Thank God for the Sinners!
Part I: At the Sinners Pit
This is the first part of a new short story on Fickle Futures. We’ll run a new installment every Monday. Please share & enjoy!
“Thank God for the sinners, Mr. Clem, is all I have to say.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not the one has to bury them, Mr. Ratsid, is all I have to say,” Mr. Clem grumbled, annoyed by his partner’s casual dismissal of the hard work he was doing to get the corpses into the pit.
“Why, Mr. Clem! You should be more grateful,” Mr. Ratsid responded with nonchalant condemnation, his legs dangling over the back of the truck bed containing the pile of sinners they had recently collected and processed at the morgue. “It’s not like jobs are exactly falling from the sky.”
Mr. Clem paused while lifting the body he was trying to shift out of the bed of the truck, glancing up into the night sky as if looking for jobs falling in the light rain. The clouds reflected city lights miles in the distance, glowing just enough for the deep gash in the earth to stand out from the rest of the flat field they were in, the shapes of the dead sinners barley visible at the bottom.
“But there will always be sinners, Mr. Clem,” Mr. Ratsid said looking balefully into the pit.
Mr. Clem dumped the next sinner on top of the pile into the pit.
“Anyway, it’s not so bad,” Mr. Ratsid continued giving Mr. Clem’s activity no notice, “Pays the indenture and gets us outside for some nice…” Mr. Ratsid scrunched his nose at what he said next, ”fresh air.”
Mr. Clem lifted the brim of his red deacon’s cap and sniffed at the air for a few seconds finally taking a deep breath, “Smells like shit to me.”
“Yes, but it’s fresh shit, that’s my point.”
“And why aren’t you helping me dump any of these peeps’ bodies?” Mr. Clem asked while lifting the next body and tipping it into the pit.
“Sinners’, my bro, sinners’, not peeps’. Don’t let the Archapostle hear you call them anything else,” Mr. Ratsid’s concern was well placed. Just last week Archapostle Trippgood had excommunicated one of their fellow deacons for suggesting sinners should be allowed to defend themselves before the Court of the Devout. Or, at the very least, be informed that they were being tried before being excommunicated.
“Besides, I’m the one who caught them all. If not for me, these poor sinners would still be roaming free.”
“Caught them!?! You were the bait. I’m the one who has to sneak up and knife‘em in the back,” despite his grousing, Mr. Clem kept lifting and dumping bodies into the pit.
“Because that’s your skill, Mr. Clem, that’s your skill,” he said as if explaining the mind numbingly obvious to a young child. “Mine is to lure them in so you can do your job.”
“Without me, we’ve got nothing.”
“Yeah, well, I could just sneak up behind them without you.”
“Without me!” Mr. Ratsid sounded like the idea was as preposterous as thinking jobs would fall from the sky. “With… out… me.”
Mr. Ratsid gave the heavy sigh of someone having to explain for the umpteenth million time something simple to a simpleton.
“Without me they would hear those great big monster feet of yours coming from miles away! And where would you be then, eh?“
Mr. Ratsid softened his tone but not his intent, ”Now finish with these last two so we can collect my fee. I’m freezing…”
“OUR fee,” Mr. Clem interrupted without stopping his disposal of the last two bodies.
“Yes, of course, our fee,” Mr. Clem had apparently not forgotten their last sortie when Mr. Ratsid had taken the entire fee for “project expenses”.
Mr. Ratsid hopped from the back bed of the truck and got in the truck’s cab. He checked over the mortuary receipt by the feeble yellowish light from the cabin’s overhead dome: Thirteen bodies collected. Check. Thirteen bodies registered. Check.
Thirteen bodies deposited. Check. At ten credits a head, that would be twenty-six credits paid-off for Mr. Clem and one hundred and four for him.
Mr. Ratsid muttered, “Let’s see, that just leaves three-thousand two-hundred and twenty-six credits remaining to be paid against the ol’ indenture and I’ll be a free-agent again,” Mr. Ratsid smiled to himself, ”Not bad for a week’s work.”
“What’s this?” Mr. Clem thrust something in front of Mr. Ratsid’s face.
“What’s what…” Mr Ratsid glanced distractedly at the chain and pendant Mr. Clem was holding. “Oh, that? It’s a…,” Mr. Ratsid at first turned back but then did a double take and inspected the pendant more closely. It was a standard crucifix like the ones all of the Devout Faithful wore, but with a six sided star on one side and a crescent moon on the other.
Once recognized, Mr. Ratsid immediately lost interest again.
“It’s a crescent, star, and cross,” Mr. Ratsid said absently picking back up on the invoice.
“It’s the sigil of the Abrahamists,” his voice displayed no interest in the topic except for slight annoyance at being interrupted with something so trivial, “Blasphemers. They believe that Islam, Judaism, and Christianity are all one faith.”
“Where did you get it?” He continued to check over his
figures.
“Last body had it grasped in her hand. We must have missed it,” Mr. Clem stared at it entranced.
“It’s hand, it’s, it’s, it’s, not her’s. I’ve told you already: they are sinners not people,” Mr. Ratsid sounded disinterestedly annoyed. He continued making notes next to the inventory of the spoils from this sinner round-up. Not much: A few cheap rings and an old watch. Five bits if he was lucky. Sinners never had much in the way of spoils anymore. Not like when the excommunications were starting out during the Great Revival. There had been an abundance of wealthy sinners then and the spoils of that had made a lot of people’s career in the church. If only he hadn’t… no. Mr. Ratsid knew that dwelling on past mistakes was, as the church taught, a path to continued failure.
Noticing Mr. Clem’s continued interest in the object, Mr. Ratsid immediately went into full remonstration mode.
“Now, you throw that in the pit with the sinners,” Mr. Ratsid waged his finger directly at Mr. Clem who continued to stare at the sigil with a puzzled expression. Then again, thought Mr. Ratsid, Mr. Clem had resting puzzled expression face.
“It’s gold, though, Mr. Ratsid. Gotta’ be worth a few bits,”
Mr. Clem put the pendant between his teeth and bit down.
“14K at least. Bet it’s worth at least a few hundred,” Mr. Clem was now beyond saving.
Mr. Ratsid looked at the sigil with renewed interest. He hated throwing away money only slightly less than he hated throwing away his own life. But if they could just pawn it, no one in the church would be any the wiser.
Deep in contemplation, Mr. Ratsid was only jarred back by the sound of smooth metal sliding on smooth metal. He looked at Mr. Clem still holding the sigil, but it was now a simple cross, indistinguishable from the one he himself wore on his lapel if a bit larger and thicker.
“What happened?” Mr. Ratsid asked staring with concern at the sigil.
“I just pushed this button on the back and it slid together,” Mr. Clem sounded confused by his own answer.
“Show me.”
Mr. Clem turned the sigil to show him an almost invisible switch on the back which could toggle left or right. Mr. Clem slid it left, and the sigil once again slid open. He slid it back to the center and the sigil collapsed back. Well that solved their problem. The sigil was now safe to carry unless you knew
its secret.
Mr. Clem began to put the necklace into his jacket’s breast pocket, “I’m keeping it. I’ll melt it down and sell it to Benny.”
“Benny!?! No, no, no, no. Not Benny. Benny would rob us blind.”
“Us?!? I found it.”
“And what’s our agreement?”
Mr. Clem sighed loudly, “All spoils are shared.”
“That’s right, and don’t you forget it,” Mr. Ratsid said with vigor, “I’ve shared a pretty penny of my findings with you in the course of our partnership.”
“What’s a penny?”
It was at times like this that Mr. Ratsid regretted engaging such a young partner, but he didn’t keep Mr. Clem around for his knowledge of arcane monetary units.
“Never mind. Here, let me have a look.”
Mr. Ratsid snatched the sigil as it dangled from Mr. Clem’s hand and looked more closely, feeling its weight, texture, and coolness. Between the chain and the pendant it had to be at least an ounce or two of gold.
He bit it. Mr. Clem was wrong. It was 24k. His mind reeled. Had to be worth at least a few thousand bits.
“You’re stroking your chin Mr. Ratsid.”
Mr. Ratsid startled, only to realize he was caressing his short beard between his thumb and forefinger. He quickly pulled his hand away from his face and glared at Mr. Clem.
“What Mr. Clem!?! WHAT!?!” Mr. Ratsid spit out, unhappy to be interrupted while in deep thought.
“You’re stroking your chin. You only ever stroke your chin when you’re planning something,” Mr. Ratsid’s gaze softened. He smiled at Mr. Clem but his eyes were still focused on the sigil.
“So, what’s the plan Mr. Ratsid?” Mr. Clem asked as Mr. Ratsid’s smile grew deeper and his gaze more intent.