Samuel nodded gravely, understanding. He’d met Mary a few times. She always seemed to have something nice to say.
“Maybe she forgot,” he told Ronny, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure that’s what happened.”
“Yeah, probably. I just figured I’d take a look...y’know...just in case.”
“Sure...sure.”
The group ahead of them had disappeared, and now Samuel could see the rows of paper that had been tacked to the fence. Ronny was next. The two men stood there for an uncomfortable moment.
“Well, I’ll leave you alone,” Samuel said. “Good luck, Ronny...really. I’m sure everything will be fine.” He tried to summon some conviction, but he could hear the faltering of his own words.
Ronny blinked a few times behind his glasses, and nodded back.
“Thanks. I’ll be back on the job afterward.”
“Don’t rush. In fact, if you don’t show up, I won’t think about it, alright?”
Samuel gave Ronny one last squeeze on his shoulder, and then took his leave. When he was a comfortable distance away—when he knew that Ronny wasn’t looking—he slowed and peered over his shoulder at the mouse-like man at the fence. Ronny was running his fingertips down the list, moving from page to page. At that moment, he looked very small. Suddenly he stopped, and his fingers froze against the paper. He stared hard at something on the page, and then his face softened and he seemed to caress some of the letters with a finger tip. He bowed his head, and moved to the side, creating a vacuum that the ones behind him could fill. Lowering himself to the ground, he sat and rested his back to the fence, and there Samuel saw him take off his glasses and put a hand over his face. His shoulders were shaking.
Samuel looked away, suddenly feeling like an intruder. Knowing that there wasn’t anything more he could do for the technician at the fence that would really matter, other than granting him the time he needed to grieve, Samuel continued on his way, his thoughts a dark tangle.
He found the habmod that they were using as Tristan’s makeshift cell near the Church, just as he’d been told he would. There was another group of people already there, arranged in a semicircle around the entrance, and evidently doing their best to cause a scene. By their outrage and yelling, Samuel easily identified them as members of Tristan’s Church. They were calling for the release of their priest.
“He is innocent!” Samuel heard a man exclaim. “Let him go! The true criminals put him here! They are the ones who deserve persecution!” The crowd rallied around his indignant claims, raising their voices and cheering him on.
Samuel pushed past them until he was near the door. He moved fast and kept his head down; if he was recognized before he got inside, he was afraid the crowd would full-on revolt. He was, after all, the one responsible for the incapacitation of their exalted leader.
There were four men standing out front, peering around and looking official, if also a little nervous. He wasn’t surprised to see that Gorman had posted guards. His father had been wise to assume that there would be a backlash against Tristan’s imprisonment. Samuel raised his hand in greeting as he approached them, wincing at the ache in his arm as he did so, and one of the men, the biggest and more formidable looking, raised a hand as well. Samuel was forced to halt, however, when he realized that the man wasn’t merely returning his salutation.
“Hang on there, Samuel,” the man said. He was forced to speak louder to be heard above the din.
Samuel flinched and looked around through his hands; thankfully, nobody had heard the guard use his name. He wasn’t familiar with the man who blocked his path, but he also wasn’t surprised. He was used to the disadvantage afforded by a stranger knowing his name. And now he was sure that, after what happened two days ago, he was even more infamous than his previous incarnation as a mere “life-improver” had made him. Now he was a “crusader” as well.
“Nobody can go in,” the guard continued. “Council’s orders. You in particular probably shouldn’t be here if you value your health.”
Samuel sighed. “Come on, I just unhooked myself from an IV and got out of bed,” he shouted back. “I walked all the way over here, and I just want a few words with the man.”
The big guard gave him a look of derision.
“I’m not an idiot. The situation is already pretty shaky. If I let you in, and you get him riled up, or somebody recognizes you...things could get bad.”
“Look,” Samuel said. “I could hobble over to the Dome, get Gorman’s say-so, and come all the way back over here, or you could just save me the trouble and pain by just letting me in for a few minutes. My legs are killing me, and I’m not real excited about a hike. What do you say?”
The guard’s face contorted for a moment as he pondered the request. He shot an anxious look at the militant parishioners. Then, he nodded his head.
“Okay, but only for a few minutes, and only because it’s you,” he said, pointing an authoritative finger at Samuel’s chest. “And I’m sending one of my guys in with you.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in and out...I promise.”
The big guard pointed to one of the others, a shorter, but no less sturdy man with an impressive red beard, and jerked a thumb toward the door. Red Beard motioned for Samuel to follow him, which Samuel hastily did. The three remaining guards closed ranks to make sure they were the only ones that got through.
The guard accompanying him grasped the circular door latch and turned it, disengaging the lock, then quickly pulled the heavy door open and one after the other they darted inside. After the door was closed again, the cries of the people were muted down to a tolerable level. Samuel felt a little guilty about manipulating his way inside; the guards had enough to deal with without his distraction.
Inside, it was dim. The only light in the room was what shined in through the few windows lining the outer wall of the habmod. Samuel noted the lack of power with satisfaction. Evidently the Council had decided that criminals weren’t worth the electricity.
Yet, however pleased he was by the dark habmod, Samuel was annoyed to notice that all but one of the adjoining living quarters were empty. He understood why the habmod had been evacuated, for who among them would want to share any space with a suspected saboteur and miscreant. Still, the entire structure for just one man...and a snake like Tristan Englewood, to boot? It seemed like a colossal waste of space.
“He’s in there,” Red Beard said, pointing at the only closed door.
It was in the middle of the row, on his right. It occurred to him that the rooms of the habmod weren’t jail cells, weren’t meant to keep others in. The intention was quite the opposite.
“How are you keeping him from getting out?” Samuel asked the guard.
“Reinstalled the lock, backward,” the man shrugged. “Seemed to do the trick. I’ll unlock it and let you in, but you heard the man...just a few minutes. Also, I’ll have to secure the door while you’re inside, so when you’re done, just knock a few times and I’ll let you out.”
Samuel nodded his assent. They approached the door, and the guard produced a key and unlocked it with a clunk. Before he opened it, he gave Samuel a stern look.
“Remember...don’t get him too excited.”
“Right,” Samuel returned, trying to look harmless.
Red Beard pulled on the handle, and Samuel entered.
Tristan was shackled to the heavy, iron bed frame, sitting up. He was a shabby version of his usually so well-groomed self; his hair was tangled and his robes were dirty, and Samuel was surprised (and maybe a little amused) to see that he wore no shoes. He looked up as Samuel entered, and did nothing to hide his disdain.
“Well, isn’t this a treat,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “Samuel the Great, the people’s champion, come to pay me a visit. I’m humbled.” He bowed mockingly.
Samuel wasn’t about to play any games with the fanatic.
“Who is it?” Samuel asked.
Tristan blinked.
“Who is
whom?” he returned, coolly.
“Don’t fuck with me, Tristan. You know damned well who I mean.”
Tristan leered at him, his lips pulled back and smiling a little too broadly. He let out a giggle, not of the variety that any sane person would use. “Oh, I see. You’ve heard. You know that your friend, the one who took that unfortunate plunge off the wall, wasn’t in ‘league’ with me. There was something clearly wrong with him, and it’s probably a good thing that he’s gone, but no, he wasn’t a member of my flock.” He put his hands up in disingenuous surrender, his chains jingling. “You got me there.”
“You get one more chance. Tell me.” Samuel slid a hand into his pants pocket.
“You’re such an accomplished detective,” Tristan said. “Why don’t you tell me, instead?”
Samuel nodded. He was expecting this. He was just glad that he’d had the foresight to prepare for it. He was also glad that the guards hadn’t checked his pockets before they let him in.
He withdrew the security lock from his pocket, and in one swift motion applied it to the door to the room, right above the handle. The light on the device blinked on, and he heard the satisfying sound of the lock being reinforced.
“What...what are you doing?” Tristan asked him.
“Giving us some privacy.”
The lock he’d placed would ensure that, short of breaking the door down, he and Tristan would remain uninterrupted for the remainder of their “conversation”. No one was getting in, at least not until he said so. He had the only remote, after all.
After he was sure the door was secure, Samuel turned and took some determined steps over to Tristan. There was a very clear look of alarm on the prophet’s face, when he’d realized what Samuel had done, and it blossomed into a full-blown fear when Samuel grabbed a handful of the collar of his robe.
Samuel drew his other hand back, and sent a considerable backhand across Tristan’s face. The priest’s head snapped to the side, smartly, and he gasped. Samuel’s next blow came in the form of a balled-up fist that crashed against Tristan’s other cheek, rolling his head back the other way.
“Wait....” he sputtered.
Samuel didn’t let up. He continued the beating, concentrated on the distribution of pain that was only a very minute portion of the justice that Tristan owed the ones he’d hurt. Again and again his fist rained down on the helpless prisoner, until it started to ache and bleed.
He heard Red Beard’s voice from outside, shouting.
“Hey! What’s going on, in there?”
A key was thrust into the lock, and then the guard let out a sound of befuddlement when Samuel’s security device held it firm.
“What the—hey, what did you do? Open up!” He started to pound on the door. Samuel ignored him and continued his assault.
“You hurt people,” Samuel seethed, spittle on his lips.
His rage was fully in control. Every strike he visited on the crazed man produced an immense feeling of satisfaction that he could feel over every square inch of his skin. For a moment, Samuel the man ceased to exist. In his place there was only a beast without moral code or restraint, a monster that knew the taste of vengeance and was ravenous for it. Tristan feebly tried to evade him, but there was no room, no corner for him to escape to, and he bore the savagery without defense or deflection. Samuel lost his senses while he rained down blows on the prophet. He was only aware of the passage of time by the increasing flow of blood from Tristan’s nose and mouth.
When he was finally done, when his arm was made of lead and the pain from his throbbing fist penetrated the haze of his anger, he let his target fall back onto the bed. Both of them were panting for air...both of them in need of recovery.
Samuel was back in control of himself, but he was only partly satisfied. He’d been looking forward to the moment when he’d be given the chance to make Tristan suffer, and now that he’d had it, it wasn’t nearly as rewarding as he’d imagined. It had been so easy to let go, to let his anger take over, and he found himself a little frightened to think that he could embrace it so easily. He looked at his hand, the one that he had used as a club, and regarded the swelling and the split skin with revulsion.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Samuel said, keeping his eyes down. “I told Gorman you were dangerous. I told him I thought something like this could happen. You don’t deserve the comfort of the walls, and now you’ve given me the evidence I needed to cast you out. You punched your own ticket...you waste of a human being.”
Tristan rolled into a sitting position again, and doubled over in a coughing fit that phased into something else.
He was giggling.
“Look at you,” Tristan slurred, and they now looked at one another. He was cut and bleeding from multiple places, and welts were already forming on his cheeks and around his eyes. “Look at your face. You poor man, you just scared yourself silly, didn’t you? Such violence!” More chuckling. “I wonder if you committed yourself to poor, unfortunate Cameron’s death as quickly? Did you lose yourself up there, as well? Did you unleash the animal?”
“The only animal here is you. You’re fucking insane.”
“Oh, yes, I am mad, to be sure. But I’ve come to regard it as more of a blessing than you would understand. My vision has been cleared. I know what’s coming. I’ve said it, I’ve preached it to great extent, but so many chose not to listen. But now, I’ve made them listen. I’ve blasted those previously deaf ears with the trumpets of truth. And now, maybe, they will hear the words.”
“How could you do it?” Samuel demanded of him. “We were only barely surviving before! Why the farms? How could you destroy our only means of feeding ourselves?”
By now the pounding on the door had stopped and there was only silence from the other side. Samuel expected that more guards would be arriving, soon.
Tristan began to gingerly wipe the blood from his face with the cuff of his sleeve.
“How could I not?” he replied. “We’ll all be dead and gone long before the starvation takes us. I needed to make a point. I needed to get their attention. They need to know what’s coming.”
“What?” he yelled, exasperated. “What’s coming?!”
He asked the question, but of course he already had the answer. He may not have been a child anymore, but his monster still snarled at him from under the bed.
Black wings.
Samuel wanted to be normal, wished he could be genuine in saying he didn’t understand. Yet, years ago there had been an old truck, and in that truck had been a terrified boy, and that boy had been running away from something that he’d never truly escaped.
“What’s coming?” Tristan repeated, his eyes gleaming with fervor. “Why, the Reclamation, of course! It hurtles toward us, borne on the wings of he, its champion! It won’t be long, now...watch the horizon! When the Great Darkness sucks away the sun, you will know he has come!”
Samuel put his hands to the sides of his head, and a moan escaped him.
“No....”
He’d marked Tristan as being under the grip of madness, condemned his Message and all it stood for, but he couldn’t forget what the boy in the truck had seen with his own two eyes.
The question was indomitable: Did seeing truth in madness make him mad, as well?
Tristan, who had been speaking to himself as much as he was to Samuel, blinked away his proselytization and noticed Samuel’s distress. He leaned forward and studied Samuel with a shrewd eye, like Samuel was a puzzle he was trying to unravel.
Then, understanding come over his battered face along with wide-eyed wonder, and Samuel knew that he’d become completely transparent and hated himself for it.
“I don’t believe it,” Tristan said, as if in a trance. “I just...don’t believe it. That look on your face. I know what it means...I’ve seen it before, on another. It’s the look of someone who has witnessed the divine, and has been forever changed by it; someone who’s stared into the abyss. My father bore that same look, every day
of his life...so you could say I’m somewhat of an expert....”
Tristan’s chains rang as he shifted closer, examining Samuel as though through a microscope. Samuel stood up from the bed and backed away. He felt flayed open, like he was being dissected.
“Yes...you’ve seen him...haven’t you?” Tristan pressed him, clearly in awe. “You’ve seen him do his holy work! I can’t believe how lucky I am, to be talking to you! Tell me of your experience! Share it with me!”
Outside the door, Samuel heard voices, again. One of them was Red Beard’s, and the other sounded pretty similar to the big guard, Damian, who had let him enter the habmod in the first place. He didn’t sound too happy. There was more pounding, this time with more force.
Samuel edged closer to the door, Tristan eyeing him all the way like a viper would its next meal. His words were getting desperate.
“Please! What did he look like to you! I need to hear it! Please tell me! Don’t go!”
He knew now that Tristan would never give him the name of the saboteur. Maybe he’d known it all along. Maybe he’d only come because he needed to understand what would make someone turn on their own kind. Maybe a part of him still needed to process his bloody exodus from his youth, and he’d hoped there would be something in Tristan, under the layers of filth, that could help him.
Whatever his true motive, everything had back-fired. He’d come for insight but somehow had only been served its antithesis. Tristan had opened him up and pumped the cold air in, and now all he could do was shiver.
Samuel disengaged the security lock from the door with numb hands, and placed it back in his pocket along with its remote. As the bearded guard had told him, the lock had been switched, so he’d have to be let out. He gave a few thumps of his own against the door. Immediately there was a sound of a key grinding against tumblers, and the door was wrenched open from the other side. Samuel didn’t give the bewildered guards a chance and he stormed past them, ignoring their angry shouts. He made his way to the outer door and flipped the latch.
By now Red Beard had closed Tristan back in, and Damian was following him.
The Footsteps of Cain Page 15
