DeSandro crashes through the door marked:
No Admittance
Staff Only
Staff Only
The day’s heat rises into the evening sky whose orange/cyan smear is broken by the giant red face of the rising moon.
DeSandro spits a flower of blood onto the petal-strewn floor of the loading bay.
He watches it bloom fractal beside the abandoned spade on the rough concrete, his mind empty of wonder, his forearms clutch his gut.
“There are few men who can resist the persuasive use of pain Mr Bien,” The Zealot stands in the doorway; his goggles hang from his neck, leaving his eyes to reflect the orange/cyan sky, “If you’d been a stronger man I might’ve allowed you a swift exit from your sinful and arrogant life.”
“I...”
“Yes, I remember: you don’t know where John Smith is hiding – I believe you Mr Bien. But that does not allow me to abdicate from my duty to your soul. You need only to commit Mr Bien, commit and I will remove your pain. For the eternity that awaits you in the arms of God.”
Despite the shadow that hangs over everything, DeSandro does not want to die; not yet; not at the hands of this madman. He wants time to prepare himself; to lie down and to allow the universe to enter and take his mind from his body in a wave of blinding light.
He grabs the spade and lifts it like a bat in one of those games people were forced to play during their time at Golgotha Sestri.
The Zealot watches but finds himself, in the face of the absurd, unable to react.
DeSandro swings the spade with everything he has left; focuses the pain into the arcing blade of the spade’s head.
The horizontal spiral of force unleashed causes the spade’s thin head to cleave into the side of the Zealot’s pale face; cutting through bone to carve his last thoughts into slivers; each containing the face of one of those souls he’s had the gall to save. They scream at him, blood vomits from their open mouths.
The spade head comes to rest somewhere half-way across the Zealot’s face and as DeSandro lets go, the Zealot sits down heavily; while the door marked:
DeSandro spits a flower of blood onto the petal-strewn floor of the loading bay.
He watches it bloom fractal beside the abandoned spade on the rough concrete, his mind empty of wonder, his forearms clutch his gut.
“There are few men who can resist the persuasive use of pain Mr Bien,” The Zealot stands in the doorway; his goggles hang from his neck, leaving his eyes to reflect the orange/cyan sky, “If you’d been a stronger man I might’ve allowed you a swift exit from your sinful and arrogant life.”
“I...”
“Yes, I remember: you don’t know where John Smith is hiding – I believe you Mr Bien. But that does not allow me to abdicate from my duty to your soul. You need only to commit Mr Bien, commit and I will remove your pain. For the eternity that awaits you in the arms of God.”
Despite the shadow that hangs over everything, DeSandro does not want to die; not yet; not at the hands of this madman. He wants time to prepare himself; to lie down and to allow the universe to enter and take his mind from his body in a wave of blinding light.
He grabs the spade and lifts it like a bat in one of those games people were forced to play during their time at Golgotha Sestri.
The Zealot watches but finds himself, in the face of the absurd, unable to react.
DeSandro swings the spade with everything he has left; focuses the pain into the arcing blade of the spade’s head.
The horizontal spiral of force unleashed causes the spade’s thin head to cleave into the side of the Zealot’s pale face; cutting through bone to carve his last thoughts into slivers; each containing the face of one of those souls he’s had the gall to save. They scream at him, blood vomits from their open mouths.
The spade head comes to rest somewhere half-way across the Zealot’s face and as DeSandro lets go, the Zealot sits down heavily; while the door marked:
No Admittance
Staff Only
Staff Only
swings closed in memory of his having passed through.
DeSandro, splay legged and once again clutching his gut, looks away from the Zealot’s dead stare.
The night, now fallen, beckons from the loading bay entrance, promising the world.
DeSandro, splay legged and once again clutching his gut, looks away from the Zealot’s dead stare.
The night, now fallen, beckons from the loading bay entrance, promising the world.
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2 comments:
image, gore, story, characters....moments....loooonnngg moments....
liking what you are doing with this.
Harlequin: slowtime... much of this was re-used from a previous incarnation in The Aeon Calling.
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