He was holding himself, arms wrapped tightly around his emaciated frame, almost like he was holding himself together, despite the fact not even a truckload of super glue would be enough for a job like that. Eyes closed, lids a sickly purple against his pale, gaunt face, and his lips were moving silently, forming words that couldn't be heard. A prayer maybe? (He was religious where I was indifferent). The boots were scuffed, so dirt caked they had no hope to ever shine, his jeans the same level of unruly. Even his white t-shirt was grimy, and now it hung off of him like a rag - not enough bones, muscle, and flesh to fill it out.
It was one of those things; an inevitable breakdown that had to happen at one point or another. We were in an abandoned parking garage, nestled within the "bad part of town" our parents constantly warned us about as children. The concrete underneath us was covered in a fine layer of dust and dirt, with weeds sprouting up like infectious wounds in the cracked cuts of the concrete. There weren't even birds making a home in the rafters. Just us and the weeds.
"It's okay." A hopeful venture on my part, because maybe he'd believe me. The two of us could go home, forget about it all, and be happy.
"How?" Or maybe not. "Explain to me how any part of this could possibly be okay." His voice was bitter, my carefree friend had now vanished, replaced by a gray-faced, withered shell of a person.
"Well... Just because you found out this unbelievable truth of what you thought was a myth is now part of your life... I mean, it doesn't have to be bad...does it?" Even to myself, I sounded like an idiot. I was talking too quickly, in a falsetto of my normal voice, and I couldn't stop. It was like word vomit. I so desperately wanted things to be okay that I had to ensure it myself.
"Are you kidding me?" He laughed, a single scoff. There was no amusement behind it. The laugh of someone who has no other option when responding except to cry, and refuses to do so.
"You're the last of your kind. Whatever. Big deal!"
"You honestly believe it doesn't matter that much?
"Honestly?"
"Yeah."
"No. I think it matters a whole lot."
"Yeah... That's what I thought." His grip tightened around his torso, and he hunched over, still trying to hold himself together. Normally, I would've gone over, touched his back gently to try and soothe him. Things were different now. I was fairly certain he hated me, though I hadn't done anything. But I was the catalyst of a truth neither of us wanted.
"So, dragons." It was the only diversion I could legitimately hit, considering we had just now learned of their existence. As in real-real, not just a silly bedtime monster.
"Oh, please no. I don't want to talk about this Luce - I just want to rewind time. I want to never have uncovered this truth, or even, never agreed to help you."
"You mean that?"
"Yeah. I don't know. Maybe."
I rocked back and forth on my heels, a slow and steady rhythm. It was the only way to keep grounded. One of us had to be strong, so I couldn't be like Nikolai right now. He was allowed his breakdown, but I had to stay level-headed. I could hear the city waking slowly around us. We had been so insulated in this abandoned place, but there was still life around us. Babies screaming, mothers shouting, fathers calling out goodbyes, children shrieking with excitement... Nikolai stayed hunkered down, his frame shuddering slightly.
"Is it the power? The...you know... Ugh! You know! Is that why you're all...messed up, body wise?"
Nikolai snorted, the faint echo of a smile ghosting his lips for a mere moment. "How would I know? I only found out, like, four hours ago. Same as you." In that short span of time, his body mass had dropped considerably, as if the transfer of power he now held was draining him as it adjusted to its new master.
"Wanna talk about it?"
"Jesus, Luce! You can't be quiet for a fucking second, can you!" He exploded. I took an involuntary step back, my eyes widening not of my own volition. I had been expecting an outburst of some kind of another, but it hadn't ever come. I'd let my guard down, a clear mistake. He sighed and straightened up, unraveling his arms from around himself. He scrubbed his face and rubbed at his eyes, finally locking the vivid green peepers on me. They had once been chocolate brown. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine." My voice escaped as a hoarse whisper, and I cursed internally at the fragility of my own body. Mortality was such an annoyance when exposed to the truth of things. How things had once been, how they were now. That your best friend was descended from a long line of immortals, but the spirit had been severed within the original vessel, causing both pieces to be displaced until they could reunite, stay contained, but only just.
"I'm the last of my kind, Lucy."
The revelation passed his chapped lips, and I was surprised to hear him say it - there was such finality in it. Still, it seemed to surprise him even more. A shudder wracked his body, but once he straightened, it was apparent he had adjusted to the power. Already, color was in his cheeks again.
"You mean, the last dragon lord."
"Yeah... But what does that even mean? There's no manual! I only got to be with - meet! - my father six hours ago. He never told me anything, never explained anything. And now he's dead..."
"That's the reason you have your power though, right?"
"I don't want this power! I never asked for it! I don't want to be... The last of something." His voice started out so violently, but quickly became a soft noise of desolation. Nikolai stared at me, a stare that left his face naked and vulnerable. I could see the fear in his eyes, the dark depression lurking in his features.
"We better get back. I don't have anymore sick days, and I don't think you do either. If we get fired, we lose the apartment."
It took him a moment, but he nodded at me, and I turned, leading us out of our bleak refuge, and back into the squirming masses of humanity.
Gray
The clouds cause the sunlight to be white, cold, unfeeling, not warm and golden. Snowflakes fall, slow and gentle. Meandering through the air and to the ground where they melt on wet sidewalks. The twins hold hands, sitting side by side on a bench, eyes scanning the place around them. It is eerie, their similarity. No other children approach them, no one wants to play with them, and this is the way the twins like it. The children now know better than to go anywhere near the identical brothers.
Eventually, the snow begins to stick. The flakes continue to build, creating little mounds. Not enough for a snowman, but enough to jump in, causing flurries to fly. The twins look up, and open their mouths in unison, tongues outstretched to catch the frozen rain.
What is the feeling overcoming the atmosphere of the playground? Though the children do not call it depression, desperation, sadness, melancholy, this is what it is. It is characterized by a creeping lethargy, slowness. The twins wear dark coats, matching one another, staring out at the other children with a strange sort of sadness in their eyes. They do not see the pinks, reds, blues, greens of the other children's coats. Bright colors are not something the twins can comprehend. For their entire life has been fogged over by the exact feeling slowly making its way across the playground right now.
Play ceases. The children stop their motions, movements. They stand, stiff. An intense urge to lay down overtakes them. It would be nice to curl up, wouldn't it? But that is the danger. For sleep would mean being exposed, and the snow would continue to fall. Eventually, their bodies would fall cold. Eventually, they would not be able to stay awake even if they wanted to, and their blue tinged limbs, their dark purple fingers, they would fall. Frostbite.
The twins stand.
They are not at a playground. They are not children. They are two brothers, identical and grown into young adults. Each one holds an ebony handled umbrella, staring out at the stones marking each death. Marking each grave. The somber feeling in the air overtakes them.
As one, they turn and walk away.
Eventually, the snow begins to stick. The flakes continue to build, creating little mounds. Not enough for a snowman, but enough to jump in, causing flurries to fly. The twins look up, and open their mouths in unison, tongues outstretched to catch the frozen rain.
What is the feeling overcoming the atmosphere of the playground? Though the children do not call it depression, desperation, sadness, melancholy, this is what it is. It is characterized by a creeping lethargy, slowness. The twins wear dark coats, matching one another, staring out at the other children with a strange sort of sadness in their eyes. They do not see the pinks, reds, blues, greens of the other children's coats. Bright colors are not something the twins can comprehend. For their entire life has been fogged over by the exact feeling slowly making its way across the playground right now.
Play ceases. The children stop their motions, movements. They stand, stiff. An intense urge to lay down overtakes them. It would be nice to curl up, wouldn't it? But that is the danger. For sleep would mean being exposed, and the snow would continue to fall. Eventually, their bodies would fall cold. Eventually, they would not be able to stay awake even if they wanted to, and their blue tinged limbs, their dark purple fingers, they would fall. Frostbite.
The twins stand.
They are not at a playground. They are not children. They are two brothers, identical and grown into young adults. Each one holds an ebony handled umbrella, staring out at the stones marking each death. Marking each grave. The somber feeling in the air overtakes them.
As one, they turn and walk away.
Sanctimonious Sin
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Becoming a priest had not been my life's goal.
How I ended up in this position was what Gramps would call "God's Will", and what I call a load of hokum. It didn't happen in the standard way. I didn't go to a school to learn about the bible and then get inducted into the faith. I didn't go through the rites of passage. I'm not even Catholic! All I did was save a little kid from a demon, big freaking deal.
I did it all the time before anyone took notice. The woman who did, Evangeline Morris, ended up being part of the FBI. And why the FBI really needed me to be a Jesuit Priest in order to conduct exorcisms, I haven't the foggiest idea. I was doing fine before the government came in to back me up, and now it's become a thousand times more difficult.
You know what I have to do if I want to save a kid's soul? I have to properly fill out and file the paperwork first. Then, I'm supposed to wait three weeks for it to come back as accepted or rejected. Meanwhile, the demonspawn is free to run around causing mayhem and condemning the child's soul to an eternity in Hell. Bureaucracy in action.
There's no one else out there like me. Not since Gramps died. The thing we are, or have as a skill, whatever it is, it comes down our family line. It skips a generation and nails some poor sucker like me with a "gift". A gift if today is opposite day and you actually mean "curse".
At least I've got a steady job now, consulting with the FBI. The whole priest thing though? I don't think that's gonna last long.
--
Another day, another dollar. And who is waiting for me but Evangeline!
"Peter. You're late."
"Sorry. Guess I just got lost in my prayers."
She snorts but doesn't argue. We both know I wasn't praying, I never have before in my life, but she's the one who had me become a priest. She can't get onto me for prayer, too hypocritical. Instead, she moves on.
"We have an adult. It's in the city, so we can drive over."
"Wait, what?"
"Well, I think there's another demon victim who we need to go see, Peter, or I wouldn't have called you," She says in a tone of voice implying she believes me to be a retarded child.
"No, you said adult. I don't work with adults."
"What? Why not?"
"Too late to save their souls. Too much sin. I can't help them like the kids. The only way I can help is... No. I don't help adults."
"Peter..." I know that tone she's using. The pleading kind of tone asking me to help. Wanting me to help. A favor. Personal. Needing. God must hate me.
"Fine."
--
The man lives in a pretty nice neighborhood, and I feel out of place. I didn't grow up in a bad place, but it wasn't fancy. It was a farm. Farms involve lots of animal shit. Shit isn't nice. Being at these houses surrounded by manicured lawns and overflowing flower pots... All I can see is a load of manure, far more than I ever saw on the farm.
I let Evangeline lead me, let her do all the talking. In my hands, two plastic grocery bags. Because saving the planet is for legitimate priests, and right now, I just don't care. The bags are filled with my supplies, what I need to complete this exorcism. Other agents are clustered around inside, whispering when I walk by. I know why. They're excited to see the freak in person, the guy who sees demons and gets rid of them. But it isn't a big deal, not usually. This time though... It's an adult, which means it's going to be so much worse than anything I've ever encountered. I've only cleansed a full grown adult once, and I had hoped I wouldn't ever have to do it again.
"He's in here," Evangeline beckons me over to an open door, and I weave through the crowd of agents to get to her. Inside, the man is restrained on his dining room table as I requested, bound by chains so tight that he can't chafe himself with them because they don't allow movement for his spread eagle form.
Walking in, I look at the woman I briefly considered partner, and wonder if she'll ever see me the same again after this. "No matter what it looks like or what you see, don't physically come in here until I open the door. You can watch, but you cannot enter."
With that, I go in and make my preparations. Pulling out several round loafs of bread, I begin breaking them, placing hunks of it around the man's body, outlining him in a way. The spacing is important, has to be done with care and precision. Then, I pull out my giant sea salt container. Putting large piles of salt in between the bread hunks, I stow the remaining bread and salt away. The last thing I grab is a cheap bottle of wine that cost no more than five dollars. It doesn't need to be fancy for this to work.
Looking at this man, I hate him instantly. He's roiling with oily darkness, sin, disgust. You don't accumulate that much sin on accident. I wish I could send his soul to Hell myself, but Evangeline asked me to help, so here I am. Putting my life on the line for a man who doesn't deserve a single prayer.
I start at the feet, the base. Picking up a hunk of bread, I dribble the wine onto it, and then press it into the closest salt pile to the right, soaking the bread in alcohol and salt. Salt that is already stained black by that same oily sin oozing around the man. Putting the bread in my mouth, I chew slowly...swallow. It's already taking hold by the first bite. The man's sin is being drawn to me, interested in me now. The man's mouth opens, the demon cackling in delight, thinking it has a new toy and not realizing what I'm doing. I repeat my previous action, and work my way around his body, eating his sin. When the demon realizes, it wails and screams and curses. But he is restrained, and I eat his sin.
It's horrible. A knowledge that your body is filled with something you don't want, something you didn't ask for. To know your own soul has a chance of being damned if this doesn't work. I finish the outline. I eat the last hunk of bread.
No more traces of oily roiling black are in his body, the demon forced out of him by purity. This is why children are so much easier. They are, for the most part, innocent. Any sin they have in them is due to their parents, the sin spreading to them like an infection. It's easy to force a demon out then, purity readily reasserting itself. Now, in this case, my body is full of his sin.
I limp back to the door, my body already breaking under the strain of his failures and inadequacies. I open it and Evangeline stares at me, fear in her eyes. I blink, hoping the demon red I'm sure must have filled my own eyes goes away. I open them again and her fear is somewhat diminished.
"Where's the bathroom?" I croak.
"Down the hall, to the left..." Her voice is shaking slightly. Worried. I don't care. Can't care. Too much sin infesting me. Moving past her, I barely get the lid of the toilet up before I lose it. It all pours out of my mouth, down into the sewers. My body heaves, all of it painful, so painful. Eventually, I am empty.
I rest my arms on the rim of it, and rest my head on them.
"What was that?" Evangeline is standing in the doorway looking at me.
"I ate his sin."
"What?"
"This is what I am Evangeline. A sin eater."
How I ended up in this position was what Gramps would call "God's Will", and what I call a load of hokum. It didn't happen in the standard way. I didn't go to a school to learn about the bible and then get inducted into the faith. I didn't go through the rites of passage. I'm not even Catholic! All I did was save a little kid from a demon, big freaking deal.
I did it all the time before anyone took notice. The woman who did, Evangeline Morris, ended up being part of the FBI. And why the FBI really needed me to be a Jesuit Priest in order to conduct exorcisms, I haven't the foggiest idea. I was doing fine before the government came in to back me up, and now it's become a thousand times more difficult.
You know what I have to do if I want to save a kid's soul? I have to properly fill out and file the paperwork first. Then, I'm supposed to wait three weeks for it to come back as accepted or rejected. Meanwhile, the demonspawn is free to run around causing mayhem and condemning the child's soul to an eternity in Hell. Bureaucracy in action.
There's no one else out there like me. Not since Gramps died. The thing we are, or have as a skill, whatever it is, it comes down our family line. It skips a generation and nails some poor sucker like me with a "gift". A gift if today is opposite day and you actually mean "curse".
At least I've got a steady job now, consulting with the FBI. The whole priest thing though? I don't think that's gonna last long.
--
Another day, another dollar. And who is waiting for me but Evangeline!
"Peter. You're late."
"Sorry. Guess I just got lost in my prayers."
She snorts but doesn't argue. We both know I wasn't praying, I never have before in my life, but she's the one who had me become a priest. She can't get onto me for prayer, too hypocritical. Instead, she moves on.
"We have an adult. It's in the city, so we can drive over."
"Wait, what?"
"Well, I think there's another demon victim who we need to go see, Peter, or I wouldn't have called you," She says in a tone of voice implying she believes me to be a retarded child.
"No, you said adult. I don't work with adults."
"What? Why not?"
"Too late to save their souls. Too much sin. I can't help them like the kids. The only way I can help is... No. I don't help adults."
"Peter..." I know that tone she's using. The pleading kind of tone asking me to help. Wanting me to help. A favor. Personal. Needing. God must hate me.
"Fine."
--
The man lives in a pretty nice neighborhood, and I feel out of place. I didn't grow up in a bad place, but it wasn't fancy. It was a farm. Farms involve lots of animal shit. Shit isn't nice. Being at these houses surrounded by manicured lawns and overflowing flower pots... All I can see is a load of manure, far more than I ever saw on the farm.
I let Evangeline lead me, let her do all the talking. In my hands, two plastic grocery bags. Because saving the planet is for legitimate priests, and right now, I just don't care. The bags are filled with my supplies, what I need to complete this exorcism. Other agents are clustered around inside, whispering when I walk by. I know why. They're excited to see the freak in person, the guy who sees demons and gets rid of them. But it isn't a big deal, not usually. This time though... It's an adult, which means it's going to be so much worse than anything I've ever encountered. I've only cleansed a full grown adult once, and I had hoped I wouldn't ever have to do it again.
"He's in here," Evangeline beckons me over to an open door, and I weave through the crowd of agents to get to her. Inside, the man is restrained on his dining room table as I requested, bound by chains so tight that he can't chafe himself with them because they don't allow movement for his spread eagle form.
Walking in, I look at the woman I briefly considered partner, and wonder if she'll ever see me the same again after this. "No matter what it looks like or what you see, don't physically come in here until I open the door. You can watch, but you cannot enter."
With that, I go in and make my preparations. Pulling out several round loafs of bread, I begin breaking them, placing hunks of it around the man's body, outlining him in a way. The spacing is important, has to be done with care and precision. Then, I pull out my giant sea salt container. Putting large piles of salt in between the bread hunks, I stow the remaining bread and salt away. The last thing I grab is a cheap bottle of wine that cost no more than five dollars. It doesn't need to be fancy for this to work.
Looking at this man, I hate him instantly. He's roiling with oily darkness, sin, disgust. You don't accumulate that much sin on accident. I wish I could send his soul to Hell myself, but Evangeline asked me to help, so here I am. Putting my life on the line for a man who doesn't deserve a single prayer.
I start at the feet, the base. Picking up a hunk of bread, I dribble the wine onto it, and then press it into the closest salt pile to the right, soaking the bread in alcohol and salt. Salt that is already stained black by that same oily sin oozing around the man. Putting the bread in my mouth, I chew slowly...swallow. It's already taking hold by the first bite. The man's sin is being drawn to me, interested in me now. The man's mouth opens, the demon cackling in delight, thinking it has a new toy and not realizing what I'm doing. I repeat my previous action, and work my way around his body, eating his sin. When the demon realizes, it wails and screams and curses. But he is restrained, and I eat his sin.
It's horrible. A knowledge that your body is filled with something you don't want, something you didn't ask for. To know your own soul has a chance of being damned if this doesn't work. I finish the outline. I eat the last hunk of bread.
No more traces of oily roiling black are in his body, the demon forced out of him by purity. This is why children are so much easier. They are, for the most part, innocent. Any sin they have in them is due to their parents, the sin spreading to them like an infection. It's easy to force a demon out then, purity readily reasserting itself. Now, in this case, my body is full of his sin.
I limp back to the door, my body already breaking under the strain of his failures and inadequacies. I open it and Evangeline stares at me, fear in her eyes. I blink, hoping the demon red I'm sure must have filled my own eyes goes away. I open them again and her fear is somewhat diminished.
"Where's the bathroom?" I croak.
"Down the hall, to the left..." Her voice is shaking slightly. Worried. I don't care. Can't care. Too much sin infesting me. Moving past her, I barely get the lid of the toilet up before I lose it. It all pours out of my mouth, down into the sewers. My body heaves, all of it painful, so painful. Eventually, I am empty.
I rest my arms on the rim of it, and rest my head on them.
"What was that?" Evangeline is standing in the doorway looking at me.
"I ate his sin."
"What?"
"This is what I am Evangeline. A sin eater."
Twin Exorcists
A woman's scream, shrill and piercing, cut through the otherwise silent night. As one, Calla and Corwin Beech stood from the bench they had been previously sitting on. They went from standing still to a flat out run, black coats billowing out behind them as the air whipped up around them. Both had their hoods up, faces obscured from casual glances by the unassuming public. The two siblings, twins, were members of the All-Saints Order, as the silver decoration atop their hoods verified. Not only were they members, they were the highest ranking exorcists. Normally, one exorcist alone claimed this revered spot of prestige, but the twins refused to work separately, and had earned the title as one.
Calla Beech already had her modified shotgun at the ready, the grip designed for her hand alone, and the slugs within blessed by several certified minders. She continued running beside her brother, shotgun held in a two hand grip to her front, muzzle pointed at the ground. The woman's scream rang out once more, and she adjusted her course accordingly. It took Corwin longer, but that could be attributed to the transformation into Beast already beginning.
His yellow eyes pulsed, the whites ebbing away as the bleeding yellow took over. A snarl tore through his lips, claws thickened, sharpened keratin sprouting from his nails, ripping them apart as they grew. His hands began to melt away into paws, the fingers still clear and jointed, but large and grotesque with brown fur. His nose and mouth elongated to a muzzle, sprouting out and causing him to growl once more. Breathing in through his now improved nose, demon filtered in, letting him know exactly where he needed to go. He began to leap up, scrabbling for purchase to begin running on the rooftops of the buildings that framed the street, while Calla continued on the ground toward the sounds of sobbing.
Somewhere, a demon, one of the twisted souls who escaped Hell, was torturing a poor woman. Either psychological or physical, that was yet to be determined. Whichever, it didn't really matter. One way or another, the demon would be felled and the woman saved. Such was the skill of the highest ranking exorcists.
Booted feet continued to smack against the hard packed dirt of the street and Calla picked up her pace. From what she could hear, the woman and her attacker were only two more house rows away. Above her was Corwin, and she had no doubt he would reach them before she did, but that was okay. She was less of a fighter. Her skills lay in healing, in magicks and forces not accepted by the church. Not yet, at least. Should any minder or other exorcist find out the truth of Calla and Corwin's powers, it was likely they would be excommunicated, hunted like wild dogs. Of course, it was possible the Order would accept them, but it was doubtful. They were too well controlled by the church.
Finally, Calla made visual contact. The woman was pretty enough, her milky skin a beacon in the darkness of the night. Near her, a man was pointing, a malignant smile on his face. Evil. Before she could yell out, a dark shape fell on the man, tore into him. The demon howled in outrage as Beast began his assault. Calla skirted the action, darted toward the woman and dragged her back away from the violence. From the corner of the woman's mouth, dark red blood dribbled. The damage was internal then, and perhaps psychological as well.
Calla's warm, dark brown eyes met the frightened woman's and she smiled, "It's going to be alright now, okay? We'll get you out of this mess, safe and sound. That big brute of a beast fighting over there is doing it for you." It was possible her words wouldn't soothe the woman, but it normally did, and in this case succeeded. Letting her hands skim across the woman, Calla closed her eyes and saw the internal mechanisms. Her hood flew back, her snow white hair lifting up above her, even while secured in a braid. A pale, celestial light seemed to fill her, seemed to pulse from her, and she began to heal the woman. The light filtered from her mouth, from her now open but sightless eyes. The woman was entranced, but quickly lost consciousness. The audacity of the entire situation so beggared belief that her mind had retreated in an attempt to cope. It happened often.
Despite the knowledge that everyone now had, that the world they resided on, New Earth, was situated between Heaven and Hell, people still had trouble comprehending it. The All-Saints Order was treated with immense respect, but not many people knew the firsthand effects of a twisted soul, a demon. When the woman later roused, she would likely come to understand what had happened, but Calla and Corwin would not remain to gain her thanks. They would be long gone by then, back to headquarters.
As Calla finished healing the woman, Beast had almost finished decimating the demon. His claws had torn into it, left multiple ragged wounds that bled soul energy. His teeth had struck the neck, snapped the spine. The demon was attempting to hang on, but it was futile. Beast had never once let a demon escape his wrath, and what wrath it was. It was what fueled his transformations, but Calla was the calm and peace that brought him back to himself. When they had first been recruited to the Order, he had almost transformed once or twice when dealing with the hazing going on. Calla had been the one to keep their secrets hidden. On missions, however, he was free to let the transformation overcome him, as long as Calla was there to bring him out of it.
The demon died, screamed in its agony. Beast howled, muzzle to the sky, blood dripping from long claws. The large, yellow eyes turned to the girl, Calla. Beast licked his lips, neared her. It was every intention of Beast to attack her, but when she smiled, he found himself faltering.
"You did good. But you have to come back now, okay? I worry each time you change it may be your last, and you'll be Beast forever." Calla had long ago concluded that her brother was Corwin, pre-transformation. Beast was the thing that took over her brother's body, but did not smother her brother entirely. She always had to reason with Beast, not Corwin, to bring him back. Beast looked at her again, tilted his head. Slowly, the transformation began to dissolve, the claws falling to the ground as regular nails took their rightful place back on now normal fingers. The muzzle receded, the eyes becoming human once more. "Let's get her to a safe place and then go. I figure the hospital down the road will do the trick." Corwin nodded and picked up the limp form of the woman, letting Calla lead the way.
Such was the life of these exorcists. Always on the move. Saving others and putting their own souls and minds in danger.
Of all the exorcists, Calla and Corwin Beech had the least to live for, only one another. Perhaps that was why they were the best of the best. Someone had to do it, and why not those who no one would cry for in passing?
Calla Beech already had her modified shotgun at the ready, the grip designed for her hand alone, and the slugs within blessed by several certified minders. She continued running beside her brother, shotgun held in a two hand grip to her front, muzzle pointed at the ground. The woman's scream rang out once more, and she adjusted her course accordingly. It took Corwin longer, but that could be attributed to the transformation into Beast already beginning.
His yellow eyes pulsed, the whites ebbing away as the bleeding yellow took over. A snarl tore through his lips, claws thickened, sharpened keratin sprouting from his nails, ripping them apart as they grew. His hands began to melt away into paws, the fingers still clear and jointed, but large and grotesque with brown fur. His nose and mouth elongated to a muzzle, sprouting out and causing him to growl once more. Breathing in through his now improved nose, demon filtered in, letting him know exactly where he needed to go. He began to leap up, scrabbling for purchase to begin running on the rooftops of the buildings that framed the street, while Calla continued on the ground toward the sounds of sobbing.
Somewhere, a demon, one of the twisted souls who escaped Hell, was torturing a poor woman. Either psychological or physical, that was yet to be determined. Whichever, it didn't really matter. One way or another, the demon would be felled and the woman saved. Such was the skill of the highest ranking exorcists.
Booted feet continued to smack against the hard packed dirt of the street and Calla picked up her pace. From what she could hear, the woman and her attacker were only two more house rows away. Above her was Corwin, and she had no doubt he would reach them before she did, but that was okay. She was less of a fighter. Her skills lay in healing, in magicks and forces not accepted by the church. Not yet, at least. Should any minder or other exorcist find out the truth of Calla and Corwin's powers, it was likely they would be excommunicated, hunted like wild dogs. Of course, it was possible the Order would accept them, but it was doubtful. They were too well controlled by the church.
Finally, Calla made visual contact. The woman was pretty enough, her milky skin a beacon in the darkness of the night. Near her, a man was pointing, a malignant smile on his face. Evil. Before she could yell out, a dark shape fell on the man, tore into him. The demon howled in outrage as Beast began his assault. Calla skirted the action, darted toward the woman and dragged her back away from the violence. From the corner of the woman's mouth, dark red blood dribbled. The damage was internal then, and perhaps psychological as well.
Calla's warm, dark brown eyes met the frightened woman's and she smiled, "It's going to be alright now, okay? We'll get you out of this mess, safe and sound. That big brute of a beast fighting over there is doing it for you." It was possible her words wouldn't soothe the woman, but it normally did, and in this case succeeded. Letting her hands skim across the woman, Calla closed her eyes and saw the internal mechanisms. Her hood flew back, her snow white hair lifting up above her, even while secured in a braid. A pale, celestial light seemed to fill her, seemed to pulse from her, and she began to heal the woman. The light filtered from her mouth, from her now open but sightless eyes. The woman was entranced, but quickly lost consciousness. The audacity of the entire situation so beggared belief that her mind had retreated in an attempt to cope. It happened often.
Despite the knowledge that everyone now had, that the world they resided on, New Earth, was situated between Heaven and Hell, people still had trouble comprehending it. The All-Saints Order was treated with immense respect, but not many people knew the firsthand effects of a twisted soul, a demon. When the woman later roused, she would likely come to understand what had happened, but Calla and Corwin would not remain to gain her thanks. They would be long gone by then, back to headquarters.
As Calla finished healing the woman, Beast had almost finished decimating the demon. His claws had torn into it, left multiple ragged wounds that bled soul energy. His teeth had struck the neck, snapped the spine. The demon was attempting to hang on, but it was futile. Beast had never once let a demon escape his wrath, and what wrath it was. It was what fueled his transformations, but Calla was the calm and peace that brought him back to himself. When they had first been recruited to the Order, he had almost transformed once or twice when dealing with the hazing going on. Calla had been the one to keep their secrets hidden. On missions, however, he was free to let the transformation overcome him, as long as Calla was there to bring him out of it.
The demon died, screamed in its agony. Beast howled, muzzle to the sky, blood dripping from long claws. The large, yellow eyes turned to the girl, Calla. Beast licked his lips, neared her. It was every intention of Beast to attack her, but when she smiled, he found himself faltering.
"You did good. But you have to come back now, okay? I worry each time you change it may be your last, and you'll be Beast forever." Calla had long ago concluded that her brother was Corwin, pre-transformation. Beast was the thing that took over her brother's body, but did not smother her brother entirely. She always had to reason with Beast, not Corwin, to bring him back. Beast looked at her again, tilted his head. Slowly, the transformation began to dissolve, the claws falling to the ground as regular nails took their rightful place back on now normal fingers. The muzzle receded, the eyes becoming human once more. "Let's get her to a safe place and then go. I figure the hospital down the road will do the trick." Corwin nodded and picked up the limp form of the woman, letting Calla lead the way.
Such was the life of these exorcists. Always on the move. Saving others and putting their own souls and minds in danger.
Of all the exorcists, Calla and Corwin Beech had the least to live for, only one another. Perhaps that was why they were the best of the best. Someone had to do it, and why not those who no one would cry for in passing?
Family Knows Best
Normally, Felix Bailey resided in a medium sized farm house out in the country in the state of New York. He hated the city, the claustrophobic clamor of the crowds, and the thick haze of exhaust permeating everything, the sewer drains overflowing with trash... Felix was a man of order. Everything had its own proper place, even the not-so-proper things. Yet New York City seemed determined to throw any rules of law and order out the window. He hated it.
However, his work occasionally warranted he visit the sprawling metropolis, which was actually rather small in comparison to the amount of people living there. The work he did was not talked about. The first rule of his job? You don't talk about your job. For some, this would be a humorous allusion to Fight Club, but not for Felix. For him, this was the law of the Family. It was the law of every Family. You didn't have to be Irish, you could be with the Russians or Italians but it was the same no matter what. That was the problem with the entire system. If you couldn't talk about it, everyone knew you were one of them.
Mostly, Felix didn't get involved in any turf wars. His was an analytical mind that found fighting pointless. The Italians had gotten fat and lazy, comfortable running their garbage disposal racket. When the Russians came over, it had been after the collapse of the Soviet Union, after a collapse of communism giving them all a chip on their shoulder. They weren't only tough, they were dedicated. This made all the difference in Family business, as only the strongest survived. They had recently become disillusioned with their entire country and life, and were now willing to kill and die to protect their freedom; after all, the purge in their country meant Russia was Wonderland, the oligarchy was the Queen of Hearts, and any citizen could be Alice. What else was there for them?
Then you had the Irish, a step apart from the Italians and Russians. Though many retained a false pretense of religious inclination, it was a massive farce. Anyone who was Irish and gone Family had likely been a witness to Bloody Sunday, or grown up on the stories of it. They were sickened with their God, and with religion in general. They all stuck together to drink away the painful memories, tearing things up. But they were still tough, even when they appeared drunk and brainless. You could bet, no matter what, they were scheming the best way to kick your ass without much fuss or fanfare.
Felix was involved with the Irish, as his father before him. Honestly, he hadn't wanted to go into the life, but the sudden death of his father had left no other option. It was sink or swim and Felix wasn't about to get eaten by the sharks; he was going to be the shark.
Driving a ratty blue Ford pick-up truck, he was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, his briefcase in the passenger seat. The leather seats of the truck were cracked, coughing up stuffing like junk from the lungs. But Felix wouldn't replace the truck for anything. It had been his father's. Filled with the scent of peppermints, the sharp biting kind. James, Felix's father, had always had a peppermint in his mouth when driving the truck or with a client. Felix had taken up the habit. No spearmint for them, that was for weaklings. Anything but the sharp winter's mint was for pussies.
He had been attached to his father. Then again, he'd only had the one parent. Though he vaguely recalled Melissa Prescott, he had been five at the time of her death. She was the reason his first name was very certainly not Irish, but his father had always maintained that he should feel honored to be graced with a name from her. After his mother's death, his father took a turn for the worse. James became volatile and much more violent in business dealings. He climbed the ranks. Instead of a lowly accountant for the Family, he'd risen all the way to top loan shark. He'd kept a little black book of secrets and names, and wore an old wristwatch on the same hand that broken so many fingers. He had caused bloody noses, broken legs, arms, beaten men who simply couldn't afford to pay back what they borrowed. Never killed anyone at least, so that was something. During these regular bouts, he often yelled at his son, "See?! This will be you someday. This is the life, boyo. It's the only one you'll ever get." He hadn't believed his father's sentiment at the time, he wanted to go away to law school and put away the criminals his father associated with. He didn't want to learn how to cheat at card games, didn't want to learn how to con good people and bad people alike.
Then James had died at a Marti Gras party gone wrong. At 22, Felix had been forced to leave his dreams behind and was working with the Family as his father so long ago predicted. He was a prodigy. Though new to the game, he had absorbed so much from the time spent with his father, that he was already one of the best. He brokered the best deals, dealt out the fairest and most brutal punishments, and kept the Family's affairs in order. The strong-arms respected him, the top dogs were pleased with him. This was why they gave him such leniency in keeping up his father's old estate. They let him keep the truck and drive it around as long as he looked like a professional upon exiting the vehicle.
Now, Felix sucked on a peppermint and tapped his left hand against the steering wheel as he drove, the long ago broken wristwatch of his father on his wrist. He had a meeting with a budding group of Irish mobsters who wanted to make their own score. but the current ruling Family had no room for that. This city was their city, and no other group could screw them over. So, Felix had been tasked with arranging a deal. Already, the meeting place was set up, the young man headed out to meet them.
He wasn't sure there would be trouble. These guys always wanted to prove how tough and strong they were, sure, but why would they push him around? True, he was a loan shark, and most thought they were weak in muscle. Except, Felix wasn't. He had an extensive training regimen and kept a healthy diet in order to avoid such issues. Though his muscles were not grotesquely bulging and large, they were well-formed and strong. Lean. Tough muscles. Any trouble could be circumvented quickly by his own strength and skill in fighting.
After navigating the painfully congested streets of the city, he pulled his beat up truck to the curb of a large house in a nicer district of the city. A place where people could actually afford the ridiculously priced homes. Stepping out of the truck, he grabbed his briefcase and popped a fresh peppermint into his mouth. Walking up to the front door, the man he was meant to meet appeared. Colin O'Toole.
Colin possessed fair skin, and a carrot crown of orange-red curls. He was an older man, dressed in his own suit and with a Virgin Mary on a chain around his neck. Smiling with artificially bright-white teeth, he greeted Felix with a hand outstretched.
"Felix! Good to meet you finally."
"Likewise," Felix said, meeting the man's hand with his own. Felix didn't talk much, a part of the game. Keep them guessing and stay an enigma. When he did speak, people sat up and listened.
Before Felix could stop the action, Colin pulled the handshake into a hug, similar to how the macho Italians proved rank. This wasn't how the Irish did things, but Felix wasn't going to let it shake him. Not even when he felt the tip of a pistol press into his vertebrae at the mid-spine.
"What are you doing O'Toole? You mess with me, the entire Family is going to come down on your head." The two men remained clasped together in a hug that was turning more and more into a death embrace.
"But you'll still be dead. See, my boys think you're the reason things are running so smoothly around here. The reason we have no opportunities to speak of. You gotta go."
Colin had pulled away a fraction to speak those words to Felix, loosened his grip, and Felix capitalized on the opening. With an efficient grab of the man's upper arms, he thrust Colin away while turning. This threw the gun off-target, and it went wide to the side. Felix used one hand to fit a punch to the man's gut before slamming his wrist, causing the small and tender muscles to release without intentional thought. The gun dropped and he kicked it away before hefting his briefcase and bringing it down to bear on the man's bent over form. He went for his head, not his back. This way, the hired muscle would be out of commission for a few hours instead of minutes.
Turning, he eyed O'Toole who had fallen into shocked silence. Pulling out his cellphone and dialing in a select number, his eyes remained fixed on Colin. As he began relaying the betrayal to his superiors, Felix sighed internally.
This had never been the life he wanted, but it seemed to be the life he was stuck with. The only life he'd ever have.
However, his work occasionally warranted he visit the sprawling metropolis, which was actually rather small in comparison to the amount of people living there. The work he did was not talked about. The first rule of his job? You don't talk about your job. For some, this would be a humorous allusion to Fight Club, but not for Felix. For him, this was the law of the Family. It was the law of every Family. You didn't have to be Irish, you could be with the Russians or Italians but it was the same no matter what. That was the problem with the entire system. If you couldn't talk about it, everyone knew you were one of them.
Mostly, Felix didn't get involved in any turf wars. His was an analytical mind that found fighting pointless. The Italians had gotten fat and lazy, comfortable running their garbage disposal racket. When the Russians came over, it had been after the collapse of the Soviet Union, after a collapse of communism giving them all a chip on their shoulder. They weren't only tough, they were dedicated. This made all the difference in Family business, as only the strongest survived. They had recently become disillusioned with their entire country and life, and were now willing to kill and die to protect their freedom; after all, the purge in their country meant Russia was Wonderland, the oligarchy was the Queen of Hearts, and any citizen could be Alice. What else was there for them?
Then you had the Irish, a step apart from the Italians and Russians. Though many retained a false pretense of religious inclination, it was a massive farce. Anyone who was Irish and gone Family had likely been a witness to Bloody Sunday, or grown up on the stories of it. They were sickened with their God, and with religion in general. They all stuck together to drink away the painful memories, tearing things up. But they were still tough, even when they appeared drunk and brainless. You could bet, no matter what, they were scheming the best way to kick your ass without much fuss or fanfare.
Felix was involved with the Irish, as his father before him. Honestly, he hadn't wanted to go into the life, but the sudden death of his father had left no other option. It was sink or swim and Felix wasn't about to get eaten by the sharks; he was going to be the shark.
Driving a ratty blue Ford pick-up truck, he was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, his briefcase in the passenger seat. The leather seats of the truck were cracked, coughing up stuffing like junk from the lungs. But Felix wouldn't replace the truck for anything. It had been his father's. Filled with the scent of peppermints, the sharp biting kind. James, Felix's father, had always had a peppermint in his mouth when driving the truck or with a client. Felix had taken up the habit. No spearmint for them, that was for weaklings. Anything but the sharp winter's mint was for pussies.
He had been attached to his father. Then again, he'd only had the one parent. Though he vaguely recalled Melissa Prescott, he had been five at the time of her death. She was the reason his first name was very certainly not Irish, but his father had always maintained that he should feel honored to be graced with a name from her. After his mother's death, his father took a turn for the worse. James became volatile and much more violent in business dealings. He climbed the ranks. Instead of a lowly accountant for the Family, he'd risen all the way to top loan shark. He'd kept a little black book of secrets and names, and wore an old wristwatch on the same hand that broken so many fingers. He had caused bloody noses, broken legs, arms, beaten men who simply couldn't afford to pay back what they borrowed. Never killed anyone at least, so that was something. During these regular bouts, he often yelled at his son, "See?! This will be you someday. This is the life, boyo. It's the only one you'll ever get." He hadn't believed his father's sentiment at the time, he wanted to go away to law school and put away the criminals his father associated with. He didn't want to learn how to cheat at card games, didn't want to learn how to con good people and bad people alike.
Then James had died at a Marti Gras party gone wrong. At 22, Felix had been forced to leave his dreams behind and was working with the Family as his father so long ago predicted. He was a prodigy. Though new to the game, he had absorbed so much from the time spent with his father, that he was already one of the best. He brokered the best deals, dealt out the fairest and most brutal punishments, and kept the Family's affairs in order. The strong-arms respected him, the top dogs were pleased with him. This was why they gave him such leniency in keeping up his father's old estate. They let him keep the truck and drive it around as long as he looked like a professional upon exiting the vehicle.
Now, Felix sucked on a peppermint and tapped his left hand against the steering wheel as he drove, the long ago broken wristwatch of his father on his wrist. He had a meeting with a budding group of Irish mobsters who wanted to make their own score. but the current ruling Family had no room for that. This city was their city, and no other group could screw them over. So, Felix had been tasked with arranging a deal. Already, the meeting place was set up, the young man headed out to meet them.
He wasn't sure there would be trouble. These guys always wanted to prove how tough and strong they were, sure, but why would they push him around? True, he was a loan shark, and most thought they were weak in muscle. Except, Felix wasn't. He had an extensive training regimen and kept a healthy diet in order to avoid such issues. Though his muscles were not grotesquely bulging and large, they were well-formed and strong. Lean. Tough muscles. Any trouble could be circumvented quickly by his own strength and skill in fighting.
After navigating the painfully congested streets of the city, he pulled his beat up truck to the curb of a large house in a nicer district of the city. A place where people could actually afford the ridiculously priced homes. Stepping out of the truck, he grabbed his briefcase and popped a fresh peppermint into his mouth. Walking up to the front door, the man he was meant to meet appeared. Colin O'Toole.
Colin possessed fair skin, and a carrot crown of orange-red curls. He was an older man, dressed in his own suit and with a Virgin Mary on a chain around his neck. Smiling with artificially bright-white teeth, he greeted Felix with a hand outstretched.
"Felix! Good to meet you finally."
"Likewise," Felix said, meeting the man's hand with his own. Felix didn't talk much, a part of the game. Keep them guessing and stay an enigma. When he did speak, people sat up and listened.
Before Felix could stop the action, Colin pulled the handshake into a hug, similar to how the macho Italians proved rank. This wasn't how the Irish did things, but Felix wasn't going to let it shake him. Not even when he felt the tip of a pistol press into his vertebrae at the mid-spine.
"What are you doing O'Toole? You mess with me, the entire Family is going to come down on your head." The two men remained clasped together in a hug that was turning more and more into a death embrace.
"But you'll still be dead. See, my boys think you're the reason things are running so smoothly around here. The reason we have no opportunities to speak of. You gotta go."
Colin had pulled away a fraction to speak those words to Felix, loosened his grip, and Felix capitalized on the opening. With an efficient grab of the man's upper arms, he thrust Colin away while turning. This threw the gun off-target, and it went wide to the side. Felix used one hand to fit a punch to the man's gut before slamming his wrist, causing the small and tender muscles to release without intentional thought. The gun dropped and he kicked it away before hefting his briefcase and bringing it down to bear on the man's bent over form. He went for his head, not his back. This way, the hired muscle would be out of commission for a few hours instead of minutes.
Turning, he eyed O'Toole who had fallen into shocked silence. Pulling out his cellphone and dialing in a select number, his eyes remained fixed on Colin. As he began relaying the betrayal to his superiors, Felix sighed internally.
This had never been the life he wanted, but it seemed to be the life he was stuck with. The only life he'd ever have.
The Cats of C-14
Nathan "Fishsticks" Williams was new to block C-14. Previously, he had been working at Hyde-Smith Penitentiary, but due to budget cutbacks, they had 'transferred' him. Fishsticks himself felt that 'fired' more accurately described the transition, but you'd never hear him say it in front of any other C-14 employee.
How the nickname from his old job had followed him to this new block, he truly didn't know. When he had originally received the nickname, it had been because of a food fight he broke up on the first day on the job. The prisoners had begun rioting, the cafeteria food flying, and he had been pelted with fish sticks while getting them back in order. After that, the name stuck.
Today, Fishsticks was going down to meet Benson, the main gate guard for the internal block itself. Benson was a tall, ex-con (and why they employed felons at a prison was of great befuddlement to Fishsticks), with thin, shiny, pale scars crisscrossing his face. There was always a toothpick poking from his mouth, and his eyes generally remained half-lidded. When Fishsticks had first met Benson, he believed the man to be falling asleep, but quickly discovered that Benson simply preferred the look. He'd spouted some nonsense about how it kept the prisoners on their toes when they tried to cause trouble and he was fully alert. Or something.
"Benson!" Fishsticks jogged the couple yards left to the internal gate, and pulled up in front of him.
"Fishsticks," the greeting was somewhat familiar, but lacked the general warmth expected. "Boss says you're gonna patrol the insides." Benson chewed thoughtfully on his toothpick and eyed Fishsticks in a way that had him feeling uncomfortable. It was the look of a man sizing up a choice cut of meat, deciding if it was worth the $14.99 price tag, or if he should move on to a different cut.
"Uh, y-yeah." Fishsticks hated his stammer. It had been a problem since his childhood, and speech classes had remedied it only up to the point when he got anxious. And Fishsticks got anxious a lot. "So, uh, whatcha want me to do? Just a sweep?"
A rough kind of hum, one of contemplation, left Benson as he mulled it over. "Yeah. Just watch out for the cats."
"W-what?" Was it some kind of prank? It couldn't be. Could it? After all, Benson looked entirely serious as he relayed this information.
"Watch out for the cats."
"Uh..."
"They're more dangerous than any inmate." Benson hit the electronic lock, the numbers ringing out their personal tones of compliance. "Go on." The gate swung open, the gentle creak of it only increasing the rising sense of dread and anger Fishsticks felt.
It had to be a prank, it was simply too ridiculous. As he slipped through the gate, he silently fumed. He hated the other guards for this! It was just like them to make him legitimately nervous about something that had no basis in reality. Cats? Pah! They were being the idiots they normally were. Fishsticks shook himself, letting it run through him to cleanse the fear, and squared his shoulders.
"Cats..." He muttered to himself as he began his patrol down the corridor. The lights here were caged, the bulbs a tell tale inferior brand with every flicker. Even the wall clock was caged, but it seemed to be stuck on 3:14, despite the fact Fishsticks had been walking the corridor for ten minutes already. He let out some mumbled curses as he continued his walk, and shoved down the fear that was rising once more. The inmates all seemed to be pushed back into the corners of their cells, deep in the shadows. Most muttered incoherently to themselves, their voices occasionally rising in pitch and volume as they reacted to invisible stimuli. As he progressed, one of the lights went out. Fishsticks could see it was the one over him, but the other lights continued to function. Time for a new bulb then. He began moving once more, but heard a soft, low moan, and stopped dead in his tracks.
"The cats, man. The cats! You've gotta get me outta here, yeah? Can't you see the-no...no, please...I... I... I didn't mean it. Please. Please! NO!" A scream followed that abruptly gurgled to a stop. The light above him flickered back on. Fishsticks stared in horror, bile rising in his esophagus. The cell he had heard the voice from was now coated in gore.
Blood pooled on the floor, splashes of it hitting the cell bars like those works of art by men who flick their paintbrushes at the canvas. He could see half of the man's ribs sticking out, only bits of gristle hanging onto the bones. The other side of his torso was obscured by shredded ribbons of muscle and flesh that had once been a man's arm. While it was clear his throat had been ripped out, only a single drop of blood marred his face, frozen in a mask of terror. The legs were nowhere to be seen, completely torn away, gone. Fishsticks looked around, desperately trying to find where they were, but there was no obvious or clear answer. He could hear heavy breathing behind him, and rapidly turned with his night stick raised. It was just another inmate, leaning against his own cell bars. Fishsticks had unknowingly been stepping backwards, away from the other cell, putting him right against the one across from it.
"It's the cats," The other inmate grinned. His teeth appeared abnormally sharp, and he was covered in a strange brown grime, but it was his green eyes that captivated Fishsticks's attention. His eyes were jade, sparkling and unnaturally bright. Golden flecks surrounded his pupil which was contracted in a way that made it look like mere pinpricks of black were present within the green.
"W-wh-what?"
"The cats!" The man said with strange cheer and a smile, as if the sight of all that blood was an every day occurrence. "You should go. Once they get a taste for the day..." A light farther down the hall went out, and a crazed scream followed. Fishsticks turned toward the sound, the disturbance, ready to follow protocol, training, procedure, but... Stopped.
"Cats?" The earlier conversation with Benson replayed in his mind. Hyde-Smith had never been like this. The worst thing he ever saw was a man who had gotten a shiv to the kidney.
"I warned ya," The man said, skulking back into the shadows of his cell, those freaky green eyes the last thing to disappear. Fishsticks looked up with worry, more lights going out, more screaming.
He ran.
He ran so fast, faster than he ever had before, and harder than ever before. His lungs felt like they might burst out of his chest, and still he ran. His feet pounded out the rhythm of his heart, and a flash-flicker of a glance told him the clock had yet to move. His heart beat so quickly, he thought it might stop. The darkness of the dead lights was catching up. He pushed himself to go faster, but the internal gate still seemed as far as it had been at the start.
The darkness caught up.
"Holy sh--" Fishsticks screamed. No amount of running would have gotten him away, despite his speed. A flash of those crazy green eyes and his scream heightened. He was still alive, could feel himself being flayed alive, his skin being ripped apart, his body shredded and mauled. He couldn't stop screaming, and each time his heart beat, he was distinctly aware his heart was pumping out his own life blood. His heartbeat was bound to kill him if the attack didn't soon. Sounds like meowing began to come closer, and he continued to scream. Meows turned to hisses turned to yowls. Fishsticks stopped screaming.
Every light came back on. The wall clock ticked one minute to 3:15. Silence smothered the hall. Spatters of blood covered the floor along the hall, and the only other thing remaining on the floor of organic material was a toothpick.
Down the hall, a jade eyed inmate leaned back into a corner of his cell, laughter bubbling from his chest, feet dabbed here and there with drying blood, a Cheshire cat grin painted across his lips.
At the internal gate, Benson pulled the toothpick out of his mouth, smiling, to reveal pointed, sharp, blood-drenched teeth.
How the nickname from his old job had followed him to this new block, he truly didn't know. When he had originally received the nickname, it had been because of a food fight he broke up on the first day on the job. The prisoners had begun rioting, the cafeteria food flying, and he had been pelted with fish sticks while getting them back in order. After that, the name stuck.
Today, Fishsticks was going down to meet Benson, the main gate guard for the internal block itself. Benson was a tall, ex-con (and why they employed felons at a prison was of great befuddlement to Fishsticks), with thin, shiny, pale scars crisscrossing his face. There was always a toothpick poking from his mouth, and his eyes generally remained half-lidded. When Fishsticks had first met Benson, he believed the man to be falling asleep, but quickly discovered that Benson simply preferred the look. He'd spouted some nonsense about how it kept the prisoners on their toes when they tried to cause trouble and he was fully alert. Or something.
"Benson!" Fishsticks jogged the couple yards left to the internal gate, and pulled up in front of him.
"Fishsticks," the greeting was somewhat familiar, but lacked the general warmth expected. "Boss says you're gonna patrol the insides." Benson chewed thoughtfully on his toothpick and eyed Fishsticks in a way that had him feeling uncomfortable. It was the look of a man sizing up a choice cut of meat, deciding if it was worth the $14.99 price tag, or if he should move on to a different cut.
"Uh, y-yeah." Fishsticks hated his stammer. It had been a problem since his childhood, and speech classes had remedied it only up to the point when he got anxious. And Fishsticks got anxious a lot. "So, uh, whatcha want me to do? Just a sweep?"
A rough kind of hum, one of contemplation, left Benson as he mulled it over. "Yeah. Just watch out for the cats."
"W-what?" Was it some kind of prank? It couldn't be. Could it? After all, Benson looked entirely serious as he relayed this information.
"Watch out for the cats."
"Uh..."
"They're more dangerous than any inmate." Benson hit the electronic lock, the numbers ringing out their personal tones of compliance. "Go on." The gate swung open, the gentle creak of it only increasing the rising sense of dread and anger Fishsticks felt.
It had to be a prank, it was simply too ridiculous. As he slipped through the gate, he silently fumed. He hated the other guards for this! It was just like them to make him legitimately nervous about something that had no basis in reality. Cats? Pah! They were being the idiots they normally were. Fishsticks shook himself, letting it run through him to cleanse the fear, and squared his shoulders.
"Cats..." He muttered to himself as he began his patrol down the corridor. The lights here were caged, the bulbs a tell tale inferior brand with every flicker. Even the wall clock was caged, but it seemed to be stuck on 3:14, despite the fact Fishsticks had been walking the corridor for ten minutes already. He let out some mumbled curses as he continued his walk, and shoved down the fear that was rising once more. The inmates all seemed to be pushed back into the corners of their cells, deep in the shadows. Most muttered incoherently to themselves, their voices occasionally rising in pitch and volume as they reacted to invisible stimuli. As he progressed, one of the lights went out. Fishsticks could see it was the one over him, but the other lights continued to function. Time for a new bulb then. He began moving once more, but heard a soft, low moan, and stopped dead in his tracks.
"The cats, man. The cats! You've gotta get me outta here, yeah? Can't you see the-no...no, please...I... I... I didn't mean it. Please. Please! NO!" A scream followed that abruptly gurgled to a stop. The light above him flickered back on. Fishsticks stared in horror, bile rising in his esophagus. The cell he had heard the voice from was now coated in gore.
Blood pooled on the floor, splashes of it hitting the cell bars like those works of art by men who flick their paintbrushes at the canvas. He could see half of the man's ribs sticking out, only bits of gristle hanging onto the bones. The other side of his torso was obscured by shredded ribbons of muscle and flesh that had once been a man's arm. While it was clear his throat had been ripped out, only a single drop of blood marred his face, frozen in a mask of terror. The legs were nowhere to be seen, completely torn away, gone. Fishsticks looked around, desperately trying to find where they were, but there was no obvious or clear answer. He could hear heavy breathing behind him, and rapidly turned with his night stick raised. It was just another inmate, leaning against his own cell bars. Fishsticks had unknowingly been stepping backwards, away from the other cell, putting him right against the one across from it.
"It's the cats," The other inmate grinned. His teeth appeared abnormally sharp, and he was covered in a strange brown grime, but it was his green eyes that captivated Fishsticks's attention. His eyes were jade, sparkling and unnaturally bright. Golden flecks surrounded his pupil which was contracted in a way that made it look like mere pinpricks of black were present within the green.
"W-wh-what?"
"The cats!" The man said with strange cheer and a smile, as if the sight of all that blood was an every day occurrence. "You should go. Once they get a taste for the day..." A light farther down the hall went out, and a crazed scream followed. Fishsticks turned toward the sound, the disturbance, ready to follow protocol, training, procedure, but... Stopped.
"Cats?" The earlier conversation with Benson replayed in his mind. Hyde-Smith had never been like this. The worst thing he ever saw was a man who had gotten a shiv to the kidney.
"I warned ya," The man said, skulking back into the shadows of his cell, those freaky green eyes the last thing to disappear. Fishsticks looked up with worry, more lights going out, more screaming.
He ran.
He ran so fast, faster than he ever had before, and harder than ever before. His lungs felt like they might burst out of his chest, and still he ran. His feet pounded out the rhythm of his heart, and a flash-flicker of a glance told him the clock had yet to move. His heart beat so quickly, he thought it might stop. The darkness of the dead lights was catching up. He pushed himself to go faster, but the internal gate still seemed as far as it had been at the start.
The darkness caught up.
"Holy sh--" Fishsticks screamed. No amount of running would have gotten him away, despite his speed. A flash of those crazy green eyes and his scream heightened. He was still alive, could feel himself being flayed alive, his skin being ripped apart, his body shredded and mauled. He couldn't stop screaming, and each time his heart beat, he was distinctly aware his heart was pumping out his own life blood. His heartbeat was bound to kill him if the attack didn't soon. Sounds like meowing began to come closer, and he continued to scream. Meows turned to hisses turned to yowls. Fishsticks stopped screaming.
Every light came back on. The wall clock ticked one minute to 3:15. Silence smothered the hall. Spatters of blood covered the floor along the hall, and the only other thing remaining on the floor of organic material was a toothpick.
Down the hall, a jade eyed inmate leaned back into a corner of his cell, laughter bubbling from his chest, feet dabbed here and there with drying blood, a Cheshire cat grin painted across his lips.
At the internal gate, Benson pulled the toothpick out of his mouth, smiling, to reveal pointed, sharp, blood-drenched teeth.
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