It was a good sign. When Auma sent his troops on one of his infamous genocidal raids, they were generally high on a drug locally known as ajali. Under its influence, they felt no fear, no pain, no doubt, and certainly no cold. The dull messianic glow around Auma became blinding and they would do anything for him: Run until their hearts exploded. Kill their own families. Fight until well beyond the time their brains should have told them they were dead.

Not tonight, though. Tonight’s raid wasn’t about wanton violence, theft, or the acquisition of new disciples. Auma wanted something else.

The crowd in front of him parted and the man himself appeared. His form was hidden by a hooded rain poncho, but his eyes shone in the security lights.

“Gideon,” Odongo said by way of greeting.

“Mukisa.”

Odongo never spoke of the fact that he’d known Auma at university. Before the man’s psychoses had reached such a pitched level. Before he’d left to pursue his career as God’s avenging angel.

Auma looked over at his six hostages, absorbing the terror and despair in the faces of the ones capable of understanding what was happening.

“I was going to torture them in front of the director of this hospital. But now that I know it’s you, there’s no point, is there? What would you care? Your heart has always been empty. You live only by your calculations.”

Auma motioned toward the hostages and a few of his men fired on full automatic. They threw their arms instinctively in front of their faces as they were mowed down. The screams that were their last act in this world went unheard—drowned out by the guns and rain.

“See?” Auma said, pointing at Odongo. “Not even a flinch. You’ve already forgotten them, haven’t you? You’ve already sifted through how their deaths affect your position. Scenarios. Strategies. Tactics. You can’t comprehend anything beyond that, can you? The smell of their fear. The warmth of their blood on the ground. The sorrow of their families.”

“I’m not one of your disciples, Gideon. Your oratory bores me as much now as it did when we were children. What do you want?”

The cult leader’s expression was still in shadow, but his eyes sharpened. “David Chism.”

“He’s gone.”

“Do you remember me as being stupid?”

“No. I remember you as being insane.”

Auma’s followers continued to look at him with the expected awe but, in a few of them, that awe was marred by confusion. It was unlikely that they’d ever heard anyone speak to their messiah as an equal. As a human being like the other seven billion on the planet. Well, perhaps not like the other seven billion. But also, not a celestial creature in danger of sprouting wings and ascending into heaven.