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  “We deny the pleasures of the flesh,” Samson says, “so that we may be pure in the eyes of the Lord.” Season fourteen, episode nine.

  She narrows her eyes. “No, I don’t think we’re gonna listen to you. You gotta get gone, Mister.”

  “But—”

  “I said get outta here.”

  Doubt fills Samson and he stammers half–formed objections, unsure what to do next.

  “She’s not listening to you,” James King says to him, appearing at his side. Samson turns to see him, his shiny teeth, his flag lapel pin, his unmoving blond hair. “She’s not listening to us.”

  “She doesn’t know us,” Samson says. “Once she hears the sermon—”

  “Who the hell you talkin’ to?” the woman says. “You’re crazy, aren’t you? I got enough problems without a crazy man comin’ into my camp.”

  “If you’d just listen,” Samson says, frustration building, a red haze descending on him. Anger bubbles up through the cracks in his psyche, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He knows what happens next, sees it clear as day.

  “It’s all right, Samson,” King says. “You know what you need to do.”

  Samson shakes his head. “But sir—”

  “I asked you who the hell you’re talkin’ to,” the woman says.

  Samson can take it no longer. The rage sweeps over him like a flame. “You are disrespecting the Reverend King,” he says. “You are disrespecting God.”

  “Give them Salvation,” King says. “Show them the Light.”

  Samson says nothing, lost to the red rage filling him. He slides the Bowie knife from its forearm sheath with a practiced move and flings it with all the force he can muster. The blade punches into the woman’s throat, blood erupting around it. She fires the rifle, but Samson’s already on the move and the shot goes too high to touch him.

  Samson’s sledgehammer is in his hands. He swings it at the boy who threw the rock, shattering his sternum with one blow, caving in his skull with another. There is screaming, gunfire, but it’s all so distant. Samson is just a vessel, a vehicle for carrying out God’s will, enacting His plan. His sledgehammer swings home countless times, crushing everything in its path.

  James King hovers over Samson’s shoulder. “Kill them, Samson. Kill them all. Kill them for God.”

  And that’s exactly what Samson does.

  ***

  Samson meets Cyrus outside the doors to the bunker where he’s reinforcing them with welded metal plates. He lifts a new pair of goggles from his eyes, stares at Samson standing there, smock soaked red with blood.

  Samson looks down at him, eyes unfocused. He doesn’t remember coming back here, barely remembers going to the camp.

  “You okay?” Cyrus says.

  Behind Samson, James King says, “You sent many souls to Heaven.”

  “I sent many souls to Heaven,” Samson says. His voice is a distant echo in his ears.

  “So they didn’t listen?”

  “They wouldn’t listen,” King says. “They disrespected the Lord.”

  “They wouldn’t listen,” Samson repeats. “They disrespected the Lord.”

  “Oh. Well, they deserved what they got, right?”

  “They did,” King says, but Samson says nothing. He pushes his way past Cyrus, boots squelching from all the blood in them, heavy red tracks following him inside.

  “You hurt?” Cyrus says.

  “I don’t know,” Samson says. He doesn’t think it matters.

  ***

  That night, Samson, blood and bits of bone scrubbed from his skin as best he can, sits in the editing bay and watches episode fourteen from season twelve of King’s show. This is the one where King calls for the cleansing of the land of Unbelievers. “Those who disrespect the Lord deserve the sword.” King sings it like a children’s song, repeating himself over and over again.

  “I remember those words,” King says.

  “I killed people today,” says Samson. “I didn’t even get to bring them your sermon.”

  “They wouldn’t listen.”

  “I didn’t give them a chance.”

  “Yes, you did,” King says. “You came bearing my Word, you invoked my name. And yet they denied you. You did what was right. You cleaned the land of their foulness and delivered their souls unto the Lord.”

  “Will there be a lot of that?”

  “The land will be bathed in their blood,” King says. “Count on it.”

  –5–

  “To deny God’s truth is the greatest sin. And those who do not believe must be delivered unto the Lord for punishment.” – James King, Hour of the Church Triumphant, Season 4, Episode 2

  “Some folks take exception to you showin’ your face, Samson,” Bernie says. “Don’t think you should be here.”

  Samson looks up to see a pair of Central Market snipers looking at him through crosshairs. Others are coming from the sides, leaving their regular patrol posts walking the Market’s perimeter.

  “Come to trade,” Samson says, lifting a dirty duffel bag in one hand. “And spread the Good Word.”

  “I’ve heard of the good word you been spreadin’. Seen the bodies, too. Getting’ yourself a reputation. Buildin’ yourself a nice little army out there in Echo Park.”

  It’s true, though Samson doesn’t like to call them an army. In the last six months he’s visited camp after camp, converting the worthy and sending the souls of Unbelievers to the Lord. Those he’s brought into the fold have joined him and Cyrus at the studio, and it’s starting to get a little cramped. They’ll need to move soon.

  “True believers,” Samson says. Almost a hundred of them now.

  Bernie cocks his head, squints at Samson. “You’ve changed. I don’t know into what, but you’re different.”

  “I found God and follow the teachings of our Savior, James King.”

  “Uh–huh. Or you’ve just gone even more batshit crazy than you already were. Somebody told me you’re hearin’ voices. That true? You gone completely round the bend?”

  “You gonna let me in, Bernie?”

  “Answer my question, I’ll answer yours.”

  “God’s grace lets me see the Reverend.”

  “Got it. Batshit crazy.”

  Samson’s smile never wavers, even though he’s never liked being called crazy. Likes it less even now, but that’s okay. Bernie doesn’t understand the gift God has granted him. Of course he thinks Samson is crazy.

  “I answered your question, Bernie. Now answer mine. You gonna let me in?”

  “No.”

  “Just like that? I thought everyone was welcome at the Market.”

  “Not murderers,” Bernie says.

  “Not a soul inside those walls is free of that sin. If I kill, I kill for the Lord. Can those men up there say the same?”

  “You want to get in, you’ll have to kill me.” Bernie cocks his head toward the snipers above. “Them, too.” A few have Samson in their sights, but most are just watching. None of them are at their assigned posts.

  Samson’s smile grows, but it’s a little sad, a little wistful. “All right,” Samson says. “If you insist.”

  Shots ring out from across the street and the snipers covering Samson drop, their heads exploding from high–caliber rounds. A couple start to raise their weapons to take out Samson, but they die before they can even get a bead on him. The others move to cover, try to find targets. Too preoccupied to notice the men and women who have climbed up from the inside of the Market behind them while they were watching Samson’s conversation with Bernie. By the time they figure it out, the knives have come out and it’s too late.

  Samson heaves the duffel bag into the entrance to the Market, thumbs the detonator palmed in his other hand. The smoke grenades inside go off, spewing green and purple smoke in a hazy curtain too thick to see through.

  The fighting inside is quick and brutal. Samson’s people have been in the Market for hours, getting in position, waiting for the smoke
to hide their attack. Only a handful are up there taking care of the snipers. The rest are down below, rounding up the Market patrons, the shop owners.

  Bernie pulls out a little Saturday night special, its grip covered in duct tape to keep it all together, and pops off a round. The bullet grazes Samson’s skull, and the sudden sharp pain takes him by surprise. Samson knocks the gun from the little man’s hands, picks him up by the neck.

  Bernie stares at Samson, stunned, his face going red and purple. “What the fuck,” he says, wheezing. “This place is neutral. Everybody and their fuckin’ grandmother’s gonna be comin’ for your fuckin’ pea head.”

  “You built your house on sand, Bernie, and great will be its fall.”

  “The fuck does that even mean?” Bernie’s eyes bulge in their sockets.

  Samson squeezes harder, hears something pop in Bernie’s neck. The man shudders, lets out a final, strangled gasp. Dies in Samson’s hands.

  “I don’t really know,” Samson says, thinking about it for the first time. “Something the Reverend King says. I’ll be sure to ask him.”

  ***

  “How many?” Cyrus says. Samson’s used to this. Cyrus doesn’t say hello, doesn’t ask how Samson is doing. Even if Samson comes back covered in blood, Cyrus doesn’t ask whose it is.

  “Dead or with us?”

  “With us. I don’t care about the dead.”

  “Fifteen.” And forty–seven dead. Cyrus may not care, but Samson does. He’s the one consigning souls to Heaven, after all. It’s his job to care.

  “Good.”

  “None of ours fell.”

  “Even better. Net gain. And the gear?”

  “Cleared out. Building set on fire. Here’s the list.” Samson hands him a moldy ledger they found in the back of the studio that they’ve been using to track what they get from dead Unbelievers. Cyrus leafs through it. Samson’s learned to read a little, but he’s still not very good at it. All the words jumble together into a big mess in his head, so he always has someone on hand who can do it for him.

  “Guns, good. Ammo, better.” Cyrus gives a low whistle. “This is what I was lookin’ for. Tess’s stash.” He runs a finger down the page and stops at one entry. “35884–77–6. Five—shit, no, fifteen canisters? Perfect. I’d heard she had some of these, but fifteen? I don’t even want to know how she got her hands on this stuff. She put up a fight?”

  “Not much of one,” Samson says. He’d given her the choice the way he gave everyone the choice. She answered him with a bullet that missed him by a mile. He’d always respected her, so he made it fast. One blow from the sledgehammer was all it took.

  “Is it safe to keep all that stuff here?” Samson asks. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “Yeah. And we’re not gonna. Had a team scouting the last couple weeks. Found a new home. Bigger. We’ll keep this place as a—”

  “Shrine,” Samson says. “This place is a shrine. We’ll move everything out and seal it up like we found it. This is where Reverend King died.”

  “Sure. A shrine. Exactly what I was gonna say. I was thinking we should keep a few people here to guard it. Maybe some guns and ammunition. Supplies. You know, to keep it safe. We’ll seal off the studio where his bones are.”

  Samson narrows his eyes at Cyrus. He knows he’s being played, but he can’t figure out how. “All right.”

  “Good. Glad we’re on the same page. So this place I’m thinking is plenty big for us. And it’s close, too. I did some digging. Used to be a church. We’ll make it one again.”

  Samson frowns. A church? Big enough for everyone? Right now most of their people are sleeping in a camp just outside the tunnel leading to the basement bunker. He knows only one building still standing nearby that might be big enough for everyone.

  “The Arena? Over by the park?”

  “That’s the one.”

  The Arena is a big, semicircular building down on Glendale across from the flooded swamp that used to be Echo Park Lake. The Locos run a big fight club there every Friday night where half a dozen cage matches on a big stage end in at least one corpse being tossed out the back for their nuke–pooches to eat. Samson fought there back when he ran with the Leather Jerks, before the Locos ran the gang out of the area and over into Atwater.

  “Used to be called the Angelus Temple,” Cyrus says. “Big enough for our needs. Great location. We can house everybody, fortify it, hold Church services. It’ll be great.”

  “But the Locos. Cyrus, that’s their headquarters. They all live there. We don’t have enough people to take them on.”

  “Not in a straight fight, no. Not yet, at least. But I got it all figured out,” Cyrus says. “You’re gonna love this plan.”

  –6–

  “It is through trusting in God that He will deliver you from evil.” – James King, Hour of the Church Triumphant, Season 14, Episode 8

  The crowd inside the Arena is screaming for Samson’s blood. They stand in the auditorium booing, throwing bottles and cups full of urine at him that bounce off the chicken wire enclosing the stage. He stands with chains circling his waist, cuffed to his wrists and ankles. His shirt is streaked with dried blood, eyes swollen from the beating he’s taken at the hands of his captors.

  Samson does not love this plan.

  “I know you don’t feel the blows,” King says, a soothing hand on Samson’s shoulder, “but they sting nonetheless.” King’s perfect teeth shine in the stage lights, his dark blue suit without a speck of dust on it. Being God’s chosen has its perks.

  “I can take a beating, Reverend.”

  “I know you can, son,” King says. “And tonight you’ll have to. For God.”

  “I know, sir. I won’t let you down.”

  A shriek of feedback punches through the auditorium followed by a loud belch. “Listen up, you cocksuckers,” says a voice over the PA. “You are going to abso–fucking–lutely love the shit we have in store for you tonight. We got ourselves Luke Samson, who if you don’t know the name you sure as shit know what he’s done. This is the fucker who shut down the Central Market three months ago. The guy who’s been killing everybody from here to Hollywood. And you know what we’re gonna do to him? We’re gonna kill him and pass his skull around.”

  The crowd answers with a roar like thunder. They want Samson’s head on a stick. They want to cut him to pieces, light him on fire and parade his skull–fucked corpse down Sunset Boulevard.

  “It won’t be long now,” King says. “Hold fast, make it look good, and they won’t know what hit them.”

  It’s funny, Samson thinks, that the Locos don’t seem to be asking why he’s here. He just showed up a week ago, walked into the main room, told some kid who he was and waited for the beatings to start. Everyone knew who he was—they all know him on sight—but strangely, no one’s asked him why he surrendered. No one’s asked him why he’s let them beat him and hasn’t put up a fight.

  And no one’s asked him where his army is.

  “We got five guys gonna get into the cage with Samson tonight and the only one ain’t walkin’ outta there is Big Red himself.”

  The crowd is a wild animal, barking, spitting, straining at its leash. They aren’t individual people anymore. The crowd has subsumed them, absorbed them into its seething mass. It’s like a river in a storm, threatening to overflow its banks—nothing but mindless energy bent on seeing Samson’s destruction.

  Samson can’t count the people in the crowd, but if the entire pack of Locos wasn’t sitting out there, or somewhere in the building, he’d be surprised.

  The stage has chicken wire covering the front, but the back is all razor wire. Once a man goes into a fight, the Locos don’t want him running out the back. Aside from a door in the razor wire fence, itself wrapped in razor wire, there are a dozen trapdoors in the floor.

  Five of them pop open at once to let Samson’s opponents onto the stage. They start to pull themselves up, but Samson wastes no time. His feet may be manacled, but there�
�s more than enough chain to allow him a full range of movement. He takes advantage of that, runs to the closest fighter and kicks him full in the teeth. The guy topples down the trapdoor before he can even clear it.

  One down, four to go. The crowd screams at first blood. Two guys come at Samson from each side, circling him. One carries a machete, the other a meat cleaver. Beefy, muscled men, with scars all over their torsos. They’ve experienced violence most people see only in their nightmares.

  Samson goes after the machete first. As the man brings the razor–sharp blade down, Samson loops a length of chain around it, pivots on his heel and slides past, forcing the blade down and pulling the fighter off his feet. Samson drives an elbow into his face that fractures bone. The man hits the floor with a dull, wet thud.

  The cleaver’s more problematic. Though the machete has a longer reach, Samson was able to use it against itself with the chains. The cleaver’s somewhere between a knife and an axe, a good slicing weapon, and if you have enough room to get a good swing in, you can really fuck somebody up.

  Samson backs away from the cleaver’s onslaught, trying to keep enough distance to not die, but not so much that the guy can get a good swing going. It takes everything he has just to keep from being sliced to ribbons.

  He needs to do something fast. He doesn’t see them, but he knows there are two more guys behind him. He knows he’s being herded back into them, so instead of stepping back from the cleaver’s attack, he waits until he sees an opening and steps into it.

  His timing is a little off, and the cleaver skims along his forearm, opening it up in a long, thin slice.

  The pain shoots through him, igniting a fire in his mind that he’s been able to keep tamped down through all the beatings he’s taken in the last few days. Now it doesn’t matter. Now he needs it. He lets the red rage wash through him, feels his features twist into what Cyrus would call his murder face.