The Waste Book Two

By Matthew Sawyer

Dear Reader,

A word from the author...

This is Book Two of The Waste. Few readers have come this story this far. If you are one of those who hate this story, you aren't in for any merry surprise. Even so, I expect those who have come along will have not been dissuaded by my warnings and discovered I am not so shabby a writer.

But, you are still leery about the writing, I'm sure you will be disappoint in the end.. But if you stop now, you will miss the rest I have to tell, because, who else can speak for me? The same question applies to the writing and the proofreading, editing, artwork. I'm responsible for every bit.

And I repeat my claim The Waste is an epic story. Well, antiepic; deviant of conventions. It's tragically adventurous. What is here is a novice's effort to create a story on the scale of J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings or Stephen King's The Stand. But my tale is different. There is no good versus evil. Everyone here is an irredeemable sinner. There is only evil in this desert world called the Shur. God is gone, and that has left an opening for demons and alien gods to fill that void.

The Waste is always the uncensored pinnacle of the story. Whereas, a single novel would easily tell the tale, I always imagined two volumes. Just like the New Testament, there are two parts – a resurrection and an apocalypse. The trilogy split the story into three suggestively titled books – Manifestation, Emergence and the meaningless Abeyance – but that did undermine the whole idea to revise Christianity. The Waste, Book One and Book Two, is what readers should have got. This is Book Two of The Waste. From whence, an Antichrist has emerged and the heavens and hell are opened. -- Matthew Sawyer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Sawyer
• Release date: Mar 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370520183

Matthew Sawyer

I hate talking about myself. Like everyone, I suppose, I am a bit narcissistic, but not egotistical. My own failure for success is that I just do not think much about myself. That is not to say I spend too much time thinking about others. In truth, I should think more of everyone; and there is a dull guilt attached to that confession. There is something of who I am, I am old enough for regrets.At my age, I am prone to think about immortality And being an atheist, there seems no alternative but science. Even so, I know that science is beyond my lifetime. I have no faith nor hope, nor do I believe in ghosts, elves, unicorns...In that hopeless disbelief, I write so there remains a record of accomplishments in my life. Unrecognized and even scorned, I continue to tell stories so I will be remembered after I am dead. My struggle with grammar and punctuation are evidence of my effort to make my writing decipherable. Because, what success means to me are hieroglyphics upon a Pharaoh's tomb.

Book preview

THE WASTE

BOOK TWO

Matthew Sawyer

Published by Matthew Sawyer at Smashwords 2018

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer

The Waste is a fictional story. All characters, names and locations are the creations of Matthew Sawyer. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental. Readers are advised of mature material of profane and blasphemous nature with descriptions of insurgency, crime, unlawful sex and violence.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing form from the copyright owner.

Please contact the author for permission to make copies of any part of this work.

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THE WASTE

BOOK TWO

Chapters

Eve of Judgment

Persecution

Throne and Altar

Insurgence

Indigo

Clotted Blood

Detention

This Grave

Enmity

Attrition

To Conquer

Grizzled and Bay

The Wild Ox

Night

Interlude

Blood

Demonic Army

Last Resort

Envenom

Resurrection

Bitter Water

Storm

Retribution

Falsehood

Sanctuary

Chase After Dry Chafe

Tribulation

Lamentation

Aftermath

Millennium

Epilogue

Eve of Judgment

"Passover was yet days away. so the Chosen looked for Immanuel. Many went down into the Wilderness. He would be made a sacrifice to themselves. The Mortal God was to be made an idol and shown to heathens who detested idols. This the Chosen sought to make out of the trespasser whether he was a god or man."

-- Pagan gospel, Book of the Prophet, The Chosen Plot Against Immanuel, Second Chapter

The incessant rattle of the refrigerator asserted itself again. The mechanical vibration from the kitchen broke the unearthly silence in the nave of Saint Erasmus, and it was the only mundane sound since the cursed voice in the desert – or since the Cantara brothers had unknowingly joined the schemes of a demon. This solitary root in the ordinary made the noise surreal because its sheer existence.

Ben Gadi did not know, nor want to know, how he might tell Dil Cantara about his lost brother. The older Cantara will be upset. Loss added to confusion might be enough and drive him into enraged madness. Ben ached for rest and indeed savored his prolonged repose, despite the chattering appliance and the frowning Dil.

Madelyn demands answers from Dowie. She drew upon her budding profession and Madelyn attempted to mime an interview. Her career and life were in doubt, so she put her skills to use. Tell me what you are.

The demon remains oblique. I am as you see me, Madelyn.

Dowie also ignored Dil when the man again requested the whereabouts of the younger brother. The fate and concerns of the Cantara brothers were unimportant to the demon. The fiend had already gained a vessel. The course ahead was now more interesting and promising.

You’re not the Mortal God, persisted Madelyn.

Mayhap, the demon granted. I am that to a believer, and I am the only god. You have seen with your own eyes. What is the harm in belief? What do you have to lose?

Ben pinned his bottom lip between his teeth. The false priest ignored the conversation and contemplated the flesh-bound fiend. Uzapu pulled power from the web of Ithadow, an Elohim – Ben knew this based on experience. In the beginning, the demon itself did not know. Last evening, Ben’s memory had revealed the truth.

Uzapu had accidentally shared this knowledge with Ben, his loyal disciple and co-conspirator. The demon admitted the ethereal web sustained him. The gossamer strand touching this world had awakened him long ago – when the extraterrestrial organism refilled the vitality of the fiend. The horrible energy of this web was available to the demon when he was still incorporeal, but his binding into flesh weakened the flow.

The demon now required strength directly – Uzapu bled living souls rather than swallow the clotting vapors of the dead. He wasted the mortals around him. Dil’s miraculously healed hand was the most prominent example; the restoration aged the older Cantara. Great feats required these grievous sacrifices.

I’m sorry. I, too, make discoveries, Uzapu secretly apologized to Ben when the evidence became obvious. The demon assured him. The sacrifice can be overcome with mastery. I am a god and nothing is beyond me.

The apology and assurance had been delivered in the usual tone of the demon's patronizing voice. Coming from Dowie’s mouth, the expressions might have been quaint and satisfactory, but the shape standing in the church was no longer that simple and innocent boy.

In the flesh, Uzapu discussed mysteries with Ben throughout the night. Dowie told his minister, The slow soul-letting may be enough to defeat the Elohim, I don't know. I am neither a surgeon nor am I leech. This is energy we need, Benjamin, together. Only when we severe the web of Ithadow will I guarantee you peace in death.

Uzapu must focus and control his vampirism. If the demon failed, Ben was without recourse. His new existence and his life before he had glimpsed the infinite were not dissimilar – only the stakes have increased.

I can’t believe you’re the Mortal God, but I know you don’t belong in this world, Madelyn answered the boy. While Ben lingered his dream, one last assumption remained. Are you the devil?

Dowie replies with the same tsk he had given his minister.

He is the only hope for this world, Ben stated, averting the admonishment about the classification from Uzapu.

Madelyn confronted Benjamin. What do you mean? It’s apparent the Church doesn’t know anything about what’s happening here. What about the man murdered last night?

Ben inadvertently glanced at Dil. His curiosity about the absent younger Cantara had dampened after no one replied. The blanched look on Ben’s face flared the question again.

Dil asks anyone, Where is Hen? Anger sounded at hand. The next question will be if Uzapu tolerated the man's tantrum.

Ben conveyed a compacted truth to the older Cantara. Dil, a patrol took him.

What, because what she said? Dil pointed a new pink finger at Madelyn. Dismay dissipated his anger and he merely looked mad. Madelyn was compelled to answer.

He was at the scene of a crime. A body was found on the steps right outside.

How do you know that? Oh, you’re a reporter, right? Dil paused and he pondered his own sarcastic answer.

Dowie’s request was now easy to understand. All the same, this woman wrote for the military. The things she knew might help Dil retrieve Hen. He asks her, Tell me where they took my brother. You have to help me get him back.

She disclaims, I can’t do anything. Why don’t you ask the Reverend?

All eyes turn toward Benjamin and the dismay that racked Dil intensified. Dowie smiled. That secret joke obviously became funny again. Madelyn had initially been suspicious of the priest and dismissed her unease as superficial aversion to the man’s pale and peeling face. Her first impression proved truest. The man was as much a priest as the boy was still Dowie.

How could no one suspect? Madelyn contemplated for herself. A pair of illegal migrants brought an impostor into Khetam and set up camp, right under the nose of the Church – inside a church. They might all be heathens. If not for Dowie and the healed hand, a plausible terrorist threat is easy to imagine. That hand changed her assumption and it was the only element that made Madelyn uncertain.

Dowie addresses her suspicions. Madelyn, you must know I allow you extensive liberties. You have a strong will, like my friend Benjamin. I would love you to preserve your talent in my service.

Wait, Ben can’t do anything. Dil protested. They’ll kill Hen.

Remember your place, Dowie shrieked at the older Cantara. The command went out as a wild arc of electricity. The discharge jolted the boy onto his feet and sapped the demon’s strained reserve. Only the refrigerator dared reply. Even then, it sputtered. The stunned quiet and wary obedience amused Uzapu and calm was automatically restored.

Dowie taunts the reporter. Merriam came here for you.

Why? How? Simple answers for these short questions might be guessed with some thought. The reporter only asked them in spiteful outrage.

All sins are as naked as the day they are born. I plainly see all. I see yours, Madelyn.

Everyone sins, Madelyn answered without intimidation. The inclusive ascription to society’s norm sounded like the imperfect excuse it was.

The boy played at revealing her recent indiscretion. He dallied making the connection to Mark’s wife, and Madelyn was a little thankful. Shame and outrage swirled inside her bosom. She sensed this godling-boy would still not let her leave. Professionalism continued to be her shield.

That attitude is why transgressions continue. Dowie snapped his fingers. The sinner is aloof, even righteous. That’s why I called Merriam. The poor woman heard my voice and obeyed. She might-as-well be a widow, for all the sorrow she suffers.

Madelyn grew skeptical to the point of hostility. There was no point to the discussion. The boy merely pecked her, looking for a crack in her psyche. She opens her mind and asks him, You set her up to attack me?

Dowie does so again and he follows her thoughts. The mind-reading unnerved Madelyn more than the boy’s unaccounted knowledge of her affair. He begins to say, The point is…

Stop, she begged him unsuccessfully.

Hearts and minds are transparent to me. I know what people want and what they truly need. I grant my faithful their desires, reunions with loved ones, vengeance….

Hen, Dil interjected at his peril.

Dowie wrung the back of a pew in front of the boy. The tendons in his narrow neck bulged. And I punish heretics. That is your brother, Dil. He is a misguided simpleton who threatened your deliverance. Is that you, Madelyn?

Ben adds to Dil’s plea before the reporter was attacked. He was helping us.

The demon had sacrificed the younger Cantara for their protection, but he wrongly assumes the older brother would forsake his kin, if the demon thought of Dil at all. Dowie slackened his grip on everyone. You, too, Benjamin? I’m beginning to believe I would get more reverence from that simpering old woman I cast away.

No one here believes you are the Mortal God, Madelyn observed aloud. She may not read minds, but she was acute and recognized obvious frustration.

Uzapu explains to the woman, These two have known me quite intimately. Respect is apparently more difficult to garner among old roommates. Yet they have earned my tolerance.

The candid conversation with Madelyn unfolded unforeseen. The demon welcomed her to their cult, though she was unwilling, and this boy-god will eventually tire of the games they played. Ben saw Uzapu merely waited for the reporter to relax before lifting his talon. When he did, and Madelyn ran, the demon will pounce. Ben expected Uzapu will strip away her mind. Madelyn, like the other woman, will become a slobbering victim of some preternatural lobotomy.

This woman can help you find your brother, Dowie suggested to Dil. But she must do so willingly. She must accept what we are doing here.

We're trying, Dil pouted. Without Hen, the older Cantara adopted his little brother's moronic helplessness.

Their group’s grand purpose in Khetam was still unclear to Dil – hiding from a slighted crime lord had been ambitious enough for him. This talk about cults and shaking the foundations of the Church was evidently not just intoxicated blustering. Seeing the voice inside someone else and when his burned hand was healed, both had affirmed this diabolic plan.

Dil aimed to help the demon the best he could. The older Cantara had never believed in the existence the Mortal God. The man awaited proof, and in his wildest dreams, this demon was the closest and only divinity he has ever imagined or seen. Even so, his detained brother took precedence. Although, Hen may already be dead.

The younger Cantara had gotten himself caught by the military, and the blame undoubtedly rested with his stupid self. Dil was not surprised. Getting himself accused of murder, though grimly serious, was exactly the idiotic situation his little brother was adept creating. Trouble with the military in Khetam was inevitable, but the demon acted without mercy.

The younger Cantara could not be totally faulted – superstition crippled him and the dullard could never believe or condone the demon’s ideas. Punishment was unwarranted. Detainment and death were too extreme and final. Dil gathered his woe and alone wondered why Uzapu was not helping him. Coming to an epiphany, Dil realized Madelyn Sebash must be convinced.

You gotta help. The flat statement was his best argument, but Madelyn could not be swayed. His request failed to inspire the woman. Only a shapeless threat of death held her captive.

She might agree to help Dil if she truly understood the stakes. But Madelyn would never believe, not without suffering the same indoctrination to which Ben then Merriam had been subjected. Understanding lay outside her human experience.

The Living and Mortal God is gone, Ben said to her. The world is dying, and there is no rest in death. There are other things in the void that consume our souls. The spirit in this boy will give us eternal peace. He'll fight them. In the absence of our god, we have no one else.

Madelyn promptly decided the false priest was crazy. What are you talking about? Is that some kind of heathen prophecy? You don’t make sense.

There are no heathens, Madelyn, Dowie answered. There are no Chosen or Unchosen, or Church. Everything you think you know about religion is a lie. You know the world is dying. The evidence is in every face around you. You have this seen yourself.

The demon’s last statement was true. Madelyn saw the living dead surround her. They hide in plain sight, shrouded in denial and selfish distraction. She had once caught a glimpse of everyone dead and she then shrank back into denial. A phantom like herself may have even looked into her face and witnessed her own soul drained away.

The absence of any god explained the injustice and strife suffered by people in the civilized world today. This was an important issue for the woman reporter. Castes and the heathen crusade were pointless. Without a god, beings such as this one exists – this creature who steals a boy’s body and walks the Shur. Seeing that, belief in otherworldly powers who threaten a selfish and unaware humanity is just as reasonable.

Did your brother kill that man last night? Madelyn asked Dil. Did he desecrate the body?

No, exclaimed the older Cantara, regarding the first question. He then squinted and appeared confused. Dil stared at Ben and Dowie. He was baffled when the reporter mentioned desecration.

Madelyn presses for information and imagined everything was connected. If the demon was not responsible, its implied omniscience could provide answers. She asks Dowie, Who did? And who killed the soldiers on the dock?

You already know, that man was an assassin and a heathen, Dowie answered.

The demon finds a mental cue and tells Madelyn what she was thinking. Those soldiers died by his hand, and he met the same fate. If the military ever caught him, do you not trust your Church would have visited the like penalty upon the fool? What did they tell you to write?

Dil broiled under anger and Uzapu approved the required affect. The older Cantara shouts at the reporter. Did they tell you to say my brother mutilated him? He didn’t even kill anybody. We’re not animals.

Well, yes. That is in the summary, Madelyn confessed. She turned toward the boy again. You’re saying, the military killed that man and pinned it on his brother. If they caught an assassin, why would they frame an innocent person?

Fear, Madelyn, Dowie stated. The boy describes to her, That clay shapes an estranged society packed within walls that keep a frightening world away. The work is made easy when plenty of that septic emotion fills the basin of the Promised Land. You would know that, if you had more experience. Your friend Mark could tell you it’s true. He has contaminated more minds than you know. It only fits he does penance.

Once the veiled threats ceased, Madelyn actually thought the demon was convincing. Knowing the younger Cantara brother was made a scapegoat caused Madelyn to feel ill. Hen will go to his death, like innocents before him. She was contracted to write that story and perpetuate the incriminating propaganda of the Church. She had been prepared to do just that, until she spoke to Dil. His plea sounded genuine, human.

This Unchosen man was filled with life, in a city in which everyone was a stoic zombie. Only stories of execution stirred any from their combustive tombs on wheels. Mark himself never thought twice about fabricating guilt. Life as a reporter had never caused his conscience to shrivel, but it did corrupt his soul. The way he treated his wife proved that fact. He then ushered Madelyn herself into the abandon of adultery...

All those things she never thought to become, were because of Mark – and he tossed her away after a confrontation with damnation. She might yet have an opportunity in which she redeemed her own soul. This prospect comes in the shape of an ugly little boy. The creature before her was no god, but she still felt accountable to herself and he did offer redemption.

Madelyn is succinct and decides she will help Dil Cantara. Her inherent sense of justice guided her belief in the Church and the demon. She tells the man, I’ll help you.

Agreement provided her an avenue of escape from this unknown peril. And, as she anticipated, the vague sense of doom lifted the moment Madelyn decided. Words, and only words, now trapped her. Dil groaned a long exhalation. Neither he nor Madelyn were relieved. Their trials were not over – their dire hopelessness merely changed into desperate cooperation. Fleeing the grasp of the demon seemed as impossible as rescuing Hen Cantara from a death sentence. Their two fates were intertwined.

I am overjoyed you have seen the truth, Dowie exclaimed as he cheered Madelyn. Welcome to our family, our new Church. I never truly doubted you would join us.

I’ll help find Hen Cantara, Madelyn specified. I don’t know what I can do after that. I’m not writing a story about a false messiah.

Dowie’s mouth gaped open. The black cavity contained a shadow deeper than the back of the boy’s head. His eyes become hysterical and everyone shrinks away. Pews scratch the floor as people retreat. In the middle of the shuffle, the demon cackled comfortless laughter.

The reporter is told, You will tell my story as you tell your own. When you help our friend Dil, you help me. We know you are a thorough reporter. You couldn’t leave me out of your story, even if you wanted. You won’t.

Madelyn glared at the boy with her arms uselessly crossed before her. The reporter's nails burrow into the palms of her hands. But the censors...

I trust you will work-in details, Dowie interrupted and said. There will be fewer obstacles against your creativity in the coming days. Your stories will become the meat of choice for a slavering public. You may even write a book, my holy book. I will have a gospel. You can make yourself a saint. That is an ironic twist, huh? Although historians have always had the liberty of personal interpretation.

The idea of writing a book, even a blasphemous mockery of a bible, fluttered Madelyn’s heart. The notion was perverse, treacherous and alluring. The fiction would shame the memory of her grandmother. Still, the work might be a thousand pages, bound in leather and bear her name. Her writing may burn in the streets of Khetam, but live elsewhere in the world – and Madelyn could, too. The demon did promise deliverance and she had not yet asked.

Uzapu’s mad grin persisted. His shadow at once lived behind his clenched teeth and inside Madelyn’s head. She realized that once she agreed to help, the demon gained more than knowing her thoughts. Awareness of the truth sparked and vanishes like an ember shot through the night. The shadow snuffed all rationality, but could not disguise Madelyn’s queasiness – caused because she had leaped from compulsion to cooperation then into lustful craving. Her sickness forces her to leave Saint Erasmus.

We’ll see, she replied after a bitter swallow. Can I go now?

Of course, granted Dowie. Nothing but opportunity brought and held you here. You know that.

Madelyn nodded against her will.

Take your new friend, Uzapu instructed the reporter. He will be a constant and loyal companion. He doesn’t eat much, although I suggest you give him even less to drink.

You’re helping me? Dil could not understand the words he heard. All hope for his brother seemed lost, even after the miracle that had restored his hand. The reporter nods again and Dil answers with a huff, much like a sob. Thank you, ma’am. Thanks.

Take that gratitude and hurry. I will not be surprised if someone plans a lynching in the bowels of a jail, Uzapu idly commented. Dil staggered and his jaw fell open. The demon ignored him and waves the pair away. Go.

Madelyn stepped sidelong and uncertain toward the exit. Dil pranced after the woman. Purpose replaces his stunned clumsiness. He catches her at the doors.

I’ll get the truck, he told the reporter. Wait here a minute.

I want to wait outside. Madelyn pushed past the older Cantara and goes through the doors. Dowie looked at Ben. The demon did not need to issue the command; Ben strode quickly up the aisle. The door had not yet shut before he arrived at the exit.

Outside, Dil jogged down the sidewalk and into the relentless sunlight. Madelyn shook at the bottom of the stairs. Within the fuzzy field of Ben’s unadjusted vision, both people were dull blurs. The false priest stepped down toward Madelyn because her smudge shined gold on top.

He performed a single purpose and ensured this woman did not entertain doubts during her time alone. Ben also had something more to say, something of his own and away from the gaze of the demon.

He leans over until his flaking lips brush Madelyn's ear. She flinched at his touch. Ben tells her, Leave Khetam. Save Hen, if you can. Don’t come back.

Madelyn pulls away. Puzzlement and revulsion wrinkled her brow. Ben yanks her backward.

Beware the Elohim. They are near when their monsters come.

The warning from the false priest was too cryptic and Madelyn could not resist asking for an explanation, but Dowie summoned Benjamin and the priest obeyed. Madelyn followed him back into Saint Erasmus until Dil stopped her. The older Cantara sat at the steering wheel of a beaten and complaining yellow pickup truck. The bellow was absent when he leaned on the car horn.

Let’s go, he shouted. While we have daylight.

Madelyn could only leave, which was also the only smart thing she can do. The priest’s comment remained a mystery. Even so, his message was clear, leave Khetam. That was what she should do, and so should the priest and the stranger named Dil. The boy was a monster.

Demons were real, so Madelyn Sebash supposed some god must exist, either Mortal or the heathen’s deity. One supernatural existence simplistically implied the other. Outside Saint Erasmus, she did not know what she should truly believe.

The Chosen reporter climbed into the waiting truck. Until Madelyn rationalized her encounter with the possessed boy and the events surrounding the ugly Unchosen kid, she would help this man curiously named Dil – the brother of an innocent scapegoat and a sacrifice. His hunt for Hen Cantara might lead outside Khetam. The idea did not appeal to Madelyn. Still safe within the confines of the Promised Land, she already regretted the idea of leaving the sanctuary of the Wall.

Persecution

"They eat and are satisfied, and they pick up six large baskets full of bread crumbs and fish fragments and guts. Five thousand men eat these scraps until they feel living things move in their bellies."

And Immanuel immediately tells His Disciples, Get in the boat and go ahead of me to Bethesda on the other side. I will harvest seeds from this flock."

-- Chosen doctrine, Chapter Seven, The Five Thousand

Once the first photograph was snapped, viscous laughter echoed inside the Inquisition room. More pictures were taken after Hen Cantara got another beating from Chosen soldiers. Laughter followed each blow. The enthusiasm faded in the reverberation and snickers alone later accompanied each photograph.

The blows and snaps ignited Hen’s brain with searing flashes. Blinding light periodically consumed the soldiers inside the whitewashed concrete-block room. At the instance of every strike, their brown uniforms bleached themselves transparent. The soldiers were then momentarily and completely camouflaged against the blanched walls. The room itself temporarily lost definition with every impact.

Upon rocking himself back upright, Hen was disheartened the light had not swept away the room and his aggressors. After so much abuse, the beatings lose their sharpness. Pain itself was dull. Blunt injury now only promised unconsciousness, but that mercy never comes.

The younger Cantara had never before been inside an Inquisition room. Every city in the Shur hosted an infamous room like this one, as Hen heard, where the military tortured confessions from suspects. The torture was merely a bullet point in any detainment procedure, but appetizing. Soldiers salivated when they were near that moment in an arrest. The military had probably added the systemic step for the vulgar morale of Chosen soldiers.

Why don’t they teach any of this shit in basic training? One of the soldiers chuckled after stomping Hen’s groin. The man’s poor aim instead landed the kick rightward and he cramped their prisoner’s left leg.

Another soldier answers the question. Hen had no clue if his sadist tried being a smart-ass. They did, Manny. Nobody thinks you're cool.

A third soldier adds some explanation. Of course, abuse isn’t taught in any official manual.

You hear about the tradition during basic training. You gotta have friends, creep.

Manny was upset and he attempted poor sarcasm. After a day of marches and the firing range, everybody gossiping in their bunks – giggling like kids whenever somebody says torture is a perk, a part of the job.

Sounds like you had a bad time in training, sympathized the third, understanding soldier.

Probably because he’s got a fat ass, suggested the second.

Hen thought Manny was closer when he described the mentality of a soldier. The younger Cantara imagined these depraved conscripted Chosen punks fell asleep and dreamed about losing their own virginity to something violent. Rookies who tittered in their sleep were invariably those soldiers who lost control and prematurely killed captives. Hen prayed the soldiers who beat him had already earned their experience.

A patrol had brought Hen Cantara to an Inquisition room at military headquarters inside Khetam. These secret jails were hidden in silent, restricted areas of military barracks. Thrown into one, a prisoner’s confession was certain. In fact, the military often scripted admissions before prisoners arrived. That rumor had become common knowledge since last generation.

Though his eyes were swollen shut, Hen remained conscious throughout the punishment. He strained to overhear his fate because hearing was the only faculty left to him. Even then, a hum in his head muffled the voices of soldiers. Their exertion leave them breathless, but they still sound excited and animated. The abuse energized them. Judging their enthusiasm and severity, Hen accepted the military intended to kill him.

Take your pictures and souvenirs now, boys. Yet another soldier suggested to his buddies. Death before dawn. Any bets when the angel is coming?

Hen guesses he had resolved himself to his fate. Not much hope was left for him, anyway. The demon Ben, the fake priest, named Uzapu, possessed his older brother. Hen last saw Dil Cantara unconscious and on the floor inside Saint Erasmus. He was probably dead, too.

His brother’s hand had been burned badly because the demon made Dil deep-fry himself in boiling intestines. Hen had witnessed that horror and other damnable sights at Saint Erasmus. He participated in them. For the sake of a demon, Hen had even helped sacrifice the soul of his friend, just a small boy. The young Cantara warned Dowie to run, he had even begged the boy to leave him alone. And all his worry had been futile.

If he had known his life would turn so sour, Hen Cantara might have listened to Ben and fled when there was the chance. The demon then lived inside Dil, so Hen would have lost his brother, which happened anyway. In the end, even Ben betrayed the Cantara brothers. The impostor helped the demon and the coward saved himself.

That demon had given Hen a choice – either his brother or his new friend. Ben insisted Dowie be given to the fiend. And Hen listened to the traitor. In actuality, the demon presenting the choice was no more than a cruel game. The inconsiderate fiend took whatever it wanted.

Who is this loser, Manny asked.

They already knew Hen’s name. The military knew he was an Unchosen or they would not have beat out this brains. The second soldier narrowed his reply into a simple answer justifying anything that happened in this room. He's an undocumented migrant. He's illegal.

The military made plans for the unlucky scapegoat, so soldiers never actually spoke with Hen. They had no for questions while they pummeled him. Instead, the sadists traded possibilities and invented stories that explained who the young Cantara might really be.

Heathen sympathizer, Manny shouted as he tried stomping on Hen again. The soldier steps on the edge of the chair between the captives thighs as if he climbed stairs. Luckily for Hen, the man misses his target again a second time.

At worst, the third soldier told Manny.

Manny was still argumentative. He’s a murdering insurgent and he's guilty of whatever other crime was committed in Khetam last night. He’s crazy, a heathen sympathizer, right? C’mon.

He left his name at the Wall when he entered Khetam, the third soldier said. Heathens and sympathizers don’t walk up to the Wall and go straight inside. He came with his brother, Dil Cantara, and that priest who was stranded in the Shur.

Benjamin Gadi? asked the second soldier.

Yeah, answered the third.

I heard about him. the second said. I heard his brain got fried out there. The guy’s not right.

Well, he’s a priest, explained the third. What are you going to do?

Manny rants staring at Hen. Yeah, him and his brother should have been told to leave the city before nightfall. The military found this sucker inside Khetam days later.

The soldier stopped trying to smash the groin of the younger Cantara and instead punches him low in his gut.

Outside Saint Erasmus, added the third.

Yeah, the church where Gadi is the custodian, Manny said stepping back. He braced his fists against his waist and breathes deep.

A disemboweled heathen lay at his feet on the steps outside, added the second. This one now took his turn and punched Hen with his bare fists.

They're going to pin the murder and mutilation on this guy, the second stated then hits Hen with a thud. No one had taken a picture that time.

Whether their story was true or not, the military had neatly wrapped up the murder case when Hen was captured. It had only be written and censored. The fact Dil actually killed the man was irrelevant. His brother had been forced to save him, so Hen owed him his life. He rejected the idea the older Cantara must pay for the murder, especially because, technically, the demon made Dil commit the crime.

The man would have killed the younger Cantara if Dil had not intervened. The demon later made his brother cut out the man’s guts for some terrible ritual. The military never learned any of these facts, nor cared. They had captured their whipping boy and a story outline was ready.

The military never cared they held the wrong man; Hen was an example to the real killer. That monster would stay free under the shadow of this impotent warning, and the Chosen citizens will be fed the death of yet another innocent and inconsequential Unchosen. Hen Cantara was now, and in the end, a victim of their mechanized propaganda.

Where’s his brother? Manny asked once he caught his breath. The second soldier joined him against the wall.

Hen thought the soldiers would have force him to reveal Dil – the military had taken both their names at the Wall. If he was still alive, his brother probably stayed at Saint Erasmus. Hen probably said so much when he was been tortured. If the military had not yet caught the older Cantara, these arresting soldiers must have distracted themselves with his torment.

He’ll turn up, soon, the third soldier said to one of his friends. Especially if Dil Cantara was involved with the murder. The Unchosen are prone to make mistakes. He’s one wrong move away from getting himself detained.

The second soldier sang, On the menu in the Inquisition room tomorrow night...

Given a peaceful second in which he sat unbattered and throbbing, Hen considered his misstep. The horror he witnessed in the church made him reckless. Although he knew he had gone into the streets of Khetam at night, his caution was a victim of the bedlam inside Saint Erasmus. Hen had merely stepped outside after curfew so he could bring back a borrowed sedan. Hen groans to himself, Even that is against the law in the Cap.

Ben promised he would help throw the dead man into the back. The two of them would then know what to do with the body. After Hen brought back the suspicious vehicle outside the church, he and the false priest talked briefly about the demon.

It’s in the boy now, Ben told Hen. That moment, a patrol spotted the younger Cantara. Both him and Ben ran, but the fake priest got inside Saint Erasmus before Hen almost left behind the orphaned sedan.

Once he was apprehended, the younger Cantara pleaded for help from Ben. Hen never considered his cries were unheard. Me and my brother rescued you, Hen shouted. Why are you denying me, Ben? You’re a traitor.

That guy did this? One of the soldiers asked someone outside the Inquisition room. Hen recognizes they talked about him. Though his eyes were swollen shut and he could not see, he assumed the door of the was open.

Holy, where did you get those? Another soldier asked amazed. Breathless squawks betrayed his impression. Hen recognized the voices as those of other men who had beaten him.

Those are crime photos, right? That’s what reporters get.

Yeah, confirmed the soldier who first asked for an opinion. He tells his buddy I have a collection. Once reporters hand the copies back in, they go in the trash. Where did you think they go? Nobody cares what happens to the pictures after these losers take a rap.

That’s cool, but they’re black and white.

Yeah, I think that’s because they don’t want reporters to get ideas. It’s easier for our censors if writers stick with their scripts.

The second soldier provides definitive judgment. It’s probably because black and white film is less expensive, too. That sucks.

Nah, that’s what’s good about them. I give them to my kid so she can color the pictures with markers. It’s fun. She gets a kick out of it. I should show you a couple pictures she colored. I got them here.

You and your kid are sick.

Silence physically descended outside the room Hen occupied. The younger Cantara felt its presence – one moment the soldiers loudly joked, the next, they simply stop talking, as if the conversation was a snuffed candle. As had his other senses, Hen thought his hearing abandoned him. He would rub his ears, and dislodge any obstruction, if his hands were not cuffed to the bench.

Hen improvised and tried to drag his ear over his shoulder, but he could not reach – his hands were locked tight to the bench. The young Cantara stretched his arm its full length before so he much as brushed his ear. The motion painfully strained his shoulder and he grunted his high-pitched squeal. Hen then made a sound identical a balloon losing air through a tight, wet seal.

Once he finally touched his ear and when he rubbed, thick wetness soaks through his shirt. He could now hear the buzzing electricity in the fluorescent lights, but the deathly silence outside persisted. The stillness made him nervous. Hen was paranoid and thought the soldiers were quiet on purpose because his sight had been beaten out of him.

The younger Cantara assumed the deprivation was some torture. Hen did not comprehend the concept or need, but he has always had only a loose grasp on psychology. He knew more stuff about bugs. If his fidgeting amused the soldiers, they should never have tied him onto the bench so tight.

The military complimented the audio deprivation with a cold room. The younger Cantara feels the cold outside his body and only his exposed flesh is pricked. His bare arms grow sheathed in goose bumps. At the very thankful least, the freezing air cooled his trampled face.

The young Cantara did not think his injuries had forced him into shock. After a self-diagnostic triage, he decided a soundless air conditioner made the room so unusually chilly. After a while, the temperature was burning cold. Wriggles and squirms were the only way Hen saved himself from this new agony. His wrestling out of bondage warmed the entire room.

Heavy boots thumped down the hall, carrying a visitor closer to the Inquisition room. Hen heard them coming for him. Much earlier, when the young Cantara arrived at the barracks, he saw no other prisoners. Since his arrival, he has also not heard anyone else thrown a welcome party like the one he received. Hen Cantara seemed their sole victim. He remained undecided whether his observation made him feel unfortunate.

You’re going to the Smyrna detention camp.

Hen did not recognize the gruff voice. It belonged to an older man he had yet not met. The news may have personally been delivered by the barracks commander. Hen could not see and the man failed to introduce himself with his rank. The probable soldier provided Hen only a destination.

Once the news was dispatched, the unidentified man hovered over