Page 105 of Off the Rails

The bikers tried to reason with Jane, but she wasn’t listening to them. She just kept staring past them, shouting her prayers louder and louder at Tess’ retreating form.

We didn’t get a reprieve from the chanting until we were back in the Cadillac with the doors shut. But even as we sped off into the night, I could tell from the quiver of her lip that the outburst was still looping in Tess’ mind.

I reached across the backseat, accidentally startling her as I rested my hand on her knee. I was prepared to pull my hand away, but the shock only lasted a second before Tess was intertwinging her fingers with mine. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head.

“Was it… is she going to be okay?” Tears brimmed at Tess’ glimmering blue eyes, but she quickly blinked them back.

“Yes,” I said, hoping it was the truth. Violence wouldn’t let anything happen to “Jane” while she was under their watch. But whatever was going on with her was clearly much deeper than just an incident in the parking lot.

“We did everything we could for her, Tess.” Nash turned from the front seat, “You got her to safety. That’s all you could do.”

Tess nodded, settling into silence for the rest of the ride. It wasn’t long until we were back inside of Feverpoint’s rickety old gates, settled back into the apartment that had been home as long as I could remember now.

But while being back on our turf should have settled me, I couldn’t shake the tension in my chest. The others seemed to feel it too. And despite our best attempts to ignore it, I knew there was one question on all of our minds: Who was so terrifying that the woman wasn’t willing to speak a single fucking word?

59

TESS

My fingers tapped against the metal casing on my laptop. It was a cheap machine, one I’d gotten at a yard sale for fifty bucks.

The piece of shit got the job done. And today that was playing endless live streams of Rubin — better known as The Messenger.

It had been a few days since we’d stumbled on Jane outside the club. And I couldn’t shake the pit that had formed in my stomach. Something about the whole thing had put me off.

And from the looks of it, Blade, Nash, and Cyrus couldn’t let it go either. Everyone had been on edge.

Valemont was changing. And fast.

I couldn’t help but feel like Rubin had something to do with it.

As soon as we’d gotten home from Lucky Strike, I’d made a few burner accounts and turned on The Messenger streams.

Somehow, it was all even weirder than I’d originally thought.

On the screen, Rubin walked from house to house, dressed in his dirty robes. For the most part, he ignored the cameras.

What I’d gathered in the days I’d spent watching was that he refused to touch the technology. According to him, these guys just started following him around one day — filming some kind of documentary.

Supposedly, the documentarians started to believe in his message and became his disciples. They followed him everywhere, live streaming every minute of Rubin’s “work”.

It was weird, all of it.

The way the cameraguy would chime in every once in a while to affirm what The Messenger was saying. The way Rubin would approach a stranger’s door and would sometimes bring the cameras with and others leave them behind.

Every time they came with, a new recruit was welcomed to the fold.

Probably staged it.

But I couldn’t figure out why.

Next to me, Butch rested his head on my foot. Curled up on the couch, I pet his head a couple times to help him settle in.

Sure, Rubin was always searching for divinity. Every piece of toast he ever ate at Promise was inspected for images of Jesus in the browned spots. Pastor Harris was his best friend. And every day was an attempt to claim he knew the most about the Bible.

We’d been friends — okay, more like acquaintances — back then. Despite playing along, I hated the religious stuff. It was a means to an end. If I prayed and studied, the nuns would give me extra pudding and let me read past bedtime.