he decide to get rid of your salary altogether, and your taxes, and your identity, and your body."
He chuckled. "Smart girl. Are you smart enough to confess?"
She chewed her bottom lip, thinking. "I swap out godspit for the HIV test," she said. "They hallucinate." She tried to shrug. "The rest of it is just an act. There's nothing more to tell."
"You call it godspit." The man smiled broadly. "Who but a zealot would use that word?"
"Spit?"
He glared at her.
"Everyone calls it godspit," she said testing.
"Only a zealot would use that word."
"Then you don't know as much as you think you do."
"The last john will attest to the fact that you used gotspit on him. You used it to invoke a sort of religious ecstasy for him."
"A hallucination, not ecstasy," she said to the mayor as she eyed Ezekiel who leaned against the desk almost too casually, crossing one foot over the other.
"But isn't that what godspit does? Doesn't the drug bring on a tremendous ecstasy in the user?"
"Exactly."
"So then they're not hallucinations."
"Sometimes in the throes of ecstasy, a person might hallucinate." She eyed him warily. He was being too methodical, catching her in her lies.
"So you admit that they do feel ecstasy?"
"It's what the drug does."
The mayor stood up, brushing his hands down along his trousers. "I'd say we have enough of a confession."
"How?" The panic again. What she wouldn't do for a smear right now.
"You admitted to helping your clients find ecstasy. You use a drug called godspit to do so. It's not a great leap to religion mongering from there."
"You can't exactly arrest everyone who succumbs to a few hours of happiness."
He held up his index finger, correcting her. "Not just happiness, little lady. Ecstasy. And not everyone who succumbs to a few hours of ecstasy has what they call a religious experience. Only the ones who visit you." He nodded to the gentleman sitting cross-legged in the corner, his foot dangling up and down. "We've got enough, I'd say."
"Stop," Theda said when the man eased to his feet, stretching his fingers as though he were about to get to some heavy work.
"You can't do this," she shouted. "I'm just trying to feed myself, I don't even believe in God. I don't even care about God. I don't care about anything. Ask anyone. Ask him." She pointed her chin at Ezekiel who was stuffing the packet from the desk into his inside pocket so calmly she wanted to cut his throat and watch him bleed out.
"We don't need to ask him," the mayor said. "We took a religion mongerer into custody, we recorded a confession for the books. We executed her."
Executed. No. Surely not. Not today. She'd not survived the apocalypse, dozens of rapes, near starvation, just to be executed for trying to stay alive. She twisted in the chair, eying the men as they looked down at her without pity: the mayor looking smug, the executioner flexing his fingers, Ezekiel as he stepped behind the mayor, his green eyes narrowing in hard concentration.
"Bastards," she said, feeling the legs of the chair careen with her weight to the side. Now to crown it all off, she'd topple to floor, giving that killer better purchase on her throat. Even as she fell, thudding onto her left shoulder, a bolt of pain screaming into her shoulder blades, she could swear she heard a thud to her right. A grunt. A gasp of surprise. She kicked along the floor, scooching backward, the blind panic full on her, keeping her from making sense of anything around her except the feel of the floor, the twisting of the ropes into her skin. Twisting. Biting through, drawing blood and burning. She had to get loose before he fell on her, wrapped those meaty fingers around her neck. Had to.
She screamed when he touched her, like a fool. Who would care if she died. No one. Who would come to her aid? Not a soul. Help didn't come in new Earth. No one cared. Not really. Least of all for someone accused of doing the unpardonable crime of religion mongering. She screamed again for
He chuckled. "Smart girl. Are you smart enough to confess?"
She chewed her bottom lip, thinking. "I swap out godspit for the HIV test," she said. "They hallucinate." She tried to shrug. "The rest of it is just an act. There's nothing more to tell."
"You call it godspit." The man smiled broadly. "Who but a zealot would use that word?"
"Spit?"
He glared at her.
"Everyone calls it godspit," she said testing.
"Only a zealot would use that word."
"Then you don't know as much as you think you do."
"The last john will attest to the fact that you used gotspit on him. You used it to invoke a sort of religious ecstasy for him."
"A hallucination, not ecstasy," she said to the mayor as she eyed Ezekiel who leaned against the desk almost too casually, crossing one foot over the other.
"But isn't that what godspit does? Doesn't the drug bring on a tremendous ecstasy in the user?"
"Exactly."
"So then they're not hallucinations."
"Sometimes in the throes of ecstasy, a person might hallucinate." She eyed him warily. He was being too methodical, catching her in her lies.
"So you admit that they do feel ecstasy?"
"It's what the drug does."
The mayor stood up, brushing his hands down along his trousers. "I'd say we have enough of a confession."
"How?" The panic again. What she wouldn't do for a smear right now.
"You admitted to helping your clients find ecstasy. You use a drug called godspit to do so. It's not a great leap to religion mongering from there."
"You can't exactly arrest everyone who succumbs to a few hours of happiness."
He held up his index finger, correcting her. "Not just happiness, little lady. Ecstasy. And not everyone who succumbs to a few hours of ecstasy has what they call a religious experience. Only the ones who visit you." He nodded to the gentleman sitting cross-legged in the corner, his foot dangling up and down. "We've got enough, I'd say."
"Stop," Theda said when the man eased to his feet, stretching his fingers as though he were about to get to some heavy work.
"You can't do this," she shouted. "I'm just trying to feed myself, I don't even believe in God. I don't even care about God. I don't care about anything. Ask anyone. Ask him." She pointed her chin at Ezekiel who was stuffing the packet from the desk into his inside pocket so calmly she wanted to cut his throat and watch him bleed out.
"We don't need to ask him," the mayor said. "We took a religion mongerer into custody, we recorded a confession for the books. We executed her."
Executed. No. Surely not. Not today. She'd not survived the apocalypse, dozens of rapes, near starvation, just to be executed for trying to stay alive. She twisted in the chair, eying the men as they looked down at her without pity: the mayor looking smug, the executioner flexing his fingers, Ezekiel as he stepped behind the mayor, his green eyes narrowing in hard concentration.
"Bastards," she said, feeling the legs of the chair careen with her weight to the side. Now to crown it all off, she'd topple to floor, giving that killer better purchase on her throat. Even as she fell, thudding onto her left shoulder, a bolt of pain screaming into her shoulder blades, she could swear she heard a thud to her right. A grunt. A gasp of surprise. She kicked along the floor, scooching backward, the blind panic full on her, keeping her from making sense of anything around her except the feel of the floor, the twisting of the ropes into her skin. Twisting. Biting through, drawing blood and burning. She had to get loose before he fell on her, wrapped those meaty fingers around her neck. Had to.
She screamed when he touched her, like a fool. Who would care if she died. No one. Who would come to her aid? Not a soul. Help didn't come in new Earth. No one cared. Not really. Least of all for someone accused of doing the unpardonable crime of religion mongering. She screamed again for
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