by Lisa Kuehne
One of Sam's duties is to report to a correspondent once a month. This correspondent contacts him and arranges a meeting. Sam will then give updates on his recent accomplishments. All the angelic soldiers have to do this for hundreds of years.
Once he proves himself, Sam will most likely end up becoming a correspondent himself.
The correspondents report these updates to Lucifer, and the angels of darkness are occasionally rewarded with extra, materialistic things like new cars or nicer homes.
Typically, they're just given the "keep up the good work" speech. It is not on option to miss a meeting with your correspondent. Even if you've had a slow month, you still need to report such. Although not producing mayhem is pretty hard. Humans are selfish beings by nature. Many lack the right values or virtues and are easy persuaded to follow their selfish motives. How can self-destruction of the human race not be inevitable?
It's Lucifer's wish that his angels also try to convert the others—the "true followers" of God. These are the people who typically follow the rules. The angels are encouraged to tantalize these true followers with temptations so sought after, desire forces them to be emotionally torn between sin and deliverance from moral captivity.
These are the ultimate humans Lucifer desires to control.
Sam struggles with this concept, for that's how he lived as a human before he owed his soul to Lucifer.
To spend eternity in this demonic role and not be tormented by guilt, Sam focuses on transforming those already on their way to damnation. He refuses to pursue anyone who doesn't possess a majority of self-centered values. Since he can sense their underlying self, Sam uses this to his benefit. If he sees their "moral side" outshines their
"sinful side," he leaves them alone. If it is reversed, and the bad has the most control, they're fair game. In his two hundred years of playing this wicked game of cat and mouse, he has only once met a soul who faced his strict rules and didn't give in to temptation. Over the last hundred years, it has become too easy. It would be much more challenging to test the "true followers of God," or at least the people on the edge, but that notion seems unfair. When under stress, mankind is more easily persuaded to follow temptation, and they don't understand the significance of their decisions, especially at a young age like seventeen.
Today, Sam is meeting his correspondent at a local restaurant, The Saddleback Inn. The correspondent is Matthew, a tall, muscular, older angel who is one of the original angels that followed Lucifer away from God. Sam has met with Matthew several times in the past. Usually, they keep their conversation focused on the main topic only and minimize the small talk, but this Friday afternoon is different.
"So, Samuel, long time no see," Matthew says as he sits down at the table Sam has been waiting at for over ten minutes.
"It never bothers me, Matthew. The longer the better as far as I'm concerned."
Sam would rather not have to endure these monthly meetings. The numbers of traitors to God should speak for itself. He shouldn't need supervision to carry out his missions.
Matthew laughs out loud. "You think I wouldn't rather be tantalizing some beautiful broad? Believe me, Samuel, I comply with these meetings to fill our requirements, it's nothing personal."
Matthew pauses then takes a big swig from Sam's water glass before continuing.
"So, fill me in. What have you been up to recently?" he asks.
"I just finished roping in a sexual predator. He attacked one girl thus far and has been working diligently to find an appropriate second victim," Sam admits with a hint of arrogance. His eyes meet Matthew's as he takes another sip of the hot tea he ordered before Matthew's arrival.
Matthew smirks.
"Yeah, I actually met your guy earlier today. Walter is it?" Matthew confesses. He watches Sam closely for his reaction.
Sam removes the hot cup from his lips. "You met him today, huh?" He's baffled why Matthew would go to the trouble of watching or approaching his latest conquest.
It doesn't make much sense.
"Samuel, Samuel . . . ." Matthew mutters. He shakes his head in repugnance. "Did you honestly think we wouldn't be unable to detect your emotions toward the young girl? Do you underestimate us that much?"
Young girl?
Is he talking about Ava?
Pure panic fills Sam's veins. It all makes sense now, the pieces of puzzle coming together quickly in his mind. Matthew hadn't approached the predator to check up on him. Matthew sent Walter on a specific mission. He was luring him to intercept Ava and destroy her before she became a more powerful Mahatma.
Sam jumps up from his chair and violently throws his cash down on the table to pay for his drink.
"You plan to have that sick, masochistic, psycho torture her, just so you can have her destroyed?"
"Samuel? Once again, it's not personal. It must be done, you know that," Matthew explains. He shrugs, and a wicked smile forms across his pallid face.
"No," Sam yells, not caring who may hear. He pushes another table out of his way and runs out the door before Matthew has the chance to respond. But as he gets to his car, he can hear Matthew's laughter echoing outside the restaurant and can easily read by the tone of his laugh that it's already too late . . . .
Chapter Twelve - Terror
I pull out of the school parking lot with plans to do some shopping down in San Bernardino, mostly for some new clothes to take with me on my flight Saturday. Since I'll be taking off super early Saturday morning, which unbelievably is tomorrow, this afternoon will probably be my only chance to pick up a few new things.
I really don't feel like spending money on new clothes, but I've lost weight since we moved here in February—eight pounds to be exact. Those eight pounds made a huge difference on my 5 6" frame. My favorite jeans are barely staying on my hips. At this rate, I'll end up looking like I belong in a Generation Y, crack gang. I haven't tried to lose weight. But there isn't a large assortment of restaurants in Lake Arrowhead, that's for sure. My family always ate out in Chicago. Mom and I have eaten more home-cooked meals in the last two months in California than in an entire year in Chicago. If there is one thing about eating out in the Midwest, it's the dilemma to find something healthy for you. Of course, Sam trampling on my self-esteem for the last few weeks has been great at stunning my appetite.
My mom offered to go shopping with me after school today, but she has the house closing scheduled for three o'clock. Those things always take forever. I dread the boutiques closing while I'm waiting on her. Plus, I need to explore the area independently since she's buying a house. I'm going to be stuck here for quite a while, so I might as well get used to it.
The weather is gorgeous this afternoon, in the high seventies and not a cloud in the sky. I finally have the nerve to take the Jeep's soft top down and enjoy having a convertible. It's the first time I've been willing to give it a try, and luckily, I find it is a lot easier than I had anticipated. A few unzips, and I am ready to rock and roll. Though putting the top back on looks like it may be more challenging.
There isn't much breeze today, and the warm mountain air smells of lilacs, grass, and pine needles. Maybe California isn't so bad after all . . . . You would never smell all this in Chicago.
As I head down the mountain, driving around a blind corner, I hastily approach a parked 1980s Class C motor home stopped in the middle of the road. It's blocking most of my lane. I hit my brakes, afraid I'm about to smash into the back end. The RV's flashers are blinking, and a large stick awkwardly props up the rusty hood. There stands a tall, overweight man, looking to be somewhere in his late 20s or 30s, wearing worn jeans, a red and blue flannel, and a grimy, old baseball cap. His hair is unkempt.
Even his facial hair is scruffy. Layers of dirt cover his oily, rough skin. When he hears my brakes squeal, he moves from behind the engine and waves his hands to get my attention. Who knows how long he has been stranded here. The RV looks outdated and in extraordinarily poor condition, and I wonder why he would try to drive
this thing very far to begin with.
"Excuse me . . . . M-Miss . . . ." He calls out in a Southern accent. He waves his hands in the air one last time and then walks toward the Jeep.
"Do you have a cell phone that I can use to call a tow truck?" he asks, his voice pleading. There's desperation in his eyes. He continues to walk and steadily lessens the distance between us. I can smell the mixture of beer and sweat radiating from his clothes the closer he gets to the Jeep.
"Ah, yeah, sure . . . you can use my cell," I offer reluctantly. I lean over toward my right side to pull out the cell from the front pocket of my green backpack. It's lying on the passenger seat.
As I reach for the backpack, there's an instant, yet agonizing, sharp pain at the back of my head. Before I have the chance to scream out, my world goes black . . . .
* * * * *
My head throbs as I drift back and forth into a semi-conscious state. I hear noises, although they sound incredibly muffled. I make out the sound of an engine. The floor rattles beneath me and causes my body to vibrate. I try to pull my hand around to touch the area of pain coming from the back of my skull, only to realize both hands are tightly bound behind my back with some type of rope. As I lie on my side, the rough, old, crusty carpet rubs against my left cheek, causing my sensitive skin to burn. My vision is cloudy, as if a fog surrounds me. I'm unable to focus on any objects more than a few feet away. I gulp past the lump in my dry throat. I am in some type of large van— or a RV!
Panic overwhelms me, and I fight the pain in my head to open my eyes as wide as they will possibly go. As I consider my options, my breathing becomes more rapid.
Fear of my fate sets in.
I'm going to die . . . .
Okay, let me recollect my thoughts.
I remember the man asking me for my phone before I blacked out, but after that—nothing.
Disabling tears fill my eyes. I try not to picture in vivid detail what I believe his intentions must be. I can only assume I'm being taken somewhere secluded. I start thinking about my mother finding out about my death and blaming herself for bringing me out to California to begin with.
I imagine her all alone, first losing Aiden and Dad, and now me. I wish I could tell her goodbye. Different thoughts race in my mind, competing for dominance: I can't do this to her . . . . She needs me . . . . I have to get out of here . . . .
I attempt to adjust my body to sit up, but with the bumpy rocking of the RV and feeling dizzy, I lie back down. My hands are so tightly bound, there's no way I can squeeze them through the ropes.
Is escaping hopeless?
I gently move my feet, assuming they're also tied, but I pleasantly discover I'm able to move them without resistance. I wiggle and scoot until I find something hard to lean on to balance myself. The orange-colored carpet is worn and hard, resembling cement. My heart pounds from terror. I steady myself against an old, rusting, dining table post screwed to the floorboard. Mice droppings cover the floor. My head still pounds, and the rapid beating of my heart accelerates the pounding.
Heavy music blares from the front speakers. I look in the direction of the music and see a rigged-up shower curtain hanging between the seats of the motor home and the living space. Undoubtedly, someone has to be driving this thing on the other side of that curtain.
The rattling of the floorboard reassures me the RV is still moving, but it's traveling at a slower speed than before. I may not have much time left before he reaches his destination. I need to find a way to get my hands free or escape will be impossible.
While scoping out the outdated interior, something silver catches me eye.
Drawers and cupboards sit to my far left. The drawers' handles caught my attention.
Could there be scissors or a knife in there?
Are there any drawers closer to me?
The more the RV bounces, the harder my head pounds from the pain.
I must not think about the pain now, not yet.
I need to focus all my thoughts, all my wits, on staying alive. There's a wet spot about the size of a small paper plate, of wet blood on the carpeting where I lay. More blood streaks lead to my current location, most likely caused from my wiggling over to the bolted table.
I try to think, but can't concentrate. A gush of nausea hits my stomach. All I want to do is lie down. I know I can't do that. I have to find a way out of here.
I continue to scope out my surroundings for any possible escape route, weapon, or objects that might help me to cut this rope. I glare to my left, realizing the drop-down bed in the back room of the motor home has been staged. A blanket and pillows are draped on top of the thin, full-size mattress. Duct tape attached a video camera to an old, wall-mounted TV stand.
Panic again sets in.
Contrary to what I fear will happen, I try to stay positive.
I can't die, I must live, I can't die, I must live.
Yesterday was just another ordinary day. Today, I'm living my worst nightmare.
If only I hadn't had the Jeep top down, he wouldn't have been able to hit me. I would have been able to speed off and get away. My internal dialogue is interrupted when I feel the recreational vehicle jerk. It comes to a complete stop, and the engine turns off.
Chapter Thirteen – Too Late
Sam races to his Audi and slides into the driver's seat. With urgency, he turns the ignition and peels out of the restaurant parking lot. He remembers where Walter lives, and knows about Walter's plan to use his 1993 F-250 as bait. He is planning to pull a Ted Bundy. What girl wouldn't help someone in need?
There has to be enough time.
He refuses to consider what Walter may be doing to Ava. After all, he created Walter. He set the monster in him free by teasing and tantalizing him with two things, a sexual release and power over a woman.
Walter's desires are strong. He has been living with self-doubt for a long time.
The assault on the waitress gave him a sense of power and self-worth he had never known.
Walter will need another victim to fulfill his needs.
Sam cringes.
What if he is too late?
Sam shakes off the thought. Panic wastes time and energy. Yet every time Ava's face enters his mind, he visualizes her being tortured by Walter.
He remembers her look, the day outside school when her soft lips touched his.
Goose bumps erupt over his arms as he relives the moment in his mind. She had taken him by surprise. Had his unspoken desire influenced her? Or was there a chance she kissed him because she truly wanted to?
Would she want to kiss him—an atrocious demon—if she knew the truth?
Surely not.
This is exactly why this life is a living hell. He is aware of the feeling he has toward this young girl. Desire unlike any other he has experienced in his seventeen years of human life, or his two hundred plus years of immortality. Yet he recognizes he can never be with her. The only thing that could make this living hell any more unbearable would be to live for eternity knowing his careless actions resulted in her death.
Sam turns onto Walter's dirt driveway his tires spinning. Walter's Ford is parked in front of the house.
Sam jumps out of his car and runs through the yard, searching every square inch of accessible property. He is running so fast his feet barely touch the ground.
To his dismay, Walter is nowhere to be found.
Is he already disposing of the body?
Sweat pores down Sam's face.
He drops to his knees, hitting the cold, hard ground with enough force to leave deep indentions in the soil. He looks down at the dry dirt in shame.
The thought of her death is unbearable.
Instinctively, Sam starts to pray to God, but then catches himself mid-prayer. Has he lost it? Praying to God like this? Surely God would never consider answering the prayers of a monster of Satan.
Although he knows it's hopeless, he glances up toward the sky, begging for mercy.
Please, Not her.<
br />
As he looks back to the ground, the emotional pain causes his eyes to feel grainy; several clues come to his attention.
There are tire tracks embedded in the soft dirt. Tracks that don't match the Ford truck sitting in the driveway.
He studies the marks carefully. The deep impression of the treads indicates a heavy vehicle, maybe a semi or RV.
He rushes to the front door, a new idea entering his mind. Walter's front door is locked. He must be planning to be gone for quite a while. Walter never locks his door.
He must have Ava somewhere private, somewhere he can have his way with her . . . .
An RV.
He tries not to picture what pain Walter will inflict on her. She is so fragile, so pure and innocent. A scary thought creeps into Sam's mind. Even If God did answer his prayers, and he makes it to Ava in time to save her from death, what effect will this attack have on her?
With her innocence lost, and Walter's inflicted torture, she'll never be the same.
Sam closes his eyes, trying to erase the vivid details he imagines may be lurking inside Walter's mind. Although he can only assume how Walter will handle this new found freedom of power and control, Sam must consider: Maybe after Walter is done with her, she will be praying to die?
Chapter Fourteen - Walter
The RV stops moving. In the eerie silence, I hear my own breathing intensifying with each passing second. The floor of the vehicle creaks from my legs shaking so hard.
I struggle to remain focused on my escape, but the pain diverts my attention to the blood oozing from the back of my scalp. I need to remain clearheaded if I'm going to survive. But right now, that task seems impossible.
I tremble uncontrollably as I lean against the cabinet. I need to stand up, to get out of here. My hands are numb from the ropes tied securely around my thin wrists. I make a pathetic attempt to use the limited freedom of my fingers to pull on the closest cabinet drawer, hoping there might be something sharp inside. Maybe something that can be used as a weapon.