Scorched Earth: A Future History of Planet Earth

by Walter D. Petrovic

No one ate for days. Most could not eat from the stink of the ejaculations and blood that still covered the streets. The sight of it all caused nausea on its own accord. Those who were injured didn't eat either for they knew that the good food would quicken the runs of pus, as the poisons were forced out of them, and their pain would become even more unbearable.

The clean-up of the dead and injured was hurried on this day because soon after the sun rose, the heat of the day was intense and by noon, the carcasses of the animals that had died from the rain, began to rot. By now, the sane, unscathed citizens began to remove the corpses from the streets and cart them off to the incinerators for burning.

Many vicars, cardinals, novices and other coenobites helped those on the streets. They administered first-aid and prayed for their souls' salvation. But they were the last to appear on the streets that morning, after they cleaned-up their own mess at Halls. Within the Quadrangle of the Cathedral, all the members were locked-in during the rain, with dozens of whores and other town's wenches, that were promised good food and a place to stay for one month, in return for their services when the eagerly awaited rain finally arrived.

These merry women adored the great Halls Cathedral. It was the most enormous structure in all of Phoride and the other lands on the continent. The structure reached for the sky. Its lean, slender appearance was capped by a crystal and gold ornate dome, with a spire. Buttresses flew out, all about from the slender central pillar; where at its base, tall and wide copper doors majestically opened and closed as people walked in and out of the main chapel.

Extended behind the pillar and into an oval shaped building was the area of the monastery, serving as the dormitories, rectories, scholarly libraries and private rooms for the monks. This residential building also housed the ArchBishop's office, wherein he conducted all his business of decision. Although this was one day of heavy mourning and discontent, there were plans at hand, and there were thoughts to be exchanged. All this was owed to the ArchBishop's ill-at-ease feeling, that was brought on by Lord Brook's refusal to meet with him for such a long time. The ArchBishop was always in his office, seated in his leather chair, rumpled in holy softness, and able to turn in full circles on its rounded legs. The ArchBishop was the same age as Brook but his hair was darker and the lines on his face were less defined. They framed his jutting, hairy brows and silvery-grey eyes, with a sculptured precision.

His physique reminded one of a defeated athlete. His paunchy flab lolled about his waist like Saturn's rings, and the texture of his skin lacked softness, appearing course and strangely tight.

His clothing shimmered in rich extravagance as he sat in his chair dressed in his ethereal garb made of the finest white satin. His black surplice, thrown over it, opened on the front and revealed his bulging gut as he sat. On his head rested the constant sign of authority, his tall white and gold mitre, studded about with rare jewels, gifted to him by the Heads of other lands. Across the desk from him sat the Cardinal Allen. Unlike the great ArchBishop, he was more modestly clothed in the handmade magenta habit, that all the other Cardinals and monks wore within the monastery walls.

The ArchBishop in his chair, listened to the choral chants coming from the chapel. The melodic resonance was made by the dozens of novices and vicars as they sang their praise to the great forces of the Almighty. They gave their thanks for their lives, their homes, their food and the virgins sent to them, for the pleasures of administrating their blessings to them.

During the 'Praise to the Almighty' hymn, the ArchBishop, with his greatly inflated ego, listened in quiet and not tolerating interruptions. Afterall, their praise was being made to him alone, and he felt obliged to listen to them.

The chants echoed throughout Halls and its Quadrangle. Soon, all the senior monks joined in the melodic praise from wherever they were; whether in their gardens, in their stalls or strolling along the colonnade beneath the dormitory buildings. After a few minutes the whole area around Canon's Butte, where the Halls Cathedral stood, was filled with this song. This was the only sound heard, making its way through to the rest of Pomperaque, as it struggled out of its misery.