Story #203 - Preacher

Preacher

As the axe swung down for his neck and Preacher Writ felt it slice into his flesh, he knew he'd made a dire mistake.

The thugs above him laughed; the Preacher should have known better than to walk a dark street alone.

***

Preacher.

The voice was unfamiliar, but the tone said it knew him. It wasn't a question, but a statement about his title, about what had effectively become his name over the last ten years. He tried to open his eyes, but found they wouldn't respond, found that his entire body seemed rooted in place. Was he dead? Was this the heaved he'd preached about all those years?

Yes. To both.

The voice could hear what he thought, but that didn't mean he had to believe it. Advancements in science had given anyone with the right kind of money they ability to be nearly telepathic, and though the government tried to regulate the use of such equipment, those with power and influence didn't pay attention to such rules. They did what they wanted, and though playing fast and loose with a Preacher didn't seem like much fun to Writ, it was hard to know what some people got off on.

I'm no rich thrill-seeker, Preacher. You'll see soon enough.

That's exactly what one of their kind would say. He tried moving his lips, but no sound came out. A hard wiggle of his hands and feet brought two toes and three fingers twitching; he was making progress.

You will, Preacher. It just takes time. I haven't drugged you, if that's what you're wondering, and you're not bound in any way. You're laying on a slab of concrete, right where those thugs left you, but the plane of your reality has changed. You're dead, Preacher, and you'll see it soon enough.

The last clear memory Writ had made what the voice was saying seem likely, and as sensation crept back into his shoulders, he could felt the cool surface beneath him. With an effort, he forced his eyes open and sputtering lights of the Low District came into view. There was something about them, though, something – wrong. Each one had a blue center, rather than the standard yellow, and left a trailing smear behind whenever he moved his head. The buildings were the same way, only fainter; as he struggled to sit up, he saw that their forms bumped and moved with his motion. It was unsettling, at best.

Stand up, Preacher. There is much to do.

“Can you give me just a minute, here?” He asked out loud. He couldn't see the owner of the voice anywhere, but a chip in his brain wasn't out of the realm of possibility. “If what you say is true, I've just woken up from being dead. Maybe some time to recover is in order.”

Sure, the voice said with a tone of amusement in his head, I can give you all the time you need. Sasha's running out, of course, but you just take it slow.

“What? What do you mean? Running out? Is something wrong?” He'd seen Sasha in the morning, and everything had seemed fine. She was still struggling with the after-effects of a forced addiction to LoverJ, which meant her moods swung often and hard. Sasha was one of the first people he'd befriended when the Deaconry sent him to the Low, and she'd always been true and steadfast, giving him invaluable help in understanding the people around him, in giving him a way to connect.

“I wouldn't worry over it too much, Preacher. It's unlikely you'd be of any use to her now.”

“That's enough!” Some strength had returned to his arms, and Writ pushed hard against the ground, levering himself forward and onto his knees. Weakness came again in a wave, washing over him as he moved, but he wasn't about to give up, and used the momentum to carry himself forward and into a standing position. He wavered, but did not fall.

“Better,” the voice said, “most of you take three or four tries to get up off the ground. Perhaps there's potential in you yet.”

Writ didn't respond. He had to find Sasha. A few steps forward told him just how difficult that was going to be; each one felt like he was running a mile. At least she lived nearby.

“Preacher. Come this way.” A line stretched out in front of him, starting from his chest, a gold and pulsing thing that pulled gently at him. It led in the general direction of Sasha's apartment, so perhaps the voice knew a quicker way to her home, or perhaps Sasha was out somewhere for the evening.

The alley disappeared as he moved, not in a smooth, straight line but in blurring jumps with each step. Suddenly, he found himself walking alongside a squat row of shops, the glass in their windows sending back distorted reflections of any already strange world.

Stop. There was a note of command in the voice, and Writ found himself unable to move forward. He struggled against the imposing force, but succeeded only in twisting himself to face the nearest window. Look.

He tried to peer inside, but the shimmering reflections made it hard to see anything. It could have been a barber's shop or a butcher's counter for all he knew, and had no reason to care.

Look at the glass, dimwit.

Anger flared, but he pulled his gaze to the pane itself. Against the hazy background a single image stood out in stark relief; a man in dark red robes, a black collar, and leather gloves. His body was just as he remembered it from a quick morning shower, save for the large gash at his throat, and the bloodstain along the top edge of his robe.

He swallowed hard, and saw the entire process through the hole in his neck. Gasping for air, he dropped to the ground hard.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Nothing, Writ. This is the afterlife. Best you learn that now, rather than later. Now get off your ass – I have a job for you to do.

“A job?”

Find Sasha, Preacher, and we'll talk.

- D