Between Two Minds: Revelation

by D C Wright-Hammer

  The firefighter left the tent, and one of the data analysts stepped toward Garfield. “Sir, there were eight individuals who had set up shop in the building. They used insulated, portable generators to keep their energy profile hidden, and they installed dimmers on the windows to stop light from escaping. They were preparing for two unsanctioned mind migrations.”

  Garfield squinted. “Were either successful?”

  “Early data suggests that they were in the process of prepping their hosts when the fire broke out.”

  “And the hosts?”

  “No remains were found. All we know is that there was a male and a female. They stored their data locally, and those machines were lost in the fire.”

  “What was the cause?”

  “Oddly enough, a malfunctioning auto-chair from one of the organizers.”

  “Someone who was…paralyzed from the waist down?”

  The analyst nodded. “That leads me to the rest of our findings. It was fortunate that we got here so soon after the explosion. There was a survivor. The woman who used the auto-chair—she was badly burned, and she also has three bullet wounds. We’ve put her into a stabilized coma.”

  Garfield tilted his head up, thinking about this woman. “Have we patched into her mind yet?”

  The analyst shook his head. “We’ve been trying, but she has an encryption implant, the kind that are fatal when fully decrypted or removed.”

  Garfield thought for a moment, and then, nodded. He reached into his gray vest and pulled out a pocket book. He flipped it open and pulled out a storage chip. “Here. This is a one-time-use decryptor that will render the implant null without harming her. Get me a copy of her mind.”

  The analyst didn’t hesitate, immediately going through the tarp door in the center of the room.

  Garfield stood silently, taking in the moment. It was fitting that he had been reminded of his past failures on the way to the scene. One of his greatest was in a previously life. A foolish, rogue employee had held Garfield’s most prized project hostage as a backup plan to his extracurricular activities. Garfield had been forced to cover for this employee to protect all the players involved. And while he’d spun the situation much more favorably than even he thought possible, it had still been a wronging that had since gone unpunished. That was finally going to change.

  Garfield walked to the tarp. Upon walking through, he heard the repetitive breathing of the respirator keeping the survivor alive. Then, he saw her lying there, hooked to the machines. He blinked a few times as if she wasn’t real. But on the inside, he felt like he’d received an early Christmas gift.

  Garfield couldn’t stop himself from talking out loud to her. “I’ve got big plans for you, Ernesto.”

  “Damn!”

  Agony shook Ernesto into consciousness, but he was instantly distracted from his pain by his surroundings. He was sitting in a chair in a familiar place, and confusion set in. The last thing he remembered, he was clawing his way toward oxygen tanks while burning alive. Now, he was sitting in Padre Roberto Salamanca’s office at St. James’ Church in the city. He looked at the calendar on the wall and saw the year and month. He shook his head and looked around the room. It was just days before his thirteenth birthday. Eventually, his eyes settled on the desk in front of him, eying an innocent-looking red pen. At that moment, it all came rushing back to him. He was back on a fateful day. One that had changed him forever. One that had been the culmination of so many other events leading up to it.

  The city was hemorrhaging thousands of well-paying steel mill jobs, and Marktown was quickly establishing itself as a rough neighborhood. Ernesto was the oldest of four, but since his closest sibling was eight years younger, he spent a lot of time looking after them, or to himself.

  Ernesto’s parents were caught in the working-class Catch 22: Work too much and never see your kids, or don’t work enough and don’t provide enough. His mother and father juggled two or three jobs at a time, and other people in the neighborhood had still mocked them as inadequate in one form or another.

  By the age of twelve, Ernesto was already six feet and over two hundred pounds. At school, he’d won enough scuffles to have a reputation for being able to handle himself, though he was still relatively humble about his fighting prowess. Walking home one day, he was approached by a distant cousin he vaguely knew.

  “Hey, Tiny. Take this package down to the corner store. José is waiting with twenty dollars for you.”

  Ernesto was smart enough to know it wasn’t as simple as the man made it out to be, but he was also tired of seeing his folks struggle. He did as he was told and happily took the money. The next day, the same man approached him with a similar offer. After two weeks, Ernesto was excited to give $200 to his parents to help with bills. On his way home, three older boys approached. They wore jackets from a rival gang, and Ernesto was pretty sure it was the Russo Family mob.

  One of the boys pointed. “He’s the one working for the Koronas?”

  “Yeah, that’s him alright. Get him!”

  As the boys rushed him, Ernesto’s instincts kicked in. He fought off the two smaller boys, but the biggest one made solid contact to Ernesto’s face. Stunned, Ernesto fell back, instantly fearful that all the boys would come at him full force.

  Then, a strange sound came from behind the boys. A vicious growl made them all turn to reveal a gargantuan Rottweiler. It was black as midnight with brown patches, all of which contrasted against its bright pink gums and pearl white teeth dripping with drool. The Italian boys didn’t waste time running past Ernesto. But Ernesto froze in place. He was partly scared, but he was partly fascinated at the sheer respect the hound commanded.

  This is the power of Dog.

  Still snarling, the beast crept toward Ernesto.

  Mindlessly, Ernesto extended his palm up as a show of peace.

  The dog didn’t relent, inching forward, still poised to attack Ernesto.

  Pop!

  Ernesto was shaken from his stupor as a net shot around the dog. He made eye contact with the canine, watching its power dissipate as the net squeezed it to the ground. It was an impression that would stick with him forever.

  Men wearing animal control uniforms swooped in. “Are you hurt, son?”

  Ernesto shook his head.

  “Great.”

  Ernesto remembered the cash in his pocket, took a deep breath, and proceeded home. He hoped the money would distract his parents from his quickly swelling eye and smiled widely when he slapped the wad onto the kitchen table where his folks were sitting.

  “Where the hell did you get that, mijo? And what the hell happened to your face?” His father was obviously less than pleased.

  “Marco, Aunt Vera’s son, has been putting me to work. See, I can help out with the bills.”

  Ernesto’s mother gasped. “You’re working for the Koronas?!” She then devolved into a fit of violent cursing in Spanish.

  The Koronas were a street gang that had been strategically expanding into the areas of the city hit hardest by the economic downturn, recruiting anyone who didn’t seem like a narc.

  Ernesto’s father shook his head. “No! No son of mine is going to be a gangbanger. You’re going to get yourself seriously hurt, or hell, mijo, one of us—your sisters or brother.” His father continued shaking his head. “If you’ve already taken this much money, it’s already too late. You’re going to have to leave.” He turned to Ernesto’s mother. “He needs to go live with Rosella.”

  Just like that, Ernesto’s life was turned upside down. He couldn’t even say goodbye to his friends since word might get back to Marco about where he was going. He went from Marktown, a relatively tightknit neighborhood, and ended up on the other side of the city. He had to enroll in a new school, five times larger than his last. His father had drilled it into his head that he had to keep a low profile just in case Korona
s were looking for him.

  It was almost too much for Ernesto to bare, and he was depressed for the next several months. It wasn’t until he joined his aunt on a random errand that he found an outlet. They went to St. James’, the largest church on the east side, to drop off some canned goods for the food bank. Ernesto’s folks never had time to go to church, so he didn’t think much of it. He immediately thought the building was impressive. The massive stone structure had a steeple as tall as a skyscraper. Not to be outdone, the inside was even more remarkable. Ernesto anticipated it to be cold. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable it was.

  As his aunt and he walked toward the altar, he counted fifty rows of pews that were three deep on either side. He had a hard time believing they could fill that many seats. Days later, he was blown away at his first mass, seeing that there were even folks standing in the back just to hear the word of God. After that, he begged his aunt to attend services twice a week and he even went to all the community events. A couple sermons in, Ernesto was listening like a good boy when his eyes drifted to the massive crowd around him. Everyone was sitting in silence, and most were listening attentively. He looked back up at Padre Roberto, and then back again at the churchgoers. This went on for nearly a minute before a familiar notion took hold of him.

  This is the power of God.

  From that point on, Ernesto was dead set on becoming the right hand of the All-Mighty. He wanted to command respect of all who worshipped just like Padre Roberto. He wanted to speak with the padre about his journey to becoming a padre like him.

  “Excuse me, sir…I mean Padre. My name is Ernesto, and I’d like to become a padre one day, just like you.” Ernesto found him after a service one Sunday.

  The padre nodded. “Your admiration is not necessary, my son, as I am merely a humble servant of the Lord. But it is nice to meet you, Ernesto. I’ve seen you with Rosella, one of our most pious members, and it makes sense that you’d be interested in priesthood. Tell me, my son, have you been baptized?”

  “Yes. When I was very little.”

  The padre put his hand on Ernesto’s shoulder. “Then, let’s have you become a regular altar server. Meet me in my office on Saturday at noon to discuss.”

  Ernesto grinned from ear to ear.

  “Oh, and Ernesto?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have your aunt drop you off. You’ll be here awhile.”

  For the first time in his life, Ernesto felt as if an adult, a man, was taking a legitimate interest in the future he wanted, instead of working too much, and then, sending him away when he tried to earn his keep.

  Saturday, Rosella pulled up to the church to drop off Ernesto and reiterated how proud she was. “We’ve never had a priest in the family. You’re an inspiration.”

  “Thanks, Rosella! I’ll call you when I’m ready to be picked up.”

  Ernesto stepped out of the car and walked with pride as he approached the building. He entered through the tall, wooden doors and proceeded down the main aisle between the pews. The only light in the building came from candles lining the walkway and through the stained-glass windows. The entire room flickered with greens, reds, and blues. Otherwise, the place was completely empty. He passed the altar and was about to enter the dark corridor toward the offices.

  “Good day, Ernesto.”

  He was startled by the voice that seemingly came out of nowhere. A nun, with her head down, walked past him going in the other direction. She looked up to flash him a smile.

  “Good day, sister.” Ernesto continued through the hallway to the padre’s office. The door was open, and he took one step in.

  Knock. Knock.

  Padre Roberto had his back to the door, moving a chair next to the existing one facing his desk. What was most striking to Ernesto was the fact that he was in casual clothes instead of his priest garb.

  The padre turned to greet him. “Hello, my son! Please come in and have a seat. I have to get something from the kitchen, so I’ll be right back.”

  Ernesto obliged, and the padre left.

  Now, sitting alone in one of the two chairs in the quiet office, his adolescent mind began to wander, thinking about the number of years it would take to become a priest. He really didn’t have a clue but imagined it would be like college plus or minus a few years. He glanced at the calendar and considered scribbling his thoughts on a piece of paper. That was when he noticed a red pen on the table. The red pen.

  “Sorry about that. Now, about you becoming an alter server.” The padre closed the door behind him and moved to stand next to Ernesto. He placed a wooden spoon on his desk, next to the red pen, and put his hand on Ernesto’s shoulder. His tone was stern. “I want you to know something before you go down this path.” The padre cleared his throat. “You’re going to have to make sacrifices in order to become a priest someday. Only the Lord will know which offerings have been given with purity in your heart. You’ll encounter temptation along the way. Temptation that will make you want to stray from the light. Temptation that will make you question your righteous journey. Now, I ask you under no duress or coercion, are you prepared to do everything that is required of you, from here on out, in order to obtain the title of the right hand of God?”

  “Yes, Padre.” Ernesto responded without hesitation.

  The padre’s tone became even more serious. “Everything? Even things that seem a bit unusual or even make you uncomfortable?”

  Ernesto flinched. “Uncomfortable?”

  The padre responded with certainty. “Yes. You may be placed in situations where you don’t want to do right by the Lord. Even in those times, you must obey His word. Will you obey, Ernesto?”

  Ernesto shrugged. “I will try my best.”

  The padre shook his head and spoke with disappointment. “There is no try. You either will or you won’t. Which is it, my son?”

  Ernesto’s mind raced, thinking that he was being tested in that very moment, and he froze.

  The padre sat down in the open chair next to Ernesto, placed his hand on Ernesto’s thigh, and looked him in the eye. “What are you willing to do for Him?”

  Ernesto panicked and pulled away in disgust. “What are you doing?”

  The padre rolled his eyes and reached for the wooden spoon.

  Whack! across Ernesto’s face.

  “Ow!” Ernesto tried to get up, but the padre restrained him.

  Calmly, the padre continued. “The word of God is much stronger than that of a random gangbanger. We all have to make sacrifices, Ernesto.”

  Whack!

  “Ow!” Ernesto struggled with the most intense dread in his life. He felt powerless without an outlet or someone to help. The more the padre rested his weight on Ernesto, the more the terror inside him grew. The fear of something was being thrust upon him, but it wasn’t God.

  It wasn’t until the bleakest moment that something snapped inside of Ernesto. It dawned on him that the man who was attacking him was no man of faith. Furthermore, it was painfully obvious that Ernesto would always have to look out for himself if he was going to make it in the world. There was only one way out of this situation, and Ernesto knew it was a righteous endeavor, indeed.

  Ernesto fought to free his right hand and extended it as far as it would go, to the edge of the desk.

  “If only you knew the things I had to do to become a man of the cloth, you wouldn’t be so squeamish. I’ll be gentle.”

  Ernesto’s right hand inched farther and farther, all the while trying not to think about what the padre might do next.

  “And eventually, you’ll learn that real sacrifice is the only way toward true salvation in this world.”

  Ernesto’s finger felt a cold piece of plastic, and he rolled it into his hand. Then, his arm had a mind of its own, channeling all his strength. He plunged the red pen deep into the neck of the padre. Blood
spirted all over the office as the padre gasped and helplessly grabbed at the object lodged in his jugular. Ernesto couldn’t help but stare directly into the eyes of the padre. He watched as the padre’s power evaporated into nothingness, and terror filled the void left behind. Gurgling, the padre slid down to the floor, and Ernesto, covered in the gore, steadily stood up. He looked down at the man that he’d looked up to just moments prior. As traumatic as it was, Ernesto’s mantra played in his head.

  This is the power of God.

  Ernesto’s direct actions allowed him to live while slaying a false clergyman. Slaying, with his right hand, which was still shaking as he looked down at it, coated in red. It was then that it all made sense to him.

  His intent that day had been completely innocent. He ultimately made a sacrifice, an offering as pure as could be. After all his worry about the work needed to become a priest, in the blink of an eye, he’d achieved the salvation he so desperately wanted, at least in his mind. It was he, Ernesto Guerrero, who was the true right hand of God. He was a padre. He was the Padre.

  “Ernesto! What have you done?!”

  The nun’s scream made Ernesto’s mind reel slightly, but before his morbid memory could fully play out, he was suddenly in another place from his past. It took him a moment to focus, but he was indeed in the barracks from his time with the private military firm, Blue Front. He was nineteen.

  After taking the life of a well-respected priest, Ernesto was railroaded in juvenile court based on the testimony from the only “witness”—the nun. The judge had forced him to spend close to six years bouncing back and forth between mental institutions and detention centers. His family only visited him once, immediately after his sentencing, to tell him he was a disappointment.

  His father said, “We can’t afford a stain like you on our name.”

  None of it mattered to Ernesto. With his newly discovered power, all he needed was knowledge and skills. He studied hard while incarcerated and graduated high school faster than if he were in a traditional class. He even took some college courses on business and military strategy, the latter of which really piqued his interest. On his eighteenth birthday, fresh out of juvy, he decided to visit a military recruiter. It was yet another turning point in his life.