Pete(4) Streets of Babylon (Novel excerpt—crime thriller; futuristic)
October 10th 2007 03:57
Chapter One
Chosen
Brother Jack’s three-bedroom, weatherboard home in the inner-suburb of Burwood is the nominated worship-house for this week service. Pastor Michael randomly picked one of the Elder’s homes each Saturday night and telephoned the one selected that same evening. It is then the incumbent’s duty to call the other Elders, who then notify the congregation. This had been the routine ever since the old Chapel was fire bombed last April. And would stay that way now that the police wanted Pastor Michael for questioning.
The Congregation totalled thirty souls in all, a mixture of street kids and disgruntled Christians from mainstream churches, all drawn-in by the charismatic preacher who once stood on the corner of Pitt and George Streets shouting verse from the Book of Revelation. Since the ‘spontaneous combustion’ incident, Pastor Michael had gone to ground. The Elders were the only ones privy to what really happened: the man just burst into flames. None of them entertained the idea that their Pastor murdered the gang member. However, all realised the police would not believe that God turned the ruffian into a blackened stump in a matter of seconds.
It came as no surprise to Brother Jack then, when his Pastor told him on Saturday night that ‘Wrath of God’ would be the basis of Sunday’s sermon. Rumours were circulating through the more pragmatic Members, postulating their Pastor must have had a hand in the gang member’s death. Some of them have witnessed miraculous healing, others talking-in-tongues, but fire raining down from heaven was another leap-of-faith altogether.
Today’s service would be held in Brother Jack’s double-garage. A portable wooden podium substituting a pulpit was set-up at the rear. Before it, twenty-five vinyl and steel chairs were arranged in rough half-circles. As is tradition this the 120th gathering, the Elders would stand behind the Flock.
Hushed murmurs, then Brother Jack, senior Elder at seventy-two, hunched and grey, led the congregation—twenty-two in all, eight giving apologies— single-file from the back door of his house to the garage glancing nervously left-to-right. Jack’s neighbours worked for the government and undue attention might bring suspicion, the last thing the Congregation needs. Thankfully, the coast was all clear.
Brother Alan, a tall man in his fifties with a shock of white hair and affectionately known as Moses for his resemblance to the prophet’s biblical depictions, patted his fellow Elder’s shoulder. “Don’t worry brother, God will blind their eyes.” There was no sign of Pastor Michael, or Elder Tomas. Most unusual, as the leadership gathered in prayer before each service asking God for guidance and direction.
Inside the garage, and the Congregation took their seats, talking quietly amongst themselves. As this situation is unprecedented, and not knowing what else to do, Brother Jack stepped up onto the podium. He began with a hushed version of the hymn, ‘Christ is Lord’. As the other Members joined in, the result was a serene and haunting rendition of a song designed to be sung in full-voice.
Just before the chorus began, the garage door swung open and in strode Brother Tomas. A bull of man at two metres, 120 kilograms, Tomas was the youngest of the leadership at thirty-two, his short raven-hair worn slicked back from a boyish face. Today, however, that likeable countenance was creased into a frown of consternation as he held open the door for his Pastor to enter. ©
Chosen
Brother Jack’s three-bedroom, weatherboard home in the inner-suburb of Burwood is the nominated worship-house for this week service. Pastor Michael randomly picked one of the Elder’s homes each Saturday night and telephoned the one selected that same evening. It is then the incumbent’s duty to call the other Elders, who then notify the congregation. This had been the routine ever since the old Chapel was fire bombed last April. And would stay that way now that the police wanted Pastor Michael for questioning.
The Congregation totalled thirty souls in all, a mixture of street kids and disgruntled Christians from mainstream churches, all drawn-in by the charismatic preacher who once stood on the corner of Pitt and George Streets shouting verse from the Book of Revelation. Since the ‘spontaneous combustion’ incident, Pastor Michael had gone to ground. The Elders were the only ones privy to what really happened: the man just burst into flames. None of them entertained the idea that their Pastor murdered the gang member. However, all realised the police would not believe that God turned the ruffian into a blackened stump in a matter of seconds.
Today’s service would be held in Brother Jack’s double-garage. A portable wooden podium substituting a pulpit was set-up at the rear. Before it, twenty-five vinyl and steel chairs were arranged in rough half-circles. As is tradition this the 120th gathering, the Elders would stand behind the Flock.
Brother Alan, a tall man in his fifties with a shock of white hair and affectionately known as Moses for his resemblance to the prophet’s biblical depictions, patted his fellow Elder’s shoulder. “Don’t worry brother, God will blind their eyes.” There was no sign of Pastor Michael, or Elder Tomas. Most unusual, as the leadership gathered in prayer before each service asking God for guidance and direction.
Inside the garage, and the Congregation took their seats, talking quietly amongst themselves. As this situation is unprecedented, and not knowing what else to do, Brother Jack stepped up onto the podium. He began with a hushed version of the hymn, ‘Christ is Lord’. As the other Members joined in, the result was a serene and haunting rendition of a song designed to be sung in full-voice.
Just before the chorus began, the garage door swung open and in strode Brother Tomas. A bull of man at two metres, 120 kilograms, Tomas was the youngest of the leadership at thirty-two, his short raven-hair worn slicked back from a boyish face. Today, however, that likeable countenance was creased into a frown of consternation as he held open the door for his Pastor to enter. ©
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