Enter the Rebirth (Enter the... Book 3)

by Thomas Gondolfi

  I wouldn’t call myself prejudiced. I had a lot—well, used to have a lot of local guy and gal friends that I’d surf with. Those careless playtimes were long gone now in the aftermath. If we ran across one another these days it was usually when we all came in from our farms for a Saturday Market Barter Meet in Waimea town. They were nice enough to me, but it’s just that life had taken a too-damn-serious turn for us to play together anymore.

  I don’t think anyone would make a stink about it if Lei and I decided to get closer. Hell, they’d probably encourage us to start an early family if that’s where we wanted to go with things—what with a whole new society we were creating from the ashes of the old. I just wasn’t all that keen on having that kind of responsibility to deal with at fourteen. Still, Lei and I could have a lot of fun if we were careful. I just hoped Lei’s family would see things in the same light. I suspected they wouldn’t, though.

  I stretched in bed. Maybe I could get up and do a few of my morning chores so I’d be free to walk with Lei and her family to the valley top. Yes, that’s what I decided to do. I pushed myself to a sitting position and got my farm clothes on.

  A few minutes later, Lei joined me.

  “Hey,” she said, leaning against one of the kitchen porch’s supporting posts. Her hair was kinda mussed, like she hadn’t run a brush through it yet. “Mussed” looked delicious on her. It was daylight and I could hear Mom, Paula, and Lei’s women relatives helping out in the kitchen, cleaning up last night’s dinner and starting breakfast.

  I tossed dinner scraps to our chicken flock. Part of the scraps were their relatives from yesterday. They didn’t seem to mind none.

  “Hey, yourself,” I said back. I’m not much of a talker most times—even less in the mornings.

  “I’m gonna go help in the kitchen, but I just wanted to see how you were doin’ this morning,” she said.

  “I’m good,” I said. “I’m tryin’ to get my chores done so I can walk with you guys to the top of the valley,” I said.

  She smiled. “That’d be nice.”

  I smiled back. She gave me a cute little wave—looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching. She skipped over and kissed me on the cheek.

  I couldn’t help but grin—even if she couldn’t see it as she walked back to the kitchen.

  * * *

  Another mynah bird cussed us out and dove at our traveling group as we finished walking along the last of the ancient eucalyptus tree hedgerow and passed onto the Bishop Estate lands of eucalyptus. Not that Bishop Estate owned it any longer. I suspect the only way anyone respected anyone else’s prior claim on property was if the persons were there shoving a gun in their faces and telling them to get the hell off their land.

  We’d drawn a small flock of mynah birds shadowing us because of a fledgling on the ground somewhere nearby. Lei saw it first. She walked over and picked it up, escalating the mob frenzy on us. They dove at us, but a couple of the Uncles waved their boar spears around scattering them.

  Lei walked up to me—held the tiny bird out for me to see. She petted it on the head with a fingertip gently. Its belly looked like the head of a tonsured monk, missing feathers. It squatted down in Lei’s hand as I reached over and joined her. I stroked it, rubbing the back of my fingertips along the top of its head and down its beak. It bore the indignity with stoic patience.

  “What are you gonna do with that?” I said.

  “I dunno—maybe keep it and try to teach it to talk. If it doesn’t talk or I get tired of it, it can always go into the pot,” Lei said practically. I nodded—my thinking also.

  “I’ve never tried to keep them as pets, but you might be onto something. Dad and I didn’t know how the mongooses were going to take to being hutch animals, but they’re working out okay,” I said. “You might consider trying to raise them like pigeons or something.”

  Lei nodded. “So, what shall we call you, bird?” Lei held it up across from her face.

  “How about Stu?” I said, controlling my smile to a deadpan.

  Lei grinned back at me.

  “Stew, it is,” she said. We could both see the different spellings in our minds as we held hands again and happily paced our time together to that of her grandparents’ walking pace. At the top of the valley, we kissed before parting—for now.

  The Executioner

  Keith J. Hoskins

  Editor: “Wild animals never kill for sport. Man is the only one to whom the torture and death of his fellow creatures is amusing in itself.”—James Anthony Froude

  Martin’s chained legs could barely keep up with the pace at which the sentries forced him. After several turns in the musty hallway, they pushed him into a room and shoved him onto a wooden chair. With his bound hands, he grabbed the table in front of him to keep his momentum from sending him tumbling off the chair and onto the stone floor. The squeaking of hinges snapped his head around in time to see the guards leave back through the room’s lone entrance. They slammed the door behind them. Martin heard the unquestionable sound of an iron bolt being slid into its catch. What now, he wondered.

  Like most citizens, Martin had skated the fine line of the law here and there throughout his life, but he never imagined he would be one to break Doctrine; that he would commit a crime and get the death penalty. But here he was. And he was indeed guilty. But what he had done, he did out of love, and he would make all the same choices again if given the chance. But that was all moot; he was caught, convicted, and now awaited his punishment.

  Swiveling his head, he took in his surroundings. It was an unimpressive room; twenty by twenty, white brick walls, ceramic tile floor, and a skylight that let in the afternoon sun. There was nothing in the room save for the wooden table at which he sat and two chairs. Ordinary, very ordinary. But there was something unusual about the room. At first he couldn’t put his finger on it, and then it hit him. “There’re no cameras in here,” he said to himself.

  He scoured the walls and corners again, looking for anything that could be a camera or be hiding one. Nothing. The room was plain—plain and empty. This was a bit disconcerting for Martin; he had never been in a non-residence room where there were no cameras to watch him. The Covenant always watched; there were always cameras, or gov-eyes as they were called, to watch the citizens. To keep them safe, and to keep them from straying from the Doctrine. Perhaps if there had been cameras in his residence, he would not be in his current predicament. Martin shook his head; it was too late to think about that. This room, this “eyeless” room, was highly unusual. Martin wondered if it was even legal. Strange, Martin thought. What was the purpose of this room? He had a bad feeling about this.

  He tested his bindings: chained iron shackles encased his ankles, and iron cuffs restricted his hands. He pulled and tugged on each but nothing budged. He thought about standing up and going over to the door and giving it a try. Before he could move, the metal latch sounded again, and the heavy wooden door swung open behind him.

  Martin froze with fear. Was this it? Would they torture me before my execution? No, it can’t be. Not here. There are no cameras. The Covenant demanded an audience.

  A solitary set of footsteps followed the sound of the door closing again, as well as the metal latch resuming its hold. The footsteps moved directly behind him and stopped.

  Martin took a breath and held it.

  The steps continued with purposeful, resounding clops. They slowly walked around Martin’s left side until their owner was visible and standing on the other side of the table directly in front of him. It was a civilian. Martin was expecting a burly guard or a stern looking warden. But this was just a man. He wore a smile, clean clothes, and he smelled rather nice.

  “Hello, Martin,” said the man. “May I call you Martin?”

  Martin just sat there, not sure if he acknowledged the smiling man with a nod or a grunt, or anything. He just looked at him, waiting for whatever would come.

  “My name is Rogan,” said the man. “Do you know who I a
m?” The question was genuine; it wasn’t sarcastic or condescending. And the man, Rogan, just stood there patiently waiting for an answer.

  Martin sat dumbfounded for a second, then gave Rogan a look-over. He was a very unassuming man. His face was nice, pleasant almost. His salt and pepper hair, along with a few wrinkles, suggested that he had a couple decades on Martin. He was clean shaven, which was the law, of course. He wore regular clothes: pants, shirt, vest . . . maybe a bit nicer than the average citizen would have. In fact, they looked almost new. Not recycled or reissued like everyone else wore. Was this Rogan a celebrity? Or a political figure? If so, Martin didn’t recognize him from any of the broadcasts. He didn’t look familiar nor did Martin recognize the name Rogan. So, he shook his head, feeling almost embarrassed at not knowing the man’s identity.

  “That’s all right,” said Rogan, and a smile of understanding appeared on his face. “Most people don’t. Perhaps, if I was wearing my mask . . .” Rogan raised his hand and covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible. He held his hand there, leaned down toward Martin, and gave him a seemingly well-rehearsed scowl. Rogan’s brown-green eyes pierced through Martin’s gaze and into his very soul.

  Yes, Martin thought. He does look familiar. Frighteningly so. But from where? Then the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Feeling his heartbeat in his throat, Martin swallowed hard and, when he found his voice, he said: “You’re the . . . the Executioner.”

  Rogan removed his “mask” and straightened back up. “Correct.” He smiled. “Of course my official name is Vero, the Executioner. They didn’t think Rogan sounded . . .” he paused as he thought of the correct word, “sinister enough for the broadcasts. Are you a regular viewer of my program?”

  “Not really,” Martin said. “I try to avoid it when I can.”

  “I’ll try not to take offense to that, but I know not everyone has the stomach to witness what I do.”

  Martin looked at him. The Executioner. Here. Right in front of me. The end was coming quicker than he had anticipated.

  “But I’m sure your home system is tuned to the mandatory minimum of eight hours per month.”

  “Of course,” Martin said emphatically with a nod. His family had enough scrutiny from the Covenant lately, they certainly didn’t need anything else to cast more suspicion onto them. “It’s like you said. Not everyone can stand to watch what you do.”

  Rogan looked at Martin’s hands resting on the table. “Here,” said Rogan as he walked around the table. “Let me take those off of you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lone key and then slipped it into the lock on the cuffs. After a twist of the key, the cuffs popped open to Martin’s relief, but the newly convicted man hesitated to remove them, thinking it might be a trick or something to get him into trouble, although he couldn’t imagine how much more trouble he could get in. “Go on,” said Rogan reassuringly. “Take them off.”

  Martin did as he was told. He removed the cuffs and placed them on the table. He rubbed his sweaty wrists with his hands. “Thank you,” he said to Rogan, as he eyed the Executioner suspiciously.

  Rogan glanced at Martin’s feet and tossed the key onto the table. “Here. Go ahead and take those shackles off as well. No need for you to wear them.”

  Still eying Rogan warily, Martin grabbed the key, scooted his chair out, removed his chains and shackles, and put them on the table next to the cuffs. “Thank you again.”

  Rogan acknowledged with a nod and a smile. “Keeper!” said Rogan in a voice loud enough to make Martin jump. A few seconds later, a guard unlocked the door and entered the room. “Please take these away,” Rogan said to him. “We won’t be needing them any longer.”

  “As you wish, sir.” The keeper scooped up the prisoner’s accessories and exited the room, locking the door once again behind him.

  Rogan pulled out the chair across the table from Martin and sat down, folding his hands in front of him. “So, tell me, Martin, which of the seventeen crimes punishable by death did you commit?”

  Martin was a little taken back by the question. Rogan knew his name. Didn’t he know why he was in here? Martin took a deep breath and said: “My wife and I had a third child.”

  “Ah,” said Rogan. “Number six on the Doctrine’s ‘do not do’ list.”

  Martin nodded.

  “The world is extremely overpopulated, Martin,” Rogan said in a serious tone. “We have the Doctrine for many reasons. And population control is one of them.” Rogan’s face and posture softened a bit. “So, your third child. Boy? Girl?”

  “Girl.”

  “How old?”

  “Four.”

  “Ah,” Rogan smiled. “A great age. So magical.”

  “Yeah,” Martin sighed.

  “And you managed to keep her hidden for four years. Amazing.” Rogan paused and then asked: “And were you given the choice of her life or yours?”

  Martin looked down at the table. “Yes.”

  “And you chose yours so that she may live. Very noble.”

  “I’m her father,” Martin said angrily, looking back up at Rogan. “What choice did I have?” Martin shook his head at Rogan’s insolent statement.

  “You’d be surprised how many people would choose to live and have their child put to death.”

  “Then they would be cowards.”

  “Perhaps. But fear, like love and greed, can make people do unfathomable things. And, of course, it isn’t just dying that they are afraid of, it’s what I do to them that drives that fear into people. That’s why we have the broadcasts, and that’s why there are mandatory hours for citizens to watch.” Rogan paused and gave Martin a thoughtful look. “Do you know why you are here, Martin?”

  “Of course. I’m the next contestant on your little game show.”

  Rogan smiled at Martin’s bravado. “You do know what it is I do exactly. Right?”

  Martin nodded. “Yeah. You torture people to death, and it’s broadcast over the network as a deterrent for other citizens.”

  “Yes,” Rogan said with a grimace, “that’s all true, but that doesn’t do justice to my craft; to the intricacy of my work. And we don’t like to use the word ‘torture.’ Instead, the whole process is called ‘the reckoning.’ And the person going through the reckoning loses his citizenship and even his name. He, or she, is simply referred to as ‘the miscreant.’ Do you know how long the reckoning lasts?”

  Martin shook his head. “Two, three days?”

  “Nine days.”

  Martin felt his heart sink into his stomach. “Nine days?”

  “Yes. Nine days, nine hours a day. No more. No less. If you were an avid watcher you would know this.” Rogan stood up and began to slowly pace in a broad circle behind his chair. “What I do to the miscreant is quite amazing. I introduce levels of pain to them that they didn’t know existed. You see, I start slowly with cuts and breaks, but then move on to the removing of flesh and fingers, fingernails first, of course. Then removing the hands and feet. You get the picture?”

  The question may have been rhetorical, but Martin nodded anyway. His eyes wide open as Rogan casually described the events that would be eventually happening to him.

  “I don’t think you do, because the miscreant is slowly taken apart piece by tiny piece, the way a scientist might reverse engineer something to figure out how it’s made. You see, it’s not just about the pain; it’s also about the miscreant witnessing his own body being dismembered right before his conscious eyes. By the ninth day of the reckoning, there is nothing left of him except a torso and a head, and they are so disfigured that you can barely tell that it’s human, let alone the identity of that human. And the methods I use to do these things are far from anything that would resemble a doctor’s touch. In fact, you might say they’re quite inhuman.” Rogan’s face lit up and he held up a finger as he thought of something. “Are you familiar with the altrix bird?”

  Martin shook his head, puzzled at the radical change of topic.
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  “Nor should you be. I’m not surprised. It was thought to be extinct for hundreds of years, until about thirty years ago a small population of them was discovered on a remote island in the southern hemisphere. It’s a unique and fascinating bird; sort of like a bird of prey, but it prefers to prey upon wounded animals, animals that would normally be too large for it to take down by itself. You could say it is more of a bird of opportunity.” Rogan smiled at his own cleverness. “So, when it finds a wounded animal, let’s say . . . a goat. The altrix clips the animal’s hamstrings to prevent it from escaping. Then, it begins to feed upon its flesh, all the while making sure the animal stays alive. You see, the altrix doesn’t have the necessary enzymes in its stomach to digest decayed flesh like carrion birds do. It’s probably a flaw in its evolution. So, it’s very important for its captive to remain alive. Maybe that’s the reason why they almost became extinct, having to be so selective in what they eat.

  “Now, the altrix has incredible skills at eating particular parts of the animal without endangering its life: the skin, certain organs, and it just loves eyes. Loves them. They must be a delicacy of a sort to them. Anyway, they go to great lengths to keep the animal alive. In fact, they will fight off other predators and scavengers, sometimes to the death, to preserve the animal’s life. They even regurgitate food and water into their captive’s mouth so it doesn’t starve or die of thirst. Ironically the regurgitated food would be the flesh of the animal itself. Bizarre, isn’t it? But, it’s quite a fascinating bird. Do you know what the word ‘altrix’ means? It means nurse. Kind of fitting, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Paralyzed by fear and disgust, Martin managed to speak. “In a morbidly ironic way, I suppose.”