The Convert

Five miles north of Barstow, there is nothing—an emptiness that stretches past the horizon and into oblivion. A few crumbling mountains were once held under and pounded by the risen ocean. And a chemical taste that rides on the air currents and sticks to the back of your tongue, existing somewhere between salt and sulfur.

This is where Jessica came to lead her people. Surrounded by a vacuum, she could fill that void with her spirituality. There was nothing to distract her followers from her teachings, and her proximity to I-15 meant she could entice some sinners traveling between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Five miles north of Barstow, Jessica found her heart, nerve center, and purpose.

The stories of how she got here differ. Some say her car broke down. Others say she just appeared. All agree it was a divine providence. No matter how she got here, she wasn’t going anywhere.

She introduced herself to local townspeople, networked, and spread her friendliness. She also accumulated enough donated money to build several small buildings on scrubland donated—unknowingly—by the United States government.

And this is when the miracles happened.

In the confusion, they were documented by several of her followers, who settled their discrepancies with their individual stories before publishing them outright. According to her disciples, she was apparently able to raise livestock from the dead. Her birth coincided with a solar eclipse. She was able to read minds. Some claim to have seen them in person. Others heard about them from someone else. All agreed that Jessica was put on this planet to change the world.

She sent letters to leaders, urging for peace. She condoned violence and oppression. With a healthy mix of Eastern and Western religions, she firmly planted herself in a small section of the desert as a savior.

News reports went out, rumors spread, and people flocked. She cloistered those closest to her and wrote scripture. At the end of one of those meetings, it became apparent that to continue spreading her message, she’d have to become a martyr.

Preparations were made. Theatrics were put in place. It would appear that members of the Catholic Church assassinated her - two birds with one stone - she insisted. Her followers believed it would help crumble the remaining stalwarts of the Catholic church and help establish her new religion as the de rigueur.

As her motorcade passed through Boston, a single bullet entered her neck and exited out through the opposite ear. She fell quickly. But the miracles continued. Followers claimed they saw her walking through the streets. They’d see her in a crowd. They felt her presence. And with each of these sightings, her religion grew.

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Jessica’s boyfriend left her on the side of the road en route to Las Vegas. She was in some shit town filled with dust and a lot of heat. She should have never gotten involved with Brent. She moved to LA for him. Hell, she dropped out of veterinary school for him. Now, she was penniless, with a dead phone, wandering a sweltering town and asking for help.

She made a beeline for the local restaurant, hoping she could pray upon the simpletons of the town to lend her some cash. She needed just enough to get back to LA. Maybe a couple of hundred bucks.

Jessica turned on the charm five feet in front of Edna’s Cafe: Barstow’s Finest Dining Establishment. When she walked in, the room lit up. She did a lot of things poorly, but being enthusiastic and outwardly friendly was not one of them. She avoided talking about the circumstances that got her here, nor where she was explicitly headed - figuring these “small town folks” would hate “big city types.” But by the time Edna shut down for the day, Jessica had $500 in her pocket and a room to stay in that night.

She decided to stay in Barstow for a few more days to see how things went. After all, she had no place to go - not really anyway - and all the time in the world.

Weeks passed, and the charity continued. A neighbor was ridding himself of his extra trailer, which Jessica readily accepted and parked on land north of the town.

She was enjoying her second cup of coffee that morning at Edna’s when she heard a rancher talking about an ill calf. Having spent a few years at veterinary school and having a general idea of a cow's inner workings, she offered assistance.

A quick review of the calf’s diet (lacking in selenium), and she established that it was suffering from nutritional muscular dystrophy. A suggestion on new grasses and a few injections later and the calf was up and walking around. The farmer hailed Jessica as a hero. A misinterpretation by the nosy townspeople led her to be hailed as a savior.

Instead of balking at such a notion, Jessica embraced it.

People were lining up. And like her flock, her message grew. She spent a few nights writing down what she wanted people to do. Simple things that she hoped would make the world a little bit better. She’s seen the shitty parts of this planet and hoped to spare others from those. She read the Quran, the Torah, the Bible, and a severely abridged version of the Tipitaka - highlighting the passages and notions she liked best. She then regurgitated them into her weekly sermons.

5 miles north of Barstow, Jessica’s religion grew.

Buildings were built on the government land - and realizing that removing these people and their illegal construction would result in a full-scale war, the U.S. let it go.

They were walking through the newly built sanctuary when Jessica told her closest advisor that they needed to prepare for her death - her martyrdom. They arranged everything, including the place, the perpetrator, and the other religion that would take the hit for her assassination. In order to build something new, you need to destroy something old. In Jessica’s case, it would be the Catholic church.

As her caravan made its way down Arlington Street to the west of the Boston Public Garden, a shot entered her car and killed her almost instantly. For theatrics, they raced the car to Tufts Medical Center, where she was declared D.O.A., but the body was dead well before they got to the hospital.

In fact, the body was dead before the shot rang out. The body was dead days before.

She was handpicked by Jessica months before the “assassination.” She was dying anyway and felt like sacrificing herself to spread Jessica’s message was more important than the extra few months of life. And silently and painlessly, she’d passed away in a church days before the trip to Boston with Jessica by her side.

The assassination made worldwide headlines. The “perpetrator,” a Catholic “radical” who - unbeknownst to the world - had recently converted to Jessica’s religion and was now happily on trial for murder.

And from the shadows, Jessica watched it all. She saw her image spread around the world. She heard words she’d spoken months before, poured over, bastardized, and repeatedly endlessly. The donations continued to pour in, and, in exile, a large chunk made its way to her - a girl with nowhere to go and all the time in the world.