Stolen Souls

63

HERKUS SUCKED AIR and leaked blood.

“The cop, he knows about you,” he said.

His mind grasped at this last shred of logic. Anything to make the madman stop, to buy him some time. It worked. The blade, whatever it was, did not penetrate his body again. “What cop?” the madman asked.

Herkus searched through the pain and fog for a name. “Lennon,” he said. “Lennon. He knows your face.”

A stinging mix of bile and blood bubbled up into his throat. He coughed, screamed at the fire that ignited in his belly.

“How?” the madman asked.

Herkus kicked out, tried to crawl away. The madman placed a knee on his stomach. Herkus screamed again.

“Tell me how he knows my face?”

“The picture,” Herkus said, squeezing the words between tortured gasps.

“The same picture? What are you talking about?”

Herkus wanted to answer, hoped to save his life with the knowledge, but the pain dragged his mind down, robbing him of speech.

“Tell me,” the madman said, his breath hot on Herkus’s face. The darkness grew darker still. Herkus willed his tongue to move, air to charge his vocal cords, but there was nothing left but the fire that spread from his stomach to swallow his being.

And the faces.

So many faces, all of them waiting for him.

Oh God, he thought, the words forming in his mind like bright stars above him.

Oh God forgive me.

And then something brighter pierced his throat, and he knew there was no forgiveness, only fire.