The Smogs • Prison

He was locked in that cell, that inhospitable place where every annoying and tense sound could penetrate through. The poor plumbing, leaking into steady drips to his side. The mob growing more ravenous outside, banging against the fence, screaming out at the little metal bars that held Apollo. He had a mattress with a yellow stain on the head-side, he had to flip it the first day and on the second decided it best to just sleep on the floor. He had a desk, with no pen or pencil. They had given him a fragile piece of graphite that crumbled. Presumably, so he wouldn’t use it as a weapon. And in the desk, were collections of loose bible papers, which when composed in order, became the Book of Revelations.

A slip was left, etched into the pale wooden desk. It read, "Repent your sins and you may be saved in the world beyond." And Apollo hung by the edge of the yellow stained bed, with two hands on his bruised and bandaged face. With the dust collecting and turning his wrappings brown.

There was but one window and it was barred, looking through it, Apollo saw the floor. His cell was underground, partly at least. There were blades of grass and an earthy smell of mildew that slipped through. Above, fluorescent lights buzzing mildly.

He started to think, to regret immediately. Should he have told the truth?

It was worse when he thought of Elijah and of Dion, whom he had no news of. Staying in this isolating room, where time felt unmoved, had only worsened his nightmares.

He was told there would be a trial, and that he would probably be sentenced to death. And when he asked, the warden why it was so, the warden had replied, for show of course. The trial, all of it was theatrics. To appease the mob. To make an example of anyone else.

That’s what hurt him most, the death sentence, the fact that Dion would die too. That he had gone through the rude hands of doctors, just to come out into a factory line. A factory line leading straight through a decapitator machine.

He stood from his bed and hit the same spot on the wall he had been hitting for two weeks, the little indentation in the shape of his knuckled dug deeper into the brick wall. The bed sprung outward as he stood. He rested his head on the table.

"I'm fucked, I went through Hell just to get fucked. Jesus Christ," Apollo said. "Maybe it would have been better if I just died there, at least it'd save me the trouble of this bullshit."

He imagined the execution. He had seen one before when he was a young student. His teacher had forced him to watch it, the way they decapitated Vicar's with long guillotines and made quick of their hearts. She (the teacher) had said they had to do it that way. The brain severance came first, as it makes it harder for the body to regenerate. The heart removal is second, and that actually kills the Vicar. It used to be decapitations only, but after a few accidental survivors (and out of recycling convenience, a heart could still be used by another host after all) they changed their methods. Now it was both. The double whammy of the some of the worst ways to die.

Now he waited on his deathbed, waiting, sitting back down and hearing the creak of springs from his low-to-the-floor mattress.

He looked out the metal door in front of him, three bars set at even interstices gave some vision in gaps. He saw people pass by, people stop and breath heavily in front of the door, people who prayed as they took quick glances inside the cell.

At least, thankfully, he was used to loneliness. He was trained in it, and at least for the moment, made his isolation bearable. But today felt different, today he could not be himself with his thoughts.

There was an eerie silence, a ceremonial type of silence. He sat by the desk and rubbed his forehead and tuned his ears to the distinct echo of the hall. He could hear someone loud, emphatic, like a tap dance, like a musical act all along the floor above. And it got worse, more eccentric, as it came closer and closer.

Then silence.

There were two guards outside, neither spoke. Though their heavy breathing told Apollo they were still alive.

A knock. A two tap knock. A pause. Flurry, a speedy banging on the door.

“I’m a prisoner. You don’t need to fucking knock.” Apollo screamed. A week's worth of hostility was in his tone. He began to worry if he had scared the person away and then felt stupid that even cared in the first place.

Three stern knocks once more and he was shaken to a stand. He looked at the door, rubbing his eyes and heard the creek of the rusty hinges prying open, like the closed eyes of people in days long sleep. He saw the full figure at once, and he was...unimpressed.

The person was smaller, smaller than Apollo. No, smaller than an average man. Five feet three, four maybe on his tiptoes. The man made an effort to close the door gently and to fiddle with the door handle. He took his hands off the door the minute the two warden Vicars outside locked it.

The man breathed heavily.

Apollo eyed his back, the garbs he wore. Pure white robes, with seams and golden edges. A long cloak of white wrapped around him, it hid his feet and his arms and most of his body. The clothes outstretched to his neck, wrapping around his scalp and covering it completely.

He wore a wide, white sunhat. It hid most of his face.

He turned. His masked face showing, pristine and bright. It was tight against the strangers face and it carried some floral designs, etched into the white. Above, on the forehead of the mask laid the cross. All rather extravagant, all gold and white and pretty and clean.

The light reflected off the mask, harsh. He raised his hands. Apollo rubbed his face to clear his vision.

On the man, two purple bright eyes with a little red colored rim to contain the oddly colored irises. Apollo tried looking away from the violet eyes, but his mind couldn’t help but think what strange and famous power they demanded, and what strange and powerful man this person must have been.

Apollo tried to find a seat, his legs wobbled. He pushed himself against the wall and stabilized himself. The man (he only guessed it was a man, though he couldn't see much behind the mask) looked up to Apollo.

"Do you know who I am?" The man said. Apollo stayed quiet, the man shook his head.

“Oh, oh, forgive me! Where are my manners.” He walked over to Apollo and picked up his hand and shook the limp thing with an almost juvenile appreciation. “I am Sevar.”

“You talk a little strange,” Apollo jerked his hand back.

"I was born an Armenian but raised in Jerusalem. Excuse my accent.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Apollo sat on his bed, his eyes steady on the man. “I have an idea of who you are.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yeah, you wanted to talk in the hospital. Didn’t you?”

The man nodded.

“You’re also the Leper Hospitaller, aren’t you? The Leper of Elezear.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Aha! So that’s where you know me from, why yes, I am the man.”

“The mad mystic?”

“I don’t know about that,” The Leper laughed.

“I am just a man who wanted to talk to you and if I had, perhaps we could have avoided all this. May I sit?”

“Huh?”

“May I sit?”

“Yeah, uh, sure. Make yourself at home.”

The Leper looked around, clasping his knees and made small quips and bits of nervous laughter.

“What do you want?” Apollo asked.

“I wanted to know if it’s true. Did you go to Hell?” Apollo stayed quiet. “I’m no judge, you can tell me in absolute confidence. It’s not like things can get any worse, I’m sure you know that you’re a dead man, right?”

“It’s not good to lose your bargaining chip,” Apollo said.

“Oh! That’s good, you’re clever.” The Leper said. “How about an exchange then? An answer, for answers? That is, news about your friends.”

The Leper knocked on the walls, twice. The two guards heard it, must have, as they walked away and left the halls in silence.

“Hmm? How does that sound.”

“You first,” Apollo said.

“Well, Dion is safe. They locked him in his hospital room the whole week you were here. I’m sure he’ll be joining you tomorrow, though. The doctor’s put up a good fight, keeping his treatment going. You can thank the Hospitallers for that.” He raised his finger. “As the motto says! Rest your tired and weary so on the shoulders of a Hospitaller-”

Apollo could not move. He twiddled his thumb and closed his eyes.

“Ahem,” The Leper said. “As for your other friend, Elijah, was it? He killed himself.”

“What?” He nearly lept out. “How? When?”

“A few days after you were imprisoned. They were coming for him next, it seems. Or maybe that motley crew, the sungazers, got to him. Who knows? They found him in his office with a knife through his heart.”

He couldn’t breathe. He leaned back until his head hit the wall and opened his mouth to catch air, but nothing seemed to come. The Leper stayed quiet in his seat, both legs close together as he waited for Apollo to recover. It must have been a half hour before he could speak again, with a groggy and broken voice.

“I shouldn’t have involved him. I should have just admitted it. I could have taken all the blame, even Dion wouldn’t have had to -”

“Ah, don’t sulk, you'll drown your reason in regret. It’s too early for you to regret! You’re a young man with a long life ahead of you.”

“Long life? I’m going to get my head cut off tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” The Leper raised both hands like the buckets of scales. “Maybe not. But those options won’t come to you until after you answer my question. Did you go to Hell?”

“Yes,”

“M-May I?” The Leper said, excitedly. He pointed to Apollo’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to impose you see, I believe in civility. Civility in an uncivil world.”

Apollo, a bit saddened still, with his head low, made no protest and leaned his shoulder towards the Leper. The Leper dragged his hand across Apollo’s skin in an area below the ear, his hands were glowing with that arcane energy, it looked white, a bit yellow almost. And Apollo pulled away. He felt a sharp pain, a sting. Then bleeding, a design had been cut into him.

“What the fuck.” He mumbled.

“That was a good reaction.” The Leper says. “You are marked, so you did go to Hell. You must have seen Charon at some point, no? The ferryman.”

“Yeah.”

“You probably weren’t conscious at the time then. Well, lacking a corporeal form, to be exact. But you bear the marking of the living undead. Incredible.”

“Is that all you wanted? To zap me?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Why would I ever play with your ilk?” The Leper said. “Knight of the Rose. And you are Apollo, of the fourth order. The most underachieving of the bunch, aren’t you? Only a step above the rookies. By god. I don’t know why they even keep you around.”

“Elitist shithead,” Apollo said.

“I’ll let that one go,” The Leper said. “What I want from you is more important to be burdened by mild hostilities. You should think likewise, your predicament does not allow you the luxury of arrogant insults. You are going to die tomorrow. You and Dion.”

“What do you want from us?”

“From one of you, really. Either one, it just so happened Dion was unconscious at the time. So I thought I’d offer you my deal.”

“You either help us both out or you’ll get shit, you hear me?” He broke out of that malaise, bitter, angry, still clutching the bleeding wound below his ear that crawled down to his chest, that now smoked red from his regenerative properties.

“I figured, it makes no difference to me. I can help you both. Friendship is a noble thing after all!” The Leper said, hands open and in the air. “This is what I admire about you downtrodden types, you always find meaning in the arbitrary.”

“This is why no one likes you guys, the Canaries, the Hospitallers. Whatever the fuck you call yourselves.”

“Canaries? Haven’t heard that one.” The Leper said. “But it makes sense. I’m sure we must appear cold from the outside but I promise you, my offer is anything but cold.”

“Well, get on with it. Jesus Christ.”

“Yes, yes.” His hands fell down again. “Now as you may know you have broken a great commandment. You have committed an unadvised, unsanctioned trip to Hell. And you know what they’ll accuse you of tomorrow, don’t you?”

“They’ll say that the reason we went down there was to cohort with demons.”

“Yes, and your only alibi is a bit too stupid to repudiate the claim.”

“Alestor…” He immediately regretted the Hyena. He immediately felt stupid. He closed his eyes and swallowed his spit and put his head down.”

“But I may save you yet.” The Leper said. “I could sponsor you two to become Hospitallers.”

Apollo looked up, his eyes with a thin sheen about them.

“I don’t think we’re mentally equipped to handle the experiments you guys do.”

“Of course I know that. You're short a few IQ points, that's fine! We have plenty other positions for you two.” He said.

"There are combat fields?"

"Some, sure. Though your skills are mediocre, even at that."

“Well fuck. Why do you want us for then?”

"What do you think? What other use would I have for a man who went through Hell?” The Leper said, with a sly, devious tone. “To go back to Hell, of course.”

“Absolutely not.”

It didn’t take him much to decline, all he had to remember was Dion’s body on the bed and Astyanax on the floor.

“It wouldn’t be immediate, of course. We still need to get the paperwork and the planning in, but we imagine we’ll be going back before the next decade ends.”

“You don’t know what’s down there. And we only went as far as Purgatory, it gets even worse -”

The Leper leaned in with renewed curiosity. His head tilted, his violet eyes peering straight through Apollo. He had to look away, they were too oppressive.

“We don’t know what’s down there, you’re right. That’s why we’re going.” He said. “So this is my offer. You can join the Hospitallers or you can die.”

“That’s great, that’s fucking great. I can either die right now or wait a few years later and die anyway. This time, in Hell!” He said, sardonically.

“I guess prison has rotted your brain. I thought you were the smart one?” The Leper asked. “I thought you’d be more self-interested. Would you prefer to be a political tool? A precedent of mockery for the years of Vicars to come? A mere footnote in history, of the fool who went to Hell and lived and died by the hands of stupid politicians and unruly revolutionaries?”

“I…” Apollo shook his head. “I can’t give you an answer yet.”

“However much time you’d need, you will get none. Your sentence, your end, is tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“As is Dion’s.”

“I know!” He lashed out. The Leper stayed quiet, reading his face he presumed. Then he stood, abruptly and went to the door.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?” The Leper asked.

Apollo nodded yes.

“It must be a surprise to be tried by God, no? I’m sure mortal men would have been more forgiving.” The Leper laughed and reached for the door handle. “Well, I’ve overstayed my welcome. I won’t be getting an answer before I leave, will I?”

Apollo nodded no.

“Right. And here I thought you were losing your head tomorrow, but it seems like you lost it a long time ago.” He said. “Oh well, I’ve overstayed my welcome. Good day, sir.”

Those were the last words. Apollo maintained his silence throughout, he had lost the ability to speak and all communication had been reduced to his meditated breaths. Deep inhalations, brief exhalations. For he had too much on his mind and his heart raced too quickly and everything seemed to want to explode out of him. Resentment, sadness most of all. He heard the Leper leave and make his way upstairs, then outside. And he heard the halls fill once against with doctors and therapists and wardens and Vicars and somehow, all the jubilee, all the mockery of the crowd behind the bars, all the noise of all life existing and continuing made him feel even lonelier.