A Million to One: (The Millionth Trilogy Book 2)

by Tony Faggioli

  Deciding to test her statement, he began to walk towards the line of people, only making it about a half-dozen steps before his feet stuck completely to the asphalt.

  “I told you,” Michiko said matter-of-factly.

  Kyle tried turning left; his feet wouldn’t move. Right. They released and he stumbled a bit before regaining his balance. Shaking his head, he looked at Michiko. “So what’s in that building?”

  “It is not our concern. And, besides, you’re asking yet another question.”

  But Kyle had to know. “Hey!” he shouted at the line of people. Many of them looked over.

  Michiko was beside herself. “Horo-sha!”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Michiko was whispering in Japanese beneath her breath, short, curt sentences that made Kyle glad he couldn’t understand her.

  Almost every one of them looked at Kyle a while longer and then looked away, except for one man in a blue suit and dress shoes who seemed emaciated and aged beyond his years. “Hey, man,” he said to Kyle. “Ya got any smack? Or coke? Anything, man. Anything at all. Just a taste.”

  A shared murmur seemed to roll down the line, from person to person, a chorus of desire. And Kyle knew: drugs. “They’re all in line for drugs.”

  “Yes, for something to stop the pain, horo-sha.”

  “What?”

  “They’re all lost here, but they were all lost there, too, back in the world. They lived lives of illusion and delusion, and they all found relief by escaping into that which then imprisoned them forever.”

  Kyle was taken aback. “They’re in hell just because they took drugs? That seems a bit harsh.”

  “No. It is not the ‘what’ of the sin, Kyle, but more the ‘why’. They used drugs to escape their lives, then eventually themselves, and ultimately God. The drugs took the place, you see, of everything else.”

  “And so… ?”

  “Horo-sha, you are so full of questions. But, let’s just say… you don’t want to have forgotten to repent before your time runs out. Because hell is a place made of the consequences. You understand?”

  Kyle nodded.

  At the next corner was a building with an open patio filled with more people. Kyle noticed their mouths were moving but he couldn’t hear anything. At least until he drew closer to them. Then wave after wave of hushed whispers, seemingly soft and innocent but carrying through the air hard and ominous, filled the patio and street. The people moved zombie-like, one to the other, back and forth, leaning in close to one another, pressing lips to ears with mischievous eyes and wicked smirks.

  Michiko spoke suddenly, startling Kyle. “How many people, do you think, have been cut deepest in their lives by the misspent words of a gossiping tongue?”

  Kyle was speechless but eager to escape the sounds of those whispers, which were like a siren’s song, hushed, but still beckoning to the rocks.

  Before long they came upon another line, much longer, and mostly made up of men. The line led to the door of a black building, orange light spilling from the entrance door with loud music blaring from inside. Michiko was tense, her sword vibrating with intent, as they walked alongside the line. Eerily all the men had their heads down or were hiding their faces. Mixed in with the men were some half-naked women, some in tall heels with silk scarves spilling over their breasts. Kyle knew what they were immediately: strippers.

  These people didn’t speak or murmur. Occasionally someone moaned in an ecstasy laced with deep remorse. It was a nauseating sound.

  They pushed on, soon coming to a warehouse and yet another line: here the people had eyes that glared like television screens or computer monitors, and they couldn’t stop blinking, as if they wanted to turn off what they were seeing but couldn’t. It was like a line of possessed owls with giant eyes that glowed and shuttered from light to darkness in a haunting rhythm; down the line and back again.

  “Pornography?”

  “Sin is sin, horo-sha,” Michiko said, averting her eyes from the people and the lewd acts some of them were committing. “These poor people make me the saddest.”

  “Why?”

  “Because their sin is rooted in one of the greatest gifts God ever gives us; our imagination. But they took theirs and used it to immerse themselves in images, moments that would never be, and feelings they would never feel, with people they would never know.”

  “Then they died?”

  “Yes. Each at their appointed time.”

  “So…”

  “They died unreconciled with their sin, apart from salvation, and ended up here.”

  “Damned?”

  “No. Like us, if they can make it through the city without being pulled in by their old habits, out to the other side, then—”

  A boom sounded in the distance, rattling the buildings and shattering the window of a nearby store front. Michiko moved swiftly to his side and together they advanced cautiously through the intersection and made a right turn, a tight grimace on her lips before she finally said, “Horo-sha, be ready.”

  A silence fell over them as they walked to the next block. Once there, Kyle’s feet led him go left at the next street, and fear welled up in him. He knew that Michiko was alluding to something, but he wasn’t sure —

  Kyle ran. His feet simply took off across the pavement, pulling him along as if he were no longer in control of his own body.

  “Horo-sha!” Michiko yelled. But it was no use. Kyle felt something in him, possessing him, and he was running full speed two blocks up the street, passing an abandoned sandwich shop and a furniture store before he made a hard left past a gas station, the nozzles all out and laying on the ground, as if waiting for a spark, and towards a towering skyscraper at the end of the street.

  It struck him at last, the simple logic of this place: you didn’t need to ask anything—you just knew. When it was your line, your place, your… trap. You knew. Because it was a tender trap, custom built with your soul in mind.

  In the skyscraper was his greatest enemy. Waiting for him. He could feel it, even as he fought the logic of running towards it. It had always been there, his entire life, even when he was young, the very fulcrum by which he could do what he’d done to Victoria when they were younger, and to Vinnie, his own little brother, and most recently to Tamara, when things got tough.

  It was in him and of him.

  What awaited him was not a naked woman in the throes of lust or a bottle of booze or a line of cocaine. It was not a pile of money or a black cauldron boiling with the elixir of power. No. What awaited him was the thing that had always taken the shine off a new toy when he was a child, or motivated him for all the wrong reasons as an adult, the thing that always held him by the throat, making it hard to breathe… or believe.

  What awaited him was selfishness.

  Because it was impossible to make life truly about others, or about love, or about God… when it was all about you.

  It was a horrible place, hell, and though he’d been here for a while now, he was finally experiencing it. It made you realize how foolish you’d been your entire life, when you still had the chance to really live; part of the suffering here was the very knowledge that it was too late for that now. Chances over. No more tries.

  He finally understood—for what in the entire world could separate him more from a loving God than the utter antithesis of true faith?

  The line here was far longer than any other.

  But not for him. Whatever had taken him over was getting him straight to the front, sending him on a plunging dash for a doorway, pitch black and foreboding.

  Kyle wailed. For The Gray Man. For Michiko. For anyone. For help.

  Because what awaited him there was no secret.

  Kyle knew, really knew, the truth now.

  Whatever your greatest weakness was in life? Here, in hell?

  This is where you came to OD on it.

  AFTER A FEW HOURS The Bread Man was back in the garage, sitting at his desk and studying the screen
. Maps and directions. This was new. The Other was in his mind again, shuffling back and forth between his ears, directing The Bread Man’s thoughts and actions. Move the mouse to that city; click that area, green trees and rolling hills, a nice street with lots of nice homes. Click. Zoom. Print.

  Behind him Pretty Ashley had blacked out, the mere sight of him when he’d come back in all she could take. The waitress made no sound, but he could feel her eyes boring a hole into the back of his head. He ignored her. He had to.

  His actions were deliberate and focused, with an intensity that overwhelmed him. It was as if The Other didn’t have time to tempt or cajole him anymore, nor did he have time to deal with The Bread Man’s migraine (which was still there, but isolated now to a dull thud at the back of his cranium). When he’d awoken earlier he was immediately confronted with the image of his next victim, another pretty one, though older than usual, but this made him happy, because he awoke with a firm erection. His guess was right. He would still get to kill.

  He wanted to eat something but The Other was having none of it. Time is running out, he said with anger in his voice. They’ll be coming for you soon.

  None of this made sense, and it was frustrating to The Bread Man. This wasn’t how it ever worked before. He was always allowed to choose his own victims, maybe with a little prodding, but still.

  From there, The Other would encourage him, guide him, sometimes firmly, but never had he ordered and directed him around like this. It was disconcerting. So was the idea of leaving home so suddenly. His personal list of things to do before he drove away were piling up: pack a duffel bag, box his bondage magazines for travel, kill both of the girls, then burn down the house and the garage. That was the one good thing, at least: no clean up this time. Blood from one girl was enough of a pain in the ass. But two? No thanks.

  He grimaced against the realization. His mind was slipping, and images of places and things too horrible to imagine were starting to overcome him. There was no getting past the realization that this was it. The Other was calling in all his markers, and in short order, after this last errand of his was over, The Bread Man’s travels would be taking him straight to hell.

  He moaned at the desk as he heard The Other scoff and then laugh at him. Oh, come now, you’ve had your fun. You knew this day would come.

  “But haven’t I served you well?” The Bread Man argued, hating the sound of his own, pathetic voice.

  Yes. You have. For an incompetent fool, you’ve done well. Which is why you’ll be getting your reward, what you always wanted, right?

  The Bread Man nodded.

  A kingdom full of whores to do your bidding, all waiting to die as you wish, yes?

  The Bread Man fought against a full sob that was trying to crease its way past his larynx as he felt The Other’s growing impatience.

  Stay focused, you piece of rat shit, The Other commanded.

  Then, The Bread Man watched in horror as his hands and fingers moved so fast across the keyboard that he felt heat growing on his fingertips. A photo from Facebook came up. It appeared that his next target liked her exercise. She’d done the Mud Run the past two years. Even sweaty and grimy, she was beautiful. Big breasts. Big brown eyes. A big smile that The Bread Man was going to love carving out of her cheeks. It was a smile his mother and her bird lips never had. Then two more pictures came up. He printed all three. The rest were private.

  One photo was of her in front of a house with a garden hose, a potted plant in one hand. The Bread Man smiled. She had an iPhone. He double clicked the image, clicked down to the details and found the geotag. Now he had the GPS signal for where the photo was taken. His brain screamed with fire.

  Quit wasting time.

  It was true. He was stalling. The geotag was an old trick The Bread Man had used many times before. Technology kills, after all. But it was an unnecessary step this time around because The Other had already given him all the information he needed.

  It was going to be a long drive to get to her.

  But I promise, she’ll be worth it, The Other said. A perfect, final kill. You will be a legend in this world.

  “Please slow down,” The Bread Man begged. “It hurts. My fingers. The skin.”

  The Other screamed in rage and The Bread Man saw his hands bend backwards at the wrist, his bones snapping like twigs, sharp stunts of white splintering through his skin.

  His mouth was locked tight, so he screamed against the inside of his teeth. A single tear, hot and wet, skittered down his face. His legs kicked at the desk and at a nearby box of papers as his back arched sharply backwards, as if he were a contortionist, his eyes bulging in pain.

  Listen to me, boy. Listen well. You. Do. As. You’re. Told. I want no more tears and no more requests. Do you understand?

  The Bread Man tried to nod, but could only move his chin, and even then barely so. Still, his compliance was conveyed.

  You will do this last thing and you will do it well, or you will be my pet when your day comes. You will change my bandages every day.

  The terror that filled The Bread Man was so acute that his eyeballs throbbed and his consciousness waned before The Other threw him like a rag doll down to the garage floor, so hard that the computer monitor bounced against the wall.

  “Wake up! He’s having a seizure!” the waitress cried out to Pretty Ashley, who was stirring awake.

  A seizure? The Bread Man wanted to laugh. If only.

  Instead, he lay in agony, gulping at deep gobs of air. His back was to the girls, shielding them from seeing his hands and wrists as they repaired themselves, his bones receding back beneath the skin that they’d just punctured and realigning themselves beneath his muscles and tendons before crunching back into place, pain again rocketing through him as they did so. He stared in shocked fascination, babbling his instructions, over and over again; where he was to go, who he was to get.

  Before long he was fully healed, his fingers twitching randomly as if he were playing the saxophone. He lay on the floor and looked around. Up until this point he had remained invisible, but then he caught a glimpse of The Other reflected in the blank screen of the computer monitor, his top hat unmistakable as he seethed at The Bread Man.

  Now, he growled, Go into the house and pack up. Then come back out here and carve me some meat before you bathe them in flames.

  The Bread Man sat up and nodded meekly.

  He was humiliated and damned. But he would get to take it out on the girls soon, at last. And well, that would surely help a little.

  CHAPTER 26

  WHEN THEY WERE ABOUT fifty yards away from the city, Napoleon felt his skin crease against the air. He had the sensation of being slightly electrocuted, like when you were a kid and put your tongue against the tip of a battery. It was painful, but only slightly at first, then became more acute, spreading out over his entire body the longer he rested against the wall.

  The Gray Man didn’t have to say anything for Napoleon to know what he wanted him to do: he pushed hard against the sticky plastic wall until it briefly gave way, just enough to let him through.

  “What is this thing?”

  A force field of sorts, The Gray man answered.

  “Can we get back out?”

  Yes. But first we have to find Kyle.

  “You’re sure he’s here?”

  I can sense him. Close by.

  “Okay. Well. You mind telling me what we’re getting into for once? You said this place was a mirage. How so?”

  It offers hope in a place that’s mostly devoid of such a thing.

  “Why?”

  To torment. To flay the souls of those who come here, those who deserve this place and yet do not, Middle People as it were, who somehow made it through life without faith and yet without doing much harm, either.

  Napoleon nodded. “Hmm. ‘Middle People,’ huh?”

  You’re thinking that the description fits you, aren’t you, Villa?

  “We both already know that you can read my
mind.”

  The gates are open. Let’s start walking.

  Napoleon pushed on and a silence briefly hung between them before The Gray Man spoke again. Hmm. It never fails to amaze me, you know.

  “What?”

  All the missions that I’ve been on so far, even this one, which could very well be my last, and time and again it is the souls who are closest to God that have somehow managed to convince themselves that they are the farthest away.

  As they moved into the city, Napoleon noticed the intricate metal work of the gates, twisted strands of gold, silver and wrought iron that formed orbs and soft petals. The gates were shiny one second, dull the next—apparently yet another trick of the senses in this place. It was so mesmerizing that he had to force himself to snap out of it before replying, “By this you mean…”

  Villa. You have always had God in your heart. Hidden at times, yes. But there.

  For some reason these words pierced Napoleon. He held his composure, but barely.

  You, I’m not the least bit worried about. You understand His presence and you understand your need.

  Unable to speak, buckled with humility, Napoleon nodded.

  He walked on, noticing the buildings, feeling their emptiness, the spaces devoid of life, as if a nuke had hit, taken away all life and yet somehow left the buildings intact. There were grates in the curbs and manhole covers in the streets, but Napoleon doubted this place had ever seen water.

  Without realizing it, he walked right into the middle of the first intersection.

  Looking around he saw that the shops, stores and buildings all had numbers and signs. But the numbers were upside down and the signs were in letters and languages he couldn’t understand. Some didn’t even appear to be human symbols at all, but since Napoleon was just a lowly detective and not a linguist, he couldn’t be sure.

  Keep moving. I think he’s somewhere up ahead.