Page 62 of Viking

“Sick fucks,” Viking hisses and storms toward the double doors. He slams his body against the wood, over and over, until the crack of the frame splintering fills the hall, and then he kicks it wide. I want to go to him. I want to be the first to find Brother Ulf—the new Prophet—but I can’t move. I’m frozen to the spot, my eyes squeezed tightly shut to avoid seeing that abomination.

I kneel in the hall, attempting to catch my breath. Wolf stands transfixed on the mural, disgust and fury etched into his face. My skin burns hot with tears of frustration.

A feminine cry comes from the room beyond, the room Viking disappeared into, and I spring to my feet and race through the broken doors. A small, dark chamber lined with gauzy white fabrics greets me and on the back wall, Viking holds a woman by the throat, her frail body pinned and covered in tattered black garments. Her skin is sallow and ashen, and her eyes are sunken and bruised. Her shock of silver white hair falls in front of her eyes as Viking shakes her.

“Talk, bitch.”

She doesn’t respond. There is no fear in her gaze, no remorse, only euphoria. Her eyes roll back in her head and she smiles, showing off two rows of stained yellow tic-tac teeth. Lesions decorate her skin; pustules pop out on her face as Viking tightens his hold. She scratches at the sores, creating gaping red wounds on her once beautiful skin.

“Sssister ...” a frail arm reaches for me, and I blink in surprise.

This rotting bag of bones is the Mother? This is whom we’ve followed the teachings of our whole life? This is who we suffered for, died for? A strung-out junkie too faithless to lead her people, too heartless to give a damn about the children whose virginity and innocence was torn from them.

“You know her?” Viking releases her, and she slumps to the floor, her tattered skirts spilling out around her frail frame like tentacles.

“She is the Mother,” I answer on autopilot. “The Mother of us all. The Mother we give our body, heart, and soul too, as the Prophet has decreed.”

I stare at the once resplendent woman, now just rotting, poisoned flesh.

“Why?” My voice is weak, it tremors, as I pull the pistol from my leathers and aim at her forehead. “Why did you let this happen? To me, to all the girls who came before and after? Why did we ever put our faith in you?”

Even as I ask the questions, I know I won’t get an answer. Not one that makes all of our suffering worth it. Nothingcouldever be worth enduring such hell.

“You were supposed to be our salvation, Ariella.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your child, your first-born daughter, will bear a child, with hair aflame and eyes of ice. This child will change our world as we know it and ascend to the light. You are the hope of our people, Sister Ariel—”

I pull the trigger, hitting her right between the eyes. Her body slumps against the wall, her head resting at an odd angle.

“Sick, fuckin’ bitch.”

For a beat, I stand on shaking legs, unable to do anything but stare at the blood trickling from her forehead.

Viking wraps his arms around me, but I refuse to crumple. Later, the magnitude of taking another life will surely hit me, but I will not cry for this monster. I will not shed a tear for a woman who not only condoned the rape of children, but who encourages it to fulfill some sick prophecy.

A shuffling sound comes from the closet. I stalk forward and open it. Prophet Ulf huddles inside. The man who stole my innocence, the man whose bony fingers tore at my virgin flesh, whose wicked assaults plagued my every nightmare. Viking moves toward him, a living tsunami hellbent on crushing, destroying, obliterating. He picks the slender man up by his ceremonial robes, lifting him off the ground and dragging him from the closet.

“Mine,” I growl out. Viking’s head cants to the side as he studies me. I can feel the fury radiating off him. Feel the menace which ripples through the room. But he nods and sets Prophet Ulf on his feet. He attempts to back away, but with a flick of Viking’s wrist, his axe flies across the distance between them and pierces Prophet Ulf’s robes, pinning him to the wall. Viking takes several steps toward him and yanks the hunting knife from the sheath on his belt. He lifts his arm and buries it in Prophet Job’s shoulder, above the collarbone, pinning his flesh to the wall.

“Stay,” Viking commands.

Ulf doesn’t scream. He just narrows his eyes on me as I stalk closer. Viking hands me a smaller knife and I stare down at the ancient runes carved into the wicked blade.

“You are a murdering whore,” Prophet Ulf spits. “Undeserving of the name Sister. Killing Prophet Job, welcoming this heathen into your whore cunt. Bow before your Elder and beg the Mother’s forgiveness.”

“The Mother is dead.”

His eyes grow round and wild as a caged animal’s. Tears spill from his blond lashes, over pockmarked, scarred cheeks, over that devil’s smile he always wore upon seeing my child’s body trembling and naked in the stirrups.

He wriggles, tugging at the knife buried in his shoulder, attempting to free himself. I slice my blade along his hand. Blood wells from the red wound, staining his ceremonial robes. His body shakes, and a sheen of sweat forms on his forehead and upper lip.

“You will repent for your crimes heathen.”

“I think it’s time you repent for yours,” I hiss and slash the knife into his fleshy abdomen. Two brutal jabs. He barely has time to register them before I move my wrist lower and sink the knife into the appendage he raped me with on a weekly basis. Prophet Ulf lurches forward, blood trickling out of his mouth and torso as he cries out in pain.

He’s not a Prophet or a god, or even a demon. He’s mortal, only a man, and as I watch the lifeblood pour from the wounds in his stomach, I realize I’ve become the nightmare. My smiling face will be the last thing he sees as he dies, and a laugh bubbles up out of my throat.

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