Two Days Later

Niko Capinski sat on his front stoop and watched the hordes of people crowd the narrow cobblestone street in front of his house. Men, women and children wept openly as they pushed and shoved their way toward the center of the city, which had become a makeshift memorial to Kiroly Adamik. Two days had passed since the death of their hometown hero in such a violent fashion, and the shock had brought Niko’s small town of Dunaua to a halt. The entire village literally shut down as every heartbroken Hungarian who could walk converged into one throbbing mass of mourners.

Even though the wailing and gnashing of teeth pained his ears, it was better than watching the pathetic drivel on the television inside the cramped house. When his mother left to join the teeming throng, she was unable to convince Niko to join her or pull him away from the television. Niko hung on every report, every new lead, every little detail uncovered.

It had made him almost physically ill when all the major stations cut into the reports of the plane crash and investigation with reports of the disappearance and possible death of some American writer. Niko narrowed his eyes, bristling at the memory of seeing her face splashed across the screen. The news coverage of his beloved Kiroly’s tragic, untimely death was soon overshadowed by some woman whose only contribution to the world was that she wrote books! The reporters all spoke with hushed, professional tones when they spoke about Kiroly, but they almost seemed emotionally involved, saddened, when they spoke about that stupid, young girl. Who cares? She was just another rich, spoiled American brat who had no redeeming value. When the last reporter actually choked up, Niko exploded and kicked the small television off the stand, shattering the screen, and made his way out to the front stoop to cool off.

The pitiful sounds of women wailing and beseeching God for comfort over the loss of such a remarkable man made Niko’s ears ring. Not to be outdone, the men that intermingled in the mass of bodies raised their fists in anger, vowing revenge for Kiroly’s murder even though it still was not clear which terrorist group was truly responsible for his assassination. Niko watched them all with fierce intensity, forcing his fourteen year old eyes to remain dry. He would not cry or show any emotion to the outside world for the loss of his idol. No, Niko would never display such weakness because that would demean the memory of the noble Kiroly.

Niko sat erect, stoic, refusing to act like the crazed, impotent men who shouted for justice yet wouldn’t lift a finger to obtain any. They were strutting around like angry roosters, clucking and making all sorts of annoying racket, but eventually they would return to their homes and resume their pathetic lives.

Kiroly Adamik’s untimely death would only be remembered at yearly memorial services held in his honor around the gaudy bronze statue that had been erected several years ago when he became the leader of the European Council. Kiroly’s vision for humanity would be a fleeting memory to the useless fools who cried their crocodile tears, his contributions to the world would evaporate just as quickly as the tears on the faces of his countrymen.

But Niko would never forget. He wasn’t like them and never had been. He recalled the first day he had watched Kiroly Adamik give a speech at the library when he was less than five years old. Kiroly’s words, his fierce presence, his strength of character and commanding voice had drawn Niko in, and ever since that day, Niko felt a deep connection to him. He followed his every move, listened to every speech and read every newspaper article about the man who Niko sensed would conquer the world. Niko swallowed hard and forced the hot lump back down. In its place, he let his seething anger free to control his thoughts.

It didn’t matter to Niko which side ordered the death of his beloved Kiroly. The truth was that both sides argued over the soil in Jerusalem for countless centuries. In Niko’s mind, the groups were scourges on the world. Hatred for each ethnic group raged inside him, burning the last vestiges of compassion for the Jews or the Muslims from his mind. Niko closed his eyes and envisioned the destruction of that slender stretch of dusty land that had been the source, the breeding ground, for every despicable war and atrocity that mankind had endured since the dawn of time.

Niko felt a surge of power, an influx of white-hot energy flow through his veins. He let the hatred take control, determined to wipe out the enemies that placed the center of their religions upon the small tract of land in Jerusalem. As Niko’s intensity level on his vision rose, he realized he didn’t hear the sounds from the crowd anymore. His hands clenched at his sides as fury coursed through him, his blood boiling. Just when Niko thought his heart would burst from the rage, he heard a voice whisper inside his mind.

“Come, Niko. Follow me. I will show you the way and guide you. Let not your heart be troubled, for together, we can make the enemies of Kiroly pay. The world shall cower at your feet, my boy.

Niko nodded his head in silent agreement to the deliciously tempting baritone. The eloquently spoken words were like a drug that dulled his sorrow.

And fed his rage.