James Axler – Road Wars

And it had a tenant.

The fourteenth member of the group was crucified upon it, dark blood showing black in the moonlight at the center of both palms and through the center of the crossed ankles.

A crown of rusty barbed wire had been jammed over the man’s head, leaving worms of blood to inch down over the agonized face. And someone had stabbed him in the side, under the ribs. Not hard enough to kill him, but enough to leave a gaping wound with glistening lips.

The wretched man’s mouth sagged open, but if he was making any sound, it was drowned out by the slow, rhythmic chanting of the rest of the sect.

Led by Simon, banging his staff into the dirt, each scourged the back of the man in front, in a circle, so that every man received an equal whipping.

After the initial shock and revulsion had worn off a little, Doc found that be could actually make out the words of their obscene hymn.

“Dear Lord of Pain aid us. Blessed Virgin of Suffering, weep tears of blood that will blind our enemies. Dolores, our lady of agony, tear at our worthless flesh with your many-thonged lash of silver nails. Accept the sacrifice of our own humble spots of fallen crimson and give us help.”

“These people are in serious need of advanced and prolonged psychiatric counseling,” Doc whispered.

“They’re just sick stupes,” Dean replied.

“Perhaps we should return to the ranch now. I hardly think that they would welcome the knowledge that they were being watched in their disgusting practices.”

Dean was lost, staring at the tableau of horror so close to them. The man on the cross writhed in agony, head moving from side to side, more blood flowing over his eyes and face. The nails hammered through both his palms held the arms rigid, and his whole body strained forward at an unnatural angle that put an immense strain on his lungs.

Doc closed his eyes, sickened at the sight. He had read of crucifixions in learned textbooks, tomes that spoke of the bodies of the thousands of losers in the revolt of Spartacus, exhibited all along the endless miles of the Appian Way. Most had eventually died of suffocation, their chests constricted, each breath that little bit smaller and more painful than the one before. The executioners, bribed by despairing relatives, would remove support from the feet, making the final passing of the anguished victims that much swifter.

He had never, in his worst laudanum-tainted nightmares, imagined that he would one day be a witness to this barbaric method of execution.

“Butchery,” he whispered.

The steady pacing in the circle had ceased, and the twelve acolytes of the brotherhood were standing looking toward their skinny leader.

He had lifted the staff with the tortured Christ on its head, pointing with it away to the south, toward Jak’s homestead.

“Those who are not for the Slaves of Sin are against them. Those who are not believers are blasphemers. Those who will not help us on our chosen journey to the Indies shall die. Yea, verily, they shall die. Die one and die all!”

“Should warn Jak,” Dean breathed.

Doc shook his silver mane of hair. “He heard Simon say this kind of arrant nonsense-babble earlier, did he not? Empty words. For all her manifold faults, Dr. Wyeth is a good hand with a pistol. She would be able to cleanse the planet of all of them before they closed to within fifty yards of her.”

“Yeah” The boy sounded doubtful.

Doc patted Dean on the shoulder. “They seem to have no weapons, except for an occasional knife. I believe they could do precious little harm to us or our friends.”

“I guess not.”

The Apostle Simon had turned toward the man on the cross, the rest of the followers silent. The tortured victim moaned softly. His head had fallen forward on his breast, and it seemed as though he’d already slipped into semiconsciousness.

“The sacrifice is seemly.” Simon fumbled with the head of his staff, and Doc and Dean heard a metallic click. A long slender blade of steel had shot out of the head of the Christ figure, glinting brightly in the moonlight.