Rogan stopped his pacing and stepped up to the table, turned his chair around, then sat on it backwards, resting his crossed arms on its back. "Can you imagine this . . . this goat, or whatever, lying on the ground, blind, in agony, taking days, maybe weeks to die? All the while it is slowly being eaten alive. I can’t imagine a more horrible death. Can you?”
Martin felt sick to his stomach; this all seemed surreal to him. Sitting in that chair he felt almost weightless yet unable to move, like he was just a spectator to this whole thing. Like it was a dream, and he was not really there. But he was there. And this was a nightmare. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because, Martin,” Rogan took a deep breath and paused before continuing. “For the longest time I thought of myself as the altrix. I mean, I literally based my work on how it cares for its prey and slowly devours it. I even have an entire staff of doctors that stand by to care for the miscreant, to keep him alive, even bring him back to life if necessary. But then, after years of reckonings, I realized that I’m not the altrix, but rather we are the altrix.”
“We?”
“Yes. We. The citizens of the Covenant, the enforcers of the Doctrine. We feed off of the fear and agony of the miscreant. We feed off his regrets and sorrow. We feed off his disparity and sacrifice. And it’s this nourishment from the reckoning that keeps the Covenant and its citizens alive and safe.” Rogan straightened up and regained the little composure he had lost during his rant. “So, I ask you again, Martin: Do you know why you are here?”
Eyes wide and nose flaring, Martin’s heart thumped hard in his chest. “I am the goat,” he said through gritted teeth.
Rogan smiled and nodded. “Yes, normally, on any other day you would be the goat. But today is not one of those days. In fact, you could say that this is your lucky day.”
Martin tilted his head and furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand.”
Rogan seemed amused at Martin’s confusion. He paused for a few seconds before changing the subject. “You know, I wasn’t always the Executioner. Obviously, right? Although, I have been doing it longer than any of my predecessors. Do you know what I was before this? A schoolteacher.”
“A teacher?” said Martin. He wore his shock to Rogan’s revelation like an ugly hat. He had trouble picturing the Executioner as anything other than the Executioner. Why is he telling me this? Martin wasn’t sure where this was heading, but he was curious, and the more it delayed him beginning the reckoning the better. And Rogan said that this was his lucky day. How? Martin decided to play along. “What did you teach?”
Rogan flashed a smile; he seemed pleased that Martin was engaging him. “I was a language teacher. I would have been a history teacher if teaching history wasn’t against Doctrine. But I loved kids and educating them was my calling.” Rogan stared off into the distance as he fondly remembered his past. “Life was good back then; I had a wife, two kids, and my dream job.” Rogan put on a thin smile and looked at the table. “Happy times.” Snapping back to reality, he looked at Martin and said, “Not that my life isn’t good now. It is. It’s great. Being the Executioner has many rewards; it has allowed me to take care of my family in ways I didn’t think possible. Fresh clothes, three meals a day, a private residence. Everyone with their own room. Do you believe that? When I was a kid, my family lived in a shared residence with three other families, and we ate once a day if we were lucky. I never dreamed I would live in a place where my kids would have their own bedroom, and have more food than they could possibly eat.
“What happened?”
“Hmmm?”
“How did you go from being a happy language teacher to being the sector’s Executioner?”
Rogan sighed and, with a somber look on his face, he said, “I broke Doctrine.”
“What?”
Rogan gave a little chuckle and nodded at Martin’s confusion. “I know. Makes no sense.”
“What did you do?” asked Martin. “To break Doctrine, I mean. If I may ask.”
“I gave one of my students a book.”
“A book?”
“Not just any book,” said Rogan. “A pre-Covenant book.”
“How did you get a pre-Covenant book? They were all confiscated and destroyed.”
“It had been in my family since before the Cleansing. It had been hidden and passed down through the generations. It was a wonderful book, full of stories and imagery. And he was such a smart kid; full of questions, always so curious about the before time, before the Covenant and the Doctrine. I told him to keep it safe, to keep it secret. No one must know of its existence.” Rogan stopped and looked blankly at the table.
“So what happened?” said Martin.
“His mother became suspicious and found the book under his mattress. She called the enforcer squad and they went to the building and contained the boy.”
“She turned her own son over to the enforcers?”
“Like I said, Martin: You’d be surprised . . .”
“But they found out that it was you who gave the book to the boy. Did he give you up?”
“No, but he should have. Even though his own mother turned him in and he faced death, he refused to tell the enforcers who gave him the book. Like I said, he was a good kid. But as soon as I heard what had happened, I went to the enforcer station and turned myself in.”
“How noble,” Martin said, trying to not put too much sarcasm in his voice. Rogan didn’t seem to notice.
“I thought so at the time, and, like you, I knew it was the right thing to do. I just didn’t take into consideration the impact it would have on my family. Not only the ridicule and shame they would endure, but the fact that I wouldn’t be there to provide for them. Fortunately, I was presented with an opportunity to help make it all right.”
Martin sat there looking at him. He was torn between being intrigued by the story and worried about his immediate future, but something told him that the two were intertwined.
“Do you know how a new Executioner is selected, Martin?”
“Not really.”
“Every four years the Executioner goes through . . . an evaluation. A miscreant is randomly selected to engage the Executioner in combat and the victor is either the new Executioner, or the current Executioner gets to keep his job. For another four years, at least. This is my fifth evaluation.”
It took a few moments for the realization to sink in. When it did, Martin said: “Me? You want me to fight you? To be the new Executioner?” It was Martin’s turn to stand up and pace. “This is insane! I don’t want your job.”
“What you want is irrelevant,” Rogan said in a calm voice. “Your choices are simple: fight me or go through the reckoning.”
“What happens if I fight you? If I win, I become the new Executioner?”
“Yes.”
“And if I lose?”
“You die. It’s a fight to the death.”
“To the death?!” Martin stopped his pacing and turned to face Rogan.
“Of course to the death. What did you expect? We would arm wrestle?”
Martin leaned on the table toward Rogan. “I can’t do that. I’m not a killer.”
“Neither was I. But I owed it to my family to not only make their lives better, but prevent them from having a far worse life than they currently led. If I hadn’t killed the previous Executioner during his evaluation, then my family would have been disgraced and exiled to the perimeter camps. By defeating him, I not only saved them from that, but I had given them a wonderful life. As the Executioner, my family has had the best food, the best medicine, the best of everything. And, not to mention, I got to live.” Rogan nodded as he justified his history to Martin. “My family and I have lived a privileged life, Martin. And, by defeating my predecessor, I washed the stench of my betrayal to the Covenant off of me and my family. My sin was vanquished.”
“But you’re a monster. The sins you’ve committed against humanity severely outweigh the small one of giving a simple book to a curious boy.”
/>
“A monster, Martin? A monster? I protect the Covenant. I am the ultimate enforcer of the Doctrine! I do what has to be done so that the citizens of the Covenant will not be tempted to stray from the Doctrine as I had done. If anything, I save lives.”
“You torture people to death.” Martin held up a hand to cut off Rogan. “Call it whatever you will, but it’s still torture. Your job makes you a monster. I could never do what you do.”
“Then you will die. And your family,” Rogan said as he stood from his chair, “will live in poverty and shame.” Rogan reached into the left side of his vest and pulled out a knife. Martin stood straight and swallowed hard at seeing the long dual-edge blade. Rogan then took the tip of the blade between his fingers and flipped the knife straight toward the ceiling. The knife twisted and flipped in the air as it reflected the sun from the skylight. It missed the ceiling by inches, and when it came back down it stuck into the table with a thud.
Martin’s eyes shot from Rogan to the knife, then back to Rogan.
Stone-faced, Rogan reached into the right side of his vest and pulled out another knife, identical to the first. He placed it on the table and pushed it toward Martin. The knife skidded across the wooden table, making a resonant scraping sound as it traversed the surface. It stopped a fraction of an inch from the edge. Martin stared at it for what seemed like minutes.
“Pick up the knife, Martin,” Rogan said. Rogan the teacher was gone; Vero, the Executioner stood before him now. Serious eyes engulfed Martin and made his heartrate quicken. He felt his face ignite as blood rushed to his head. Rogan just stood there, motionless and emotionless. His statue-like stance was more disturbing to Martin than if he had been erratically moving around like a maniac. “Pick up the knife, Martin,” the Executioner repeated. “I won’t fight an unarmed man.”
Martin forced his eyes to look down at the knife. It sat there, taunting him, daring him to pick it up. He didn’t want to pick it up. He certainly didn’t want to fight this man. But what of his family? They would be shamed and sent to the perimeter camps. Not to mention the reckoning itself; nine days of torture and dismemberment. He needed to fight. Fight for his family, fight for himself. Then, to Martin’s surprise, his hand moved ever so slowly and lifted the knife off the table. It was as if he wasn’t in control of his actions, like some external force was controlling him, making him do what he was too afraid to do on his own. He gripped the handle and looked at Rogan.
“Very good,” said Rogan. “Let’s begin.” In seamless motions he plucked the knife from the table with one hand and with the other he grabbed the edge of the table and pushed it to the side. His foot swiped the chair and sent it to rest against the wall next to the table.
Martin looked down at his own chair. With his free hand he pushed it toward the other chair in a slow deliberate motion. With that weak push, it didn’t quite make it all the way over.
The two men stood there looking at each other. Martin was terrified; Rogan looked bored. “What now?” asked Martin.
“Now you attack me.” Rogan gave him a “come to me” wave with his free hand. “Come at me. You’re the challenger. You make the first move.”
Martin had no idea what to do. Rogan was obviously more experienced than him. What chance did he really have? Surprise? Possibly. Maybe if I catch him off guard . . .
Martin suddenly lunged at the Executioner, both hands out, not even aiming the knife. Rogan sidestepped out of the way with practiced ease. Martin passed him and crashed into the wall behind Rogan. Dazed and hurt, Martin steadied himself against the wall, then charged Rogan again. And, as before, Rogan sidestepped out of his way, but this time, as Martin passed him, he stuck out his foot, tripping Martin and sending the challenger tumbling to the ground and into the wall.
“You need to do better than that, miscreant,” said Rogan. “More than your life is on the line.”
Martin lay there on the floor, bleeding and in pain. “This is pointless,” he said as he wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. “Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”
“If I simply wanted to kill you I would have slit your throat when I first entered the room. You need to fight for your life. You must truly try to defeat me. If you don’t, you will go through the reckoning.”
Martin raised his head. “You said I wouldn’t have to go through the reckoning if I fought you.”
“Only if I kill you. And I won’t kill you unless you truly try to kill me. Now, come on! Get up! This is your chance not to be a coward like the others. You can die trying to be a hero. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Not sniveling there on the floor, begging for death. Get up! Or do you want the reckoning? Are you just a goat after all?” Rogan looked down at his knife and twirled it in his hand. “And what about your family? Do you want them sent to the camps?”
Martin forced himself to his feet. He couldn’t ignore the pain, so he used it instead. The pain fueled his anger just as Rogan’s words did. Rogan was right, Martin wasn’t a coward. He didn’t live his life like one and he wasn’t about to leave this world like one. Surprisingly, his legs held him strong. They might have been the only thing on his body that didn’t hurt.
“Actually,” Rogan continued, looking back up at Martin, “They may not be that bad off. How old is your wife? Thirty? Thirty-two? I’m sure she’s rather attractive. She may find work in one of the prostitution rings.”
“Shut up!” Martin said through gritted teeth.
“And that four-year-old girl of yours? She can follow right in her mommy’s footsteps. Then you’ll have a nice family of whores taking care of themselves.”
“I said: Shut. Up!” Martin started toward Rogan and the Executioner readied himself for the charge, but Martin detoured to his left and grabbed the chair that was formerly his. Spinning in a quick semi-circle, he gave the chair momentum, and when he let go it hit Rogan in his shoulder as he turned to protect himself from the projectile. Without hesitation, Martin grabbed the other chair and repeated his attack. More unprepared for the second chair than the first, Rogan took the full brunt of the wooden weapon in the chest and face. Rogan yelled in pain and fell backward on the floor. The chair fell with him and stayed on his chest like a strange looking blanket.
Martin picked up his knife from the floor and went over to Rogan. The Executioner lay there holding his face, blood seeping through fingers that covered his now broken nose. Martin grabbed the chair resting on Rogan’s chest and flung it to the side. He then knelt down next to him and, with both hands, held his knife high in the air, ready to finish him off.
“Do it,” Rogan said through bloodstained teeth. “Do it, you coward.”
Martin tensed and readied his hands to plunge the shining blade into Rogan’s heart. But then he looked into his eyes. Not the eyes of Vero, the Executioner, but those of Rogan, the former schoolteacher. They were calm and unflinching, but there was also a subtle hint of fear in them. He was afraid to die. This man who had killed hundreds over the years was afraid to die himself.
Martin lowered the knife and dropped it to his side. It hit the floor with a resounding clank.
“Wh-What are you doing?” asked Rogan.
“I can’t do it,” said Martin, holding back a sob. “I thought I could. For a minute I thought I was really going to kill you.”
“For a second there, I thought you were too,” said Rogan.
“Like I said, I’m not a killer.”
“No. No you’re not. But you will be soon enough.” With a swift move of his arm, Rogan grabbed Martin’s knife from the floor and plunged it into his own midsection.
“My god!” shouted Martin. “What have you done?!”
Martin panicked. He didn’t know what to do. Do I take the knife out? Should I call for help? Martin carefully reached for the blood-covered handle that blended into Rogan’s shirt like a morbid accessory. But Rogan’s hand beat him to it.
“Don’t,” Rogan said in a pain-laced voice. “I nicked my lung
and liver. If you pull it out, I’ll just bleed out faster.” He coughed and his face contorted from the pain. Blood stained his lips. “And it’ll hurt like hell.” Rogan took an agonizing deep breath and yelled: “Guard!”
The door unlocked, and the sentry who had come in earlier walked in. Martin gave a start at his entrance. The guard looked around the room as if he couldn’t believe the mess. Then he looked down at the two men on the floor, accessed the situation in seconds, and then snapped to attention. “Your orders, sir?”
It took Martin a moment to realize that the guard was talking to him. In the sentry’s eyes, Rogan was defeated, and Martin was the Executioner now. With Rogan lying there dying in front of him, his freshly spilled blood staining the ceramic tile floor, Martin had a hard time wrapping his head around it all. He turned his head to the sentry and said, “Can you give us a few minutes. Please.” The sentry nodded an acknowledgement, then turned and left the room. The door shut, but did not lock.
Martin could only look at Rogan. He still didn’t know what to do, and the only thing he could think of to say was, “Why?”
“I’m tired, Martin,” Rogan said with exasperated, painful breath. “I’ve done my time. It’s time for a new Executioner.”
“What of your family? Your wife, your kids?”
“Wife died two years ago. Kids are all grown up. I’m done. Can’t do it anymore.”
“Why didn’t you just commit suicide? If your family is no longer a factor. Why didn’t you end this after your wife died?”
“Because, Martin, I needed to find someone worthy. Someone who would benefit from being the Executioner, as I did.” Several coughs forced some blood out of Rogan’s mouth. “A good man with a family. That’s why I chose you.”
“But you said I was randomly chosen.”
“I lied.” Rogan smiled. “I picked you personally and had you brought here.” He weakly gestured around the room. “One of my special rooms. No eyes.”
“Yes,” said Martin, looking around. “I noticed that.” Martin dropped his head and shook it as if trying to clear away the ugliness of the afternoon.
Enter the Rebirth (Enter the... Book 3) Page 21