Author's Note: Since I began this story I've had a couple of people contact me concerning the main character's use of tobacco. They argue that one shouldn't write a story depicting minors who smoke cigarettes (or 'focusing' on them as a recurring plot device, as I admittedly do). Although I understand these objections I also believe that the depictions of tobacco in this story serve as more than just 'shock value' to help highlight the main character's age and immortality. I include scenes of Penance smoking because I believe that it is exactly something this character would do, given his temperament and situation. I also don't believe that these scenes 'glorify' anything. On the contrary, I think Penance's use of cigarettes is pretty clearly shown to be a pathetic crutch. After all, the kid's best friend is a stuffed fox head and he is not, to put it mildly, in an 'emotionally healthy' place.
Frankly I'm surprised that I've never been criticized for the level of violence and lurid descriptions of injuries in the story. But I guess you can never predict people's priorities...
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I am Penance Cameron, conceived 1599 in Zaragoza, Spain. I was born 12 years later, in the darkness of history, and I am not alone. We are legion among you. We slither through the centuries, living secret lives, slaughtering each other for just a little taste of that mysterious power, claiming each other's heads. They call me 'immortal', but I will not live forever. I know one thing for certain: I am 12 years old now, and I will be 12 years old on the day I die. I know nothing else. I don't need to know anything else. 'Why' would be nice, maybe, but honestly I stopped asking that question after the first few centuries...
... In this Game there are no points awarded for being philosophical.
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"Pickoff Move"
Baltimore – 1984
That little rod hit his skull again. His eyes spotted up, and his nose roiled with the suffocating scent of burning coal chunks. That and milk thistle. Funny what a concussion will do to you, actually. He thought so, anyway. Heck, sometimes the experience was so interesting that he'd give himself a concussion or two, just to see the show. He usually got the best results with a ball peen hammer on a spot just behind his right ear; he could smell strawberries if he did it just right. It was neat.
But he couldn't bother with that, now: he had a bigger problem on his hands.
He struggled, flailing his arms with all his might, digging his Keds against the concrete floor. That was no use; the man pulled him backward like he was dragging a sack of potatoes. It didn't help that his head barely came up to the man's collarbone. He tried sinking his teeth into the man's gloved hand, but all he got for his trouble was a mouthful of tough leather. He screamed into the glove, but not much came out.
The man tossed his metal rod away, letting it bang across the floor. He leaned down near the boy and whispered in his ear. His breath reeked of stale beer and corndog:
"Let's you and me go waaaaay back in the back, here," he said. "What we're about to do, kid, is an awfully 'intimate' thing, isn't it? Gonna need some privacy!"
The narrow tunnel ended in a small supply closet. A stark white bulb swung to and fro in there, waving like a beacon. That was where the man was dragging him; that was his intended destination.
And if Mister Corndog managed to get the boy in there then he was dead. It was that simple.
Footsteps sounded from a branch in the corridor. A man suddenly skidded around the corner— he was black, with thick glasses, a neon-colored event staff uniform and a sack of trash slung over one shoulder.
"Hey!" He barked. "Who that? Shouldn't be down here!" When he took a few more steps he got a better read on the situation. "Hey! Wha'choo doin' with that boy?" He dropped his trash sack and raced to the kid's aid.
Mister Corndog took exception to that.
He threw the boy headfirst into the tunnel wall. The kid struck it with his forehead (not a great place to have a 'good' concussion, in his experience). The man then pulled a long, cruel-looking hatchet from behind his suit jacket and took a swing at the good Samaritan.
"Ah— ga'aaaaah!" The black man screamed, falling down to the floor to avoid the swipe.
Mister Corndog followed that miss with a vicious overhead strike. The black man didn't manage to dodge that. A terrible noise echoed in the corridor; it sounded like an overripe melon being chopped in two.
The boy took this opportunity to dig into one of his socks. He got to his feet just in time to come face-to-face with Mister Corndog.
Chup!
Weird sound. The boy's little blade pierced flesh and breastbone. Critically for the boy it found that soft, squishy target behind it all. The man barked in surprise, gripping the handle of that little knife in surprise. With his other hand he gripped the boy's hair. He fell against the child. His big black aviator sunglasses fell to the floor, and for the first time the pair locked eyes with each other.
Mister Corndog heaved ragged breaths, his bloodshot eyes glaring at that knife sticking out of his chest. He held the knife grip tight and forced it out of his body. It wasn't the only thing to come out, and as a river of hot blood cascaded from his body the man quickly brought that knife up to the boy's face. The boy grabbed his arm with both hands, but it was like a sapling trying to push back against a live oak. Mister Corndog narrowed his eyes, blinking unsteadily, and he thrust that blade forward with all his might.
The boy sputtered as it sank in. Mister Corndog desperately tried twisting it around, but he didn't have the energy. The man took a few staggering steps backward, letting out a mess of ragged coughs. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed onto his back.
The boy sank to his knees. He wheezed, and his wheezing brought no air to his lungs. He brought his slender hands to either side of his throat and took delicate hold of the knife handle. Slowly, so slowly, he began removing the blade, feeling it slide out with uncomfortable ease. Afterward he tightened one hand over his throat, but still he got no pressure for his trachea. When he tried drawing breath again he got a hot surprise in his innards: blood was pouring into his lungs. He saw butterflies on the edges of his vision, and then he saw some very dark clouds.
He tried to curse. Couldn't.
The boy fumbled with the small knife; he managed to get it into his pocket. He craned his head, getting one last look at Mister Corndog lying on his back, and then the clouds took his vision. He didn't remember his face hitting the concrete floor.
He did remember opening his eyes a few minutes later.
He coughed. Blood in the lungs. That didn't last long. With his first heaving breath he drew a long shuttle of air into his body, and it filled those young lungs to the brim, melting the blood away. He tried raising one arm, and then another. No dice. He dug his knees against the concrete and forced his rear off the ground, supporting the front of his body with his forehead. And he breathed. Breathed. Breathed. That was the key: breathe.
Finally he got some feeling in his arms, then his hands. All the tingles went away, and at last he got some rudimentary control over the limbs. He forced himself up, barely, and struggled like an inchworm across the floor. He got to Mister Corndog's side, forcing his body up on top of the man. He slipped his hand into his pocket and fumbled with that small knife.
Suddenly the body beneath him heaved. Mister Corndog let out a sputtering cough. The boy struggled to get up the man's body and he leaned against his face. His vision still swam, and there were still butterflies at the edges of his eyes, but when he came face-to-face with that man's bloodshot, furious eyes he felt his heart explode into a gallop.
Mister Corndog flailed with his arms; he got one hand on the boy's back and dug his nails into it. With the other he tried to grip the boy's vulnerable throat, but the boy ducked this. He quickly forced himself to his knees, held that stubby knife over his head with two hands and then...
It was a dead-center stab. From there he held the handle taut and made a wish. The boy whipped his whole body from side to side as he twisted the blade. He twisted so hard that the wooden handle snapped a bit, causing a splintery chunk to break off and bounce across the floor. Still, he didn't relax his grip. This wasn't the first time. He knew the amount of strength needed, and the minimum amount of damage that had to be dealt for—
Lightning burst throughout the corridor. It singed his skin, making his ears ring, erasing his sense of smell. The force was enough to toss the boy against the wall. As soon as he hit the ground he rose; his knees felt like springboards. He extended his arms as he felt the 'rush' surge through his groin, up his innards, through his chest, along his neck—
"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"
He salivated, mouth wide open. Electricity flowed freely between his top and bottom teeth. He felt as if he might levitate off the ground at any second. His heart felt like it would burst out of his chest.
And his mind! He—
The pyrotechnics ended with a quick burst of white light, and the boy dropped to the floor. He got to one knee quickly, breathing hard, and took one last look at the messy remains of Mister Corndog.
He tried to curse. Couldn't.
The boy shook his head. He quickly got to his feet and stumbled over to the man's body. He got the man's wallet out of his jacket and took every bill he could find. It was only a little under thirty bucks. He tossed the wallet aside and then started jogging back out of the tunnel. Right before he reached the public area of the stadium he skidded to a halt, looking down at his body. His jersey shirt was a horror show of blood. One side of the bright orange shirt read O-R and the other read E-S. The other three letters were submerged under a river of drying blood. He stripped it off and used the back of the shirt to mop up as much blood from his skin as possible. His jeans were a loss as well, but at least the dark denim hid the blood well-enough. They'd have to do, at least. He could get away with being shirtless— at least for a little while— but not bottomless. After he got himself barely presentable he inched open the door to the service tunnel and stepped out into the underside of Memorial Stadium.
He'd been lingering down here after the game, part of him sulking over the thrashing his Orioles had just taken, and part of him just flat-out looking to pass the time. Idle thinking, mostly. If there's one thing he knew how to do, it was pass the time. That was when Mister Corndog snatched him up, leaping out from that half-closed service door. He was lucky there were still a few people milling around; otherwise Corndog would have just taken that hatchet to the back of his neck right away. He'd be setting off his own little lightshow before he even realized he was dead.
He walked mechanically, purposefully, and managed to find a souvenir stall with its window still propped open. A gray-haired man busily boxed up his wares. He was facing the wall and didn't see the boy approach.
"Hey," the boy called.
"Hey, yourself," the man answered. "You stragglers make it hard to close up shop, doncha?"
"Sorry," he said. "I need a shirt."
"Eh, yeah..." the man finished closing up one of his boxes before turning to face the boy. When he did his wrinkled eyes widened. He smirked, amused. "Yeah, kiddo, it looks like you do, doncha?"
He must've been quite a sight, highlighted under the deep yellow floods of the stand. Other than his obvious bare chest the boy was a mess: his coal black hair was tossed wildly about, like a bed of thorns. He felt his insides trembling in the aftermath of that fight, but he sternly willed his iron blue eyes not to. He'd come to learn very quickly that those blue eyes of his were striking. Not 'pretty', necessarily, and not quite attractive, either; there was too much 'iron' in the blue for them to look anything but out of place on his otherwise unremarkable face. At first glance other people's eyes were naturally drawn up there, and if the boy didn't show a good game with them then anyone could see through his front like a wet piece of paper. With his hair in such a wild state the little nubs in front of his ears were probably visible, showcasing those curious little gray roots. Then there was his nose, too, busted sometime in the past, still off-kilter. But that didn't bother him. In point of fact, he kept his nose crooked by design. But those gray roots in front of his ears were a different story. He hated them, desperately, and he always tried to conceal them. It was probably his only point of vanity, really.
The boy handed the man some bills.
"This enough?" He asked.
The man nodded, taking the bills.
"Should be," he said. "So, were you really that fed up with the team, eh?"
"What?"
The old man smiled:
"Didja burn your team shirt right after the game, hmm?"
It took a minute for him to get the joke. When he did he gave a quick, emotionless smile:
"No. My dad spilled his beer on me. But I think he was aiming for the team dugout..."
The old man chortled, nodding:
"Sorry sight," he agreed. "Figure we coulda got one run on those Tigers, at least. They're embarrassing us on a regular basis now, aren't they?" He looked over all the shirts hanging behind him.
"Now, then: you got a player preference?"
He scanned the shirts briefly:
"Ripken," he pointed. "Definitely."
"Ah, at least he was one bright spot today, wasn't he?" The man took a #8 shirt off the wall and handed it to the boy.
"I wouldn't call one hit from three at bats a 'bright spot'..." he pulled on the shirt.
"Well whaddya want: we had like three hits total today, right? Heh. Gotta take the bright side wherever you can find it, doncha?" The man noticed the boy squirming uncomfortably in the shirt. "Fit alright?" He asked.
"Perfect."
It was probably too small for him by a size, but he ignored the misfit. He wasn't easy to shop for, being too skinny for his own good, and too lanky to fit into a traditional children's clothing size. As he'd been told in the past, finding clothes to fit his body was like trying to find a 'sweater for a garden snake'. He always liked that analogy. It made him smile. But, he was also told, it was only a matter of time before he grew into his body. 'Snakes stay snakes, but boys shape up, eventually. Most of 'em, at least.'
He smiled again, briefly, before his face quickly fell into a sullen frown.
"You alright, kid?" The old man asked.
"Huh? Yeah. Yeah," he nodded. "Just, uh, trying to focus on that bright spot..." he began wandering off.
"Hey, kid," the old man called.
He looked back at him; the man held up five dollar bills, waving them about:
"Take 'em," he handed them to the boy.
"Why?" He asked.
"Beer-spill discount. Tell your old man to watch his aim next time. You only get one."
"Kinda like a 'bright spot', huh?" He stared at the bills, fanning them in his hand.
"Now you're getting it." The man winked.
He looked up at the man, thanking him again, and then quickly shuffled out of the ballpark as fast as his feet could take him. He got to a crosswalk when the harsh squeal of tires startled him: a police car bumped the curb, and two officers quickly raced past him, heading for the stadium underside. More sirens sounded in the distance.
Hairs stood on the nape of his neck. He found a taxi idling down the street, and quickly dumped himself inside. He had to share that taxi with the driver's cheesesteak; from the smell of it the thing was so loaded with onions that it could be used to commit a war crime, but the kid couldn't exactly be snooty about his escape plans, now.
"103 West 27th," he told the cabbie. "Step on it."
The cabbie slowly turned around in his seat; a scowl wormed over his fat face:
"Did you really just say that, kid?"
He quickly flashed the man an overly-sunny smile, beaming with his white teeth:
"Pleeeease?"
The cabbie narrowed his eyes. He faced forward and put the car in gear, muttering something about 'asshole kids' as he drove off.
The boy faced forward, watching as cop car after cop car raced by them. Their flashing lights reflected in the boy's cold blue eyes. He maintained the composure of a corpse.
"Jeez, whadda think they got goin' on here?" The cabbie muttered. "They gotta have every cop in this precinct on the warpath. Bet a mint we get backed up right to hell." He smiled smugly. "Easy enough for my end of things, kid, but I guess it's not for you. You got places to be, doncha? And in a hurry, too."
The boy absently shook his head, keeping his eyes locked forward as more police cars passed:
"No," he muttered. "I've got all the time I need..."
x
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x
Black dress shoes clicked on the concrete. The corridor narrowed, and near its end a large white sheet lay bunched up over a body. The walls here were very drab, befitting a service corridor. They were all composed of untreated bricks, cheerless and unpainted, except all around that covered up corpse. From the look of things at least a dozen pints of blood had been unceremoniously splashed all around the floor and walls. The scent was intoxicating: iron and rot merged together in a delicate symphony of flavor. The scent brought flashes of color to his eyes, like fireworks.
It was very neat.
The man softly sang to himself as he walked, spinning a black umbrella in his hand:
"A holiday, a holiday, the first one of the year.
He came to the church of the horse's hide, the gospel for to hear."
One of the many police officers on the scene recognized him and raced to his side:
"Agent Noirbarret," he shook the man's hand. "Sorry to pull you off your vacation; when I phoned your office I had no idea—"
"Not a problem, lieutenant. Not at all. I'm always interested when I find a case that may fit my profile."
"Now, I mean, we're not sure that it does, exactly, sir, but—"
"I'll tell you if it does."
"Oh, of course." The police officer led him to the tarp. "Well, what we've got is—"
"This body," the man looked around the corner at a second tarp, pointing.
"Stadium employee," the officer said. "Ten year veteran. Uh, looks like he took a hatchet to the face."
"Hatchet?" He asked.
The officer led the man to a bloody silver hatchet lying beside the other body. The man snapped on a latex glove and got to his knees. He ran a finger along the hatchet's edge, closing his eyes.
"Now, that's one of two weapons used, here," the officer said. "Our vic under this tarp has a sport coat on him—"
"Not the most suitable ballpark attire," the man noted.
"That's what we thought. Now, it's possible that he brought that thing in under the jacket. Maybe he axed the janitor."
The man turned his head and looked up at the lieutenant. His cold eyes fixed on him with a penetrating gaze.
"Ah, no pun intended," the officer muttered.
The man got to his feet:
"That leaves the question: who axed the 'axer'?"
"Ah, now here," the lieutenant knelt down and drew the tarp off the second body. "This part here is, uh, what we think might fit your profile."
The man's eyes widened. He knelt down over the corpse, eyeing its severely mangled neck. He passed one hand over it, barely hovering his fingertips over the wound, as if he was splashing his hand along the surface of a pool of water. He whispered to himself:
"...the gospel for to hear..."
"Now, Agent Noirbarret, you feds don't share that much information with us. Not that I'm complaining, you know. I am, I guess, but never mind. All I know is that you got a memo out to us looking for any cases involving 'decapitations'. That's weird enough, but this scene's even weirder. Vic's wallet was rifled through and he doesn't have any cash on him. Robbery could be a motive—"
"It isn't," the man whispered.
"And there's the obvious overkill, too. Guy's whole neck is a mangled wreck. I don't know if that qualifies as a 'decapitation' to you, but—"
"It does." The man stood up. He put his gloved hand to his nose and closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. When he opened his eyes he glared at the lieutenant:
"What about the weapon that did this?" He pointed at the corpse.
"Preliminaries say it's a small blade. No bigger than three, maybe three and a half inches. We think it's serrated on one side, smooth on the other, and sharp as fuck all around."
"It was not recovered here?"
The lieutenant shook his head.
"No. At least, not all of it..."
"Show me."
They moved down the corridor and came to a yellow police marker. It rested beside a small fragment of untreated wood. The man took out a pair of tweezers from his breast pocket and picked up the wood, turning it over slowly.
"There's an insignia of some kind on the side," the lieutenant got on one knee beside the man.
The man found it: five lines, all radiating out from a central point, with a fastener holding them together at their centers.
"Supposed to be, like, a bundle of sticks, or something?" The lieutenant asked.
The man shook his head. He dropped the wood back on the ground and stood up.
"Arrows," he whispered. "Five arrows, all bundled."
"What's that mean?"
"That means the weapon this belongs to is a sgian-dubh."
"Er... uh..." the lieutenant scratched his head. "And what's that mean, exactly?"
The man took off his glove and pressed it into the lieutenant's hand:
"It means this is now an FBI matter, lieutenant. I'll have my team here in one hour. Please see that all your work thus far is put together into a nice, organized bundle for us, would you?"
The man tromped off before the lieutenant could say a word. His dress shoes clacked urbanely on the concrete as he walked. He stared down at the floor, again singing to himself quietly:
"And when the gospel, it was spoke, he cast his eyes about.
And there he saw the penitent, walking in the park."
He moved beyond the service corridor. When he was out in the open, alone, his countenance changed. Cold, hard lines burned into his face, like ugly cracks in granite. His black eyes roiled, and he had to draw a slow, cool breath to calm himself. When he spoke again it was in a slow, dark whisper:
"And there he saw the Penitent... walking in the park."
