slithered down his cheeks as he attempted to make no noise at all.
He knew the faint sounds that emanated from his right must be from the terrible man who'd hit him and brought him here, yet he couldn't force himself to turn his head and look. He chose the safer route, remaining perfectly still and quiet, as if doing so might make him invisible. When he'd been younger and monsters had lurked under his bed at night, this had been a most effective strategy.
Help me, Tony! Come and save me! Dad, I'm so scared!
***
Mitchell sat on a dusty chair in the corner of the shed, stared at the boy across from him, and agonized over how to proceed. He dreaded his next move. The demon was in charge here, and he knew all too well what the Reaper wanted. Yet he sat frozen, unable to bring himself to action, hunched over in his armchair with elbows on knees and head in hands. He massaged his temples and growled in frustration at the pain that so distracted him.
He glanced at the boy, who trembled uncontrollably, and again groaned as the demon returned in a swirling, dizzying montage. He taunted him and showed him new wickedness, the sight of which at once terrified and compelled him. Inevitably, he threatened Mitchell with unimaginable punishment should he disobey.
He could not.
He raised his head, stood and approached the bench, until the boy lay beneath him. Although the boy kept his head still, he rolled his eyes right and focused on him.
Mitchell spoke in a flat voice, without emotion, controlled by forces outside his power. "You've been trying to avoid me, I know, but I am the deliverer. You cannot hide from me."
***
The man blurred through a murky puddle of tears, yet Alex remained quiet, and still but for his shaking, which he was helpless to prevent. Above him stood something different from what he'd seen before. The same face watched him, the same man, but his eyes blazed like something out of those cheap, Saturday night horror movies that he and Tony loved. Though he'd never seen it in real life, he recognized the unmistakable glare of insanity.
I have to keep quiet. If I concentrate, I can disappear. I can do it.
"Tell me, son," the man continued, "are you worthy to stand in the light? Have you been a good boy? Or might you burn in the terrible fires? Do you know that I am the judge and the jury?"
Alex didn't understand. In his terror, he barely heard the words.
"I have never seen the light, but I'm told it's a place of warmth, peace and joy. However, I have seen the flames of despair, torture and agony, and I know most of us will end up there. My hosts have shown me these things, for I am the chosen, the dispatcher to the new world."
The wicked man stalked to a table at the edge of his sight, and opened a small duffel bag. He pulled out a knife that could double as a machete, carried it over to the bench, and held it high.
Alex groaned and emptied his bladder as he searched desperately for some sign of rescue. Fear overwhelmed him, but also profound sadness, for he knew he would soon leave Tony and his dad behind. He felt sorry for them, somehow knowing that they'd suffer the pain long after it had passed for him. A mature resignation steeled him against the horror, an understanding well beyond his years—an acceptance.
I'm sorry, Tony. I'll miss you. And you too, Dad.
His mind flashed to the many joyous experiences of his life. Tony, ever-present in those images, taught him to play baseball and basketball and football, playing catch or shooting hoops with him for hours on end. Those were his happiest moments. He loved his father too, despite his prolonged absences and distant manner. Most of all, Tony was his family and his rock, and he would miss him more than anyone.
What would happen to Tony when he was gone? Tony would be devastated, and he felt terribly sad for his big brother—a grown-up way to think, under the circumstances. Although he didn't understand the genesis of these thoughts, they pleased
He knew the faint sounds that emanated from his right must be from the terrible man who'd hit him and brought him here, yet he couldn't force himself to turn his head and look. He chose the safer route, remaining perfectly still and quiet, as if doing so might make him invisible. When he'd been younger and monsters had lurked under his bed at night, this had been a most effective strategy.
Help me, Tony! Come and save me! Dad, I'm so scared!
***
Mitchell sat on a dusty chair in the corner of the shed, stared at the boy across from him, and agonized over how to proceed. He dreaded his next move. The demon was in charge here, and he knew all too well what the Reaper wanted. Yet he sat frozen, unable to bring himself to action, hunched over in his armchair with elbows on knees and head in hands. He massaged his temples and growled in frustration at the pain that so distracted him.
He glanced at the boy, who trembled uncontrollably, and again groaned as the demon returned in a swirling, dizzying montage. He taunted him and showed him new wickedness, the sight of which at once terrified and compelled him. Inevitably, he threatened Mitchell with unimaginable punishment should he disobey.
He could not.
He raised his head, stood and approached the bench, until the boy lay beneath him. Although the boy kept his head still, he rolled his eyes right and focused on him.
Mitchell spoke in a flat voice, without emotion, controlled by forces outside his power. "You've been trying to avoid me, I know, but I am the deliverer. You cannot hide from me."
***
The man blurred through a murky puddle of tears, yet Alex remained quiet, and still but for his shaking, which he was helpless to prevent. Above him stood something different from what he'd seen before. The same face watched him, the same man, but his eyes blazed like something out of those cheap, Saturday night horror movies that he and Tony loved. Though he'd never seen it in real life, he recognized the unmistakable glare of insanity.
I have to keep quiet. If I concentrate, I can disappear. I can do it.
"Tell me, son," the man continued, "are you worthy to stand in the light? Have you been a good boy? Or might you burn in the terrible fires? Do you know that I am the judge and the jury?"
Alex didn't understand. In his terror, he barely heard the words.
"I have never seen the light, but I'm told it's a place of warmth, peace and joy. However, I have seen the flames of despair, torture and agony, and I know most of us will end up there. My hosts have shown me these things, for I am the chosen, the dispatcher to the new world."
The wicked man stalked to a table at the edge of his sight, and opened a small duffel bag. He pulled out a knife that could double as a machete, carried it over to the bench, and held it high.
Alex groaned and emptied his bladder as he searched desperately for some sign of rescue. Fear overwhelmed him, but also profound sadness, for he knew he would soon leave Tony and his dad behind. He felt sorry for them, somehow knowing that they'd suffer the pain long after it had passed for him. A mature resignation steeled him against the horror, an understanding well beyond his years—an acceptance.
I'm sorry, Tony. I'll miss you. And you too, Dad.
His mind flashed to the many joyous experiences of his life. Tony, ever-present in those images, taught him to play baseball and basketball and football, playing catch or shooting hoops with him for hours on end. Those were his happiest moments. He loved his father too, despite his prolonged absences and distant manner. Most of all, Tony was his family and his rock, and he would miss him more than anyone.
What would happen to Tony when he was gone? Tony would be devastated, and he felt terribly sad for his big brother—a grown-up way to think, under the circumstances. Although he didn't understand the genesis of these thoughts, they pleased
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