Two of his minions hurried to take Creeds arms.
“You have to know you’re going to die today, Bleedy Creedy. I have my orders.” Gavil rolled his neck, causing cracking sounds that echoed through the stillness of the tropical surroundings. The little brother watched with weary eyes that had seen hundreds of beatings, but this time his abuser hesitated. A darkness shadowed Gavil’s face for a moment and he held perfectly still as if listening to something whispered across the room.
Oscar and Gideon exchanged itchy looks over Creed’s head, but they’d seen how unpredictable Gavil had been and didn’t want to speak up to question his hesitation. Instead, they shifted their weight nervously, readjusting their grips on the younger brother’s biceps positioning him for the beating Gavil had planned, and waited.
“Canon!” Gavil barked at a metasoldier behind him.
“Sir!” The huge soldier stepped forward awaiting orders obediently.
“I’ve kicked his ass more times than I care to count. Maybe he needs to hear it from someone else. He’s all yours. Just don’t kill him—Williams wants him alive—for now.” Gavil narrowed his eyes at his little brother. If Creed weren’t so concerned about the hulking rabid dog sneering his joy at being chosen to proceed with the pounding, he may have noticed the torn expression on his older brother’s face before he turned away.
Canon took pleasure in his assigned task. The beating was merciless.
Creed found himself focusing on the silence enveloping him. The jungle held its breath. He felt himself slip back far into his mind and dissociate from his body.
From the distant corner of his complex thoughts, Creed’s heart ached with sadness that hurt far worse than the abuse his body was sustaining. His lonesomeness so all-consuming, he pleaded inwardly for the ability to disconnect from it.
Even when his blood dripped from the fists of his abuser and sprayed deep red on the leaf-blanketed ground, he still felt nothing but emotional anguish. No physical pain slipped past the locked door to the self-imposed castle turret in his mind.
When he finally hung slack against the unrelenting hands holding his arms wide, it wasn’t from the assault. It wasn’t because of his mauled face, broken ribs, punctured lung, or bruised organs that Creed hanging limp in surrender.
It was the abject loneliness he felt that caused his submission. Even as the rabid dogs dragged his body back to the where Williams waited in an abandoned building, Creed slipped in and out of dreams.
The dream was perfect.
In it he was wrapped in Meg’s warm, white blanket of peace. He ached for missing her and all she represented.
At least she’s safe. Please, God, Creed prayed for the first time in his life. Please let her be safe.
***
Creed woke to the sound of metal objects scraping.
Not wanting to give away his alert condition, he held still, kept his eyes closed and listened to the sounds around him.
“What else did he say?” It was Williams’ voice. “Did he say where the serum was?”
“He insinuated it was somewhere in the St. Paul house,” Gavil said from the other side of the room.
Creed tried to take stock of his location. He seemed to be tied to a chair, hands behind his back, ankles secured to the wooden legs.
More metallic scraping sounds
“Have we heard from Slider and the other two?” Williams asked calmly.
“Slider is on his way back. He was injured by Dr. Winter after he successfully killed St. Paul before their plane took off. He said M57 killed the other two,” Gavil reported casually.
“So they engineered a cure for my special malarial parasites. I must admit, I’m happy to hear she recovered, and even more: my daughter has finally become a killer. Beautiful. I would have liked to have seen her first kill.” Williams’ voice was smiling with some sick sense of pride toward Meg.
“You know, Gavil, she was the first metahuman to survive the testing. She was the first in my perfect race. Aw, and she is so perfect,” he cooed affectionately at the memory.
“Yes, sir. You’ve told me.” Gavil sounded as though he was speaking between clenched teeth, obviously not thrilled with the turn in the conversation.
Ignoring Gavil’s disinterest, Dr. Kenneth Williams continued his verbal reverie. “She was such an extraordinary child. Her gifts were as powerful as they were complex. The conditioning to mold her into a lethal weapon really didn’t have the chance to begin before she was stolen from me, but look at her now,” Williams let his voice trail.
“She’s becoming exactly what I always planned for her. The scientist in me would love to know what she experienced as she killed. With her emotions so heightened, did she feel some death herself, empathetically? Did she feel regret or remorse afterward? She killed twice, so it obviously wasn’t debilitating, whatever her internal reaction.” Creed heard Williams sigh wistfully.