Chapter 3
Howard felt a jolt of panic shoot through him, jarring him so abruptly, so wholly, he was forced to brace himself against a wall. He’d just finished orating to a small group of congregants, had just left the nave of the Soldiers of the Divine Trinity Church when terror rocked him. Shaken, he crossed himself, touching his right hand to his forehead, his belly, his left shoulder then his right. He prayed silently, leaning against a corridor wall that led from the sacristy, where he’d left his Bible, to the presbytery, which served as both his office and private living quarters.
The sudden frightened feeling did not end despite his silent pleas, though. Instead, it changed, transforming into a familiar sensation, one he hadn’t felt in some time, but a familiar one, nonetheless. The initial jolt had been a mere catalyst, a warning, for the reaction that began between his ribcage and spread slowly, swelling and stretching like a great beast awakening from slumber inside of him. Howard bit his lower lip to keep from screaming, the torturous pain branching from his abdomen unbearable. Twisting and writing demonically, the feeling wound within him weaving and snaking down throughout him to the tips of his fingers. He heard himself gasp as realization of what was occurring settled upon him. Abrasive awareness scratched and clawed its way to his consciousness and he grasped that he was feeling the evil energy of the Sola. Her power had come to fruition, had matured. And she had used it for her own depraved purpose.
An offense against God had just been committed, and she had been responsible for it. Of that he was certain. Her iniquity entwined itself around his very veins with barbed tentacles, pulsing tainted lifeblood through them. He could not be sure what exactly had happened, could not see her wicked deed, but felt it, felt her sin winding its way inside him agonizingly.
The feel of sin had not been foreign to Howard. He knew the grotesque sensation all too well. He, himself, had been a sinner at one time.
As he breathed deeply, trying desperately to exorcise the fiendish ache, memories rushed through him, swirling with the excruciating pain in a horrific dance.
He had not sinned in more than thirty-five years. He was a man of God and did no wrong, now. But when he had been a boy, he hadn’t been the shining example of man he currently was. He had not been on the righteous path he was presently on. Long ago, he had lost his way.
When Howard had been just twelve years old, he had been living in a youth detention center for two years. Sentenced for six months to a locked-down facility after he’d killed his mother and her lover, he had been transferred shortly thereafter to an all-boys prison camp of sorts where corporal punishment had been implemented. There, he had experienced the most trying times of his entire life. Brutality had abounded. It had been part of a venomous cycle. Guards had abused detainees and detainees had abused one another. Howard, in particular, had endured multiple forms of cruelty. Small for his age and delicate of feature, he had been branded a “sissy,” had been teased and taunted regularly. But the abuses had not ended with words. Every part of him had been raped: body, mind and soul. Bruises had marked nearly every inch of him and improperly healed fractures and lacerations had marred his appearance. But neither his bruises nor cuts, nor the deformities of poorly fused bones had deterred his assailants. No, the assaults had continued. Some had been worse than others. Some attackers had been more zealous than others.
Among the seemingly endless string of people who had brutalized him had been two boys who’d taken particular joy in his suffering. Howard closed his eyes and, even after thirty-five years, could still see their faces in vivid detail. Tom Callahan and Greg Santos had both been tall and strapping for their fourteen years. They had badgered Howard relentlessly, had called him Mother Killer. They had said Howard had been jealous of his mother’s lover, that he had wanted to have intercourse with her and had killed them because of his incestuous desire for her. They had accused him of heinous feelings. But Tom and Greg had not understood that his mother had been evil, that he had killed her at God’s urging. They had not known about his divine calling, of the power he had possessed. And still, after decades of time spent away from the camp, free from the likes of Tom and Greg, his former name, Mother Killer, nauseated him.
Their taunts and insults, along with their continual abuse of him, had eventually taken their toll on Howard. One day, after a particularly vicious assault that had included being sodomized then beaten, Howard had been filled with rage, and an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. He’d yearned for it, longed for the dark feeling of revenge, of retaliation. He’d read that revenge was a sin. The teachings of the Bible had advised him to turn the other cheek, to forgive those who’d trespassed against him. But with bright-red blood trickling from every orifice of his body and the sound of jeers echoing in his head, retribution had beckoned him. In that moment, he had turned from God, had charged God with turning His back on him first. He had succumbed to the sinister seduction of score settling. He’d known what he’d needed to do to avenge all the atrocities Tom and Greg had committed against him.
Several of the guards had been smokers. Having had lit cigarettes extinguished on his bare torso before they’d ravaged him, he had known all too well of their filthy habit. Smoking had been the least of their many odious, deviant behaviors.
Since the guards had maintained order though regular acts of brutality, they had not feared disobedience. They had never guessed that Howard, the smallest, weakest prisoner, would take one of their numerous lighters that had littered their office, a refillable silver-plated lighter. And they had not expected him to relieve them of a container of lighter fluid either.
Though they had not concerned themselves with insubordination, they had been vigilant, always watching. Howard had been forced to wait until nightfall late one evening to steal out of his room, down a long, dark hallway while everyone else had slept, to collect the lighter and flammable fluid. He had moved with agility he’d never known he’d retained, had crept down the corridor with the silence and stealth of a cat and had gathered his tools unnoticed. From the guards’ office, he’d skulked back to the dormitory and searched for the cots Tom and Greg had occupied. Their bunks had been positioned side by side, almost touching. Like jackals, they’d stayed close to one another, existed as a vile pair.
Howard had stood at the foot of their beds and had felt the darkness stroke him with shadowy fingers, guiding him, pushing him. With a steady hand, he’d opened the canister of lighter fluid and had squeezed it over them, saturating them with the accelerant, careful to soak the small sheet that rested between their beds. Then he’d taken his thumb and rolled it over the flint. The wick had lit immediately, its golden flame swaying bewitchingly. He’d been mesmerized by it, had needed to tear his eyes from the small flicker long enough to toss it atop the sleeping boys. The lighter had landed exactly where he’d wanted to place it: on the sheet their bunks had shared. The material had caught fire immediately, and the fire had instantly spread along pathways created by lighter fluid. Both Tom and Greg’s bodies had begun to burn. It had taken the boys several moments to rouse from their slumber and realize what had been happening. They had awakened with a start, screaming and crying out in agony as their skin had begun to burn. Howard had merely watched, a sense of satisfaction filling his chest as he’d smelled the fetid odor of smoldering flesh. Tom and Greg had begun to thrash about wildly, trying to pat their bodies and smother the growing flames. Their efforts had been useless, though.
As they’d thrashed, Tom had released a guttural shriek and had lunged forward. He had latched onto Howard and had held tightly. He’d felt the heat of Tom’s blazing form, had watched as his own clothes had begun to burn as well.
Tom had looked like a man possessed. He’d howled out, a raspy war cry, just inches from Howard’s face as flames crept up his neck and began to blister his chin and cheeks. Howard had tried to shove him off, tried to pry Tom from him, but each time
he had resisted, Tom had tightened his grip.
The last thing Howard Kane remembered about that fateful night was Tom pressing his fiery face to his, a blazing kiss of death, then the feeling of blinding pain searing his entire body, pain unlike any he’d ever experienced. Voices had sounded from some distant void, and oblivion had tempted the edge of his vision. He’d resisted at first, had focused on the voices that had likely belonged to other guests at his internment camp, or perhaps emergency personnel. He would never be sure to whom the voices had belonged to as he had surrendered to the nothingness that had called for him.
The next memory he’d had was lying in a hospital bed. Weeks had passed and he’d been told that he had suffered third-degree burns over the majority of his body. He’d been wrapped in lengths of white bandages, his blisters crusting and festering beneath them.
During the time he’d spend in the hospital recovering from his near-fatal burns, he’d sunken into a deep depression. He had realized that he had not avenged the wrongs perpetrated against him. He had not emerged the victor. Tom had the final laugh. Tom had taken from him the only attribute that he’d retained during his stay as a ward of the correctional system: his looks. Ironically, it had been his looks, his attractiveness that had bordered on feminine prettiness that had generated such a hedonistic frenzy among the other inmates. And even that had been stripped of him. Howard had been mutilated beyond any form of recognition, body and soul. He had been transformed from a beautiful twelve-tear-old boy, to a monster. And all of it had happened in the name of vengeance.
For months, his understanding of what his life had become had felt like bobbing lifelessly in a bottomless, blackened sea with no land in sight. Despair had crashed against him like mighty waves, drowning him. His dejection had lasted for nearly half a year, until one day, God had sent him a sign.
The Lord’s sign had come in the form of literature. A volunteer who’d brought books and magazines to patients in the hospital he’d stayed at had dropped a Bible on her way out. Howard had groaned before stooping to pick up the holy book. He’d had most, if not all, of it committed to memory during his eighth year of life, when his father had gone to prison and his mother had taken to drugs and men. He had not touched a Bible in some time. In the hospital, he had begun thumbing through it and was reminded of verse after verse of testimony that supported God’s ability to forgive him of his egregious sins. He had flagrantly offended God, as many had before him, but God had forgiven them. And he had known God would forgive him, too.
Standing in his hospital room, Howard had felt right holding the Bible in his hands, in his heart. Each word had nearly jumped off the pages, resonating with truth, with sense. He had known from that point on that everything that had happened had happened for a reason. He had been tested. His suffering had been part of God’s plan for him. Even his disfigurement had made sense in that divine moment. Vanity issues had been eliminated in one swift motion by his burns. He had known that no woman would ever want him, especially since his burns had spread over the lower half of his body destroying any chances of procreating or partaking of marital relations. He had beamed at the notion that God had chosen him, had freed him of the burden of marriage and parenthood, of pride and conceit. With all of those factors eliminated, his life had been unfettered. He had been granted the opportunity to devote his life to God and His work. He had been alleviated of the duty of creating a life for himself; one had been created for him. He had sinned, had claimed the lives of two people, and would in turn, devote his life to God and pay penance for his offenses.
From that day forward, Howard had begun reading from the Bible each day, had repented each day, begging for the Lord’s forgiveness. On his eighteenth birthday, six years later, all of his doctors and therapists in the federal hospital that had held him had unanimously decided that he had turned a corner. They had believed he had been rehabilitated. They had credited his devotion to Christ for his turnaround, and no longer saw him as a threat to society. He had been released, freed to pursue his holy quest.
Propped against a wall in the hallway of the Church he’d founded nearly a quarter of a century ago, Howard’s breathing began to calm. His pain began to subside. While the event he’d just experienced, the agony of the Sola’s sin, had been devastatingly real, his recollection of his path had confirmed what he had always believed. He would find the Sola and kill her as God had ordered him to, and he would end a plague intended to beset the planet before it began.