Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (19 page)

How had an avowed Luciferian and a Catholic cardinal
known the location of the changed birthplace? Over the centuries, the Jesuits
had been in league with many distasteful forces. Could they have been aligned
with their enemies? There were few other reasons why they had been in the same
place, at the same time, as the one who changed destiny.

Kosta marveled at the fact that the earth-shattering
soul, sitting silently beside him, was such a blank slate. This was no
malicious or evil individual; this was an infant, albeit the size of a
four-year-old, who could also walk and feed himself.

He had to imprint his beliefs, before anyone else
could get a hold of him. If he could shape his mind, he could decide his own
fate. The Luciferians already tried to take him, and the Christians tried to
kill him. One wanted to solidify the foretold destiny, while the other was
simply terrified. Both were unaware of Kosta’s involvement, and ignorant of his
motives.

He changed Revelation and as a result he was now
outside it. He was separated from fate, the collective mind. Most people did
not even know about the prophecies, now playing out. Those who did called them
ancient superstition, while the few active participants had no idea about his
efforts.

Kosta snuck a peek at Nino as he stared out the
window. The child instantly turned and met his gaze. His eyes showed interest
and confidence; his face was calm and searching. Kosta decided to see if he was
equally advanced, mentally. He didn’t know about his abilities, which led his
parents to surrender him to the mercy of the Church.

“Do you know what is going on?”

There was silence.

Maybe, Kosta thought, the question was too broad. A
more direct and simpler question might be appropriate. He believed that the
child could speak.

“Do you want your parents?”

Again, there was silence.

Tears rolled down Nino’s face, yet his expression was
calm and unmoving. As the child looked up at Kosta, he realized that he wasn’t
aware of the tears. He wiped the left cheek and Nino leaned into his palm. He
wiped the right cheek and felt the same insistent pressure. The child felt a
gentle touch. It was too good to be true; he mistrusted it, but could not help
but follow it.

“What’s your name?” Instantly, Kosta felt like an idiot.
He had forgotten that he was speaking to a child. “What do they call you?”

“Nino.” Instantly, his eyes darted up to see if Kosta
would turn away. Everyone else was terrified and would not come near him. This
was the first time he spoke out lout. He had been able to speak for about a
month, but didn’t want to drive his parents away. All he saw on Kosta’s face
was surprise, followed by acceptance. Kosta was not a parent. He had not
considered that enormity when he began this work. Now, he would take care of a
child and save the world from Luciferians and Catholics.

TIME: NOVEMBER 20TH, 1962. QUIBDO, COLUMBIA

Kosta picked up a crusty, cellophane-wrapped pastry
and a cola and continued through the small grocery store. He looked for the
bread aisle, also scanning the small meat section for cold cuts. He didn’t know
anything about nutrition and wasn’t about to hazard a guess as to what a child
— chronologically, six-months-old, but physically, five-years-old —
should eat. He asked the butcher for a pound each of salami, bologna,
mortadella and cheddar cheese.

“Mortadella? Que?” the butcher asked.

Kosta looked up from his assessment of the dead
things under glass in front of him and held up his right thumb.

“Salami?”

“Si, salami.”

“Bien, salami.”

He now held up both his thumb and index finger.

“Bologna?”

“Si, bologna.”

“Bien, salami, bologna.”

Now, his middle finger joined his thumb and index.

“Cheddar?”

“Si, cheddar.”

“Muoi bien, salami, bologna, cheddar. Uno poundo, por
favor.”

The butcher looked like he had solved a crossword
puzzle, and with a wide grin, turned to carve slices of the requested cuts.
Kosta’s answering smile was appreciative as he returned to his survey of the
items under the butcher’s glass countertop.

A pig’s eyes stared at Nino, whose own eyes read the
surroundings. He showed no wide-eyed awe of the place, filled with brightly
colored packaging and even brighter lights. He held onto Kosta’s hand with
ease. Whenever he looked at the boy, he saw a reassurance in his eyes. This
comforted Kosta.

Kosta yearned for a life of quiet boredom. Excitement
was for people who didn’t know what excitement actually involved. At this point
in his life, Kosta had had his fill. He wished for an uneventful life, both for
himself and his charge. They deserved it.

Kosta did, at least. As for the boy, time would tell.

He followed Nino’s eyes as they kept careful watch
over a woman, buying her groceries. She had a plastic mesh bag, into which she
put a box of cereal, two cans of refried beans and a box of crackers. More
items followed, but Kosta stopped paying attention to what the items were.
Instead, he pictured what she would do with them.

He imagined a small, one-room apartment where the
woman lived alone. She would go home and unpack her groceries, placing each in
a specified place. Occasionally, she would alternate, or replace, each item
— saltines for the crackers, oatmeal for the cereal — but apart
from the little variations, things remain in their rightful place.

The apartment was tidy, if not clean, and a small
television was positioned before a well-worn couch.
 
The television rested on the kitchen table. It faced away
from the two chairs, in which she alternated eating her breakfast. It faced
away, because she watched it every night. Kosta felt an urge to ask the name of
her favorite program. She could’ve watched as Andy Williams introduced people
on his variety hour. Or, better yet, she looked like a country girl, who
delighted in the hayseed, transplanted, millionaire Clampets of the
Beverly Hillbillies
.

Kosta didn’t believe in this world that he created,
any more than he did the truth. Boring was good; boring did not have to be bad.
It was not painful, and comfort brought a measure of joy. Kosta never wanted to
be a glutton with that emotion. Too much joy could easily turn into despair and
pain. When you’re up, the only place to go is down.

The butcher handed him his package and Kosta accepted
it with a nod. He walked to the front of the store, and as he got closer, he
recognized the background music. They called the vocalist the Wanderer, because
he wandered round and round and round. Two people were in the checkout line
ahead of him, so he stopped to wait his turn. One patron, placing his parcels
on the counter to be counted, was matching the beat from a small transistor
radio the cashier had playing. The song finished and was identified by the
announcer as Dion.

The next selection was from Roy Orbison. A falsetto
voice described thinking about dream babies the whole night through. Behind the
cashier, he saw through the window and across the street, to where an older
woman was walking. He absentmindedly took note of her drooped shoulders,
underneath a long, thin coat and tan shawl, tied around her down-turned head.

He didn’t think much about it, until not twenty
seconds later, she walked towards him on a sidewalk, perpendicular to the
grocery store. As she came closer, he saw that, though her eyes were downcast,
she stared at him. Her arms were tucked and folded beneath her purse. He
couldn’t see her pupils, hidden beneath heavy brows. She came within half a
block of the store, then turned past the edge of the window frame through which
Kosta looked.

Five seconds later, she walked past the store again.
This time, she came from the left, on the same side of the street as Kosta. She
walked very close to the window and Kosta paid careful attention. He switched
Nino’s hand to his left and protectively pushed the boy behind him.

After placing his groceries on the counter, his hand
went to his pocket and closed on a wooden gripped revolver. Its barrel and
cartridges were modified to blow fist-sized holes into anything that came
within three feet. It would just badly maim anything more distant.

The shabby old woman walked past the middle window,
shuffling at a contrived pace. With her head still down, she turned; Kosta saw
a burning glare from under the side of her shawl, though it flickered off as
she continued walking. He moved forward in the line as one of the two people
ahead of him walked out the door and onto the street.

Kosta’s eyes followed the man who left. He watched
him cross the street and put his groceries in back of his pickup truck. He
climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine and drove left, disappearing
past the window frame. He did not see the old woman again until the truck was
out of sight. She walked out of a clothing store across the street and stopped,
just as she reached the edge of the sidewalk. There was no way she could’ve
entered that store without Kosta seeing her do it. She checked traffic on both
sides before she crossed the street and turned out of sight.

She appeared again, walking from the left side of the
window. She passed the store that she just exited and continued, without
looking at the grocery store. Seconds later, she appeared again, walking out of
a doorway a block away from where she had just been shuffling. She stopped and
took a seat on a bench. It seemed as though she was waiting for something. She
did not need to look at Kosta for him to know that she was watching.

He continued forward and waited for the cashier to
tally up his order, watching the old woman more intently. The edges of her body
were blurred where they met reality. She was entirely real, but her presence
disturbed the air through which she walked.

A Plymouth Fury drove past the seated woman and
blocked her from sight. It did not slow down, but drove at a moderate pace.
Once it passed the bench, she was gone again. Out of the corner of his eye,
Kosta noticed she was now behind the wheel of a car, parked almost out of
sight. She opened the door, nudged it closed, then walked into the doorway
behind the parked car.

Painfully slow, she opened a glass door and walked
into a shadow, obscuring the interior of the department store. He almost lost
her in the gloomy interior, but she stopped, half in shadow, turned and stood.
Her face and upper torso stayed hidden in the gloom, but he could still see her
legs, under wrinkled support hose and laced-up, black leather shoes.

Kosta handed the cashier a ten-dollar bill and felt
the change fall onto his waiting palm. He never took his eyes off the old
woman, standing in the twilight. He picked up his groceries and walked out of
the store, Nino still clasping his other hand. The gun lay still and expectant
in his pocket. Thankfully, he had parked right in front of the store, so he put
the food in the rear, scooting Nino ahead of the bags, motioning for him to lie
on the floor.

He walked around to the front of the 1958 grey, dusty
Checker cab and got behind the wheel. He saw that the shoes remained, unmoved,
in the department store. He kept his eyes on her as he started the car, put it
into reverse, then backed out and turned to drive past. He wanted a closer look
at his watcher.

The checker cab rolled forward, but Kosta took his
foot off of the gas pedal as he approached the glass doors of the department
store. He was close enough to see the old woman had been standing the entire
time, her hands folded over her purse. Aside from her stillness, nothing seemed
strange about her. She was as motionless as the mannequins, posing beside her.
At the very moment this thought entered his head, she faded and became just
another mannequin.

Kosta’s eyes darted left and right as he frantically
searched for her. He saw no sign of her anywhere and his heart raced with the
checker cab, out of town.

He stayed on the main road. For a second, he thought
he saw her in his rear-view mirror, but when he looked again, she was gone. As
he neared the edge of town, he saw her out of the corner of his eye, but when
he turned, she was no longer there.

When he realized he had been tricked with the
mannequin in the department store, he pulled out the gun and laid it on the
front seat. Now, he placed a reassuring hand on it and slowed to a stop at a
flashing red traffic light, just before the main road joined the highway. He
took extra care, not only looking for other traffic, but also for wayward,
unexpected geriatrics. Not a soul was in sight, but to his left, a black speck
appeared. He squinted at it, but it was too far away for him to discern
anything.

He pulled out a pair of binoculars from a box on the
floor, put them to his eyes and adjusted the settings. The old woman came into
focus.

All pretence of frailty was gone; she was walking
fast, heading straight for him. When Kosta put the binoculars to his eyes, her
head jerked to her right, her lips pulled back to a grimace. She increased her
pace, until Kosta didn’t need the binoculars to see her.

Immediately, he floored the gas pedal and the car
took off like a rocket. He turned to look out the back window and saw her
disappear in the dust. When he looked in the rear-view mirror, she was gone. He
frantically swiveled his head, trying to find her, but all he saw was blurred
scenery, farmhouses, distant branching roads and endless fields. His heart, as
well as his foot on the gas pedal, just began to settle when he finally located
the old woman — five feet in front of the car.