Cross and Conflicts

CHAPTER IX: Cross

It was difficult to see his face hidden behind the curtain of darkness. The candles, nonetheless, gently swaying with the control of the wind made them see his eyes—a pair of crimson red glowing portentously.

            “And just who the hell are you?” An irked Carlito asked. It turned out that he was the only one stupid to do that.

            Monsignor Cabrera has long heard of the notoriety of the enigmatic persona before them: the mysterious vigilante branded as the “Master Murderer.” For three years, the police have tried to solve the mystery that surrounds the vigilante and catch him, yet they have failed repetitively. Not a single fingerprint of his could be retrieved and all the few traumatized witnesses could only contribute were seeing his pair of menacing red eyes.

            All of his victims die the most grotesque deaths not only at the mercy of his bullets, but also because he is said to be endowed with supernatural abilities by the devil himself. However, his main targets die differently. According to forensic pathologists who examined their corpses, they committed suicide, and he leaves them his trademark. Either with holes on either side of their heads or sharp objects plunged on their chests, his main targets are left defunct with metallic rosaries hung around their necks. This made him earn the name “Cross” for they conclude that he is religious—a trait tremendously ironic for a serial killer.

            There was a strong gust of wind as they heard the sound of pews violently graze the rough floor. The candles were nearly extinguished, but the monsignor and his sacristans’ fear was lit alive. Their faces were horrified, wary, and now, alert. He wasn’t just hearsay to them anymore. The uninvited persona abruptly disappeared.

            Carlito suddenly felt himself afloat, but the next thing he knew, he was bashed against the ceiling then fell on the floor as gravity roughly received him. The impact made an ugly c***k on the coarse surface and likely, the same can be said for his ribs.

            “Aaaccck!” He coughed up blood.

            What the hell just happened? This was the uniform question in their minds, save Noumenon who was barely recovering from having been tortured.

            Monsignor Cabrera was nailed at where he was standing, overwhelmed by his stupefaction over how utterly disturbing the scene in front of him was. Marlon, on the other hand, realized the direness of the situation. He had to get away from the uninvited murderer. Whiskling on his feet, he headed for the passageway right of the altar. However, a rushing pew suddenly flew before him and blocked his path. He retreated back to the monsignor’s side with his eyes wide open in horror.

            Pablo was another story nevertheless. He readied his fists.

            “Aaaaaaaaaah! Fight me, you cunt!” He loudly challenged.

            Cross heeded his taunt and suddenly appeared before him like an afterimage. He delivered a single blow on his gut, busted his ears with his quick hands before toppling him down the floor. He then took out his gun and shot the sacristan twice in the head to make certain he’ll never be able to see dawn. He then noticed Carlito who was barely conscious. Faster than air, he leapt to him and trampled on his neck with tempest—crushing it and severing his head from his body. The audible squish from this assault made Marlon cover his mouth and kneel in anguish.

            “God, save me,” he muttered helplessly since the vigilante wasn’t only standing in front of him; his gun’s muzzle was already connected to his forehead.

            “He won’t.” The murderer said before he pulled the trigger.

            Monsignor Cabrera, the whole time that the murders unfolded, didn’t dare move an inch or utter anything at all. He found himself at the most parlous predicament in the entirety of his hypocritical life. At that point, he wished that he had been born with an amazing ability—maybe something like being able to fly to escape his doom or with hands that can be transformed into razor-sharp blades to stand a chance over the abomination before him. But, he was gifted with something else.

            He recalled that his parents called it a “Divinity”—an innate extraordinary ability of an individual deemed to be God-given. 90% of the human population have divinities, but only a little percentage from that are those with the strongest types that some even accord can rival that of God himself. Cross, as he had observed, belongs to that. On the contrary, what he has couldn’t possibly be anything near.

            He termed it “Allure.” When he was in college, his notion about possessing something special was cemented when he made the most gorgeous girl on campus fall head over heels for him. She had several ideal suitors—the tall, brilliant and handsome types—yet she had to be obsessed with a short and chubby guy who only sweet-talked her once. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the only one in his menu. With only flowery words, he bedded several of his female schoolmates, day after day, and even got away from being reprimanded by only talking it over with the university’s administration.

            Even with having known his nature, many wanted to be his friend. He became the coolest and the most desirable person in their minty-green sparkling eyes. From further observation, he found out that his divinity works both on men and women yet more potently towards the latter especially those way younger than him.

            However, anything blissful can never be allowed by the universe to exist forever. His “Allure” has one setback: no one must know of his divinity or else it can be undone in a snap. Yet one jealous cousin of his, who was oriented about this, divulged and spread the truth to everyone. He was severely bullied and was treated as an outcast. Nonetheless, he still didn’t cease deceiving people.

            When he became a priest and was assigned in a cathedral, he took full advantage of his divinity and engaged in s****l relationships with the young nuns. On the contrary, these seemingly endless pleasurable nights saw the beginning of his dissatisfaction, since he then craved for fresher and way younger girls. That was when he was caught in the act having s*x with a homeless ten-year-old girl who frequented there.

            The cathedral kept quiet about this so as not to add ruin to the image of the Catholic Church. He was removed from his post and was disguised to have volunteered to operate a dying parish. His superiors had faith that he would redeem himself along with the faithless people of Barangay Laurel. He, apparently, didn’t do his homework.

            With what he was able to do, he thought that he might just be able to save himself from being murdered.

            He kept himself from sounding nervous and calmed his tone. “Anak (son), you can still salvage yourself from sinning further.”

            He saw him turn towards him; his eyes were still red and cold and were the only ones revealed. His hood covered his crown down to his ears, and he was wearing a neck gaiter mask whose color complemented his mysterious appeal.

            “My life is not yours to take. Come on, anak. Aren’t you afraid of God’s wrath?”

            He looked sternly at him and then asked, “Aren’t you?”

            It was at that point where he wanted to punish himself for not paying attention to the warning of his politician “Friend.”

            “You’re on his death list, you know. Be careful.” He had been told.

The priest then felt himself froze. In his eyes came the surge of the images of all the women he violated, along with the premature deaths of the little girls confined inside the coffins in the crypt. And he cried.

            Noumenon weakly collected herself after she forced her battered eyes open. She was then unsure whether she should have or shouldn’t have done so, for what was in front of her wasn’t snug to behold.

            Monsignor Cabrera was alone grabbing his head in extreme disorientation as he violently made way to the table in the altar. His back was on her, and it seemed that he was looking for something as he was rummaging through the objects atop it. He was like that until his hand grasped the wooden crucifix and smashed it half. He turned around, and she saw that his eyes had turned red. The next thing he did was the least she expected to happen. With both hands on the broken crucifix, he pierced the sharp wooden edge to his heart.

            He tumbled face flat on the floor and convulsed until life completely left his mortal body.

            Still trembling in shock and the pain all over her being, Noumenon did her earnest to stand. Limping, she looked around her, but then regretted doing so. She spotted how gruesome the deaths of the sacristans were. She instantly covered her mouth as she almost vomited at the splattered brain of Pablo.

            How did this happen? She nervously thought. Then, she felt it—the strange presence behind her. She gulped before turning around.

            He was squatting beside the corpse of the priest, quiet, and now observing her. She couldn’t move—she couldn’t find the courage to do so—for she didn’t have to guess what he was doing in the parish.

He slowly stood which made her flinch.

            Suddenly, she felt herself being suspended in the air. She glanced at the floor a few feet below her. She was really afloat, and she was startled why she was. What succeeded made her even more frightened because she was being vacuumed towards the vigilante. Seconds flat, she was standing face-to-face with him and staring directly to his eyes.

            She reached just about his ears, but she could clearly see how pale as a white sheet his eyelashes and brows are.

            An albino. She realized.

            Noumenon knew that even if he had murdered the monsignor and the sacristans, he wasn’t there to save her since it seemed like he was trying to kill her with his fierce gaze. She was confused, even more so when he roughly gripped her neck. On instinct, she grabbed his hand, and she sensed that he was also confused.

            Calm and threatening as he tightened his hand around her neck, he asked, “Why aren’t you dead?”

            This perplexed her, but it made her recollect the times where she was at death’s door. It appeared that whenever she was about to die, God wouldn’t permit it to be so. If the branch of the banyan tree had not fallen on her father’s head that night, years ago, she wouldn’t be alive to come here in this parish. If the master murderer had not arrived to execute Monsignor Cabrera and his lackeys, she wouldn’t even be able to hear his question.

            “I…don’t know,” she feebly answered.

            For quite a while, she thought that he’d rob all the air from inside her, but then, he released and dropped her. She coughed and coughed. She had to breathe. For a moment there, she thought that she’d die from asphyxiation. Her head felt heavy while she failed to support her weight and fell on her back to the floor.

            The master murderer staring down at her and the frantic voice of Elmer calling her name nearby were what she beheld before everything around her went black.

            Morning, the next day, the media swarmed over to St. Peter the Fisherman Parish to cover the death of someone whom many knew to have had undoubted devotion to God, and whose religious voluntary service extended even to the dreariest of places.