"I’m tired of this shit!" Jorge complained aloud before coughing again. The putrid smell was making him sick. He tried to keep it out of his nostrils, wiping violently at his nose and even picking with his fingers until blood ran down his chin. The cell block reeked of waste. He could taste it, spitting on the floor. Green flies darted freely through the bars as they sampled the contents of the buckets in the corner. Jorge slapped at them, driving them into frenzy.

Outside his cell, the voices of restless inmates reverberated through the block. Seething from the worsening conditions in the prison, their curses and crude slurs echoed within the place. One could feel their anger pulsing through the rails; vibrating through the walls.

Jorge paced back and forth, irritated at always finding himself back where he started. "They starve us. Only feed us some stale fucking peanut butter sandwiches and shit. I need meat, Holmes. I ain’t some fucking veterinarian you know."

"Vegetarian," Paco absently corrected from his bunk.

"What?"

"Vegetarian." Paco turned on his side. "A veterinarian deals with dogs. But seeing your girlfriend’s pics-"

"Hey fuck you, Holmes. I’m serious. They’re treating us like animals." Jorge thumped his chest. "No showers, place stinks worse than a nigger’s ass crack, and I have to shit in a bucket." He kicked the pail sloshing some of the vile contents over the rim. "A bucket, Holmes! This is bullshit." He turned to yell out the bars. "Bullshit!"

"Shut up, wetback!" someone yelled down the cell block.

"Hey, fuck you!" Jorge screamed back.

"You’re complaining like a bitch, mijo," Paco scolded.

"I ain’t some fucking kid, Holmes. So stop talkin’ down to me. I have rights."

"You have only what they give you in here. Now shut the fuck up."

Jorge fumed, failing to notice one of the guards had walked up onto their level. The convicts fell quiet as his nightstick clattered off the bars, trailing down the rails with a clack-clack-clacking. The officer stopped at Jorge’s little piece of Hell. "You got problems in here?" Gene asked.

"Yeah, I do. When are we gonna get some real food?"

"Well, I’m sorry if the cuisine isn’t up to your high standards. If you’re in the mood for something different, you can always try what’s in bucket number one." Gene pointed towards their waste pail.

Jorge crossed his arms. "Very funny. Maybe you’d like to join me for dinner."

Gene eyed the pair with a wicked leer, letting his nightstick slide back into his belt before reaching into his pocket. “Afraid I’m gonna be ruining my appetite.” He pulled a candy bar from behind his back. He held it up for Jorge to see. "You know, I just love chocolate. Do you love chocolate?"

Jorge’s eyes seized on it, the tension leaving his body. "You know it, officer," he softly answered.

Gene slowly unwrapped his sweet temptation, letting its naked creaminess come into view. He took a sniff, the sugar causing his nose to twitch. Jorge’s stomach growled its claim. "Shit," Gene blurted.

"What? What’s wrong?" Jorge stammered.

"I can’t eat this." Gene teasingly fiddled with the candy bar. "Doctor says I have to watch my diet. Can you believe that?"

Jorge was salivating. "So you ain’t gonna eat it?"

"I guess I’m gonna have to throw it away." Gene started to walk away but paused. "Unless someone up here wants it."

The cellblock went crazy as the inmates screamed over one another for it, everyone at the bars pandering their pride for some momentary sweetness.

“You wouldn’t want it, would ya?” Gene asked Jorge. “Don’t want to fuck up your dinner.”

“I always liked you officer,” Jorge started. “These guys speak shit about you, but I defend you.”

“Hey, fuck you!” came one of the better responses. Others quickly followed.

Gene enjoyed the show, a smirk on his face. He held up a hand for quiet. “What do ya think, boys? Should I give it to him?”

“No!” came the resounding answer.

“You selfish muthafuckers,” Jorge grumbled. “You know none of you bastards deserve it!”

Gene gave Jorge a wry look. “They don’t seem to like you.”

“Well fuck them.”

Gene grinned wider. “Yeah, fuck’em.” He walked back to Jorge’s cell to hand the candy bar to him.

“Fucking traitor,” someone bellowed.

“Might as well suck his dick while you’re at it.”

Just as Jorge was about to claim the candy bar, Gene smacked himself on the forehead. The chocolate was just out of Jorge’s reach. "Oh shit, I forgot about the sign."

"What sign?" Jorge asked, his arm straining through the bars for that extra inch needed to grab his prize.

"The one that says don’t feed the animals." Gene snorted at his own joke as he tossed the candy bar over the railing.

"No no no!" Jorge cried after it. "Why the fuck you do that? This ain’t no zoo. I ain’t some animal you can tease, Holmes!"

“Really?” Gene leaned forward and took a deep whiff. "You sure as hell smell like one."

Jorge threw pathetic punch after pathetic punch at the guard, each woefully short of their target as Gene smirked through the bars. Paco got up and tried to pull his friend back only to be shrugged off.

"Fucking stinking animals. We would give you a shower, but when you wash a turd all you make is a mess."

“You’d better watch yourself-”

"Let it go," Paco warned Jorge.

"You better listen to your amigo there." Gene gestured towards Paco. "You don’t want to be assigned a new cellmate. I know a few boys in here who would love to get their hands on a sweet young thang like you." Gene made kisses in Jorge’s face.

"Are you at the top of the list?"

"Madre de dios," Paco whispered fiercely to himself.

"What the fuck did you say, brownie?" Gene asked Jorge, his grip tightening on his nightstick.

"What? You deaf from too much hillbilly music?"

"You better watch yourself, Mexicunt. I’ll beat those jumping beans out of your ass." Gene leaned forward and pushed Jorge away from the bars.

Paco grabbed Jorge by the arm and muttered in his ear, “You want to end up in solitary?”

Gene nodded at the pair. "I think I’ll leave you lovebirds alone. I got important stuff to do." He chuckled, turning to leave.

Jorge shoved Paco off and went to the back of the cell, grabbing the bucket.

"God damnit, Jorge-" Paco tried to stop him.

"Hey, Officer Inbred," Jorge called after the retreating Gene.

"What the fuck you-" Gene turned around and received the contents of the waste bucket square in the face. Urine and shit stained his uniform, piss stinging his eyes. He gagged over the railing four levels up. Jorge laughed his ass off, rapping the bucket against the bars howling like a coyote. The other inmates hooted and hollered, taunting Gene as he retched; their shouts loud in his ears. He felt the sewage running down his back and chest. The stench was all over him. In his mouth he could taste salty piss.

As his vision cleared, Gene saw the animals squealing and pointing. He stared up and down the line. Their fear was gone. Now they mocked him. Their ridicule hollowed him out leaving only a sickness in his gut. He felt naked, stripped of their respect however brutally earned. They would never listen to him again. He had become their bitch. That realization caused his dick to shrivel up.

Something seized Gene’s confused mind as he stood there surrounded by abrasive, disembodied voices. Something primitive and brutal stirred from his subconscious. Gene felt his heart thudding in his chest, the voices of the inmates slowly fading beneath the drum beat. Liquid fire entered his veins. He looked at Jorge with a predatory glare and started to shake, the firm length of his nightstick bumping against his leg.

Gene pulled the keys from his belt and unlocked the cell, jerking the bars aside. The guard pulled his nightstick as Jorge backed down. It wasn’t enough for Gene to see this fucker cower. He had to prove his dominance. Gene raised his nightstick and brought it down with a crack right on Jorge’s skull sending him to the wall for support. Blood seeped down the con’s forehead.

Paco started to come forward. "Stay the fuck out of this, grease ball," Gene threatened, pushing him back with the edge of his stick. Paco looked at Jorge, his friend’s eyes desperately pleading for help. Against his emotions, Paco turned away and sat on his bunk. He forced himself to stay there as Gene returned to his friend.

Jorge tried to push himself off the wall only to take another blow to his arm cracking the bone in his bicep. He shrieked as the inmates of the cell block jumped up and down in their cells, yelling and beating on the walls and bars.

As Jorge squirmed, Gene rained down another blow right into the side of his face cracking his cheek bone and sending him to the floor. Morbidly, Jorge’s tongue ran along his chipped teeth. The blood poured out of his mouth like a tilted chalice of wine, an offering to the speckled concrete below.

"Think you’re funny now? Huh, you fucking Mexicunt?" Gene grabbed Jorge by his shirt and dragged him outside the cell to the walkway where a few turds still rested on the floor. He released Jorge’s shirt and gripped him by the hair, shoving his face into the shit. "You think you’re funny now? Huh? Still hungry you fuck?"

"Fuck you," Jorge forced out through the pain.

"Fuck me?" Gene put his nightstick under Jorge’s throat and cinched down on both ends pulling Jorge up in his choking clinch. He pushed Jorge up against the railing as he continued to strangle him. "You got a lot to learn, boy." He let go of one end and brought a punch right into the con’s kidney. Jorge swallowed his wail. "Still tough? Huh?"

The place was coming unglued. The inmates were climbing the walls, beating the bars.

"Fuck you...shit eater," Jorge gasped out.

"No, fuck you! Fuck you!" Gene cried in Jorge’s ear as he grabbed the con by the belt and threw him over the railing. Jorge was silent the entire way down, his one good arm flapping comically as the other limply flailed at his side. A wet, distant splat brought silence to the entire prison.

Gene peered down at the broken body below, the blood pooling around it. He turned around, still quivering as he confronted his witnesses. His mouth twitched and attempted speech, but nothing came out but muted babble. His eyes trailed down the block until they settled on Paco, still on his bunk gazing at the floor. "Hey you!" Gene yelled at Paco. Paco grimly looked up. "You’re in a lot of trouble." Gene pulled the radio off his belt. "Bates. Bates, this is Gene, over."

From the static a tinny voice emerged. "This is Bates, over."

"I have a problem down here."

***

The car wove along the twisting country road that meandered through Virginia’s ancient Piedmont. For as far as the eye could see there was nothing but farmland. Rows of furrowed black soil glazed over with an early winter’s frost dominated the skyline glittering in a series of sparkling points causing the world to shine beneath a cloudless, sunlit sky that lapped at the horizon; a placid ocean of azure that granted a sense of boundless freedom. And on the fringes, the simple cottages of austere men nestled in the distant hills blending naturally into Terra’s protective bosom.

Herbert took little interest in the vista. "I thought the Deom’s had a residence in Georgetown."

"That was only for official occasions," Turing replied, gazing out the window. "Luke’s father wanted his family as far from Washington as he could get them."

"So they lived out here? An hour from DC?"

"The complex life that man endured, who could blame him for wanting some traditional simplicity."

In the distance, an ominous stretch of forest emerged marking the periphery of the pastoral. The wide open spaces quickly narrowed with the thickening of the wood, their branches choking out the increasingly bleak light. The trees themselves were bare, skeletal creatures. They stood huddled close together, their gnarled trunks weathered by the wintry winds; thick and bloated with age. At their rooted feet rested their withered laurel crowns; brittle leaves yellowed by autumn, long dried and drained of jade glory now carpeting the forest floor to be trod upon.

In time the car came upon an archaic bridge. Its crude planks bore the marks of many travelers, splintered in parts by the weight of ages. As they rattled across, Herbert glanced down at the black water gurgling below them. The banks on either side were bare save for piles and piles of bleached stone; those cracked and discarded bones of the world washed up from that somber river.

The pair passed over onto an ever darkening road. Their smooth path became bumpier, parts pitted and crumbling. A ridge jutted upwards sharply on their left to a surprising height, the rock scarred with deep lacerations along its side as if a giant had dug his nails into its hide. Those primitive marks were almost runic, hinting at something unnaturally savage.

The trees began to press in on the right, leering down at these strangers as the road subtly declined to a weightless descent into the valley below. Off in the depths of oak and pine, the wind moaned through the boughs accompanied by the cracking of branches.

Abruptly the forest retreated and the empty spaces returned, but this was not a fruitful vale they wandered into. This was a sterile land, clay run through with slate and bald save for the occasional wild weed or patch of grass. Not a house was to be seen. There was no sign of any soul, only undulating nothingness. Above, malignant clouds encroached from the east presaging a storm, graying the skies.

"That’s it up there." Turing pointed to a house up ahead that occupied a small rise. On their approach, Herbert noted that it was an odd structure; Asymmetrical, likely due to haphazard additions over time to what had once been a simple hall and parlor house now grown to something grotesque and unbalanced. It was built of faded brick, diamonded, with three dormers protruding from the second story roof. Chimneys rose on either gabled side, their crowns stained black with soot. The windows on the bottom floor were mottled with dirt and empty, staring blankly at them. An unkempt garden ringed the property. What must have once held bright, vibrant geraniums and veronias had succumbed to noxious weeds which had choked out what little color remained. Pulling into the drive, Herbert felt a sense of unease.

"This place has a history," Turing remarked, stepping from the car.

"What’s history is history," Herbert replied, cutting the engine before exiting.

"No. The past doesn’t simply vanish with time. It lingers." Turing stared at the house. "The community wanted it torn down after Deom’s trial. A symbolic purging I suppose of the evil that had dwelt here. Ironically the only people who defended it were a historical preservation society. You can understand why they had difficulty finding donors to support their cause. In the end I bought it."

"Why?"

"I can’t explain. Perhaps I am looking for answers, just like you. I am drawn to this place. There is something about this land. A realm constantly struck by cataclysm. An overturning of orders. The world has shifted so many times here. New continents. Mountains worn to dust. Shaped and reshaped. The bones of many ages litter the hills.

"But it is more than geological. Death haunts these lands. This was Powhatan territory. The evils they committed and were committed upon them…Whether the curse started with them, who knows. Maybe it is as old as the land itself. But something is here. In the soil. In that house." Turing came around the front of the car. "What do you think?"

Herbert couldn’t take his eyes off the place. A distant rumble of thunder served as a warning from the approaching clouds.

"You sure you want to do this?"

Herbert nodded and started towards the house.

***

Marcus stood there in the flickering yellow light of Death Row staring down at the cadaverous form that rested on the bunk before him. Luke was curled up into the fetal position, shivering; the boney ridge of his back all Marcus could readily see in the shadows. Bandaged and bruised, Deom’s flesh was a mess of purple, brown, and raw pink. He raggedly sucked breath through his chapped lips; each wheezing, painful gasp sounding like it could be his last.

"Soon," Luke raggedly whispered.

Pity ached within Marcus for this creature denied peace. Dark thoughts soon tempted him. He could open the cell. Just go in and smother him. End Deom’s pain. Show the man some mercy. No one had to know. Surely...Marcus shook his head. No, that was wrong. That was murder. Why would he think such things?

A squelch at his side made Marcus jump. "Marcus." He grabbed the radio from his hip. "Marcus, are you there, over."

"Marcus here, over."

"We need you up in the control room. There has been an incident."

"What?" Marcus asked.

"Just get up here."

"Coming up." Marcus clipped the radio back to his belt and strode to the gate. He hurried up the corridor to the prison above, winding his way through the myriad series of passages towards the heart of the place: the control room. When he got there, Marcus discovered the entire shift milling about inside. The guards looked nervous, drinking coffee while avoiding one another’s eyes, some grumbling. Upon closer inspection, Marcus noticed they were one guard short.

"Where’s Gene?" Marcus asked.

The room went quiet. Dames stepped forward. "That’s why we called you up here."

Marcus felt queasy. "What’s going on?"

Dames licked his lips and looked back at the men. "Chris, you tell him. You found him."

"Found who?" Marcus looked at Chris who hesitated to answer. "What is going on here?"

Chris took a drag on his cigarette, letting it fill his lungs and warm his blood. He released the smoke along with the news he held. “I was patrolling in quadrant four. Jesse there told me he couldn’t get a hold of Gene. He’d been trying for three hours, just after prison detail ended. Gene was supposed to be in the tower tonight. Last he knew Gene went to check on one of the details. Make sure they had returned to their block for count. We’re so fucking short shifted.” He shook his head. “Around an hour passed and Gene hadn’t radioed back in. I didn’t think much of it, you know? All patrols had done a headcount. All cons were accounted for.”

“You didn’t think it was odd Gene hadn’t called in?”

Chris motioned to one of the guards. “Jesse thought Gene might have been busy fucking around. You know Gene. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Well, I went to look for him. I asked some of the cons if they’d seen him. Same ol’ shit. Won’t talk to me since that one Mexican shitter took a dive over the rail.”

"Will you hurry the fuck up. We don’t have all night," Jesse complained aloud.

Chris winced. "Sorry. Well, yeah, I found him. Eventually. Found him in a supply closet."

Marcus squinted. "What was Gene doing in the supply closet?"

Chris bit his lip. "Looks like someone jumped him. He’s a fucking mess."

"Jesus." Marcus sucked in a breath. "He ok?"

"A few of us took him to the infirmary. He’s in bad shape, but he’ll live."

"Did you report it?" Marcus queried. Chris looked over at Dames. "Well?"

"You know that won’t do any good," Dames stated. "We can’t prove who did it. So who do you think will swing for it? Not a one."

Marcus’ eyes went from Dames to Chris and back. "We gotta report this. Lock the place down. Begin an investigation."

"I don’t need an investigation," Dames retorted. "I have a good idea who might have done this."

"What do you mean?"

"The cleaning detail Gene went to check on. No offense, Marcus, but it was a bunch of niggers mopping the floors. Three of them had prior complaints with Gene. Bad history. We think they did it."

"Gene has a history with nearly half this prison. You don’t know-"

"Gene was definitely beaten with something. Mop handles make good weapons."

Marcus watched the men gather behind Dames. "What are we talking about here, boss?" he asked.

"A little bit of justice. For Gene. But we had to make sure everyone is on the right page." Dames cocked an eyebrow. "You see, the place has been stinking so bad lately, we decided to reinstate shower privileges. Limited basis though. You know, just a few guys."

Marcus swallowed hard. "What guys?"

"Well, those niggers who beat Gene would be ideal candidates." The men nodded in agreement behind Dames. "They gotta come clean. Maybe add a few Aryans to the mix as well for diversity’s sake. Want to be fair and all." Some of the guards chuckled.

"A few Aryans." Sweat trickled down the length of Marcus’ back icing his spine.

"Well, at least five-to-one, Aryan to nigger." Dames turned back to the men. "That sound about right, boys?" The men behind him assented. He turned back to Marcus. "Those corn-fed hosses ought to help make those niggers come clean. So, Marcus, are you with us?"

“What if we’re wrong about this?” Marcus hoped to instill some doubt among the men.

“Then we’re wrong,” Jesse countered coldly.

“Yeah, accidents happen,” Harris seconded.

Marcus stood alone against the staff, the looks on their stone faces causing his hand to instinctively reach for his nightstick. Dames said something to the guards before he walked up and put his hand on Marcus’ stiff shoulder to calm him. "Aren’t you with us?"

"I’m not so sure-"

"Marcus, these guys," Dames pointed at the guards over his shoulder, “are your brothers. History doesn’t matter. Race doesn’t matter. What matters is that we watch each other’s backs. It’s the only way we survive. You deal with this shit day after day just like we do. You know no one out there understands what we deal with on a daily basis. Forget what people outside these walls think. And these cons. These cons aren’t men, Marcus. They’re animals.”

“There are rules,” Marcus fervently replied.

“Rules made up by men safe behind desks. You know these cons don’t respect our rules. How do you think they got here in the first place?” Dames’ hand tightened its grip on Marcus shoulder. “Are you just going to let these fucks do this to us? Huh? Pick us off one-by-one? Divide us? What do you think will happen if we let this slide? You think it won’t happen again? You so sure it won’t be you in the closet next? Maybe even pumped in the ass like a bitch by a few of them while the rest laugh at you? They don’t deserve your sympathy. We gotta do this, Marcus. They’re fucking animals and animals don’t understand nothing but a good kick to bring ’em down to our feet where they belong.”

Marcus pulled himself out of Dames’ clutches.

“Are you going to let them get away with what they did to Gene? Wasn’t he your friend? How would you feel if it was you who got punked? If we just let it go?”

“Maybe we should let him get punked,” Harris muttered.

“You secure that shit,” Dames ordered. His attention returned to Marcus. “Every single one of us would defend you. So would Gene. Doesn’t Gene deserve as much from you?”

"What-" Marcus coughed. "What do you want me to do?"

Dames smiled. "You don’t have to do anything. Just cover Jesse’s shift here. We’ll do the rest. You with us?"

Marcus hated himself, looking down as he nodded. He couldn’t bear to face them.

"Good boy." Dames turned around. "Frank. Chris. Go down and collect those three niggers. Richard, Jason, Tobey, and I will go inform the Aryans of their shower party. The rest of you, I expect to have shower blocks three, five, and eight ready. Ok, let’s move."

Marcus watched as they filed out of the room, sickened by the way they joked and grinned at one another. He allowed them to go. Acknowledging that made him feel even worse. This was wrong and Marcus knew it, but no matter how much he wanted to oppose it, he just stood there. He was all noble until it came time to prove it. He punched the wall in frustration.

Turning around, Marcus grabbed a chair and sank into it, his back to the monitors. He did his best not to think about what was coming. His cowardice ate at him, each nip reminding him of his betrayal. “This fucking place corrupts everything,” he croaked.

Lost in self-loathing, Marcus failed to notice the scene on one of the monitors to his rear. Five pale men stood there on screen waiting in the showers, their broad backs to the camera. At the corner of the screen a door opened and a black inmate was roughly shoved through before the door slammed behind him. The inmate picked himself up off the floor and turned around, yelling mutely at whoever had pushed him in. Before he knew it, the five men were on him. His screams echoed through the place, sounding distant and detached from the image on the screen.

***

In the murk, Herbert admired Luke’s considerable library, a series of bookcases that ran the entire length of the south wall of the second floor study; itself a sizable room. Faded, worn books were crammed tightly into those dark spaces.

Turing sat at a desk off to the side, disinterested, while Herbert scanned the shelves with a penlight. Plato’s Republic preceded Mein Kampf. Sun Tzu’s Art of War crushed the Rig Veda beneath it. A score of differing bibles, with the Koran and Talmud caught between them, had fallen over like a stack of dominos atop one bookcase; their gold leaf flaking and spines splitting. The memoirs of Caesar and the speeches of Cicero sandwiched The Prince while the physicist Stephen Hawking shared a shelf with the metaphysical tracts and philosophical theories of men like Chamberlain, Hobbes, Spengler, and Nietzsche. It was a disordered collection of mythology, science, faith, and brutality.

Herbert stepped closer, his fingers traveling from forgotten deities, through lost civilizations, to modern memory only to stop on a copy of the DMS, a guidebook for mental and physical illnesses. “Now why would you have this?” Skimming through it, he found sections either furiously underlined or marked with highlighted slashes whose subjects included anti-social disorder and schizophrenia. "He wanted to understand."

Turing quietly concurred, chin on fist. "That was all he ever wanted

Herbert took in the whole of what faced him: the foundations of an abnormal consciousness. His eyes scaled the shelves, continuing past the mass of books to the walls partially obscured behind them. The house had been in a marked state of decay for some time. There were clear signs of water damage: stained wallpaper and rotting carpet. The air itself was damp and musty, but neither man made notice of it.

Herbert gently nudged some fallen, worm eaten books with his foot. "You’ve taken great care of the place."

"I try not to linger here." Turing frowned, eyes downcast. "And I see no point in investing in it. This place is condemned."

"Yet you bought it."

"Yes. Sometimes I like to come here." Turing allowed himself a fleeting glimpse of the room. "Just to remember."

"You loved him."

"More than you know. We were all fathers to him, and we all failed him. Maybe that is why I can’t let him go. He was a blessed rarity, the likes of which I’ll never see again." Turing sighed. "I know I shouldn’t come here. It’s unhealthy. But the memories…lost possibilities…"

"What was he like?"

"Inquisitive. Creative. Vulnerable. Above all else, he was an excellent conversationalist. That seems strange to say about a man who rarely spoke to anyone, but once you gained his trust, the change was startling. How he loved interaction. He was a gushing font of knowledge. Art. History. Science. But religion, that was his favorite subject. The search for truth he would call it."

"Was he a religious man?"

"In his own way. That’s not to say he wasn’t critical. He found Christianity too masochistic. Hindus were shit eating, phallic obsessed polytheistic simpletons," Turing said with a grin. "And Islam fared worse in his eyes, Luke bemoaning those Luddites who feared the modern age. The Jews he had respect for. Their ability to adapt and overcome adversity. Their embracing of art, science, and culture. Though he bemoaned their steady dissolving into the cultures they found themselves scattered to. But Zoroastrianism. That was a faith he found fascinating."

"Why is that?"

"Partly because it was the faith of his mother. Something special only they shared and something he clung desperately to after her death. But I think it has more to do with duality. He appreciated that good and evil arose from a single, neutral source."

"I don’t understand."

"According to Zoroaster, the chief prophet, Ahura Mazda was the source of both good and evil, creation and destruction. There was no true separation between the two and so it is with man who is conceived with the seeds of his own greatness and his own destruction. Neither is better than the other. ’For though fire destroys, from ashes come life. And even the noblest man may become a tyrant with time.’

"One could say he found something of himself in such faith which imbued him with an unnatural fervor. He became obsessed with stories concerning the Saoshyant, the one who is destined to end the falsehoods of existence. To him, that falsehood was the flesh; the material world which divided life. He would speak of the modern age being the hinge of Existence, when all would turn back to what was lost.

"Luke even made a pilgrimage to Iran to speak with the Council of Mobeds. He came away…disheartened by the experience.

"Afterwards, he continued to live here. Isolated. Working feverishly to find answers in his equations. Quantum entanglement, bilocation, premonitions. Physics gave way to the metaphysical. We spoke less and less and when we did the conversations resembled bitter tirades more than anything else. He forsook life."

"Who can blame him?"

Turing nodded. "His grasp of reality has always been…tenuous. But his brilliance, that served to sever his connection to his fellow man. Everything is but a variable to him, and the further he ventured in his theories the further removed he became until all he could see was the whole, damned to be blind to the sum. He ventured where no one else could go." He blinked the tears away, struggling to compose himself. "Does seeing this place change your view of Deom?”

Herbert shook his head. “It just raises more questions. Everything seemed so simple before him.”

With the first thunderous rumble of the coming storm, a sudden pall settled over the men palpably weighing them down with melancholy. It was an oppressive sensation, shamefully invasive, almost suffocating in its sorrow. Herbert hugged himself tightly while Turing winced. Something faintly stirred in the air, so slight as to be almost beyond sensing. But the change became more apparent. The floorboards swelled and contracted, groaning mournfully. Raindrops pattered on the roof sounding like hundreds of feet scurrying overhead. Then came the chill.

“Leave me,” a voice faintly whispered from the doorway.

Turing rose from his chair. "Did you hear that?"

"Yeah." After a moment’s hesitation, Herbert disappeared into the moonlit hallway.

Turing hurried after him. “Herbert, you don’t know what’s back there. Herbert-” As Turing reached the doorway a force cast him backwards towards the stairway at the opposite end of the hall nearly sending him mortally tumbling down the steps.

“Alan!” Herbert yelled.

“You’re gonna die,” the shadows fiercely rasped in Herbert’s ear.

The doors along the hallway slammed one by one until the moonlit corridor was swallowed by blackness. A noisome odor wafted from the master bedroom in waves of putrefaction that staggered Herbert’s senses nearly buckling his knees as the world wavered around him. He gagged, his stomach heaving at the stench of decay while tears streamed from his burning eyes. Unseen hands grabbed him, forcing him to the ground.

In stark fear Turing abandoned Herbert, hurrying down the remaining stairs. There, on the ground floor, he encountered them. Up from the basement seethed that pale light, glowing with an unearthly incandescence. Up they came, lost souls. Dark, twisted things of vague shape crawling from the bowels of the house. They were withered, pitiable creatures that limped and whimpered from the depths.

His mind unhinged by the macabre sight, Turing stumbled toward the front door as they clutched at him. Frantically grabbing the knob, he desperately twisted it only to discover that the door wouldn’t budge.

The wraiths reached for his warmth, hungry for life. Hisses gurgled from their immaterial throats, ectoplasm pouring down their chins as it bubbled past their lips.

“God damnit!” Turing yelled, butting his shoulder against the door. “Fuck!” He threw his arms down, looking all around for escape. “Fuck it.” Turing took several steps back and sprinted forward jumping through a window headfirst to freedom beyond.

Upstairs, Herbert struggled on his knees. The icy air bit into him, sucking the warmth from his flesh. Cackles nipped at his ears. He felt his heart speeding, his consciousness fading. Particles of light danced in front of his eyes.

"Use the Light," a voice pleaded pitiably in his ear.

Something slapped Herbert hard across the face, the shock traveling down his back. Unseen fingers tickled his skin as the shadows found substance, devilish faces emerging from the opaque.

Herbert closed his eyes and created a spark in his mind. He put his focus into it. Made it grow. The Light encompassed him, pushing back the night. He could feel the pressure easing off his shoulders. He took the Light into himself; breathing it, expanding it. Hisses and growls were accompanied by desperate cries to stop.

Eyes still closed, Herbert shakily stood and pressed forward towards the door of the master bedroom. He heard the floor cracking, the walls splintering. Windows exploded in the distance. He tread blindly forward into unseen chaos against a wind filled with curses.

“Be gone,” Herbert uttered to the air. Dread laughter filled the night intertwined with demonic chittering. “Be gone!” Herbert ordered as the light inside his mind erupted into the dark chasing the blackness away. Silence.

Herbert opened his eyes and saw nothing but empty darkness. He reached out sightlessly for the wall. Were they gone?

A door opened slowly, whining on its worn hinges. The moonlight spilled into the hall steadily stealing down the length of the corridor to create a path for Herbert to walk on. He followed that radiant road onward to the last room on the left.

Herbert passed through into a tranquil glow that encompassed the room, specks of crystal floating through the air. The room itself was bare save for a bed upon which sat a woman, her pallid back to him. She was naked, bent forward weeping. Her hair was a mess of raven curls spilling down her back, concealing her face. The sorrowful sounds she made pierced achingly into his heart. He went to console her. “No,” she hoarsely commanded. “Stay there. Do not come to me. You have already come too far.”

“I came because of Luke.”

“My son? What does he have to say?”

“That…he is sorry.”

"He suffers," she lamented. "He should not suffer so. What the dead have done to him. What He has done to him. They come to me. Laughing wickedly. Tell me the evil my son has committed. They wish to strip him from my heart. But I love him, my son. I will always love him.”

“What is going on?”

“My son was lost. Searching for something. He found them, these damned souls. They use him. Twist him. He is what they seek.”

Herbert’s head jerked at a creaking before he turned back to Luke’s mother. “What do they want?”

“An end. An end to everything. He is their foothold. Their prophet. They would use him to seed chaos amongst humanity. To destroy us. Drag us all into the void.”

“But he is only a man-”

She raised a hand, dark with dried blood. "To understand his importance is to know him. Not for what he is but for who he was. He is an ancient soul that has been incarnate time and again. Philosophers. Prophets. Kings. Tyrants. He has come to man again and again in many guises to save us. Sometimes we hear his pleas. Other times we fail to even notice him, but he has played his part.

"A soul from forgotten times, perhaps the first, he came to understand the cycle of Life and hoped to give that knowledge to us that with each new life we would learn. Grow. Overcome the flesh and return to the blessed Light. He saw the flesh as a beginning. A trial. That our deaths would lead to a rebirth of the dying Light. The turning back of time.

“But he has become lost. Maddened by his prison of flesh which renders him unable to remember his purpose.

“For millennia, he has struggled to lift us up back to the horizon from whence we fell. To strip us of our wants and desires and prepare us for that next stage: the return to the Source. While so many turn their backs on Creation, look only into the abyss, he strives to conquer the void. To turn us back before the birth of chaos. To heal that immortal wound in the universe and end our loneliness. Our separation. He endeavors to bring us together. But he is one and they are many. And they prey on his doubts. They are the black tide trying to drag him into the void with them, to prevent the cycle, to foster a paradox that would negate everything.

"Those angry souls, they have thwarted him time and again. They skew his words and twist his actions. Because of this, my son’s hope is faltering and with it our world. The dead wish to break him, and they are close to succeeding."

Herbert’s face twitched in confusion. "What can your son possibly do? He is only one-"

“My son’s actions echo throughout the world eclipsing hope in men’s hearts through the engendering of bitterness, vengeance, and cynicism. It is not in the larger order of things that great changes come but in smaller, subtler designs. Each murderous act he commits sends a tremor through Life that touches souls unseen changing possibilities and altering futures.

“The damned revel in the irony that man’s death should come by their savior. Many dark designs they have yet for my son. They will grant him great power. Make him a god of absence. He will swallow us all.”

“But he is locked away.”

“No cell can hold my son. Only he holds himself. He is gathering power. Preparing.”

“Can he be stopped?”

Luke’s mother gradually lost substance, her voice faltering. “Much power they have given him already. Each life he takes, the stronger he becomes. The hungrier he becomes. Many join him in death. My son is losing hope and that is what they wish. Without hope he is theirs eternal.”

“But can he be stopped?” Herbert demanded.

"Perhaps you could free him."

"How?"

"Kill him, end his time in the flesh that he may escape and remember who he was. If he can truly die." Luke’s mother was now nothing more than an outline. “Return him to the Source. Save my son,” she begged as the moonlight dissipated taking her with it. "Save us all.

Next Chapter: Therion