“Jesus Christ, Pete. Had I known you were that far gone . . .” he says, shaking his head, “。 . . good Christ.”
“Stop it,” I say, angry and embarrassed. Annoyed and sullen that he can’t see what I see. “There is evil in this world we can’t comprehend, David. The entire mountain of religion is built upon that fact. And that man who died here? That man was possessed. Andrew basically admitted as much. He’d been practicing the occult. Sacrificed a small girl, him and others . . .”
“Okay then, if this man released demons into the children, why are only half the kids acting nuts? Why not the priests? Hm? What about you? What about me?”
It’s a point I’ve thought of, but I have no good answer for him, or myself. “Some wills are stronger than others, perhaps. Or, maybe some are more susceptible to possession.” I shrug, knowing how lame it all sounds. “I don’t expect to understand the ways of evil . . .”
“Jesus Christ. Look here, you want to see evil, Peter?” David says, thrusting both his hands up into my face, turning them so I have no choice but to stare at the backs of his scarred fingers, the broken, bent knuckle, the thick webbed tissue along the top of his hands and wrists where Poole strapped him when we were younger. In David’s case, he would strap him until he bled. It happened more than once. “There, Peter. There’s your fucking evil.”
He grabs me roughly and pulls me aside, far from where anyone can overhear. “Those other kids? They’re not evil, Pete. Not the way you think. They’re just mad. They’re broken. They’re sick of this place. They’re sick of the shit they’ve had to endure all these years. They’re sick of being starved, of being bullied and beaten. Hell man, if it wasn’t for you, I’d probably join them.”
I can’t help it, my mouth drops open. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” he snaps. “Do you know what’s in my heart, Peter? Do you? Because I sure as hell don’t,” he hisses, his words choked by barely-restrained tears.
He takes a deep breath, lets it out. His face softens, the rage seeping away like an early tide, leaving nothing but sorrow in its wake.
I don’t know what to say. I’m filled with a deep, impenetrable sadness at all the things he must be feeling. The conflict. The hate. It makes me want to weep for him. I study his features, wishing—wishing more than anything—there was something I could do to take away the pain swirling inside him.
I place a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, okay. I hear you. But look, if we’re going to beat whatever we’re facing here, it needs to be you and me, little brother. You and me. Staying together is the only way we get through this.”
David doesn’t meet my eye, and I see the struggle inside him abating, worming back into his core to hide away, and I’m grateful.
I want to help him, but I also need him.
“I can’t do it alone,” I say.
Finally, he nods once. Then turns his back to me and walks away.
I watch him go, relieved at winning him to my side, at least for now. I take a moment to study those who reside in our tenuous fortress, then once more inspect the barred doors. My eyes rest on the slanted iron cross, our only defense against those who wish us harm.
I wonder if my decision to stay—to ask David to stay—is the right one, or if it will even matter in the end. As I ponder this troubled future, David lies down in his bunk and closes his eyes. He must be exhausted beyond measure.
Then a sudden, unbidden thought comes to me; one that slips through my defenses and burrows deep into my mind, whispering a horrid prophecy:
You’ve killed him.
45
THE VOICE IS DISTANT AND MUFFLED. AS IF SPOKEN through layers of webbing.
“Wake up, Brother Johnson. Wake up now. We’ve much work to do this night.”
Johnson has no desire to wake up. He does not want to open his eyes, to return to the horror of his reality. The swamp of guilt for the things he’s done.
The things he will do.
“I’m not asking, Teddy. WAKE. UP.”
“You’ve killed him! You’re mad!”
Poole? Yes . . . Father Poole. And the other one . . . the boy.
But not a boy. Not anymore.
The command could not be ignored. Gingerly, slowly, Johnson opens his eyes.
Or . . . eye, it seems.
The other eyelid refuses to move.
He sees a slanted floor and several sets of feet. The underside of a bed. His vision is . . . distorted. He realizes he’s lying on his side, and that there’s something very wrong with him.
“Killed him? No, Father,” the boy says. Then: “Go on, Johnson. Show him. Show him our strength.”
The buzzing in his brain, blessedly absent for a few moments, comes back on him ten-fold. He winces at the intensity of it, and in doing so feels—no, hears—his face.
It crinkles like paper, there’s a stench he can’t place . . . and he’s oddly numb.
Regardless, the instructions come through the swarm, and he obeys.
Johnson pushes himself up. First to an elbow, then to a sitting position. The room straightens, and he looks up into the faces of several boys. Bartholomew stares down at him, his eyes wide and so dark as to appear black, the pupils impossibly large. The others—Samuel, Jonah, Terrence among them—all watch closely. Some look guarded.
A few look afraid.
Good.
“Go on, Teddy. Stand.”
Johnson does, fascinated at how he towers over all these children. The very ones he now serves. He looks down at Poole, the once great dictator, now nothing but a weak old man, bedridden with a damaged leg. The priest looks up at him in horror, tinged with disgust.
Curious, Johnson raises his hands to gently feel his new face. Whatever damage was done, it does not hurt. Instead, it tingles, as if there is an enormous amount of pain waiting for him, waiting to be released, just on the other side of some thin neural membrane currently blocking it from his mind. A membrane he knows （somehow, deep inside, he knows） could easily be popped. Removed.
And all that pain would rush in. It would consume him.
It may even kill him.
Still, he’s curious. He touches his cheeks, his nose, his chin. In some places, he feels tight, hot skin, and despite the membrane it hurts—just a little—at the pressure of his fingertips. Like being poked with a fine needle. In other places, he feels fabric, as if his face is part flesh, and part the cloth he was wearing when . . . when . . .
OH GOD.
Moaning, he frantically moves his hands higher. Groping now. He touches his eyes. The one he can open feels normal, unobstructed. Working.
The other is gone. A hollow of gnarled flesh. A lump of gristle. He moans louder, his tongue thick and useless in his mouth.
“Take it easy, Teddy.” Bartholomew is watching him carefully. “You’re fine,” he adds, smiling as naturally as any young, innocent boy. “In fact, I think you’re much improved. Don’t you think, lads? Much improved.”
The others laugh. The ones who were afraid now smile. The others murmur mocking agreement.
Johnson ignores them. He moves his hand atop his head. There are brittle patches of hair, but mostly what he feels is that same combination of taut skin and coarse, burned fabric. His scalp is wrinkled and hot. In places it feels cracked, and there’s moisture there. Blood, most likely.