Free Web NovelChapter 151: Chapter 151 - The Chosen
They remained in that alley longer than anyone intended.
No one told them to move.
No one rushed them.
Marybeth stayed kneeling beside Reya until her tears ran dry and her hands stopped shaking. Iyisha could not tell how much time passed. The sun had shifted by the time boots approached again.
Waldo.
He slowed when he saw them. His eyes moved over the scene quickly, assessing, then settled on Reya.
"It’s done," he said. "They’re all contained."
He stepped forward as if to lift Reya, but Marybeth tightened her hold.
"I’ll carry her," she said.
Her voice did not tremble this time.
Waldo hesitated, then nodded once and stepped back.
Marybeth gathered Reya into her arms. It looked impossible at first, but she adjusted her stance and stood, holding her like something precious instead of lifeless.
"There will be a public execution," Waldo added quietly to Malcolm and Iyisha. "The rest of them."
Marybeth sniffled. "Can I bury her myself?" She cut him off.
Waldo didn’t reply just looked at Marybeth long. For a moment, Iyisha thought he will deny her but he nodded. He waved one guard to accompany her.
They followed Waldo back toward the inner city square.
It was not far.
The sound reached them before the sight did.
Murmuring.
Orders.
A crowd forming.
When they stepped into the open pavement, Iyisha saw lines of people kneeling on the concrete. Hands bound. Heads lowered or lifted in defiance. Civilian clothes stained with dust and blood.
Around thirty remained alive.
Whitewater stood behind the kneeling line in clean formation, rifles visible but angled down, disciplined enough not to look frantic. Nothing about it was chaotic. It was arranged to be seen.
One of the Whitewater men stepped forward, boots stopping just short of the first row.
"You will be given a chance," he said, his voice carrying across the square. "Name anyone still hiding. Anyone not yet captured. Speak, and you will walk out of this gate alive."
The words settled over the kneeling line.
Life in exchange for betrayal.
The prisoners shifted uneasily. Some lowered their heads further. Others glanced sideways, measuring each other.
A man near the middle swallowed hard and lifted his face.
"Phillip," he said.
The name carried clearly.
Darius stood off to the side, arms folded behind his back. He did not react immediately. Then he gave a small nod.
Two Whitewater men peeled away from formation and moved quickly down a side street.
The man who had spoken blinked, looking around as if waiting for someone to untie him.
Instead, guards stepped in and pulled him up roughly by the arms.
"Do not speak!" Pastor Rick shouted from the line. "They will not free you! They will destroy you one by one!"
The man who had given the name turned pale.
Darius walked closer, stopping just in front of him.
"I gave my word," Darius said calmly. "You will walk out of the gate alive."
The guards dragged the man away.
Iyisha watched him disappear behind a building and knew he would not see the outside of those walls.
Rick struggled against the hands forcing him down.
"Stand firm!" he shouted hoarsely. "This is your test! Do not trade your soul for breath!"
A rifle butt struck his shoulder and forced him to his knees again.
"You will—"
Another voice cut through him.
"Harry Anderson."
Darius did not hesitate this time. He nodded again.
Boots moved.
The second speaker was hauled up and dragged away.
Then a third name.
A fourth.
A fifth.
Each time the same exchange.
A name offered.
A nod.
Guards dispatched.
The speaker removed.
Rick’s voice grew ragged, but he continued shouting scripture and warning, telling them they were being tempted, that fear was not reason to break.
The kneeling line thinned.
Iyisha stood beside Malcolm, watching the pattern repeat.
Whitewater was dismantling them in public, letting desperation loosen tongues while making sure everyone saw what happened to those who spoke.
The crowd gathered at the edges of the square watched in silence.
Ishmael had been kneeling like the rest of them, shoulders broad but lowered, wrists bound behind his back, his head tilted forward as if in prayer or restraint.
Then the tension in his arms changed.
The plastic ties around his wrists stretched under visible strain, the material whitening before it split apart with a sharp crack that carried across the square and silenced even the murmuring crowd.
Gasps rose in uneven waves.
"The Chosen!" Somemembers said in hope.
Iyisha felt Malcolm’s grip close around her arm before she consciously registered danger, and he pulled her toward the far edge of the square where a concrete support column offered partial cover, positioning himself between her and the center without taking his eyes off the movement.
When she looked past his shoulder, Ishmael was already standing.
"Stop or we’ll shoot!" Some guards shouted.
The broken restraints hung from his wrists, curling uselessly against his skin as his chest expanded with a slow inhale that looked less like panic and more like something being released. The muscles along his neck and arms tightened visibly, veins rising beneath skin already marked by blood from earlier strikes.
Pastor Rick’s voice cut through the air, strained and urgent. "Ishmael, stand down!"
Ishmael did not turn.
Two Whitewater guards advanced on him in practiced coordination.
Ishmael moved first.
He stepped into them instead of away, driving forward with the weight of his body, his shoulder slamming into one guard’s chest hard enough to lift him off his feet while his hand shot out to seize the second by the vest and hurl him sideways across the pavement.
The first gunshot cracked at close range with another guard.
The round struck him in the torso.
His body jerked with the impact.
He did not fall.
"Ishmael!" several of the kneeling members shouted at once, their voices breaking the stunned silence that had settled over the square as the crowd watching from the edges recoiled in visible shock.
No one there had ever seen a man take multiple rounds at close range and remain standing, much less drive forward as if the gunfire were only resistance rather than damage.
The disbelief rippled outward through the gathered civilians, turning into restless motion as people shifted backward, some stumbling over each other in their attempt to gain distance from the violence unfolding in front of them.
Among the remaining members of the Chosen, panic fractured what little composure remained. A few struggled against their restraints with renewed desperation, while others rose halfway from their knees before guards shoved them back down.
One man twisted his body sideways, already calculating a path to run, eyes darting toward the nearest break in Whitewater’s formation.
The square, which only minutes ago had been tightly controlled and methodical, began to fracture under the pressure of fear.
Rifles swung in new directions.
Commands overlapped.
Civilians at the perimeter backed away in widening arcs, unsure whether to flee or stay low.
And at the center of it all, Ishmael remained on his feet long enough to turn the public display into something no one there would ever forget.
More shots followed in rapid succession, each one striking with a visible jolt, dark stains spreading across his shirt, but the forward momentum never truly stopped. He pushed through the line of men as if the bullets were interruptions rather than injuries.
Darius stepped back, reaching for his weapon, but Ishmael was already on him.
The distance vanished in an instant.
Ishmael’s hand closed around Darius’s face, fingers spreading across his jaw and temple with crushing force, and he drove him straight down into the concrete with a motion so violent it produced a dull concussive sound that silenced even the gunfire for a split second.
The pavement fractured beneath the impact, the surface dipping inward where Darius’s head struck, dust rising in a fine cloud from the crack.
Iyisha felt the sound in her chest.
Guards fired again, closer now, their formation breaking as they attempted to circle him.
Ishmael bent without hesitation, seized Darius by the front of his shirt, and lifted him from the ground with unnatural ease, raising him high enough that his boots left the pavement entirely.
He drew him back to strike again.
A Whitewater soldier launched himself into Ishmael’s side at full force, the collision staggering him just enough to disrupt his balance. The grip faltered. Darius slipped from his hold.
All three bodies went down in a heavy collapse that shook the ground.
Whitewater did not wait.
They closed the circle immediately, rifles lowered to near point blank range, and opened fire in controlled bursts that tore through the air in rapid succession.
The execution had ended.
Something else had begun.
