Tom Pawlik - Beckon

Jack folded his arms. “How fast?”

Henderson just stared at him a moment and then rummaged through one of the drawers until he found a box cutter. He rolled up his sleeve and held his arm out for Jack to see.

Jack frowned. “What are you doing?”

Henderson winced as he ran the razor down the length of his forearm, slicing open his skin along an eight- or nine-inch track. A dark trail of blood rolled off his arm onto the cement floor.

Jack backed away. “Are you crazy?”

“Just watch.” Henderson held his arm still under the lights.

Jack watched as the wound stopped bleeding all on its own. The skin seemed to close up right before his eyes, as if someone were zipping it shut from the ends toward the middle. In seconds, a bright-red scar formed and faded back to the color of the original flesh.

Within two minutes’ time the scar completely disappeared and Jack could see no trace of the wound whatsoever. He blinked and shook his head. Was his extreme fatigue playing tricks with his mind? Had Henderson performed some kind of sleight of hand?

“I don’t believe it,” he said. “How does it work?”

“I told you. It enhances and accelerates the body’s natural ability to heal itself.”

Jack’s hands were still cuffed behind his back, but he leaned forward to examine the vial. “So… what? You just drink this when you’re sick or injured?”

Henderson rolled his sleeve back down. “Something like that.”

“And… a person who drinks this… can’t be killed?”

“Not exactly. If the physical trauma is too severe, the body may not have time to heal itself before succumbing to death.”

Jack nodded at the terraria. “And you think the spiders—the kiracs—are the key to how they make the perilium?”

“That’s our theory,” Henderson said. “They exhibit an uncanny resistance to disease and extremely fast recuperative abilities when injured.”

Jack recalled the spider Ben had tried to kill. It wasn’t until he had caused enough physical tissue damage with his knife that the animal finally died.

“But you don’t know how it’s made.”

Henderson shook his head. “The N’watu guard this secret closely.”

“No doubt.” Jack sat on the stool. For now all of his weariness had left him. His mind was active with the possibilities this substance presented. It needed to be shared with the world. So why was it being kept a secret?

“There’s some catch to it, isn’t there?”

Henderson sat down at the table across from Jack. His expression turned grim. “The impact on the body is enormous… but only temporary. Once perilium enters the system, the body requires regular doses to survive. Otherwise, it goes into shock. Convulsions, seizures… and death.”

Jack’s mind was racing. It was making sense now. These people needed a constant supply of this perilium, and the N’watu were the only ones who knew how to make it. So they had some kind of contract. He recalled Running Bear saying the N’watu had made a similar bargain with the Soul Eater. To offer it human souls in exchange for their own lives.

“So this is where the legend of the Soul Eater comes from?” Jack said. “The N’watu worship these kiracs. They offer up human sacrifices and get this perilium in return.”

“We figured you knew about the legend.” Henderson drew a long breath. “The N’watu will only accept a human soul. The legend goes that the Soul Eater consumes the life force of the soul, and by drinking her nectar, a person can gain the power of the other’s life force. One life for another.”

“One life…” Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He could still see the tribe inside the cave, gathering round to eat the baby kiracs right out of the egg sac. And how the others were thrown into a bowl to be mashed up. This must have been the way they produced the perilium. He looked again at the vial on the table. It was something inside the spiders’ physiology that the N’watu—and the people here—were ingesting. He shook his head. “Is that where you all come in? You supply them with fresh souls to be offered?”

Henderson’s jaw clenched. “We do what we have to do to survive.”

“Do what you have to do?” Jack cringed. “You’re killing people!”

“Don’t you get it? We’ll die without the perilium.”

“Then die! What gives you the right to take someone else’s life like this?”

“That’s why I’ve been studying it,” Henderson said, raising his voice. “If I can synthesize it or find a way to replicate it, we can make it ourselves and I can end this nightmare!”

“And in the meantime… what?” Jack said.

“In the meantime we have to maintain the status quo.”

Jack eyed him with disgust. “Status quo? Meaning you keep herding innocent people to the slaughter?” He nodded again to the terraria. “To be fed to those things in the cave?”

“No.” Henderson shook his head. His eyes seemed to glaze over. “To be fed to her .”

“Her?”

“Sh’ar Kouhm. They feed them to the queen. The others—the males—just get the leftovers.”

Jack sat dumbfounded, staring at the second terrarium and recalling the larger specimen and how it fed. His heart raced at the thought of one of the queens lurking in the caves. Something even more terrifying than the males he had encountered. He remembered the massive shape he had glimpsed in the cave as he and Ben were making their escape. Could that have been the queen? Jack shuddered. “And she drinks their blood?”

“Drinks their souls, yes.”

“And since she feeds on fear,” Jack went on, “these victims are alive and kicking. They’re filled with terror when they get thrown to the Soul Eater?”

“I don’t know how the ritual is performed.”

Ritual? Jack squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Look… Dwight. This… this has to stop. You can’t let this continue. These are people you’re killing. Human beings!”

Henderson stood. “I haven’t killed anyone. I’m trying to end this.”

“But you’re helping them do it.”

“And I’m telling you , your only chance of staying alive is if Vale thinks you still have some value to him. So you decide. Help me find a solution and live. Or stand there moralizing and get thrown into the pit.”

Jack took a long breath. “Is everyone in Beckon trapped here like you? They’re all involved in this?”

“Everybody in this town was lured here by Thomas Vale at some point; they were chosen for a reason. They each had something Vale wanted to exploit. Money, expertise… Malcolm Browne was a businessman worth millions. Sam Huxley was a lawyer. Frank Carson is ex-military and Vale wanted him for security purposes. And the others… we were all facing death in some way and gave up everything for the promise of a miracle. A second chance at life.”

“A second chance?” Jack frowned at him. “So wait a minute. If this stuff can eliminate disease, then how…?” Jack was trying to piece together the information Henderson was giving him, but he couldn’t think of how to frame his next question. It sounded too crazy. “Exactly how long have you been here?”

Henderson just looked at him for a moment. “You’re starting to understand the true secret of perilium.”

“So you’re saying this stuff… enhances longevity?”

“Significantly.”

Jack blinked away his shock. “Seriously… how old are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m older than I look.”

Jack’s mouth hung open. This guy looked like he was in his twenties. Thick, chestnut-brown hair without a hint of gray. And perfect complexion. Not a trace of age lines by his mouth or crow’s-feet around his eyes. No moles or liver spots. But how old was he in reality? Forty? Fifty? Jack pressed him for an answer, but Henderson refused to provide further details. Finally Jack shook his head in frustration. “But you’re telling me that if you leave here or stop taking the perilium, you’ll die.”