More Than Life Itself Read Free

abandoned.
    At the corner a few yards away, the street sign had been replaced by a makeshift one spray-painted with the words, "East Nowhere."
    How fucking appropriate.
    He turned left and started walking, figuring any random direction would eventually lead him somewhere he recognised. The neighbourhood around him remained the same for several blocks, until it dead-ended at a small city park. A few trees, a wide square of concrete in the centre, small plots of grass here and there for people to gather on; a typical bureaucratic vision of utopia. On the other side, he could see an intersection with more activity than the streets he had just left behind. After having walked several blocks without seeing a soul, the busyness drew him like a magnet.
    He hadn't travelled more than ten yards into the park before he heard the voice.
    "Repent! Repent for the end is near!"
    The man stood atop an old wooden crate in the middle of the square, shouting out his message. His arms were outstretched, his palms extended up toward heaven, his head thrown back to catch the warming rays of the morning sun. His raspy voice echoed in the still air.
    "The Horsemen shall ride and blood shall flow in their wake. Confess your sins and receive salvation before it is too late!" His clothing was an assortment of obvious cast-offs, several sizes too large, and his long, matted hair was partially obscured by a grimy baseball cap. A shopping cart full of plastic garbage bags bursting with discarded junk stood a few feet away.
    Having dealt with enough religion for one day, Sam gave the street prophet a wide berth as he continued on his way to the busy intersection he could see on the other side of the park. He'd walked only a few feet …
    "She doesn't have to die."
    The phrase was spoken so matter-of-factly that at first Sam was uncertain if he had heard the man correctly. His steps faltered, then stopped as he tried to puzzle it out.
    The voice came again, and this time there was no mistaking what was said. "She doesn't have to die."
    Sam turned. Looked back.
    The man now stood upright, his arms at his sides. His face was angled away from Sam, still looking at the rising sun, and the falling waves of his hair kept his features obscured, but there was no question to whom he was speaking.
    "Excuse me?" Sam asked.
    "Your daughter. She doesn't have to die." As he spoke, the man slowly turned to look at Sam, revealing two empty sockets where his eyes should have been. The edges of the pits were raw and inflamed, as if their former occupants had just been ripped free from their moorings and tossed casually aside, forgotten. The empty sockets stared at Sam with furious accusation.
    The sensation of being seen, being watched, by that ruined face sent chills racing across Sam's body. Staring at the man, he suddenly had a hard time finding his voice. When he did, it came out weak and uneven. "What do you know about my daughter?" he stammered.
    The prophet jumped down from his perch and moved forward without hesitation, despite his obvious lack of sight. He crossed the distance between them unerringly, without a single misstep, until they stood just over a yard away from each other. A wave of bitter cold travelled before him, an Arctic wind stolen from the depths of the north, and Sam was suddenly enveloped in its hoary clutches. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed, as if the cold was affecting his thoughts, numbing his capacity to think. As if from a distance, the other's voice reached his ears faintly, hollowly. "I know she's dying. And I know you can stop it, if you've got the courage. If you care enough about her to do what must be done."
    Sam took a step back, his nerves jangling. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"
    "Who I am is unimportant. I want you to save your daughter, and I'm the only one who can give you the knowledge you need to do so."
    " You know how to save my daughter?"
    Rather than responding verbally, the man reached inside his shirt and withdrew a