Tread Fearless: Survival & Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 4) (48 page)

He stayed focused on the light, eager to reach it. The heels of his boots clicked loudly against the smooth stone floor. The sound of his steps echoed off the walls, creating a rhythm - a cadence to his movements. After walking for what seemed like several minutes, Mark noticed that the light wasn’t getting any closer, so he picked up his pace. Again, nothing changed. Then he began to run, but even then the light never got closer. It remained the same distance from him no matter how far, or how fast he moved toward it.

Unsure about his options, Mark stopped. It was then that he noticed a young woman standing next to him. He knew she was a woman by her shape, and her hair, but that’s all he was allowed to see of her. When he tried to turn and get a better view of her, to see her face, like the light, she always remained slightly out of reach. So he quit that too; he quit trying to see who she was. But he was happy something had changed.

Suddenly, he was moving, traveling very fast down the tunnel toward the light. After a relatively short journey, he stepped into a grand and spacious room. It was large and brightly lit, and it took Mark a moment for his eyes to adjust. He saw that he was standing in some kind of court room, or at least in the middle of an open floor surrounded by a high, circular wall. Above the wall was a tall curtain, cream colored, as was the wall and floor. Everything was without detail, and he assumed it was meant to be that way.

Mark stood in the center of the space and looked around, alert for any discernable detail or difference. The woman, still quiet and obscure, remained by his side, and always to the right of him no matter how he moved. As he considered his predicament, a voice, deep and resonating, and coming from somewhere behind the curtain, said, “What is the number?”

At first, Mark didn’t think the question was directed at him. Then, when it was repeated, he knew it was, but that didn’t mean he understood the question. He was about to reply with a question of his own when the voice said, “Write the number on the door.”

Mark didn’t recall seeing a door, but when he looked again he saw it in the wall, some twenty feet away. He walked to the door and stood in front of it. The door was white, tall, and wide enough for two men to walk through it abreast. It was a grand door, solid, and beautifully crafted. And at the base of the door was lying a red candle.

He bent to pick up the candle and realized that it was more like a large crayon. Then, with the crayon in hand, Mark stepped close to the door and boldly wrote the number “17” on the surface, right in the
middle, in big bold numerals. The contrast between the red marks and the white door was remarkable.

When he stepped away from the door, the sound of many surprised voices issued out from behind the curtain. Mark had thought only one man was behind the curtain, but with the sound of so many voices, he figured there was more than two dozen people present. Why they needed to remain hidden, he didn’t know, but neither did he care.

Mark dropped the crayon and walked back to the middle of the room. The woman touched his arm and said, “Your work here is done. You can leave now.” He nodded and walked back to the tunnel entrance, and when he stepped through he found himself standing in an open field on a dark and overcast day.

To his right, across a short grassy field, was a fence, and beyond that, more than three hundred yards in the distance, an airport runway. To his front, about ten yards away, six prisoners were lined up. Four were wearing battle uniforms unfamiliar to Mark, but nevertheless recognizable. The other two were wearing civilian clothing. Mark had orders to execute them, so he removed his pistol and quickly and systematically shot the first four men in the head. He didn’t hesitate, nor did he feel any remorse or pity. He was following orders.

Not only was he following orders, he was carrying out orders he was comfortable with. He knew what the men represented, and that they had to go. The strange thing was that his pistol didn’t always work properly for each shot. Sometimes it took more than one pull on the trigger for the gun to fire, but it finally did fire. In the end, Mark executed the first four prisoners with his pistol.

The fifth man was different. He stood to the left, away from where the first four prisoners had stood. With his back to a chain-link fence, he looked casual. He was wearing a black shirt with a fancy white pattern on it. He looked vaguely familiar to Mark, but he couldn’t place the man. He also seemed ready for his execution, as if he expected it, but he wasn’t the least bit arrogant or proud like the military prisoners had been.

Mark looked at him, raised the pistol, paused to say, “I’ll see you on the other side,” and then shot the man dead with a single shot.

Mark walked up to the sixth man. He was standing next to a black van that was filled with a variety of fancy electronic equipment. He was also different and familiar. Mark knew the man. He didn’t know how or why, only that he knew him. It wasn’t like they were friends, but there was something about the man, his relationship, that was significant.

Mark also knew the people loved him. The soldiers with Mark loved him. In fact, he was a good man, and adored by all. Mark lowered the pistol and walked away. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shoot the last man, orders or no orders. It was then that he noticed his commander standing nearby. Mark walked up to the commander and said, “I cannot kill this man,” and holstered his pistol.

Without a word, the commander lowered his head and turned away. Mark watched him walk away. His commander didn’t rebuke him, didn’t threaten him or say anything about the importance of the mission. He just turned and walked away.

But Mark knew he was disappointed. The last prisoner’s life, and that of all the other prisoners, was in his hands. All the executions were at Mark’s personal discretion, and the commander would do nothing to change the outcome, live or die. As the reality of his responsibility sank in, one thing became absolutely clear to Mark, completing the mission was something only he could do. No one else. Only him. It was his mission alone.

The reality of the mission steeled his resolve, and he walked up to one of the guards and grabbed the man’s AK-47 assault rifle. He didn’t need to understand the reason, only the purpose: and that was to follow through in service, both willingly and completely. So with the rifle in hand, Mark walked up to the last prisoner and emptied the entire magazine into him. And when he was done, he splashed gasoline inside the van and tossed in a lighter.

With heat from the fire against his face, Mark turned and walked away. And he didn’t stop. He kept walking and walking. The road under
his feet was a loose bed of broken and bleached asphalt. Faded white lines marked the center line; the edges were lost under a layer of dirt, tall grass and weeds. Mark didn’t know where he was walking, only that walking made him feel better. It was nice to be in the sun again, to feel it warmly upon his face.

The sound of an approaching vehicle, it’s large and powerful diesel engine whining as it labored up the hill behind him, caused Mark to stop and turn. He stared as a red, commercial touring bus drove past him. He saw many faces staring down at him from behind the lightly tinted glass windows of the moving bus. And to his surprise, the bus was filled with Chinese military officers, all of them wearing their brown, dress uniforms. Mark watched as the bus disappeared over a rise, and he kept walking.

A while later, he arrived at a cluster of small buildings on the corner of an intersection in a seemingly quiet town. Mark heard voices talking in Chinese and he quickly ducked into the entryway of a wooded, two-story home. The windows were boarded up, but the front door opened easily, so he walked in, passed through the house, and stepped into a manicured courtyard. A tall fence, of the same type and natural color of wood used on the house, surrounded the courtyard.

Mark heard a Chinese man talking to an older American man on the street side of the fence. The Chinese man was very angry, and in broken English, he was yelling at the American, telling him he was a disgrace to his people, and that he didn’t deserve to live.

Mark peered through a gap in the wooden fence and saw that the Chinese man was wearing a military officer’s uniform. He was also pointing a pistol at the American’s head. When the Chinese officer fired the gun, killing the American instantly, Mark gasped and pushed away from the fence. The officer heard Mark’s reaction, knew that he had been observed, and began shouting commands in Chinese.

Many new shouts followed, all in Chinese, and all angry to challenge Mark to show himself. He didn’t understand the language, but he felt the power and intensity of their shouts and commands. Worried for the first
time, Mark quickly searched for a way to escape the courtyard, but he realized the entire property was surrounded by Chinese soldiers.

Running back to the house was his only real option, so he did. And while he ran, Mark decided to bar the front door and prevent the Chinese from entering the house. But when he was halfway down the hall, the front door burst open and Chinese soldiers began pouring in.

Mark turned and ran up the stairs to his left, but Chinese soldiers were right behind him. They reached for him. One grabbed his foot, and Mark kicked out sharply and caught the man in the teeth. However, there were too many of them. One grabbed his arm, and then another the other arm. Soon an entire squad of Chinese soldiers had Mark pinned to the ground.

The officer entered and stood over Mark. He began talking while he produced a very long bayonet. He pointed it at Mark’s face, and screamed at him. Mark didn’t understand what the officer was saying, so he just laid there, waiting, trying not to provoke the man. But it didn’t work. Angry and frustrated, the Chinese officer began striking Mark’s face. The open-handed blows were fast, and left his face hot and stinging.

The officer told one of the soldiers to pull Mark’s arm away from his body, and with the bayonet, he stabbed Mark’s forearm twice. The two thrusts sent pain shooting through his body. Mark screamed in agony and began to thrash about. He tried to free himself from his tormentors, but they held him fast.

Then a woman appeared. She was dressed in a Chinese military uniform, but she looked familiar. Wait, I know that woman, thought Mark. What’s she doing with the Chinese? Why is she helping them?

Mark watched helpless as the woman reached into a bag and removed some capsules. She then grabbed Mark’s face, and with her free hand, forced his lips open. With the other hand, she shoved three capsules into his mouth and held his mouth shut.

Mark had no choice if he wanted to breathe, so he swallowed the capsules and she released his nose. And when he tried to scream, the
woman poured water into his mouth. Mark swallowed the water to keep from choking.

His body, sore and tired from the abuse, had no more strength. The woman must have drugged him, and he was helpless to fight it. Going limp with abandon, Mark felt himself falling through the stairs. And he kept falling. Weightless and lifeless, it felt like he was floating in space, or maybe he was in water.

Soft singing filled his ears. It was both sweet and warm, like the springtime sun after a fresh rain shower. Mark looked for the source of the singing, and realized that he was sitting alone on a bench. There were several sets of couples sitting on benches like Mark, their young children playing in the grass and around an old willow tree in the middle of the park.

The singing was growing louder and clearer. It was a beautiful song, one of justice and mercy, of balance, and its need for love and sacrifice. While Mark tried to hear and remember the words of the song, a woman walked up to him. The sunlight behind her was strong and very bright, not yellow like our sun, but clean and white. Mark shielded his eyes to see her, squinting at her radiance.

She came up to him and reached out for his hands. Taking them in her own, she bid him stand. Mark obeyed and saw that it was Lisa, a young and vibrant version of herself, dressed all in white and smiling broadly at him. Tears filled Mark’s eyes and they fell into each other’s arms, embracing warmly.

Mark was finally still, resting soundly on the sleeping pad, in his sleeping bag on the floor of the warehouse. Drenched in sweat, but no longer shivering, his wild thrashing had cost Lauren a busted lip. But as far as she was concerned, it was worth it. He had been delirious after all.

She was able to clean his wound and dress it. And then a second battle ensued when she tried to give him some antibiotics, three five-hundred
milligram capsules. It was a lot, she knew, but she was desperate. Again, she prevailed, and strangely, as soon as she gave him the meds, Mark calmed down and fell asleep.

Exhausted, she refused to leave his side for a moment. Sage displayed a similar desire, and he didn’t leave Mark’s side since she returned from her expedition and let him back in to the small storeroom. In fact, she wondered why he wanted to follow her to the neighborhood in the first place, what with his own injuries and such. Maybe he worried about her safety. She didn’t know. But what she did know was that Mark and Sage were similar in their loyalty, valor and strength.