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Maddox
The moon’s a ball of cheese floating through space and we’re on a little blue rock with nowhere to go.
What the hell does that even mean? I remember hearing it once upon a time. My dad, I think. You could call it profound in the way that it highlights . . . something. If I had to hazard a guess as to what that something was, it’s that we’re all going to die and none of our short time means anything.
Living is pointless and so is caring.
So why do we?
Because it’s ingrained in us?
Because we’re lost little fawns seeking the approval of our family, friends, and even strangers on the street? Perhaps, on a more human level, we’re in a constant fight for salvation. Tonight might be dark, but tomorrow the sun will shine again.
What if that’s not true?
What if that golden orb ceases to glow and we’re thrust into eternal darkness?
Or the ball of cheese stops spinning, and we’re consumed by the deadly depths?
What ifshave always fascinated me. Any man in science will tell you the same. Without what if, we’d not have what we do have now. No penicillin, respirators, doctors who can swap hearts, or scientists who can cure cancer – sure, that’s a stretch. But, who’s to say tomorrow’s sunshiny day won’t have a miracle cure waiting?
And, if we can cure cancer, how soon will it be before we can cure a bullet to the gut? The lung? Hell, the heart? I guess it’s easy to dream of these advancements when you’re in my position.
Hoping that tonight’s work brings a miracle with the dawning day.
My actual situation is bleak and the outcome holds little to no promise. Especially if that old man dies.
Why did he have to choose me?
The sound of a finger-snapping at its joint is followed by a high-pitched screeching that pulls me from my daydream. The screaming echoes back and forth between the concrete walls of the abandoned parking lot. A second finger goes, and another burst of noise erupts from the priest.
They have him tied to a thin plastic chair. His arms are restrained at the wrist, against the armrests, and his legs against the feet of the chair. His head is held in place with a rope around the neck, which is held by one of the Harrison boys. Every time the priest bellows, the Harrison man gives the rope a hard tug, eliciting choked squeals instead.
Streaks of blood drip from the priest’s nose and mouth, and his white shirt is stained red. He looks as tired as I feel. He’s ready to give up and die, but his body won’t let him. Our lives might be pointless on this blue rock of ours, but somehow, we humans are resilient. We’ll keep fighting to survive, no matter the agony.
“Soon you’ll be with your god,” I mumble to myself.
Alongside me, members of the Harrison, Slater, Braddock, and Romani families circle the priest. He shot their king, and they’re going to make him suffer for it. There are seven of us in all, and I can’t remember a single one of the others’ names. I’m too angry and disappointed, and just a little scared.
“What was that boss?” one of Slater’s men asks. The King isn’t even dead yet, and they’re already calling me ‘boss’?
I hate it.
“I said I won’t ask you again,” my attention’s on the priest from the wedding now. I still haven’t learned his name.
“Who sent you?”
My footsteps echo against the smooth tarmac of the parking lot. My approach is slow and calculated; cracking a single finger at a time to scare him. He looks terrified already, but who wouldn’t be with hungry sharks circling in every direction?
The broken fingers and pulled teeth are probably what did it. The six-foot soldiers put in some decent work before my arrival. It’s a surprise they didn’t kill him with the torture, but as I said – we’re resilient. We’ll fight until we just can’t anymore. Probably goes back to some monkey brain in our evolution – even knowing he can’t escape, the priest will believe there’s hope.
Or maybe, his prayers will be enough to save him.
He doesn’t speak throughout my approach. He drags his head up lazily to look at me before it sinks again. He’s desperate for sleep, but we won’t allow it. Soon, he’ll get all the rest he needs, in a bed made of dirt.
“He’s said nothing since the chapel?” I turn to the Braddock man. There’s only one of my father’s men here and his face is familiar. I’ve seen him at the Braddock-owned bar from time to time. Somewhere, if I look deeply enough in my brain, I’d find his name. But, there’s no time for that.
