Wilson’s arms were pinned helplessly against his sides and he was unable to bring his dagger forward to help him. Being held in this immovable powerless position, frustrated Wilson, and the thought of gang rape angered him beyond understanding as he felt the fury grow inside of him.
“I strongly suggest you drop that lovely blade now my boy.” One of the other voices said. “I am certain it will bring us a good deal of money when we sell it, that is. I think that after we each get our turn with you we will enjoy gutting you with it.” He heard more laughter coming from the darkness. This obvious ridicule brought on new levels of rage and humiliation. Wilson was certain that this young thief was about to experience his last few moments on the earth which would be marked by his rape and murder at the hands of this pack of roving tormentors. Instead of feeling fear, he was sharing the boy’s anger and could feel the fury growing greater with ever moment.
Wilson did not obey the command to drop the knife, but instead gripped the handle of his dagger even more firmly and felt the skulls beating rhythmically beneath his grasp. He imagined the eyes glowing bright crimson as he allowed all of his rage to flow into the dagger.
From the darkness behind him, he heard a ripping sound and closed his eyes knowing very well the incredible horrors that would soon follow. Suddenly all around him amid the stench of death he heard the agonizing screams of his would be attackers. The knife at his throat fell harmlessly to the ground, the huge man’s body fell backward away from him as he stood rigid, eyes squeezed tightly shut, all the while smelling burning flesh and boiling blood while hearing the wild and uncontrolled thrashing of horror occurring behind him. Then he heard the skittering of hundreds of spider-like feet along the cobblestone street as his attackers were dragged screaming and howling helplessly back into the darkness.
Chapter 14
Flash…. Wilson found himself sitting at a round wooden table in a dimly lit back room of an old wood-framed building. Sunlight from the outside shown through the cracks in the wood-planked walls. The smell of beer, whiskey, cigar smoke, human sweat and body odor filled the air. The table was covered with money, playing cards and empty whiskey glasses.
Across the table from him sat a tall rough-looking man with a pockmarked face, a dark full mustache, at least two days worth of beard stubble. Greasy black hair hung long under the shade of his dusty black leather cowboy hat. A cigar stub hung from the man’s mouth as smoke climbed skyward causing the man’s eyes to remain slightly closed, to avoid the fumes, giving him a Clint Eastwood, squinty appearance. Wilson felt as if he were sitting in a saloon scene in one of his favorite Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns. However, this was not a movie; this was the real deal. The man’s expression was one of utter contempt as he sat tensed, ready to strike holding an antique looking six-gun pointed directly at Wilson’s face.
Likewise, three other similar looking characters seated around the table were pointing their guns at him, all waiting for the signal from cigar man to splatter Wilson’s guts and brains all over the back wall. Wilson looked down at the table and saw that he too had his hand on top of what must be his own gun lying atop the table. He apparently was not able to reach it fast enough to outdraw the group.
He saw that his gun was a silver colored beauty with a pearl handle. Inlayed in the handle of the gun visible just under his palm was a silver skull with two blood red eyes. The skull’s eyes reflected light from the oil lamps hanging on the wall. The air was thick with cigar smoke, which seemed more like a glaring fog as it was illuminated by the filtering sunlight.
The angry man across the table from Wilson said over the barrel of his gun, “Not so fast there, partner.” Wilson could not believe that this character actually said the word ‘partner’, just like in an old Western movie. Normally this would be too strange and perhaps too corny for him to consider taking seriously. However, the looks of anger on the men’s faces and the muzzles of their guns all pointed directly at him, told Wilson that he had better put aside his opinions for now and try to find a way out of this mess.
The man continued. “I don’t know what you may have gotten away with at your last stopover, stranger, but in my town when someone gets caught cheating at cards, then tries to go for his gun, we usually make sure that he ends up with a belly full of lead.” There it was again, Wilson wondered. Stranger? Belly full of lead? This was all starting to feel a bit like a bad attempt to lampoon the western genre, but again, despite his criticism, the apparent danger was all too real.
Understanding the seriousness of the situation, the body that Wilson now occupied was allowing his anger at these men to build and Wilson understood why. He could feel the hatred growing like a power generator winding up for a major surge. After what he had been through so far on this eventful night Wilson knew completely well what was going to happen next and strangely, instead of feeling horror or loathing at what was to come, he began to anticipate it with pleasure to look forward to it. There would be no death for him this night at the hand of these men, for in his hand he held the relic and in his heart was great hatred and anger and by allowing this anger to build to an uncontrollable fury he would be saved. Wilson was finding the power that was present in the relic to be more intoxicating than his favorite liquor.
Wilson could feel the gun begin to throb and pulse under his palm as the ripping sound came from the middle of the air high above them. His attackers barely had time to look upward to check on the strange noise when dozens of long burning tentacles dropped from above, dangling like the legs of an octopus from the air. They instantly wrapped themselves around the gun-hands of the men, severing their arms at the wrist with their molten hot grasps. Not all of the severed wrists were cauterized instantly and pools of flowing blood pumped onto the table.
The horrid worms with the needle-like teeth fell to the tabletop and began scurrying in all directions; some greedily began drinking up the puddles of warm rich blood while others were busy latching onto the first pieces of living flesh they could find. The spider-like creatures scampered down the arms of the flopping tentacles jumping onto the faces of the screaming men, devouring their flesh as the men howled in agony. Wilson saw the leader with the cigar still hanging from his mouth; his eyes wide with horror sitting helplessly paralyzed as the human-headed spider creatures systematically consumed his face. Out from the flaming tip of his cigar, poked the head of one of the worm creatures, looking about, opening its needle-filled mouth whining a high-pitched cry of pleasure.
One of the men fell face down on the table as his scalp literally fell off in a sickening red flap, exposing his now steaming white skull. In a few seconds, Wilson could see a series of small boreholes appearing about the surface of the skull, each gradually growing larger. Soon the holes were the size of a quarter, as gelatinous gray matter began to ooze from the openings, dripping the sludge down onto the table. Mixed in with the brain matter, thousands of steaming writhing maggots all feasted on the mess.
Wilson could hear the men’s bones begin to rattle like some sort of gigantic wind chime from Hell as his attackers, now just dead carcasses, barely covered with flesh were pulled upward into the black and flaming void above. Again, Wilson could hear the cries of millions of lost souls howling from the inside of the chasm, which seamed itself shut as the air above the table returned to normal. Wilson, stood, no longer upset or overwhelmed by the horrors and reached across the table gathering up all of the gambling money, placing his special six-gun in his holster and heading out the back door of the saloon.
These scenes countless others even more horrible, spanning centuries of time played and replayed repeatedly during the night, bombarding Wilson’s mind through his dreams like some sort of twisted educational video. By the time morning arrived Wilson would have a thorough understanding of just what this phone was, and what it could do for him.
Chapter 15
Charles Wilson awoke to the sound of a phone ringing. At first the ringing sounded as if he were hearing it far away
in the distance, or from deep down in a well, far below the surface of the earth. The volume of the sound steadily increased until he was awake enough to realize what the sound was, the hotel phone waiting to be answered.
As he slowly reached consciousness, in a state of disorientation, he found himself sprawled on his back on top of his bedspread, staring straight up at the ceiling, drenched in sweat from head to toe. He lifted himself up onto his elbows in a half sitting position, his muscles aching and realized that he was unable to move the lower part of his body.
He soon discovered that his legs were still hanging down over the bottom edge of the bed where they apparently had hung since last evening when he had collapsed into unconsciousness. He tried to move to answer the phone only to find that his legs had fallen asleep and felt like two dead weights attached to the bottom half of his body. The phone continued to ring incessantly. He forced himself into a clumsy sort of roll, dragging his dead slumbering legs along with him and somehow managed to reach the bedside table to answer the phone.
“Hello?” Wilson said in a raspy voice, still thick with sleep.
“This is your six a-m wake up call. Have a wonderful day.” Wilson heard the computerized robotic voice announcing through the headset.
“Wake this!” Wilson said in frustration, slamming down the receiver, still trying to shake off the confusion of the night’s sleep. Apparently, the effects of the whiskey were still clouding his thoughts because he did not immediately recall any of the incredible events of the previous night or the horrible dreams that followed. For the moment, he was having enough trouble simply regaining consciousness. He felt like someone thirty feet under water, trying desperately to reach the sunlit surface but slowly progressing upward through water thick as soup.
The feeling was gradually starting to return to legs in the form of a thousand prickling needles tingling painfully within his muscles. He stumbled to his feet hoping to get some blood circulating into his stinging limbs, grimacing from the unpleasant sensation. He positioned himself next to the bed half standing, resting one arm on the end table just incase his legs decided to give out on him. He could feel the blood flowing back down into his waking legs and could sense the strength slowly returning to them.
The television at the foot of the bed was still on. Wilson realized that he must have passed out without turning it off last night. He looked at the television from across the room through still bleary eyes trying desperately to focus, and saw that the national morning news was airing. He stood in his half-bent position as the feeling was now rapidly returning to his legs. Then abruptly, Wilson was shocked back to reality as he saw that the news was replaying the video from last evening of Randal Lee Forester falling into the crack in the earth.
Suddenly, the television seemed to fly away from him as if he was flying backward at incredible speed through a long tunnel as the floodgates opened in his mind and, everything came rushing back. He recalled every single moment, real or imagined, of the previous night and every detail of every horrible nightmare he had experienced; the store, the old man, the robber, the phone, the opening of the portal, the fiery tentacles, the needle toothed worms and spiders with human faces.
He stumbled backward, sitting on the bed where he remained trembling, trying to get himself under control. He lowered his head into his hands hoping that his mind would start to clear soon. He looked down at the bed cover, wet with sweat, where he had spent the night and lying next to the darkened shape, he saw the blood red cell phone. It seemed to mock him in its silence.
Wilson jumped off the bed as if he had just seen a rat crawling on the bed cover, trying desperately to distance himself from the accursed thing. For a moment, he thought that his legs might not hold him as the room began to spiral around him. He staggered clumsily to the bathroom falling to his knees in front of the toilet and vomiting as he had never vomited before, almost as if his body was attempting to cleanse itself of the contaminating filth, as the body purges itself during an illness or from food poisoning.
He held onto the sides of the bowl, retching, dry heaving and trembling uncontrollably, arms shaking, knees wobbling. When the tremors finally subsided and the retching ceased, Wilson flushed the toiled, pulled down the lid and lay his head on top of the cover, breathing rapidly, arms dangling by the sides of the toilet. He honestly thought he was going do die right where he was, that perhaps his heart would simply stop or his body would just shut down from exhaustion.
When he thought he might once again be able to stand he cautiously got to his feet, went to the sink, turned on the light, which temporarily blinded him with its florescent glow, then vigorously began brushing his teeth. He brushed, rinsed and spat repeatedly trying to get the foul taste from his mouth and nostrils. Slowly as his eyes adjusted, he looked up into the bathroom mirror.
The figure looking back at him was startling to say the least. Wilson appeared to have aged ten years overnight. He had always had a thick head of hair with a distinguished looking salt a pepper appearance, just a touch of gray at the temples. However, now he thought he was slightly grayer then the night before, and the laugh lines and eye wrinkles on his face seem to have doubled over the course of one evening. Perhaps it was simply his imagination, but judging by how poorly he felt he was unsure.
Wilson pushed his disheveled hair back from his eyes and thought just for a moment that maybe his hair was starting to recede more than normal. He always watched his hairline as was both proud and somewhat vain about his thick head of hair. He also thought he noticed a slightly darker tan patch of skin at his hairline. What was that, an age spot? He looked at the backs of his hands which also appeared a bit more wrinkled and thought that he saw a few age spots forming there as well. He was only forty-five years old for God’s sake, and did not expect to see this sort of thing for at least ten more years.
Wilson looked up to see the four-foot florescent light fixture hanging above the mirror and felt little a bit better about things. Yes, that must have been the problem. He recalled that florescent lighting tended to make everyone look worse, especially first thing in the morning. Considering that he had just barfed his guts out, how good could he possibly look? He also took into consideration the eventful evening he had, but still he preferred to blame at least some of it on the lighting. He knew the best thing for him to do immediately, was to freshen up with a good long hot shower.
Charles Wilson was one of those people who seemed to react to hot showers in a very positive way. Not just because it cleansed and refreshed him, but because there was something so invigorating about a steaming hot shower that it seemed to stimulate his creative juices. He always got his best and most imaginative ideas while taking a shower. He had no idea why this happened but understood it and accepted that it just did.
Since the nature of Wilson’s job was such that he wasn’t required to punch a clock and wasn’t tied to a desk he spent most of his time visiting clients throughout the workweek. This freedom gave him the luxury of being able to schedule his own time. Often during the day if he found that he was having trouble focusing, was in a funk, or could not seem to come up with original ways to bring in new business, he would stop home, between appointments and take a steaming shower and the ideas would flow out of his mind as the water flowed around him. It might sound a bit odd to many people but Charles understood what worked for him and a hot shower was just the thing to get his mind working.
Wilson stood under the streaming hot water feeling all of the stress flowing from his body and exiting down the drain. As he sensed the water, coursing down his back and smelled the fresh shampoo and steam billowing around him he began to recount the dreams that had visited him during the night. In his relaxed condition, Wilson was surprised to find that the dreams no longer troubled him, as things of such a horrific nature should have, but he felt like the dreams were things that he needed to consider, to analyze, and to understand. He had them for a purpose and he had to find out what that purpose might be.
/> When he thought back to each dream, how he was part of each dream, he at first believed that he was seeing these dreams as some sort of reincarnation; that perhaps the people in his dreams were supposed to be various incarnations of himself. Then he realized that this idea was not correct, he was not actually the cave man or any of the other principals in the dreams but was simply seeing through their eyes. Perhaps this format was used so that he could more easily be taught what he needed to learn.
He believed that the events he witnessed in his dreams were not symbolic representations but were actual events that had happened to those specific people throughout history. Somehow, the relic had come into their positions and had affected their lives. Why these people were chosen or why he, himself was chosen he still did not yet understand but knew that there was a definite reason why he was allowed to view these images during his dreams.
Wilson thought that perhaps he was shown these events so that he could learn about the relic that was now in the form of a cell phone lying on his bedspread in the other room. He realized that the dreams may have been presented as some form of remote viewing, so that he could understand exactly how long the relic had existed, and what it might be able to do for him.
Wilson was amazed at how, while under the shower, he could be so relaxed that he could systematically consider all of the events of the night before whereas otherwise he feared that reliving the events might have driven him completely insane. For a moment, Wilson wondered if perhaps the trauma he suffered actually had broken his mind and maybe he was crazy after all. He didn’t think he was, but how many crazy people do? Oddly, the notion did not seem to matter to him, for either way, sane or insane, Charles Wilson understood that everything about him had changed forever.
Burn Phone Page 9