The Humanist

by Kenneth James Allen

  “What the hell is happening?”

  No reply.

  “Sonja?” I grasp for Sonja but grab nothing but air—she’s out of reach, beyond my hands.

  Then, a scream. I turn to see two trench-coated men forcibly dragging Sonja across the sand, her feet making parallel tracks in her wake. She fights against her abductors and kicks wildly, flicking sand behind her. The men are already up to the dunes. How could they grab Sonja without me noticing? And cover that distance in such a short time?

  The roar of the wave approaches, and I sprint toward her, the crash narrowly missing me as it pounds the beach, sending a spray of wet sand in all directions. It rains on my back like a blast from a submachine gun. I stumble forward, crashing face-first into warm sand. I can feel a heartbeat, as if the beach is alive. It’s telling me to get up. I scan the beach and see the three of them disappear over a dune.

  I am on my feet and running, digging deep into the sand, looking for propulsion, but the sand bogs me down. I feel like I’m running on the same spot. I call out for Sonja. Then, more screams. Screeching tires. Car doors slamming. A gunshot. Then another one. Then one more.

  Then, silence.

  I call out again. But nothing.

  I stop at the peak of the dune and look down.

  Where the sand meets the pavement, a car with open doors awaits. Two men lie face down in its shadow, blood staining the pure sand grains around them. Sonja stands, her arm outstretched, her hand shaking. Gun shaking.

  I run to her, and she drops into my arms. I ease her down and we sit awkwardly, our limbs jumbled. She gasps for breath.

  “I’m sorry,” she pants.

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I wasn’t fast enough.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She reaches up and gently touches my lips, then traces down my shirt, along the line of buttons. Then she stops, moving her hands to my side. A blotch of red on my white shirt, growing, soaking, marking. No pain, just release. Warmth.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I tried to protect you. We all did.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s okay.”

  I lean my head back and stare at the blue, cloudless sky. She feels lighter. Or am I going numb? I look down. She is on me, holding me, waiting.

  Then she disappears, her body dissolving into a billion sand particles that wash over me. It’s warm, a blanket covering me. Everything is silent. The waves crashing on the shore have been replaced with my heartbeat. The soft breeze replaced by my own breathing.

  Light.

  Dark.

  Everything melds into a single frame.

  I am all.

  All is me.

  #

  I blink. Again. Again. I’m standing in the middle of the room. My chest is heaving. Sweat covers me. Then searing pain in my side. I cringe and place a hand over it. I then notice two things: the straitjacket is hanging from one of my arms, and I’m holding a gun in the other.

  My head follows suit. Explosions of light particles disrupt my vision, lighting up the dark cavern. I turn slowly, get my bearings, trying to understand where I am. Four concrete walls. A discolored metal grate.

  The two chairs that were in the middle of the room lay scattered in the corners, upturned. It’s like an explosion went off. Perhaps one did.

  Slumped against a wall is Kolton. He has a pen sticking out from his eye socket, a trail of blood running down and connecting to a river flowing from his neck. He’s holding a gun. Not regulation—smaller. A secondary firearm. There’s a hole in his chest where blood and tissue have spewed over his shirt.

  At the door is Galdini. He lies on his back, a shocked expression on his face. His glasses lay within arm’s reach, the frames mangled, the lenses smashed into unrecognizable shards. He might have been reaching for them, or he might have just fallen into that position. Blood flows from his back and his head. I don’t bother turning him over to find the source of his injuries. They are violent enough to have stopped him breathing, which is good enough for me.

  Kolton, Galdini. No Devil. Which means he must have escaped. It also means he feared for his life. Fears me.

  I don’t know what happened—I just awoke among death and carnage, with what I assume to be a gunshot wound in my side. Hurts like hell. Hurts when I move, hurts when I breathe. How this came to be, how all this occurred, is a mystery to me. But I am alive, escaped my restraints, and fought my way out. Apparently. It seems I am capable of so much more.

  I turn to the dark window inset into the wall. Images flash over my retinas. Kolton. Galdini. The Devil... Sonja! Sonja was in that room! I hobble for the door, gritting my way through spikes of pain, and made it out into the corridor. I glance left and right. Nothing. No one.

  I move to the next door down, the one for the room where Sonja was being held. It’s ajar, and the steel barrier swings freely on its heavy hinges. The room is dark, yet with the light from the corridor I can see it’s empty, save the upturned chair where Sonja was being restrained. Grief turns to anger. There’s no time for any other emotion except hatred.

  I look back down the corridor and notice a trail of blood on the floor. Maybe belonging to Sonja, or it could be The Devil’s. I hope it’s the latter.

  It had better be the latter.

  Chapter 51

  I evade the last of the straitjacket’s grasp on me and hobble down the corridor, my boots echoing loudly on the surface. I’ve got one hand on the gun, the other applying pressure to my side. I should create a tourniquet; I could do a lot of things. But my preservation is second on the list to making sure Sonja is okay.

  The burning pain is now numb but hate still billows within me. I used to be afraid of The Devil. Everyone was. I adhered to his every command, undertook his directives: kill the FBI agent. Get the code from Taylor at all costs. I remember the instruction, but never my actions—just the outcome. Death and mayhem.

  Yes, I used to be afraid of him. But now things are different. He hurt Sonja, the only person I ever cared about, the only person who ever cared about me. If he was trying to make a point, he did. He just didn’t count on me escaping from a straitjacket and killing Galdini and Kolton. Now, I am the hunter. Now, I am to be feared. He crossed the line from which there’s no coming back. I will not forgive or forget.

  I ease my way down to the T junction and note the blood trail veering off to the left. Holding the gun up, I peer around the corner. Dark and scratched elevator doors greet me at the end of a short, dim hallway. A single faint bulb at the end illuminates the elevator entrance. The darkened walls and floor are smeared with dried blood, evidence of patients trying to escape. But there is no escape. Not from down here. Unless you are dead. This is where I executed some of my orders from The Devil. Kidnap people, extract information, dispose of the body in the furnace.

  I am now dragging my foot over the ground to mitigate the discomfort in my side. My breathing is shallower, the air colder than before. Time. Time is always against me, never in my favor. I press the elevator call button with the gun barrel and then wait, thinking of what I’ll do when I catch up with them.

  My gun is at the ready as the doors to my ride groan open. Empty. It’s a large box big enough for a gurney. I can smell blood and fear. A smear of blood coats the top button. I press it. I initially thought he would run for it, make a beeline to the exit, with Sonja in a tight grasp, and drive away as fast as possible. But what would be the endgame? The Devil still needs what’s in my head. I guess this can only end one of two ways.

  My rattling journey ends with metallic clunks. A corridor yawns open before me. Overhead bulbs flicker and spasm. Light ripples, shadows dance. My ears ring, but it’s eerily silent. Doors line the corridor, with small squares of plexiglass set in them at eyelevel. More drops of blood lead away to the exit at the end.

  I shuffle down, pushing my shoulder into the double doors. They are heavy and protest loudly as I make a space big enough for me to squeeze my hea
d through. Beyond is a similar scene to what’s behind me. Lights are either flickering or dead. There are doors along the right-hand side. There is, however, a big space on the left—the cafeteria.

  I squeeze through the gap and the pain in my side screams at me. I try to take deep breaths to quell the agony, but it feels like my lungs have shrunk. Short breaths now as I take in the area. Tables have been pushed up to one end of the room, chairs stacked on the other. The dispensary window is closed, shut, locked. I lean against the entry frame, thinking about what I saw here just the other night. A cast of characters sitting around the table.

  Warmth. I can feel it coat my fingers on my side. I move my hand away and bend over slightly to inspect the damage.

  A sudden rush of wind and explosive crack above my head—where my head used to be—arrests my attention, echoes in my ears. I look up instinctively. A figure lurks in the shadows of the cafeteria, his arms raised. Santiago? Jeans, boots, dark T-shirt. I raise my weapon and squeeze instinctively. A return gunshot at the same time.

  A sizzle. Flesh burning.

  For a moment, I’m stuck. My mind is active, but nothing registers. I try to move, but I can’t. Then, ever so slowly, my muscles twitch and seize. Heat works its way up my chest and over my back. My legs are tired, my arms tense. I squeeze off two more rounds, and they sound like they’re in slow motion. I can hear the air tear as they fly towards their intended target. The scene in front of me is static, like a portrait. Dust falls.

  And then the ground is rushing up at me. I fall heavily, awkwardly, like a sack of potatoes, with nothing to break my landing. Cold, hard. A blanket of a thousand needles covers my body. My side is agony. I lie there, my cheek against the dirt, and let it all pass. After a few minutes, I position my hands in front of me and lift my head up. I look for Santiago and see the soles of his boots, the rest of his body hidden by perspective.

  Shuffling. Military boots come into view.

  “Goddamn,” he says. “You’re a real pain in the fucking ass.”

  I cough, then groan. “Fuck you, Darnell.”

  He crouches down, puts his gun barrel under my chin and coaxes my head up. “Do you know how tempted I am to pull this damn trigger?”

  “Do us both a favor and do it.”

  “Yeah, the boss will like that one!”

  “Fuck him...fuck the code. He’s not getting that money.”

  More laughter. “You still think this is about money?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Forget about it. Now, get your ass up.”

  “Yeah, you just forgot one thing.”

  He sighs. “What?”

  I pull the trigger. The bullet tears through his boot. I hear the fibers break and rip, hear the hot tip break the skin, see the blood spurt hurtle toward me like a wave. Darnell roars, pulls away, but not before the bullet creates carnage.

  I roll onto my back, tilt my head, and take aim. Darnell comes into view, just for a second, and that’s as long as I need. His head disappears in red mist.

  Cold. Sweat. Shallow.

  Standing is difficult. My body doesn’t feel like my own. Yet I stagger over to the double doors. One of them is open enough for me to push through with little effort.

  Another corridor. More doors, but these are different. A scream radiates from behind one of them. I follow the trail once more. I work my way to a door, white in the pale corridor, dimming overhead lights. The plaque, clear black letters on a silver backing, denotes it as Galdini’s office. One thing on my mind, one thought. One action to finish this.

  Another scream. I can’t feel my hands, can’t loosen the grip on the gun. My feet are numb. It feels like I’m ice skating. Then the edges of my vision, blur, then darken. The abyss closes in around me.

  And it sucks me under.

  Chapter 52

  I stand at the door, uncertain of what to do. Everything feels so familiar, yet so foreign, kind of like that horizon between being asleep and awake. My body hurts, and I don’t know why. I look down at the gash in my side, my dark shirt even darker down there. Not sure how I got it. I poke at it and flinch. That’s when I see the gun in my other hand. I hate guns, but I always end up getting a hold of one.

  It’s happened again. And not the first time. Sometimes I could be drinking coffee in a café, or driving in my car, or sitting on the beach, and the next thing I know I’m surrounded by nameless bodies, and I’m holding a weapon. It’s a far cry away from the safety and security of a keyboard, but I’ve learned the best thing to do is to go with it. Don’t question it, don’t try to understand it, just let it happen. Let it play out.

  More flashes behind my eyeballs. Images. Noise. Sound bites played in a random order, not aligned to the images. A mess of memories was downloading itself. The name Devil keeps coming up, replayed over and over like it’s a metronome. The Devil. Why did they call him The Devil. His name is Levi. I know who he is and what he wants. And what he’ll do to get it.

  The light overhead flickers, shining a dull glow over the melancholy grey door. Between the black graffiti tags I can see dark spots resulting from decades of water damage. There is a muted silver plaque on the door, but the letters have been lost to time. The handle is missing, leaving a hole in its absence, and meaning the door is slightly ajar. It gently rocks and the hinges complain, emitting an intermittent creak.

  I push it open with the gun barrel and stumble inside. My vision alternates between worlds. One second, there is an inferno in the fireplace creating a warm luminance over the room. Leather-bound books line the walls. Armchairs surround a leather couch that’s resting on an oriental rug. A desk, at the other end of the room is stacked high with papers and files.

  I blink, and then it’s dank and gray and cold. Dirt and dust cover every surface. The bookshelves are mostly empty, save for a few editions that lay sideways, their titles all but worn away. Most of the windows are broken, with holes about the size of a brick allowing cold air to billow through. Faded paper and leaves cover the floor.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and fall against the doorframe for support as the scene continues to alternate.

  “Missing your medication?” A voice booms out.

  They stand there, appearing from the ether, dark figures out the darker shadows. He grasps Sonja in front of him with one hand, holds a gun against her head with the other.

  “Help me,” she gasps, her eyes pleading with me.

  Breath catches in my throat. I blink. Again. And again. Make sure it’s real. I step toward her.

  “That’s close enough,” he broadcasts.

  I stop in my tracks. Deep breath. Squeeze my fists. Almost unload a round into my foot.

  He eyes me curiously, assesses my features, notes the gun in my hand. “Who am I talking to? Sloan? Jason? One of the others?”

  “Fuck you, Levi. Where the hell am I? What have you done to me?”

  He doesn’t answer my question. Maybe he can’t. Maybe he won’t.

  I shift my eye contact to Sonja.

  “You okay, Sonja?”

  Her eyes droop, her mouth turns downward. A single tear runs down her cheek.

  “Help me. Please!” she repeats.

  Her words, along with the look on her face, drive into me like a knife. I want to cry.

  “It’s okay, Sonja. Everything is going to be okay.” I lied. Nothing about this is going to be okay. “I love you.” The words escaped before I could rein them in.

  “Ah, it’s you, Jason,” he says. “A dead giveaway. I’ve got to tell you, Jason. You gave me quite the scare back there.”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “Not sure whether you know that or not,” he said. “Was all I could do to get out of there with her.”

  Sonja squirms against Levi’s unrelenting grip but she doesn’t respond to me. “I’ll do anything you want,” she says. I’m not sure who she’s speaking to.

  Our eyes lock, and I am lost in her. I want to reach for h
er, to run away from this place. To fall into the abyss with her. I would die for her. Maybe I will.

  She squirms again and Levi groans and grimaces. I notice the dark patch on his side.

  “You should get that looked at,” I say.

  He bares his teeth. “Through and through,” he huffs. “I’ll be just fine. Where’s my men, Jason? Kolton? Darnell and Santiago? Are they dead? What about Doctor Galdini? Did you kill him as well?”

  They were dead, this was true, whether I had done it was a different story. I look down at the gun in my hand and shrug in reply. “Maybe. I’m not sure. No one’s told me yet.” I lift the gun, breath in the complex aroma of a fired weapon, unfortunately familiar. “Probably”.

  “God damn it. The shit just follows you everywhere, doesn’t it, Jason? And now you’ve dragged Sonja into your mess. If you had just given me what I wanted, I wouldn’t have to go to these extremes. I damn well told you that when we met not to fuck with me. You remember those old people in diner, Jason? What I did to them?”

  How could I forget? “You’re an animal, Levi. A twisted fuck!” As I say these words it feels a little hypocritical, based on what I was capable of, given who I am. The times I found myself surrounded by bodies was starting to build.

  Levi responds, breaking my train of thought.

  “If you had just done what they wanted the first time, that old couple would still be alive, enjoying their retirement. It’s your fault, Jason. Don’t forget that. And if you’re not careful, Sonja is going to end up the same way.”

  I point the firearm in Levi’s direction. “Don’t you fucking hurt her, Levi. Or so help me, God.”

  It seems like a damn dangerous thing to do—irresponsible, even—given his head is such a small target next to someone I love. Given I’ve never fired a gun before—not me, anyway.

  He smirks. “I know you, Jason, all of you. You’re not going to pull that trigger because you don’t have the guts. That’s why we chose you. When we caught you hacking into all those online casinos and managed funds, along with your medical records and personal history, we knew we had come across the perfect storm. You had the skills to do the job, the credibility of a guilty priest, and the motivation to keep your ass out of prison.”