"We're all God's children, whether we've strayed from the path or not. They deserve the chance of forgiveness. Of mercy."
Robert could see he wouldn't be argued with.
They left the room behind and headed for the stairs. Tate had trouble with these, but refused both Geoff and Robert's help, intent on climbing the two flights himself. Finally, they made it to what had been the bar area, an expanse of carpeted floor that once contained comfy chairs for residents, but now only boasted tables which ran into the restaurant section. On either side was a long glass window — the left one cracked in places — and the bar at the back was smashed to pieces, graffiti sprayed across the walls, probably by someone during or after The Cull who'd come looking for booze.
At each corner of the room stood a Ranger with a bow and arrow primed, keeping an eye on what was taking place. It was lunchtime, Geoff explained, and as they didn't have the time and resources to feed each prisoner individually, they had to do it en masse, bringing out vats of stew from the reclaimed kitchens located beyond the restaurant. Robert had to admit, it didn't look very appetising, but it was all they could manage under the circumstances.
There was a shout as one of the inmates spotted Robert and Tate. Then a figure broke away from the rest of the prisoners, making a dash for Robert. Immediately, bows and arrows were raised and the man stopped before he could reach his target. They needn't have worried, as Robert had his bow primed too, an arrow snatched from his quiver the second he sensed trouble.
"This is bullshit. I keep telling 'em, I shouldn't be here!" shouted the prisoner.
"Really?" said Robert, approaching, his weapon trained on the man. "How so?" The man's face looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. It was certainly distinctive, the way that scar ran the length of his jaw-line.
"You let some of the others that worked for him go. Fucking 'ell, some of 'em are even working for you, while I'm stuck in this bastard place with them lot."
"Come on, Jason — back in line," said Geoff, moving forwards and signalling to a couple of the guards.
"Fuck off, screw. I'm talking to the organ grinder now."
That was it. Jason… Jace. When it had come time to sort out who might be retrained from the remnants of De Falaise's army, several of Robert's people had warned him about Jace. Mark, Sophie and Gwen especially, detailing how he'd first of all kidnapped Hood's ward, then allowed himself to be 'seduced' by Gwen so she could knock him out and steal his uniform. A nasty piece of work by all accounts.
"You're talking to the wrong person," Robert told Jace. "He's the one who deals in forgiveness for scum like you." He nodded at Tate, who pursed his lips. "How about it, Reverend? Think we should let him go? Is there a place for him in God's plan? How would Gwen or Sophie feel about that? He would have raped them both given half a chance."
"That Gwen was up for it," sneered Jace. "She enjoyed being with De Falaise — told me as much."
It was the holy man who moved forward this time, whacking the youth in the stomach with his stick. He would have done more had Robert not pulled him back. The guards had Jace then, and were dragging him across the room.
"Put him in solitary for a day," Geoff ordered. "That should cool him down a bit." Solitary, Robert knew, was a locked storage room with no windows. It might seem barbaric, but for Jace and his kind it was better than some of the justice that was being meted out in other parts of the country. At least here, Robert was more or less sticking to the legal system of old. It was the only way they could build the tentative beginnings of a new civilisation.
When Tate had calmed down, Robert looked at him, perhaps expecting some kind of apology or explanation. Tate gave him neither.
He might represent a higher power, but he's still a man — with a man's emotions, Robert reminded himself. And in spite of everything he's said, Tate's still a fighter.
They were taken up to the next floor — to conference rooms that had once hosted presentations and lectures, but were now being used as holding bays for the more dangerous prisoners. In one of the smaller ones, they found a table with a woman and another guard standing next to it. There was a mirror to their left as they walked in. Strapped down with what looked like belts, buckled across the chest, stomach and legs — and ropes tied around the wrists — was the member of the Morningstar cult Geoff had referred to. It took Robert a second or so, but he placed the Ranger as a man called Lewis, the woman with features that looked too small for her face as a 'nurse' Mary had trained called Lucy Hill. Lucy had her scrubs on, her hair tied back in a pony tail. She was flitting about around the prisoner, around the patient.
"How's it going?" asked Geoff.
"He's stable. Still pretty out of it, mind," Lucy replied. "I gave him some Chlorpromazine to calm him down."
"Is he up to us asking some questions?" Robert inquired.
"You can ask them but I can't vouch for any of the answers you'll get."
Robert approached the table. Tate hesitated, and only when Robert looked back over his shoulder did the Reverend join him. Robert could see the cultist much more clearly now. It was the one who'd snapped at Adele, attempting to bite her like the animal he surely was. The white paint he'd used to mask his identity had rubbed off in places, run in others, giving him — if anything — a more nightmarish appearance than before. The only thing that remained was the tattoo on his forehead. The man's eyes — a steely blue — stared up at Robert, and he had no idea whether his presence had registered. He looked completely stoned, like so many of the druggies Robert had come across in his former life, but he had the feeling this guy's eyes had looked like that even before Lucy had come near him with a needle.
"Can you hear me?" asked Robert.
"Mmmnnnfff," was the reply he got.
Robert looked up at Lucy. "At least he's not trying to top himself," she offered.
"Let me try," said Tate, tapping Robert on the shoulder for him to move aside.
Robert watched as the bald man studied the cult member's features. "I know you're in there," said Tate. The words seemed normal, but Robert had seen the Reverend do this before, draw things out of a person, force them to answer, force them to think. He'd done it with him once, persuaded Robert to communicate. "Speak, my son."
The cult member's eyes locked on Tate's. Robert found himself holding his breath as the man spoke again. "I… I hear you," mumbled the prisoner, the words barely audible.
"What is your name?"
He continued to stare, as if he didn't understand the question — either that or didn't know how to answer. Tate repeated it and the man simply whispered: "Servitor. I serve."
"No, not your purpose. Your name. Your Christian name." The man shook his head slowly. "Who were you before?"
"No before," the man breathed. "We have always been here."
"Since before the virus, you mean?"
There was the slightest hint of a nod.
"All right then, tell me why your fellow… Servitors all killed themselves."
"S-S-Sacrifice."
So it wasn't just other people they were out to kill, Robert mused; when they were taken captive they were happy enough to kill themselves.
"A sacrifice? To whom?"
"Our master. The one true Lord."
"I beg to differ. You worship a false deity, can't you see that?" From the man's blank expression it was pretty obvious he didn't.
"He will come. It is written."
"Through your sacrifices?" Tate asked, and the man nodded.
"Looks like you were right," Robert chipped in, but Tate took no notice.
"You believe you will find Him here, in this world?"