Foreigner’s God
The ride with Red was unbearable. He tuned him out most of the time, but the boy kept going on and on and on about him being a drac and Donnie being his prisoner. Jokes. So many stupid, stupid jokes. He trained his eyes out the window, staring at the endless dunes of sand. They kept going. Through Zone 2, 3, until they came close to the border between 4 and 5. He got out almost immediately after they stopped and reached through the driver’s window, pulling the keys from the ignition and dropping them into his pocket. “Stay put,” he said, knowing Red wouldn’t respond well to the order. Oh well.
The barn was massive (for a barn) and run down. Writing covered almost every inch of it’s decaying wooden exterior, and adorning that were small twine angels and pieces of glass strung together to look like art. Chimes blew from somewhere and Donnie was sure he could hear the angels singing. He turned back to Red, eyed him. The Devil couldn’t enter Holy Ground. He couldn’t enter this place. That was comforting knowledge.
He approached the entrance and opened one of the large doors leading inside. Angels were everywhere, standing against walls, crouching on rafters, sitting on chain-swings and kicking their legs. They all watched him, like they weren’t threatened by his presence, and whispered to one another like chittering birds. He couldn’t pick out any specific words-- it all sounded like noise to him. One girl walked over to him and fell to her knees, clasped her hands together, and started praying. He eyed her for a brief moment, then moved on, trying to pick out Frank’s familiar form from the gaggle of pale, white-robed saints.
He saw him near the back of the barn, crouched with his back turned, but it was undeniable. He felt his chest and ribs split open and all his organs fall out. His eyes, which were once intense and searching were now hazy and tired. “Frank,” he croaked, reaching out for him.
