Visiobs of St Lazarus 6

CHAPTER 6: THE CONFLICT

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”
—2 Corinthians 4:8–9

Lazaro pushed open the bar’s glass door and stepped into the balmy Miami night. Behind him, the thrum of synth-heavy pop faded beneath the hum of sodium lamps. The sidewalk outside was a gallery of the broken: vagrants muttering to invisible enemies, hustlers eyeing any movement with hollow hope, and drunks slumped like dislocated mannequins under neon signage that buzzed with the fatigue of its own glow.

An old man, wild-eyed and stooped, shuffled past him, mumbling into the shadows. He bent to the ground, snatched a half-smoked cigarette from a storm drain, and lit it with ritual care, inhaling like a monk anointing incense.

Lazaro walked on, dodging beer cans and crushed Styrofoam, caught in a breeze that carried the peculiar scent of the city—salt, alcohol, sweat, and a hint of bleach.

He didn’t know why he kept ending up here, night after night, wandering the edge of consciousness, tired but unable to sleep. The world’s straights were curled into beds beside loved ones, with dogs snoring at their feet, children dreaming of cartoons and cereal. But he—he was adrift, haunted by a restlessness that had no name.

He veered toward the beach.

As soon as his feet touched the sugar-white sand, he peeled off his shoes and socks. His pace quickened. His soles were tingling. The soft granules underfoot grounded him, stirred something primal.

And then—he ran.

He sprinted along the shoreline, letting the ocean wind slap his cheeks and pull the tension from his bones. After a mile or two, he slowed, panting. Sweat trickled down his back. Without hesitation, he pulled off his shirt, then his pants, his briefs—everything—and dove naked into the warm Atlantic.

He floated, suspended in the dark embrace of the sea.

Then a voice shattered the moment.

“Sir! Hey, sir!”

He turned. A flashlight beam danced across the waves. A cop stood at the shoreline, hands on hips, silhouette framed by moonlight.

“No swimming’s allowed this late,” the officer called out. “And definitely not nude.”

Lazaro trudged out of the surf, dripping and unashamed. But something about the cop struck him—those muscled thighs peeking out of regulation shorts, the sheen of sweat on his chest. The man was a walking advertisement for testosterone.

Their eyes locked. Lazaro’s body betrayed him—heat surged, breath quickened.

“I’m sorry,” the officer murmured, unsure, watching Lazaro approach, still bare.

“It’s alright,” Lazaro said softly.

The cop extended his hand. Lazaro took it. They didn’t let go.

There was no dialogue after that—just the shared language of breath. The kindling of Miami heat sparked fire between them. Lips found lips. Lazaro clawed at the man’s uniform. They tumbled into the sand as the voice of Gloria Estefan sang from somewhere in Lazaro’s mind.

But then—

“Ay, Dios por Santo!” Lazaro screamed.

He opened his eyes. Sitting nearby, as if teleported from another century, was St. Augustine, weeping.

The cop froze. He started laughing, a laugh that grew manic. He rolled off Lazaro and rose. His pupils glowed red. Horns curled from his scalp. His teeth grew sharp. His genitals elongated and twisted into a whip-like tail.

Lazaro blinked in disbelief. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

The Devil, now fully transformed, sneered. He kicked St. Augustine hard in the ribs.

“Hey!” Lazaro shouted, rushing to shield the Saint, who collapsed under the next blow.

“Don’t speak!” the Saint wailed. “Don’t protect me. He has the upper hand tonight.”

Another punch sent the Saint’s head jerking sideways.

“Fight back!” Lazaro pleaded.

But the Saint ignored him. Instead, he knelt, scooped up sand, and poured it over his own head.

“I have lost. You gave yourself to the Devil tonight. Every time you do, a Saint in heaven suffers. Did you know that, Lazaro?”

“But—”

“Don’t speak. And put your clothes on.”

The Devil was now sprouting wings. He turned, urinated through his tail like a garden hose, then shook it dry. “God, it feels good to piss again after a few centuries,” he boomed, then took flight, flapping off into the humid sky.

“This is unfair!” Lazaro cried. “I’m the one who failed. I’m the one who should be punished. Why are you two dragging me into this cosmic custody battle?”

The Saint collapsed.

Lazaro panicked. He checked for breath, pulse, heartbeat—nothing.

“Oh God,” he sobbed. “A Saint dies in my arms while the Devil’s out there flapping his junk around in the clouds.”

Suddenly, a sharp slap cracked across his face.

“Get off me, you drunken little sinner!” St. Augustine barked.

Lazaro stumbled back. “I thought you were dead!”

“I’ve been dead since the 5th century, idiot,” the Saint snapped, stretching his stiff spine. “I just passed out for a minute. It happens to the best of us.”

“You heard what I said?”

“I heard everything. What you said, didn’t say, wished you didn’t say.”

Lazaro sat beside him in the sand, naked except for a shirt. “Why can’t I just be left alone?”

“Left alone?” Augustine raised an eyebrow. “If you weren’t here right now, where would you be?”

Lazaro thought. “Probably asleep.”

“And tomorrow night?”

“Also asleep.”

The Saint sighed. “When I was your age, I became a monk. We were all loners, but never lonely. God gave you eyes, ears, hands, a mind—and what do you do? Hide in your apartment like a vampire, waiting for death to knock.”

“I just want peace! Why am I singled out among millions of gays around the world?”

“Because you dared to ask for God. And He heard you.”

The Saint rose, picked up his staff, and began walking away. His old body struggled, but he didn’t stop.

Lazaro scrambled after him. “Can’t I meet God without the horror movie plotline? Can’t He just... text?”

The Saint vanished mid-step.

Lazaro spun around. “Saint Augustine?! Saint?!”

He searched the beach, the dunes, the palms. Nothing. The city stirred in the distance.

He dropped to his knees, trembling.

A nearby beach custodian paused, stared at him.

“You okay, man?”

Lazaro was now in a shirt, barefoot, with only a pair of bunched-up pants. The custodian rolled his eyes. “Drunk. Get outta here.”

Lazaro yanked on his pants and jogged to his car. He needed sleep. Real sleep.

Back at the apartment, the clock read 6:03 a.m.

There was no way he could work. He called in sick, brewed a cappuccino, and collapsed on the couch.

“It was all a dream,” he muttered.

But the salt still lingered on his skin.

—

At 5:00 p.m., the phone rang.

“Please come to Dade Rest,” Jeff Kaploski’s voice crackled with urgency. “Something’s happened.”

—

Miami glowed under a full moon as Lazaro pulled into the Dade Rest driveway. Unlike its usual closed-door secrecy, the house was bustling. The sour scent of antibiotics was thick in the air. He stepped inside and was struck by the scene: residents, once hidden in corners, now lay on recliners, IVs in arms, sketching, knitting, chatting between bouts of vomiting.

Jeff stood at the railing, looking like a man pulled between two dimensions.

“It was probably the moon,” he said.

Lazaro tilted his head. “What?”

Jeff looked back at the chaos inside. “It started around 4 a.m. Right after... whatever happened to you. Everyone here got sick. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. We checked the food, the water, the tunnels... nothing made sense. It’s like the air itself turned on us.”

Lazaro’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t told Jeff anything.

Jeff leaned in. “You’re not here for these people. There’s someone else... downstairs.”

Lazaro nodded.

They descended into the tunnels, their shadows stretching long and anxious.

It reminded Lazaro of Palawan. The smell. The darkness. The descent into forgotten places—like walking back into a dream you never finished.

This time, though, the dream wasn’t letting go.
2025-07-24 00:37:00
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