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I feel nothing. I am cocooned in nothingness, the answer, after all, to Vosch’s riddle of why? I can smell Razor’s blood. I can’t smell mine, because none breaks the surface of the wound; thousands of microscopic drones stanch the flow.
V: How do you conquer the unconquerable?
Q: Who can win when no one can endure?
P: What endures when all hope is gone?
Out of the singularity, a voice cries out. “My dear child, why do you cry?”
I open my eyes.
It’s a priest.
24
AT LEAST, he’s dressed like one.
Black pants. Black shirt. White collar, yellowed by sweat, spotted with rust-colored stains. He’s standing just outside my reach, a small guy with a receding hairline and a pudgy, babyish face. He sees the wet knife in my hand and immediately raises his.
“I am not armed.” His voice is high-pitched, as childlike as his features.
I drop the knife and draw my sidearm. “Hands on top of your head. Kneel.”
He obeys instantly. I glance toward the road. What happened to Constance?
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the little guy says. “It’s just that I haven’t seen another person in months. You’re with the military, yes?”
“Shut up,” I tell him. “Don’t talk.”
“Of course! I—sorry.” His mouth clamps shut. His cheeks are flushed with fear or maybe embarrassment. I step behind him. He remains very still while I run my free hand over his torso.
“Where did you come from?” I ask.
“Pennsylvania—”
“No. Where did you come from just now?”
“I’ve been living in the caves.”
“With who?”
“No one! I told you, I haven’t seen anyone in months. Since November . . .”
A hard metal object in his right-hand pocket. I fish it out. A crucifix. It’s seen better days. The cheap gold finish is chipped; the face of Christ has been worn down to a bald nub. I think of Sullivan’s Crucifix Soldier cowering behind the beer coolers.
“Please,” he whimpers. “Don’t take that.”
I toss the crucifix into the tall, dead grass between the silos and the barn. Where the hell is Constance? How did this dweeby little guy slip past her? More important, how did I let this dweeby little guy sneak up on me?
“Where’s your coat?” I ask him.
“Coat?”
I step in front of him and level the gun at his forehead. “It’s freezing. Aren’t you cold?”
“Oh. Oh!” He hiccups a nervous laugh. His teeth match the rest of him: small and scruffy with grime. “I completely forgot to grab it. I was so excited when I heard that plane—I thought rescue had finally arrived!” The smile dies. “You are here to rescue me, aren’t you?”
My finger twitches on the trigger. Sometimes you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time and what happens is nobody’s fault, I told Sullivan after hearing the story of the soldier.
