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Father Wilson sent for Smith. He knew that the brother had served in the Fear Wars and his experiences had made him turn to drugs and religion. The cocktail of chemical and spiritual had not, in the Father’s opinion, had the desired effect. However, he knew that if anybody could find and take his daughter, Smith was that man.
A tap on his door startled him,
“Come in.”
Smith entered the room, his hood was raised and Wilson could only make out the man’s basic features. Steel grey eyes held the Father’s gaze as he murmured,
“You want me to find the girl, Father?”
“Yes Brother, that is correct.” How had he known?
“Alive for preference.” Statement rather than question.
“The Chosen One has not stipulated that, but it would be preferable yes.”
“Very well Father, I will need a day to prepare myself.”
“Of course Brother.”
Smith left and Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. He knew what preparations the Brother referred to and he worried that Smith would descend into insanity before he completed his mission.
***********
Smith stood naked in the middle of his cell. It was devoid of any luxury items such as a bed and chairs, comfort was for weaklings. He cut into his scarred face with the SS dagger, the knife had been liberated from a War Museum in Germany and was Smith’s pride and joy. The evil that it represented, he felt, was being expunged by the good it was being used for now. Pain was good, it focussed the mind and he needed all his faculties to be razor sharp for this quest. The moment had finally arrived. Smith would take the devil-woman and use her to ingratiate himself with the Chosen One. Between them they would wrest control of the Brotherhood from Father Wilson. The man was weak, Smith was contemptuous of his lack of dedication. He should have killed Jenny Wilson at the same moment he sacrificed her mother. But now, Smith had the opportunity to right that wrong. He would lead the Brotherhood, he and the Chosen One’s army of resurrected dead against the Godless sinners.
Pain was ecstasy but Zeal, an experimental and illegal narcotic, rubbed into the wound enhanced his senses to the point where a breath of wind would feel like the stroke of a whip. This part of his twenty four hour preparations gave him the necessary conditioning to withstand any pain. Normal injuries would feel like a dull ache at most. All that remained now was twelve hours of meditation, prayer and pain. He reached into a small vial around his neck and rubbed some of the white powder from it into the face wound. As the drug took hold, Smith began to whip himself gently, no damage would be done to slow him later but the pain was still almost unbearable. He muttered a prayer as he tortured himself.
Paradox moved quietly down the corridor, he had no dog-tags and the camouflage jacket and shirt had been ripped from his body, he now wore only a khaki vest, combat pants and boots. Still no closer to discovering his identity, Paradox reasoned that someone, somewhere would recognise him and the cavern wasn’t the best place to find them. As he entered the vault, Paradox had the sensation of deja-vu, the children’s skeletons brought back a memory and the shock took him to his knees. His face twisted, distorted into that of a monster. He touched it and began to understand the true nature of the change brought about in him. Whoever the human had been, it was no longer him and he didn’t believe he wanted to be associated with anyone who could do such a terrible thing to children.
Paradox considered his options, death was the obvious and easiest escape but without honour. Perhaps an act of atonement then. At the same time, Paradox was haunted by a nagging suspicion that something was wrong. He needed to know more about this grisly part of his past. He began to climb the stairs out of the vault.
------
In five hundred years time, most of us will be forgotten dust. But Hitler will still be remembered, God loves irony.
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Fear Book 3 Part 10
