Leremy Moss hooked his keys to his pants, a jingling reminder that the world couldn’t be trusted. His wallet he kept on a string around his neck—the same tech applied by Dads wise enough to not wear fannies.
Moss had never suffered any persecution, yet he was still an outspoken member of Atheists Anonymous, a local nonbelievers forum slash book club. He was serious as a kidney stone—sharp as one too—and his only love was a pup named Smog.
One day Moss and Smog were on a walk in a cut of forest when Moss felt a cool sensation enter his chest as if a hose were running through his aorta. Smog was sniffing a stump.
Moss collapsed, his heart sobbing, his head expanding like a balloon which, when popped, is filled by the world around it.
“Smog,” Moss said. “I’m dying, boy.” The puppy sniffed an outstretched hand and returned to the stump. “Smog—”
Suddenly his body was pure pleasure, either by endorphin or eidolon. He felt his pulse and found it more lightning than usual. Guilt, desire, blood, and crosses impressed on his thoughts.
“I don’t—” Moss said, realizing what was happening. “I don’t want to convert, damn it!” But already he could see the man past the trees. Christ, not yet fully glimpsed, moving between the oaks. “Jesus, leave me be! I ain’t a believin’ man!”
I’ll have to quit AA, he thought. And do church, and read Bible. Join a Men’s Study. All those activities which ensure the eternity of the soul. Christ was closer now, hem and robe and beard and eyes burning with terrible love. The creature was some forty feet, stepping over yellowed grass.
But I’m saved, at least, Moss thought, as the Christ began to scream, revealing rows of sharp, sharp teeth.