His words tear through me, and I cower away from him by pushing my chair back from the table. The sudden change in his demeanor horrifies me.
He bites his lower lip and closes his eyes. “We should go.” He exhales.
“I can’t do this, Cole. I can’t go. I’m not ready.” After that outburst, the last of my reserves are gone. I clasp my hands together to stop them from shaking.
“Yes, you are. I have orders and will get you there alive if it’s the last thing I do.”
Arguing with him isn’t an option, so I zip my lips. He stands and straps his guns on as I keep my head lowered. If this is a game, I just failed. Coming here has already taught me one thing—I’ll never understand the mentality of a guard and I hate being vulnerable.
So I won’t be.
We take the alley and trek to the hospital at a faster pace than the previous day. As we near the entrance, something seems different. A large crowd waits in front of a rough-hewn wooden stage. The guards in their black, spotless uniforms stand at attention in perfect rows like soldiers prepared for battle. Men, women, and children gather in front as a bulky guard saunters up the stairs to the platform. The body language of those around me tells me this guard is formidable. Some of their faces turn white, while others shed silent tears, and the children shake with fear.
This isn’t going to be good.
The sheer dread on their faces makes me tense. I can practically smell their terror. Cole comes to an abrupt halt, flings his arm out to stop me, and stands rigid and alert.
“Stay here and don’t move, whatever you do,” he demands.
Before I can question him, he turns on his heel and pushes his way through the multitude. I stretch to the tips of my toes to watch but lose sight of him for a few minutes before he returns with a pained expression. I move directly into his path and try to get him to look at me, but he avoids my eyes.
Now he’s playing my game.
“I’m sorry,” Cole says.
“Wait. What? Sorry for what?”
“I never intended for you to see this.” And that’s all he says before another voice pierces the air.
“Thank you all for coming,” a man with red wire-rimmed glasses announces into the microphone.
“That’s Wilson,” the lady behind me whispers. “He’s almost as bad as the commander.”
Wilson’s heavyset face belies a pair of sparkly, mischievous eyes and thick lips that smack together as he enunciates each word. “It’s come to our attention that some of you have obtained illegal arms and are using them against us. This is something we will not tolerate, so we thought a little reminder of what happens to those who violate our laws would be quite beneficial.”
Of course there are laws when their safety’s at risk. Freaking hypocrites.
As he speaks, guards parade four men up the stairs with pistols pressed to the back of their skulls. Their faces remain shrouded underneath blindfolds and their hands are tied securely behind them. Wilson commands them to kneel, so they do in a row across the platform. Even though the stage sits approximately fifty feet away, I see their bodies quivering.
Then it dawns on me… Holy crap, it’s an execution.
“By order of the great Commander, you are all charged with the possession of unauthorized weapons. The penalty is death.” Wilson pauses for effect as an evil smile splits his pale face. The silence disconcerts me. Never have I heard the Hole so deliberately quiet.
Wilson stands in front of the accused and yanks off each blindfold, one after the other, tossing them off to the side of the platform. Starting from the right, he takes aim, pointing the barrel of his pistol at the first man’s forehead. Without hesitation, he pulls the trigger, sending a bullet right between his eyes. Then he fires three more shots and finishes the others.
I gasp with each blast.
“Don’t watch,” Cole says.
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t rip my eyes away. Wilson forces the spectators in the front row to carry the bodies off the stage. They struggle under the dead weight, so minutes pass before they pile the bodies in a heap. Their blood leaves a sickly, foul trail behind.
I feel a small raindrop hit my forehead and roll down my face, but I’m too afraid to wipe it away. It’s as if someone hit a pause button, and Cole and I stand frozen in place.
Once the stage is cleared, Wilson announces with disgust, “The next punishment is reserved for the worst offenders.”
“There’s more?” I ask in a whisper. I know Cole stands next to me by the familiar sounds of his breathing, but he doesn’t reply.
A young woman with long, golden hair and fair skin is shoved onto the stage.
“She’s a model,” the same lady says behind me. “I guess being beautiful isn’t always a good thing.”
Bruises mar the woman’s neck on stage, making her purple brand barely distinguishable, and her right eye bulges, dark blue and swollen almost shut. She possesses no blindfold and wears only her torn underclothes, stained red and clinging to her body. Her eyes stay glued to the floor, but her terror is evident even from where I stand.
Then to my surprise, two guards drag another guard in full uniform up the stairs, casting him next to the woman. He reaches over, taking her face between his hands. Tears track down his cheeks as he stares only at her. His lips move, but I can’t hear what he says. She nods her head and he kisses her.
“Guard Mac!” Wilson shouts. “Evidence has been set before us that proves you have been consorting with this sinner—this disgusting, worthless, prideful leach.” He pauses for effect. “The penalty awarded those who proclaim to love the branded is”—he licks his lips—“death!” he screams and points at her with his thick, sausage-like finger. “And you, my friend, will watch her die.” The kneeling guard cries out, but a sharp blow lands upon his head, silencing him. “But first, you need to learn to keep your hands off these filthy sinners.”
Wilson motions for others to come. They carry a small wooden table to the platform, set it down, and proceed to secure the concussed guard’s right hand to the table with solemn faces. The once guard—now prisoner—struggles against the restraints.
“Stop! You’re the lowest of the low. You bring shame to the guards,” Wilson says. The pitch of his voice rises to a squeak and his eyes focus on Mac with unwavering intensity as a crude smile makes its way across his face. In another life, I might’ve laughed at him but not here. Not now.
With all eyes riveted upon them, Wilson arches his back and swings a machete down to the table with all his might, attempting to slice off the man’s right wrist. A terrible, bloodcurdling scream escapes the man’s throat and splits the air. Thinking it’s over, I cover my mouth to keep from screaming, but then he swings again and again, chopping roughly through the wrist bones. Vomit rises in my throat when I see the blood spurt from where his hand once was. Splinters of bone, broken and uneven, lie limp on the table. A collective groan flows swiftly through the crowd like a wave.
The guards lift up the man, who’s almost unconscious, and place him face-to-face with his lover. She cries and pulls him to her.
“I love him,” she wails.
Don’t they have any remorse? Any at all? I begin feeling woozy and sway slightly to the right, but Cole’s arm steadies me for an instant. And then it’s gone.
Mac looks at Wilson, who now stands at the woman’s side with a red-hot iron as large as a bat. A sanguinary light forms in Wilson’s eyes and froth bubbles at the creases of his mouth like a hungry beast waiting for the final slaughter. Then Wilson torches her skin with the heavy iron as another guard restrains Mac.