by Nat Kozinn
"Someone's here," I say.
Whoever it is knocks on the door.
"Good hearing. That must be Pastor Newman. We can finally eat." Mike says and rubs his hands together.
He gets up to answer the door, and I dart into the kitchen to talk to Becky. I am not happy about this. I thought I was coming over for dinner, not to be proselytized to by some lunatic "pastor." They're insane if they think I will convert. I guess they already are insane if they worship a monster who killed 65% of the earth's population. This dinner was a huge mistake.
Even if I could be convinced to worship someone who is more of an antichrist than a savior, I don't have that option. They think it's hard to be a human who believes in this lunacy? Try being a Different who is a Cabotist. I remember seeing one strung up when I was a kid. He dangled there half-dead, and the cops just smiled.
"Are you out of your mind? You invited your pastor here?" I ask Becky as harshly as one can in a whisper.
“Oh no, he didn't. My dad must have invited him. I told him not to. I can't believe him. I am so sorry. He's just so proud to have a Chosen Son in his home. He wants to show off. I understand if you want to go. I'm very sorry."
I can tell that Becky is genuinely surprised. Not just surprised, she's angry, angry at her father. I think about leaving, but then I look into Becky's eyes. She's saying I can go, but her body language is begging me to stay. I guess I can do it for her. It should be interesting if nothing else. I just have to make sure no one sees me here with this cult leader. That alone might be enough to get me lynched.
"It's okay. I guess I'll stay. But you should know right now, there's no way I'm getting converted."
"Fine by me. Don't worry about it too much. Pastor Newman is a sweet old man. I'm sure he'll behave himself," Becky assures me.
I pull my shirt into a better position and up my sweating. I steel myself for an onslaught of religious garbage and head into the living room.
"Gavin, there you are. I would like to introduce you to the pastor of our church, Pastor Newman. Pastor Newman, this is Gavin Stillman," Mike says cordially.
#
"It's crazy. Some old Chosen Son running around, fighting muggers and beating up drug dealers. It's like something from a think.Net show, not real life," Mike says.
"What's wrong with that? He's just helping people. I know it's not something we see a lot, but come on, it's a good thing. I don't see what the problem could possibly be," Becky says. I'm glad to hear her defend me, even if she doesn't know it.
"The problem is that he's an old man. He should be helping young members of his own race, not putting himself in danger stopping petty crimes," Mr. Newman adds. I’m not calling this lunatic pastor, even in my head.
"Aren’t Differents free to do as they please? They are the Master Race after all," I know I'm quoting Hitler. I bet Mr. Newman knows I am too.
"He certainly is free to do as he pleases. I'm not saying the police should be hunting him. Although there are plenty of nonbelievers who do say that. Vigilantism is expressly against the law, after all.” Mr. Newman pauses to take a breath. “It is not his rights I question, but rather his wisdom. From the reports I have heard, this elderly fellow is just a little bit faster and stronger than a normal man. It'd be one thing if he was like the Savior of Seattle back in the old days. He could stop trains with ease and leap over buildings, but this vigilante isn't capable of anything of the sort. I heard from someone who saw him rescue a rat from a fire last week. They said he was covered in burns and lucky to be alive. Risking his life for a rat? It seems like he should stick to the activities God gave him the proper blessings to pursue. We all have roles to play," Mr. Newman says like he’s delivering a sermon. He's used to speaking to sheep who never question what he says.
I might not be as powerful as the Savior of Seattle was, but I was capable enough to save those people. If I wasn't me, I'd probably blurt out that the vigilante saved a family before he saved the rat, but luckily God "blessed" me with super-human self-control. There's no way I would know what happened unless I had been there.
"It’s his life to risk, is it not Mr. Newman?” I ask.
"Again, yes, it is his choice, but perhaps if the wisdom of Cabot had been shared with him, he would know better. Salvation may be guaranteed to him in the afterlife, but he will have to explain why he was willing to risk his wellbeing for lesser mortals while doing nothing for his own kind. It is to them he has a duty, they... you are the future. We are merely the remnants of God's first experiment in creating a race in his own image. We should be serving this old fool. Not the other way around."
"Here, here," Mike adds and raises his drink.
I look at Becky. I want to make sure I'm not overstepping by debating the "pastor" like this. She gives me a nod and smile. I guess she doesn't mind.
"God and Cabot's plan was to make mankind serve Differents?” I shoot back. “It seems to me that the Plagues did just the opposite. There wasn't an Ultracorps before the Plagues, and Section 26 was half the size. If it wasn't for the Plagues, maybe Becky and I would be able to walk around in public without anyone accusing her of dating a monster."
"You're right. The Chosen are more servants today than masters. Like all young people, you expect things to come immediately. Cabot warned that after the Plagues, the Chosen would be lost and suffer many hardships. The same was true for the Israelites before God led them to the Promised Land. They had to spend forty years wandering the desert. It has been thirty years since Cabot spread the Plagues for his fellow Chosen Sons. And this time, the Lord promised you the whole world, not just some small patch of sand,” Mr. Newman lectures. He’s enjoying this. I doubt he gets the chance to try to convert a Different very often.
"That is definitely the sentiment about Cabot among the Different population. You've got your finger on the pulse," I say sarcastically. “I'm sure all the Differents would like to thank Cabot for everything he did.”
"Perhaps your people would be more grateful if they weren't so willing to put shackles on themselves. God did not make you to be slaves. He made you in his image. You are closer to God than I can ever hope to be," Mr. Newman retorts.
"And how about The Beast? Was he a gift from God too?" I ask.
"What does that have to do with anything? There are dozens of human serial killers that did just what The Beast did. We don't point to them to indict the entire human race. The Beast was a singular disturbed individual, and he's dead now."
Mr. Newman tightens up. He’s not enjoying this any longer. Trying to convert me was fun, but something about The Beast has him worked up.
"He's not dead from what I hear," I retort.
"Gavin, you disappoint me. You can't let yourself believe gossip and tabloids. We live in disturbing times. There are countless murders all over the city. Some people would prefer to believe that a monster is responsible for these killings. They prefer that fiction to the reality that the human race is a vile, murderous breed," Mr. Newman says, while he shifts in his chair.
This is really making him uncomfortable. His jugular vein is pulsing like crazy. His heart rate is going through the roof. Is it just because he hates losing an argument?
"Then how come all that's left of the victims are picked-clean bones?" I ask.
"Those are simply horror stories told to turn children against Chosen Sons." Mr. Newman says dismissively.
"No, it's true. This woman I know, Jessica, and her little girl Emily, they went missing. We tried to get the police to come investigate, but they said they didn't have the resources. So we went up into their apartment and there was blood and bones everywhere," Becky says. She had been holding that in for awhile. She’s not used to questioning her pastor. I put my hand on her thigh for support.
"Probably some Tranq junkies killed them and the rats got to the bones. You know how many rats we have in this freaking city. I swear it seems like the Revelation made more of them," Mike chimes in.
"I'm sure Mike is right. The
deaths of a young girl and her mother are surely a tragedy, but we cannot simply assume it was a Chosen Son. Tragedies abound in this Metro Area, and if we allow our imaginations to take over, we'll end up blaming all crimes on Chosen Sons," Mr. Newman says.
"But if a Chosen Son, as you call them, did want to eat a girl and her mother, that would be his right. That's what you believe, isn't it? That humans should do all they can to serve the Chosen, even give up their lives? They taught us that part in Section 26." I’ve got him on the ropes now. There’s no retort for that.
Mr. Newman gets even tenser, and I can see the anger swelling up in him. No one likes having the absurdity of their beliefs pointed out, but this is hitting close to home for some reason.
"Yes, I suppose that would technically be the Chosen's right. Everyone has the right to eat," Mr. Newman spits out.
"Hmm, I wonder if that's why your religion has such few followers." I say smugly. I think I just won the argument.
14
All the gifts I once bestowed on my Forgotten Sons I now give to my new children. The sea, the sky, the land, and the beasts, even the Forgotten Sons themselves, all of them are now under the domain of my Chosen Sons. The world belongs to them.
Chosen Sons: 27
The Beast watches Gavin head back into the burning building. What is he doing? He already saved everyone in the apartment. The only living thing left inside is a rat. Gavin needs to use his senses more.
The Beast was hoping to share the love of Cabot with Gavin tonight. He has his copy of Chosen Sons clutched close to his chest. It does not look like tonight is going to be the night though. A crowd has gathered to watch Gavin brave the flames. It would be difficult to get by the crowd and into the building unnoticed. Besides, The Beast can hear parts of the frame starting to buckle. It would not be a good place to do some reading.
A few minutes pass, and it becomes clear that Gavin is in trouble. The Beast can hear the ceilings inside the building coming down. If Gavin doesn't get out soon, he'll never get out. The Beast will not let him die, not before he gets a chance at saving the boy's soul.
The Beast drops down onto the street, behind the crowd. He is willing to risk getting spotted in order to save Gavin. Luckily, everyone is focused on the inferno, and The Beast is able to sneak around to the far side of the building and enter from the back. He makes his way through one of the apartments. He can hear Gavin two stories up. What is Gavin still doing in here? The Beast gets his answer when he makes it to the stairwell. The steps have collapsed. Gavin will need another way out.
The Beast doesn't have time to think of a plan. He has to act now. He heads into the closest apartment and leaps straight up, as hard as he can. His head and shoulders burst through the flame-engulfed ceiling. The B-Crete burns his flesh, but it is a pain he is willing to endure in order to save a fellow Chosen Son.
He drops back down and looks up at the hole his body made. Gavin should be able to fit through it easily. Instead of going back through the entrance he came in, The Beast bursts through the outer wall of the building. Now Gavin does not even need to find the door.
The Beast jumps up onto the roof of the building next door. He drops to his knees and prays.
“I know it wasn’t enough to save Gavin’s life, I know you want me to save his soul. I’m sorry I ain’t done it yet. Please don’t punish the boy because I’m a coward. Let him live long enough to read your words for himself.”
The Beast opens his eyes and watches. A few moments later Gavin comes out of the hole The Beast made. The boy is carrying a rat in a cage. The crowd applauds him. The Beast watches as Gavin soaks up the praise.
There is a hole in Gavin’s soul, The Beast can see it. The boy is trying to fill it by saving pets from fires and stopping petty criminals. The Beast knows Cabot can fill that hole. The Beast remembers how good he felt after he learned the truth of Cabot.
#
With his belly full of his parents’ flesh, the last shackle of Tom's old life was gone. Tom was a Chosen Son, free to live and hunt as he saw fit. Tom's mere existence was doing the Lord’s work. Tom felt the love of God. His one regret was that it had taken him so long to learn the truth.
Tom was free to travel wherever he pleased. He had always wanted to go to Chicago. As a boy, he had seen a picture of the Jewel Hotel, and the image had burned into his mind. Tom sprinted the thousand miles between the Houston MA and the Chicago MA in a week. He fed on whatever game he could find and even managed to send a lucky Forgotten Son he stumbled upon up to heaven.
Once he got to the Chicago MA, Tom headed straight for the Miracle Mile and climbed to the roofs. Once high enough, the Jewel Hotel came into view. It was even more beautiful in real life than it had been in the picture. This was one of the miracles of the Lord’s new race. It was a shining inverted pyramid, one hundred stories of guest rooms balanced on the tiniest point. It looked like a spinning top somehow frozen in place. The hotel was something that should not be possible, but it was, thanks to a Chosen Son. Tom knew he was blessed when he saw it. He was blessed to be part of a race that could create such a wonder.
Unlike the people of Houston, the people of the Chicago MA lived off the labor of the Chosen. The Chosen grew and transported all of their food. They lived in buildings built or repaired by the Chosen. They rode trains powered by the Chosen. They had lights, heat, and water all thanks to Chosen Sons. Tom was in awe of this city. This was why God had created a new race.
Tom's awe soon turned to anger. The Chosen made the city, but the city was not for them. The only fellow Chosen Sons Tom saw were delivering packages or working construction.
This city should belong to those who built it. The high rises should have been full of ever-multiplying Chosen Sons and Daughters. Instead, it was full of pathetic humans. Tom could hear them blaming the Chosen for the train being late or their food being bland. These Forgotten Sons would make the prefect prey for Tom.
Tom spent his time hunting, eating and growing more powerful. Tom's body kept growing. It quickly changed from the size of a professional athlete into something larger than any linebacker or sumo wrestler. When he stood straight up, he was just about eight feet tall, and he weighed over seven hundred pounds.
As he grew, he became stronger, stronger than could be explained by his size, stronger than any person could be. One day Tom came across an eight-year-old boy, searching through a half-collapsed Pre-Plague house. He was looking for scrap metal to sell. Tom felt bad for the boy. He was going to spend his whole life toiling away. Tom decided to reward the boy with an early trip to heaven.
Unfortunately, the boy spotted Tom and ran. The boy ended up running into an old abandoned restaurant. Tom watched in horror as the building collapsed on top of the child. Tom ran over and, to his surprise, was able to lift the massive stone column that had fallen onto the boy. It must have weighed two tons. Tom fed on the crushed child. He thanked God that he was strong enough to make sure the boy was rewarded with eternity in paradise instead of dying for nothing.
Tom did not just get larger and stronger, his whole body changed. Hair grew all over his body, thick, coarse, and nearly everywhere. Tom's jaw grew and extended forward. His old teeth fell out, and new larger, sharper teeth replaced them. His new canines were over five inches long. His fingernails and toenails became claws perfectly suited for tearing human flesh.
His skin continued to get thicker and more leathery. It acted like a form of armor. What few injuries Tom did receive healed in a matter of hours. One day, Tom came across a gang of thugs robbing a poor old man. The old man did not have a lot of money, and this made the leader of the gang angry. He was about to hit the old man when one of his fellow thugs stepped in and stopped the beating. The leader just spit on the old man and walked away.
Tom thought the kind-hearted thug deserved a reward for his compassion. Tom followed the thug until he was alone. Then he dropped down and approached the man. Tom liked being spotted. He liked to know how afraid he made
people. However, the thug was not afraid like most. When he saw Tom approaching, he yelled.
“Yo, what the hell are you?”
“I’m your salvation,” Tom answered.
“You get away from me. I’m warning you,” the thug threatened.
Tom didn’t listen. He just kept coming. The thug pulled out a small hand gun and fired at Tom’s chest. Tom felt the bullet hit. It hurt, but not as much as he expected. It felt like getting a shot from the doctor when he was a kid. He looked down, and he could see the slug sticking out of his chest. It had barely penetrated. The thug fired four more shots into Tom’s chest with the same minimal effect. Tom grinned and tore out the thug’s throat with a swipe of his claw. Then he fed. The next morning, Tom checked his minor wounds. They had disappeared. Tom thanked God for making him strong enough to survive his mistakes.
The changes were not just physical. A completely new universe opened up to Tom, a universe of smells and sounds. When he wanted a snack, he listened. His ears could lead him to a crying infant from thirty blocks away. Once he got close, his nose took over and led him right to the baby’s room. After that, it was as simple as going in and taking what God had given him. The only question would be if he was hungry enough to dine on the parents. He usually was.
Tom walked around the Chicago MA feeling invincible. He was truly blessed by God. He had gifts that even most other Chosen Sons would envy. The time Tom spent, eating, growing, and experiencing his new abilities was the happiest time of Tom's life. The only downside was his hunger. His constant, impossible to satiate, hunger.
15
Different individuals create unique situations for law enforcement officials. Officials must be granted leeway to deal with these unique situations without running afoul of a Different individual's right to due process or equal protection under the law. A reasonable suspicion by a law enforcement official is all that is required to detain, question, or investigate a Different individual.
