DAIMON

  Well, here I am. The main hangar. The same place I where I busted in through the wall only a few days ago. Though the circumstances of my visit are significantly different this time around. A few days ago I breached this human colony’s sacred place, going where I ought not. I was an intruder. A violator.

  In this case, however, I appear to be the main attraction. A hundred or so men and women—mostly women—stand in the middle of the main hall, staring at me. I’m like a freak in a carnival. A bear in a zoo.

  I lean forward, absently pulling against my cuffs. I’m chained to one of the rails connected to the massive crane operation tower. I stare up at that dangling metal hook, the one that Silas’ friend dropped on me during what should have been a fair, one-on-one fight. I watch the hook as it sways gently, subtly manipulated by the vibrations of my chains pulling and rubbing against the rail.

  I can’t break free. I simply don’t have the strength. Gavin saw to that. He’s supplied me with just enough energy to appear like a threat. If I’m right—and I’m definitely right—Gavin is going to stage a duel with me, as a show of strength. A symbolic demonstration of his ability to lead the Cloister, to be their protector.

  It’s all a farce, of course. But I can’t say as much. My mouth has literally been sewn shut. I can feel the thick wires cutting into the flesh of my jaw and mouth, making wounds that won’t close, blood seeping past my tongue and down my throat at a steady trickle.

  I try to speak. It sounds more like the mewling of an animal. And I hate myself for it.

  The people look on at me as they talk in hushed tones, speculating amongst themselves. They’re a curated bunch, from what I can tell. You’d think that after everything Gavin did they’d be worked up. But no. Old men and women. Young mothers with their young children. They can’t afford to fight back. They’ve been broken in like wild horses, creatures that used to be free. But then, maybe they never were. They were timid, housebroken animals. They kept their heads down and followed the rules. And now Gavin’s the new rulemaker.

  Gavin’s muscular, baldheaded crony, Renzo, stands at the back of the assembly, holding an automatic rifle as he surveys the crowd. He looks tense, maybe even a little flighty. Beads of sweat glisten on his bald pate. He is all alone. The last of the faithful.

  Light footsteps sound on the platform behind me, prompting me to crane my neck. It’s that old lady, Evelyn. She walks tall for someone her age. Shoulders back. Neck straight. Jaw set. Determined. Unfaltering.

  And here I thought human beings were supposed to have a conscience. But then, maybe that’s not the case for everyone. Maybe some people are born without them. Perhaps they simply lose them over time. Perhaps the conscience is like a rubber band, becoming stretched and worn over the years. If one’s heart is hard and brittle enough, perhaps it simply breaks.

  Speculation, of course. And what do I care? I’m about to break. I just have to make sure I bring down Gavin with me.

  And speak of the devil. There he is. The man of the hour.

  Gavin marches across the platform in his military fatigues. He unbuttons and removes his outer shirt, down to a black t-shirt. He stretches his neck and rolls his massive shoulders.

  He peers into the crowd, waving and beckoning. “Reverend.”

  A graying, balding man comes up out of the crowd. He wears a gray suit and black tie. His hands are clasped in front of him, fingers digging into the back of his hands, knuckles white. A low-hanging jowl wobbles back and forth in the middle of his neck with every step.

  He turns to face the crowd. His eyes look twitchy and strange. A soul ill-at-ease. But he takes a deep breath, drawing willpower from some unseen place. His back straightens. His gaze turns to steel and glass. He looks out at the people. His congregation.

  “Great sins have been committed here,” the Reverend says, in a voice throaty and full. A voice full of authority and conviction. “A great many sins. So many innocent men, shot and killed in this room.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He pauses for effect, gauging the reactions of the crowd.

  The people seem confused. Not because they disagree with the Reverend’s assessment, but because they don’t understand why both Gavin and Evelyn are allowing the Reverend to say it.

  “We cannot simply acknowledge that a terrible thing has been done,” the Reverend continues. “Gavin has confided in me, his minister. What happened here, it was more than a mistake. It was a grievous violation.”

  People are starting to get riled up in the crowd. It’s obvious they want to speak up. But they’re still afraid. They’ve spent too much time holed up in small, dark rooms, waiting and hoping for their next deposit of food and drink, and probably never getting enough. They are prisoners here. For all their anger and grief, they are still afraid, for themselves and for their families.

  Gavin comes forward, standing next to the Reverend. The former head of the Watch removes his black shirt. He draws a big combat knife from his belt. He kneels next to the Reverend, peering up at him, waiting on his next words.

  The Reverend pulls a folded piece of paper from the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket. The paper crinkles loudly as he unfolds it.

  The Reverend begins to read off a list of names. The names of the people Gavin killed during his coup, I have to assume.

  With every name read, Gavin runs the blade of his knife across his chest, etching deep, deliberate cuts. Blood runs down his torso, thick, almost syrupy-looking, the way it catches and pools against his waistband, spreading in red stain down the length of one leg. The wounds are numerous and overlapping. With every Gavin grimaces darkly, occasionally grunting and wincing, but he never cries out, and shies away from the task.

  There’s a brief, dramatic pause before the Reverend reads the final name. “Samuel Callahan.”

  Gavin closes his eyes. He places the tip of the knife against the corner of his own forehead. He runs the blade across his face, slowly, across the nose and over his cheek, only stopping at the chin. He drops the knife, where it clangs and bounces on the floor. It slides, coming to a stop only a few steps in front of me.

  This was intentional. The moment is being primed. All the pieces are being moved into place.

  Then Gavin holds out his arms in a T-pose. No—a supplicative gesture, raising his face toward the heavens, even as blood runs down his neck and drips off his beard.

  Corfield reaches out with one hand, placing his palm on Gavin’s bloody face. “Do you confess to the murder of those whose names are written on this piece of paper!?”

  “Yes!” Gavin says, eyes still clamped shut. “I killed them! It was a mistake. But it was my mistake. There is no excuse. I am responsible. And I alone.”

  “Do you denounce these sins which thou hast committed!?” The Reverend roared.

  “Yes!” Gavin roars, trembling. He shakes his head, drops of blood casting into the air like red spittle.

  The Reverend pulls his hand back, fingers smeared with blood. “God forgives you Gavin! He forgives all his children. Your sins are cleansed by the blood of him who was slain.”

  The reactions in the crowd are mixed. They are both skeptical and confused. Why is the Reverend bothering to perform such a ceremony? What does all of this mean?

  That’s because the scene isn’t quite complete.

  Perhaps I’m the only one who notices Evelyn reaching into the pocket of her overalls, just before I feel a mechanical click against my wrists.

  The cuffs. They’ve been unlocked remotely. I’m free to move. To go for the knife. And that’s that idea. I’m supposed to make my way onto the stage of this terrible play, to become part of Gavin’s veneration ceremony. When this is all over, the crowd will see Gavin as a flawed but necessary leader. A sinner that God had yet chosen to fulfill a purpose for the people.

  Jesus isn’t the sacrificial lamb in this equation. I am. There was never any other choice.

  It will go like this. I’ll dive for the knife. Obviously. It’s the only option I have. And Gavin will come after me. He’ll draw a knife of his own, unless he opts to tackle me barehanded. The point is there is a perceived risk involved. Gavin will be considered courageous for this.

  What the audience doesn’t know is that Gavin has specifically siphoned just enough energy into me to allow me to go for the knife, but not enough to actually beat him in a fight. That’s the whole point. But what choice do I have?

  I could simply stand here and wait. But at some point, it’s going to become obvious that I’m no longer handcuffed. They’ll see to that, I can be sure. And when that happens, they’ll orchestrate it to look like I simply had to be put down.

  Any second. Any second now, I need to move. I need to take the shot.

  I brace my heel against the metal rail behind me. I slump down, getting ready to dive forward and reach for the knife. But something stops me. A sound. Low and far away. Like a fighter jet coming in for a landing. Getting louder with every passing second. And I’m the only one who seems to notice.

  No. That’s not true. Evelyn hears it too. She’s the only one actually paying attention, she’s not lost in the strangeness of the moment like everyone else. She has this curious look on her face, her brows scrunched together in concentration.

  Then, her eyes go wide in realization.

  And that’s when the ceiling explodes.