Psychological Damage (Gray Spear Society)

by Siegel, Alex

  One man did manage to escape both women, but he wasn't faster than a rifle bullet. Smythe placed a shot through his heart.

  The fight was over in seconds.

  "Smythe," the legate said, "come down. We need your muscles. Ethel, retrieve the van. Atalanta, keep your eyes open in case we missed one."

  Smythe went over to a rope ladder tied to a grappling hook. He made sure the hook was secure before hurriedly climbing down.

  He heard police sirens in the far distance.

  He had seen many gruesome things in hospitals and on the battlefields of Afghanistan, but the scene on the parking lot was bad by any standard. It looked like a food processor had attacked the enemy. He automatically began a medical evaluation. Of the twelve, four were dead and five had injuries requiring immediate treatment. The remaining three would probably survive if left alone. But that's not going to happen, he thought.

  The legate could be seen normally now. He wore a gray sweat suit, a bulletproof vest, and a combat helmet.

  The leader of the enemies had a radio on his belt. It crackled to life. "Whitey, are you there? It's Norbert. What the hell is going on? We heard a bang. Talk to me!"

  Whitey was in no condition to answer. He lacked hands and feet and was bleeding badly.

  The legate took the radio. "Hello, Norbert."

  "Who are you?" Norbert said.

  "I'm certainly not Whitey."

  "You mother fucking devil worshippers! Did you kill them all?"

  "Not yet," the legate said calmly. "Let's be perfectly clear on one point. We don't worship the Devil."

  "I saw you fight. You're demons!"

  "No, we're human."

  "Sorcerers and witches, then," Norbert said. "What about the pamphlet? It talked about the Antichrist."

  "That was merely bait and you know it. Enough! It seems we won't have time to kill you tonight, so this is your opportunity to run and hide. Release your prisoner. Stop searching for the one you call the Luciferian Child. If we never cross paths again, there is a possibility you might survive."

  "I made an oath to God. As long as my heart still beats, I will fight you."

  "Your dedication is admirable and suicidal. Good bye." The legate turned off the radio.

  Smythe felt terrible. He wished he could talk some sense into Norbert.

  The legate pointed at Whitey and three other men. "We'll take these with us. Smythe, keep them from dying. Atalanta, administer the coup de grâce to the rest."

  Smythe attended his patients. Blood loss and shock were his main concerns. He didn't have any bandages, so he quickly tore up clothes to make strips of cloth. He bound the enemies' wounds as tightly as he could.

  Atalanta took much less time to accomplish her task. She used a single thrust of her sword to kill each man.

  Ethel returned, driving a gray van. The police sirens were getting close. The team loaded the four prisoners into the back of the van and left.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Brother Norbert was despondent. The arrival of the police meant the fight was over. The only good thing he could say about the night was that most of the Brotherhood had survived. The Sons of Michael, on the other hand, were gone.

  He waved for his monks to follow as he headed east across the farmer's field. They had parked their cars along the frontage road for a state highway. It would take about twenty minutes to walk back. Of course, now they had plenty of extra cars.

  Norbert needed to make his report to Father, but when he reached for the phone, he hesitated. He didn't know what he would say. Too many conflicting thoughts and feelings competed for attention. Crushing guilt was the strongest emotion. He was the commander here, so tonight's disaster was ultimately his responsibility.

  He couldn't shake the memory of Ethel's eyes. She had looked straight at him as if judging his worthiness. For some reason he wanted her approval, but that notion was insane. She was a monster. Why should he care what she thought of him?

  The short conversation with the enemy also nagged him. Father had claimed the enemy was in league with the devil, yet the man on the radio had stated otherwise. Edward had denied Satanism repeatedly under duress. During Norbert's brief visit to the enemy's underground bunker, neither he nor Captain Huttenlocher had seen any signs of devil worship. It was enough to make Norbert wonder if Father were right.

  Norbert stopped that dangerous line of thought. His faith was strong enough to overcome a few inconvenient facts.

  He grabbed his phone and made the call.

  Father answered after a few rings. "Hello?"

  "This is Brother Norbert, sir. I have very bad news. The battle was lost. We suffered extensive casualties. The Sons of Michael are all dead or captured."

  "Did you at least hurt the enemy?"

  "I don't think so, sir. We barely saw them."

  "Edward told us there were only four of them!" Father yelled.

  "Yes. Four unholy monsters."

  Father was silent.

  "You need to move, sir," Norbert said. "The enemy might extract your location from their captives. It's not safe to stay where you are."

  Father sighed. "I'll pack immediately."

  * * *

  The four prisoners were tied to stakes in the middle of an empty cornfield. Ropes attached to their hands and feet were so tight they could barely move. In cases where hands or feet were missing, elbows or knees were used at attachment points. Headlights from the van illuminated pale, mottled skin.

  Smythe kept an eye on the prisoners' bandages. All four men were in various stages of shock due to blood loss. They were still conscious, but that condition might not last.

  The legate stood over them. "Gentlemen," he said, "I don't have a lot of questions, so we can make this brief. One of my men is being held prisoner. Where is he?"

  The leader of the group, a big man known as Whitey, replied, "We're not holding anybody."

  "You captured him almost five days ago."

  "The Brotherhood must have your guy. We don't know anything about it."

  The legate furrowed his brow. "You're not the Brotherhood?"

  "We're the Sons of Michael," Whitey said.

  "What exactly are the Sons of Michael?"

  "We are Christian warriors! We're fighting to restore the world to biblical purity. We kill heathens, homosexuals, and abortion doctors."

  "Really." The legate raised his eyebrows. "Is that fight going well?"

  Whitey looked left and right at his companions. He grimaced.

  "If you're not the Brotherhood," the legate said, "why are you here?"

  "They told us the Antichrist had come."

  "Hmm. Please, excuse me."

  The legate moved away and motioned for his team to follow. Smythe, Ethel, and Atalanta formed a small circle in the darkness with their leader.

  "It seems we took the wrong prisoners," the legate said.

  "An understandable mistake, sir," Smythe said. "They were shooting at us."

  "Nevertheless, we're not any closer to rescuing Edward."

  "Let me work on these guys," Atalanta said. "They must know something."

  "If you wish," the legate said, "but we're leaving at first light. Finish before then."

  "Yes, sir."

  Atalanta walked back to the men on the ground. Ethel observed from a short distance, apparently interested in Atalanta's interrogation techniques.

  Smythe faced the other way. He had seen too many torture sessions in his life. It was bad enough he had to hear this one.

  "You saw me in the parking lot," the legate said. "How?"

  "I didn't really see you, sir," Smythe replied, "but I knew where you were. I could tell your location by the way reality bent around you."

  "The truth is I wear the cloak of the Lord. No living man can perceive it directly. To even glimpse its outlines, one must have tremendous courage and compassion. One has to cast aside all prejudice. You accomplished a great thing tonight. Ethel was very wise to recruit you."

>   Smythe's face grew warm. "Thank you, sir. That means a lot coming from you."

  He heard a crunch and a cry of pain from the prisoners. He kept his eyes firmly pointed in the other direction.

  "Sir," he said, "if you don't mind, I'd like to express my opinion about Atalanta."

  "Go on," the legate said.

  "She's... unpleasant. All she cares about is fighting and killing."

  "I know." The legate nodded apologetically. "I regret needing her company, but you have to admit she is a phenomenal bodyguard. A man in my position has too many enemies to settle for less."

  "Enemies, sir?" Smythe said.

  "Within the Gray Spear Society, there are some who wish to take my place, who crave the title of legatus legionis. It's human nature to always want more power."

  "That's hard to imagine, sir. Everybody I've met so far has been absolutely dedicated to the cause."

  "You've benefited from Ethel's impeccable judgment in choosing her team," the legate said. "Other decurions aren't as infallible. There is rot in the Society, and my job is to cut it out. If I allowed corruption to spread, eventually God would have to step in. That's not something you want to see in your lifetime."

  "It has happened before?" Smythe said.

  "The Gray Spear Society was built on the ashes of a failed organization that served the same purpose during the Roman Empire. I literally mean ashes. We are gray for more than one reason."

  "Oh."

  There was another scream of agony. Smythe slouched down. It would be hours until dawn, and Atalanta would probably utilize every minute of that time.

  The legate sighed.

  * * *

  As the eastern horizon turned pink, the last of the Sons of Michael died. Smythe was very glad the ordeal was over. For hours he had listened to their cries of pain and hopeless pleas for mercy. Atalanta had shown as much compassion as a shark feels for a baby seal. She knew many ways to hurt a man, and she had gone through the entire list.

  The interrogation had yielded no new information of value. The Spears team should've just killed the prisoners and been on their way.

  Smythe, Ethel, Atalanta, and the legate trudged through a dirt field towards the van. The spring morning was cool and still. Dew had softened the ground.

  "Gentleman," the legate said, "ladies. We might as well discuss a subject we've been avoiding. Eventually, Wesley will come back to Chicago. We have to decide what to do with him. We need a permanent solution to his security problem."

  "Let's build a fortress," Atalanta said. "The northern Rocky Mountains in Canada seem like a good location. There are old mines we could refurbish."

  They arrived at the van. Smythe took the driver's seat, the traditional role of the junior member of the team. Ethel sat in on the passenger side with a gun on her lap. The legate took the most protected location in the back with Atalanta beside him.

  It still felt odd to see Ethel playing second fiddle to anybody else. Smythe was accustomed to her being the voice of ultimate wisdom. She seemed to have a thousand years of hard won experience. Her natural role was giving orders, not receiving them.

  "I think that's a poor idea," she said. "Wesley is just a boy. We can't lock him in a prison until he grows up. He needs to learn the ways of the world."

  "God wants him safe," Atalanta said.

  "I'm sure God also wants him to be competent. Ten years on a frozen mountain will just make him crazy."

  "I agree with Ethel," Smythe said. "In the military the best defense is mobility. The enemy can't kill what he can't find. If we build a fortress, we might as well paint a big bull's eye on the side. There is a reason modern armies don't use them anymore."

  "Wesley's parents tried mobility," the legate said, "and they're dead now."

  "Yes, sir, but they successfully protected him for eight years without any help. The Brotherhood was nipping at their heels the entire time. I'd say his parents did an extremely good job under the circumstances."

  "Indeed. At one time they were a couple of my best legionnaires. Perhaps we should follow their example."

  Smythe was driving along a country road that would eventually take him back to the highway. The rising sun was shining directly into his eyes. It would be an hour before they got back to the hotel. Staying awake would be a challenge.

  In a quiet voice, he said, "I wonder how Aaron and Marina are doing. I hope they're enjoying their vacation."

  Ethel shrugged. "I'm sure they'll have stories to tell when they get back."

  "Not like ours."

  "Maybe."

  "You have a bad feeling?" Smythe said.

  She nodded. "Yeah, but I shouldn't worry. I trained them well. If they get into serious trouble, they'll call."

  "That's right. Aaron and Marina can handle anything."

  * * *

  Brother Norbert looked through a small, glass portal at Edward. The prisoner was sitting in a proper chair at a table. A feast was laid out, covering every inch of the small table. He had his choice of lobster, steak, fresh fruit salad, potatoes, pastries, chocolate cake, and more. Looking at it made Norbert hungry.

  "What is all the food for?" he asked.

  "A reward for fully cooperative behavior," Dr. Ishii said. "You have to give a patient positive feedback when there is a major breakthrough. He'll answer all your questions now. I'm sorry it took so long."

  "Can we go in?"

  "Yes, but he is still on strong medication. His mind may wander. Please be patient with him."

  Norbert unlocked the heavy door of the hyperbaric chamber. Edward was stuffing food into his mouth as fast as he could swallow. Norbert waited until Edward slowed down a little before talking to him.

  "What is the name of your organization?" Norbert said.

  "It's not my organization anymore," Edward replied in a slow, clear voice. "I know the truth now. They were lying to me from the beginning."

  "OK. What is the name of your former organization?"

  "The Gray Spear Society."

  Norbert raised his eyebrows. "An odd name."

  "In Roman times, members of the Society covered their faces and spears with gray ash as camouflage."

  Norbert looked to Ishii. The doctor shrugged.

  "How big is the Society?" Norbert said.

  "Global. There are seven divisions, each led by a man or woman called the legate. The North American division has twenty-two cells. I was a member of the Chicago cell. Ethel is the leader."

  "Who are the others in the Chicago cell?"

  "Aaron, Marina, and Smythe are known as legionnaires," Edward said. "They do the field work, which means they go out and kill people. Jack is chief of security, Kamal is a scientist, and Nancy is a mechanic and plumber. I was the technology expert. Oh, and Yvonne is the housekeeper."

  "Sounds like a complete team," Norbert said.

  "We had many successful missions. Of course now I know it was all a lie. They were worshipping the devil behind my back. Dr. Ishii made me understand this."

  "You never actually saw this devil worship?"

  "No." Edward shook his head. The motion seemed to make him dizzy, and he grabbed the table to steady himself.

  "I see." Norbert sighed with frustration. "What sort of missions?"

  "This is going to sound silly. The Gray Spear Society supposedly guards the Earth. The enemies of God are always trying to disrupt His plan, and Society gets it back on track. At least that's what they told me."

  "Can you give me an example?"

  "Do you remember that tuberculosis panic last fall?" Edward said. "A death cult was actually responsible. They ran a travelling carnival and were poisoning people with contaminated food. The Society stopped them."

  "The cult was arrested?" Norbert said.

  "No, they were put to death. That's how the Society operates. Just like the Devil, right?"

  Norbert's own experiences confirmed that statement.

  "Tell me about another mission."

  "There was a g
roup who wanted to blow up Navy Pier and kill thousands of tourists," Edward said. "It took a few months but we caught them all. Even their name was wiped out. The Devil has no mercy."

  Father was sitting in his wheelchair. He couldn't get into the chamber, so he was listening from outside the open doorway. "Dr. Ishii," he said, "what is this nonsense?"

  "The prisoner believes it," Ishii said. "Whether it makes sense or not is another matter. Remember, this man was almost rendered permanently insane by many years of intense psychological conditioning. Everything he tells us has to be taken in context. At least he's cooperating to the best of his ability."

  Norbert rubbed his temples. He wasn't getting the answers he had expected to hear, not even close.

  "What about the Luciferian Child?" he said. "Where is Wesley?"

  "Aaron and Marina took him away so he'd be safe," Edward said. "The rest of the team stayed in Chicago to deal with you. I should also mention the North American legate and his bodyguard, Atalanta, are in town. They came as soon as they heard about Wesley. He is the only man in the world who can give Ethel orders. Him and the Devil, of course."

  "I saw Ethel on the battlefield last night."

  Norbert still had a sharp memory of Ethel's eyes staring at him. He didn't know what it meant, but it seemed important.

  "You actually saw her?" Edward swallowed. "How are you still alive?"

  "I guess I was lucky."

  "The members of the Society are living weapons."

  "If you had to fight them, what would you do?" Norbert said.

  Edward looked down at his plate. He pushed a potato around with his fork.

  "Try to enjoy the time I had left," he said finally.

  "That's not helpful," Norbert said. "Does the Society have a weakness?"

  "Secrecy, I suppose. They can't operate in the open. That's the most important rule of all. They kill anybody who knows the secret. But God will protect us. Right?" Edward's eyes were wide open.

  The Lord did a very poor job of protecting us last night, Norbert thought. "Let's go back to something you mentioned earlier. Roman times? How old is the Society?"