Bodhi Crocodile 3: Divinity

Bodhi Crocodile 3

“When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things.” – 1 Corinthians 13:11

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When it comes to this evil world, sometimes the moon goes away because it can’t stand the sight of things. The same goes for the sun: when it’s afraid, it hides behind the clouds.

The stars, however, are a different story. They surround the Earth, watching from their place in the cosmos, too far away to make the evil of this world their business. Yet sometimes, when we need it the most—when all hope seems lost—the heavens shoot their most brilliant orb across the sky and down to intervene. The stars fear nothing, but they only appear at night because they know one thing: before light can shine, darkness must reign.

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To find yourself in a place like this means a choice you made landed you in certain danger—not that you had much of an option to begin with. The gun serves as a quick decision maker.

This time you’re not lost in some bad neighborhood or hiding on the balcony of an abandoned warehouse from a vicious mobster. This time you’re in a place hidden below the ground with rugged concrete walls like the deserted construction site of an incomplete parking garage. The base is loosened rock. Light glows from individual fluorescent bulbs hanging vertically in all corners. Stored in the back is a worktable supporting a bench grinder. Beside it, a handful of steel rebars used to reinforce the laid grounds of roadways, freeways, and interstates. Most of these poles have been cut down to eleven inches in size, with one tip shaved into a sharp point like a large nail.

In some ways, this place resembles a church’s sanctuary if one had been left deserted amidst development. Unlike a sanctum, there is no altar or podium. Across the room is a platform raised a foot above the floor like a small stage.

Contrary to a ministry, there is no clergy. This small sect comprises a few loyal followers identified by Y-shaped marks tattooed beside the corner of one eye, each colored with ink opposite to their skin tone: two young men with ebony flesh and short hair dyed blonde—The Mags; two young Caucasian women with shoulder-length black hair contrasting their pale, porcelain-doll faces—The Marys.

Distinct from a chapel, there are no pews to seat a congregation. This fellowship consists of people held against their will and forced to bear witness. Barred cells like animal pens, too short for the inhabitants to stand but wide enough to lay and rest on a soft blanket. Six cages in total, two rows of three with one vacated by the late pastor Kurt Benson. Against the barrier leans an upside-down seven-foot cedar cross awaiting the next chosen victim to play part in this hellish travesty.

Different from a holy order, there is no priest or preacher. The person who leads this cult was raised from childhood to believe he has higher power than any man. And unlike any gospel, there is no sermon. The motive behind this assembly stems from a credence of lunacy.

The tips of Penny Lynn’s ginger hair drip beads of cold sweat. Her body trembles with fear. Her cheeks sparkle with tears. She stands like an infant taking its first steps—her legs numb and weak like Jell-O. To run would be impossible, even if she could break away from the grasp of a Mary and Mag holding her back with each arm. She sees Terrance Brown, lying face-down and unconscious in the center of the aisle.

“Please… don’t!”

A second Mag stands back, watching Yeshua tower above the seemingly lifeless body, clutching the grip of a .357 Magnum revolver. With half-blonde, half-black dyed braids dangling past his shoulders, he aims the barrel at Terrance’s head, but his finger rests away from the trigger to avoid an accident.

Penny begs, “Please, don’t kill him!”

It’s not death most people fear, but rather the manner and time in which it arrives. Live to be a hundred years old, and you welcome death with open arms. Die young, and it ruins the plans you’ve made to experience all life has to offer. For Terrance, a single shot, and it’s over—quick and easy. Unfortunately, the new life he worked so hard to achieve just recently began. The wholesome relationship he strived so hard to find is still in its prime. Penny’s cries flow like an hourglass spilling tears instead of sand, losing precious time she and Terrance planned to spend together. Her body shakes with each whimper.

“He’s done nothing wrong!”

The heavy revolver rattles in Yeshua’s shaking hands. Penny squeezes her eyes shut, expecting the noise of a drum-shattering bang. When it doesn’t come, she peeks between the slit of one eyelid. As the blurriness clears, her second lid follows, and she gasps. In the distance stands a sign of hope, armed with a Glock 43 gripped tight by demure hands—a woman with a modern-day afro and bold letters printed on her jacket. Instead of gunfire, it’s this woman’s assertive voice blasting throughout the room—Agent Vivian Bell of the…

“FBI! Nobody move!”

Her eyes examine each person and note their positions. Locked in cages are the missing county deputy, the hotel clerk, the student intern, the attorney. Yeshua’s attention darts to Agent Bell, and his eyes lock with hers. She stands firm, hesitant to make her way closer. Both take notice of a tall shadow in the opposite corner of the room—the figure of a man framed in the doorway of another entrance. Its movement distracts Yeshua. It draws his attention away as he turns.

Agent Bell shouts, “Put the gun down!”—but she’s ignored.

Yeshua holds his wobbly stance, stunned to see someone he doesn’t know, confused as to why they are here. Despite the agent’s warning, he whips his aim from Terrance’s head to the mysterious stranger pacing toward the cages. Though perceived as a threat, the stranger’s empty hands are held up and spread apart.

To approach the barrel of a .357 Magnum revolver means any of three things: either you are wholly courageous, utterly insane, or unquestionably stupid. A single shot in the face and the responsibility of identifying your body falls to your dentist—assuming your teeth withstand the damage. Those in the room watch with intense focus as the stranger moves closer, treading lightly, anticipating the blast from Yeshua’s gun.

Agent Bell shouts again from the ingress. “Think about this! Think it through!”

The stranger continues his advance toward Yeshua, who keeps both sights aligned, fighting the impulsive urge to stretch and pop his neck. He shouts back, “You will do nothing! You cannot! You will not!”

Agent Bell senses the thumping of her heartbeat, her blood vessels pulsating. She stays focused. Tight grip. Steady aim. Her Glock points at a distant head of twisted bleached and dyed hair.

“It doesn’t have to end this way!”

Facing away at the stranger who makes his way through the aisle, Yeshua grimaces from a trace of bitterness in his mouth and shouts again, “You know nothing!”

His head jerks and pops, and he shakes away a mild dizziness with a flick of his hair to disguise the nervous tic. Amidst the commotion, Terrance’s eyes blink open, revealing the unfamiliar surroundings. Like waking from a dream, it takes him a moment to realize this isn’t some nightmare—that all of this is real. An ache throbs in the back of his head. His fingers reach and return with a smear of dried blood from his scalp. Confusion descends from its peak as his vision becomes clear.

Penny calls out with a hint of relief in her shaky voice, “Terrance!”

At first, he thought he’d been arrested by the police—wishful thinking, given the situation. His eyes spring wide to catch a glimpse of panic on her face. His instincts hanker him to run, to snatch Penny from danger and bolt. Residual adrenaline courses through his veins from the events leading to him being knocked out before everything went black, but with little retained energy, his body feels heavy after waking from a deep sleep. Terrance doubts he can stand, but he’s able to rise to his knees and spread apart his unbound hands. Last he remembers, he had a Smith & Wesson tucked in the rear waistband of his jeans. Patting his hips, each flattened touch renders anxiety. The Mag reminds him where his gun went by pointing it at his face. Terrance groans from the pain, surrendering to his own weapon. He hangs his head, acknowledging his loss of control and realizing his efforts to find and rescue Penny over the last few days have been for nothing. As the plan he pinned his hopes on begins to crumble, a new scheme arises outside.

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Strobes of red and blue flash across the site, creating repetitive shadows of construction equipment, bulldozers, and a soaring crane. Uniformed police officers shield themselves behind open car doors and stacks of metal beams. They hold rifles with itchy trigger fingers, awaiting orders from a superior common source who’s instructed them to stand by and not, under any circumstances, make entry.

An older Black man sits in the back seat of an unmarked cruiser, wearing a long wool overcoat with its tails over his knees. An Astrakhan hat, with the rounded-edge shape like a pencil eraser, covers his thinning grayish hair. His baggy eyes watch the events about to unfold from a safe distance. With little patience left, he opens the door and steps out, assisted by a cane with a black beechwood shaft and a denim-blue ash fritz handle. The engraving on one side is cursive but difficult to read in poor lighting.

The police aim their weapons with razor-sharp glares through clouds of their breath, ready to home in on any signs of movement around the building. One officer darts her eyes back and forth between what’s ahead and the old man hobbling past her side. She orders, “Get back!” and her voice is just as rocky as her stance. “Sir! You can’t go in there!”

Often confidence and apathy share the same mask. The old man hears but doesn’t listen. His stare remains blank, his lips stay flat, and his feet and cane continue walking. The cop shouts again, and this time, she lunges forward to give chase, but a neighboring officer grabs her by the vest and yanks her back.

“Get down! What are you, crazy?”

They watch the hobbling man shrink smaller with each step as he makes his way toward the entrance. His calmness suggests he’s unperturbed by the danger, but in his stomach, his nerves perform cartwheels. He worries less for his safety and more for the safety of those inside the building. His brow furrows with the concern of events taking place beyond the concrete walls.

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Everyone inside holds steady in a stalemate—a confrontation with no victorious strategy for anyone involved—the endgame of a no-win situation. If Agent Bell shoots first, she may hit Yeshua, but The Mags will kill her and those unarmed. If Yeshua fires first, the others go down in a hail of gunfire. Still, through all of this, the stranger continues forward. He’s not brave. He’s not crazy. He’s not foolish. There’s another reason for his undaunted approach.

A few feet from Yeshua, the stranger pauses with his hands in the air. His tired face, worn from anguish, now exposed in the light. Their eyes meet at the same level. Aside from sharing similar height and build, the two men reflect something they acknowledge but don’t understand. Yeshua’s lips spread apart in awe, triggered by a sense of empathy.

Unbeknownst to anyone else, this stranger has the upper hand. If his plan works, he could bring this evil menace to an end. It’s a leap of faith on his part, as the only challenge is finding the right opportunity before getting killed.

Yeshua waits to hear a voice, a bargain, something, anything. Yet the stranger stays silent. He stops close enough for the tip of the revolver to press against his forehead. Puzzled by his disregarded risk, Yeshua peers at him with stern but dazed bewilderment.

A Mary comes from behind and wraps her arms around her leader’s chest. Just below where her black hair falls past her chin is a redness like a rash of life—a birthmark, no larger than a pinky-fingerprint on the side of her neck. Her graceful touch encourages Yeshua to follow his calling, let no one get in his way, and kill the intruder standing before him.

Up until this point, everything in Yeshua’s life seemed to have a purpose. With purpose comes confidence. With confidence comes serenity. And now, in the wake of this intense position, the believer has become the skeptic. His palms glaze with sweat, slithering his grip. The revolver weighs heavier with each passing moment. He swallows and holds a shallow breath. Panic sets in. Yeshua fears if a swift action comes from the stranger instead of words, his choice will be made for him, and the blast from his gun will set off a chain reaction like a deadly string of firecrackers. So, he offers a final, verbal warning—“This does not involve you. There is no need for your blood to be shed here.”—followed by the distinctive sound of the gun’s hammer clicking back. Yeshua pleads as though someone else is forcing his shaking hand. A single tear trickles down his cheek and falls from his chin. “Do not make me do this.”

The stranger’s eyes glaze and fill with sorrow. His lips quiver as they struggle to both smile and frown. Then, as he reaches behind his back, Penny lunges forward, breaking free from her captors, and covering each ear with her palms.

Yeshua’s finger wraps the trigger and he’s ready to fire point-blank. The second before he squeezes—before a deafening bang of gunfire, before this stranger’s life comes to an abrupt end—Penny unleashes a desperate, sisterly cry:

“Bodhi! NO!”