Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller (2 page)

I watch as families embrace with the joy created by long, uncertain absences. Mothers welcome sons with wide-open arms. Husbands kiss wives with abandon, as if their children aren't watching. Fathers lift smiling children high into the air; their laughter colors the air with bliss.

But none of this brings me joy.

I collect my trunk and drag it outside the station to wait for a taxi.

There I discover the rumors are true; the Kingdom's presence is everywhere. Lining the streets are banners with large images of King Charles's face printed on them. The king is scandalously young; he looks like a teenager. He has tousled brown hair and bright-green eyes. The muscles in his face are taut, as if he's ready to shout an unholy order.
Ruthless
is the word that flashes through my brain.

No one in the taxi line speaks.

As I wait, my mind wanders through the tumultuous history of recent years. Travel privileges were revoked only two months after I left for Old California. The era of Great Uncertainty finally had come to an end when the English squashed the Chinese uprising and seized governmental power in this country once and for all. It had been a full decade since any single authority had ruled the vast land that was once the USA.

When I left there were maybe five thousand centurions in the South. The giant Nordic who took my mother represented the threat of what was to come. I'm told there are now more than one hundred thousand centurions infecting our land. If this is true, King Charles understands what's happening—that this is where the rebellion will start

This means the centurions, who are coldblooded killers, must be dealt with accordingly. When it was certain the English would take over, the Brits sent an open call to the world's mercenaries—"Come! Fight! Get rich!" That's all it took. Hundreds of ships steamed into Old New York Harbor and dumped countless soldiers onto once mighty shores.

The Kingdom organized these killers into what is now called the "Centurion Guard" and charged them with squashing any uprising that opposed King Charles's control of the country. And that's precisely what they did.

My taxi pulls up. The driver is a black man who introduces himself as "Miles." "You don't look like you're from around here," he says. We pull onto a skinny street jammed with traffic. Miles rolls down his window. Car horns blare, and the smell of burning rubber wafts into the cab. My sweaty back sticks to the cheap vinyl of the seat.

"Born and raised," I say.

"No accent?"

"Never had one."

"What brings you home?"

Our eyes meet mine in the rearview.
What brings you home?
I've heard rumors about secret phrases used to test a person to see whose side he or she is on. I can't be sure if this is such a query, but it feels that way. I open my mouth then shut it.

Finally I say, "My parents died. I'm here to manage their affairs."

"I'm sorry," Miles says warmly. "You're young."

We lumber through heavy traffic, and I stare out the window. This city, Oxford, as it is newly named, has become an odd blend of industry and desolation. Although it was once a budding metropolis, the Great War reduced its vitality to life support. As we near downtown, I see an old high-rise that once projected two-hundred-foot-tall holograms across its glass. You could see the blazing images from anywhere in the city. The building is now draped in what
must be the largest and most grotesque banner in the world; King Charles's face covers the entire thing. It's a two-hundred-foot-tall idol. The rest of the skyline is a patchwork; some buildings are lit, others dark and abandoned.

Miles snakes his way through downtown traffic before jetting off onto side streets.

"You're a Southerner?" I say.

He keeps his eyes on the road. "Yes, but I left for many years and have just recently returned."

"What brought you back?"

His eyes appear in the mirror. "A job."

I motion to the crumbling taxicab. "This one?"

He shakes his head. "No. I came home for a...project—something I could do only in Oxford. Still sounds strange calling it
that...Oxford"

Miles turns onto my street and parks in front of the house where I grew up. It's nothing more than a fat cube of adobe with a tattered roof and a red door. I regard it briefly then look away. "I hear many Southerners are coming home," I say, "which seems odd, given the scarcity of work to be had."

"Not to mention the violence," Miles says. "This city is on the verge of chaos, my friend."

"So I hear."

Miles twists in his seat and extends an outstretched palm. I lean forward and shake his hand. He says, "So tell me then, my friend, why
have
you come home?"

He squeezes my hand hard, and I feel as though my chest might burst open. He's begging me to say it, and it's driving me mad. I need someone with whom I can share my anger and my unquenchable thirst for revenge. I desperately want to tell him the truth, to confess everything. I decide to do it.

But then he releases his grip.

"I told you," I say, my voice thick with anxiety, "I've come to bury the memory of my parents."

Miles holds my stare for a long second before returning his gaze to the front of the car. "My teacher says we ought to let the dead bury the dead."

"I don't know what that means," I mutter, peeling some worn bills from my wallet and handing them up front.

Miles sighs. "I know you don't."

I swing the door wide and climb out of the cab. Miles helps me lift my trunk and sets it on the sidewalk. Then he slinks back into his tired yellow cab. This man is either sincerely crestfallen that I haven't confessed my true motives or a very fine actor. He puts the car in drive and begins to pull away.

I call after him, "Miles!" I trot across the few yards that separate us. "What's the project, the one you could only do in Oxford? I...might be interested in hearing more about it."

A smile breaks wide across his face, revealing a mouth of brilliantly glowing white teeth. He wags a long finger. "Yes, my friend! I suspected that might be the case." The smile vanishes as Miles cranes his neck to see if any cars are coming down the road. There's no one else in sight. "Meet me tomorrow night," he says, "after sunset, at the entrance to the park downtown. Are you familiar with it?"

"Of course."

"Tell no one."

I nod and swallow hard.

"Rest well, my friend," he says seriously. "You're going to need your strength in the days to come."

Then Miles is gone, and I'm left with nothing but the crippling thought that I've just tied a noose around my neck.

thought coming home would be a comfort. If I couldn't have my parents, at least I could have their space, linger at their photographs. Perhaps catch a whiff of my mother's vanilla-and-tobacco perfume on her pillowslip. Maybe use the crisp tonic of my father's aftershave. These were the small mercies I hoped God would grant me.

But this is torture, and the only scent the house emits is of mildew and dust. I spent three hours last night weeping uncontrollably, curled up in a fetal position. I wept until my body gave up on my soul. I tried to recite the prayers of my ancestors but quit before I could form the words. The traditions are supposed to be my guide through the valley of death, but I don't even have the strength to stand and follow.

Grieving alone is something no person should do. Solitary bereavement is a fate worse than death, which last night I considered the finer alternative to the coming sunrise.

My dark thought.

I spend the morning handling the paperwork I've allegedly come home to address. There isn't much. My parents owned this house outright and left it to me in their will, along with a few other possessions: petty cash stored at the Oxford Trust, my father's motorcycle, and a key to a safe-deposit box. The box, according to the papers, is being held for me at the Oxford Trust.

The key surprises me. What did my father own that needed to be kept in a safe-deposit box? Antiques and heirlooms are rare finds in the South. What the Great War didn't destroy was either stolen by anarchists or traded or sold for the essentials: food, gasoline, and money. But my family always has been poor, so we didn't have much from the start. I can't imagine what's in that box. I make plans to visit the trust after my appointment at the Office of Record.

I kill what's left of my morning drinking coffee and packing away photographs. If I'm to live in this house, I need it devoid of sentiment. I can't bear the sight of my mother's blue eyes or my father's broad shoulders. The time for mourning is over.

Besides...I'll see my parents soon enough.

The Office of Record is located in a redbrick, two-story building on the edge of downtown. I leave an hour early and make a slow walk of it. The rumors are true. A centurion is perched on nearly every block. Each warrior is dressed in red body armor and a golden helmet and carries an assault rifle.

For Southerners guns are strictly forbidden. Punishment for possession is immediate execution—no jury and no trial. I behold more guns on this walk than I've seen in all my twenty-three years. I don't know how to feel about that, but something inside me stirs. The hairs on my neck bristle.

At the Office of Record, I receive a number and am told to wait in a room with ten other Americans who've clearly seen better days. The gentleman next to me smells of oil and his boots are tattered and ancient looking. A woman my mother's age stares at me and I know what she's thinking.
My son was your age when they took him.
The waiting room is sterile, brightly lit, and far too cold. Unlike in Miles's dilapidated taxicab, the air conditioning in this building is in good working order.

No one speaks; everyone seems nervous. As Americans, we limit our contact with Kingdom authorities. We're a people not to be trusted, and the Kingdom looks for any and every reason to "select" us for work in the camps. Just coming to the Office of Record is a fantastic way to kick-start that process.

Twenty minutes later a stunning woman is ushered from the office, where I'll soon be summoned. She's young and has long, disheveled black hair. She's crying and wiping tears away as she walks, fumbling with her papers. I should avert my eyes and mind my own business. This isn't the place to stick your nose in other people's affairs.

And I would do that, if she weren't so terribly gorgeous.

But she is.

Her eyes sparkle, and I'm positive I've never seen eyes so dark; they're black as the night. Her skin is a cocoa brown and looks to be as smooth as silk.

She's from Mexico,
I think.

I know from my history courses that millions of Mexicans used to live in this region, but now they're as rare as falling stars. I've never actually spoken to a Mexican, as they're forbidden to live in the West.

The woman glances my way for a moment before ducking her face into her tiny hands. When she passes me, she looks up once more, and our eyes slam into one another. Her stare is electric.

I've never been in love. But if this dark-eyed young woman were to speak to me, I believe that would change. She's magnificent, and my body immediately aches for her.

A moment later she's gone, but her scent lingers—the delicate smell of woman that I've known only from a distance, lavender and peach. I have an irrational urge to bolt from my seat and chase after her, to grab her by the arm and ask why she's crying, to see if there's anything I can do to help. But before I can make any stupid decisions, a woman calls my name.

It's my turn.

I let go of the exotic woman and stand to face the Kingdom and the authority of King Charles. This will be my toughest test to try to go unnoticed. If I'm unable to convince these people of my motives, my mission will end before it's begun.

My supervisor is a petite woman named Dr. Stone—no first name, just Dr. Stone. She's in her midfifties, with short blond hair, a small button of a nose, and oversize blue eyes. She's surprisingly attractive for a Kingdom bureaucrat. She smiles warmly when I enter her office and motions for me to sit in a leather chair across from her powerful-looking desk. It's a desk that screams authority.