Chris Mooney - The Soul Collectors

The first strap hit him and he thrashed around on the chair and his voice came back and he howled, the sound loud enough to pulverize stone. They kept whipping him, the straps tearing out strips of flesh, and then one of them raked something hard across his shins and he vomited until his stomach was stripped and then, through the mercy of God, he passed out.

Delirious and drifting in and out of consciousness, he would sometimes open his eyes and see nothing but the awful darkness and wonder if the whips had blinded him. Now he opened them again and through his pain-soaked haze he could see candlelight flickering across a grey-stoned ceiling. They had removed him from the chair and placed him on his back on something cold and hard and wet.

The pain came back, roaring through his body, and his limbs shook and he felt straps biting into his wrists and ankles, his throat. His head bobbed slightly to the left and he saw a dark leather strap pinning the wrist of his broken hand against the edge of a long metal table. Blood — his blood — covered his naked body and pooled across the table's stainless-steel surface. He heard a dripping sound on the floor as he bled out and he wept, thinking, I'm going to die.

The Archon's voice echoed over the cold and dusty stones: 'What is your name?'

Mark Rizzo shut his eye, weeping. They were going to kill him and it didn't matter if he said his real name or not because they -

A bolt of electricity slammed through his head and across his limbs, his vision exploding in white, and he couldn't see anything and his body bucked against the leather straps binding him to the table.

Then he fell back to the table and the pain was swept under a tingling numbness that fluttered back and forth across his limbs.

'Electroshock therapy,' the voice said. 'That was fifteen seconds. The next time it will be thirty.'

'Why are you doing this?'

'What is your name?'

He didn't answer and the electricity came again. When it was over, he couldn't move, felt his heart sputtering. Leaking.

'Thomas,' he screamed. 'My name is Thomas!'

'Thomas what?'

'Thomas Howland.'

'Where were you born?'

'Tulsa, Oklahoma. My mother's name was Janice and she died of breast cancer and I went to live with my father, Duncan. His name was Duncan but everyone called him Chris. He was a painter. Painted houses.'

'You told me you prayed for him to die.'

'I told a priest.'

'And God. God was there with you in the confessional, Thomas. I heard your prayers, and I killed your father. I caused his ladder to fall, and I let him die. To punish him for what he did to you. And when you were living in a foster home, being abused, I heard your prayers and I sent an angel to bring you to a new family, to a mother and father who were kind to you. And how did you repay my kindness? You shot my family. You killed my angels while they slept and then you fled like a coward.'

His mind was spinning, flashing back to all those times he'd been inside the truck with his stepfather, a man named Ernest. Those long drives to other states and the hours spent in the truck waiting until Ernie gave the nod and then he would get out and approach the young boy or girl, use the speech he'd been given to lure them into the truck. Riding in the truck and trying hard not to cry because he knew the boy or girl sitting wedged between the two of them would disappear into thin air and then the time would come to move on to another state, move on to the next boy or girl, more states, more victims, always more victims.

'I'm not a murderer,' he said.

'You were a liberator,' the Archon said. 'My angel. I gave you the mark.'

He felt it rise up in him, the decades-old guilt over what he'd done. He had told no one, but his guilt had turned into the ulcers, high blood pressure and heart palpitations that eventually led to his first heart attack. The drinking that wouldn't take away the ghosts but reduced their voices to whispers.

'It took me a long, long time to find you the first time,' the voice said softly. 'Imprisoned in this body, I had to use man-made methods. And when I finally found you, in my kindness I gave you a chance to save your soul. I was willing to release your son, and what did you do?'

I saved myself, Mark thought. It was true. He had saved himself, yes, but he also knew that if he had done what was asked of him — if he had agreed to meet with them and go back to living in that dark, underground hell — they wouldn't have released Charlie. Charlie had seen too much. They would have kept Charlie, tortured him as a way to punish me. If I had gone back, nothing would have changed. Nothing.

But at least you would have been with him, another voice added. Charlie wouldn't have been left alone with these people. You abandoned your son.

'You wouldn't have released him,' he said.

The voice moved closer to his ear. 'You, a coward and monster, are calling me a liar?'

His eye flew open and he saw shadows on the wall, shapes coming together.

'You let him suffer,' the voice said. 'Your child. Your son. You let him suffer for your sins.'

'I've seen what you do here.'

'And what is that, Thomas?'

'You torture and kill people.'

'We prepare sinners for a good death, Thomas. They are here for the same reason as you. You are here to atone. To ask for forgiveness.'

'No.'

'Then you have much to think about.'

'You're going to kill me.'

'We want to save you, Thomas. Do you value your soul?'

He swallowed rapidly, deciding to go with it. Tell them anything they wanted to hear and then find a way out of this dungeon of horrors.

'Yes,' he said, licking his lips. 'Yes, I do.'

'Are you ready to confess?'

'Yes.'

They gathered around him, the black robes and faces shielded by hoods, and he confessed to everything.

'Thank you, Thomas.'

A soft kiss on his forehead. Real lips. The Archon had taken off the mask.

His eye automatically slammed shut, not wanting to see the face, and he shivered all over.

'You are forgiven.'

The electricity shot through him again. When it stopped, he was barely conscious, vaguely aware of his mouth being opened and a clear tube coated with Vaseline being shoved down his throat.

Darby stood in the late John Smith's living room with her cold hands buried deep in her jeans pockets. She had glass shards in her hair. Blood was smeared on her clothes, and she caught its coppery reek under the pervasive odour of cordite. Her face and hands and joints throbbed. She had been cut but not too badly. The paramedic had used tweezers to remove the glass shards from her face, then cleaned her wounds and applied some sort of antibacterial ointment but no bandages. She stood in front of one of the two floor-to-ceiling windows that hadn't been blown out by the gunshots and she could see her reflection, the crisscrossed network of fine red cuts and scratches along the right side of her face.

The adrenalin rush had long since dissipated, leaving her with a familiar but still strange hollow feeling. Numb, as if her organs had been shot full of Novocain. Her mind kept replaying what had happened in slow motion. Here it came again, the first part, and again she didn't turn away from it.

Smith sitting to her right and getting to his feet and then, a split second later, his craggy face exploded. Skin and blood blew across her face and she thought exit wound. She hadn't heard the gunshot and her mind registered two facts at once: silencer and sniper. The exit wound — Smith's face — meant the contact shot had hit him in the back of the head. Meant the trajectory of the bullet had come from behind him, from somewhere across the street and from someplace high, like the trees or a roof. Meant that she had been followed here.