O Come All Ye Faithful

Doors open. To stay? To believe? Perhaps.

It’s dark and cold when I wake up. It’s always dark, though. It’s important for me to be ready before sunrise so I can get to my mail when they throw it. Most people can’t afford mail anymore, and it’s dangerous even to receive it. There could be militia out there watching the mail riders to see where they stop –grab the mail, and then rob the house. Third-class mail is the most popular. You know, the higher the number the better. Besides, that’s the mail with the most pictures and the good stuff about what you can get. Buy one, get one free! Not that many people can get to those stores, but still, it looks good to show off to the folks at work. Not that I do. There are no folks where I work.

The mailbox sits at the end of my lane, slightly tilted, seemingly well-used and established. Every so often I dig into my stash of third-class mail and sneak out to leave something in that mailbox. It will get stolen, and that’s the point. People don’t look to see if it’s out of date or obsolete. They’re just so glad to steal the mail that they take it and run. Every so often, I run into someone who tells me about a great piece of mail they received — third class, even — and when they describe it, I know they stole it from me. They’re welcome to it; they used to call it “junk mail” for a reason. It’s all part of my persona — an eccentric living alone, of no real interest to anyone, just making ends meet and bothering no one.

I wait in the hall for the mail signal on my phone. No sense going out there and waiting in the cold. When the armored cycle is near, I’ll slip out the door and wait behind the bushes, then use my signal to find it, grab it, and run back inside. In the meantime, I stand in the dark and listen to the walls rustle. It’s so cold inside and out that the thick plastic sheets that close off most of the house are brittle with it and the slightest air current makes them tremble where they hang. This house has something that used to be called “open floorplan” so that you could see all around inside. Not anymore, though. You can’t even try to heat that kind of house, so you just hang dividers to keep the heat in place. There’s a little trail of warm from my bedroom door to the kitchen. I don’t follow that temptation of comfort, though, because any minute now the mail will be here.

You say it’s practically the middle of the night; there’s nothing going on, why am I getting mail and what difference does it make if I do? Well, I’m a news writer, and I’m waiting on today’s assignments. They come from all over, anywhere the powers want to have news to report. They are very careful that someone doesn’t intercept their ideas and things get out before someone publishes them. That would be a disaster. In fact, it was a disaster. There was a streetie video of cops killing someone that got out, really, to the world. The protests and demonstrations went on for years. It’s a better solution these days — they ask for the news and I write it. That keeps the stuff that happens from cluttering up the airwaves. There aren’t many news writers, why should there be? Once I write the news, anybody can buy it and show it. Or even change it around. They pay extra for that, though. I like to say freedom of speech doesn’t come cheap.

My phone vibrates in my hand, so I know the rider is nearby. I open the door a crack and slide out — it’s as dark inside as it is outdoors, so I don’t worry being seen. It’s just force of habit. Don’t open anything if you can help it. The tracker on my phone glows dimly and I do a sort of zigzag quick step out into the yard, grab the USB 9.0 device, and zigzag my way back in. I can feel the grass crunching under my feet and hope no one is out here to listen. I won’t know what they want until I load it. That won’t be for a while; first I’m brewing coffee while the sun comes up and maybe brings a little warmth into the house.

Just so you know, it’s real coffee, not that synthetic café beverage stuff that was so popular 30 years ago or so. That stuff was full of sweetener and whitener so it tasted bland and bitter all at the same time. Nope, part of my price is they pay me in the real stuff — Kona coffee from Baha Caliwai’i. Dumping my coat on the floor, I grind the beans and put the old-fashioned percolator on the stove. The smell is wonderful and while the coffee perks on the stove I defrost a slice of bread to go with it. I take my breakfast to the front door to watch the sun finish coming up — turning the frozen hell outside into an icy dazzle of hoarfrost. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. The gentle roll to the hills reflects the early sun, showing pink in the dawn before sparkling into shards of white crystal. Mostly there is a cloud cover during winter, so a real sunrise is a big deal. I wait a little longer to see all of it. Maybe longer than I should have.

I’m awed by this spectacle, standing at the window watching the lights come glittering across the field. So much so that at first, I don’t notice the procession straggling up the lane to my house. Then I notice the movement, shapes emerging from the sunrise behind them. I hold my breath while they approach, counting them nervously, like there were enough of them to count, actually. Yes, there they are. One, two, three. The big one at the end, The Jozeph; the middle one, The Mary; and there in front, a full-grown Baby Bezoz. I think, oh shit. It’s a Jehovahz Trinity. They are coming to visit me. This isn’t good.

Before The End, there were religious books that talked a lot about hospitality. It was a big deal — like maybe it was a bum and maybe it was an angel at the door. That meant you should open it and show the visitor hospitality — because it’s not as good if you already know that the visitor is going to save you. The point is doing it whether you know or not. But with this bunch, the Trinity, you know what they are. Three out-of-work actors, part of a troop that goes around the countries pretending to be holy witnesses. That stuff is fake news these days — and I should know. Back in the day, before my time, you could get away with slamming the door in their faces. That changed. When the states and territories emerged from the rubble of America, they discarded religion and grabbed the church buildings. They were all going downhill anyway, that just moved things along and made sure the resources went to whoever had the biggest guns.

But then religious groups started to re-form. The uncertainty of the future, the trauma of The End, the loss of centuries of social structure; I guess people wanted to grasp something familiar and comforting. So, there was a Pentecostal this, and a New Life that. None of them had the nerve to call themselves churches. Old churches went underground, and it was the Trinity that eventually emerged. Always walking, always asking, a never-ending specter of shuffling beggary. A few brave households turned them away. They didn’t leave, though. They stayed and stayed and then one or more of them would die of heat exhaustion, hypothermia, dehydration, you name it. Leaving a tattered corpse for all to see as testimony to the skinflint selfishness of the resident, after a few days, more would join the survivors. As unnerving a spectacle as it was effective, soon house-dwellers caved and began welcoming the Trinity into their spaces. Word got out: feed them, and they would leave. Ignore them, harm them, and dozens would arrive to litter the neighborhood with corpses like discarded piles of rotting trash.

I stand there, watching them slowly walk up the lane. I can see their faces now. The Madonna’s is pinched and white with cold, and I swear I can see her shiver even from where I am. No wonder, they’re dressed in rags. They can’t really see me through the windows next to the door, so I can watch them proceed up to the house. The Jozeph is a big guy, but so thin his brown face is gaunt and gray. He’s got some sort of cheap, thin, bag over his clothes, and shoes wrapped in tape to hold them together. In front, the Baby Bezoz is trying to walk with dignity, head held high. It’s not working; he staggers every so often as if a wind hits him.

But at last, they struggle onto the porch and stumble to the front door, The Jozeph taps on the door with his cane. I am supposed to let them in, and I will, but I better keep an eye on him. That stick could do a lot more than hold his scraggly frame upright if he decided to hit me. I kind of laugh to myself, really, at the thought of him taking a swing. Pulling that stick back, losing his balance, falling on his ass. Or swinging through and totally missing, only to swing and knock The Mary on HER ass. Too funny. It’s disrespectful to snicker, though, so I compose my face and open the door.

“Peace be with you, honored guests. Will you enter my humble space?” I bow slightly as I say the traditional greeting for the Trinity. Standing back, I leave room for them to enter. The Jozeph hitches his rags, scratches something, and hobbles in, followed by The Mary and Baby Bezoz. I usher them towards the kitchen, realizing as we go that not only are they dirty and shabby, they also stink. With my hand in front of my nose, I mouth-breathe my way with them, and seat them at the counter facing the kitchen. I’ll give them something to eat and drink. It’s a fine balance, though, between enough to get them back on their feet and out of here, and too much, so they talk about me to other Trinities. That could result in a steady stream of vizitors slinking up my lane, looking for a handout.

I look them over, and something like pity stirs inside me. I write it off to gas, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to let them wash while I fix some food. I say,

“Gentle souls, I offer you my washroom to cleanse yourselves before you sanctify the lowly meal I will offer. And, should you wish, I can offer you blankets while I wash your clothes and dry them.” There’s as much self-interest in this last offer as anything else, because I’m not sure I can give them food with the smell of them around me. I see their faces light up, just a little, and The Jozeph nods his head slowly in acceptance of my offer.

I show them the washroom in the hallway. It’s cold, but there will be a little warm water and a clean towel. I never use that room, and the towel’s been hanging there for as long as I can remember. I push the stiff plastic curtains aside to get into the main room, and bring some blankets back for them, telling them to leave their clothes in the hall.

They labor back into the kitchen, wrapped in blankets. Their clean faces and hands only show how dirty the rest of their bodies are, paler blotches against grubby wrists and arms. They sit down in silence as I follow the stench to the hallway and put their clothes in the ancient washing machine. Still works okay if you don’t put too much in it, and the miserable scraps of cloth sitting on the floor should be no match for it. I return and see them watching me wordlessly. Is that something with these people? That they don’t talk? It’s freaking me out, so I quickly head to the stove and stir powdered milk into the hot water I started while they were washing. Adding that to three cups with cocoa mix in the bottom, I soon have a sort of hot cocoa to give them. Putting the three cups on a tray with a plate of some little cookie-like biscuits I got for Xmas last year, I take them over to where they soundlessly wait.

I serve them without saying anything, since that seems to be the thing. They join hands, and then The Jozeph says, “Bezoz Christos.” The Mary then says, “Christos Bezoz.” The Baby Bezoz says, “Bezoz Christos Bezoz.” Then they all say, “Amen.” A kind of grace, I guess, since after that they all dig in. I move to go tidy up the kitchen and check the laundry, and when I return The Jozeph says, “We know who you are.”

Ah, finally, the amenities! The departure can’t be too far behind. I nod my head slightly, and say, “Yes, I am Janna of Katherine.” After The End, many women, including me, disposed with patriarchal surnames, using “of” and a female ancestor’s first name. I went with my grandmother, because, well, why not? I didn’t know her, but she came from a long line of anti-social recluses, so it suited me.

The Jozeph repeats, with some emphasis this time, “We know who you are.” Now I get it. This is part of the ritual, and I should reply with some catchphrase in the style of their wretched faith. My first answer was a wrong step, so I need to take care. I respond, “Ah, yes. I am a wanderer in this time and place like unto you, seeking the True Word so as to share it.” I say a brief internal prayer to a God I don’t believe in that this time I got it right. I threw in that sharing part just in case.

The Jozeph repeats, again with grim emphasis: “We know who you are.” I’m confused and have no idea what he means. That must have been clear from my face, because he then says, “You are the person who sells lies. You are the person who makes the enemy of the True Word. You must stop. You must die. We are here to kill you and save the Word.”

This is not what I was expecting and I wish they’d said it before I washed their stinking clothes. I don’t begrudge them the drink and the stale biscuits, but the washing, that sort of pisses me off. As I stand there looking at them, The Jozeph casually takes a gun out from beneath his blanket — my blanket — and puts his hand on the table with the gun in it. I hold my hands out palms up in a gesture of supplication because what else can I do? Then he looks around him and says sternly, “Take us to the place of your falsehood making, where we will destroy your machines and then you.”

Clearly the situation requires creative thinking. I can take them to my office. I can let them shoot my computers. What I can’t let them do is shoot me. As I stand there trying to think of a way out of this mess, I look at them looking at me. I see their lined and exhausted faces, their skeletal hands, the way the blankets fall from their emaciated shoulders. The Mary looks miserable, with her lank brown hair lying in a tangle around her narrow face as she watches The Jozeph. The Baby Bezoz is looking at the floor — showing tufts of blondish hair against a pale, crusty scalp. He holds his hands against his chest as if he were the one praying for salvation instead of me. Only The Jozeph looks at me, sternly and without wavering. I figure since his namesake claimed an infant not of his making, thereby bestowing on the baby a lineage of kings, this manifestation must have a backbone, too. That the physical version is all too obvious beneath his fragile skin is only further testimony to the fact that I’m in trouble.

Again, a brief feeling of something lifts in me, but I squash it. In a move to buy time, I shrug and put my hand in my pocket, where it closes over, yes, it closes over the USB drive I just got this morning. A faint idea starts forming but I need to keep them in the kitchen while I figure this out.

I say to them, “Well, those who are about to die need coffee. Will you join me? Your clothes aren’t dry yet, why don’t you have another drink while we wait? After all, you have the gun, so I’m not going anywhere. You may as well have clean, warm clothes when you leave, right?”

This offer gets their attention. I see by the look on The Jozeph’s face he’s starting to decline, so I repeat with what I hope is a humble smile, “Your clothes will be warm when you leave…And the coffee is real.”

With that they fall like the walls of Jericho before Joshua, making little sounds of awe and pleasure. It’s pathetic really. Watching them while I fix a new pot, I notice that The Jozeph’s gun is in not much better shape than The Jozeph. It’s heavy all right, but it’s also rusty in places, with a cracked and grimy grip. But he’s so close he could probably aim at the door and hit me by accident so I certainly can’t bet on that ridiculous weapon misfiring and saving me.

And now I have an idea. While I busy myself with washing and filling their cups, getting out the milk and sugar (also real), I cut my eyes over to them and say casually, “You might be able to shoot me, but it won’t do you any good. There are dozens of people like me all over the world. They would pick up my work and no one would be the wiser.” There are exactly three, which is why we can all afford to live by ourselves and drink real coffee, but I’m not telling them that.

Apparently, these idiots were foolish enough to think I was the only person in the world who does this work. I see them trying to keep their faces from showing surprise, but it doesn’t work. They’re shocked at the thought that there are many spreading falsehoods but they’re not giving up yet. They nod at each other and then The Jozeph says, “So then there will be one less teller of lies. Someone else will have to find the others and end them. Our job will be done.”

I wonder where this man gets his stamina and what do I have to do to get him to cave in. I’m not done yet, though, so I cut some lemon cake (not real) and arrange the slices on a plate next to the coffee. The smell drifts over to the threesome lined up at my counter and I see their expressions change again. Really, it’s too easy. Maybe the next part will be too.

“There is a way,” I add, “that you could stop it all if you wanted to. You could…nah, that would be too easy for you. You all just want to kill somebody.” The Baby Bezoz looks at me with horror. “No, no, you don’t understand,” he cries. It is against our beliefs to kill. We are giving up our souls for this. We will face eternal damnation.” This seems to me, as someone said, like casting pearls before swine without getting so much as a porkchop, but I can see they are deadly serious. The Jozeph is, at any rate.

I pull the USB device out of my pocket. “Here is the bidding for today’s news,” I say. “What if there were to be a different story?” I was actually planning a story about the sighting of a Young Don in Africa — you know they’re extinct since they shot the last one and mounted him at the Cape of Good Hope. More like Good Riddance, to my mind.

“What if the news today is that the news is false?” I watch them carefully as I throw this thought out there. They’re intrigued, I can tell. Or they want more cake. Just in case, I put another round on the plate and watch them grab it before I go on. “What if I take you to my computer and we write the story together and then we submit it? At least one buyer will take it, and then others will follow because it will be big news, real news. It will go all over the world in minutes, and then there will be no more people like me because the cat will be out of the bag, the horse will be out of the barn, you know, whatever.”

Something occurs to me. “One of you can read, at least, right?” Because if not, this little plan is going nowhere fast. But they all nod — they all can read. I admit, I’m astounded. That educated people would creep all over the place in the dead of winter is beyond my grasp but it does mean my plan might really work.

That’s part one of my plan. I will take them to my office, we will write a story about me, and how I create news from nothing. I will give them back their warm, dry, mostly clean clothes, and they will leave. I hope.

Part two will be a little trickier and I haven’t thought that through yet. The big deal right now is to get them to totter down to my office so we can abolish falsehood and install truth. Or something like that.

Building both guilt and gratitude, I refill their cups with my fragrant coffee. They hold those cups like the real Virgin might have held her infant savior. Tenderly, with awe and even love. Jezus, these people are fools. One of those fools is holding a gun on me so I need to wrap up this ridiculous scenario and get them the hell out of here before they kill me by accident. Or stink me to death.

“Truth-sayers,” I announce, mingling flattery with invitation, “let us move to my workspace, where I will open my link to the world and we will tell everyone the real news.” “The Good News,” I add for effect.

I usher them in front of me to the basement door. I do most of my work in the kitchen in winter, but if part two is going to work, I need them downstairs. They slowly walk down the hall, in order — Baby first, Mother second, gullible Step-Father walking just in front of me. The Jozeph glances over his shoulder to keep an eye on me so I don’t jump him and take the gun. That was a thought, I admit. But I am looking for more of a lasting solution. So, I hold up my hands in innocent protestation — who me? I would never do something like grab the gun, shoot them all, and toss them in a refuse bin to be collected like unwanted leftovers. No way.

Holding tight to the handrail to steady their weak and wobbling steps, they proceed down to the sheet-shrouded and dusty family room and then to the door marked “Office.” It’s locked, so I open it and show them in. Seating them on an old sofa shoved up against a wall, I take my seat at the desk. My impressive computer is in front of me. It’s really the only thing in the whole house that gets taken care of, including me. The large screen curves almost from one side of the desk to the other, with a glowing background that shows a quiet countryside of green fields and cloud-swept skies. What a laugh. Most of this part of the country — the Appalachian Commonwealth — looks like that so it’s nothing to get excited about. You’d have to go all the way to Pittsburgh, in the old Pennsylvania, to find a real city these days. Still, it has a peacefulness about it that seems to settle the Trinity. They huddle together on the sofa, tattered blankets wrapping them but leaving feet bony and blue with cold. I want them paying attention, so I turn on the little space heater, and presently, warm air starts flowing around us.

I can see their shoulders drop just a little in relaxation, so I get ready to reel them in and then execute part two of my plan.

Signing into the computer, I insert the USB in the side and open it to show the contents. There is a folder with today’s date, so I open it to see who’s buying. Ah, Murdunck X is on the list. “Good news,” I tell the Trinity. “The King of False News is buying today.”

They don’t know who this is, and really wouldn’t care if I told them, so I don’t. The Jozeph looks doubtful, though, and says, “If they see this and know what you’re doing — what we’re doing — would they not prevent its publication?”

“Nah,” I say. “They never check anything; they just publish what I send them. By the time they find out, it will be too late. The true news will be everywhere, since other buyers all grab what the Murduncks put out.”

I click on the file, which takes me to the website of the buy. They change it every time so one can hack into it and steal the, ha-ha, news. Another piece of good luck for me. Once we do this, that site will close as if it had never been. It will be impossible to stop the spread of the story; impossible to track where it came from; impossible to take it back.

“Okay, good people of the Trinity,” I tell them. “Let’s get to work. What we are going to do here is release this story to this outlet.”

I continue, “There is no news, only stories. Corporations order them like pizzas with extra cheese, pay the storymaker, and send the stories out on the air waves. Fake, true, there is no difference anymore. The news is not about people or things, but about the writers who get paid. Do not listen to it, do not believe it. It is not the truth. It is not The Truth. I say this, one of the storymakers herself, Janna of Katherine. I say this in front of The Jehovahz Trinity, who witness this, the truth.”

Looking around, I see them nodding slowly. The Mary has tears in her eyes, for crap’s sake, and even The Jozeph seems moved. “Are we good to go, folks?” I ask. The Jozeph says, “Do you swear on your eternal soul that you do this in good faith?” The three of watch me closely. We’re closing in on the finish here, so no wrong steps.

“Yes.” I tell them solemnly, “When I press this key, the statement will go to Murdunck. When they publish it The World will know. But let me give you time to think about it while I fetch your clothes. They must be dry by now.”

I take off before they can stop me. I grab their clothing — still stained, but no longer stinking — and fly down the steps, pausing to catch my breath before I enter the room.

They are standing in wait for me. The gun is nowhere to be seen. They turn as one towards the computer and say, “Press the key and you will live.” Frankly that seems too easy, but press the key I do. The screen clears, and then after a few seconds the message appears “Story Accepted.”

Part one is complete. The story is out there, the gun is not. They are visibly happy, which is a weird sight. Now for the second part. I hand the clothes over to The Baby Bezoz, and let them dress while I wait outside the door.

After a few minutes, The Jozeph opens the door and they file out into the downstairs family room. Not that it’s seen a family in 40 years, but old names die hard. I nod, and hand them a bag I threw together from my stores while I waited.

“My friends,” I tell them, “You have released me from the night of falsehood into the Light of Truth. I thank you. Please accept these paltry things for your journey — they will comfort and feed you for a few weeks at least.”

See what I did there? Pre-empting their next thought by assuming they’d be leaving; acknowledging their victory; gifting them comfort in exchange for their mercy. Or so they think. They take the bag and turn towards the stairs.

“Oh, no, dear friends,” I cry. “No need to take the stairs — you can exit from this door and be on your way out of the wind.” They dutifully turn away as I shake my head to myself at their naivety. I show them to the back door, which lets out on a little patio with a clever pattern of lines etched in the flooring. Holding the door open for them with one hand, I put my other on the switch hiding behind the frame. When I throw that switch, those clever lines turn into an electrified grid that will fry anything on it into a smoking ruin. Part two: Eliminate Witnesses.

What did you think? That I would just allow them to leave, to shamble off and tell tales of what they accomplished? They thought they would take my life and then their own. This must be victory beyond their expectations, and I doubt their ability to keep their stupid mouths shut over their rotting teeth.

They stop at the door. I watch them watching me. If I see an awareness growing in their eyes, I ignore it. I keep my own face a mask of innocent attention. The Jozeph turns his eyes to the outside, then back to me. Now there is acceptance in his gaze, I think. Or is it that they trust me? God help them if they will trust someone like me so quickly. But God isn’t going to help them. Not today. Not ever.

The Jozeph looks at me calmly, and gives a slight nod of his head. Does he know what I intend? I can’t tell. Gathering his clothes and the blanket — my blanket — around him, he steps out of the door and onto the patio. Without hesitation, The Mary and Baby Bezoz follow him. I watch until they are all standing on the pad, drawing their garments around them against the cold.

I turn away as they step off the pad, clutching their little bag of food and water, and walk slowly toward the road. And then I return to the office, where I retract the news from the news site without completing the post. Let them go on their journey believing.