Fear always preceded a feeding, but for the next several meals, it was usually the Kind Man that came. He always announced what and where the food was. I never spoke, but sometimes I found myself nodding my head in thanks. Once, after he left, I found a thin woolen blanket next to my bucket.
What I assumed to be the next day, when the Kind Man brought my meal again, I decided to risk responding to his voice.
“Vegetable soup,” announced the Kind Man, placing the tray in front of me. “There is some bread to the right side of your bowl, a glass of orange juice in the far left corner of your tray, and here is a wet towel to wipe your hands before you eat.”
“Thank you,” I replied, taking the towel from him.
I had accidentally dipped my hands into my toilet bucket more than once these past few days, and I could only imagine how dirty I was. I wiped my hands as best I could and thanked him again.
Even blind, I could tell that the Kind Man was surprised that I had spoken to him.
I heard him say, “How are you feeling today, Hansel? I know the others hurt you.”
“I’ve killed your people,” I said. “I expect no less in return. Thank you, though, for your kindness. You come more often than the others, but I wish it was always you that brought my food.”
The voice chuckled quietly. “The others prefer that I come to feed you because they think I would enjoy hurting you even more than they do.”
“Why?” I asked. So far, the owner of this voice was the only Slayer who hadn’t tried to hurt me.
“Because they believe that I have more reason to hate you, Hansel.”
“Why?” I asked again, looking up at the voice and wishing I could see his face.
“Katie was my big sister, and Tate my brother-in-law.”
I wished I hadn’t asked.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” I whispered.
“I know you are,” the man’s voice said in a forced calm.
“I had nothing against her. I was just trying to stay alive.”
“I know that, Hansel. But nevertheless, she is dead at your hands. As is her husband.”
I remembered the Slayers’ surprise in discovering a child among the Guardian Knights. Perhaps I might be able to convince this man that I had been forced against my will to fight for the Guardians. But no, the Slayers were exterminators. There was nothing for a psionic to gain by begging for mercy.
Instead I asked, “When they decide to kill me, will you be the one to do it?”
The voice breathed quietly for a moment before answering, “My sister was a servant of God, Hansel, as am I. It is my job to help keep you alive and fed until Father Lestor returns. When the time comes, you will meet the Lord. If that is to be made so by my hand, then I will be the one to send you to him, but I will take no more pleasure in it than anyone else.”
I nodded solemnly. “My real name is Adrian.”
“I am Charles. Eat now, Adrian. Your soup is getting cold.”
From then on, it was always Charles who brought my meals, which was fortunate because I suspected that anyone else might have taken away my blanket. Usually, Charles just placed the food he brought on the floor, announced what it was, and left. I always thanked him.
Sometimes, we talked.
When Charles asked, I told him about the P-47 tattoo on my arm, and about how I lost my ear. I told him about my life prior to turning psionic. In that cold place, I longed so much for company that I didn’t even mind the company of a God-slayer, as long as it was a non-violent one.
Charles once asked me, “Are you a God-fearing person, Adrian?”
Neither wanting to lie nor insult him, I answered, “I have a good friend who is a priest.”
“He works with your kind?”
I nodded. “He believes in peace. He believes that people who are enemies can heal their differences and become friends. I always thought he got his optimism from the church.”
“Sometimes I wish I could believe in the same peace,” Charles replied sorrowfully before leaving me to sit alone in the darkness again.
While I felt slightly safer with Charles as my regular feeder, it didn’t change the fact that I was blind, naked and alone in a house full of bloodthirsty Slayers, counting the days to the return of Father Lestor who would declare my fate. With each passing meal, my hope was steadily waning. When would the Guardians come? Would they come in time to save me? Would they come at all?
I had lost all track of time. “Days” were when I sat alone in fear, and “nights” were whenever I managed to get sleep.
And in my sleep, I would invariably dream of rescue. I would see Cindy, Alia and Terry. I would hear their voices calling to me, and the agony of waking from their beckons to a deathly silent room was enough to make me wish that the next time I slept, I wouldn’t wake up. But of course I always did.
I even began to hear noises during my waking hours: a voice from a Knight’s radio, the sound of fighting and gunfire, or Alia telepathically calling my name. Anything to believe for even an instant that freedom was just around the corner. Every time I heard the slightest whisper, I wished my heart would stop beating so noisily, but no matter how hard I strained my ears, there was nothing there. I didn’t know how much more of this I could endure before I went completely insane.
My broken ribs were a little better off now that I wasn’t being pounded before every meal. Sudden movements still caused severe chest pain, but at least I was no longer coughing. On the other hand, my gunshot wound wasn’t healing. The swelling refused to go away, and the pain was getting steadily worse.
“Your leg has become infected,” said Charles. “If you like, I will treat it for you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I believe the bullet is still lodged inside. Would you like me to remove it?”
“Yes, please,” I replied, thinking that the pain in my leg could hardly become worse no matter what he did.
I was wrong. I cried and screamed when Charles poured some kind of liquid over my leg to clean it, but that was nothing compared to the agony of having a bullet removed from a days-old wound without any kind of anesthetic. If Growler had been listening at the door, I’m sure he would have been very pleased.
“I’m sorry I was so noisy,” I breathed when Charles finally finished applying fresh bandages over the bleeding hole in my calf.
“It must have been very painful,” Charles said sympathetically.
I shook my head. “I don’t understand you, Charles.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re kind to me. I killed your sister, and yet you treat me like a person. But you don’t believe that I am a person. If you did, you wouldn’t be a God-slayer. You help me stay alive knowing full well that you or your people will eventually execute me.”
“I suppose that might seem confusing to you, Adrian.”
“Enlighten me,” I said, daring to sound a bit commanding.
Silence. I waited apprehensively, wondering if Charles was about to trade in his peaceful tone and join the flock.
But a moment later, Charles said quietly, “God tries to make all men equal, Adrian, but we are not equal. Some people have power, and others do not. Power corrupts in a way that nothing else can. Psionic powers are not the creation of God, even if the people who have them are, which, at least according to Father Lestor, is highly unlikely. Either way, lesser gods have no place in this world.”
“Why us?” I asked. “There are many different kinds of power, Charles.”
“I know. But, for example, political power is manmade. It can be taken away. Fuel can be bought, sold, or given freely. Knowledge can be acquired by any who wish to study. Psionic power is not like that. It is not God’s will that a few men falsely mimic his abilities.”
“Is that why the Slayers hate us so much? Because we mimic your God?”
Charles did not answer my question, but instead asked, “Do you have any siblings, Adrian?”
“Two littl
e sisters.”
“Both with the Guardians?”
“Why do you ask?” I asked sharply.
“Sorry,” Charles said with a soft chuckle. “I forgot what our real relationship was for a moment. I wouldn’t want my enemy to know where my family lives either.”
“I guess it wouldn’t matter as long as you didn’t know their addresses,” I said reluctantly. “Only one of my sisters is with the Guardians. The other is with the Angels.”
“That is a tough situation,” said Charles. “I’ve heard of families being torn apart like that in your war.”
I shrugged. “That’s what war does, I suppose.”
After a moment of silence, Charles said quietly, “You killed my big sister, Adrian, but I once had a little sister too. Her name was Grace. She was killed when a psionic faction, the Sky Guardians, attacked our community. They killed everyone who failed to escape. Grace was among the casualties.”
Sky Guardians. I suspected that they must have been one of the breakaway Guardian factions. I wondered if they had come to New Haven during the great gathering.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” I said, and I was, but only up to a point. Grace was a Slayer too, and I wondered how many psionics she had killed prior to her death.
“The Sky Guardians didn’t kill Grace right away,” said Charles, his tone quiet but nevertheless vehemently bitter. “First they raped her. Then they tortured her. Then they burned her alive.”
I remained silent, unsure how to respond.
Charles said softly, “Grace was six years old when she died.” I heard him stand up. “So you see, Adrian, that your priest friend is wrong. Some wounds run too deep to heal, and I can no more help being what I am than you can help being what you are.”
I heard his footsteps heading toward the door. He turned the light off, but before he closed the door, I called to him, “Charles?”
“Yes, Adrian?”
“Are there any children in this house?”
“Just you.”
“Good,” I said emotionlessly, “because I doubt the Guardians will have mercy on any of you when they come for me.”
“I would expect no less, Adrian. Try your best to keep your leg clean from now on.”
When Charles came with my next meal, we did not speak, but he still announced the menu, and I still thanked him.
The next time he came, I dared to ask, “How much longer till Father Lestor comes?”
“Soon. He is delayed, but he will be here soon,” answered Charles, and I guessed I might have been trapped here now for more than two weeks.
I had bravely threatened Charles with an impending Guardian invasion, but in truth, my hope for rescue had all but vanished. The Guardians weren’t coming. They weren’t even looking for me.
I asked, “When Father Lestor comes, will he order me to be killed?”
“It is possible,” said Charles. “But it is equally possible that he will have you remain here until you are old enough to be sent to the Lord.”
“How long is that?”
“A few years.”
I suspected that if Father Lestor did decide to keep me here for a few years, the others would find some excuse to kill me within the week, which to me would have been a great mercy.
“I know we are enemies, Charles,” I said carefully, “but I was hoping to ask a favor of you.”
“Even enemies can grant favors, Adrian.”
“If Father Lestor decides to kill me...” I paused for a moment to gather my courage and steady my voice. “When the time comes, will you please be the one to do it? I’m afraid the others...”
“I understand,” Charles said gently. “I promise I will make it painless.”
“Thank you,” I breathed.
Charles left me, and I crawled to my blanket, which probably had become as grimy as myself, but was still a comfort to lie on. It was my only comfort aside from Charles’s promise. Everyone dies someday. Perhaps it was just my time to cross that bridge, and a painless crossing was better than I had expected in present company. If this was to be my end, then thanks to Charles, at least I would meet it quietly.
I slept almost peacefully.
The light woke me. The door slammed shut, and heavy footsteps approached.
“Charles?” I called uncertainly.
Something hard and fast slammed into my stomach.
“Not Charles!” snarled Growler. “You may have poisoned one soul, but you won’t take mine.”
I felt an iron grip around my neck, and Growler lifted me into a standing position.
“I’m too strong for you, demon!” he spat.
Growler punched me in the face, and blood squirted from my nose. I fell backwards, my elbow knocking over my toilet bucket and spilling the contents over the floor.
A sharp kick in my bandaged left calf made me scream in pain. It was a scream that was abruptly cut off when Growler’s boot made contact with my chest, forcing the wind out of me. I put my hands in front of me to try to ward off his attacks, but blind, I hadn’t a clue where he was or what he was doing.
I felt another kick in my chest, and then one to my head. I desperately tried to crawl away, my hands slipping in the mess of blood and excrement on the floor.
Grabbing me by my hair and pulling me up, Growler shouted, “I’m a soldier of the Lord, demon!”
He threw me against the wall, and I landed on my bad leg, crumpling to the floor.
“I’m too strong for a false god like you! I serve the true God!”
Growler grabbed my right arm, swung me around in a half-circle and released me. I toppled backward onto a dry part of the floor, probably far from the wall, near the full length of my chain.
Another kick in my chest, and then one to my stomach.
“Demon! The Lord will teach you truth!”
I felt his hand grab my hair again. He pulled my head up, and then rammed it back down onto the floor. I prayed I’d black out, but I didn’t.
“He’ll teach you not to poison the righteous!”
I felt a tug on the shackle around my right ankle, and a moment later the heavy chain was wrapped around my neck, choking me. The chain tightened as Growler lifted me up with it. My feet left the floor.
The chain cut into my neck. Growler was going to strangle me to death – if the chain didn’t snap my spine first.
Suddenly Growler released the chain, and I fell back onto the floor, gasping for breath and coughing up blood.
“Demon! Filthy demon! I’m too strong for you!”
Again and again he kicked me. I no longer had the strength do anything but take it.
My ears ringing from the pounding, I nevertheless heard Growler spit loudly. He probably had spat on me, but I couldn’t tell. Nor did I care.
“You remember that, filthy demon!” said Growler, and I could feel his hot breath on my face. “I’m too strong for you!”
Footsteps. Darkness. The door slammed, and I was alone.
I couldn’t move at all. I lay on my back, unable to even cry, my eyes open but unseeing in more ways than one.
The pain came and went. My very existence seemed to flicker like a candle in the wind. I saw flashes of shadowy light behind my eyes and wondered if perhaps I was already dead.
Demon! Filthy demon!
So much hatred... Where did it come from?
In a word, Adrian, fear. Like all uneducated people, they fear what they don’t understand, and what they fear, they try to destroy.
I couldn’t understand the Slayers. I didn’t want to understand the Slayers.
Hours, maybe days passed, but no more meals were delivered. Not that I would have been able to eat. My ribs were shattered. I couldn’t even lift myself into a sitting position. I coughed up blood. A lot of blood.
I must have slept some, because I saw Alia in yet another dream. I tried to call to her, but no sound came out. My chest was pierced by dozens of long knives.
Awake again. But it hardly made a difference
. My eyes were dead. My ears heard nothing. My mouth felt like it had been packed with hot sand. I could no longer feel the floor under my body.
I wanted to sleep. I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up. That’s all I wished for now, and as I closed my eyes, I had a feeling this final mercy just might be granted.
There was Alia again, and Cindy and Terry as well. I glided slowly toward them in the darkness.
“Over here, Addy!” Alia’s voice called in my head, but suddenly I could no longer see any of them.
I opened my eyes to murky darkness. I could hear distant popping noises. Was I still dreaming?
The door banged open.
“I’m going to rip you to pieces, demon!” screamed Growler.
Two loud gunshots echoed across the room, followed by a dull, heavy thud.
I closed my eyes again as I heard a distant male voice say, “Lancer One to Raven One, the basement is clear. We have the target. Repeat, we have Hansel. Over.”
“Dead or alive? Over.”
“Unsure. You’d better send Raven Two down immediately. Over.”
“Roger that. The upper floors are nearly secured. Raven Two is heading in now. Standby. Over.”
No! I couldn’t go through this again. So many times I had dreamed of being rescued. Enough! No more lies. No more voices. Just let me die in peace.
Please just let me die.
“It’s okay, Addy,” said Alia’s gentle voice in my head. “I’m with you now.”
“You’re... not real... you’re just another...” I mumbled.
I felt small, soft fingers on the palm of my right hand, and then a slight squeeze. “I’m right here, Addy.”
A man’s voice said, “He’s bleeding internally, Gretel. Work from the inside or he’ll go into shock soon.”
“I know what I’m doing, Proton!” Alia’s awkward shout echoed around the room. “Blade, get that thing off his leg!”
I slowly opened my eyes, and I could almost see her leaning over me.
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