Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Herald Of The Zombie Prince

My eyes fluttered open but I found myself still covered in darkness. I blinked several times to clear my vision but not a single pin-prick of light found its way to my retinas, but of course for all I knew the beating I’d taken over the past few days could have caused some ocular damage.

The chair under me was bare steel, cold and hard, but still a welcome break from hanging from a chain by my wrists as I had since being brought to this place. My body ached from the myriad of tortures they had visited upon me in an attempt to get the information they wanted, yet I hadn’t broken and I attributed that to my years of training.

The skin across my stomach was red, blistered and burnt from electrocution, the tips of three fingers were crusted in blood where my nails had been, and the simple act of breathing made me acutely aware of at least two broken ribs. They wanted that information badly.

I heard a door open somewhere, the metal hinges grinding just before the sound of boots echoed through the air. Less than a minute later the door to my cell opened and the sudden flood of light stabbed at my eyes, making them water and giving me an instant headache.

Fluorescent lights flickered on around me, giving off their watery glow and casting deep shadows into the corners of the room. When opening my eyes seemed like something I could do without dying I lifted my lids, letting myself acclimate slowly before fully opening my eyes.

Before me stood the most unassuming man I’d ever seen. No taller than five foot eight, average build leaning toward plump and thinning, non-descript brown hair that was cut short but shaggy. His face held not a single remarkable feature, and I knew this is what made him efficient; five minutes after seeing him most people wouldn’t be able to recall what he looked like.

“Good morning, Simone.” His voice was just as forgettable as the rest of him, but I was surprised he knew who I was since I hadn’t even given up my name to my captors. He stepped toward me, his stride slow and deliberate, hands in his pockets, stopping when the tips of this polished shoes bumped my bare toes.

He spent a full minute staring at me, his brown eyes narrowing periodically as he cocked his head from one side to the other as though trying to puzzle something out. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“I don’t care if you’re the herald of the zombie prince Jesus.” My voice was raw from screaming, and having to speak made me want to whimper like a wet kitten.

His smile was humorless, bordering on sinister, and I actually had the wherewithal to be afraid. The lackeys who had beaten me over the last few days didn’t instill the kind of fear in me that this man did, and I knew that I either had to escape or he would kill me.

“I can’t quite figure you out, Simone,” he said, rocking from the balls of his feet to the heel and back again. “It’s almost as though you enjoy the pain when all you have to do is tell me what I want to know. Easy peasy, right?” I remained quiet, which brought a frown to his face. “Very well, have it your way.”

The next day and a half pit my will against his, and in the wake of a new level of pain there were many times I was hair’s breadth from telling him what he wanted to know just to bring the agony to an end. I slipped in and out of consciousness, welcoming the spells of utter blackness where I felt nothing, and wondering if this would be the one from which I wouldn’t wake.

When I woke it took me several moments to process the fact that I was no longer in that dark cell, no longer cold. I was still in pain, but it was muted, the edge dulled by medication that was being fed to me through a tube. I moved my head slowly, taking in the white walls, white sheets, white floor and white lights, slowly recognizing the sector medical facilities and feeling a sense of relief I hadn’t expected I would ever feel again.

Glancing to my right I stared at the sleeping form of my partner where he slouched in a chair at my bedside, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, arms folded over his chest. His sandy hair was unkempt, and his clothes looked like he’d been wearing them for a week; I would have smiled if I knew it wouldn’t hurt.

“Darren?” My voice was less than a whisper, but it was enough to snap him upright in his chair, his hazel eyes darting around the room before coming to rest on me. He scooted the chair closer and gently took my hand, being careful of the needles and tubes plugged into it.

“Simone.” He said my name like an answered prayer.

“How long….”

“Three days,” he answered, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “I thought I might lose you.”

“It’ll take… more than…. torture… “

Darren laughed, shushing me. We stared at each other for several minutes, and in my eyes he read my question. “We got the information we needed. Sheridon is still alive, but he’s being held only until you’re well, then he’s yours to do with as you please.”

I shook my head slowly and Darren frowned at me. “Kill him. I won’t…. be… like him.”

It was his turn to shake his head, smiling softly at me. “As you wish, I’ll gladly mete out his punishment, and he’ll pay for almost taking you from me.”

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