by M.C. Edwards
back in.
Under normal circumstances at home George would never drop the ‘F’ bomb, especially since Tabitha began parroting everything she said. This was very different but. George stood dumbstruck, staring at the exposed face now peering lifelessly at the ceiling with cold, clouded blue eyes. It was gaunt and pale with dark circles around the eyes, a thick, blonde beard and a scraggly mop of hair to match.
That was it; a patented George style meltdown was in action. Screw the job! George wanted out of this freaky building, with its penthouse corpse and demonic elevators. But as she turned, something snagged her. Nothing physical, but it may as well have been. The tantrum disintegrated, melted away, there was only the distraction. Calmness washed over her. The medallion seemed to glow, beautiful and blue. It was an incandescent glow which seemed to drive back the gloom of the dark room. It was a warm radiance which seemed to reach deep within and draw George on, encouraging her closer. It all but erased her natural instincts to flee, instead pushing them far to the back of her mind and replacing them with a tingly, comforting fuzz.
George moved closer to the medallion, her eyes transfixed on it as she closed in. She reached out. Her fingers quivered with anticipation, so strong was the inexplicable desire blooming within. Her fingers touched the alluring temptation, and encouraging words filled her mind and body, spurring her on, until...... “Step away from the relic!” The sudden voice was like a hammer in her mind, shattering the serenity of the room. The security guard was dressed all in grey, a scowl graced his face.
George was instantly snapped free of her trance, the fuzz gone. The amulet was once again cold and dark. She snatched her hand back and spun around in startled reaction. As she turned, George stumbled back slightly, bumping into the shrouded body. She shivered and cringed at its cold touch. As if stealing an opportunity, the amulet slid from the dead man’s chest and straight into George’s open handbag.
“Look I’m sorry,” she responded, “But your elevator is crazy and I got stuck up here. I didn’t touch anything, I was just looking at your little necrophilia playroom here,” stammered George before being once again interrupted by the security guard.
“Hands where I can see them. Now!” His hand hovered above the gun on his hip. George took note and followed his directions. The guard snatched George’s handbag from her as he glared angrily.
The cold steel of the cuffs crushed her wrists tightly behind her back as the guard led her through the apartment, along a maze of hallways and down a poorly lit flight of stairs. The one light which still illuminated the stairwell flickered and pulsed amongst its dead brethren. For some reason it bothered George immensely that no one had taken the time to replace the blown bulbs. It added to her frustration.
The guard shoved her forcefully into a small holding cell which was positioned a few meters before the ‘Surveillance Room’, as it was labelled. “Hands on the wall, feet apart,” ordered the guard. George complied and he proceeded to pat her down in a very thorough fashion. George patiently waited and bit her tongue as long as she could, which in George’s case wasn’t really very long at all.
“Look, you can rub my ass as many times as you want, but it’s not going to change the fact that there’s nothing there to find,” she snarled. The guard ignored her completely, finished his search and locked the cell door before disappearing silently down the hall.
“Do I get a phone call or something?” she called after him, rubbing her freed wrists. Her own voice echoing down the empty corridor was the only reply she received.
I am Gudrik
For eons I have laid like this. Trapped. Cursed. The last of my kind, the final Varth-lokkr, left to waste away as the world evolves without me.
For countless generations I have been forced to serve the one who dishonoured my line. Stuck in a form of silent torture, an endless segregation of mind and body. I have spent countless generations as livestock, my paralysed form harvested for the power within. I am aware and I am alert. I see all, hear all and I feel every throbbing ounce of pain they choose inflict on me. I have no need of sleep, no need of water and no need of food; yet I feel the yearning of a body deprived of all three. My life is pain. My life is torture. My very existence is a torment with no foreseeable conclusion. But it was not always so.
My life was once very different, happy, contented and even peaceful. That existence is now so distant it is barely a memory, instead lingering on the edge of consciousness like a long forgotten dream. It is something I miss dearly, so dearly I would give anything to get it back. But things are rarely so simple and it’s not something which could ever be returned. I was forced to come to terms with that long ago. That life and everything which was part of it can never be anymore than a memory, a reality ripped from my grasp in a deed which I will one day repay.
Vengeance is a bitter cycle you may say, an ever spinning wheel of injustice. That’s true. I was wronged in retaliation for something I had done, that act had been in retribution of an earlier wrong, and so it no doubt cycles back through history. They say a man who sets out for vengeance also forfeits his own life. Wise council, but nevertheless, any man who has truly been wronged in the way I have knows that his own life is a price he would gladly pay for a chance at revenge.
So now I wait, eagerly anticipating my chance to once again spin that twisted wheel. A chance to unleash my wrath and destroy everything he has built before killing him in ways even his dark mind could never imagine. But until that day I wait. For the one thing I do have…...is time.
I am Gudrik of The Twelve.
Rebirth
“Life is a war which rages from the second we are born.”
Coughs and splutters puffed dust clouds into the air. It had been a very long time since he had actually used his lungs, but with the weight of the amulet removed they were slowly beginning to remember their function. He raised his arm, creaking stiff joints and pulled the black shroud from his body. Joint by joint, muscle by muscle he painstakingly coaxed his ancient body back into life, but he could feel it was close, its presence still draining him. He quivered. Still tingling with pins and needles, he stood and staggered uneasily from the room on feet which seemed to have a mind of their own. They would have to do, time was of the essence. Hugging the wall for support he eased along. Feeling crept into his extremities and with it came dexterity, only a portion, but a welcomed portion. “Clothes,” he thought. Blending in was going to be necessary.
The sudden light blinded him as he stumbled gingerly about the penthouse apartment; while feeble attempts to shield his eyes achieved nothing. The naked man searched room after room before staggering into the enormous master bedroom. He rifled through every cupboard and closet, madly tossing possessions aside until finally he hit the mother lode. The parquetry door swung open to reveal a huge walk in wardrobe. Both walls were lined with fine suits, designer casual wear and way more shoes than any straight man should ever own. He blindly selected a black, two piece, tailored suit and a crisp, white shirt. The fit was far from perfect. It was made for a thicker man and hung from his frame, but it did the job. He tried to add a tie to the ensemble as well, he had seen his captors wear them, but be damned if he could figure out how to use the damned thing.
He emerged from the room, barefoot and with buttons misaligned. His half tucked shirt draped over the trousers with the tie threaded through the belt loops and knotted above the open fly. He looked a mess, but was dressed nonetheless. He had rehearsed this day a million times in his imagination, but how well can you truly plan an escape having only ever seen one room of the prison? He followed the light and began gingerly climbing the stairs towards the rooftop garden; towards freedom. His hands shook as he slid them along the railing. Adrenaline surged, it was finally happening. “Nothing will stop me this time.”
Two steps from the top he suddenly halted and looked back the way he had come. His teeth grated, a grimace cracked across his stoney face. “The amulet,” screamed his thoughts as he hunched awkw
ardly on the stairway. A growl creaked from him; his dry throat was packed with razors. The banister shook as he slammed his fist down on it furiously.
He eased down the stairs and resumed his search of the penthouse, which produced no result. He staggered down a short off shoot of a hallway; it ended in a dark stairwell. As he descended the stairs, clinging tightly to the railing, he knew he had stumbled onto the trail. The amulet weighed heavier and heavier on him with each step, clawing at his muscles and pulling him to the ground. At the bottom of the stairs he found himself in yet another hall, extending in both directions. He turned to his right and dragged himself along the wall. The claws and weight massed as he progressed, his every muscle quivering with effort.
Eventually he came to a point where realisation poured over him. “I can’t get any closer.” He looked around weakly and noticed a small cell set into the wall behind a heavy, barred door. Slumped into a defeated huddle in the corner was a young woman. She was so still and silent he hadn’t even noticed her. Even through the tear scarred make up and dark cloud of depression which engulfed her, he was struck by her natural beauty. He gave a slight cough to clear his throat, “You