The Soul Collectors

35

Mark Rizzo had learned, years and years ago, to make peace with the darkness. As a child, he had discovered that all it did was amplify emotions, mainly fear. And pain. His father had been a man of little patience and a quick temper. Anything from a spilled glass of milk to a bad report card could set him off.

His father preferred the belt. Liked the ritual of it. He would stand — slowly, always slowly — and once on his feet he'd unbuckle it and then just as slowly pull the thick leather through the loops of his paint-stained jeans. Once it was free, he'd wrap an end around his big, meaty, callused fist. Usually, but not always, he'd just sit back in his seat and wait, sometimes an hour, sometimes a couple of days. Mark remembered when he'd been caught throwing a rock at a pigeon sitting on the garage roof for no reason other than he had hated the sight of it. The rock had broken a window and his father had waited a whole month to dish out the punishment, and that time he had worked the buckle into the mix.

And his father would always do it in the dark, always. The thing about the dark was that he couldn't see the strap. Mark would be torn from sleep by the end of the belt, and he'd hold up his hands, and the strap would keep coming until his father left, panting. Lying in the darkness of his bedroom, the pain always seemed greater, more intense. No matter how strong one's will, the mind couldn't grasp or manage pain. Anticipating the pain from the belt or buckle was far, far worse than actually receiving it.

Like now. The people who had him hadn't hurt him yet, but they would. They would. Because he knew they hurt people in this place.

Naked and trapped alone in this pitch black and dank-smelling darkness, sometimes awake, sometimes half asleep, they made him wait here locked inside this tiny prison cell where you couldn't stand. He sat or lay curled on his side, listening to the sounds drifting through the metal bars. Murmured voices praying to God. Pleading cries for mercy and forgiveness. He wanted to tell them to shut up. To stop. God didn't exist in this place — wherever this place was.

The screams were the worst part. Some were loud enough to wake God Himself from his slumber, and during those times he caught himself shaking the ancient cold iron bars locking this stone box, hoping they'd break. They wouldn't, of course, and he'd push himself across the cool, smooth floor looking for a place to hide, only to realize he was trapped, no place to run or hide. Nothing to do but sit here and use the time to try to steel his mind to whatever was coming. Because they were going to punish him. Drag it out for days, maybe even weeks.

He had seen it done to others with his own eyes.

Through the crying and whimpering, the soft but earnest praying, he heard the creak of hinges as a heavy door swung open.

Heard the clink clink clink of the keys.

Heard the soft scrape of footsteps, which suddenly stopped.

Now another pair of footsteps, urgent, running. They stopped and a voice said, 'I bring you news about the heretic.'

'Tell me, my child.'

That voice, Mark thought. Oh dear God no.

The first voice said, 'The heretic's family is guarded by six, possibly eight men. Five are inside the home; the other three are scattered between two cars to watch the roads.'

'And the heretic, has he returned?'

'No. He moves and hides.'

'I want only the girl. Take the girl and kill the rest.'

'Yes, Archon.'

The footsteps grew louder, heading his way.

Mark Rizzo didn't sit up. He turned on his side until the soles of his feet found the bars. If they came for him, he could fight with his feet.

The footsteps stopped. They were standing somewhere just beyond the bars, breathing.

A soft but muffled voice spoke:

'The time has come to pray for forgiveness, Thomas.'

'Stop calling me that.'

'Before we hear your confession, we have a question for you about the woman you invited inside your home.'

'I didn't invite her. Charlie did. Charlie called her.'

'Tell us why.'

'Ask Charlie. He was the one who called her.'

'What did you hide in your basement?'

'Hide?' he repeated, genuinely confused. 'I didn't hide anything.'

'The woman went back to your home tonight. To retrieve something from your basement. We had people watching her.'

He knew this to be true. They had people on the surface, people who would watch and do things. People who obeyed.

Mark — and that was his name, Mark. Thomas died a long time ago — Mark said, 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'The punishment will be far, far greater if you lie to us.'

Mark Rizzo clamped his eyes shut, wishing he could transport himself, through sheer force of will, out of this place. He wasn't afraid of dying but what filled him with terror was how long it would take. How The Twelve stretched the torture over days until your heart gave out. And the devices they used, like -

A key rattled inside the lock.

Mark raised his foot, ready to kick. Click as the lock sprang free and he heard the weary creak of his door swinging open. A crackling sound and then he saw snakes of white and blue electric light sparking across a dark pole. Behind it, a ghostly white face with a stitched scar stretching from one temple, across the forehead and ending somewhere on the bald head.

Mark went for the head and missed. The pole hit him once, on the thigh, and the bolt slammed its way deep into his brain and his arms went flying and hit the walls and floor. The electrified pole hit him again and his head bounced against the floor as hands gripped him roughly by the ankles and dragged him out of his cell, his useless, flailing arms bumping against the iron bars. Feebly he tried to grab them and couldn't get his muscles to work and the pole hit him again and the electrical current exploded through his body and they dragged him out of his cell and into the corridor or whatever it was that lay in the darkness.

He was thrown on to his stomach, his hands yanked behind his back and his wrists shackled. He was dragged to his feet and then he heard a match being struck. He couldn't lift his head to see, but the flame flickered across the stone floor, revealing the iron bars of other cells. He saw a robe made of some thick fabric, like velvet, and, knowing who was standing before him, he started to tremble all over.

Fingers gripped his hair and yanked back his head.

The Archon, his onetime master, stood before him, his true face hidden behind a white-painted mask of wood carved to look like a devil or vampire. False black hair fashioned into a widow's peak on the top and false black eyes as round as buttons, the wooden nose long and hooked, chin shaved to a fine point and teeth carved into a frozen leer. The man's hands were covered with what looked like white gloves except the nail on the end of each finger had been shaved to a sharp point and painted blood-red. Mark watched as those points traced lines across his stomach and then came to a stop below his neck, near his throat.

'Your name is Thomas,' said the soft voice behind the mask. 'And you will tell me the truth. I have something that will help you find it.'

The figure moved away and Mark Rizzo looked down at the end of the long corridor, at the hooded figure lighting sconces on the wall. A single chair sat on the dank, grey-stone floor. A wide chair made of thick, heavy wood, every flat surface covered with thousands of razor-sharp spikes.