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“Have you ever been to the beach?”

“Have you ever stepped on the sandy shore where the waves come in and retreat?”

Unlike the dry sand, the damp sand.

As I walk with each step on this land, which stays dark due to being wet, the sand clings to the soles of my feet. Unlike the dry sand that merely tickles and easily falls away, this sand clings to me as though sorrowful, creeping between my toes and refusing to let go easily.

Then, I hear a crashing sound, and as the water rushes in with a whoosh, that cool feeling washes away the clinging sand, the marks I left behind getting swept away and mingled, disappearing in an instant.

That’s how the waves are.

That’s how the tides are.

They invade space in an instant when they come, and when they recede, they leave no trace behind.

That is the form the shore remembers of the waves.

We remember.

The salty, fishy air.

We remember the waves that destroy well-built sandcastles, erase human footprints, fill in the hollows by pushing sand back and wetting it through the gaps between grains.

They are different from the gently flowing stream, different from the little waves created by playfully swirling the water in a bath, and different from the ripples created when throwing stones into a lake. We remember those unique, large waves seen at the seaside.

And now, here come the waves.

Not at the beach, and not made of water, yet waves are rising.

“Animam meam pro te ponam.”

“Animam meam pro te ponam.”

“Animam meam pro te ponam.”

“Animam meam pro te ponam.”

Just as the waves hold water grains and the byproducts swept away with them, the waves occurring in America are composed of something as well. Waves without water may be invisible, yet they exist, and those caught in the waves take on human forms, as if they are grains of sand or gravel, or branches and leaves.

Each one may seem insignificant, yet they all have their own uses, being swept up and entangled in the waves, so they may look different but can be said to belong to a single wave.

Thus, it’s not strange.

“Animam meam pro te ponam.”

“Animam meam pro te ponam.”

“Animam meam pro te ponam.”

It is also not strange that the same Latin flows from their mouths.

That their eyes seem unfocused as if they were on drugs.

That their staggering steps resemble those of junkies.

That the ominous looks they have immediately signal a life of hardship.

All of that is not strange.

They are those who belong to the waves.

They are akin to grains of sand, swirling about chaotically whenever waves crash.

This speaks of their insignificance.

At the same time, it expresses that each one holds little meaning on its own.

“quo vadis?”

Where are you going?

“Domine! quo vadis?!”

Lord, where are you going?!

『Et quo ego vado, scitis viam.』

You know the way to where I am going.

“Domine, nescimus quo vadis; quomodo possumus viam scire?”

Lord, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?

『Ego sum via et veritas et vita; nemo venit ad Patrem nisi per me. Si cognovistis me, et Patrem meum utique cognoscetis; et amodo cognoscitis eum et vidistis eum.』

I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father except through me. If you know me, you will surely know my Father; from now on, you know him and have seen him.

Oh, answering the people’s questions is divine and sacred.

As the people were enchanted by those astonishing words, they began to follow that person, resembling foolish sheep longing to follow a prophet, eyes bright with hope as they finally found someone to guide them on their path.

Look at their eager footsteps; how could that not be commendable?

From the heavens, it was seen that this sight was truly lovely and satisfying.

Little lambs, follow your shepherd.

Little lambs, gather the wandering sheep and help them walk the path.

For that path can only be taken through your shepherd.

That shepherd is like the way, the truth, and the life.

“Dominus meus et Deus meus!”

“Dominus meus et Deus meus!”

“Dominus meus et Deus meus!”

Blessed are those who believe.

Look at them.

Following their shepherd with sincere, faith-filled expressions.

Do you see them piercing their sides with a knife to prove their faith, fingers buried deep within?

Do you see the blood dripping from the holes in their palms and feet?

Do you see the severed fingers stuffed into their sides?

That is faithfulness.

That is the happiness of belief.

“Dominus meus et Deus meus!!!”

Go forth with belief.

With unwavering faith.

Multiply your numbers.

Grow so that you may build a kingdom not just of sheep but of true lambs.

Fruitfulness and multiplication are your duties.

That is the thing to do.

* * *

Tututututututut-!

A gun that looks like it was fashioned from a cut iron pipe.

The infamous symbol of cheap guns, the Sten Machine Carbine, better known as the ‘bullet spray gun,’ spits out bullets like crazy.

Dududududu-!!!

It’s less about firing a gun and more like literally spraying bullets everywhere.

Non-stop spewing fire, it recoils uncontrollably, making it hard to keep the aim steady.

But what can they do?

The only real advantage this gun has is the sheer speed at which it can spit bullets.

Despite knowing that, they’re the ones insisting on using such a gun.

“Fuck! Damn it! I should’ve bought a gun instead of spending money on booze every time cash came in! At least an AK would’ve been better!”

“Easy for you to say, bastard! If we went back, you’d do the same, saving money for booze and women!”

Not spending money on guns was their choice.

A choice they couldn’t blame anyone else for.

But it wasn’t without justification.

At the time, they genuinely thought it was a sound choice.

A gang made up of ex-factory workers.

There was no shortage of people with some mechanical skills, and many were interested in guns.

Thanks to that, they could cobble together a weapon from cut pipes, industrial springs, and broken parts from old guns.

Sure, that ‘bullet spray gun’ was notoriously terrible in performance—

Yet, because of its ability to shoot bullets rapidly, the ease of mass production and disposal when they broke down, along with the overwhelming advantage of being able to buy more booze and women, they came to a ‘rational decision.’

Instead of spending on decent guns, they just made their own Sten machine guns.

“Goddamn!!!”

Back then, it seemed rational.

And it actually was quite rational.

Even if it was cheap, nobody would take a chance with them armed with submachine guns.

It kept them unafraid of single-shot rifles, shotguns, or pistols.

“I never thought those bastards would attack us! Damn it, did you know? Did you?!”

“Hell! How the hell could I predict that? Those suit-wearing bastards probably didn’t expect it either!”

Yeah…

How could they have known?

That those crazy fucks were coming to attack.

“Quis similis bestiae, et quis potest pugnare cum ea?”

Boom!

“Quis similis bestiae, et quis potest pugnare cum ea?!”

Boom!

“Quis similis bestiae, et quis potest pugnare cum ea——!!!!”

An extraordinarily thick and heavy metal plate whose origin is a mystery.

No matter how hard they tried with the Sten submachine gun, they only managed to dent it—there’s no sign of it being penetrated.

And beyond that metal plate…

Boom!

There are crazy bastards chanting some strange spell, stepping forward carefully as they move that metal plate.

What kind of magic or incantation could that be, or is it just some rallying cry?

Those madmen behind that metal shield move systematically, approaching slowly.

Armed with shields they couldn’t pierce with their cheap guns, acting like they’re Roman soldiers or something…

On top of that, they stab the gang members one by one with what looks like spears or poles made from welded iron pipes.

They’re throwing hooks to drag people away too.

“Damn it! I never thought I’d be fighting like a barbarian against Roman soldiers!”

The spectacle becomes more and more absurd.

It’s ridiculous to see what looks like uncapable people sticking together to move industrial steel plates—honestly, that would be better described as iron walls.

And it’s not just in one place; they’re closing in all around their hideout with those iron plates.

“I knew I’d end up dead doing this one day.”

I see.

The iron wall is getting closer.

And the severed heads of those who tried to flee through the cracks, the bodies of those who leapt in to kill the bastards beyond the wall, are impaled on long steel pipes.

“There sure are a lot of them. Damn it.”

Hah.

Those bastards are already right up close.

Look into those crazy bastards’ eyes.

Even junkies would seem more stable than those.

Zombies, those bastards.

“Aaaah-!”

Screams are heard from those who are dragged by the hooks, or by those filthy hands.

What on earth is happening to them?

If you look at those zombie-like faces…

Heh.

There’s an iron pipe.

An iron pipe with a sharp end…

Let’s see, one iron pipe, one, two, three, four heads…

“Shit, I don’t want to become a man kebab.”

Ah.

A hook is flying my way…

“Oh God.”

 

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