Short Story Competition

I submitted a story to the NYC Midnight short story challenge, I had one week to write a short story on an assigned subject. My assignment was:
Genre: Historical Fiction
Topic: A Prison Cell

Since everyone is posting these on the forum, I thought I might as well do so as well. I'd love any and all criticism, no need to be gentle. Thanks.

“The Flock With No Shepherd”

A tale of Jesus’ arrest in the Gardens of Gethsemane, and his Apostles’ subsequent endeavors.


Andrew struck a flint and lit the oil lamp on the small wooden table in the center of the windowless room. The flame flickered yellow and the light danced on the downturned faces of the four men who crowded into the hidden space under Andrew’s kitchen. They were breathing heavily. None dared to speak or look another in the eye. Muffled shouts rang out on the moonlight streets above, and the distinct clatter of hooves on cobblestone drew near, then passed by harmlessly.
“Whewwww,” James let a long, low whistle, “Holy son of David.”
“I thought they had us,” Peter rubbed his eyes with grimy hands and slumped to the dirt floor.
“What happened?” Andrew asked, “Did they catch Him?”

An hour before, Peter, James and John had been hanging around the olive trees in the Gethsemane Gardens just outside Jerusalem, where they had been told to wait. It was a clear night, and a breeze was blowing through the trees.
“Look at all the stars.”
“Shut up, James.”
“Why?”
“We’re supposed to be waiting in silence.”
“He never said ‘in silence.’”
“Yes He did.”
“Ow! What on Noah’s ark was that?”
“What?”
“Did you throw a stone at me? Peter, he threw a stone at me!”
“Will you both just shut up!” Peter hissed. He stood and walked a few paces up the path where Jesus had wandered over an hour ago. It was eerily black up there where the trees and underbrush thickened.
“But, he’s throwing—ow!”
John smiled as his second toss hit his younger brother square on the side of his head.
“Shh! He’s coming back!” A figure in familiar light-colored robes appeared ahead in the darkness, and was hurrying toward them. Peter scurried back to his companions and all three fell to their knees, bowed their heads and mumbled gibberish into folded hands.
The light slapping of sandaled feet grew louder, and stopped right before them. Peter raised his head to greet Jesus, but met an unexpected frantic face.
“Judas?”
“Oh, hey guys.”
“What are you doing up here?”
“Just, uh, came to check out the stars.” His eyes darted up the trail, he held something suspiciously behind his back.
“Aren’t they great?” James piped up. John punched his arm.
“Listen, good to see you guys. I gotta run.”
“You didn’t see Jesus up there, did you?”
“Who? I gotta go,” Judas stammered and took off running down the trail.
The steady breeze ceased suddenly and Peter, James and John heard the slapping of Judas’ sandals fading as he rushed down on the rocky trail. A moment later, the sound was gone and the Garden was curiously silent.
“That was weird.” John picked up a pebble and threw it down the trail after Judas. James cleared his throat and looked up at the night sky. Peter scratched his stomach through his robes and kept watch up the trail, hoping Jesus would come back soon, it was getting a bit chilly.
Just as John picked up a second pebble, Peter yelped. A hundred paces up the trail, the bright glow of twenty torches illuminated a crowd of men marching around a bend. Roman soldiers. Their faces were dark under iron helmets, but their spears and swords glowed menacingly as they moved in regiment. The three disciples scampered behind a pair of olive trees. As they peered out, they prayed the Romans hadn’t found what they were looking for. The rhythmic thudding of the soldiers’ footsteps pounded in their ears, nearly as loud as their hearts.
“John, move your elbow, I can’t see.”
“Shush, they’ll hear you!”
“But I can’t see!”
Peter glared at them. The soldiers were no more than thirty paces away.
“John, c’mon, for Moses’ sake.”
The soldiers marched into the olive grove. Their torches were bright, but the changing shadows against the twisting olive branches kept the disciples hidden. As they drew near, Peter noticed they were jovial, grinning and laughing while sustaining their uniform march. In the center of the pack was a prisoner, hands tied behind His back with thick rope, His head bent. There was no mistaking who it was. Even as a prisoner, He moved with poise and cool self-confidence. Peter’s stomach flipped on itself.
“Shove over,” James whispered.
“Shut up,” John breathed back, not yet noticing who was in the crowd of soldiers.
James dug an elbow into his brother’s ribcage, and John let out a small whine. One of the soldiers nearest the disciples stopped and looked over at the trees where they were hidden.
“Don’t do that!”
“What? This?” James elbowed him again.
John shoved James. James shoved John. John fell down, completely exposed in the torchlight. Peter shrank into the shadows.
A soldier came running over to John. “Don’t move,” he barked.
Peter was crouching behind the adjacent tree. He drew his dagger. It felt strange to do so. He had spent so much of the last years preaching peace and love. He thought about how Jesus had loved, how He had cared for them. He remembered the time Jesus took them surfing, and Peter was the only one who could get up on the tempestuous sea besides Jesus Himself. How they had laughed about it over cups of wine that night, and everyone called it a miracle. Those were the good days, and they had passed. It was night, and there was no love in Peter’s heart for the broad-shouldered man who was almost upon John. Peter leapt from the shadows and his dagger cut cleanly through the ear of the soldier.
“Run!” Peter shouted, hauling John to his feet. The three fled through the olive grove and down the mountain, leaving the soldier writhing on the ground, pressing his hands against the hole where his ear had been.

***

“And we agreed that if we ever needed a hiding place, this was it.” Peter pulled a wineskin out from under his robes.
“So what are we gonna do?” Andrew sat down next to Peter and held out his hand for the wine. Peter took a drink and tucked it back under his robes.
“A break out.” James’ eyes lit up.
“A break out?”
“Yea, we’ll go down to the prison and sneak past the guards, and we’ll break Him out!”
“Just like that, huh?”
James shrugged, “It can’t be that hard. And we’ve got God on our side, right?”
“God? Who do you think He was up there talking to right before they nabbed Him?”
“Well, I say we just wait here where we’re safe,” Andrew said. “Patience is a virtue, right?”
James answered, “This isn’t a time for virtues. This is a time to do what’s right.”
“And breaking Him out of prison is the right thing to do?”
“I’m with Andrew,” John moved closer to the light and his face illuminated no emotion but fear. “I mean, look at all the other stuff He’s pulled off: water and wine, raising Lazarus…I’m pretty sure a few measly ropes aren’t going to keep Him in there for long.”
“Well, what do you think, Pete?”
What do you think Pete? It was always ‘what do you think Pete.’ They had to ask him about every little decision: who should prepare the Passover meal? What color should our robes be? What’s for dinner tonight? Where should we park the mules? At first, Peter liked the responsibility, but every once in a while he wanted someone else to make a God-blessed decision. He felt the heat of three sets of worried eyes looking down on him.
“Pete?”
“Shit, fellas. I don’t know.” Peter pulled out the wineskin again and took a long swig. “I guess the first thing we oughta do is make sure everyone else is alright. Andrew, why don’t you get on that? You weren’t in the Garden, they won’t be looking for you. Go around and make sure the rest of us get here safely. Forget about Judas.”
“What do you mean, forget about Judas?”
“He had something to do with this, I don’t want him around.”
“Oh, c’mon Pete, you don’t really think…?”
Peter nodded his head. He really should have known Judas was up to something. Judas had been complaining of a sore foot for the last couple weeks and had been skipping out on lunches, parable-time, and pick-up water polo in the Jordan River for suspicious doctor appointments. Whenever they did see him, he would be walking fine until someone asked about his foot and he would suddenly develop a terrible limp. Peter was going to find out what had really been going on, even if it caused him to break one of the Ten Commandments.
“I’m going to find out what I can about where they're holding Him. James, John you stay here in case anyone comes back, and for the love of our neighbors as ourselves, please don’t kill each other.”

Peter pulled up his hood and moved swiftly through the city streets. Andrew’s home was not far from the city center where the Great Temple stood like the very fist of God slammed down upon the earth. Next to the Temple was the palace of the Roman governor with its lofty white pillars and carvings of the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus. In front of both of these edifices was a large courtyard where, even at this late hour, hundreds of men and women gathered around fire pits to roast food, drink wine and share juicy gossip.
Peter edged around the fires, his ears hot for any word of his Jesus’ capture.
“You must try her recipe for unleavened bread,” a woman was raving to her friend, “Oh, it’s to die for!”
Around the next fire a boy no older than ten was reenacting the siege of Jerusalem, “And then the guys came over the walls, and arrows were flying like this.” He poked his friend in the chest with a stick.
Maybe the word hadn’t gotten around yet. Peter was surprised; he knew there was a bounty on Jesus, and the Romans were never shy about announcing the capture of a criminal—they took any chance they could to demonstrate their elevated purpose of bringing reason and righteousness to the world.
“I heard there was a dozen of ‘em.” A very round man with a thick Roman accent and a heavy black beard was talking through a mouthful of roast lamb. He licked three greasy fingers and continued, “and one of ‘em gets wise and goes running to the high priest.” He took a pull of wine from a pouch at his side, and Peter took a seat opposite the fire from him. The man paused mid-drink, “Oy. Who’re you?”
“Me?” Peter looked stupidly at the ten other men around the fire, “Uh, me no understand you.”
“You no understand me?” The man laughed. Bits of lamb and spittle flew from his mouth and caught in his beard. “Look at you,” he said, “you’re not from around here, no.”
Peter pulled his hood lower over his face.
“You’re a Galilean, no?”
“Me no understand.”
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” The man stood and drew his sword.
“I’m nobody.” Peter stumbled backward, fumbling in his robes for his dagger.
Somewhere nearby a cock crowed.

James was restless. “We oughta do something,” he whined to John.
“What do you propose, genius?” John was getting awfully sick of his kid brother recently. When they had first signed up for this together, it seemed like a great idea. Two brothers off on a great adventure, a noble quest to right the world—no more fishing, no more worrying, just follow and be happy. What a gig. But lately things had gone off the deep end. Jesus had started calling all kinds of midnight meetings where He would ramble about “when I am no longer on this earth,” and tell these parables about sowing seeds on fertile soil. None of it made much sense to John and he just brushed it off.
James was different. He always wanted to do something, always wanted a task. When no one told him to do something, he made stuff up. Like the time he surprised Jesus by telling some people a miracle worker was going to be by the waterfront on a certain day. Those people told their friends, and those people told their friends, and when Jesus showed up there were five thousand people waiting for Him, and they all had heard that supper was going to be served. Jesus was pissed, but He pulled another one out of his sleeve and fed everybody. John was sure Jesus could get Himself out of this mess too.
“Let’s at least go down there and see what’s happening,” James said.
“Peter said we should stay here.”
“Oh c’mon, Peter doesn’t know any better than us what to do,” he pleaded, “he’s probably drunk anyway. I mean, he’s not exactly being rational—he cut off a guy’s ear!”
James had a point, and if anyone was going to come back, they knew where the hide-out was.
“Alright, but we’re going to need disguises.”

“Please, I really, really, no understand you,” Peter lay flat on his back as the burly bearded brute bore down on him.
“You are one of them!” he spat. He raised his sword and the rooster cried again, much closer and sounding much less like a rooster.
Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw two of the largest, hairiest women he had ever seen sprinting toward him, zigzagging through the crowd. One cocked her head back, and bellowed a screeching “Cock-a doodle-doo!” As she did so, her hair slid down off the back of her head and wilted on the ground. She didn’t break stride and through the thick paint around her eyes and lips, Peter made out James’s grinning face. James, in one of Andrew’s wife’s finest garments, barreled headfirst into the bearded man, who howled as he hit the dirt. John, in a lovely lavender shawl, dog-piled on top. Peter could’ve kissed his cross-dressed companions for saving his neck, but Roman guards were instantly drawn to the commotion and surrounded the pile of cloth and limbs with pointed spears.

“So, this was your rescue plan.” Jesus sat on the damp stone floor with His hands bound tightly behind his back. The small, low-ceilinged cell was lit faintly by torchlight through the one barred window. It reeked of dead rats. On the wall opposite were tied His three most trustworthy disciples, two of them in drag. These were the men who were to continue His mission on earth after this was all over. These were the men who were to spread His name and His teachings across the globe and through the ages. These were the chosen few.
And here they sat like three little lambs lost and bleating, waiting for a miracle. It’ll be a miracle, Jesus thought, if anyone remembers me a hundred years from now.