Zarael lay sprawled in the front pew of the church, dressed in her thin white long johns beneath her black ministerial robe. Both garments were stained with remnants of the previous night. Her slumber was abruptly interrupted by the sound of someone banging on the church door. Through the thick wood, she could make out the voice of her husband saying something. As she stumbled off the cold wooden pew, she knocked over several small bottles of Nebula green whiskey. She had brought the once full bottles from their cottage next door the night before, to get away from her husband's whispers against "the sins of alcohol."
Morning light began to filter through the one open window at the back of the small church, casting a warm orange glow across the room. Only the small stone altar at the front remained in shadow, its usual red chalice overturned on the floor. Rubbing her eyes, Zarael squinted at the window, trying to determine if it was the light of the first sun or the second. It was the seventh day, and she knew the congregation would soon arrive. If it was the first sun, she might have enough time to clean up and change out of her long johns into her clerical collar before they arrived. But staring into the light caused her head to pound fiercely, and she had to turn away before she could count the suns.
The other windows were closed, something Zarael had done the previous night along with donning her robe in an attempt to ward off the chill of the desert night. She bent down to pick up a bottle with a little whiskey still in it sitting on the floor beside the wooden pew where she had been sleeping. The whole church seemed to creak in protest as she moved, the old hardwood floors groaning under her weight.
She took a swig of the liquid, letting it burn down her throat, hoping it would provide some relief from her throbbing headache. Instead, her stomach rebelled, and within moments, she vomited a fountain of green fluid. It spilled over the front pew, across the wooden surface, and onto the floor, finding its way through a knothole in the hardwood.
Zarael stood there for a moment, steadying herself on the now vomit-covered pew, surveying the mess and feeling a mix of shame and frustration. The church, once a place of solace and order, now mirrored the chaos of her life. The congregation would be here soon, and she had little time to restore any semblance of holy order. With a resigned sigh, she wiped her mouth and began to gather her scattered thoughts.
A chorus of voices swelled outside, piercing the silence. Among them, she could discern her husband’s high-pitched voice, tinged with worry. “I hope she’s alright… Jack, would you mind getting the door?”
Suddenly, a forceful thud echoed through the room, as if someone was ramming a shoulder against the wooden door. The lock began to buckle under the relentless assault. She knew now that the light filtering in must be from Zedoria’s second sun, signaling the beginning of the service. But by God, she would not be here. She was done with this forsaken town, and more importantly, she was done with her spineless husband.
Clutching the green whiskey bottle, she navigated her way toward the open window. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the hefty pulpit across the floor, positioning it beneath the window. The pounding on the door intensified; multiple congregants were now attempting to breach it. Zarael looked down and saw her worn leather pocket-size book of scripture and tucked it into her long johns beneath her robes. Then, she hoisted herself onto the pulpit, reaching up towards the small window. The frigid air nipped at her fingers as she gripped the frame. Her muscles strained as she hoisted herself up, managing to get her chest just over the edge.
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Suddenly, a deafening crash reverberated through the church as the lock gave way, flying across the room to strike the pulpit with startling force. The unexpected noise caused her to flinch, losing her balance and tumbling headfirst out of the window. Her robe snagged on a loose nail, tearing away from her body. She landed firmly on her upper back, having somersaulted over, her robe fluttering above her just as the first of the men burst through the now broken-down door.
Dazed but determined, she rose to her feet. Standing in the biting cold in her long-john underwear, she surveyed her surroundings. The southern landscape of Zedoria was stark and barren, with nothing but dirt and tumbleweeds, scattered by sparse clusters of trees and grasslands around the creeks and rivers. She knew she wouldn’t make it far without her horse. In the distance, no more than 100 yards away, stood her open-air barn. Its roof had collapsed last year, and she had never found the time to repair it. And her husband? He wouldn’t know a hammer from a horseshoe.
Then she heard someone shout from the church, "Her robes are in the window!"
Zarael took off, sprinting towards the barn. The red dirt kicked up a cloud of dust beneath her feet as she ran. In the distance, she could hear the townspeople shouting and pounding on the wooden church floor. Her long brown hair streamed behind her in the breeze. She reached the low wall surrounding the open-air barn and vaulted over it, landing next to the stall with her horse.
She had only recently acquired this horse, but she was something special. Born off-planet, the horse had lean muscles not seen in native breeds. Zarael named her Midnight on account of her sleek black coat, but Midnight was cantankerous and didn’t like to be ridden. The horse trader had considered her a lost cause, selling her cheap with the assumption that no one would ever be able to tame her. Zarael thought differently. Yet, the two times she had attempted to ride Midnight, she had been swiftly bucked off.
Now, she had no choice but to try again. She threw a patchwork blanket over Midnight’s back as a makeshift saddle, slipped the bottle of green whiskey into her bag, and grabbed her blaster and holster hanging on a hook nearby. With one quick motion, she leaped and pulled herself onto Midnight's back. The horse immediately began to buck and jostle, causing Zarael’s stomach to churn. The remnants of the green liquid surged up, and she vomited again. Midnight turned her head to look back at Zarael, who wiped the liquid from her mouth.
“Come on, girl,” Zarael muttered, gripping the reins tightly. “We have to get out of here.”
She steadied herself, using every bit of her willpower. The horse snorted and pawed the ground but began to respond to Zarael’s firm grip and calm voice. Slowly, they moved towards the barn’s exit. As the townspeople's shouts grew louder, Zarael urged Midnight into a gallop, kicking up more dust as they fled. Her heart pounded in her chest, but a small spark of hope ignited within her. If she could just make it to the edge of town, they might have a chance.
But then Midnight turned. Zarael clung to the reins, but she was not in control. The horse took off, galloping full speed toward the now large crowd of townsfolk chasing their hungover, youthful minister. At least fifteen people were gathered, the men standing in the front, dressed in their best clothes. Midnight raced straight toward them, and the men leaped out of the way as the horse barreled through.
However, Zarael's husband stood still, frozen and unable to move. He wore triple-pleated khaki pants and a pressed light blue dress shirt. His mouth hung half open, and his eyes were wide and empty, as if he had no idea that the horse was charging straight at him. Like a freight train on the tracks, the black horse collided with him, sending his body flying six feet into the air and twenty feet back.
Midnight let out a nicker, glancing back to see him land firmly on the ground. Zarael patted Midnight on the neck and headed south out of town, toward an old friend's ranch. It would be a hard journey, but if she kept going, she could make it there in a week's time.
As they galloped away, the town's shouts faded into the distance. Zarael focused on the dusty red horizon, now filled by the two risen suns.