Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

Jesus waited a polite moment, then crossed the cracked pavement. Dead
streetlamps flanked the overgrown paths, some tilting crazily like
drunken soldiers. Rusted iron railings drove straight lines through
shapeless shrubbery, and as Jesus crept along them, he could hear, in a
near-perfect circle around him, the rodents, the insects, the creeping
things fleeing at his bow and in his wake. The wave-front of the present
had passed, failing to take this quiet place along with it. His carefully
reddened flashlight didn’t cast enough light for anyone but a nocturnal
pothead or a cat burglar.
Jesus smiled to himself at the thought— Been both of those, I
suppose.
He drew closer to the center of the campus. From his vantage point,
he could see 15 patient buildings poking up through the scrubby growth
that sprung up everywhere there had been a lawn. All were three and four
story brick structures, linked by elevated concrete paths. On the far side
was a veteran’s hospital, still operating. Security patrolled that area more
intensely, so close approach to most of the buildings was impossible. A
building between them looked suspiciously like the steam plants found
on most college campuses. Memories from a drunken weekend underneath
a friend’s college campus surfaced, oriented, and sank in. Steam
pipes were prone to leaks, valves needed to be accessed, and so the engineers
built access tunnels, to every building in the complex. Bingo, he
thought. Tunnels—all I’ve got to do is find the steam feeds in the basements!
A huge brick L, almost centered in the paths, seemed a likely entry
point. The crook of the L would provide him some cover should the
sounds of his entering attract attention. Around the eaves, Jesus saw
rusted black and white signs displaying the letter “C”.
Building C had seen better days. The slate roof was shedding, and
several wounds showed frame along the peak. Windows showed broken
behind their bars as paint flaked from their sills and fell to the ill
smelling soil. In the darkened elbow of the L, Jesus found a loose window,
slipped his crowbar under the sill, and carefully levered. Lead dust
puffed in a neat line, and soon Jesus was pulling himself up through the
portal, careful not to cut his palms on the dirty glass shards, savoring the
smell of rust, mold, rotting paper and damp menace, as well as just the
most thrilling hint of forbidden asbestos.
He had to resist the urge to light a cigarette at the very thought, and
chuckled quietly to himself.
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