The Redeemers

by T. J. Martinell

Norton eyed Carl. “Was he with you when it happened?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “And the man who shot him?”

  “Dead. I killed him.”

  “How bad is the wound?” Norton asked Tom.

  “It’s alright, sir,” he replied. “I should be able to use my arm in a few days.”

  “What about today? Are you able to get up?”

  “No, sir. The doc told me to stay put and rest.”

  Crossing his arms, Norton glanced at his associates as if to solicit their opinions. Their expressions remained unchanged. Taking out a cigarette out of a case from his jacket, he lit it as he ordered Carl out of the room, accompanied by his associates.

  Paranoia seized Carl as they went into the hallway, taking him to the worst possibility scenario. The reporter he had killed was somebody else. One of theirs, perhaps?

  Norton turned to Carl with hawk-like concentration.

  “Am I in trouble?” Carl asked.

  They nearly touched noses as Norton stood toe-to-toe with him, his head held high.

  His tone was peremptory. “Come with me. And I will show you.”

  Chapter Five

  The mood inside the car as tense as the last mile inside a prison. Two of Norton’s associates were in the front seats. The other two were in the back with Norton and Carl.

  Carl stared out the window. It was already dark out. There was no way to tell where they were headed.

  He looked to Norton for reassurance. The old man withheld it.

  They finally turned onto a narrow street. The car’s front headlights shone on a partially crumbled building. The alleyway to their right was filled with garbage and refuse, the old fire escape ladder dangling from the side.

  They parked against the building. Norton signaled to the others to get out. He then ordered Carl to join them.

  He complied, though he wanted to demand some sort of explanation. Something made him wait.

  Norton led them around the side of the building to a rotting wooden door. He unlocked it with a key from his pocket, then knocked several times in what sounded like an intentional sequence. The door opened, and a man’s face appeared.

  “Something keep you?” the man asked.

  “Yes, we were delayed,” Norton explained. “I was dealing with the wounded one. I thought I would talk to him first.”

  “Ah.”

  The door opened wider. Norton’s associates entered; he told Carl to do so, too. He obeyed.

  Whatever his fate, he would accept it without protest.

  The corridor was drafty, partially lit by small fixture. They took a turn and came to another door that seemed to have been installed very recently.

  Norton knocked again, a different sequence this time. As soon as it opened, he sent his men inside.

  “Are you ready?” he asked Carl.

  “Ready for what?”

  Norton held the edge of the door, his expression wistful. “Something I never had.”

  He then went inside.

  Bewildered, Carl hurried after him. On the other side, he gasped. There was nothing but total blackness. However, he sensed the largeness of a large room from the strong breeze. Voices mumbled all around him like too many bad consciences.

  Someone bumped into him. They murmured and moved to the side.

  And then there was light.

  A series of fixtures in the ceiling shone down on them like mini-suns. The room appeared to be some sort of old hall.

  In front of Carl, Norton stood on top of a wooden stage placed in the center of the room. At the base of the stage, his elusive associates held themselves in a ceremonial manner. Surrounding it were dozens and dozens of men.

  Norton held up a copy of the Cascadian’s first published issue. “Gentlemen, we’ve put the first step forward. Yet, it is but the first of many. With these initial steps, we have started a journey. I don’t know where it will take us precisely, but I know where it leads us. With this newspaper we are not just making a living. We are not merely turning a profit. We are choosing to live on our own terms. We choose to live as free men.

  “You all answered my call, each for your own reasons. But whatever inspired you, we stand here today not as separate men, but as one. We are individuals united by a common purpose. You are a part of something greater than writing or making money, more than anything I have created. You are no longer strangers. You have all proved yourself worthy to stay.”

  Norton looked down at his associates and nodded. They ordered everyone into a single file line leading up to the stage. Pressed between half a dozen men, Carl shoved his way to the middle of the line, looking outside of to see what greeted them at the end of it. The men were quiet, and the mood amongst them restrained any desire for jokes.

  A minute later, they walked down from the stage and to the other side of the hall. As the men came and departed from Norton’s presence, they all shared the same traits, gripping their right hand against their chain as though in pain, but they walked as though they had just entered the gates of Paradise itself, their heads high and their faces aglow with pride.

  The line shrunk until it was finally Carl’s turn. He moved to the stairs, where two associates stood. They gestured in a welcoming manner.

  At the top of the stage, Norton held his hands together in front of him, another associates off to the side by a small table.

  “Carl Farrington,” he said. “You desire to join us?”

  Perplexed, he nodded his head. Norton smiled and waved to his associate, who turned from the table with a small knife in his hand.

  Approaching Carl, he handed him the knife after wiping it a final time with a sanitized cloth. Carl looked at the knife, confused. He then realized what he was meant to do with it when Norton opened the palm of his right hand and displayed the fresh cut running across it.

  His hand naturally resisted the blade as it placed it against his hand. He was in luck; he scarcely felt the tip as it sliced the outer layer of skin, leaving a clean, neat wound. Someone took the knife from him and cleaned it at the table.

  Norton then ordered Carl to raise his right hand, the blood trickling down his arm.

  “Carl Farrington,” he said, “do you solemnly swear fealty to me; to remain loyal and true to the men before you; to never betray or abandon them in time of need; to protect and defend our work and our people against all who seek to destroy us; that if captured, you will maintain these first principles even unto death? Do you so solemnly swear this before the eternal God and these men?”

  Taking the full moment in, Carl replied he would.

  Norton held out his hand toward Carl, who accepted it without hesitation. For his age, the man’s grip was strong, stronger than he would have seemed capable of.

  “He who sheds his blood today with me is my brother,” he said. “Welcome, brother.”

  Placing a hand on his shoulder, Norton allowed a full smile to appear as he ushered Carl down the stage, where one of the associates handed him a bandage to wrap around his hand. The wound was easily cleaned and dressed, and he quickly found the others who had already shook Norton’s hand.

  Standing among them now, the short initiation ceremony affected Carl in a way he couldn’t articulate to himself. He now felt differently about his colleagues. They seemed closer, more trustworthy. The bandages around their hands were like badges of membership.

  Fred nudged Carl as he shoved his hand into his pocket. “Trust me,” he said, “I’ve had worse cuts.”

  ***

  As soon as the last man was finished, Norton gathered their attention once more.

  “You men have all sworn the same oath. You are now a brotherhood. From this day forward let us make good on the words we have spoken.”

  Pointing to the end of the hall behind him, his voice boomed. “Now, let us celebrate!”

  The darkened light fixtures came to life, and the section of the hall illuminated, presenting the men with a bar counter and a back shelf crammed with
every kind of liquor imaginable. On the bar counter were shot glasses already filled with whiskey, the smell so strong it filled their nostrils where they stood.

  “Come on!” Norton cried as he marched to the bar and took one of the shot glasses. “Join me in the first round!”

  The men swarmed over the bar, snatching whatever glass they could get their hands on. Carl went around them and grabbed one at the end, handing another to Fred. Duong and Ian were left without any until the bartender pulled out more glasses and filled them. Norton jumped on top of the bar, towering above them like a speaker at a political rally. Raising his glass into the air, his voice bellowed like a battle cry.

  They threw back their glasses. The whiskey tasted strong, but smooth. It had been expensive.

  “Alright!” Norton said. “Enough of me talking. Enjoy yourselves!”

  The bar broke out into festive turmoil. Men filled up the stools, clamoring for more drinks as the bartender tried to keep pace with the demand. Another man joined him behind the bar and went to work refilling and retrieving liquor bottles. When several reporters requested beer, a wooden key was brought it and a spout hammered into it. Mugs were shoved underneath it as bright ale gushed forth like a stream of liquid gold.

  For Carl it felt like a college party but with a greater purpose. The men toasted and swore and laughed and bragged. Ian started singing a song no one understood but it didn’t prevent them from admiring him as he danced to the imaginary sound of a band, pausing only to drink his beer. They hollered and clapped as he finally collapsed into a stool, his forehead glistening with sweat. Fred then took center-stage and sang a lighthearted fraternity song from his college days about a sweetheart, slurring the final note.

  Carl observed them from his stool, nursing his third shot of whiskey. He let the soft burn trickle down his throat and into his gut. He looked at his right hand, clenching it into a fist. Ordering rum, he took the glass and walked away from the crowd during a boisterous moment. Finding a solitary corner, he drank the rum and then spilled some of it on the ground for Tom’s sake. Or maybe Norton had done something for him when they had had that private conversation.

  “Not much for music?” someone asked.

  It was Norton, two glasses of brandy in his hands. He handed one to Carl and they toasted again. Carl sipped on it.

  “Wondering why you’re all alone here,” Norton said. “Does it still bother you that you killed a man?”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel anymore.”

  Norton sipped on his brandy, swallowing it loudly as he tilted his head in recollection.

  “One thing I’ve learned in this life is that altruism, thinking too much of others, is a vice,” he said. “It isn’t a question of thinking of others or morality. It’s who you’re accountable to, who you owe loyalty to. You have no obligation to people who want to harm you. There’s no reason why you should aid or help someone who wishes you ill. I cannot for the life of me understand why it was ever considered righteous or good for a man to assist his enemies.”

  “You think we should be selfish?” Carl asked.

  “No. Like I said, it’s all a matter of who is the recipient. Charity and selflessness and sacrifice are all admirable, provided they are carried out in the proper manner. Giving money to someone you know will squander it is not an act of goodness but folly. Sacrificing your life to save a person who will do nothing good afterwards isn’t praiseworthy. Honoring those who don’t deserve honor and respecting those who don’t deserve respect is immoral.”

  “I get what you mean, sir. We’re fighting for our survival. No one is looking out for us. We must look out for ourselves. That means anyone who stands in the way has to move or get removed.”

  “And what about that makes you so melancholic as to withdraw from your brothers during this celebration?”

  “I’m not melancholic. Just contemplative.”

  “Good. I don’t want any doubt in your mind about what we are.”

  Back at the bar, they returned to see Ian fumbling with his tie after one of the reporters noted how he had yet again tied it improperly. More laughter ensued when Fred stumbled off his stool, spun Ian around, ripped the tie off from around his neck, and tied it around his own as he lectured him on how do a Winsor knot.

  “How the hell can you be this old and not know how to do it right?” Fred asked.

  “We can’t all be experts like you on everything, can we?” Duong remarked sarcastically.

  After tying the tie, he threw it back to Ian. He put it around his neck and tightened it.

  “Have as much trouble driving?” Fred asked.

  “No. I know everything about Chevys.”

  “Chevys? You drive a Chevy?”

  “I did. A 1968 Camaro. I rebuilt it myself.”

  Fred blinkered rapidly, then howled. “You drive a Chevy and your last name’s Shevchenko?”

  Ian nodded his head slowly, worriedly. “And?”

  “That’s your name from now on. ‘Chevy’ Ian. Or maybe just ‘Chevy.’”

  The men approved the nickname. Ian smirked as they slapped him on the back and toasted as they christened him “Chevy.” It was an honor he wasn’t sure he wanted yet. After ordering another round, Fred smacked his lips, his one good eye trained on Carl. He set his mug down, wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve. He took out a can of chewing tobacco and invited Carl to join him outside.

  “Let’s get some fresh air,” he said.

  The burning sensation in his stomach didn’t help much against the cold night’s air. The wind seemed to attach to his exposed face. He rubbed his arms to stay warm, while Fred seemed unaffected as he shoved a pinch of tobacco into his mouth.

  “I’ve been through some weird rituals before,” he remarked. “That one wasn’t too bad. No animal sacrifices or nothing. And liquor is better than drinking goat’s blood.”

  Carl took it as a joke, but Fred’s mannerisms didn’t indicate it was such.

  “I’m wondering,” Fred went on. “If we’ve all shook hands with Norton and mixed blood, does that make us all related? Or are we all indirectly related because we’re all related to him?”

  “I don’t think it matters. It wasn’t the point of what we did.”

  “Yeah, well I came here half expecting him to have us shoot someone or something to prove ourselves worthy. You can’t tell what’ll happen.”

  He kept rubbing his arms. Fred looked at him, spitting out into the darkness.

  “You’ve got the face, kid,” he said.

  “What face?”

  “The face I did when I first shot a man.”

  His tone came off as patronizing. Or maybe Carl read too much into it. Maybe it was the whiskey, rum, and brandy. All he knew was that he didn’t care for how he was being treated, first by Norton, now Fred. They thought they had him figured out.

  “I’m not five years old,” he protested. “And I don’t need every person here to ask me if I’m okay. If I need help, I’ll ask.”

  The harsh voice caused Fred to spit out his tobacco prematurely. He wiped his mouth and repositioned himself. “That’s a funny way of repaying concern.”

  “Killing that guy doesn’t bother me.”

  “Then what’s eating you, kid? Why are you being so deflective? I’m just trying to chat with you.”

  “Why?”

  Fred laughed quietly and scratched the side of his head. He had a hard time looking at Carl as he answered. “When was the last time anyone showed interest in what you were thinking, huh? When was the last time someone like me took you aside and tried to talk to you? How many people gave a shit what you thought about your own life? I’ll bet not a whole lot of people.”

  No answer. At least not one Carl wished to give.

  “Where’s your old man?” Fred asked.

  “Dead.”

  “Your mom?”

  Stone-faced, Carl shook his head. He wouldn’t allow their chat to go there.

  “Like you
said,” he told Fred. “Nobody cared.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No. Me here drinking liquor with you all while Tom is alone by himself in a room with a wound in his arm is what bothers me. Not just because he’s my friend, but because he doesn’t deserve it. And I get that’s not how life works, but that’s what really bothers me. It could have been me that got killed. That other guy could have shot me, instead. I didn’t live because I was better than him. We get what we don’t deserve or don’t deserve what we get. It’s like we’re a part of some grand scheme and what we do doesn’t matter because it’s already been predetermined. It’s like our choice is just an illusion. Up until a while ago I thought what happened to me was because of my life choices, but now I’m beginning to wonder if it really matters. I want to be free, but what’s the point of being free if someone else, or something else, gets to decide how things play out?”

  Fred looked at him with empathy. He put away his can of tobacco, using both hands to remove his eye patch and rub the inside of his eye socket. The gap where his eye had once been was a deep black hole.

  “In war you get to see all kinds of wonderful things,” he noted. “It tends to dispel a lot of what you think you know about life. One of them is the idea of fate, or whatever you what to call it. Predestination or providence or whatever. Want to know how I lost my eye?”

  “If you want to tell me.”

  “Shrapnel from an IED. My platoon was moving through this shitty section of Fallujah, and our squad got tasked with clearing these buildings we figured had insurgents. We finished moving through the last one on the block and headed for a crossroads. The last thing I remember on that street was a flash coming out of the ground and my lieutenant vanishing in a white light.”

  He paused, folding his arms as he shivered, either from the cold or from the memories he relived in his mind. “When I came to, I was in a makeshift medical tent and my face was covered in blood. I figured it was my blood. It was mine. But it also my lieutenant’s. And everyone else’s in my squad. That IED had killed every single one of them. Didn’t leave much to ship back in a pine box, either. As for me, I was standing right next to them, and all I got was a destroyed eye and shattered eardrums.”