to get used to in this place, wherever it was.

As they made their way to the sidewalk on Main Street, Julie looked over her shoulder and said, “We’ll stop at ‘Jack & Friends’ so you can get some food. You sound pretty hungry.”

She realized that her belly was, indeed, growling loudly.

The walk to ‘Jack & Friends’ was pleasant in the mid-October sun. The temperature was comfortable, and the entire town was quiet. There was no traffic because, Julie had informed her, the government had prevented any travel by vehicle in an effort to save oil for the war effort. Others were out and about though, and each time that eyes met a wave was provided by each party. Claire even found herself holding hands with Julie’s oldest girls and smiling at them as they skipped along the sidewalk. Their fun accelerated when Julie commanded them to cross the street. And letting go of Claire’s hands, they sprinted across the street laughing wildly, their echoes bouncing back and forth between the homes. It was difficult not to laugh with the girls, and others on the street couldn’t help it either.

‘Jack & Friends’ stood where, in her childhood, ‘J’s Steaks & Subs’ once did. Eric had always spoke about getting foot long hot dogs there, his favorite. One door down was the Valley Theater, home to so many great memories and movies. Claire’s heart started longing for those days. Being an adult was rough enough, but after the ordeals of the last forty-eight hours… those carefree childhood days were Heaven.

“Julie,” she said, staring longingly at the cinema’s entrance. “Do they still show movies here, even though we’re at war?”

Julie let out a hardy chuckle, “I should hope so! We have tickets to see ‘The Lost Boys” tomorrow night!”

Claire stopped in tracks and slowly turned her eyes to Julie, “You’re kidding me?!”

The wink from Julie told her that there was no kidding around. Ok, she thought, I can dig this place!

As she stepped up to the sidewalk in front of Jack’s, she heard Julie from behind her. “You stay outside here, with the girls. I’ll get your breakfast. And, yes, I know… two egg whites on an English muffin and honey vanilla tea.”

Surprised, Claire replied, “I can get that here during war time?”

“Maybe…” and she giggled. “It all depends on what Jack has in the storeroom.”

Julie’s girls didn’t require much attention, they stayed close to each other and played around the ornate, cement flowerpots lined along the center of the wide walk. There were four tables set out in front, as well, but only one had customers seated at it. Claire could sense that they knew her, yet she kept herself from making eye contact because she didn’t know them. Instead, she let her eyes flit from tree to tree along Main Street, finding peace in the slowly changing colors of the leaves. She basked in the earthy aroma of autumn, and with no cars on the road, those scents were both pungent and soothing.

“Do ya mind eating and walking, Claire?” Julie asked as she exited the restaurant.

“Not at all,” she answered and hungrily grabbed the sandwich. It went unnoticed that egg whites were on toasted white bread, just having some food in her stomach was a godsend.

Julie held on to the tea as she told the girls to get scootin’, and they started again down the street towards the church. It only seemed a couple of moments before Claire reached for the cup of tea, her dry throat making the final swallow difficult. But she got it down with little trouble and returned to enjoying the walk to the church.

St. Mark’s church was a large, gray, Gothic-style church. It was built for the Lutheran denomination, but now it was a gathering place for the remaining residents of the three boroughs. The bell tower stood tall and ominous, topped with four white spires reaching into the cloudless October sky. Where once the entryway was enclosed in glass, with wide double doors, there was now slightly aged plywood and wooden doors. No window was left unshattered when the bombs went off in and around the church back in the spring, Julie told her. And the main damage was to the office and Sunday school wing and connecting hallway. Those spaces were accessible, but the danger involved and the inability to restore it left those areas cordoned off to public access. Nobody was quite sure how the bell tower and chapel survived the blast, and the idea of divine intervention gave comfort to many.

The congregants weren’t many as Claire, Julie, and her daughters made their way up the steps to enter the church. As they approached, Claire got her first look at the pastor that would lead them today. Julie had told her that his name was Martin Sullivan, and that he was also their supervisor at the factory. She was reminding herself to act like she had known him for some time when he stepped out of the church. Pastor Sullivan was tall and imposing. Claire guessed that he was in the realm of six and a half feet tall, and his proportions were near flawless. Definitely wouldn’t wanna piss him off! His hair was close cut to his scalp, and his thick goatee gave him the air of a biker, despite the navy blue suit that he wore. And his voice was as deep as the Grand Canyon.

“Good morning, Claire… Julie… girls! So nice to have you join us this morning,” Martin’s smile was more genuine than she had ever seen from a religious leader, and she had grown up Catholic.

Forcing herself to act natural, Claire replied, “Hey, boss! How are you?” What she didn’t expect was the shiver that started in her feet and shot up through her skull. It felt like the vibrations she felt the night before, and she obviously couldn’t keep her change of expression hidden.

“Are you alright, Claire?” and she was again taken off guard by his genuine nature.

“Yeah… I’m fine. Just got a moment of lightheadedness.”

Julie turned at the interaction, her eyes betraying the calm demeanor her body showed. Claire noticed the goosebumps on her forearms. Had she felt the vibration?

“Well, we’ll see you ladies at work tomorrow! May grace and peace be with you.”

“Thank you, Marty,” said Julie, her words seemed to waver slightly.

The number of visits Claire had had to St. Mark’s in her life she could count on one hand, but it was exactly how she remembered it, except for the plywood covered windows. The intense red carpet, the numerous rows of pews, the great, pointed arch above the altar, and the near forty foot tall ceiling. It was breathtaking in its simplicity. The organ sat empty, the local noise ordinance preventing its play. A choir was singing, though, but in hushed tones. With lighting provided only by the chandeliers above them, the quiet singing allowed a sense of calm to wash over her. Their small group sat in the front pew and waited patiently.

Soon, Pastor Sullivan was up on the wooden dais, his Bible at the ready.

“Brothers and sisters,” his words boomed in the spacious chapel. “This morning I want to speak to you about Paul’s second letter to Timothy. Considering the final two verses of chapter three, we read, ‘All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work.’ In the Greek, we can say theopneustos, divinely-inspired. God-breathed. The Word of God is inspiration, something to breathe in. Coupled with inspiration is revelation. Thus, in Greek, we have emphusao and apokalupsis, inspiration and revelation. To breathe in, and to uncover, reveal. In our everyday lives, either one could lead to the other when it comes to ourselves. But in Scripture, where He is in control, these ideas are wholly disconnected.

“Revelation is that which no man or woman has seen but was revealed to them through Him. It is content. Inspiration is what has been seen by a man or woman and has been recorded by them through the Holy Spirit to prevent error in the transmission. We humans are inherently flawed, and so we need His assistance in accurate remembrance. But the revelations of God are not given solely by Him, but can be announced to us by His servants, the angels.”

As he spoke the last line, the pastor’s eyes went to Claire. It appeared to her that he was completely oblivious to where his attention had become focused, but in that look Claire felt something. She could only describe it as an expectation, and those same vibrations tickled her nape.

The sermon continued, Pastor Sullivan discussing objective and subjective revelations, the three characteristics of revelations, and the obligatory conflict of creationism and evolution. Does God have a plan? thought Claire. In her heart of hearts, she never believed that. She felt that maybe, long ago, He did, but then He had a moment of revelation Himself. She could never fully reconcile the two testaments of the Bible. There was too much of a disconnect. But she could believe that God took His time in revealing His messages of the Universe. This would fit with the characteristics the pastor described; progress, continuity, and congruity.

“It is of congruity, though, that I wish to expound upon here. For the anthropologist, mankind has naturally risen from the eons of the growth of life to the top of all life on Earth. God-fearing evangelists would say that we have fallen from the peak of perfection in God to the sinful animals we are today, in constant need of forgiveness and redemption. ‘Thus sayeth the Lord.’ But where is the congruity? Those evangelists are the ones that we are currently at war within our own nation! They say that we must live for Him, and in Him. Yet, they are committing unforgiveable sins against those they deem to be unforgiveable. Where is the harmony in this existence? The harmony, brothers and sisters, is in the realization that our rise has been natural, and our fall has been supernatural. If we take our existence now to be the centerpoint, we see the foundation of God’s greatest gift: free will. The natural and the supernatural have been pulled equally to this point. We are the culmination of two worlds! Within us exists the natural and the supernatural! We are more capable than we allow ourselves to think we are. Why has God not given us a written word, a revelation, since the time of the apostles?”

Sullivan’s eyes once again came to rest on Claire. Surely he wasn’t asking this of her directly. But she found herself fighting for an answer in her mind like a kid in school who has just been called upon unexpectedly. But he continued on quickly, speaking now of inspiration, not only as the vehicle of recording revelation, but also of recording experienced intervention. And it was one idea that made Claire zone out on the remainder of the sermon, something that once again brought about the subtle vibrations that had been with her since she first saw Pastor Sullivan.

“So, God uses the author’s personality in this dynamic, God-breathed way. The human and the divine melded in Jesus Christ. He is both man and God. And in that is salvation. Your salvation was guaranteed, in part, by you, and, in part, by God. In that sense, we are closer to Him now than we ever were!”

With what had happened to her in the last twenty-four hours, Claire wondered exactly how close to God mankind could truly get. Why hasn’t God intervened in the world the way He used to? Her thoughts were helter skelter, trying to make some kind of sense of the jumble in her mind. Before she knew it, the sermon had ended, and she had found no answers to any of her questions. Out of nowhere, she asked herself a question, where are the angels in all of this?

Running on autopilot, Claire stood with Julie and the kids as the choir sang the Recessional and Pastor Sullivan walked to the doors. They made their way down the chapel aisle and waited in the short line leading out of the church. They shook hands with the Martin and wished him well, Claire saying, “Yup” in response to his plan to see her at work tomorrow. It wasn’t until she had reached the main sidewalk that she was pulled out of her reverie.

Claire snapped her to the right, looking down Main Street towards the main square in Pennsburg. Down by the abandoned Fast Tag Notary she saw it, and there was no debate about it. A gray trenchcoat, a gray fedora, and a face hidden in shadow. There was no doubt that whoever this person was, it was a man, and he was stalking her.

Read Chapter 5 of "Prime" by using the link below:

The Trenchcoat Man