Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1)

by Tetreault-Blay, Chris

  ‘Salvation, of course,’ his voice starting to tremble, stifling a tear that stung behind his dead stare.

  ‘At the cost of so many others?’ Truman shot back, his confidence starting to return. ‘That is sacrifice, murder even. Not salvation.’

  ‘All sins are repented through sacrifice. It is the only way.’

  ‘You’re talking about a higher power that rewards heartless acts of violence, torture and murder – motived by greed and power – rewarded with the empty promise of eternal life.’ Truman’s mind was spinning, he was unsure whether he awake or even in the dark room. Was he even still alive?

  The flame had reignited behind Stamford’s stare, his face appeared carved from stone, his skin ashen. Truman knew that it would not be long before this man would become a raging inferno with his words acting as fuel.

  ‘Don’t pretend you have not dreamed of a life like this, Childs – eternal life, immortality,’ he sneered, addressing Truman with the name he possessed in a previous life. ‘A select few have experienced it and no-one can comprehend peace such as this.’

  ‘Knowing you’re a murderer?’

  ‘Mark my words. I, myself, have never taken another life, Mr Childs.’

  ‘Except that of Lucas Stamwell.’ The words slid off his tongue as if gliding over wet silk. Truman had cut through Stamford’s armour piercing the skin. Now he wanted to go deeper beneath the flesh. ‘You took that man’s life – a man I regarded as a brother. He stood alone against your kind, against the life of misguidance that had been bestowed upon him. A man brought up under the law of the unlawful, of the megalomaniacal. He wanted nothing more than his own life – an honest life, a life of truth.’ Truman stopped momentarily bringing his breathing under control. ‘A life my sister could have given him.’

  ‘No man should have to live a life so lonely to devote it to any other person than himself,’ Stamford whispered. ‘Every man deserves power, a chance to create his own destiny and rule his own world, no matter how vast or small it may be. But this can only be achieved by making the right choices.’

  ‘So you took it upon yourselves to choose it for him? To force upon him once more an existence he did not want.’

  ‘His destiny was written the night of the Ascension. He was chosen. We merely set him free.’

  The silence hung once more between them adding extra weight to the tension that continued to thicken. Truman ran his fingers through the broken chain. He comforted himself with the thought that he still had one more ace to play when the time came. The waiting was now making his nerves ache. He wanted to close his eyes and return to a place not consumed by dark or blinded by light. Somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. In order to return to a place like that he would have to break the silence.

  ‘What becomes of your soul after all of this? Who will save you?’

  Once again the ferocity in Stamford’s stare began to die. Truman thought he could see a glint of light appear in the corner his eyes. It was a tear forming. It streaked and fell from Stamford’s cheek, as he stood motionless, staring at nothing.

  No more tears followed; no sobs. Truman had to strain to convince himself that the man was still breathing. He fought the urge to ask him if he was okay. His concern for Stamford’s wellbeing was beginning to rise. Physically, he seemed in perfect shape for a man his age but, mentally this man was not well.

  Eventually, Stamford’s eyes began to move and the muscles in his face started to contract and loosen again. Within the short time since Truman had regained consciousness he had witnessed Stamford’s demeanour change at least four or five times. He thought back to their first meeting and how quickly he had turned from the warm, welcoming health worker to a crazed psychopath worried Truman.

  His eyes stared at the floor, then quickly darted and fixed on the wall behind Truman. Truman had the urge to turn around and find the source of Stamford’s fixation but in doing so would have freed his right arm from its supposed position shackled to the bed frame giving the game away completely.

  Looking into Stamford’s face as much as he could in the rapidly fading light he saw that beneath the surface of his skin floated hundreds of souls, all trying to break free and make themselves known. His reactions to comments Truman had made – the bipolar nature of them – was as if each soul was called forward to answer for him.

  Had Stamford brought this unfortunate affliction on himself or was he too being controlled?

  Truman was brought back from the comforting depths of his own mind when the silence was finally broken.

  ‘Our fates have already been written…’ Stamford’s voice rasped, his speech the only movement across his whole body, his eyes still staring over Truman’s left shoulder. There was something else about the way he said it. The man actually sounded frightened. ‘We all serve a purpose to work towards a greater good and serve a higher power.’ It sounded like he was reciting a mission statement. Stamford swallowed loudly trying to lubricate his dry throat. They both felt the heat rise within the cell despite the cold walls still glistening with damp. The moisture in each man felt as though it were slowly evaporating.

  Truman closed his eyes against the growing warmth trying to transport himself back to his happy place. But nothing worked. The heat fuelled the visions he had when he opened his eyes. He found himself standing alone in the middle of a vast plain somewhere across the scarred face of Wildermoor. The shadows slowly raising from the ground, growing to heights of six-foot and more, the lowest trails of the darkness transforming into two separate slithers of black, becoming more solid as they morphed into legs. As Truman looked around pin-pricks of red appeared, disappeared and then re-appeared. Thousands of red burning eyes stared at him hungrily.

  The dark figures parted revealing one much larger. This one was made of more material – a trailing black robe, topped with a heavy hood, masking the face below. The weapon in his hand was familiar; a large curved blade atop a tall oak shaft.

  These figures were not the most disturbing element of his vision. As he looked around him, the faint shrieks grew louder behind him – the screams of hundreds of souls.

  Burning.

  He could smell it. The fields were ablaze around him. He could feel the heat cooking his skin, his cheeks growing tighter, followed by the skin under his eyes and around to the back of his neck. He was starting to burn along with all of the poor souls who had been left behind.

  And he was powerless to stop any of it, to stop the hooded figure from advancing. The Reaper had found him and was coming for him.

  The vision was taken over by the brightest white light – another he recognised but did not fear. Evelyn would come with the light to take him away and make him safe again.

  Truman’s eyes flew open as he gasped, trying to refill his lungs. He was once again surrounded by darkness, the air feeling as chilled as it was before. And Stamford still stood before him staring, barely present at all.

  The vision woke Truman’s senses more than ever been before. Suddenly everything became clear to him. And that was what frightened him most of all. It was the knowing.

  His body started to tremble again uncontrollably. He turned towards Stamford, determined to break him from his trance, believing at last he knew the truth.

  ‘They’re going to kill you, aren’t they? If they don’t get what they want. That’s what you’re scared of.’

  Stamford’s eyes moved and fixed on Truman’s.

  ‘Everybody is going to die. They have what they want. It has already begun.’

  Truman looked down at himself, still chained to the bed, forgetting he had a chance of escape. One free arm was no good. He felt powerless to save himself, as he had centuries ago, unable to stop the inevitable.

  ‘What purpose do I serve in all of this?’ He pleaded.

  Stamford’s head cocked back up straight atop his neck, the lights seeming to come back on in his mind, again as though Truman had found an invisible switch. He responded with a sick smile, rolling off his for
ked tongue.

  ‘You don’t have one.’

  The words did not mean anything to Truman. He barely noticed that the doctor had spoken. His attention was locked squarely on the item in Stamford’s right hand and the syringe, larger than the last one, with a needle four inches in length, as he advanced towards where Truman lay.

  Helpless.

  Once more Truman failed to believe he could stop what was about to happen to him. The doctor was upon him with two steps, too quickly for Truman to act. He could think of no smart way to escape this time for there wasn’t one. He was chained up like an animal about to be euthanized. Every movement played out in slow motion but still it felt too quick for him to act.

  He had forgotten about his free arm. His hand, still bloodied from the effort it took to break the weakened chain, waited until Stamford bowed his head and then flew from its broken restraints. His closed fist landed against Stamford’s temple sending him sprawling backwards, his right hip taking the brunt of the fall. The blow lacked a significant amount of strength, but the shock was enough to daze the doctor for a few moments before he managed to gather his senses, amongst a string of breathless obscenities thrown at Truman.

  Truman had to make the most of the brief respite and decided to use his free arm to attempt to loosen the shackles on his left, not yet knowing how he was possibly going to break through another chain. In that time Stamford got to his feet and had re-assumed his position.

  Truman tried to raise his arm finding that it did not respond. He tried again frantically to wake the limb. It was no use. It simply would not move. He looked down to see the needle buried in his forearm and a wave of nausea overcoming him so suddenly that his head fell back against the wall. The pain dulled as he stared at the appendage protruding from his arm. The plunger was fully compressed and every ounce of whatever was in the syringe now coursed through his body.

  He expected the darkness to ascend on him as quickly as it had done in the surgery, the last time that Stamford had injected him with whatever evil he had mastered into liquid form. Truman found himself welcoming the warmth, the glow, of the white room once more. He wanted to return there now more than ever.

  But neither the darkness nor the light came to him. That’s when he knew that something was very wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The warmth was comforting, coaxing him into a false sense of security. It started by flowing upwards from the entry point of the needle, quickly spreading up to his shoulders. He could feel it buzzing through his veins for only a second before he slowly started to relax.

  ‘The beauty of the common lethal injection,’ Stamford said, his voice joining the deep thrum that was now pulsating in Truman’s ears, ‘is that it is administered in three stages, supposedly to make it more humane but since when do criminals deserve the right to die humanely? If they have betrayed the ways of the Lord, they deserve to be thrown into the pits of hell!’

  Stamford’s eyes were rimmed red, looking tired and angry. The wild stare had not left his face, as if the pain in his head from the fall did not faze him. He gave Truman another cursory look, rolling his eyes briefly displaying his annoyance.

  But this is exactly what you wanted, a voice told him in a hushed, gravelly whisper. This was the way you always dreamed it to be.

  He concentrated on the patient on the bed before continuing.

  ‘Sodium thiopental is used to induce unconsciousness, so that the patient is unaware of their body shutting down. This you have already experienced,’ an avaricious smile plastered his lips, ‘the day we met at my surgery. You - or should I say I – have no need for you to have this again. I proved to Them that a controlled amount of this substance, together with the same of the second element, pancuronium bromide, can take patients to an unconsciousness so deep it takes them to the brink of death, the white light people speak of. You know better than others what is actually contained within that light.’

  He looked at Truman waiting for a response, but Truman could only stare blankly at him, drool starting to seep from the corner of his open mouth, as his body remained paralyzed. Truman could hear the doctor speak but could no longer make sense of the words.

  His breathing started to suffer as his body tried to fight the invasion, unable to match its ferocity. Like Truman’s mind, his body was succumbing to the warmth and the strange feeling of final peace washing over him. His eyes moved frantically as his limbs froze. He could see Stamford standing in front of him touching the open gash on his cheek. The chain must have caught his skin as his fist hit his temple, dragging the rusted barbs of the broken links across his face.

  ‘The Others, Mr Darke,’ Stamford addressed him as the DI he had been at his surgery. ‘The ones who will try to take you from us, who will try to convince you that you are someone other than what you are, that you can be more than…’ he struggled to find the words, as he looked at Truman, “More than this,” he signalled at Truman’s limp body.

  The most disturbing aspect of this sensation was the very absence of pain. His body was not screaming out as he imagined it would during the onset of death. He had always envisioned he would be on the receiving end of a nasty head wound or gunshot to the stomach, something more dramatic – more heroic – than this

  ‘What you should be feeling by now,’ Stamford continued with the lucidity of a college professor addressing a lecture, ‘is the power of my latest concoction – an elevated dose of pancronium bromide together with a kick of potassium chloride – the final two elements of a lethal injection. In the States they believe that these should be given separately to put the felon to sleep. What I have discovered is that just the right amounts of both bring on a euphoric high, an unparalleled feeling of being at peace, which last for a few moments before your body cannot compete any longer. The difference between how I conduct this practice, compared to those who supposedly do so to protect us from evil, is that you get to witness your own demise. You will still feel regret, remorse, fear and everything right up until the final moment. Your mind is the last thing to be taken over by the drug. It remains fully awake for the entire procedure. Just when there is only a thread of your life left, when you are willing death to come and take you away, They will come for you. That, Mr Darke, is what I have been hired to do. To create the link between your kind and theirs – to bring forth the next stage of our salvation.’

  No harm in enlightening him now. Within a few minutes it would not matter. No one can stop us now.

  His smile lingered as he basked in the glory of it, the culmination of years of work, dedicated to this one patient, this one moment. He closed his eyes for a few seconds to revel in it all.

  Truman cursed himself whilst he still could for wasting a few precious moments feeling sorry for Stamford. His initial gut feeling about him had been right – this man was severely unhinged. Truman’s own instincts had betrayed him. Years of police training that had taught him to be mindful, if not suspicious of everyone around him, had faded since that night he had been chased from Colin Dexler’s house and branded a crooked cop and a murderer by his own men.

  That moment, Truman decided, had started the clock that now ticked down his final moments. From then he had lost all judgment and awareness to any danger that days before he would have smelt coming from miles away. That felt like a lifetime ago. Just another one to add to his apparent history of failed existences.

  Once a pillar of this community, one of the most admired, respected and feared men in Wildermoor now lay wasting away on a dirty bed in a damp cell, outsmarted by one of Hell’s henchmen.

  The poison Stamford had sent forth to claim his soul was now sinking its teeth in and taking hold. Truman lay in the jaws of fate waiting for one God or another – either his or Stamford’s – to claim the scraps that were left of him.

  The warmth rose in one final surge from his toes, running up his legs and to his stomach, pushing twisted euphoria through his veins, absorbing into his vital organs and running through his
bloodstream. Once the feeling reached his face the shivers started as his vital organs began to malfunction. His blood pressure and heart rate rose to deadly levels, the panic setting in to every fibre of his body as it fought valiantly to stay alive. His head remained lolled to one side, looking blankly at Stamford who remained talking senselessly.

  His skin became paler with each passing second, growing clammy as his body tried to acclimatise to the sudden changes in temperature. Grain by grain the sands of his life ebbed away. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and slowly ran down his cheek.

  Truman lay transfixed looking at Stamford with longing. For what – he did not know. He did not seek help from the man who had done this to him. Maybe it was a longing for release, for he was now a prisoner locked in his own fading body. His heart was slowing, running out of strength. His lungs had already given up unable to pull in any more oxygen.

  Stamford’s image became a blur. Not just because of the tears that now streamed from his eyes; his brain was starting to die. The absence of oxygen had found its way to the last vital organ that the poison had left to claim. The doctor’s face faded into a pale cloud above a dark, shimmering trunk. The light around Stamford continued to shine, illuminating him as if he were an angel.

  Stamford took a couple of steps toward the cot, his nose creasing up as he drew close to Truman. He had to mask his disgust at the smell of a body giving up, of organs failing, tissues dying and waste excreting. He slowly bent at the waist so that his mouth was next to Truman’s ear. He needed to tell him one more thing before his mind was gone.

  ‘They’re coming.’

  Amidst everything around them that was beginning to fade, turn black and disappear, Truman saw the light that shone around Stamford, shadowing all of his other features.