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When Hell Freezes, Chapter 0This story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Mike Robinson | |
| Saturday, 21 June 2008 | |
Prologue
The room was dark, the only light was flickering candles that were set on old tables and unused steel barrels. It stank, since the smell of garbage, mold, and dead animals swirled throughout the abandon mill. He did not know how long this place was here, let alone how long it was abandon, nor did he really care. It served him as a place to hide, a sanctuary to perform his task that he was destined. It was a hideaway where he was not seen and found many of volunteers to pick from to empower his new Lord and Lady. He had no aversion to killing, he actually enjoyed it, and now he was encouraged to do so. He first started in Tampa, killing that is. He would randomly chose a beautiful person, male, female, old, or young, it matter not, then plot a method for their demise. Whatever the method, it was sure not to be quick since he needed to see them die, face to face, watching their eyes. He felt their pain, he felt their horror, he cried as they cried, he sighed when the saw freedom, and then he was freed with them. It was a symphony of emotions, it was like a riding the roller coaster at a park. And in the end, it was always satisfaction as he released his new found friends from their pain. Yes they were friends, they shared intimate feelings, and they grew a bond, so yes indeed they created a friendship. Then one night in Orlando, he met Tiffany, she was one lustful and gorgeous lady. She new his secrets, she whispered them into his ear as they sat and watched the moon rise. She named them, each of his friends, and told him she knew how he felt. She also told him she could make it all the more pleasurable, but he had to move. She used her body to entice him, her smooth silky body. No blemishes, no deformities, it was perfect in every way. Each night her dark eyes caused him to sink, fall prey to her desires. He did not mind though, she brought to him a mixture of pleasure and pain that became addicting. With in a week of meeting this superior woman, he moved to a location that he never heard of. Why she needed him here he did not know. It was cold, very cold, but he found warmth in her companionship. She found him this old rundown factory on the bank of the river. He did not know it, nor did he care. It function was to wash away his victims sins and set them free. Each week, for five weeks he tortured and killed homeless souls. Those without purpose or drive, those who eventually took what he offered as an escape to a life that had idly tossed them aside. No one in the outside world had even an inkling what was happening within their city. As the snow fell and the clueless populace wound down from the happy joyful holiday season, only to snuggle themselves up next to their love ones or things, he offered up these decaying lives to appease his new found Lord. He did not know much of religion, demons, or devils. He did not study the occult or mythology, he just killed. That was his one and true skill and gift. It was through the supple Tiffany that he learned of the power that awaited him if he ‘killed' in the name of this demon, this lord, this Fallen as Tiff said once. What that meant, he cared not, but however, power was a word he understood. She told him to feed their lord with the blood of the dying, feed him slowly, and then when he was ready, feed him a soul that would willfully die for him. And at precisely midnight tonight, he was going to send the blood and soul of his sixth kill, a willing sensual woman, to him. Thus receiving the power of a god, tonight, he will stand above those whom he tortured, he will rise above all. He will be an angel of death, though compassionate, but yet death will fill his wake. He laughed as the naked woman lay now on the steel slab before him. She smiled at him, and he could sense her willingness to die for her true lord. He thought about it for a moment. He felt it too, with her, if his new lord needed him, he to would willingly die for his lord, if it meant helping him, freeing him. He lifted the sharp ornate dagger that Tiff had given him for this occasion above his head. Yes, he stared into her eyes, he most definitely would, no questions. If his new found god wished it to be, by all means, he would willingly do so, no, no hesitations. He thrust the dagger downward, watching the woman's pale blue his. Feeling her complete and utter comfort with what was yet to come. He was to, and he had no doubt what. . . He rolled his eyes back into his head, and then lowered his look downward. He felt the pain only when he opened his eyes, before that all he felt was a thud and a pressure. He held the dagger with both hands tightly around the pommel, the blade itself was buried deep up under his ribcage. He felt the dagger pulsate once, then twice as his heart pumped its last time. He looked at the girl, then Tiffany, they both smiled at him, did they have fangs? He smiled as he dropped to his knees. "Thank you," he whispered as he slumped down onto the floor and felt no more pain, just freedom. Gretchen Caulfield felt the cold steel of the Berretta M9A1 in her hands as she held it up only inches from her face. She breathed deeply, the cool air stingy her lungs. The gun made her feel somewhat comfortable, and it always did, just before moments like this. Her body crouched down, her back pressed firmly against the wall, and on the other side of that partition were her targets, their enemy separated from them by the door on her immediate right. There was always a wall, a door, a victim, evil, and him. She watched him walk up to her, no fear shown in his eyes, only compassion, love and even pain. His face did not smile, nor did he grin or show an expression of anger as he walked up to the door, it was just him doing his job as he has done for years. Serving humanity at its worst, undoing what the human race had done. She admired him as he seemed to glide toward her, she could love him, if things were very different, but she could not. He allowed no one to get close, no one. He loved many, and cared about all, but did not express it. He could not afford to, since is existence held mainly loss and death. She glanced to her right, across the door toward her new partner, Dave, was his name. He looked nervous this was his first assault and probably his last. They picked him up only three weeks ago, when trouble first poked out its ugly head here in Moevenpick, Jordan, on the shores of the Dead Sea. Dave was an American, photographer, freelancing in the area with his wife, hoping to get that perfect shot of the Dead Sea to put in magazines. However, on this unusually cold morning Dave was not holding a camera, but instead, a borrowed Glock G17 sat awkwardly in his hands. Gretchen new the strange history that brought her to this place, this point, but Dave did not. So she felt sorry for him, and again, she prayed to God that he survived. This earth held a vileness that only a few knew, and others dared to dabble. An ancient evil that should be left alone, but due to free will, men do not. And as happenstance, Dave and his wife Lainie walked right into a cult. Now they had their chance to turn away, but that sense of mystery and wonder drove the two fools into a danger that would scar them for life, provided either walked out of this fight today. Dave smiled nervously at her then turned his attention to the armed man that was walking casually toward them, toward the door. She heard the chanting of a priest behind the door, the Aramaic language was not dead, just only used in obscurity. She focused again on the figure that advanced toward her. His short cropped red hair reflected the sun light around him, giving him a hint of a holy aura around his head. His strong face was framed with a closely trim red beard and mustache. He was indeed a handsome man, but alas, hands off. He kissed his right hand gently as he rested his semi-auto shotgun on his left shoulder. She slid lower as his six foot frame neared her. She took a deep breath and turned her face away from the door. He held out his right hand and in Aramaic he spoke softly, "Bless be the path before me, may evil crumble as I approach." He extend his right hand, palm outward, the door splintered as his hand stop merely two inches before it. Wooden fragments flew everywhere as he stepped through the threshold, in to another den of darkness. A boom echoed from the shotgun as she rounded the corner after him, lowering her pistol toward her first target. Copyright 2008 Mike Robinson |
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