by David Beers
CHARLES WALKED in front of Luke Titan, leading him into the living room.
“Need anything to drink? I have sodas, beer, liquor, even water if you’d like.”
Charles felt good, much better than he had yesterday when he thought about Titan in his home. He felt better because it was the day of, and not the day before. He felt better because he’d slept great last night, not to mention that all of Titan’s money had been safely deposited into Charles’s account. Mostly, though, Charles felt so damn good because today people were going to die. A lot of them.
“No, thank you,” Titan said.
The two stood at the living room’s entrance, Charles stopping and letting Luke step up next to him.
“So, this is where we’ll watch.”
Four 50” television screens had been mounted across the walls, and Charles hadn’t bothered to clean afterwards. Drywall and paint littered the hardwood floors.
“Sorry about the mess,” Charles said, though he wasn’t sorry at all. “I’ll have to clean it up a little later. I needed space for the televisions. Each one is hooked up to a server in the back room. The server has top notch GPUs, so we should be able to see everything as it happens, and in high def.”
Charles was proud of that, and he looked over at Titan to see the man’s response. He was smirking, but Charles could read no more into that than he could anything else the man gave off.
“Here,” Charles said, pointing toward the coffee table, “I’ve got four two way radios. They’re all on private channels, so we’ll be able to communicate to the group leaders at each site.”
“What do we actually have at each site, Mr. Twaller?” Titan asked.
“Each group is 50 men strong, each armed with explosives and automatic weapons. They’re all wearing heavy body armor, which should halt even direct hits to the body. Of course, a headshot is going to put them down. Basically, we have everything short of armored vehicles.”
“And how much of my armory have we used?”
“Around ten percent.”
Titan nodded. “Well done, Mr. Twaller. I’m impressed. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll sit back and just watch you work. I don’t want a very active role here.”
That was the best goddamn news Charles had heard all day, and he could have kissed the son-of-a-bitch for saying it.
“Well, pull up a chair. The festivities will begin soon,” Charles said, letting a smile grow across his flabby face. “It’s going to be a good time. A grand ole time!”
Charles giggled as he walked around Titan. He went to the couch’s armchair and picked up the television remote. He flipped on the four TVs, putting each one on a different news station. The sun was up outside, and each channel had a different talking head on it. Most were discussing politics, though the third appeared to be doing a feel good piece about a zoo somewhere.
Charles didn’t care. The shooting hadn’t started yet. He felt confident the zoo would disappear once the war began.
CHRISTIAN HADN’T GONE home like Simone wanted, but he did get a better night’s sleep last night. Which was odd, to say the least. He should have slept more poorly; Luke Titan had broken into his house, silently moved through it, and then watched Christian sleep.
Christian should have been terrified, unable to drift off for even a second.
He was terrified, but that didn’t hinder his sleep at all.
Is it because he’s back? Christian wondered as the elevator opened into the subbasement. He stepped out and crossed the hallway to his office. At four in the morning, the subbasement was empty, not even Tommy having arrived yet.
It was humorous, how sometimes they competed to get here earlier than the other, in order to have some peace while they worked.
That’s why Christian was here so dreadfully early today (dreadful to Simone, at least—she swore she didn’t understand why they worked such insane hours, but, “That’s why Waverly hired me, I suppose. Because I’m the only sane one in this group.”). Christian came because he wanted some time alone in his mansion; he needed to see if his mind had been able to make any connections regarding what happened the previous night.
He placed his bag down on his desk, then walked back to the office door and closed it. He went to his chair and sat down. The lights were on overhead, though he had a feeling it wouldn’t be as bright in his mansion. It was night there, and the lights were down, because the creature which resided inside liked his rest, even if Christian wasn’t sleeping all that often.
Christian sighed and closed his eyes, knowing he didn’t want to see what waited on him. At least part of him didn’t. Another part, the same part that slept so fully last night, wanted nothing else.
CHAPTER 7
C hristian’s mansion held an almost infinite number of rooms, and it grew larger daily. He could go to them at any time and look back on his life, remembering with infinite detail the things he’d seen and not seen. His mother always said that when he died, his mind should be preserved and studied, put underneath a microscope and scalpel to better understand how such a thing could exist.
He knew most likely that wouldn’t happen, though, because his death would be at the hands of Luke Titan; there wouldn’t be much left of his brain for the doctors to examine.
Christian wasn’t concerned with the other rooms in his mansion—not the ones marked Mom, or The Surgeon, or The Priest, or even The Lover. All of them were inconsequential, just like in reality. What mattered here was the top floor.
He ascended the stairs slowly. He wasn’t frightened to see what waited on him; those days had passed. There had been many of them, whole months when he couldn’t go inside his mansion for fear of the things he might see.
Now, he walked slowly because he felt that he might want to stay. To linger in Luke’s remnants, the same way Luke had lingered in Christian’s house the night before.
“You’re back.”
The other spoke, the negative image of Christian. They looked exactly alike, except for the blood that continually leaked from the other’s eyes and mouth. The blood that soaked his hands. He was another of Luke’s remnants … though, perhaps that wasn’t the right term. A remnant was something old and forgotten, something left. The other was none of those things.
He was a part of Christian, though not all of him as Luke had hoped. Years ago, the other had stepped out from Christian’s mind and right into the real world, giving him advice that led to Lucy Speckle’s death. And that moment nearly led to Christian murdering someone without true cause. The other was a dangerous thing, and now he lived in Christian’s mansion; he was the caretaker, and Christian could do nothing about it.
Luke, gone these two years, still held control over some things.
“Ignoring me?” the other asked as Christian reached the last of the stairs, arriving at the top floor.
Christian said nothing, but looked to the three people standing at the balcony. His mind hadn’t put them here, or at least his subconscious hadn’t. Christian had done it himself.
His mother, Veronica, and Tommy all stood looking down at the massive staircase beneath them. They didn’t move, just wore sad smiles on their faces. They didn’t look at Christian, or the other who walked behind him. They never ventured an inch to the left or the right. They stood in silence and stillness, their likeness perfectly preserved to before Luke got hold of them.
The massive floor lay behind the three memories, and that’s why they stood here, at the front. To remind Christian in case he felt himself becoming lost in Luke’s memories. Regardless the attraction that might lie in Luke, if Christian remembered that Tommy could no longer stand, Christian would always return. He would always remember what Luke was, and what fate must befall him.
“What are you going to watch now? That’s the only reason you come here anymore, to watch old videos of Luke like some parent who lost their child. Watching old tapes of their first few birthdays. Don’t you think it’s a bit sick?”
“No,” Christian
said as he passed the three statues. The walls lit up around him, showing him images and videos of Luke—all of them actual interactions that Christian had over the years. He didn’t look at them, but focused on getting to the far end of the floor. It took longer each time, as his mind built more and more space for Luke. He never knew exactly how far he’d have to walk.
“It’s at least odd,” the other said, and then grew quiet next to Christian as they walked along the floor. Christian could hear the blood dripping from the other’s hand. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter on the marble floor.
The other may live here, but it didn’t mean Christian had to speak with him.
He was right, though; Christian came to understand more of Luke’s life. A week or so after Luke shoved a knife through Christian’s cheek, he had sent a letter advising Christian to learn about his life. There had been other letters, of course, and each one gave a glimpse, although none painted the entire picture.
That was up to Christian, and his intensely gifted mind.
Sometimes there were new videos to watch, and sometimes his mind added new details to old ones. Sometimes there was nothing at all to watch, as if his mind had lost what it once knew. That happened nowhere else in this mansion—when Christian wanted something, his mind provided it … but this floor was different.
Finally, he and the other reached the end of Luke’s mausoleum. Two large leather chairs sat in front of an old television. It was small with rabbit ears, an odd yellow tinge to the screen, coloring the videos it showed. Christian once asked the other why it was so different than the rest of the mansion—the ‘technology’ used elsewhere outpacing what could actually be done in life.
“It’s your home, Christian. I don’t know why you do the things you do.”
Christian sat down in the chair on the left.
The other remained a few feet back, not venturing forward.
“I’m getting tired of watching these,” he said.
“Then don’t. Feel free to disappear … forever, if you’d like.”
The drip-drip from behind Christian didn’t stop, though the other grew quiet besides that
The video turned on, and again, Christian had no control over what it displayed. Turned out to be an oldie, but a goodie.
LUKE TITAN IS a young boy when he first realizes the gifts bestowed upon him. Christian isn’t completely sure of the age, but he knows it’s before Luke is ten.
Christian has watched this video many times before, but each time he views it, he sees something new.
Luke sits in class. The classroom isn’t like those built today, massive schools with computers and tablets handed out to each child, regardless their age. Christian can’t be sure, but he believes it’s south of the United States border. Mexico, perhaps.
Luke is in the back of the class and he’s staring out the small window. He’s the closest to it, and a look of longing rests on his face. Whatever is happening in class, it doesn’t concern him at all. He looks similar to the man he’ll grow into, though the predatory nature—that will one day always reside just beneath the mask he wears—isn’t there yet. He is a young boy, not the terror he will grow to be.
Christian fully believes that Luke wasn’t born a murderer. He’s seen too much of Luke’s life to not recognize the power focal points had on it.
One is almost upon him now. One of these points that would irrevocably change Luke’s life.
“Luke?” the teacher asks from the front.
He turns his head, the longing on his face being replaced with a nervousness that would one day completely disappear. This is only the second day of school, and Luke has been passed forward for years despite his failing grades. The teachers in this shoddy school aren’t concerned with much more than receiving their government issued paycheck. If a child doesn’t want to learn, then that is on the child. It is their job to provide the information, not force feed it to each student.
For years, Luke has been allowed to stare out the window and think his thoughts. The grades he brings home don’t reflect this, of course, as the teachers do not want to deal with angry parents. As and Bs are given out like candy on Halloween. If you show up at the door, you get a piece.
Until now.
This teacher wants more from him, though there’s a certain sadistic nature to it. Christian cannot see directly into the teacher, but he sees enough: if the child wants to ignore her lesson, then he will suffer for it.
“Sorry, Señorita Gomez,” Luke says. He speaks English besides her title.
Here it is, the time that Christian came to see—the place where something in Luke’s mind changes forever. The focal point.
“You’ve been daydreaming a lot, Luke. Can you come complete this problem on the board for the rest of the class?”
Snickers erupt from his classmates like tiny firecrackers. Luke doesn’t look over at them, he’s much too nervous for that. He stares forward at the board, and Christian can practically see the thoughts going through the boy’s head. If his and Luke’s connection had been close two years ago, the floor in his mansion has increased it ten-fold. Even time can no longer separate them.
I don’t want to, is the first thought that goes through Luke’s head, nearly a whine; again, something that would never cross the mind of the man this child would grow into. Not in front of everyone, please. Anything else. I’ll stay after. I’ll have detention, just don’t make me go up in front of the class.
Even at such a young age, though, there is a grit to the boy. A determination that would bloom into a force of nature later in life. Now, though, it’s only a tiny sliver of steel that runs through his spine, yet causes him to stand up and walk forward.
The boy goes to the front of the class and looks at the math problem on the chalkboard. The teacher stands next to him with a grin on her face, one that says, You should pay attention, you little shit.
Luke takes the chalk but doesn’t look at his teacher. His eyes are already focusing on the math problem, something simple for any adult, but not something Luke should know. His young life hasn’t been spent focusing on math, but Christian sees a fire start inside Luke’s eyes. A small light, but there nonetheless.
The chalk remains at his side for a few moments, and Christian knows his mind is rapidly assimilating the knowledge that most children in the class haven’t grasped despite trying, and some never will.
“Nine,” Luke says.
The teacher stares at him without saying anything for a second. She’s shocked he knows this, and is thinking he only guessed correctly.
“Show me,” she says. “Show your work on the board.”
The first focal point has passed, and no one in the classroom notices it. For the first time in his life, Luke understands there’s more to him than what he’s been told. It isn’t a thought, but knowledge. A crystallization in his mind that no amount of brainwashing will ever change. Math—and perhaps other disciplines—need not hold mysteries for him. He sees through its riddles with the clarity of a man holding a scoped rifle.
The next focal point is near, though he doesn’t know it. He is as blind to these moments as the rest of the class. That changes nothing, though, as the moment will come regardless of who sees it.
“No,” he says, not looking at the teacher next to him—answering her question about showing his work. He doesn’t know why he says it, only that he sees no reason to waste time showing something that is obvious. There are other reasons, deeper ones, that he will understand as life moves forward: disdain for those in power, hatred for those trying to hurt him, even if only in a small way. For now, though, he only says: No.
The teacher is considering arguing with the boy, but she quickly understands what is happening. The child guessed and now is afraid his guess will be exposed. She must regain control of the situation, though, as an inferior just told her no.
“Okay, Luke,” she says. “Then solve this problem.”
She snatches the chalk from his hand and scribbles out anothe
r one across the board.
Luke stares at it, but his mind is quicker this time. He absently receives the chalk from his teacher, though he doesn’t raise it to the board.
“Twelve.”
The teacher grabs the writing instrument again and nearly pounds the chalkboard as she writes out a problem.
“Do that one.”
Luke wastes no time.
“Seven-and-a-half.”
Again, a problem is written.
Again, the boy solves it.
This continues for a half hour with the rest of the class only watching, unsure what exactly is happening in front of them, but still able to feel the tension pouring out across the classroom as thick as smoke.
The math has advanced to high school, and is nearing the point of a freshman college class. Still the boy doesn’t relent, doesn’t even slow. His mind is expanding like a supernova, growing larger and hotter with each passing second. He’s addicted now, no longer caring about the teacher or the challenge he presents to her. He is concerned only with the knowledge on the board.
“Go sit down,” the teacher finally whispers.
Luke turns to her for the first time, shocked to hear her giving up. Shocked and slightly angry, because he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want to go sit down. He wants to continue.
“Why?” he says.
“Because I told you to.” The teacher turns to the class. “Recess.”
No one wastes any time and the shuffling of desks and chairs echoes in the small room.
Luke is still staring at the teacher.
“This won’t be tolerated,” she says. “I’m having your mother in for a conference.”
The fire inside Luke dies a quick death, smothered by the threat of parental involvement.
“Go to your desk,” the teacher says. “You’re not having recess today.”
Luke trudges across the floor and finds his desk, defeated. At least he feels that way in the moment. The truth is, two life changing events occurred in less than an hour. His mind had its first taste at the possible. The second, and perhaps even more important, was his refusal to follow authority. His denial when asked to show his work.
