Field of Blood by Wilson, Eric (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📕

One whiff of a lemon, and she might just as well be back in the Middle East, centuries ago, browsing the open-air markets they called souks. What better sense was there for dragging someone back to a place he wished to forget?

Taste.

Surely, this had to be a favorite. From the tannic plushness of a good cabernet to the sweet, coppery drops from a thorn cup, she adored the palette’s ability to channel enjoyment. Her husband was a direct contributor in this arena, wining and dining her in Atlanta’s superb restaurants. Flavors to be savored. No wonder obesity was a spreading problem—see, she knew how to use a pun—in this land of abundance.

Sight.

The world all around was a blast of color. Coming from the mono-chrome drudgery that had been hers without a host, she felt shell-shocked at times by the contrasts and lights. Other times she was moved to tears by something as blasé as the kaleidoscope of oil in a puddle. Her husband, like most males, seemed drugged by the curves and hues of female forms. Or by the ubiquitous movies and video games. Everywhere, blurs of motion and adrenaline.

Sound.

She found herself confused by her reactions to various rhythms and tones. Why she loved American hip-hop, she could not explain. Why certain men’s voices strummed deep within her, she had no idea. Perhaps the sense’s most rewarding elements were found in nature’s symphony—a bird’s bright chirp, the shushing whisper of leaves in a breeze, or the rattling satisfaction of a kitten’s purr.

A favorite from these five senses? It was hard to choose.

And each had its drawbacks.

Some days, the continual barrage of sound gave her migraines. Touch could transmit heart-stopping pain, such as the time she’d brushed a hand over a stovetop’s entrancing glow. Sights and smells could turn a stomach in seconds. And the taste of rising bile—was anything more disgusting than one’s own foul juices?

Her journeys through the sensory world only underlined her fury.

The Separation . . . A hellish punishment, which had severed the Collectors’ direct connections to the physical realm. It was inhumane.

And the Unfallen? They did not suffer its pain.

Such favoritism was just more evidence against the Almighty, All-Magnificent, Egotist who claimed to be in control.

As for the Nazarene?

The very thought of the man made her sick.

She had gathered with the other Collectors, forming a vast mob around the craggy edifice of Golgotha, and watched him scream out a question they all understood to their cores . . .

My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?

They had rejoiced in that moment. Gloried in his agony, in his death.

It is finished.

But it was a lie.

It was not finished. It was only the beginning.

He came out of the grave three days later. It was rumored he then broke bread with fellow Jews and let them touch his scars, then walked through walls like they weren’t there. He declared his disdain for the Separation by moving between the physical and spiritual realms as though they were one.

The Collectors had been unable to stop his escape.

These disgusting, self-involved two-leggers would not be so lucky. They deserved what they had coming. The more Erota witnessed this world through their hands, noses, mouths, eyes, and ears, the more cemented she became in her resolve to cause them grief.

To feed, breed, persuade, and possess.

To tear these silly humans apart and bleed them dry.

She was on her own now, a warrior. She saw no reason to subject herself any longer to the Akeldama Cluster’s oversight. Ariston was far, far away from this place in which she now lived. Here, in the land of the free—ha!—and the home of the brave—double ha!—clusters operated as part of a national syndicate called the Consortium.

Erota, like a few others, preferred her chances going solo. She saw no need to subject herself to the Consortium’s instructions. Once she could confirm the sex of Gina Turney’s child, she would wield the weapon of her own choice—and end this.

The reward? Unity and peace.

Wasn’t that what she and other Collectors wanted, what clusters angled and finagled for across this overridden planet? Mrs. Erota Pace, former temple prostitute, onetime swine, and intermittent traveler of this mortal coil, wanted what had been promised by the Master Collector himself so very long ago.

Unity: the physical and supernatural brought together again, so that she could indulge in her senses without restraint, boundaries, or guilt.

Peace: to indulge herself, without these hoarding humans in the way.

“Erota?”

She turned toward the voice and saw a brown-haired man with an average build. “I was beginning to wonder if you would show up.”

“I’m nervous,” he said. “Meeting in this park, of all places.”

“Relax. Nobody knows the things you’ve done. After this next act, though, I’m sure they’ll be shifting their focus to you.”

“I don’t know that I want that.”

“Sure you do. You want to be heard, right?”

“I have to talk louder,” he said. “Nobody’s listening these days.”

Erota could see in his cagey expression that she had pegged him correctly. She saw the same self-righteous spirit that was there in Dalia Amit, Nikki Lazarescu, and some of the datim in Israel’s Arad.

All of them, striving to be like God.

All of them, seeking heaven through their own efforts.

Well, they were in fine company, since it was the Master Collector himself who had made the first trek through that treacherous wasteland.

“Here’s our next target.” Erota passed over folded papers and a map. “This woman moved in with her boyfriend directly out of high school, and she’s carrying a child conceived out of wedlock. A moral travesty, don’t you think?” She kept a straight face as she said it. “You have five, maybe six weeks to familiarize yourself with the Chattanooga area. I’ve done some of the legwork, but you’ll be doing the dirty work. Are you up for the task?”

“I’ll blow up the clinic real good,” he said.

“See? That has a nice ring to it. The exact date is still up in the air, so you must stay alert, and I’ll