Lesser Gods

by Adrian Howell

  I heard the sound of something being placed on the floor near me. The lights went out a moment later, the door banged shut, and I was alone.

  My thirst quickly overtaking my panic, I desperately reached forward, groping around for whatever it was that the woman had left me.

  My fingers finally found the edge of a tray. On it, a wooden bowl. A tall glass. Water!

  Holding the glass in both hands, I drained its contents in one long swig. I was still thirsty, but no longer desperately so. I felt for the bowl again and carefully picked it up. Thanks to Growler, I was still recovering from a pretty bad nosebleed so I couldn’t smell the contents of the bowl very well, but it was some kind of thin soup. I brought the edge of the bowl to my mouth and discovered that the soup was only lukewarm, for which I was grateful. I gulped it down and wished there was more.

  I felt the surface of the tray again, hoping for something else. My fingers found a spoon, which was useless to me, and then something soft and dry. Bread.

  I picked it up and savagely threw it across the room. A second later I heard it hit a wall and fall to the floor.

  I cupped my hands over my closed eyelids, desperately trying not to scream.

  Blind... I still couldn’t quite grasp the idea. The Slayers had somehow blinded me. It was worse than the bullet hole in my leg. Even if I could somehow get the shackle off of my right ankle so that I wasn’t drained, I wouldn’t be able to use my telekinesis in any useful way. Not without sight. I couldn’t move things if I couldn’t see them. My blasts couldn’t be aimed. Even if I could levitate myself, I wouldn’t know which direction to fly.

  With my right index finger, I gently touched my closed left eyelid. The skin felt undamaged. Bracing myself for the pain, I pressed a little harder. I could tell by the feel of it that my eyeball beneath was neither smooth nor entirely round. I checked my right eye next, and found it was the same. While I had been unconscious, someone had lifted my eyelids and deliberately stuck something into my eyes. I realized with mounting horror that Alia probably wouldn’t be able to heal this. My sister’s healing ability merely accelerated natural healing. That’s how she stopped bleeding and mended bones. She couldn’t re-grow Terry’s left hand or my right ear, so chances were, she couldn’t fix my eyes either.

  I was mildly hyperventilating despite the pain in my chest, but the sound of the door opening again put an end to that. The lights came on. I opened my eyes again, but nothing had changed. It was the same murky, creamy white and pink. I couldn’t recognize any shapes whatsoever.

  “Here’s your toilet,” said the woman.

  I felt a heavy metallic object fall on my head. Feeling it in my hands, I discovered that it was a bucket.

  “Use it or you’ll lick the floor clean,” she said.

  The lights went out again and the door slammed shut.

  I have no idea how long I sat there and cried.

  I wasn’t sure which I felt more severely, the pain throughout my body or the fear in my heart. This wasn’t my first time in captivity, but while I had been through a lot at the Psionic Research Center, a God-slayers’ basement was something else entirely. The doctors at the research center needed me. Even a lab rat had some value to its owner. The Slayers had no reason to keep me alive except for some stupid notion that I was too young to kill, and it seemed that the majority of them disagreed. What would this Father Lestor say when he returned? Would I even be permitted to live long enough to find out?

  Growler hadn’t asked me one question about the Guardians when he was pounding me. Were they even interested? And what if they were? The Wolf interrogator who had questioned Alia and me before we were shipped to the research center knew his job well. The Wolf knew how to induce fear and pain, but he also knew that he was under strict orders not to kill us. I suspected that the Slayers would not be as restrained if they decided to torture me for information about the “demons” that had destroyed their Holy Land.

  My tears eventually ran dry as my thoughts moved from self-pity to wondering where everyone was and what had happened to them. Since the Guardians had apparently taken the Holy Land successfully, I was pretty confident that Terry was alive and well. I wasn’t as hopeful for Mr. Watson, but perhaps Mr. Barnum and the other Knight had made it to safety.

  Mr. Simms must have tried to contact Raven Three the moment the Raven assault teams finished clearing the Slayer camp, which meant they already knew that Raven Three had been attacked. They knew that I was missing and they were probably already out searching for me. It would only be a matter of time before the Guardian Knights busted down the door to this room. And once I was safely back in New Haven, well, there was no guarantee, but perhaps I could find a cure for my blindness too.

  All I had to do was survive a few days. Perhaps only a few hours.

  Cindy’s voice echoed quietly in my head, Just remember, Adrian, that God-slayers don’t take prisoners.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  Slayers don’t take prisoners. The Guardians thought I was dead! They weren’t looking for me at all!

  No! I refused to believe that. Cindy would know by now what had happened. This was emergency enough for Terry to have called her. Cindy was the Heart of New Haven. Mr. Baker’s Guardians had busted Alia and me out of the Psionic Research Center to gain Cindy’s loyalty. In the past, I had hesitated to abuse Cindy’s special status for my own personal gain, but now I was beyond caring.

  If you’re alive, I’ll find you again.

  Cindy wouldn’t give up until she saw my cold, dead body. And the two-week personal hiding field she had given me for my fishing trip would have expired by now, so I was no longer psionically hidden. This stone basement wouldn’t make it easy for someone to home in on my psionic power, but a capable finder, perhaps Cindy herself, would still be able to locate me in due time.

  Or would the Angels get here first?

  If they did, I thought grimly, at least I’d have the satisfaction of knowing that the Slayers would be destroyed.

  Either I would live or I would die. Either I would regain my eyesight or I’d remain blind. These things I couldn’t control. I decided that, for the time being, I would deal with what I could. The rest I would leave to fate. From that thought, I drew just enough strength to wipe the tears from my unseeing eyes and focus my mind on the present.

  First I needed to know more about this room. Holding the bucket in my left hand, I found the chain on my ankle with my right. Slowly, dragging my injured left leg and trying not to breathe too deeply, I crawled on my hands and knees, following the chain until I found the bolt on the wall that it connected to. This was a place that I could always find again, so I put my toilet bucket next to the bolt. Then, after a brief rest to prepare for another painful crawl, I started along the wall and kept going until I came to the full length of my chain. There was nothing but stone floor and wall. Another rest, and I crawled back to the bucket. Now, the other direction.

  I had only crawled three yards or so before my hands found something metal protruding from the wall. It was about a yard up from the floor. I carefully ran my fingers over it. It was the end of a curved pipe, and attached to it was something that felt like a small metal flower.

  A faucet!

  I tried turning it. It sputtered for a moment and then I heard the water pouring out. There was no sink under the faucet. The water spattered onto the stone floor until I put my face in its path and opened my mouth to the cool, refreshing stream. The water went up my nose. It ran down my bare chest. I didn’t care. Soon I was sitting in a large puddle of water on the floor.

  The light came on.

  “What in God’s name are you doing, demon!?” Growler shouted furiously.

  Wham! I felt a metal rod, possibly a crowbar, slam into my side. I tried to pull myself into a fetal position to protect my internal organs as I received another heavy blow to my left thigh.

  The water was shut off, and I heard Growler breathing heavily.

  He grabbed me
by my hair and rammed me into the wall. As I fell back onto the floor, I received another heavy blow to my side, and Growler shouted, “You touch that again and as the Lord is my witness, I’ll gut you myself!”

  Darkness returned. The door slammed. I lay on the wet floor whimpering in pain. The water slowly drained into a little ditch along the wall.

  Once the pain had receded enough for me to move again, I decided that I had explored enough for one day. I crawled back to the bucket and promptly threw up into it.

  Lying down beside the bucket, I quickly discovered that, despite serious metal draining and multiple injuries numbing my senses, a stone floor was still noticeably uncomfortable. I lay on my side and curled up as best I could, resting my head on my arm.

  I caught my other hand trying to touch a pendant that wasn’t around my neck.

  Would Cindy tell Alia what had happened to me? It was doubtful. Cindy didn’t like worrying her. She would only tell Alia if she knew with absolute certainty that I was dead. Even then, she might tell her that I had just gone away, and that someday I’d return. That was probably for the best, I decided. I couldn’t bear to think of how my sister would feel if she knew I was never coming back. Given enough time, perhaps she would forget about her stupid, stubborn brother who consistently refused to listen to reason and broke one promise after another.

  When sleep finally came, it was shallow and painful. I dreamed my left leg had caught fire, and that I was drowning in an ocean of hot coals. I woke up shivering, my throat parched, but I didn’t dare turn on the faucet again.

  When I found I couldn’t sleep anymore, I propped my back against the wall and sat there. After what felt like hours, the light came on. Heavy footsteps approached and I braced myself for the worst.

  “Food,” announced a male voice that I hadn’t heard before.

  Knowing that it wasn’t Growler, I breathed slightly easier. Then I heard the clattering of a plate as it fell somewhere nearby.

  “Oops,” said the voice in mock-alarm, and then laughed cruelly. It had been deliberate.

  Once it was dark again, I felt around the floor until I found the upside-down bowl of spaghetti. I scooped up the noodles with my fingers and, ignoring the taste of the floor dust that had stuck to them, ate as much as I could. Soon afterward, I was seized with a coughing fit that threatened to tear my broken ribs out of my chest. There was nothing to drink.

  More dead waiting. I finished my exploration of the basement. I wasn’t even sure it was a basement, but it certainly had all the features of one. A few yards past the faucet, I found several wooden crates. They were nailed shut, but I discovered that I could sit more comfortably on them than on the stone floor, even if I got an occasional splinter in my rear.

  My next meal was placed quietly on the floor, but the delivery man kicked me in the stomach so hard that I couldn’t eat a bite until long after the food had become cold. At least there was water.

  I slept, and met Cindy and Alia in my dreams. They had come to rescue me. When I reached out to them, trying to hold them in my arms, they turned into dust and fell to the floor. I woke screaming. Once I calmed down, I prayed Growler hadn’t heard me.

  Shivering in the dark basement, I longed for light. I longed for warmth and freedom from fear. But most of all, I longed for Alia’s gentle voice in my head, and Cindy’s quiet, comforting smile, and even Terry’s fiery anger.

  I could almost hear Terry shouting, “Stupid Adrian! Getting yourself caught like that!”

  Stupid Adrian thinking he was ready for combat status. But it was too late for that now.

  So it continued. Sit. Eat. Sleep. The pain in my eyes gradually receded. I could keep my eyes open, but my sight didn’t return. Darkness was a murky black, and light was an opaque white.

  Once, on what I assumed was the third or fourth day, Growler and another man came to visit me between meals. They offered me “medicine,” holding me down and forcing some kind of thick liquid down my throat. It burned through my body, causing me more internal pain than I knew was possible. Then they beat me with a stick until I passed out. When I came to, they were gone, but it was a long time before I could move again.

  Hugging myself to keep warm, I hoped and prayed for the Guardians to come quickly. The Guardians would come into this house and kill Growler and all the other psychopaths that called themselves the servants of God. And if the Angels found this place first, who knew? Perhaps I would be reunited with Cat.

  But neither Guardians nor Angels came. Not that day, nor the day after, nor the next. After that, I lost count. I was trying to keep track of the days by counting my meals, but it was useless. Sometimes I’d only be a bit starved when my food was delivered, other times I would be famished. I suspected that my meals were coming quite irregularly, and certainly not three times a day. There was no way to tell time in the darkness.

  And in the darkness, I had nothing but time. Time to think. Time to fear. Time to feel sorry for myself. Lots and lots of time. I spent hours sitting on the wooden crate and wondering what Alia was doing. I would picture her sitting in the living room of the penthouse, lazily playing with her long walnut-brown hair as she often did in the afternoons. Or perhaps she was lying on our bedroom floor reading a book, or drawing a picture at her desk. My sister always drew the strangest pictures. Pink unicorns with diamond eyes, blue dogs with giant fluffy wings and multiple tails covered with flowers...

  I had dumped Alia with Cindy, and I got my due when Terry had in turn dumped me with Raven Three. Terry was not to blame. She was the one who had, against my wishes, tried to keep me out of trouble. And yet here I was, shot, blinded, and trapped in a Slayer basement, as damaged and miserable as I had ever been in my short, pitiful existence as a psionic destroyer.

  Having spent three weeks on the run after turning psionic, I had confidently told Mr. Barnum that I understood what it was like to be alone and afraid. How mistaken I had been. The truth is that there are degrees to aloneness.

  On the one hand, I was extremely grateful that I was alone. If Alia had been here with me... If the Slayers had done to her as they were doing to me... If they had blinded her... No, I had been right to leave my sister home. Chances were she would have died in the forest clearing with the others anyway.

  But now, being in this dark place without Alia at my side...

  Back at the Psionic Research Center, I had often lamented my self-assigned role as Alia’s guardian, hating the burden of having to share her room and bed, calm her down after every tearful encounter with a doctor or soldier, and coax or force her into participating in the experiments which were often uncomfortable and sometimes downright painful. Being responsible for her capture, I felt that it was my duty to take care of her, no matter how difficult she was.

  And yet, I had never given much thought to what she had been doing for me during our months in captivity. I realized now that Alia had done me a great service by begging me to stay with her, and that included the penthouse bedroom after our arrival in New Haven. It wasn’t just her nighttime murmuring that helped me fall asleep, or even her healing powers that saved my life. Her very presence had calmed me, carried me, and gave my life direction, without which I might have been consumed by the terror and despair that I had faced. If Alia depended on me to take care of her, then it was equally true that I always had Alia to lean on.

  Not this time, though.

  I knew now with absolute certainty that the draining I felt in this room wasn’t really caused by the shackle on my right ankle or the dried blood covering my naked, battered body. While I would never wish my sister to share in my suffering, I sorely wished she was here with me now.

  Alia would know how to deal with this.

  My second sister knew more about suffering than anyone. Cindy had found her in a forest when she was just four years old. She had been left there to die by the religious fanatics who had kidnapped her as an infant to “rescue” her from her “demonic keepers,” who might otherwise have been Alia�
�s loving parents. Alia had instead spent her infancy and early childhood undergoing ritualistic torture at the hands of her kidnappers. They had repeatedly whipped her and cut her back open with a blade. They had poured boiling water down her throat. Anything to silence her voice in their heads begging them for love and mercy.

  Now I knew just a little of what that really felt like, and what Alia had been through. Sitting alone in the darkness, I wondered if I would survive it as she had.

  I heard footsteps approaching the door, and quickly got down from the wooden crate I had been resting on. The Slayers didn’t like to see me comfortable.

  The door opened. Light. I heard my feeder place a tray on the concrete floor.

  “You look tired,” a male voice said quietly.

  I instinctively tensed my body. My feedings were usually accompanied by a few kicks and jabs, and sometimes much worse. The Slayers who took it in turns to feed me were also responsible for emptying my toilet bucket, and twice it had been emptied over my head. My captors seemed to want me to die of semi-natural causes so as to avoid the complication of deliberately killing a child. “You look tired” wasn’t exactly the kind of taunt that preceded a kick in the gut, but you could never tell.

  “Eat now, and rest,” said the voice. “Your bowl is to your front right. It is cream stew, and your spoon is resting in the bowl. There is a glass of water to the left of the bowl. Be careful not to knock it over.”

  The footsteps receded, and I heard the door open and shut.

  I was still very cautious. Once, my water glass had been filled with (to the best of my knowledge, having never tasted any before) urine. Feeling around for the bowl and glass, I slowly brought both to my nose. It seemed alright. I ate and rested.

  The next day, the same voice brought me my food twice, and I began to trust it just a little. I dubbed him the Kind Man.

  My next meal was brought by Growler himself. He dumped the bowl of scalding hot soup over my head, causing me to writhe about in pain as his laughter echoed around the room. Then, in place of the soup, he gave me another dose of his medicine, leaving me doubled up on the floor as the thick, burning liquid ate away at my insides.