Whiskey in the Jar

 by Frank Creed

Dedicated to Vanity Fair’s Christopher Hitchens

Traffic’s echo faded in South 93rd Street’s stoplight cycle, signaling a local series of red lights. I had just crept along St. Gerald’s four-meter parking-lot cedar hedge and lurked behind the maintenance shed for this moment. Stepping into streetlight, I twisted the Master lock to rip out the hasp’s wood screws. Wrecked hardware tapped against wooden frame as the shed’s darkness cloaked me.

We’d scanned St. Gerald’s newest electric-wiring-diagrams for security systems installed or updated during its recent renovation. They had some unmonitored record-only sec-cams, and that was it. Why would a One Church franchise ever need anything more than that? Who’d knock-over a church? A guy like me didn’t make the Federal Bureau of Terrorism most-wanted list without knowing how to deal with record-only equipment. This Op was about to make history.

A smidgen of light leaked in through shed cracks--barely enough for my mindware’s light-intensifying vision. The shiny new backup generator sat silent. I crouched next to it, and sprung right back to my feet. “Aw, man!” I griped in circles, flapping my open duster, brushing at strands of web and at anything capable of spinning them. I’m no arachnophobe, just had to let the tiny predators know who was boss.

I resettled, running fingers along the backup generator’s wires, and had myself a thought. Desktop. The brainwave sensor in my com-shades read my thought and opened the heads-up display on their lenses. A virtual desktop appeared as traffic’s hush again echoed South 93rd Street. Connect. A tiny yellow phone-icon flashed and connected to a preset conference call.

Hey, Boss—can you make that ride home shorter than the one here? I prayed. I knew the trip to the Metroplex’s south-west Cook County border in the urban-tractor-trailer-train’s belly-box would go long. Just can’t sleep riding in those things like some Sandmen. And I hate waiting.

Both yellow phone icons blipped green. I snapped cutters open and shut and addressed members of the Fightin’ Irish. Calamity Kid goin live. Top-o-the evenin’ to ye.

Kyrie, their hack, thought-speeched her dialect in my head An’ tomorrow to yerself.I smiled. Your profile said you’re third generation American.

What’s your point? She asked in pure Chicagoian accent.

Here we go, said Sancto. He was the star of this show—the saint in real danger. I connected to his mindware’s sensory feed as he strode through the church lobby.

My role in this op was exit escort, backup muscle, strategic support—and observer. The underground Body of Christ’s elders didn’t know what to make of this new local gang who wanted into our network. I clicked the transmit option on my desktop, and bounced Sancto’s sensory feed to a drop. Somewhere the elders witnessed our op in a hi-tech real-time debriefing from there underground smoke filled back room. The Irish were ace with that, which made me scratch my head. Guess it didn’t matter if we Protestants saw ‘em praying to Mary.

The old landscaped St. Gerald’s brick announcement-board out front had been replaced with One-Church screaming neon, the franchise-trademark of government’s sterile religiosity. Seems the One State thought it a good idea to rip-out and totally remodeled the guts of an Irish-Catholic community landmark, converting it into a One Church.

Not learning from history plus Northern Ireland’s scars of repression equals a determined enemy. The One State’s own equation ran no Fundamentalism equals no Fundamentalist terrorists. That’s what the FBT calls intelligence. I know, right?

The Vatican had been silenced by non-Theological media standards, and the One State had effectively beheaded the Catholic Church. Chicago’s Irish-Catholic neighborhood had been quiet as the One State disbanded Bible-believers globally. It had taken years for the good whiskey to distill here on the Plex’s southwest side, where folks had been keepin’ quietly keep to themselves. So here I squatted, a stick in the Irish-Catholic hive, and prayed our quick hit-n-run would prove safe and spiritually exhilarating.

Down a hallway, Sancto stopped before the third Plastiwood door on the right. A placard set at eye level read Pastor's Office. Sancto’s hand gripped its doorknob, popping the standard metal lock easy as I’d opened the shed. Our mindware had its B&E advantages. The Federal Bureau of Terrorism hated that.

The room’s motion sensor activated florescent ceiling panels. File cabinets, children's macaroni artwork, a dry erase board, and a desk scattered with com-vision chip cases and hardcopy printouts. Sancto moved to the wall behind the pastor's Pleather executive chair and drew open Wedgewood-blue waist-to-head curtains. On the far side of a room length chip-powered one-way Picture Window a few hundred barefoot people knelt in a huge circular room.

The One State packed in those kind’a numbers even on a Thursday night because at nine points around the Sanctuary, ceiling brain-wave transmitters glowed with swirling spectrums of color. That meant they were broadcasting. Worshippers easily became addicted to the ebb and flow of their own body-chemicals. A few Technoholics slept in the church’s Sanctuary that had been floored with wrestling-mat styled shock-padding. They’d chosen to live in the One-State’s virtual world over God’s creation.

Three worshippers rolled violently near the hologram’s dais in the room’s center. A rainbow cylinder swirled between large floor and ceiling discs. Viewing was personalized. The religious scene depended on the viewer’s individualized programmes that shaped their brain waves. God could be anything to anyone.

Sancto thumbed a button on the sill’s corner bearing a label that read Experience God.

That’s when my sensory feed fragged, and the pain stabbed my head.

* * *

My com-shades said I’d only passed-out for a few seconds. The connection hadn’t been merely cut-off, it had exploded into higher frequencies.

Kyrie, what the slag was that?

It just says brain-wave sensory feed denied. Could you be missing a mindware plug-in?

Gimmie a sec. “Bless-me!” I said to myself. My boss had nagged at me about getting my mindware updated--couple months ago. “Oh, you lightweight-pinhead.” My thoughts raced, opening panes on my virtual desktop, and selecting sub-menu options. I sent a connection-interrupted signal to the BoC Elders. “What a Calamity.”

Mindware’s enhanced sensory perceptions crackled. Audio, visual, and olfactory stuttered. A pane opened, asking if I’d like to download an update.

Naw, ya’ think? I thought offline. I’d set my com-shades to sense sarcasm, so the download began immediately. Then to Kyrie, I’ve got tech issues here. Tell me Sancto’s safe.

All systems green. Look, things won’t go all maggoty till the end—take your time and re-connect. Her icon went black.

I sat cross-legged in the dark on fresh concrete.

* * *

Update installed, I sensed through Sancto’s senses. He sat in an uncomfortable folding chair before the pastor’s desk. That button on the Picture Window’s sill is what had dumped me. As I re-connected, serotonin, endorphins, adrenaline, and testosterone all pumped my system, just as they flooded Sancto’s. I’d known from the prints just how high-tech One Church worship was wired. The deception was all used-car-salesman on paper, but this . . . This cut the legs off the whole concept of religion. As if a meaningless experience could be God. Even being Catholic was better. Those poor people in that padded room.

Carpeted footfalls sounded.

A pale, pudgy, pattern-bald, late-twenties white-bread panted into the room, lugging a polyester overcoat, vinyl attaché, and crinkled brown lunchbag. “Oh, I'm sorry, did we have an appointment? If we did please forgive . . .”

“We didn’t,” rumbled Sancto.

The man cocked his head and his kind face tensed into a muscle-memory smile. “My name is Reverend Peace.” He dropped his load on the desk and extended a stubby arm.

Sancto ignored the offered palm. “You’re kidding me.”

“I get comments all the time.” He chuckled.

“Good stage name.”

Peace’s face lit-up. “Oh, you’re a skeptic. The One Church is about meeting god.”

“Been watching the show.” Sancto gestured at the Picture Window, “I’m wise to your game.”

The reverend slowly sat. “All I ask is that you walk with me into another room. It will change your life. Give god thirty seconds.”

“I’ve a different God.”

Peace’s face defaulted into a sad expression. “Through the miracle of worship I can show you so much more.”

“You actually believe what you’re sellin’?”

“I know enough to light your path.” Peace offered a hand, smiled and stood. “Please, come.”

Sancto slapped Reverend Peace’s hand away with reformed reflexes and glared.

Panic twisted the reverend’s face. He finally understood with whom he spoke. And that he was prey. I lived for moments like this. “He-hey, I’m just the second-shift pastor.” He whimpered.

Sancto rose and moved around the desk, showing peaceful palms. “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do. Come.” The sandman gently tugged the good reverend from the corner.
Peace’s round eyes said he was ready to die for his faith.
Sancto, arm snug ‘round Peace’s neck, backed to the office door. “Saw’ll good, Rev, just watch. Time to get real, Kyrie, cut the power.” Though he didn’t have-to, he said that last part out loud.

The church went black for a second’s fraction before the generator next to my meat body fired-up, restoring power.
Worshippers in the Sanctuary looked around. Their god had stuttered. The Rev did his best impression of a fish yanked out of water.

“S’all a lie, buddy.” Sancto dragged Peace into the hallway, and strode toward the Sanctuary. Away from his office’s god-button, my flowing body chemicals ebbed.

The pale reverend went pasty and panted, “What are you doing?”

“Turnin’ on your Light.” Sancto straight-armed the sanctuary’s plasti-wood double-doors.

My body chemicals rushed again.

Reverend Peace removed Sancto’s arm from around his neck. “Now you see.”

Sancto chinned his collarbones and spoke soft “All I see is a true believer.”

“In a real source of peace.”

Sancto’s neck twitched, like he swallowed something rotten. “I tried to break your eggs over-easy, but scrambled it is. Didn’t come to bring peace.”

“What you feel has changed lives.” He pleaded with an honest wobbly nod.

“Feel this. Calamity?”

I snipped the wires and sprang out of my crouch. Bursting through the shed’s doorway, I sprinted for the church. The greenish light-intensified scene on my com-shades went south fast. Worshippers’ angry muttering fueled by techaholic shrieking rendered the room in audible chaos. The crowd erupted in motion as the panicked clawed their way toward the doors . . . where stood Sancto. Calamity?

Almost there. I assured. Get it quiet in there, I’ll toss a flash.

Roger that.

Sancto drew twin pistol-gripped sawed-off Remington 875s from thigh holsters. A single shot boomed cannon-like in the enclosed space. Shredded ceiling tile bits flitted artificial snow as the screaming began. I’d have tried the same thing, but on this crowd the move backfired worse than a 2016 Chevy Pacer.

Kyrie, I need that room quiet, can you restore power?

She may have been Fightin’ Irish, but this lassie was all hack. Go bless yourself.

Word of advice: never ask a hack if they can do something. Where’s the love? Lights flickered on as I thought the phrase, and crossed the lobby toward the Sanctuary doors. The room dulled to angry chatter. I set my Rheinmetall grenade-pack to flash and EMP on a twelve second timer, and pushed inside. "Here, y’all!” The faithful all turned to toward me.

“You can have it back!" I tossed the flash grenade into the re-booting hologram at the room’s center. Necks followed my lobbed grenade, expecting transmission to resume as Sancto and I closed our eyes. After the distinctive high-pitch whine of detonation, the room hushed. The poor statue-solid Reverend didn’t even flinch when the hologram sizzled and went the nothing-white of blank Web-space. The Transmitters on the ceiling flashed red. Had Peace even noticed that he’d been blinded?

Sancto addressed the blinking confused crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll be able to see again in moments. At that time, please look after your Reverend—he’s not well. You’ll all be released shortly, and power has been restored. Just resume your seats and be patient. Ask yourselves if God needs electricity to exist.” Then to Peace, “Sorry, buddy. You needed to know you were livin' a lie.”

Peace just blinked like an owl.

Heads in the crowd disappeared a few at a time as the blind decided they had no reasonable options, and seated themselves.

“C’mon” He tugged at my arm.

“What are you doing?”

I followed through the double doors, which Sancto pulled closed behind us. Clear.

Clear. Kyrie repeated. The doorframe clicked loud.

“Mag-lock,” explained Sancto. “The One Church put ‘em in. Just what you think they were expecting to do to these people?”

“We can mull that over a Trip-Caf Java someday. They’re callin' 911—let's fly already.”

"We’re gonna wait.” He smiled.

"Confronting peacekeepers is unnecessary risk."

“Said like a true Protestant.” He winked. "You can miss the opportunity to show these people the truth if you like. Go ahead."

Kyrie, have you ran FBT backup plans for this Ward? I asked.

Nope. No need.

I pursed my lips and raised a brow to Sancto. He stepped close, angled his neck, and spoke threat-soft. “Just cause those in the Underground took the name Body of Christ don’t mean you’re always doing His will, ya know. I’m checkin' you out too, observer. You’d leave all these people here? We’ve got back-up, and the plan’s changed. You ace with that?”

“Time for the Irish to dance their jig?”

“You’re the observer, hang with us and observe.” He splayed his hands and grinned.

I smiled. “I will. Don’t know what the bosses back home are thinking, but I like your style. I’m in it.”

* * *

We sat on a padded bench near a front church window, prepped to welcome our expected company. “So, what are you gonna say to those people?” I asked.

“Just explain what they saw and let ‘em know the truth.”

I nodded. “Did you expect they’d respond so violently?”

“How’d you think they’d act after we tore their roofs off? We shattered worldviews. We have to give them something to replace what we took away.”

The single-family homes across the street looked so peaceful. “Guess we did just cut their only faith.”

“The op should have, but that really depends on individual level of addiction. We started in the right place, even for a twelve-stepper. They’re all as open to options as they can be.”

Stealth-copters’ rotors suddenly thumped outside.

My mindware opened a standard nine block radius map and issued a status report, which I announced in thought-speech. FBT ready team repelling from two birds—full deploy in 20 seconds.

How long will they take to secure their perimeter and launch their entry team? Kyrie asked.

If they’ve deployed a full ready-team, their ground units are close. Ninety seconds ish.

I stretched and spoke out-loud to Sanctos “Plenty of time to kill before having fun, answer me this. Why'd it take you Irish Catholics so long to rise-up?"

"We’re just used-to-it."

"Used to what?"

"You think persecution’s new to us? People been callin' us Irish-Catholics terrorists for generations now. Some of you Protestants even say we’re a cult. Whenever government starts-up with us again, we just exist as long as we can in the calm before the storm. We’re just so tired of . . . " The smooth wailing of peacekeeper-sirens sounded suddenly synchronized at the ends of South 93rd Street, and Sancto finished “ . . . this. We like to think all this slag is ‘cause the Boss is Irish—another set of chosen-people.” Barely audible shouts sounded outside.

I couldn’t let him off the hook like that. No saved-by-the-bell on account of charms. “Makes other Christians wonder when your Vatican gives Mother-Mary the title of Co-redemtrix. Like she has something to do with salvation.”

“Makes us Catholics wonder when Protestants wanna break-off an Op without layin’ down the Truth for lost souls. Faith without works is dead.”

“And works don’t save anyone.”

“Protestants.” He chuckled. “Ever hear that actions speak louder than words?”

“So?”

“Same concept. Works are the measure of a heart. When Mother Teresa was being considered for sainthood, there were critics who doubted her faith. Her whole life, it was right there on her sleeve for all to see. A lifetime devoted to her faith, to treating others as she wished to be treated.”

“And that don’t get her into Heaven.”

“Never said it did! Why do you protes . . .” Squad cars squealed to a stop in the four intersections at the ends of in the street, facing us with their heavily armored fronts. All had a heavy-weapons mount. A second FBT ready-team pulled up front-n-center on the far sidewalk in a Hummer-bus. Rear hatches lifted open as we moved away from the windows.

“All we rate is a two-alarm response?”

“Here we go. Ready?” He asked, cautiously sidestepping right and left to peek at our enemies from the room’s far side.

“We’re okay, cubbie-pup. Their snipers are just getting into place now. Ain’t you gonna pray to Mary, or St Christopher or somebody? Your twin shotguns are gonna need all the help they can get.”

He leaned into the coatroom and came away with a nylon bag the size of a dorm-refrigerator. To the obvious inquisition of my parted lips and furrowed brow, he said “We Catholic sandmen don’t have the BoC’s combat and targeting-system files in our mindware. I stopped by here a few hours ago to leave some old fashioned firepower.” He zippered open the bag, lifted out an Israeli Military Industries 5.63 belt-fed Negev light machine-gun, and unfolded its barrel bipod.

“You-gotta-be-kiddin-me!” I exclaimed, to which he replied with a boyish grin while donning a power-mount-body-harness. “Yo Rambo, if you can’t lift the firearm’s ammo, you prolly shouldn’t shoot-off the firearm’s ammo.”

“Chicken. The harness just lets me move better.”

“Lets you move at all, you mean.” I powered-up his lithium-ion battery pack and tightened his shoulder straps. “Looks good.” Six olive green metal ammo-boxes flanked three per hip. Sancto opened the first and loaded its belt. “Only four-hundred-fifty rounds of armor-piercing tranq rounds, you sure that’s enough?”

“Ask again when you’re empty and I’m coverin’ your butt.” He tightened his gyro’s butterfly-bolts.

“To each his own.” I reached behind me inside my duster to unsnap restraints on my nine-mil Arazzi machine-pistol and Freedom Arms GL-7 grenade launcher, which I immediately raised. Motion atop a hummer. “Stay back. I get the first shots.”

Sancto eased toward the Sanctuary doors, and crouched covering the door. The two units in the center sported Browning fifty-mil heavy machineguns, but the Hummers on the outside featured non-lethal pulse lasers for incapacitating crowds. Mindware ordered my GL-7 to load two InstaDry black paint grenades. I fired right through the glass. WHUMP! The slow-moving grenade punched a clean hole in the window, and splattered the laser’s lens. I rolled once, aimed, WHUMP, and rendered a few hundred thousand worth of cutting-edge tech useless.

“Guess Protestants ain’t all bad.”

I called up my com-shades map that marked Peacekeepers with red dots, and adjusted my twin shoulder slings with a crooked smile. “Let’s get down to biz. This is your op, you call it: you want BA or backup?”

A thump against the door interrupted him. Window-glass splintered under heavy streams of full-automatic fire, bullets popping the room’s back walls. We hit the floor right before an explosion blew doorframe-n-all across the room.

“Hey now, no fair! We weren’t ready yet!” yelled Sancto.

A peacekeeper on a bull-horn Mirandized us, threatened violence, and suggested we surrender.

“Back-atcha, buddy!” replied Sancto with the traditional BA line.

“Guess I’ll be backup.” I said, crawling to a line-of-fire angle away from rooftop snipers. Mark. Go thoughtspeech.

Bull-horn guy warned us of the imminent standard-operating-procedure entry-team.

“Yeah, your mother! Come getcha some!” Sancto yelled, covering the doorway’s other entry angle. Copy. Mark two. We posted-up like Bishops on a chess-board with overlapping fields of fire.

Now, you do realize a BA’is supposed to keep ‘em talking as long as possible?

Sancto shot we a wink. Ain’t much on small talk, Laddie.

Subtle as a triple-bypass.

The Hummers’ fifty-cals roared and ammo poured through the thick granite wall’s openings. High velocity rounds shredded the One Church’s new interior. The telltale PLINK PLINK PLINK of metal plating sounded where the Sanctuary’s wall flattened slugs. We cornered eyes at the back wall, then shared lemony expressions. We’d ponder the One Church’s need for a bomb shelter later.

That was cover fire. I reported the moving dots on my com-shades. Two standard entry teams closed on the front wall—they’re comin' right and left of the door.

Soft zone two?

Naw, you take D. I’ll take out their hard-points and snipers.

You can’t flank em. We’re surrounded.

Oh, ye of little faith.

Sancto’s Negev rattled short chattering bursts just as movement showed out my view.

Mindware slipped my body into overdrive. Transition. I let it go and walked in the Spirit as peacekeepers slipped into winter-molasses-motion.

I watched as my body slipped three stealth grenades from my pocket and winged the small domes in a row out the door. They stuck to the ground about five meters apart and blossomed. Their smoke cloud affected not only human vision, but all tech detection, creating voids in the map on my com shades, a corridor of invisibility through which I sprinted. I popped out at the end of my brief tunnel, right between roaring fifty-cals. My hands dipped into my pockets and tossed shimmering clouds of tungsten carbide pins at belt-ammo ports, jamming the heavy weapons.

I walked on past drawing a nine-mil Baby Eagle from my right hand QuickDraw sleeve holster, while bringing my machine pistol to bear with my left. Vision marked the foreheads of six snipers that had fanned out in the front yards behind the Hummers. Only two had even noticed me before they all went down.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the sound of Sancto’s Negev muffled as the bulk of a Goliath filled the door. Four entry team Peacekeepers were down, and my Arazzi machine pistol sprayed the others to sleep. Only the two powered battle-suits still stood on this side of the building.

I crouched between Hummers to reload my guns. Hey, thanks for the cover fire.

Help!

His dot on my shades retreated into the Pastor’s office.
Combat.

Pull back to perimeter.

* * *

I scavenged small canisters off their belts, ejected my GL’s clip and reloaded the new ammo.

Sancto yelled. “Hey PKs, bring more grenades!"

“This’s the part that gets real soulful, y’all,” he announced.

“Unless you’re a Mother Theresa, you’re just talkin’ it. We’re the ones walkin’ it tonight. What you got for us?”

"Oh no you don't."

“Blessed Mary.”

“Why her? Is that cussing to an Irish-Catholic?”

“Together we’ll store-up our treasure in Heaven. As we Irish say...whiskey in the jar.”

THE END

©Copyright 2008 Frank Creed

Final Word

Makes you want to read more, huh?

Be sure to catch the interview with Frank Creed. And if you missed any of our other special features, including works by Ted Dekker, Jerry Jenkins and Tosca Lee, you can find them here.