Fallen City: A Post-Apocalypse Novel by Winter Sam

Author:Winter, Sam
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Old Tower Press LLC
Published: 2021-09-29T00:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

Rasha could still remember how tightly he squeezed her for that brief moment. And before, the warmth of her father’s hand just below the back of her neck as they walked inside. She tried to hold on to those feelings as she marched up the courthouse stairs. The two guards behind her had their guns relaxed in hand, but Rasha couldn’t help wondering which gun would kill her tonight.

They walked past the third floor to the fourth floor. Rasha had never been to the fourth floor. The fourth was where Pope Griddle stayed. Slaves weren’t allowed up there; he had his men clean and serve food to him.

As they walked down the dark, lightless hallway, Rasha looked out the glass wall of windows that overlooked the city. It was beautiful. The moon was full and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. With no light pollution or smog, each star lit up like lightning bolts.

Injured men walked past her. They were sweaty and in pain, with bloody bandages covering one eye. Others walked with a limp or clutched a wounded arm.

Rasha was shoved inside the center courtroom. When she went through the double doors, she was amazed at the lengths they went to decorate the once bland brown-and-gray courthouse. The walls were painted light blue and colorful, abstract art was hung. The benches that were once the seating area had been replaced with sofas and recliners, all of which looked brand new or close to it. Battery lanterns sat in the four corners of the room. She was marched past the couches and the wooden half gate to the row of men who sat at a long table that might’ve once been the prosecution’s desk. The bald man from before—Alan?—bowed to one knee before the judge’s bench.

With an unexpected shove from behind her, Rasha tumbled to her side next to the bald man. She tried to get up, but a kick kept her on her stomach. “Keep your head on the floor in the pope’s presence!” one of her guards barked. Rasha’s hands trembled as they slid on the short, fibered carpet.

A wiry voice laughed from up above in the judge’s seat, “Yes, she is a cutie—young too.”

From the corner of her eye, Rasha could tell the pope had long gray hair coming down to his chest. He sat where the judge would normally sit, above the others, in a plush leather chair. “I see what you mean, Bishop Jacob. It would be a shame to waste her like the rest of the Muslims.” The pope, inexplicably, slammed his fist down on the desk like a gavel. “Proceed.”

Bishop Jacob stood from the prosecution table. With her cheek pressed against the carpet, Rasha’s eyes focused on what was low to the ground. She knew Bishop Jacob from his brown, pointed cowboy boots. The muzzle of his double-barrel shotgun swung as he paced in front of her. Panic swirled inside Rasha’s chest. “You done well tonight, Parishioner Alan,” Bishop Jacob said to the bald man.

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