Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller

by Waller, Ryan Casey

  I must leave; there's no other choice to make.

  Then there's Legion, the man who kills Centurion Guards with his bare hands. What would I do if he came for Maria and me? I couldn't stop him from dragging her back to that pit. And what about all those eyes in the tunnel? How many were there? Five hundred? Five thousand?

  Then there's the Teacher. He probably deals in the dark arts, which explains Legion's hatred of him. But his motives, like Legion's, remain unclear. It's clear he's sensitive to our cause, but he's far from a dedicated resistance fighter. I've heard him say nothing of the war, except that it will be costly. Not much of a revolutionary.

  What does he want? And why does he risk his life to heal those who are sick and troubled? What's in it for him? I find it tough to trust a man I don't understand.

  It's all a moot point, because at sunrise Maria and I will be gone.

  I look at the gun and allow my anger to kindle. My father wanted me to throw away my life for his war. As soon as the thought is hatched, it takes root like a ravenous weed, slithering around all that is good in the garden of my mind.

  The Kingdom has trillions upon trillions of Worlds at its disposal. What did he think I could do with a single gun?

  I'm just about to throw the gun when a voice stops me.

  "Wait!" Jude screams, running toward me. "What do you think you're doing?"

  I hoped to escape the park without having to face Jude's judgmental eyes. I figured if I never had to see him again, I could pretend as if our whole encounter never had happened; it would be a hazy dream I eventually could erase from my mind.

  "I'm sorry," I say, "but this life isn't for me. I plan to leave at first light."

  "You can't be serious," he says, out of breath.

  I offer him the gun. "Take it. It's yours."

  "Is this about Maria?" he says.

  "No."

  "Don't mistake me for a fool, Deacon."

  "I don't, but there's nothing to discuss. Do you want the gun or not?"

  "No, I don't want it."

  "Then it's going in the water."

  "I don't want the gun because it's useless in my hands."

  Just throw it, I think. But something stops me. "What does that mean? I'm sure you can point and fire just the same as me."

  "That gun isn't supposed to be fired."

  "Then it's a pointless gun."

  "The guard you hit doesn't think so."

  "I should have shot him," I say bitterly.

  Jude curses and kicks his foot in the sand. "Don't you want to know what the gun is for?"

  "No."

  "Can you calm down long enough to try and understand a few things?"

  "I don't want to understand. I'm leaving."

  "Let me get this straight—you're going to let one day with that woman destroy everything your father planned?"

  I turn and throw the gun toward the beach. It lands with a muffled thud.

  "My father was a laborer!" I scream. "Nothing more! Get that through your thick skull and leave me alone. I'm done talking."

  I start to stalk off through the shallow water, but Jude grabs me. "Your father was the greatest man I've ever known! Your father organized an army of five thousand men ready to die valiantly in war. Your father was the brightest hope the South has seen since the end of the Great War." He takes a deep breath and searches the night sky. Then, in a softer voice, he says, "Your father believed his son would carry on his legacy."

  "My father organized no army. You've lost your mind."

  "Five thousand strong men," Jude says. "And we're not talking about some backwoods militia that's only good at running their mouths. These are legitimate soldiers, Deacon. Men with training, battle tested. Men who understand the sacrifice and are willing to pay it."

  "How could my father have done that? It's like you're talking about a complete stranger."

  "Your father protected you. He wanted your life to be a peaceful one. He was no war hawk. Your father, unlike so many would-be messiahs, understood that war is only a means to an end and not the end in itself. He accepted that his fate would lead him to violence, but he wanted something better for you. That's why he sent you out West. But even a father's dream can't circumvent the will of God."

  "You're asking me to believe that my whole life—everything I've known—was a lie. Do you realize that?"

  "No," Jude says solemnly. "I'm asking you to believe the one true thing about your life."

  "And what's that?"

  "That your father wasn't wrong."

  "About what?"

  "About your being the man our people have waited for, the Christ long predicted in the Scripture."

  "What?"

  "The anointed one, Deacon—the one sent by God to make it right."

  My heart jumps erratically in my chest. Sharp pangs are followed by dangerously long gaps before another shuddering beat slams across my rib cage. It's as if air is alternately blown into then sucked out of my lungs before it's had a chance to oxygenate my blood. I feel faint, and black spots stain my vision.

  Jude leaves me where I stand to find the gun in the sand. When he returns, I stand frozen in silence.

  "Here," he says, offering the handle of the gun. "Read the inscription."

  "What?"

  "On the bottom. Read it."

  I take the gun and find two numbers inscribed on the bottom of the handle: 1-12. "How did I miss this?" I say.

  "Those numbers mean anything to you?"

  I wait a long moment before answering. When I'm ready, I say, "My birthday."

  "That's right," Jude says.

  "What does this mean?"

  "You were the reason your father joined the resistance. He told me he had the date inscribed before he went into battle. Your father understood that war does things to a man, and no matter how brave and prepared he might be, battle is ferocious and paralyzing. He wanted to ensure that if he ever found himself in a position where he wanted to retreat or surrender, he'd have a tangible reminder of why he was fighting. January twelfth was the most important day of his life, the day everything changed. If a man lives only for himself, he might not be willing to die. But if he lives for someone else, he'll happily lay down his life. You were his beginning, and you would be his end."

  I collapse into the sand and weep. After a time—I don't know how long—Jude puts his hand on my shoulder. "Come with me," he says. "Meet the men. I'll have you back before sunrise. If you still want to leave, I won't try to stop you."

  "I...don't know. If Maria—"

  "She'll never know you're gone. I'll bring you back before she wakes up. I'm asking you to trust me."

  I don't want to go. I want to walk back to Maria and lie down beside her in the grass. I want to watch her sleep and listen to her breaths. I want to watch her body twitch and wonder what she's dreaming about. Then, just before the sun rises, I want to wake her with a kiss and tell her it's the first day of the rest of our lives together.

  "Deacon," Jude says, "come see what your future could be. You owe that much to your father. Please"

  "Not true," I say, standing up and shaking off the sand. "I owe him my life."

  We ride fast out of town, beyond the city limits, and into the rolling countryside. Jude, who seems to know more about my life than I do, knew I could ride a motorcycle. From the lake he led me stealthily to two old Ducati dirt bikes hidden beneath a tangle of overgrown brush. He pulled the bikes out and said, "We'll have to ride fast to make it there and back before sunrise. Stay close, and don't lay it down. I don't have helmets."

  I told him I'd never worn a helmet in my life.

  We kept the Ducatis in idle and pushed them along with our feet like kids on bicycles first learning to ride. We stayed this way until we were out of the park and on a dirt road that ran parallel to the highway but was hidden from it by tall oaks. Then we opened the throttles.

  In practically no time we're outside the city and riding hard across the rough country, the Ducati
absorbing the shock beneath me in spotty, uneven bounces. Other than the beams from our headlights, the land around us is pitch black; Oxford sleeps while we ride.

  An hour later we reach the coast. Jude slows down, and I follow his lead off the dirt road, through a small opening in the woods and onto a terribly pitted, two-lane concrete highway. We ride slowly for another minute, the pavement a welcome respite from the bounce of the trail, until Jude raises his hand, signaling for me to stop. "You see that bridge?" He points in the distance, and I can just make out the outline of a suspension bridge against the black of the sky. If I hadn't already been familiar with this bridge, there would be no way for me to recognize it. But I do.

  "You're insane if you think I'm riding across that," I say.

  "You know this bridge?"

  "Of course." I shut off the bike and swing my leg off. "The Bridge of Banishment—the only way on or off the leper colony."

  Jude nods.

  "Well," I yawn, stretching my arms behind my back. "This has been fun, but if it's all the same to you, I think I'll pass on contracting leprosy tonight."

  "The men are on the other side of that bridge, Deacon."

  "You're crazy if you think I'm going to ride into that colony. There hasn't been a vaccine in the South for over twenty years. That entire island is a petri dish of disease. No way...not going."

  "How do you think the army is able to meet without being discovered?" I clear my throat but don't say anything. "It's the only place the Centurion Guard doesn't regularly patrol."

  "Not true."

  "How's that?"

  "Geth Park," I tell him. "There were no centurions there."

  "Because the Kingdom trusts the religious authorities to keep an eye on people like the Teacher and his followers. They're not overly concerned by wannabe philosophers and poets." Jude shakes his head. "But us? You and I are another story. They know we're dangerous."

  "And the men want to meet me?"

  "Badly."

  "Then have them come to me. Ride across the bridge and order them to come out."

  "You're joking, right?"

  "We don't have much time," I say. "I will be back in the park before sunrise, with or without you."

  Jude flies off his bike and shoves me in the chest with unexpected speed and power. I stumble backward in the darkness and trip on myself, landing hard on the pavement with my elbows. "You listen to me, you sorry little brat!" he shouts. "I swore to your father that I'd make this meeting happen. I know you can't possibly understand what I'm about to say, but hear it anyway. That man was a father to me. He was the only person who ever cared if I lived or died. My mother abandoned me to my drunk of a father the second I left her breast. When I was eleven, it was me who went off to work because he couldn't bother to set down the bottle."Jude takes a breath. "I killed him when I was fifteen."

  "You...killed your own father?"

  "I preferred it to the alternative."

  "I'm sorry," I say softly.

  Jude snaps his fingers. "I'd have taken your father's place on that train in a heartbeat." He lifts me up by collar. "So—may the gods help me—you're going across that bridge if I have to drag you."

  e cross the bridge.

  Thinking of Jude's mother and father reminds me of why I came home in the first place. I'm far from the only person who's suffered. The South is a country that baptizes its babies in pain; its people wear disillusionment like jewels around their necks. Most of the children here have experienced more heartache before their tenth birthday than the average adult in the West does in a lifetime.

  Parents are hauled away by train to the northern camps. Children are forced into adulthood at tender ages, just as Jude was. Violence has become the currency of the market. I saw my first crucifixion on my eighth birthday. Watching nails driven through a body takes something from you that you don't get back.

  We've never known freedom, and there's no one left from the generation that did. When I was a child, the last of the old folks were still living, and their stories permeated our land with a faint but very real hope. They spoke of the implicit joy of travel, of being able to pack up your family and explore the world. I heard tales of what it was like to live without the fear of the Kingdom's iron fist. People were free to do with their lives as they saw fit.

  The only reason I was allowed to leave for school was my test scores. The Kingdom, through standardized testing, decides very early in people's lives who gets to continue with education and who must stop and enter the work force. My scores were very high, which meant I got to keep going. When I completed my primary schooling, my vocational testing indicated medicine would be my profession. But this was no accident. My parents had meticulously prepared me for this path since my childhood, beginning with their decision to read Grey's Anatomy to me when most children heard fairy tales about courageous princes and evil warlocks. The day I left on that train was the culmination of many years of planning.

  I never minded. I've loved the human body for as long I can remember and want to bring healing to pain.

  I lied to Dr. Stone. I haven't always been interested in medicine; I became interested the instant my parent asked me to study it. Even then I understood they were trying to save me from this place.

  From the time I was old enough to walk, my parents warned me about the leper colony. Under no circumstances was I to cross the bridge I just have. When I asked my father what was on the other side, he simply told me, "Death."

  Which was a good enough answer for me.

  I follow Jude down an old cobblestone road that runs alongside the battered fortress that now functions as a prison for the several hundred lepers who live on this island. I lift my shirt above my face, but it does little to mask the odor of rotting, petrified flesh that permeates the air.

  We ride for another few minutes before arriving at the back of a concrete amphitheater. We kill the bikes and walk silently to the outer edge of the theater, which I discover is filled with men. At least two thousand of them are standing on the concrete rows, which are lit up by torches. Their attention is fixed firmly on the stage, where two men are trying to murder each other with their fists.

  One of the boxers is short and fast. The other is unreasonably tall, with a reach that's categorically unfair. Both men wear red padded helmets and matching gloves. The tall man throws a punishing jab that sends his opponent to the floor. The bloodthirsty crowd erupts with pleasure. This is what they've hoped to see.

  The smaller man scrambles to his feet and bulrushes the giant, wrapping his arms around his waist. He lifts the crown of his head into the tall man's chin, and it splits wide open.

  The smaller man unleashes lightning-fast punches into the giant's abdomen. The punches strike in rapid fire, one after another, but they're totally useless—as innocuous as an underwater punch. The giant then raises his left hand high and brings it down in an illegal strike against the top of the shorter man's head. The giant follows this with a devastating hook that knocks his opponent out cold. The crowd goes wild as he lifts his massive arms in victory.

  I'm just about to ask Jude who this giant is when the man removes his helmet and shakes loose his blond hair. And there I see it. ..the face of the centurion I've dreamt about for three years. It's the giant who took my mother from the train platform.

  I draw my gun and point it at Jude when he tries to stop me. Then I go after my man.

  I bound down the steps like a mountain lion after its prey—graceful, fast, and deadly.

  The men notice, and their cheering gives way to murmurs of questions, gasps, and accusations. I think I hear someone say, "That's him!"

  When I reach the stage, the Nordic and I make eye contact, and I know instantly that he recognizes me. His bravado can't hide what I see behind his icy blue eyes: fear.

  "You!" I say, raising the gun before me and taking dead aim at the center of his wide chest. "You!"

  "Deacon!" Jude cries out. "Stop! Deacon!"

  I rush the c
enturion and jab the barrel into his muscular chest. "What did you do with my mother? Tell me! Did you put them on the train yourself? Tell me before you die! Tell me before I blow your head off!"

  "Deacon!" Jude pleads from behind me. "Get a hold of yourself!"

  I keep the gun dug firmly into the Nordic's powerful chest. "I saw this man grab my mother. He's responsible for their deaths."

  The giant centurion says, "If you know what's good for you, you'll lower that gun, boy." His voice is so deep that even though I'm the one with a gun, I'm suddenly terrified to be standing so close to him. His voice is just not human.

  "Deacon," Jude says, grabbing my shoulder, "Henrik defected from the Centurion Guard. He's on our side now."

  "So it was you!" I say. "Why were my parents taken north? Who gave the order? Tell me!"

  Henrik nods toward Jude. "Didn't he tell you?"

  "Yes," Jude says, a mixture of exasperation and anxiety in his voice. "I did. Henrik—if it even was Henrik—was just following orders, Deacon. Your parents were selected because of your father's leadership of these men." Jude waves his arms in reference to the now silent men of the amphitheater.

  I ignore Jude. "I want to know what you did with my mother and father, Henrik. I'm not going to ask again." I pull the hammer back on the pistol, having already decided to kill him, no matter his answer.

  A faint smile appears across Henrik's face. "I wonder," he says, "if you understand the consequences of aiming that gun at me." I move the gun from his chest and raise the barrel until it rests neatly between his blue eyes. I silently curse my shaking hand. Henrik lets out a quick, breathless laugh. "I don't think you do."

  "Let me guess. Don't draw a gun unless you plan on using it. That sound right?"