The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [142]
Two-fifteen.
He replaced the watch. Felt a dull throbbing on the inside of his left arm, then, remembering the brand they'd inflicted on him there, decided not to touch the area or draw their attention to it. Who knew what else they might do to him?
Why couldn't he remember anything after the searing pain of those moments? Their hands holding him down; Frederick's lace looming over his, speaking softly, hypnotically. He had obviously blacked out but more than twelve hours had passed since then. Had they given him some kind of drug that erased everything else from his mind?
He wanted to ask a hundred questions, but fear kept him quiet. Something else rose up unexpectedly: a feeling of kinship with these men. Dante had seen the marks on their arms; obviously they'd all experienced what he'd gone through last night—the suffering and terror of that nightmarish initiation. It united them in a way that meant more than friendship; he didn't need friends, never had.
Fellowship, that was something else again.
What had Frederick said to him?
An army. These were soldiers, as he had been once and was now again.
Fighting men. The idea grew on him.
What had he hated about the regular army, anyway? The small talk, petty complaints, and laziness of the average volunteer, their stupidity and lack of discipline. Any behavior that distracted from what he saw as their primary business: killing.
That didn't seem to be a problem with these men. Dante felt himself relax. Maybe Frederick was right. Maybe he did fit right in.
The door opened; the two men nearest to it got up and went outside, as Frederick entered and took a seat directly across from Dante. At the sight of Frederick's handsome smiling face, Dante tensed up again, his heart raced, his palms went moist.
"How are you feeling?" asked Frederick warmly.
"Okay," said Dante. "Real good."
"Any discomfort?"
Dante shook his head.
"Any ... second thoughts?"
"No, sir."
Frederick stared at him until Dante had to look away. Frederick put a friendly hand on his knee, rubbed it intimately. Dante blushed, looked up at him, and grinned.
"You'll do just fine," said Frederick. "With your background, the training shouldn't prove difficult."
"Training?"
"Shouldn't take long, either. You've been a leader of men before. You may even be officer material."
"Whatever you say."
Frederick leaned back and studied him. "Hungry, Mr.Scruggs?"
"Yes, sir," said Dante, realizing. "Real hungry."
Frederick gestured; the man remaining in the compartment pulled down a wicker basket from the luggage rack, set it on the seat beside Dante, and snapped it open, revealing a mouthwatering selection of sandwiches, fruit, and beverages.
"We are careful about what we eat," said Frederick. "Good food. Nutritious and well balanced. No liquor is allowed."
"I don't drink, anyway," said Dante.
"That's fine. An army travels on its stomach, isn't that right, Mr. Scruggs? Help yourself."
Dante could hardly recall ever feeling so ravenous; he devoured three sandwiches and two bottles of ginger ale without saying a word, wiping his mouth across the sleeve of his new jacket, shameless as a starving dog. Frederick leaned back in his seat, folded his hands neatly, and watched Dante eat, a sly smile playing across his strong features.
As Dante finished eating and let out a resounding belch, at a signal from Frederick the third man replaced the basket in the rack and left the compartment. Frederick delicately held out a napkin; Dante stared at it for a moment before realizing what this was, then took it and cleaned off his dripping mouth and chin.
"Are you curious about the group you've become part of, Mr. Scruggs?" asked Frederick, with that teasing smile again.
"I figure my job is," said Dante, pausing to bring up another burp, "do what I'm told and don't ask questions."
"Good. For instance, you do not need to know what we call ourselves, because it is not a question you will ever be required to answer."
Dante nodded.
"You will never