The Surgeon: The Luke Titan Chronicles #1

by David Beers

  "Fine, motherfuckers. Fine."

  He reached forward and opened the door, a look of concern donning his face as the two men came into view.

  "Hello?" he said, hoping his voice carried just the right amount of annoyance.

  "Hi, Mr. Brown," Christian Windsor said. "I was in the neighborhood and wanted to talk with you if you had the time."

  "Do you know what fucking time it is?"

  "Yeah, I'm sorry about coming at this hour, but it's pretty important we talk."

  Remember what you're supposed to do. Don't turn them away. Kill them.

  Bradley looked at the agent behind Windsor, the older one. He wasn't looking at Bradley but at his partner. He didn't want to be here.

  Windsor is calling the shots right now; Titan wasn't lying about that, Bradley thought.

  "Whatever," he said. "Come on in."

  He moved away from the door, opening his house to them. Windsor walked in, followed by the other one—Bradley couldn't remember his name. Couldn't remember much because the front of his head was starting to fucking hurt again. Always at the worst time. Always trying to steal things from him just like the rest of the goddamn world.

  He closed his eyes tight for a second, trying to force away the pain. He couldn't hold them like that, though, not with the two goddamn cops here. He opened his eyes to see them both staring at him. The door was still ajar.

  "Are you okay?" the older agent said.

  "Besides the fact that you two are here after I just worked a long shift? Yeah, I'm peachy." He turned and closed the door. "Let's go to the kitchen."

  He led the way, hoping that Titan wasn't lying. Ranger had better be back in one of the rooms, and his mother quiet—but not harmed. And Titan better be hiding too.

  How has it all gotten so fucked up? he wondered.

  Shut up. You've got work to do now and sitting here worrying about your problems isn't going to get any of it done.

  Christian moved over to where Titan had stood and leaned against the counter in nearly the exact same spot.

  "I'd offer you two a seat, but I don't want you to get comfortable. Now, what do you want?"

  Windsor was looking around the kitchen in much the same fashion a hound dog would use his nose, as if he knew some clue rested in this place and once he saw it, everything would be solved. Bradley didn't look around even though he wanted to—he had to trust Titan.

  "Hello?" Bradley said. "You like my interior decorating? Want to talk about that?"

  "I'm sorry," the older agent said. "We, umm—"

  "I'd like to talk about your father," Windsor said, interrupting as if he hadn't heard his partner. He looked down from the cabinets and met Bradley's eyes. "Do you think it'd be okay if we discussed how he died?"

  Bradley's jaw involuntarily flexed. "I don't like remembering it."

  "You don't like remembering it, or you don't want to talk about what actually happened?"

  "You don't know what you're fucking talking about," Bradley said, the rage in his voice real now—no longer a ploy to cover up the panic.

  "I do, and you know I do. What was the final straw, Bradley? What made you decide that you had to kill him, that there wasn't any other way?"

  Bradley shook his head. He hadn't truly thought about it in such a long time. He and his mother never mentioned it, not after he took her eyes. Nothing that happened in the past was mentioned in his house again.

  "I didn't kill him."

  "You did, though. How did you learn to take eyes out so carefully? With so much attention to detail?"

  Bradley shook his head again, but he didn't say anything.

  "Was it the animals? It was, wasn't it? You started there, using the traps on your farm. You'd take their eyes out before skinning them. Your parents didn't know because when you brought the animal in to be eaten, it was fully dressed. Was your father the first person's eyes you took?"

  Bradley looked through an ocean of tears, barely containing them from spilling over onto his cheeks.

  "What did he do to you?" the agent asked.

  "How do you know?" Bradley finally whispered.

  Windsor said nothing, only stared at him, and Bradley felt he saw everything. He couldn't hide from that all encompassing stare. Those eyes, they were what his father had wanted from his mother and him. Those eyes were truth, more so than any of the ones Bradley had collected so far.

  As a tear fell from Bradley, a tall, dark figure appeared behind the two agents. It moved with no more substance than a shadow, not a sound creaking out from beneath its feet as it flashed over the two agents.

  A hand came down and the older one collapsed to the floor.

  The perfect eyes, the ones holding the truth, grew in alarm as their owner tried to turn around. Windsor couldn't though. Because that same blazing quick hand came down—and Bradley saw it held a gun now, pistol whipping the back of Windsor's head.

  Both agents lay on Bradley's floor and Luke Titan stood above them, smiling. "Should we get started?"

  Veronica's eyes hurt.

  She didn't remember anyone removing the blindfold, but now brightness fell down on her like heaven had opened its gates, deciding to shine on all the evil to ever exist.

  She clenched them shut even as hands grabbed her. She felt her arms being untied, but before she could move them, they were rushed down to her naked stomach and retied there.

  Veronica cried out, opening her eyes the best she could, but she only saw an outline above her—the light behind the person masking their face's details.

  "Please," she said.

  Her legs were worked on with the exact same efficiency and then a bag of some sort was shoved over her head, blinding her as the light had done, but with less pain.

  She felt hands picking her up from the bed. Despite everything happening, her mind registered how easily they moved her, as if she was no more than a loose sheet of paper. She felt the change in air as she exited the room. Going somewhere, and dear God, was this it? Would she be raped and murdered now? For days she'd lain inside that room thinking it would come soon, but it hadn't. She'd been left alone for the most part and her mind must have begun to think it wouldn't happen.

  But it was.

  Veronica screamed, or tried, but her voice barely made a noise above a whisper. She hadn't spoken in so long her vocal chords had forgotten how to work.

  "Shhh," a voice said.

  And then she felt a couch underneath her.

  Lips next to her ears, and in a, indistinguishable voice, she heard them say, "Now don't move."

  Please God, she prayed. Please don't let this happen. Please.

  She felt a rag cover her face, and before she could attempt to stop breathing, her lungs had already inhaled whatever substance it held.

  Chapter 31

  Luke looked at the five people in front of him. Christian and Tommy lay head to foot on the floor, still unconscious from Luke's ferocious strike. Ms. Lopez lay on the couch, the chloroform having done its job. Mr. Ranger occupied his wheelchair, the only victim still allowed to look around because of his inability to tell the world anything.

  And Bradley Brown stood in front of all of it.

  "I said I would help you, Mr. Brown, and so I have. Here they are. Everyone you need to ensure your safety moving forward. I will, of course, clean up from my end. The bureau will not know your name. I will create some evidence that points to someone else. You'll be safe ... But, you must leave. You and your mother. You will move to Canada, not in the states, because I know that you can't control yourself now. You will start up again and my record is far too pristine to collar the wrong person, when you're eventually caught."

  Mr. Brown didn't turn around as Luke spoke. He stared in disbelief at what Luke had given him. A gift that he'd never seen before. Perfection—at least for someone with Mr. Brown's mind—lay before him.

  "Now, if you don't exit the country, I will call on you, Mr. Brown. I will kill you. Do you understand?"

  T
he man nodded.

  "Good. I will leave you to it, then. When you're finished, pack, and start your trip to Canada. I will make sure nothing that happens here points to you. Okay?"

  Another nod; Luke knew the man wasn't lying. He had seen Luke's hand and knew that it was at least as powerful as God's. He knew that Luke only spoke truth, and what he said would happen.

  Luke turned from the room and left the five people to the chaos that he'd created for them.

  Christian dreamed. Not of Luke, but of a monster. Monsters create monsters, just as humans spawn humans. Bradley Brown had to come from somewhere, and since Christian had refused to watch the video his mind had prepared, it forced it upon him during his unconsciousness.

  The room Christian stands in is dark, but it always is when these things happen to Bradley Brown. Because the monster doesn't want to see his act, he wants to see something else.

  There's grunting across the room and the sound of a bed squeaking. The grunting comes from the monster's mouth, and though he's not a man, he is male.

  Christian steps closer to the bed, knowing that it wouldn't matter even if he sat down on it. These people cannot see him.

  A flashlight turns on, and Christian sees more. A woman is bent over, naked, and the monster is behind her. A ball gag is tied around her face but this isn't any BDSM sex game. This is rape, pure and simple. The monster is pounding ruthlessly and the light shines first on the woman's face.

  "LOOK AT ME!"

  And the woman does, because she knows that if she doesn't, worse pain will come. Much worse.

  "Yes," the monster moans.

  Christian glances at the woman eyes, but only for a second, because he can't handle anymore than that. Her face is twisted in pain, fear, hate, and sweat. Hair falls across her face, but the monster reaches forward and pushes it away, making sure that he can see her eyes. The hatred—at life, at this man, at herself—nearly bleeds from them.

  The light moves now and shines down on a boy. He's in his early teens, and if hate lived in the woman's eyes, then hell's fire rages in his. He's tied and ball gagged, naked as well. The light shines on the boy for a few seconds before the monster dismounts the woman.

  He moves to the boy, and despite being bound, he puts up a fight. Kicking, trying to keep the monster away. The monster is strong, though, and with a few punches to the face, the boy is subdued. He lays on his stomach and the monster has his way with him next, the light intermittently flashing from the boy's face to the woman's.

  The room fades to black and then Christian finds himself in a kitchen—the same one he saw years ago when the boy hadn't brought back the trapped animal. He knows time has passed since then, as the decorations have changed.

  "You motherfucker! You goddamn motherfucker, I'm going to kill you."

  Christian hears the words but can't see where they come from. He moves around the kitchen's island and walks into the connected dining room. Now he sees. The monster is bound to the table, thick ropes tying him down—strapped around his legs, arms, torso, and even his neck. The table is large and wooded, giving the monster six inches on either side of his head and feet. Spit sits on his face from the words he screams into the otherwise empty dining room.

  Christian hears steps and looks to his left.

  The dining room is empty no longer.

  The boy is nearly a man now and he's holding a small leather bag.

  He moves to the table and says nothing to the monster, simply begins laying out tools from inside the bag. A scalpel. A spoon like apparatus. Other things that Christian hasn't seen though immediately understands.

  The boy gets to work on the monster, leaving him awake as he does. Screams and blood fill the room, but no help comes, and eventually the screams die to whimpers. Finally, they disappear and the boy steps back. Blood covers his hands and arms; it's even splattered on his face.

  The body in front of him has large round holes where the monster's eyeballs should be. Instead, they sit next to his left arm, bloodied, with one looking at the boy's chest and the other the ceiling.

  The dining room fades to black and Christian is in the farm's fields next. He knows what happens here. He can see the heap of the monster's body lying a hundred feet in front of him. The boy sits in a tractor—one that harvests crops, and as he starts moving it forward, Christian wishes he could turn away.

  The boy is no longer a boy, but just another monster.

  Bradley looked at the four people, slightly frightened of what had been given to him. He still didn't fully understand how it all happened, but here they were, all ready for whatever he fancied.

  Bradley cleared his throat and looked over to Charlie.

  "I need to wake the rest up. I think I'd like everyone awake when I get started."

  Bradley walked over to Christian Windsor and slapped his face. The man stirred a bit and Bradley slapped him again, bringing him all the way out of his slumber. Bradley said nothing, but moved to the older agent and roughly slapped him until he woke as well.

  Finally, he went to the woman. He didn't slap her, but shook her, and it took a bit longer, but eventually she came to.

  Everyone was awake.

  "Listen to me," the older agent said. "Whatever you're thinking, you don't want to do it."

  Bradley turned from the couch and looked at the bound man on the floor. He smiled. "Why don't I?"

  "Because you're going to get caught. Our other partner is supposed to take over our watch soon, and when he can't get in touch with us, it's over for you."

  Bradley's smile widened. He couldn't say anything, though. Not if he wanted to keep living after this night. "I'll take my chances. Excuse me for a bit, I have to go grab some things."

  Bradley moved through the house to his room. He thought, fleetingly, about checking in on his mother, but the fever was on him now and he couldn't pull himself away from the living room for too long. No, he'd check her later. Right now, he needed to start cutting.

  He grabbed his little bag that held all the necessary tools and rushed from his bedroom.

  "Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he said as he entered the living room. Everyone was in the exact same spot, but the conversation stopped when they saw him. " ... What were you talking about?"

  "I asked them who you are and what you want," the woman said.

  "Did they tell you?"

  "You're The Surgeon."

  "I suppose that will work," Bradley said. He really did like the name. It lent an air of prestige and importance to what he was doing, even if no one in the room understood it. Except maybe the younger agent—Windsor. He seemed to know more than he should, and if he started talking now, Bradley would end him first, whatever it took to get him to shut up.

  "Listen!" The older agent said. "You have to let us go or our partner will find you, and soon."

  Bradley ignored him and walked over to Charlie. He picked the old man up and tossed him to the floor. Bradley moved quickly, taking the rope from his bag and bounding Charlie's arms and legs, though he didn't think the geriatric would put up much fight. After a few minutes, the old man lay tied on the floor.

  "I'm going to start with you, Charlie. I want to be fresh when I start cutting on you. It's hard work, but I'm sure you know that since you were a doctor. You get tired at the end."

  Bradley grabbed his bag and knelt on the floor. He pulled out his wire speculum and attached each of the holds to Charlie's eyelids, ensuring that he wouldn't be able to blink during what came next.

  "It's not your fault."

  The voice came from the other side of the room and Bradley didn't need to turn around to know who said it. Christian Windsor.

  Bradley kept pulling out his tools, trying his best to ignore whatever nonsense the man spouted.

  "Do you hear me, Bradley? It's not your fault. None of this. You ... At least some part of you was forced to do this."

  Bradley stopped laying his tools down. "Shut up."

  "I know what happened," the agent said. "
I know what your father did to you and your mother."

  "You don't know any-fucking-thing." Bradley's jaw tightened, muscles flexing up the side of his face.

  "I do. I know about the abuse. I know why you wanted his eyes."

  Bradley looked down and saw his left hand shaking. He needed both to pull out Charlie's goddamn eyes. This motherfucker had to shut up if Bradley was going to be able to do anything here.

  "Shut your mouth," he said.

  "You want the truth from people," the agent said. "The truth that your father always said was in people's eyes. But you never found truth with him or your mother, not the truth you needed. It's the same truth we all need, Bradley. Love. That's why you're doing this, isn't it?"

  Bradley stood up, almost without knowledge he was doing it. He turned around and looked at the bound agent. "If you don't stop talking, I'll kill you first." His words were calm and measured, despite the rage building inside him. "You don't know anything about me or what I went through, and you don't know anything about why I do this. You're not smart enough to know or deep enough to understand. Do you get that?"

  Bradley said the words ... but his eyes found the agent's and he felt weak. Because an empathy he didn't know possible rested inside them. An empathy that he'd wanted from his parents, from friends, from anyone—and never found.

  Bradley knew what to do. He grabbed the tools that lay next to Charlie and brought them over to Christian Windsor. He'd start with the agent.

  Luke sat in his car a half mile down the street. The dashboard clock told him ten minutes had passed and he was actually curious what was happening inside.

  He watched the clock tick another minute off. Time always marched forward, and in the human consciousness, everyone saw it as another minute closer to their death. Time revolved around each individual person, and each minute was one that was solely theirs. The fact that the universe continued its expansion, and would keep on going until all the stars and planets died, leaving only a cold, still, and silent reality for everyone—well, they didn't think of that when a minute passed. It wasn't the universe's extinction they considered, but their own.