A Question of Will Read Free

apparently set her guest straight on that matter, for he’d apologized for his behavior with great fervor later upon his exit from the community.
    Mark began to repeat his statement to the men, but paused. He’d heard something odd from the open communication link with Deron. It had almost sounded like a gasp, an inhalation of breath so sudden that it sounded like a noise of terror. He walked back to the control panel in order to listen more closely. “Deron? Everything all right up there?”
    There was no reply. Mark was suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful sensation of pure evil, an effect so strong that he nearly lost his footing. “Deron—?”
    A thunderous crash sounded from outside, resembling the noise of shattering glass. Mark whirled back toward the driveway, and saw what looked like small pieces of ice fall briefly from the sky. He’d just had time to register this oddity when a second, far louder crash sounded above and behind him. Mark whirled toward the center of the Station and looked up, just as a hole exploded in the ceiling and a large mass fell through. The mass landed in a heap on the floor.
    Still feeling the overwhelming sensation of evil, Mark took one step toward the mass of debris, and then stopped, reeling in horror.
    The mass that had crashed through the ceiling was Deron. The man looked to be dead. His throat had been slashed away with vicious power, the wound so gaping that the man had already bled out. Deron’s eyes were wide and lifeless, his mouth open as if to protest this cruelty. He lay on top of a pile of wood and shingles from the roof and ceiling that he’d crashed through, pieces of timber impaling him, his arms and legs bent at impossible angles.
    Mark was numb with shock. He turned back to his control panel, prepared to phone the police and ambulance, when the sensation of evil and foreboding ratcheted up to such a degree that his limbs seemed incapable of moving. When he heard a third thumping noise behind him, it took every bit of effort remaining in him to merely turn around.
    A man stood in the room, straddling Deron’s body. He was dressed in black, with a logo similar to that worn by the three men outside. He was of an average height and build. The man’s head was clean-shaven, with dozens of scars of various sizes marring his otherwise handsome face. His eyes, though, turned Mark’s legs to jelly, and the guard fell to the ground, suddenly unable to stand. They were completely blood-red, both cornea and iris, and he found himself morbidly fascinated by them. The eyes were devoid of any type of human emotion, full only of malice. He held in his right hand a short sword, the blade dripping blood. This man exuded the aura of a cold-blooded killer, borne out by his execution of Deron.
    He needed to get away, he needed to tell somebody, anybody, to help him avoid death at this man’s hands. The killer walked toward Mark, a predator who had cornered its weakened prey, and the tip of the sword was suddenly at Mark’s throat, the blood — Deron’s blood — dripping into Mark’s lap.
    “Cooperation means Gena Adams lives.” The voice was almost a whisper, the tone having the effect of fingernails scratching a chalkboard. Mark’s insides chilled at the sound. This man knew about Gena. They were due to be married in a month, but Mark knew this man meant to kill him too, just as he’d killed Deron, and therefore that wedding would never happen. He was a security guard in name only, his job that of processing access requests, but as per current law in the country he did not carry a gun. He doubted that it would matter against this man; his hands would fail to steady enough to pull the trigger.
    Mark vowed to spend his remaining moments of life ensuring that Gena would live. Over the past few weeks, he’d been starting to think he wasn’t good enough for her, because she was simply that sweet and generous a soul. She would hear nothing of such concerns, laughing them off as