The Blood Gospel

Undisclosed location, Israel

Tommy rested his forehead against the window of his hospital room, slowly rapping his knuckles against its thick glass, listening to the dull thud. By now, he had convinced himself that this place was a military hospital or maybe even a prison.

He pulled his IV pole closer, wondering if he could use it like a battering ram to break his way free.

But then what?

If he managed to break the window and jumped, would he die? A television show he watched a couple of years ago said that any fall above thirty feet was probably not survivable. He was higher than that.

He toyed with the leads attached to his IV port. The medical staff measured everything about him—his heart rate, his oxygen saturation levels, and other random stuff. The Hebrew labels were gibberish to him. His father could read Hebrew and had tried to teach him, but Tommy had only learned enough to get through his bar mitzvah.

Reminded of his father, he pictured the blackish-orange gas rolling over his parents.

If he hadn’t told them the gas was safe, they might still be alive. He knew now the gas was toxic, just not to him. Immune was the word he’d heard one doctor use. Maybe he could have dragged his parents to safety. That strange priest at Masada had said that there was nothing he could have done, but what else could he say?

You killed your parents, kid. You’re going to Hell, but it’ll be a long time till you get there.

Tommy looked out the window again. It was a long drop to the desert. Far below, the boulders’ shadows looked like spilled ink against the brighter sand. It was a bitter landscape, but from this height, it looked peaceful.

A rustle jerked his attention back into the room.

A kid was standing right next to him. He looked about Tommy’s age, but he wore a gray three-piece suit. He sniffed the air like a dog, his nose moving closer to Tommy with each sniff. His black eyes glittered.

“Can I help you?” Tommy asked, stepping away.

This earned him a smile—one so cold that he shivered.

Suddenly terrified, Tommy tapped his call button repeatedly, sending out an SOS of panic. He shrank back against the window as his heart rate spiked, triggering the monitors to beep wildly.

The boy winked.

Tommy was struck by the oddity of the action.

Who winked nowadays? Seriously, who—

The kid’s right hand moved so fast that Tommy didn’t even see a blur until it stopped by the angle of his jaw. A sharp pain cut across his neck.

Tommy brought both hands up to feel. Blood ran through his fingers. It pumped from his throat, soaked his hospital gown, dripped on the floor.

The boy lowered his arm and watched, cocking his head slightly.

Tommy pressed his hands against his throat, trying to cut off the flood, strangling himself in the attempt. But blood continued to pour through his fingers.

He screamed, earning only a warm gurgle as hot pain chased up his throat.

Knowing he needed help, Tommy yanked off his EKG leads. Behind him, the monitor flatlined, setting an alarm to wailing.

Immediately, two soldiers charged into the room, machine guns up and ready.

He saw their shocked expressions—then the boy winked again.

Not good.

The kid lifted a chair, moving blindingly fast, and smashed it through the thick window. Without stopping, he shoved Tommy out into the night.

Free at last.

Cold air brushed across his body as he fell. Warm blood pumped from his neck.

He closed his eyes, ready to see Mom and Dad.

He had barely pictured them—when the ground slammed against his body. Nothing had ever hurt like this. Surely it had to end soon. It had to.

It didn’t.

Bullets sparked the asphalt around him. The soldiers shot through the broken window. Bullets tore electric trails of pain into his chest, his thigh, his hand.

Sirens sounded. Searchlights went up.

The boy landed lightly next to him, gray suede boots barely making a sound against the ground. Had he jumped? From that height?

The boy grabbed his arm. Tommy’s bones ground against one another as the kid dragged him out of the spotlights and into the desert, running as quickly as a gazelle. He clearly did not care how the rocks cut Tommy’s back, how the jouncing grated his broken bones.

All the while uncaring stars shone down on them both.

Winking as coldly as the boy.

Tommy wanted it to end. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to die.

He counted down to his death.

One. Two. Three. Four …

Through the haze of pain, he had the worst thought of his life.

What if I can’t die at all?

27

October 26, 11:44 P.M., IST

Jerusalem, Israel