Free The Crooked God Machine by Autumn Christian

you should ask God what he wants instead.”
    The principal looked behind him. He turned back to the audience with his eyebrows wide and his mouth sloped to one side, and he coughed into the microphone like there was gravel in his lungs.
    “Good luck, kids,” he said, after he’d regained his composure, “without God’s protection, it’s a vast and cold universe out there. And before I let you go, we have a special guest speaker from the capitol. One of the saints employed at the Bureau of Salvation. Give him a good welcome.”
    I sat between Jeanine and Ezekiel. Jeanine gripped my knuckles. Ezekiel leaned over to the girl in the other seat and whispered, “God tells me death is near.” He kissed her all over her face and neck. The heated center of the sphere on the back of his head pulsed.
    The saint walked onto the stage wearing a white robe stained with his stigmata. When he approached the pulpit I saw he carried a flamethrower and a can of gasoline.
    “And remember kids,” the principal, “God believes in you.”
    The prophet reached the podium, took the microphone from the principal, and smiled down at us to reveal his red stained teeth. The principal skittered off the stage, coughing. The prophet raised the flamethrower up over his head, and blood dripped from his stigmata wrist and onto the floor.
    “Get this straight, kids,” the prophet said, “if you think you're anything but dirt, then you're in for a surprise. Ignore everything your principal said. It doesn't matter what you do now, you're still going to die. You're all sinners and scum of the earth. You've spent the last eighteen years of your life fucking, cussing, and spiting the Lord. Well, kids, when the end comes you're going to be wishing your mother aborted you with a coat hanger and ended your miserable existence before it ever began.”
    He opened the can of gasoline and splashed it across the first row of students. Before they could move he whipped the flamethrower toward them and squeezed the trigger. A shot of fire erupted from the muzzle, setting the entire row of students up in flames.
    Ezekiel, Jeanine and I stood up. Ezekiel and Jeanine ran down the aisle toward the doors. I went to follow after them, but the saint splashed gasoline down the aisle behind them and a tide of fire rolled past, blocking my exit. Fellow students caught in the rows in front burned fast, soon nothing but char smeared against the seats. I turned around with the heat bubbling on my skin, eyebrows and mouth seared, and ran the opposite way.
    “Don’t worry, kids,” the saint called out from the stage, “it might hurt right now but soon you’ll realize this is the best thing for you!”
    I turned my head back just for a moment to see him point the flamethrower up to the ceiling. A burst of flame hit one of the support beams above, which then cracked and fell, crushing a row of students below.
    “Jeanine!” I called out, my voice weak from the lack of oxygen.
    “The best life lived is the one not lived at all, you good for nothing animals!” the priest said, “Better to die now and get it over with!”
    I ran to the back of the auditorium toward the door, tripping over my classmates writhing on the ground. I touched the door to attempt to pry it open, but it was so hot it seared my hand. I cried out and stumbled backwards. Another lick of flame shot above my head, catching my hair on fire. I put it out with my burned hands.
    I ran across another aisle toward the window as I choked, unable to get enough air. I climbed up onto the windowsill, shoved my hands into the folds of my t-shirt and kicked the glass with my knee. Glass shattered all over me. I rolled out the window and landed hard on my back outside in the courtyard. The auditorium behind me groaned and shifted on its steel frame.
    I heaved myself to my feet. I ran out to the street and the auditorium collapsed underneath its own weight with a demon crack. The heat of the fire struck my back and