by David Beers
The priest must die, and then Luke can die as well.
He reaches the small porch and pulls on the screen door; it opens with a squeak. The sound doesn’t bother Luke. He is, for all intents and purposes, unbotherable.
He tries twisting the doorknob but it doesn’t turn. The preacher man apparently doesn’t feel safe enough to leave his door open, not even in a neighborhood that loves him so. Perhaps he isn’t as beloved as he’s led people to believe, and perhaps he knows it.
The locked door is simply another obstacle in Luke’s path; he does not personalize it any more than he would a strong wind blowing down the road. He moves to the right of the porch, hopping off it and coming to a window on the side of the house. He briefly looks over the glass, realizing it’s locked as well.
Luke scans the ground around him and sees a few rocks lying further in the grass. He goes to them, finding one that fits nicely in his hand, then turns back to the window. It is low to the ground, so he doesn’t need to pull himself up to it. He nods, takes a few steps back, and then throws the rock.
It breaks the window with a crash that echoes through the night.
Luke steps forward to the shattered window and kicks at stray pieces, creating an opening he can maneuver through without being cut.
“WHO’S THERE?” the preacher man shouts from inside.
Luke says nothing but steps through the window. He’s inside the house now and still feels calm, as if all of this was preordained.
As if God wanted him here to stop this false prophet.
“WHO’S OUT THERE? I’M A PRIEST! I’M THIS TOWN’S PRIEST!”
Luke hears the man’s voice and walks across the house to it.
“I know,” he says as he enters the preacher man’s bedroom.
A small light burns on the night stand, casting Marquez in a yellow glow. Even so, he looks pallid, like a waxy ghost.
“You …,” he says. The word isn’t laced with hate, but made from it. “You … GET OUT!”
Luke only shakes his head. He pulls a small pocket knife from his pants.
“Hey! Hey! No!” Marquez shouts.
Luke walks forward toward the bed and the priest scoots backward, pushing himself against the wall behind him.
“What are you doing, son? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Luke stares at him for a second. Another moment is here. One of those that will shape the young man’s life, shaping him into a man, and then perhaps an old man. Luke has had a lot of these moments in a short time, though he doesn’t understand that now. He only knows that he is going to kill someone.
He steps forward, the speed with which he slashes reveals the underlying athleticism that will assist so often as he grows older. He slices the priest’s face open, his skin splitting like an overripe avocado. The meat inside spills out across his pale skin and he screams.
The preacher man screams a lot.
Luke hears him, but only as a wolf may hear a rabbit’s squeal—or perhaps even as a clockmaker hears the internal mechanisms of a piece he is working on.
The knife moves across the priest’s chest, and though the blade isn’t long, Luke works almost preternaturally. It cuts perfectly from the right nipple down to just below the left of his ribcage. From there, Luke drags the knife across his stomach, back to the right side, and the priest’s intestines spill out on his legs.
He’s not screaming now. He is in shock, staring down at his guts burning hot on his legs, no longer inside as they’re supposed to be.
Luke takes a step back, the red life from the preacher staining him as well.
He doesn’t stare at the man’s guts, but his face instead. Marquez is growing even paler as the blood exits his body in pulsing rivers. His heart’s still pumping, trying to do its job, but growing weaker by the second. Luke doesn’t pull away, doesn’t shy from his act, but stares at it the way the criminals he will one day chase stare at their victims. Taking it all in.
The priest gives out a death rattle, as if an actual rattlesnake rests in his throat, and then he is no more. Only his body is left, a disgusting slab of meat.
Luke stares a second longer.
He leaves the house.
He goes to the orphanage and gets his brother. Then, at the age of eleven, he and his brother leave Mexico. Luke has decided not to kill himself. Partly because of his brother, but that is not everything.
Not by a long way.
Christian opened his eyes, only seconds having passed since he closed them.
“Mr. Windsor, please report to the principal’s office!” A squeal of laughter screeched from the overhead intercom.
Christian didn’t see his mom or the other—only the dead body remained in the room with him. His eyes flicked to the gun in the corner, and he quickly moved toward it. There was blood on the handle, and he wipes it away with his shirt before fully standing up.
It won’t end.
He knew that now.
Luke wouldn’t stop coming for him, didn’t even know the meaning of the word. He hadn’t stopped when his mother was raped, and he certainly wasn’t going to do so now. The man might have been more machine than human.
Christian raised his weapon.
He would continue as well, then. He would go get his friend; he’d keep putting one foot in front of the other until they stopped working.
He pulled on the restroom door and stepped out into the hallway.
Charles was having fun on the intercom system. More than he had thought possible, for sure. The invalid was next to him, though neither were in the waiting room any longer. Charles was now at the security station. There was a small stack of televisions against the wall, each showing high viewpoints of different rooms. Charles focused on the TV which showed the waiting room.
He had six men waiting on Christian Windsor.
The invalid was quiet. Charles had thought about knocking him out, but then wondered what would be the point? It’s not like he could get up from his chair and do anything.
“There he is!” Charles shouted, his eyes catching Windsor on a different television. He was stepping out of a restroom, his gun raised. “Oh this is good.” Charles looked over to the invalid, wanting to see his facial expression. But of course, the creep wore no expression. Fucking invalid couldn’t, and where was the fun in that? “I don’t know why you want to continue living. I would have ended it the first chance I got.”
The invalid didn’t so much as glance at Charles, but kept his eyes focused on the stack of televisions.
He might not have much in the way of facial expressions, but at least he was interested.
Charles watched as Windsor moved down the hallway, and from Charles’s vantage point, he could see the hall’s cross section as well.
He picked up his two way radio.
“I’ve got eyes on him. He’s three hallways up and to the right. One of you go get him.”
Windsor crept slowly, not rushing, though Charles didn’t think he was trying to be careful. He was scared. Terrified, even.
“Your friend isn’t the bravest, is he?”
Without moving anything but his mouth, the invalid said, “He’s coming, isn’t he?”
“Hah!”
But, the invalid was right. Windsor was heading toward the waiting room, which was exactly where Charles wanted him.
Time was short and Charles knew it. SWAT would arrive within the next twenty minutes. He’d taken some precautions, this wing’s entire power system going down being one of them. Even so, he couldn’t hide here forever. The sound of gun blasts had probably already been heard, though not by anyone working here. His men had systematically moved through the wing and killed anyone they saw—security guard, nurse, or visitor. They’d left the patients alone, but not out of mercy; no one wanted to be around possible sarin contamination.
Two of the men from the waiting room were moving down the hall now, their own weapons raised. They would reach Windsor in the next few seconds.
He had stopped at the corner, his back to it, and the gun next to his face. His eyes were closed.
“What’s he doing? Praying?” Charles asked, expecting no answer. He hoped his men didn’t kill the bastard. Their pay would drop stupendously if that happened. Charles wanted his fun first.
“He’s counting,” the invalid said.
“What the fuck’s he counting?”
“Your men’s footsteps.”
Charles mouth opened to say something else, but no words left his mouth.
The man on the screen whirled into the hallway, dropping to his knees as he did. He fired two shots and Charles heard their echoes filter into his room seconds after.
Two of his men dropped to the floor, their bodies falling like bags of flour.
Windsor waited on his knees for a second, the gun pointing forward as if the dead might still rise. When they didn’t, he stood again.
Charles grabbed the two-way. “He’s coming. Go get him. Do not fucking kill him.”
The remaining four men emptied out of the waiting room.
Christian’s breath felt heavy, his lungs breathing deep. He wasn’t on the verge of hyperventilating, but he was on the verge of being on the verge. He walked by the two men he’d dropped moments before, not looking down at the holes his gun had created.
They’d moved too loudly down the hallway, which meant that they underestimated him. Christian couldn’t have killed them if it wasn’t for their footfalls. He had known precisely where they would be when he turned into the hallway.
He’d fired his gun and the shots had been true.
That wasn’t the last of them, though, and Christian knew it.
Another bullet soared through the hallway, tagging high and hitting the ceiling just behind him. Christian flashed into a hallway on his right. He couldn’t see where the bullet came from, the hall was too dark even with the emergency signs posted.
“WINDSOR!” the intercom screamed from above. “IF YOU DON’T GIVE UP, YOU’RE DEAD. THERE’S TOO MANY.”
Christian stood with his back to the wall.
“PUT THE GUN DOWN AND YOU’LL MAKE IT OUT OF HERE ALIVE.”
Waverly, he thought. Is he hearing this? Who all can hear what is happening, or is it just this wing? Is anyone coming?
He couldn’t answer the question, but he felt more bullets hit the wall. They were pinning him down, trying to scare him into dropping his weapon.
“There’s no way out, bucko,” the intercom said, then more squealing laughter. “Drop it!”
“Where’s Tommy?” Christian shouted.
A pause came from both the weapons and the intercom.
“One more time. What was that?”
“Where’s Tommy?”
“Put the gun down and you can come see him,” the intercom said.
“Is he alive?”
Another brief pause, Christian imagining that whatever he said was being relayed back to the man behind the intercom.
“He is, of course! We’ve got fun things planned for the three of us. Lots of them!”
Christian knew he couldn’t gun this many men down. Hell, he couldn’t even see them all.
Go get your friend, his mother had said.
Fighting right now wouldn’t accomplish that. Going forward with his weapon drawn would be suicide, and if he’d wanted to do that, he didn’t have to walk here.
Christian knelt and placed the gun down, then stood and kicked it into the hallway.
“Good! Boys, take him!” the intercom said.
And take him, they did.
Chapter 20
“Dr. Titan, how are you doing today?”
Charles knew Titan was aware of what happened the previous night. He only needed to turn on a television and see that the world was burning down. Each station gladly told of the horrors being inflicted upon this great nation—and there were a lot of them at the moment.
“I’m well,” Titan said.
Despite being in complete control, Titan’s strange calm raised goosebumps across Charles’s arms.
“You’ve seen the news?”
“I have. You’ve been busy, though, not in the way that we agreed.”
“That’s true. I have been busy. I’m a busybody, you might say. And no, fuck our agreement, Titan. Do you mind if I call you Luke, Luke? I’m sure you don’t, given how much money has exchanged hands between us. Well, Luke, fuck our agreement. The new agreement is this: I’m going to kill your wonder boy and his partner, and if you decide to show up, I’ll kill you too. How’s that sound?”
“Is he still alive, my wonder boy?” Titan asked.
“For now, yes. That’s going to change, though.”
“Where are you, Mr. Twaller?”
“No, no. I don’t think we’ll go into that right now. You’re a smart guy, right, Luke? You can figure out that problem in no time at all.”
“Perhaps. Are you with him now?”
Charles was feeling more and more off by the second. In a single night, he had halted Titan’s entire operation, and stolen the person he wanted most, yet this man sounded like they were discussing a play they might see later.
“He’s around,” Charles said.
“I want you to ask Christian what happened with my brother. Will you do that for me, Mr. Twaller?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Christian will probably know the story better than I do. It was a long time ago for me, but I imagine he thinks of it often. Ask him ... I’ll see you soon, Mr. Twaller.”
The call ended. Charles sat with the phone still pressed to his ear, barely believing what he just heard.
He would see Charles soon? As if he had planned all this out?
Charles shook his head, his fat jowls swaying as he did, making him look like a cow having a seizure.
“No. No. No. I’ll see you soon, you stupid fuck!”
It took him a few minutes to calm down, but when he did, he walked across the warehouse. Charles had flown the invalid and Windsor up north. They were on the edge of Baltimore, in one of the rundown factory districts. Charles had a lease for the warehouse, though he used it for nothing—not even to store weapons when they came through.
The invalid lay face up on a mattress. Charles thought about letting him stew in his own filth as he pissed and shit himself, but decided against it. He didn’t want to have to deal with the stench when he came in here to handle business, so he assigned a guard to those necessities.
Charles was making Windsor stand. Metal chains hooked to his hands. He couldn’t bring his arms down completely, though he could swing slightly some with the chains. He was forced to either stand or hang from them.
Windsor’s face was so bruised, he looked like an overripe peach which had been handled roughly. His right eye was swollen shut and his lips nearly as big as sausages. The guys had put hands on him pretty mercilessly when they got to him. Which was fine with Charles.
He didn’t mind in the slightest.
“I spoke to your ex-partner,” Charles said as he approached the fence.
Windsor’s chains rattled slightly. He could still see out of his left eye, and he turned his face so that it focused on Charles.
“He wanted me to ask you something. He said you should tell me about what happened to his brother. What’s that mean?”
“ ... It means you’re going to die,” Windsor said, his words sounding thick because of his swollen tongue.
“Is that your autism coming out? Just unable to keep from saying whatever the hell you’re thinking?”
Windsor shrugged.
“So, Titan is going to kill me to save you?”
“I don’t know what he wants with me. You’re going to die, though. That’s what the story about his brother means.”
Charles smiled and looked down at his feet. “We’re pretty well guarded here. I think we’ll survive. He’s going to show up, though? You think that’s what he was telling me.”
“No, you fat fuck
,” Windsor said. “You’re going to die. That’s what he was telling you. I don’t know if he’ll show up. I don’t know if he’ll bomb the entire place with nuclear weapons. No one knows what Luke will do. If he wants you to hear about his brother, then that’s the only thing you can take as gospel: You’ll die soon.”
Charles felt a momentary rise of anger at the derogatory remark, but he pushed it away. He would indulge in such things later—well, sooner rather than later—but now wasn’t the time. The autistic retard would pay for calling him a ‘fat fuck’, but he needn’t pay just yet.
“Tell me about the brother,” Charles said, still looking at his feet.
“It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point. If he told you to ask me, the message was simple. What happened to his brother is irrelevant to that message.”
Charles’s thick hand flashed up and slapped Windsor across the face. His closed right eye stared blindly at Charles.
“I’ll tell you what matters and what doesn’t. You tell me what the fuck happened to his brother.”
A second passed and Windsor finally turned back to Charles, though he kept his head bowed.
“Luke was the elder. He was 17 and Mark, I think, was 15….”
Chapter 21
Mark is 15 years old, and Luke is indeed 17.
The two of them live in the United States, six years have passed since Father Marquez met his end.
Luke’s last name is not yet Titan, but the time is growing close to when he will change it, forever casting his past under a dark shadow.
Mark and Luke are in high school; Luke is thinking about applying for colleges. They live alone, in a small apartment in Dallas, Texas. Luke didn’t want to try and move far when they left Mexico, but he needed to get to a place where their American heritage wouldn’t be a burden. They live alone, Luke handling the paperwork to ensure that continues.
His days are simple, if hard. He wakes up at six. He and Mark arrive at school an hour later. From there, Luke moves through the school day without much trouble. His mind laps his teachers, though he is careful to keep that from being noticed. He remembers what happened when he was younger and made a fool out of a teacher. He does not have that luxury anymore. Now, he lives his life for his brother, doing everything in his power to make sure their simple home is a good one.
