Brink by Mikel Parry
Chapter 31 - A God's justice

CH – A GOD’S JUSTICE

Staggering through the unkempt streets, Thomas could feel his heart breaking apart in a furious frenzy. Love’s sweet reprieve had again been stolen from him. Now his soul burned only with hate. He was going to finish this once and for all. There was only one man he wanted to see; one man who plagued his mind like a festering infection; Roslin. He was someone who held all the keys and who had conveniently been absent at some of the most critical moments; a mysterious man with a manor-sized closet of secrets. It would take everything he had not to kill him on the spot.

I’ll make them pay, Barb. All of them.

He was careful, more careful than he had ever been before, not to be spotted. To not follow his normal routes. His mission now was to not be himself. But in all honesty, he wasn’t himself. Not anymore, how could he be? The evil that he professed to want to destroy was now dwelling inside of him. A vile seed most sinister, growing bigger with each of his heartbeats.

An explosion erupted somewhere in the distance. Undoubtedly, more innocent lives had just been lost—another dart thrown at the board that missed its mark. Their lives were taken by mistake. A human mistake. He saw it now more clearly than before. The killer was human. Even more human than he’d expected. Evidenced by the mindless violence he was inflicting. A few dots connected in his mind. Dots strung together not by logic, but emotion; a human experience that had eluded him for much of his life.

The bleeding heart of a psychopath.

Arriving at what would be his final turn, he approached the corner cautiously. He was at ground zero, where it all began. Where he had been introduced to the program and the organization. Where he had glimpsed for the first time. Where the snowball from hell had begun rolling downhill. Glancing around the corner, he saw the world he once knew in flames. The street was ablaze; mobs full of mindless violence dotted the landscape, looting stores, vandalizing property. Agents were strewn about dealing with issues as they haphazardly presented themselves. The back alley door to the ominous building was being loosely guarded. With the right physical persuasion, he could get in. Instinctively, he reached for his gun and badge. They were gone. But he had known that. So why did he still react the way he did?

A creature of habit. Habits . . . humans have habits. Even I have habits.

Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for the feat of strength his battered body would have to endure. No one could know it was him. No one could know who he was coming for. Retracing the steps of the building in his mind, he calculated the quickest route back to the white room. But just what he’d find there remained a mystery.

Let’s go, Tommy. Let’s do this!

Bursting out into the open, he tap danced around a mob of looters tussling with the local authorities. Screams of panic could be heard all around. The city was literally falling to pieces. A few agents had pinned a man to the ground who was screaming out the reckoning of god. He did his best to skirt past them without making eye contact. He moved like a ghost passing in the night. Within a few steps of the organization’s entrance he came to an abrupt halt. Two men were there, each armed to the teeth. They deflected any would-be-assailant by their mere presence alone. Thomas’s heart sank. How could he possibly get by them? Although distracted, one foolish move might ultimately be his last. But he had to try.

Waiting for just the right moment, he joined a passing mob who had dared press their number advantage on the agents. The agents drew their guns and began issuing ultimatums. The chants for violence from the crowd grew in intensity. But then he found the miniscule window of opportunity that he had been looking for. With the distraction of the unruly crowd taking front and center, the agent’s stronghold on the entrance had slipped. Taking an almost half-dive at the gap, he lunged forward. His momentum propelled him past the squabbling guards and through the open door.

He could see the white hallway in front of him. Inside, more chaos was unraveling things like a spinning top. He was stopped abruptly. So abruptly in fact, it had knocked the wind clean out of him. As he tried to catch his breath, one of the agents grasped his shoulder firmly and pointed a gun right between his eyes.

“Where do you think you’re going? This area is off limits! We will use appropriate force if necessary!” the agent bellowed.

Thomas’ normally brilliant mind had somehow gone offline. He could think of nothing to say in response. His heart was practically pounding its way out of his ears. Just as the agent looked poised to apply the appropriate force he had mentioned, a shot rang out from somewhere in the crowd of bodies. Everyone dropped to the ground, petrified with fear. The perpetrator was the would-be prophet who had somehow managed to wriggle himself free and get a hold of one of the now-slain agent’s guns. He continued his lunacy by blasting another bullet towards the agents at the door.

“God’s justice is upon you!”

The agent released Thomas before turning to fire on the heretic doomsayer. As swift and cunning as a fox, Thomas made his escape. He worked his way through the maze of bodies. Medics were treating the injuries of the fallen. The secret building looked to be in shambles. A part of his humanity beckoned him to stop and help those around him. But he knew the worst was still coming. The wrath of time would take no prisoners. The flames of hate could not be so easily extinguished. Letting everything around him pass by him like a horrific nightmare, he kept moving. He had to get to the white room. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt as if he was being drawn there; as if his insatiable desire for justice had plotted the course on its own. Back to the beginning to most likely meet his untimely end.

Arriving at the high security room after narrowly avoiding capture, death, or worse, he paused. Something was different. The door was malfunctioning. Its heightened level of security was fractured by mechanical failure. All of its components appeared damaged, as if someone had forced their way inside. Feeling lost, he shook his head hoping to rattle himself back to reality. That’s when he saw that the door was ajar just enough to pry his fingers into it. Mustering every ounce of energy he had, he yanked on the door fervently. With a groan and a moan it slid open. He sprinted inside, feeling his heart beginning pound madly. What would he find?

Running out to the middle of the floor, he immediately felt the presence of another. The lights in the room flickered off and on. Sparks shot out from the fixtures, creating a surreal effect. Standing in the darkness were two men. Seeing their silhouettes shook Thomas to his core. One he quickly recognized as Roslin; or at least what was left of him. He had been brutally assaulted, tortured, and looked well on his way down the slippery slope towards death. Holding him tightly was Thomas’ nightmare incarnate; his allusive prey. The killer stood firm, fixed, and resolute, holding a gun to Roslin’s head. A gun that Thomas knew well, as it was his. His heart sank. How had he been so stupid? Leaving something so critical behind to become a trophy for his evil adversary. It suddenly all became crystal clear. He was being framed for the murders and hell that had been unleashed. He had been but a pawn in the master’s hands. The mere thought of it sickened him. He could only conjure a few words in response.

“Why? Why make us all suffer?”

The dark, empty eyes in the mask gazed back. They were burning holes right through Thomas. Although unseen, the hatred, hurt, and pain in the room was palpable. Both men had reached the end of their emotional road. A moment passed like an eternity in time’s vortex. The anticipation was insufferable. The harrowing response from the killer made him go cold.

“Justice!”

Thomas’ eyes widened. Frame-by-frame the scene unfolded. In an almost supernatural way, his brilliant mind had almost altered time itself. Every detail of what was happening came flooding into the safe harbor of his cerebral memory. The dark, soulless eyes—the dark mask and gloves—the finger pressing slowly to release the hammer on the pistol. In seconds, Roslin’s life would be taken. Then the man would promptly deal with him, leaving the rest to whatever his sinister plan called for. He had one chance. Glancing down at his watch, he turned it on and plugged in the one date and time he could think of. It was beyond comprehension that he could get it right, but he had to. His memory had put the pieces together utilizing sticky pieces of emotion, the likes of which he’d never known before. He had changed; the game had changed. As the bullet left the chamber to smash its way through Roslin’s skull, shards of light consumed him. Whatever lay in the past was now his only hope for a future. Should he fail, his life and the present he knew would be gone. Only time would tell.

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