Chapter 270: The Silent Lambs

"Zombies feel no pain, or rather, they feel nothing at all."

Midnight dismissed Constantine's "human rights for the dead" argument, explaining, "What excites me is the roar of the crowd. Voodoo priests can draw power from various sources; those roars can become one of my powers, and defeating evil spirits requires power."

"And a bit of cunning," Constantine added.

"Oh, I have always trusted your cunning, Constantine." Midnight's face wore a cold smile: "I talked with your friend for a long time—you are hypocritical and hard-hearted."

As Midnight spoke these words, the blood rain on the stage splashed onto Constantine's face, but he merely wiped the blood from his face expressionlessly, then shrugged: "No one is perfect."

"As long as you can endure it, remember, if you cannot bring yourself to strike, we are all doomed, and perhaps all of New York will suffer."

"Don't worry, buddy."

At this point, Constantine asked, "Where is Lester?"

"Lambs naturally belong in the pen."

Constantine knew what Midnight's "pen" referred to; it was a private small prison used to store the resurrected corpses.

"Take me to see that guy," he said. "I'll go soothe him."

In the corridor of the silent small prison, the sound of thudding footsteps rang out.

Hearing this sound, the listless Gary Lester suddenly raised his head and looked outside the iron bars. Since Constantine left, he had been here for a long time, yet he had seen no one come and heard no extra sounds—the dead silence here was almost driving him mad.

"Hey, man."

Moments later, Lester saw Constantine, his friend, suddenly appear outside the bars, greeting him. This made the originally extremely anxious man grasp at a lifeline; he hurriedly threw himself against the bars and asked, "John! Buddy, what is going on? Didn't he have the powder? Why won't he give me the powder and lock me up?"

"Uh, well..."

"John, I'm so scared. I thought he was going to kill me. Give him some drugs for me, please, John!"

Constantine was familiar with this state of his; the more he begged, the easier he was to deceive.

"Man, don't be afraid, you won't be harmed." He comforted Lester and pulled the hand holding his clothes away: "But you have to stay down here for a while longer; you can't take drugs for now—remember what we came here to do? The Moses matter isn't resolved yet."

"It recognizes you; it wants you." Constantine pointed to Old Man Midnight standing nearby: "We just need you to lure it close, then Midnight will deal with it properly—and then, this matter will be resolved."

"No, John, please, I can't stand that monster—you don't know what it will do! You don't understand how I feel!"

Constantine thought of the vegetarian he met on the street; he shook his head and replied, "No, I know; I understand this perfectly. But we have no other way; we have to deal with it—you let it escape, remember? You have to take responsibility for this."

Facing his friend's accusation, Lester had no words, yet he still shrank back a bit: "But..."

"Buddy, have I ever lied to you?" Constantine advised patiently: "You have to trust me; we are friends, right?"

"Yes, John, of course I trust you."

Watching Lester slowly calm down, Constantine winked at him and made an OK gesture: "Everything is under control, man; no need to worry; the plan is going smoothly—tomorrow at this time, we will be on our way home."

When the two walked out of the pen, Midnight once again showed Constantine that familiar, mocking smile, which was like a sharp carving knife, stabbing sharply at the scars in Constantine's heart, drawing blood from him.

"That poor unlucky soul told me you two have been friends since childhood..."

"Shut up, I'm annoyed."

Constantine replied coldly and ignored Midnight, taking the elevator directly back to his room. Next door was Ma Ma Zhaodi, but there was no sound inside his room; he was probably already asleep.

Constantine took off his soaking wet clothes with a face full of exhaustion, feeling sticky all over—running for several hours in such a rainy night, he had long been soaked through.

Is there anything left that can truly make you cry, Constantine?

This thought flashed through his mind for no reason, but he quickly cast it aside.

I'm just too tired, that's why I'm thinking so much. He silently told himself, I need to take a shower and then sleep.

But when he pulled open the bathroom door, he froze in place—an old nun was sitting on the toilet, holding a cross, staring fixedly at him.

He recognized this nun, Anne Maria.

"Jesus," he cried out, clutching his head and rushing out of the bathroom: "What evil have I done to deserve this torment!"

But when he opened the wardrobe to put on clothes, he saw two more inside.

Frank, Benjamin; he was equally familiar with them.

Until Constantine saw a pair of feet sticking out from under the curtain, he finally couldn't take it anymore; the pressure accumulated in recent days rushed to his head all at once, about to explode his skull.

"Enough!"

He yanked the curtain open sharply and indeed saw that familiar face underneath—it was Emma.

"Damn it, what do you want!" he roared: "Why the hell are you stuffing my room full of dead people?"

"Every day, every day! I have dead people following me in London too, and I have dead people following me in New York too! Appearing in my room every day, do you get paid for this?"

However, the four pale faces remained expressionless, and four pairs of silent eyes stared quietly at Constantine.

"Damn it, speak! I told you to speak!"

Yet there was still no sound around; pairs of eyes looked at Constantine as if looking at an insect.

"On what basis do you despise me! What do you want me to say? Avanti killed you, so I'm very sad—I'm damn well sad, do you know that? It damn near killed me too!"

He completely broke down; he screamed hysterically: "You all know the risks; we bet big; we placed the highest bet—guess what? Gambling sometimes loses!"

"Just like Lester, he is about to become a chip too—but do you think I don't want to find another way!"

Speaking thus, he gritted his teeth and said fiercely: "No, there is no damn other way! We only have this one path; this is the damn fate of an Occultist, solving problems with twisted, conscience-defying, crooked methods. Don't think about a perfect ending; there is no optimal solution; this isn't a fairy tale; we never had a choice!"

"I can't even choose not to do it; do you understand what that means? If I don't do it, New York will damn well be doomed."

"I am the victim!"

(End of this chapter)