Modern Rituals

by J. S. Leonard

  “How do you feel?” Olivia said.

  “Not great, I admit,” Horace said. “I can’t walk—in fact, any movement is excruciating. Olivia, yes? I heard you treated my ankle. Thank you, as well.”

  “Do you have any idea what that thing was?” James said.

  Horace’s face went ghost white.

  “Oh, well, never mind then—your guess is probably as good as ours. At least we seem to be safe here, for the time being. It must be dark out right now, and while there’s candlelight in here, I don’t believe the power is on anywhere else. We’re sitting ducks if we can’t even see where we’re going,” James said.

  “What do you suggest we do?” Anthony said.

  “I’ve got no clue,” James said. “Maybe stay here until first light? That creature didn’t follow us down here. Maybe it’s afraid of this place.”

  A niggle in James’ gut told him otherwise.

  “Perhaps,” Anthony said. “Or, maybe it’s just waiting until we’re asleep. This room doesn’t exactly have many outlets.”

  “Hah! Like any of us are going to sleep. You are a fool if you think I will let my guard down,” Tomas said.

  “I might have a suggestion,” Horace said. He waited until he had everyone’s attention, then continued.

  “The multipurpose room—or whatever that large, open structure is next to the gym—contained an electrical box that looked like a power main. It was downstairs, in some sort of utility hallway. There was an electricity symbol on the cover and a lever, which was switched off. I went to investigate it, but that’s where I was attacked. I had a flashlight with me as well, though I must have dropped it.”

  “That sounds promising—but too dangerous,” James said.

  “Maybe for you,” Tomas said. “I’d be willing to go. I am afraid of no girl.”

  “By all means—I think we’d all be grateful if you turned the power on,” James said.

  “I’ll go with him. I figure we’re stuck here without power—plus we should stay in groups if possible,” Anthony said.

  “Well, that settles that, you two go find that power main. As for the rest of us—” James said.

  “I think we all need to take a step back and evaluate what’s happened so far,” Olivia said.

  Everyone turned their eyes to Olivia. Tomas flashed her a sleazy smile—an unmistakable desire in his eyes sickened James.

  “First off, why us? How did we all get here?” Olivia said.

  Sealed lips around the room.

  “Fine, I suppose I’ll go first. I am a nurse. I was on the job, and an…altercation took place. I tried to help a friend, but all I can remember is trying to run, then I ended up here.”

  James gave her a warm, friendly smile—unlike Tomas—and nodded for her to continue.

  “That’s when I ran into James. It was all so disorienting—I can scarcely understand how I’m talking about it so plainly. Anyway, James and I starting scouting. We started in the gymnasium, then left through the front gate, only to walk a mile or two and find ourselves up against some kind of barrier.

  “This forced us to turn around and head back. We arrived at the school grounds and made our way to the center, which is where we first encountered that frightening girl.”

  Anthony shifted upon hearing this. Colette hugged herself.

  “She came at us, but we ran and found a hiding spot here in this building. Shortly after, we met you all.”

  “Is that all?” Tomas said.

  “That about covers it. Who’s next?” Olivia said.

  “Hold up, before we do that, do you all have cards as well?” James said.

  Anthony looked at Keto, who then looked at Tomas, who looked to Colette. Each of them retrieved their card and held it in front of them. Olivia and James followed suit.

  “Mine and Olivia’s card have a single word printed on one side and a kind of laminate on the back. I accidentally dropped mine in the dirt and went to wipe it off, which scratched away the laminate and revealed this.” James said, showing them the back of the card.

  “Why would there be a clue on the card? That suggests someone wants us to find a way out of here—” Anthony said.

  “Or they want us to die trying,” James said.

  “What does your card say?” Tomas said.

  “Pardon?” James said.

  “Your card,” Tomas said. “You said it had a single word. What is it?”

  “Oh—Protect. Not much help if you ask me. Your turn Tomas, what does yours say?”

  “I do not wish to share,” Tomas said.

  This lack of reciprocity boiled James’ skin.

  “Really? Here we are, our lives on the line, and you aren’t willing to share a detail that may help explain our situation?”

  “No.”

  James glowered.

  “Mine says Dally. What do you s’pose that means?” Colette said.

  “No clue,” James said.

  He looked at Olivia, who said, “Restraint,” without referencing her card.

  James turned to Anthony.

  Anthony squinted, drew a plaintive breath and said, “Revenge,” letting the -enge hang.

  Keto said, “Deny.”

  “I don’t seem to have a card, though I recall feeling something like it in my pocket. I imagine it was lost when I was attempting to escape. I’d search myself, but this pain is unbearable,” Horace said.

  “Don’t worry about it. Well, we have a bunch of cryptic words that mean nothing to me. Do they mean anything to anybody else?” James said.

  No one spoke.

  James ran them through his head, trying to form some sort of acronym, find a pattern, relate them to recent news, events, to stories he’d heard, fairy tales, mythology…

  Nothing.

  “Oh! How could we forget,” Olivia said.

  She retrieved the card she pocketed from the dead body, its frayed edges tattered and old. She angled it beside a candle—her eyes widened then compressed into tiny slits.

  “Um…there’s writing on this card, but it’s so faint I can barely read it,” she said.

  James inspected the card with her.

  “Does that say ‘Garden’?” James said.

  Colette, appearing from nowhere, nestled her warm body into James’ side—her plush figure begging his arm to hold her.

  What’s with this girl?

  “I read ‘Garden’ as well—oh dear, is that dried blood? Was it written with a finger?” Colette said.

  “I’d guess yes. The garden, eh? I wonder if they mean that Japanese garden outside this building,” James said.

  “Only one way to find out. Why don’t you take the rest of the group and check it out. Aside from Horace of course,” Anthony said.

  “Yes, I will be fine here. That thing seems to have no interest in this place,” Horace said.

  “I can’t think of any other options. How does everyone else feel?” James said.

  Everyone nodded, except for Keto, who stepped forward.

  “I do not object, though I do want to understand better how everyone arrived here. Olivia, it was good of you to be so forthcoming, though could you elaborate on what you were doing the exact moment you found yourself in the gym?” Keto said.

  Olivia drew in a breath and closed her eyes. Her lips parted, but no words escaped. Her shoulders relaxed and she said, “I…I think I was shot—point-blank in the back,” the last few words stumbling out of her mouth.

  “As for what I was doing—I was trying to save a dear friend. A doctor. Doctor Montgomery. We were close. Oh, God, I’m sure they killed him.”

  She collapsed onto her knees.

  James rushed to her side and wrapped an arm around her. She buried her face into his chest and cried in long, hard convulsive gasps.

  “Hey, it’s okay… If you’re alive, maybe he is too. Maybe he’s even here—who knows,” James said, but thought dying might be the preferable alternative.

  Olivia’s composure returned in a re
luctant rhythm from sorrow to determination.

  Keto said, “That was fair and kind of you to share that. As for me, I committed suicide.”

  Keto’s admission ripped the group’s attention from Olivia.

  “There is an old tradition in Japan called Seppuku. Perhaps you are familiar with the practice. It is the taking of one’s own life to restore honor. I was a successful executive whose company had failed, tarnishing my family along with it. It was my duty to correct my failure.”

  “You tried to kill yourself to make your family look better? What the hell is wrong with you people?” Tomas said.

  “I did not try to kill myself. I killed myself. I ran a blade through my stomach, felt my entrails spill out. I awoke here after losing consciousness. I know of no medicine that can repair such an injury.”

  “Keto, I’m sorry…that’s terrible. Must have been some company,” James said then paused. “What was the company, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Keto weighed the question.

  “Amagachi Corp.”

  James knew now why Keto’s name had seemed familiar: Keto Takahashi, an esteemed executive of Amagachi Corp. who oversaw the Skunkworks division responsible for bleeding-edge hardware—the type of radical technology James used in his interactive art installations—from acute sensors to morphing silicon to indiscernible ARM and x86 microprocessors. Amagachi had enabled James to venture into new interactive frontiers. He had even ordered from the company directly when his supplier ran out of stock of multi-core fiber optic cable—the shipping cost him an organ.

  The scale of Keto’s failure must have been titanic—Amagachi was known for amassing billions in cash reserves and had been well fortified against competitors and other industrial dangers.

  “Oh—sorry to hear that,” James said.

  Colette grabbed the sides of her head, shaking it as if to deny the whole thing.

  “Is this some kind of limbo?” she said. “Or purgatory? Are we being punished somehow?”

  “I thought that, too,” James said. “I’m not so sure though—I mean, I wasn’t that bad a person. Shit—not to deserve this.”

  Why am I here?

  A hotness curled behind James’ eyes and the filmy enamel of ground teeth coated his tongue.

  Why am I anywhere? Have I wasted my life until now? What the hell am I meant to do? If it’s all supposed to end here, Universe, help me out—throw me a bone—I’m all ears.

  “I…I don’t know,” Colette said. “I think I deserve to be here. I killed a man—but it’s not what you think. He was…assaulting me. He had me pinned. I carry a small firearm. Shot him point-blank, in the neck… Just after, as you can guess, I was here.”

  “My God. I’m sorry, Colette,” James said.

  “I can’t even imagine,” Anthony said.

  Tomas eyed her, his lips pursed.

  James said, “I don’t see how that would land you in purgatory, unless all the major religious doctrines have it wrong about self defense and thou shall not kill. It doesn’t make sense.

  “Anyway, I suppose I should share my story. I was in a subway and someone fell onto the tracks. An old woman. The crowd was just standing there, so I jumped down to help her out. Another guy tried to help, too, but he tripped and got electrocuted by the rails. It was awful—smelled like cooked meat. I tried helping him, too. I think I did, but my foot got caught. The last thing I remember was a sea of horrified faces and the front of a train,” James paused, looking around at them. “Is anyone else sensing a pattern? Anthony, what about you?”

  Anthony looked to the ground and moved a mound of grime with his left foot.

  “I’m too ashamed to admit what happened,” he said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Tomas, dare I even ask?” James said.

  Tomas sneered.

  “Thought so. Horace, how about you?” James said, glancing toward the injured man. “Oh, damn—is he okay?”

  Horace’s condition had worsened while they’d talked. His head lay sideways, arms and hands limp, eyes slightly open, gazing lazily to nowhere. Olivia pressed her finger into the crease of his neck.

  “His pulse and breathing seem normal, pupils slightly dilated. He’s either in mild shock or passed out from the pain—perhaps both,” she said.

  “Is there anything we can do for him?” James said.

  “Not much,” she said. “Help me turn him onto his side.”

  James helped Olivia and said “Will he be okay if he remains on his own?”

  Olivia nodded and said, “Yeah, well enough.”

  “Then I say we leave him here so the rest of us can work on figuring a way out. First though, how did you four meet?” James said to Anthony, then glanced at Keto, Colette and Tomas.

  “I ended up in some kind of office and Colette was in the next one over. We happened upon each other almost immediately. We were both panicked but soon realized we weren’t out to hurt each other. That was when we left the school, much like you, and ran into that barrier,” Anthony said, looking at Colette, who nodded.

  “We circled back to find Keto and Tomas in front of this building,” he went on. “They had met shortly before. After we established that we were all in the same boat, we entered the building in search of a telly or supplies—hell, anything—to explain how we got here or how we might get out.”

  “Sounds like we all got here at roughly the same time. It was about noon eastern for me, how about you?” James said to Anthony.

  “Well, let’s see…um…noon eastern is five or six p.m. in Cardiff, so yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “What time would it have been in Austin, Texas?” Colette asked.

  “Around eleven a.m. or so,” James said.

  “Hm…no, then, that’s not quite right for me. It was evening when I got here.”

  “Evening? So our timelines don’t match up? What the hell! How about the date? It’s September twenty-third right?” James said.

  “Sorry hon—September twenty-second for me,” Colette said.

  “The twenty-third for me,” Anthony said.

  Olivia touched James arm.

  “September twenty-fourth for me,” Olivia said.

  “How are our times so far apart? Olivia, we saw each other within minutes! Unless…oh, no…” James paused to swallow down a throat of stomach acid. “Unless they kept us sedated or something and switched us on when they wanted us to start whatever this is.” James said.

  “Could this be some sick and twisted game?” Anthony said.

  “If it is, we’d better figure out how to win,” James said.

  “So, what is it then? Me and Tomas out to flick on the power? You, Olivia, Colette and Keto to the garden?” Anthony said.

  “Sounds about right,” James said. “Everyone good?”

  Nods all around.

  “Good. Let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  And they came in the night,

  sworn to shred their victims.

  (Damascus 12:3)

  1

  Little Tomas’ couldn’t keep his hands out of the cookie jar. Despite many lashings, the allure of chocolate chips wrapped in chewy, sugary, mouth-watering dough bound him to thievery. The other orphans named him Robin Hood as he freely gave of his sweet spoils—for this he was loved and likewise loathed.

  Caretakers struggled to control little Tomas. His cleverness knew no bounds—he exacted schemes to acquire all manner of pleasures—toys, sweets, free time, even attention and affection—he wanted it all. These troubles kept him from the very thing Tomas needed most: potential parents. His caretakers lost hope, tired of him sabotaging their attempts to place him in a home. Little Tomas never found a loving family. By sixteen he left the orphanage and sought kinship elsewhere.

  Madrid, Spain’s underbelly, harbors a callous, unforgiving attitude toward delinquent youth, thwarting those attempting to escape the bitter polarization of the haves and have-nots. These economic pit holes breed crime and crimin
als: cartels and syndicates favor them as recruitment centers. Tomas picked up small jobs first—pick-pocketing someone here, running a begging fraud on someone there—and quickly made a name for himself as a gutsy, witty kid. Before he’d turned eighteen, the Sinaloa invited him into their organization.

  He assisted lower bosses, paid his dues, and flew up the ranks, eventually landing in the esteemed “hit” division. This presented Tomas with a problem: he had never taken another’s life. He may have been a crime whiz, stimulated by its challenges, but murder—murder existed outside his vocabulary. Too late. To leave Sinaloa meant death. He had no other choice—it was either him or them.

  He chose himself.

  Business was business.

  His first kill ripped from his conscience any shred of morality. Part of him died alongside that assignment. He committed his life to villainy, allowing poisoned honey to fill the fresh void in his soul.

  Tomas made a phenomenal hitman—those without family often do. His fierce, unforgiving methods kindled resentments amongst rival groups that rose to a fever pitch, bolstering the Sinaloa Cartel’s reputation. His monetary and influential worth multiplied as his fame transformed into infamy, garnering him the name Malvado or evildoer.

  Potential victims resided everywhere. Malvado targeted political officials, aristocrats, union leaders, business owners, black market dealers—there was no end. The young, old, powerful and meek—even school teachers who interfered with the Sinaloa’s recruitment efforts.

  Years ran from him, his survival usually attributed to his luck or his dastardly intellect or both. Tomas grew older without realizing it—without feeling it. His longing for family—buried deep—echoed from an insurmountable distance. He had considered a change of pace—rather, a change of profession or better yet, a change of heart—many times. Instead, his mind swooned at money and power.

  Until his final job.

  Tomas received the assignment in an anonymous envelope sealed with red wax in the shape of a horned devil. This was par for course. As was his custom, he tore open the letter with his teeth, spitting bits of the wax onto the floor, and read the name, time and location. This name he knew not, though he knew the location well. His boyhood orphanage. An assignment would again change his life.