Ashes of Another Life

by Lindsey Goddard

  She squirmed beneath his touch.

  “Get going,” he growled in her ear.

  He lay the gun flat against her back in hopes they would look like an intimate couple to anyone passing by. The muzzle no longer pushed into her, and he worried for a moment she might get the urge to run. But the threat of it was still there, the cold metal on her spine.

  The feel of her smooth skin excited him in ways he didn’t want to address. His pants felt too tight, and the walk to her apartment seemed to drag on forever. He was fuming with impatience by the time she halted in front of a door.

  “This is it,” she said as she slid the key into the lock.

  The door cracked open and he shoved her inside, her shoulder slamming the door and flinging it open wide. She stumbled, but she managed to keep her balance as he shut the door, clicked the lock and turned to face her.

  Casey braced her trembling body against a small table in the entryway. From her designer heels to her dry-cleaned business attire, she looked the part of a strong, sexy, professional woman. But she wasn’t so confident anymore. She looked paler than before, shaking so hard it caused the lamp on the table to teeter back and forth.

  “The file. Where is her file?” He stepped closer.

  She jumped, nearly toppling the table.

  “Why are you so scared? Huh? I just need to find the girl and bring her home. Give me the file, and you won’t get hurt.”

  “I lied,” the caseworker squeaked through quivering lips. It was faint, like a child’s whisper, and he wasn’t sure he’d heard it.

  “What?”

  “I—I lied.” She seemed to find the courage to say it again, but not the courage to meet his eye. “There are no files here. Only at the office.”

  Randall’s face flushed. “You what?! Why would you do that? Don’t you understand the stakes here? Do you think I’m bluffing?”

  “No, I don’t. And that’s just it. If you’re ruthless enough to kill me, you could harm the girl just the same. I can’t live with that on my conscience. I can’t help you find her, even if it costs me my life.”

  For a long moment, the only sound was Randall’s heavy breathing, which grew steadily more aggressive as he mulled over her confession.

  “What if there’s another option? A way out, for both of you.” Her voice was high and choked and filled with urgency.

  “A way out of what?” he said.

  “Out of the church. Out of the prophet’s control.” She drew quotation marks around the word “prophet” with her fingers, and Randall resisted the urge to slap her for the profanity in that gesture. “Away from that whole community. That’s why I brought you here. To talk about it, in private, where no one can judge you, where no one—aside from me, that is—can get hurt.” The muscles in her face tensed. “Listen… I know it’s a heavy load to bear—the oppressive rules, the constant, watchful eyes on everything you do. I’m offering you freedom. I understand the inner workings of your church. I can help. I’ve successfully relocated others like you, and they’re leading happy lives now.”

  “The happy lives of apostates!” he spat through clenched teeth.

  She stepped closer. Her knees shook, but a sparkle of confidence returned to her bright blue eyes. “There are others. They have left your church and come to believe that God judges each man based on his own morality and how he treats his fellow man, not just by which religion he chooses. Would a merciful God do that? Can all outsiders be damned? What about me? Do I deserve damnation?” She locked him in a gaze that made his already clammy skin start to sweat all over again.

  All my life, I have wondered if I am damned. Others have stared at me, whispered to each other about my dark eyes and caramel skin. This is my shot. My chance to prove them wrong.

  Casey’s beautiful eyes begged for mercy, pleaded for Randall to hear her out. He scowled with disdain and looked away. He didn’t want to hear what she was saying.

  It was true that Randall sometimes felt suffocated by the constrictive rules set forth by the prophet, but the prophet spoke directly to God. In his heart, Randall knew this was true. He’d been faithful to the church his entire life. His faith was a river, deep and wide, and all other emotions—love, anger, and even lust—were only tributary streams leading back to that great river. He couldn’t picture a life without it.

  He looked at Casey, eyes bloodshot and manic. She wanted to seduce him into the easy life of an apostate. And the worst part? He almost wanted her to.

  She was so beautiful. There was something soft and tender in her voice, something so enticing about her words. She could damn him to Hell in the blink of an eye.

  He clenched his fist. “That’s enough. Do not speak another word unless it is to tell me the whereabouts of Tara Jane Brewer.” Running low on patience, he tightened his grip on the weapon and kept his eyes fixed on her.

  “If I may please ask one more thing.” She paused only to punctuate the sentence, not granting him a moment for rebuttal. “What’s so important? Why has it come to this? To violence? The girl… what do you want with her?”

  “That was three questions, phrased as four.” He worked his jaw, finger steady on the trigger. “But in the interest of ending this, I will answer. Our concern is for the girl’s salvation. The End Times is near, and our prophet wishes to save Tara Jane from perdition. He had strong ties with her father, rest his soul.”

  Her blue eyes bored into him. “The prophet wants to save her soul?”

  “Yes. He will make her his bride.” Randall winced. He hadn’t meant to say so much.

  No need to explain yourself to her. She’s just a pretty face. And yet she will coax the words from your mouth like a succubus. She will make you say things you regret. If you let her.

  He groaned, feeling as wound-up as a hungry beast before the pounce. “Tell me where she is,” he insisted His knuckles were white around the gun, hands shaking.

  “You don’t have to do this. You don’t want to do this.” She reached down and laid her hand over his. “Let’s just talk. Let’s get to know one another, come to understand one another. Maybe we can figure out an answer, together, a solution that works for everyone.”

  Her intoxicating smell surrounded him. “I don’t even know your name,” she murmured.

  Her skin was soft and warm over his knuckles. His pulse quickened at the sound of her heavy breathing and her ample breasts, heaving with anxiety. His nostrils flared, and his whole body grew hot. He jerked away from her grip.

  How dare she use her sex appeal to manipulate me, all while pretending to care? How despicable. What would the prophet say?

  He could hear the prophet’s voice, cool and fluid like a soothing rush of water through his overheated mind: “She is a succubus, Randall. Do what must be done.”

  He’d had enough. He couldn’t stand her teasing ways any longer. He flipped the gun over in his hand and gripped the barrel. The prophet’s words coursed through him. He felt twenty feet tall. Casey looked up at him, terror-stricken eyes beseeching him to stop.

  He swung the butt of the gun against her temple.

  Her squeal was cut short as she tumbled to the floor. She landed with her legs sprawled open, giving Randall a view up her skirt. His manhood stiffened as a strange mix of guilt, anger, and attraction bubbled to the surface.

  He knelt atop her, straddling her on the floor. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and when she opened them again Randall smiled down at her.

  I should teach her a lesson. Teach her that a woman shouldn’t toy with a man’s willpower.

  He held the gun to her temple and leaned close to the other side of her face. He inhaled deep lung-fulls of her scent. “Undo the buttons on that jacket,” he whispered in a gruff tone, lips close to her ear.

  With trembling fingers, she struggled to do as he said. The little buttons slipped out of her grasp. Her cheeks were slick with tears, eyes glassy.

  Irritated with her lack of progress, Randall savagely yanked at the buttons.
Two of them popped loose and spun for a moment on the floor. He pulled again and freed the other two. Casey was down to a sheer white blouse.

  He worked his fingers through the gaps between the buttons and ripped her shirt open in one brutal tug. His hands were on her in an instant, sliding over her breasts, which were partially hidden beneath the silky fabric of a bra. Her nipples hardened beneath the silk. He moaned, rubbing his sweaty cheek along the warm, fleshy mounds. He folded the cups down and sat examining her fully exposed bosom.

  He’d never seen a naked woman before. An older boy had once showed him a folded page ripped from a nudey magazine, the sight of which Randall had promptly memorized, but as far as real girls, he’d never glimpsed more than their faces and hands. He felt himself drool with pleasure.

  His hard member grew painfully stiff against her inner thigh. It was so warm between her legs, where his lower abdomen was touching, it drove him wild with ideas. He wanted to reach under her skirt and feel around, but—but—she wouldn’t stop crying.

  What am I doing? This is wrong. This is a sin. You’re one of God’s chosen people, and here you are, fornicating with a Gentile. What has this devil made you do?

  Bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed hard, forcing it back where it belonged. He frowned down at her with disgust. God would not mourn her death, but Randall would not defile himself in the process.

  “Will you tell me what I need to know, or won’t you?”

  There was a silent moment as the two sized each other up, still sprawled awkwardly on the floor. He heard the prophet’s voice again: “Do what must be done.” A melancholy look washed over her face, a mix between surrender and absolute fear, and he knew she must realize the truth. He couldn’t let her live. Not now. He had gone too far to turn back.

  “No,” she barely managed to say. A defeated expression dulled the glow in her eyes, and tears ran in rivers down her cheeks.

  She was gorgeous, even with sweaty hair matted against her forehead and her makeup smeared in black and purple streaks. She enticed him with her fit body, mostly exposed, just inches away.

  He hated her for it.

  He brought his fist down and smashed her in the temple. A sickly green bruise was forming on the side of her face where the butt of the gun had hit her, and he used this as a target. The first blow knocked her out, but he did it twice more for good measure.

  Forgive me, Lord. I do this at thy bidding.

  He stood up, bent over and gripped her ankles. He raised her legs to chest-level, and took a moment to regain his wits. He noticed that from this angle, he got a look up her skirt, and he couldn’t stop an idea from forming. He lowered her, scooted her panties down her legs and stuffed them into his pocket. It was not a sin, he told himself, to keep a small token by which to remember her scent.

  Her shoes had come loose and lay on opposites sides of her body as he hoisted and began to drag her. One of the designer pumps got wedged under her back, scraping along the hardwood until it dislodged before they reached the bathroom door. Her eyelids fluttered.

  Casey started to move as he scooped her up.

  He dropped her into the tub, and his shadow slithered over her face as he reached into his pocket.

  Her eyes tried to open, barely did, and she moaned at the sight of him pulling the knife from his slacks. He was sickened with himself to discover he liked the sound of her whimpering. He liked punishing her.

  But her kind deserves it.

  Eyes like tiny slits in two puddles of makeup, Casey threw herself forward over the side of the tub, punching feebly in the air with one fist, then the other. She missed Randall by a longshot.

  He delivered a punch to her head, this time square in the face. Her nose crunched inward. Blood leaked onto her lips, teeth lost in a crimson wetness that glistened in the dim bathroom lights. She sucked in frantic breaths. Bubbles of blood formed and popped, dotting the white tile with red splatters.

  He knelt down beside Casey, and she squealed, shoulders quaking. Her battered face shook back and forth, one blue eye pleading with him, the other swollen shut. He couldn’t be sure, but she seemed to snarl and spit in his direction. Saliva dripped from her chin.

  He rammed the blade into her neck just below her right ear and carved it across her throat. Her neck yawned like the bottomless pit of Death itself as her life essence spilled out, warm and red and sticky against her breasts. Her lungs rattled and then she fell silent.

  Chapter Six

  Casey had never felt such agony in her twenty-eight years of life. It was as if his massive fist had flipped a cerebral switch and sent her pain receptors into overdrive. Everything hurt, from her throbbing skull to her aching toes. The nerves in her body fizzled and popped, and blackness fueled her panic. She longed for the strength to raise her eyelids.

  Floorboards ripped at her shirt as Randall tugged her limp body. She couldn’t move, but she could feel the polished wood underneath her, feel him gripping her by the ankles. She tried to summon the strength to turn her head as the bruised side of her face thumped over each board, but in a way, she was glad for the sensation. It kept her from slipping into the soothing, numb oblivion that pulled at her from the darkness.

  Her body scraped over something hard. It lodged itself beneath her.

  At least I can feel it.

  She couldn’t move her limbs, but she could feel her spine. She might survive, if she could get away.

  Her eyelids fluttered. All she could see were the walls rolling by, the lines in the wooden floor moving past her. For a brief moment, she thought, Please don’t take me to the bedroom, but quickly realized it didn’t matter what his intentions were, so long as she got through this alive.

  In her semi-conscious state, she knew how easy it would be to end her own misery. She was dangling by a thread of consciousness, and if she let go, she wouldn’t suffer.

  But she couldn’t let go.

  Death held no charm for Casey like it did for others. It meant only the end. She couldn’t envision the white, pearly gates, the castles in the clouds that captured the beliefs of so many. Though she understood the value of man’s mysticism, she saw in it no value for herself.

  The walls and baseboards in her peripheral vision faded. Her apartment grew fuzzy around her. She smelled the familiar scent of her parent’s home and recognized the worn blue carpet and mahogany decor. She knew this couldn’t be real, but it felt real. The air was cool, just like her mother always kept it.

  She saw her father, knelt in prayer, his wrinkled hands clasped together atop his quilted bed spread. He bowed his head, gray hair combed neatly on his head, bulky frame hunched over the bed.

  “Why do you do it?” she had asked him. “How can you pray for him?”

  He had turned to her then, eyes full of scorn at having his private moment interrupted. “Go to bed, Casey.”

  “But he nearly killed you. Why pray for him?”

  He had sighed, airy and deep, an old train letting off steam. “I pray for his family, and I pray for his soul, because it helps me get to sleep at night. If he had killed me, I’d be in Heaven, I know. But his family doesn’t get that guarantee. His soul is not guaranteed rest.” He turned away without another word and resumed his prayer as if she had left the room.

  Her face throbbed with pain. She wiggled her fingers but couldn’t move her hands. Her heart pounded in a sluggish, discouraging rhythm despite the panic she was feeling.

  She told her legs—no, she mentally screamed at her legs to move. They began to obey just as Randall scooped her up like a broken Barbie doll and dumped her into the cold bath tub. Her tail bone slammed against the hard surface, sending a fresh shock through every appendage.

  Her mind blinked in and out of blackness, mixed with the memory of Randall’s fist raising the gun, swinging it down onto her face, and her father, kneeling, praying…

  Casey’s mortal life had taken precedence over hoping for a second one, and though this put her at odds with the rest of hu
manity, it was something she felt down to her core. The sheer beauty and majesty of the world coaxed a tear from her eye the same way a prayer did for her father, and for her, this had always been enough. She’d chosen a career in social work so she could fight for human life, so she could nurture and protect it. Human life was the greatest gift of all, and now hers was slipping away.

  Her clumsy fingers attempted to find purchase on the slick porcelain tub. She was breathing so fast she could hardly fill her lungs. Her lips drew into thin lines and she rolled her head from side to side, crying.

  This is bad. This is really, really bad.

  Her left eye was swollen shut, but she managed to pry the right one open. Nausea punched her gut as yellow light flooded her vision. She tried to scream. She couldn’t tell if it came out. The ringing in her ears and beating of her heart were all she could hear.

  Randall pulled a knife from his pocket and glared down at her. She wanted to plead with him, “You don’t have to do this. We can work this out,” but her tongue was stifled by the trauma to her head, and all that came out was “Ahhhhooooohuhooooh.”

  The bathroom turned hauntingly quiet aside from their heavy breathing and a soft whimpering as Casey tried to form coherent words. She gulped, savoring the taste of blood in her mouth—coppery, full of life, something she’d never take for granted again, if only…

  Fight, Casey, fight!

  Gasping, she sat upright. She tried to hurl herself over the side of the tub, throwing all of her weight into it. She punched the air, but neither blow connected with her assailant.

  Randall delivered a fist, like a cannonball to her face. He hit her so hard it felt like there was a gaping crater where her nose used to be. The pain worsened until her nerves were aflame, and in a sudden moment of clarity, she thought, this is the nature of the beast. Innocent people are murdered every day. Children are snatched from their parents. Civilians are slaughtered in the streets.

  You know it better than most people, don’t you? Isn’t that your expertise? What made you think you were above it? Did you think tragedy could never touch you? Life’s a lottery, and your number is up.