by Mark Tufo
Tomas always knew where to find untended food. They had survived on his ability to feed them. Tomas clung to Eliza as the only mother he had ever known and Eliza had loved her brother. He was her oasis in a desert of desolation. Eliza had already started talking to Tomas about leaving; it was a fantasy of theirs. She would often times tell him of the land of dragons, where children were treated as lords and they were given sweets along with their meats.
“Is this true?” he would nearly beg her.
“Every word.” She would smile at him.
Eliza’s bright outlook on life began to dim when Henrick stepped over the line from physical abuse to sexual. Tomas had watched as his father forced himself upon the girl. Her first scream of pain had sent him into a fury and he had banged his small hands against his father’s back. He had been rewarded with a punch to the side of the head that sent him reeling into the corner. He fell over backwards, his head slamming hard into the stone hearth. Blood had leaked out from his ears as he sat up; his thoughts became scrambled from that point forward. For a moment, he wasn’t even sure who the two other people in the hovel were.
When Henrick was done, he stood, pulled his pants back up and fastened his crude belt. Eliza sobbed on the floor, blood and semen spilling from her.
“Oh, Tomas,” Eliza had cried, having difficulty sitting up. When she could, she came over to him and cleaned his wound. It was strenuous for him to keep his eyes focused on any one object.
“Are you a dragon?” he had asked before he passed out.
It was a few more years before Henrick sold his daughter to the highest bidder. He had traded her life for corn meal. Tomas had become slow, not stupid, from his father’s strike. He knew he would be next. Maybe for some rice, he thought sourly. For a year longer he had stayed with his father, the beatings becoming more frequent as Henrick dealt with his demons in the only manner he knew how.
Tomas had slipped out in the middle of the night, but not before he made sure to relieve himself on the grain his father hoped to use for the remainder of the winter. That act alone had nearly sapped him of his courage; he wasn’t sure how he was going to survive outside. Then a light came on in his head, he would not survive inside the hovel. Soon or later, Henrick would beat him into oblivion. If he was to die then it would be with his Lizzie. He grabbed his only other set of clothes, all the dried goat jerky and struck out, unsure where he was even going.
The village was quiet this time of the evening except for the tavern where his father spent any extra time and coppers he may have had. He made sure to leave town, skirting the establishment as best he could. Life was difficult for a runaway, especially one whose thoughts were addled. He had a tenuous link to his sister. He could feel her, it was like a vast spider web and he could feel her vibrations trembling along the line. He could also feel his father’s – that one he closed off as best he could, hoping that by concentrating on just his sister he would get a stronger signal. For years he had followed in her footsteps, torturously close on many occasions.
Finally, his break had come. He could see her at the end of the alleyway. He shook not only from the intense cold that blistered through his ragged garments, but also for the joy of reuniting with his beloved sister. The dark-cloaked figure she was with held Tomas at bay as he sent waves of malice radiating away. Tomas didn’t dare move from his concealment behind some crates. Fear jogged through his spine. The fluid that leaked down his leg was most likely the only thing that kept him from freezing where he crouched.
Tomas noticed the man look exactly where he hid, but that was impossible, nobody could see him in this darkness. Tomas watched as The Stranger ‘kissed’ his sister’s neck. A flash of anger welled up in him. How dare someone do that without a marriage first! He stood up just in time to see his sister swoon and fall. The Stranger looked back once at Tomas, laughed a small, cruel laugh, and then seemingly vanished into a darker shadow. All fear disappeared with the removal of The Stranger. Tomas ran the length of the alleyway dropping to his knees to cradle his sister’s head.
Her eye’s fluttered open as he cascaded her face with his tears. “Tomas? Is that really you Tomas?”
“It’s me, Lizzie, it’s me!” He cried. “We’re finally together again! How I’ve missed you! Now we can be together again forever!”
“Tomas,” Lizzie said sadly, stroking his face gently. “It’s too late for me.”
“What are you talking about, Lizzie? I’m here you’re here, we’re together.” He wept for joy, but something evil was coming…he could feel it. His innate ability had proved an invaluable tool while he lived on the fringes of a distraught society. “What is the matter, Lizzie? You are burning up.” The heat emanating from her prone form was melting the snow around her.
“You should go, Tomas.” She closed her eyes.
“I can’t leave you, Lizzie. We’re all we have, you and me. You told me you would always look out for me. You were the only one that told me I didn’t have witches living in my head.” It was common in early Europe to convict the mentally challenged of witchcraft. “I love you Lizzie.” Even as he said it, he could tell his sister was slipping away.
“I love you too, Tomas. And that is why you should go.”
“Why won’t you open your eyes, Lizzie? Please, please look at me.”
Tears pushed through her closed lids. “Please, Tomas, don’t look at me this way. I’m not the sister you used to know. Unspeakable things have been done to me, I found a way to right those wrongs and I took it. I will exact my revenge.”
“That’s not how my Lizzie talks,” Tomas said, wiping his blurring eyes.
“GO!” She said pushing him away. Her eyes seemed to produce their own light as she looked at him menacingly.
“I will not!” he screamed, even though his inner-thoughts revolved around one word: ‘RUN’.
Lizzie sat up. Factions warred within her. The looks she sent him fluctuated between love, sadness, and predatory awareness. Tomas kept backing up even as he shook his head in denial of what was happening right in front of him.
With an ungodly speed, Lizzie wrapped her hand around Tomas’ neck. He found himself suspended six inches off the ground.
“Lizzie, please,” he begged.
Lizzie pulled him in close and punched two neat holes into his exposed collar. Tomas screamed in pain.
“Lizzie, please, I love you!” His tears splashed down on her upturned face.
Some last remnant of Lizzie rose to the surface. She pulled her extended canines out of his neck. “GO!” she screamed again. “I won’t be able to stop next time.” She looked defeated, with her head bowed. Tomas dropped to the ground as she releas asines oed her grip.
He scurried away scarcely believing the turn of events. “I love you, Lizzie. I will follow you until I find a way to fix whatever has happened here tonight.”
And he had run, running until his legs burned and his chest couldn’t move fast enough to pull in air. The connective string upon which she danced now hummed with electricity, his thoughts which moments before were clouded now shone as if under the brilliance of a noonday sun. He was unsure what Eliza had done to him, but she had awoken a hunger within him. A hunger for revenge, for retribution, and more importantly, for blood. He pulled the shroud from a segment of his mind he had actively blocked for close to five years. The string that connected him to his father was a cold gray thing but it moved and that was all the impetus he needed.
For three days he ran, seemingly without the ability to exhaust. He did not understand what was happening he also didn’t question it. It was early evening when he returned to a home he vowed he would never set foot in again. Nothing had changed; even the bag of grain he had soiled with his fecal matter was still in the corner. A pang shot through him as he looked upon his and Eliza’s bedding. It had been tossed about surely by his father in a drunken stupor, but it was still there.
He pulled one of the heavy wooden chairs away from the table and closer to the
embers that burned in the hearth. He placed some logs in it to stoke a good flame. He had a cold within him that sank to the depths of his soul. He had been staring at the flames intently divining the meaning of life when his father walked in.
“Figured you’d come back someday. My stupid boy has come home,” Henrick said with a cruel laugh, opening up his mouth to reveal black and rotting teeth.
Tomas stood.
Henrick had to look up, he licked his lips nervously. “Been eating well boy, since you shat on my food have you?” He moved in to strike at the boy and once again assert his dominance. Tomas flinched as Henrick struck him in the side of the head. “Hurt, boy?” Henrick spat.
“No, not really,” Tomas said, placing a hand to his face. “Let me know if this does.”
Tomas struck his father flush in the mouth. Blood exploded from the man’s lips as Tomas’ knuckles split them wide. Henrick stumbled a few steps and fell over. Henrick was a big man and never, not once in his life had someone put him on his ass.
“Good one, boy.” Henrick wiped the blood from his mouth and stood back up. “You’re going to pay for that, though.” He pulled a long filet knife out from his waist.
Henrick charged, driving the blade deep into Tomas’ midsection. All the air was forced from his lungs as he absorbed the steel. “Should have done that outside, now you’re going to bleed all over the place,” Henrick said, letting go of the hilt. He went over to a small cask and placed his head under the tap.
Tomas stood there wrapping his hands around the knife.
“You ain’t dead yet?” Henrick asked when he was done washing the blood from his mouth. “Here let me twist that around for you a little bit.” He came back over.
Tomas yanked the blade free with an audible gasp and let the knifd lat aroe fall to the ground.
“Too stupid to die, ain’t ya, boy,” Henrick said. “Should have been you I sold, then I could have kept your precious Lizzie around for entertainment.” Henrick was laughing, blood spilling from his lips.
Tomas lifted up his shirt. The wound where he was stabbed had stopped bleeding, Henrick and Tomas both watched in amazement as the skin began to knit before their eyes.
“Devil!” Henrick screamed. He looked wildly past Tomas’ shoulder and to the exit.
All that remained was the drying blood to allude that anything had ever happened.
“Sit, father.” Tomas said evenly.
Henrick was looking around for something anything he could use to thwart the spawn of evil before him.
“I won’t say it again.” Tomas said with force. Henrick complied. “Why?” Tomas asked as his father finally took a seat opposite him.
“Why what?” Henrick asked belligerently.
“Why did you hate us so much?”
“I fed and sheltered you little mongrels. What more did you want?” he answered as if that was what Tomas was looking for.
“Would it have been different if mother had survived?” Tomas asked.
“Well, we’ll never know will we? You and your fat head made sure of that.” Henrick said with vitriol.
“I knew wha
t I was doing when I came all the way back here, I just didn’t figure that it was going to be so easy,” Tomas said, rising from his chair.
“What....what are you going to do?” Henrick asked nervously.
“It won’t hurt much,” Tomas said as he struck, yanking his father’s head to the side.
He drank the sour lifeblood from his father; not stopping even after he began to feel pieces of muscle and tendon pull up through the now empty holes. Henrick was twenty-five pounds lighter when his body was discovered. The stench of his decaying body had sent the wild dogs in the area into a frenzy as they scratched at the door trying to get in.
The tether between brother and sister intensified over the years, it became a game of cat and mouse, although in this version the mouse was stalking the much more dangerous cat. Eliza was aware of the bond they shared and allowed her brother only enough access to it as would keep him on the leash. It wasn’t that she enjoyed the connection but rather the cruelty of always staying one step ahead of him. She could feel his disappointment when he came agonizingly close to catching her.
What Eliza was not aware of, was that, as Tommy’s powers grew, so did his ability for clairvoyance. He could see things that made no sense, but that had a purpose and would play a much greater role in events to come. He did not know why he saw those things, but he felt compelled to act on them.
Western Front 1918
“Who the bloody hell are you?” Crackers asked as Tommy slid into the trench nextd lat width="3e to him. Crackers was covered in mud and blood, he was almost indistinguishable from the grime that enveloped him, his hands no less filthy. When Tommy came upon him, the man was scooping some sort of beef hash out of his helmet with those same hands. The food was intermixed with flies, lice, dirt, and gore.
“I’m Tommy. Looks good,” Tommy said sarcastically, looking at the helmet.
“Get your own.” Crackers pulled the helmet out of range.
“I already ate,” Tommy replied subconsciously wiping away any blood that might be around his mouth. He had visited the enemy lines first before coming to find Crackers. He had spent three days riding hard to get here today. He had dropped two mounts along the way. He had not understood the urgency with which the power had directed him here but he also knew that he could not fail.
“You new?” Crackers asked in between mouthfuls. He had the social graces of a two-year-old, he talked while he chewed and also smacked his lips.
“Far from new.” Tommy smiled.
“Uniform looks new,” Crackers said, touching the lapel and leaving a smear of something better left unidentified.
“I had to run a message back from the lines, got one in the rear.”
“Lucky bastard, you are. I’ve got more critters living in my britches than I care to count.” And with that phrase he began to furiously scratch at his crotch. “Got sores on my arse and lice the size of lobsters crawling around my balls!” Crackers laughed.
A whistle sounded off in the distance. “Oh shit.” Crackers said plopping his half-full helmet onto his head.”
“What’s that?” Tommy asked. Crackers looked at him strangely and warily as he gripped his rifle.
“Thought you said you weren’t new?” Crackers asked.
“Not new to the Army…new to the trenches.”
A great grin split Crackers face, his teeth preternaturally white in contrast to the rest of him.
“Well ain’t you in for a treat then. That was the warning whistle.”
“Warning whistle?” Tommy asked completely at a loss.
“Yeah, a warning to how many of us are going to die!” Crackers laughed. “Next blow and we crawl out of this perfectly good trench and run across all that open, barren, muddy ground. Alst the while, Germans are sitting in their fancy hidey holes shooting at us with machine guns, it’s a riot!”
“You’re kidding right?” Tommy asked.
“Watch this,” Crackers said as he leaned in close. He scrambled up over the top and out in to the open.
“Bloody hell, Crackers! Where in the blimey fuck are you going?” a voice shouted over to Tommy’s left. Tommy thought it was his sergeant-in-arms.
“Visions suck sometimes,” Tommy said as he grabbed his helmet and rifle and followed after Crackers.
“Who the hell is that? And nobody blew the bloody whistle yet,” the officer shouted. The end of his statement was punctuated with the loud long blast of a wg bo thhistle. Men screamed as they emerged from their trenches running pell-mell towards the German lines. Crackers had a good twenty or thirty-foot lead on the rest of his mates, with Tommy closing in fast.
The Germans watched in casual amazement as the British teamed out of their side of the battlefield and streamed towards them. Tommy watched as soldiers on the other side took one more drag from their cigarettes, or one more forkful of food
before they primed their weapons and let loose a deadly volley of lead. Sheets of the projectiles were being sent down range. War cries became screams of the dying. They had not covered more than half the distance to their goal when the retreat whistle was sounded.
“What the hell was the point?” Tommy asked as he saw the British soldiers that could, begin to turn around and head back to their side. They’re exchanging bodies for bullets, that’s all they’re doing. It comes down to who is going to run out of what first. Tommy was saddened at the needless loss of so much life. He had passed up Crackers at some point and had intended to stay right on his back as a protective cloak as they retreated. As he spun, Crackers passed him by still going forward.
Crackers had become silent, a look of anger and determination etched in the dirt of his features.
“They sounded the retreat,” Tommy said, struggling to catch back up.
“To hell with the bloody retreat,” Crackers replied. “I’m getting this over one way or the other. I’m sick of that whistle. Next time I hear it I’m going to shove it up his ass. He blows, good men die. And for nothing, that’s the quick of it…for bloody nothing. We run, sometimes the krauts let us get halfway, sometimes when they’re feeling a little pissed off they only let us get about a quarter of the way before they cut us down, then the whistle blows so we can go slinking back to our diseased little holes. Don’t see those bastards trying to get over here.”
Dirt clods began to fly in the air all around Crackers and Tommy as more and more guns began to train on them. They were rapidly becoming the only targets available on the frozen bloodied and muddied killing fields. Tommy got in front of Crackers; the force from the rounds as they impacted Tommy sent him back into Crackers. The pain was damn near immeasurable, but still he was able to clutch Crackers and bring him down with him.
