by M.C. Edwards
must come with me,” rumbled his gravelly whisper through the bars.
George, jolted by the sudden noise, lifted her head to see who had spoken. Her bloodshot blue eyes peered out through streaks of raven hair which clung to her tear dampened cheeks. Before her stood a hunched, quivering mass in an ill-fitted black suit and bare feet. Instantly she recognised the long, scruffy, blonde hair and beard.
“Argh. What is it with this place?” was all the response George could muster as she scampered back from the walking, talking corpse before her.
“Do not be afraid,” he growled.
“Of course not, why would I be afraid of a walking corpse?” she replied.
“There is no time to explain. If you stay you will die,” he grunted. Talking seemed an effort.
George couldn’t run, so absent options, she thought about what she had just heard. This relic (as the guard had called it) spoke English, though, through a deep guttural accent. It was far too crazy to believe. There was no way this relic could be trusted. In fact, there was no way this relic should even be walking. She had looked into its dead eyes. No breath had escaped it. It was, and therefore still should be, dead. But there was another side to the farcical situation. The man who owned the building did have this relic stashed in his house, a relic who was now standing in front of her giving ultimatums. That raised flags. No police had arrived yet and she had been in that cell for hours. More flags. “Have the cops even been called?”
“How am I supposed to trust you?” asked George finally. She could barely believe what was coming from her mouth. “You could be a zombie trying to eat my brains.” His blue eyes fixed on her for a moment in a look of frustrated duty before his lips opened again.
“I do not know what a ‘zombie’ is, but I can promise you that if I desired your brains I would be feasting as we speak.”
They stared at each other, in a tense, eye locked standoff, neither sure exactly what to do. Each needed the other, yet none was willing to appear weak in the eyes of a stranger. It was then that George noticed its eyes had changed. They were no longer clouded and dead. The blue now gleamed and the fine capillaries in the whites of his eyes now crackled like white-blue lightning.
The relic moved first. He sunk his teeth into his hand, drawing blood. It drew a cringe from George, but the cringe was replaced with a wide eyed gape when she noticed the blood; it was not red. A vibrant, electric blue liquid seeped from his wound. He placed his bleeding hand on the lock of the cell door. “Istravictus,” he grunted at no one in particular. Taken back by the bizarre behaviour, George crept further into her corner and watched on in silence as the azure blood ignited into an incandescent glow. The metal beneath it began to steam and hiss. The lock melted into a thick, viscous liquid which dripped in slow, gooey drops into a seething puddle on the floor. The door swung free.
“A good will gesture,” he rumbled, stepping back from the door.
“Ok, how the hell did you do that?” George responded through restrained fear. “What are you?”
He gave a grunt of frustration and his face scowled. “There is no time. If you help me escape I will tell you all that you wish to know and probably much you don’t.” He was almost pleading now, urgency tarnished his rough voice.
“What on earth could I possibly do to help something that can melt a metal lock with its blood?” puzzled George.
“There is an amulet. You know what I speak of?” he grunted.
“The glowing one?” George replied.
“Aye. It is in your saddle bag, which I believe lies in there,” he said as he motioned at the open surveillance room door ten paces down the hall. His hand shook.
“My saddle bag??” George puzzled. He bit his hand again, reopening the wound which had begun to slowly close. “Blarvictis cantra.”
Once again the blood glowed. The dripping wound stretched and distorted. He winced as the gash tore and spread until a black casket emerged. He ripped it free and his relief was evident. The fist sized container was crafted of a black, glassy stone. Ornate carvings dressed its edges with bizarre symbols.
“I need that amulet or he will use it to find us again. If I were to touch it or get too close, I would return to how you saw me earlier. This night stone will shield it slightly,” he rumbled holding the casket out to her.
“Ok, that’s very interesting, but what do you want me to do?” interrupted George. Her response threw him; he had assumed his need was clear.
“You have to get the amulet into the casket.” George stared at him in disbelief. “You will also have to help me until we find somewhere safe to hide it. I will be quite useless until I am free of it,” he rumbled.
“Are you serious?” she blurted. The hard look she received in response suggested he was always serious.
“I have no other option.”
George was ready to walk at that point, but one thought kept her. Where would she go? With the contents of her handbag even an imbecile could track her down in no time. “Well, neither do I, I guess,” she said snatching the black casket from him.
“Gratitude, I am Gudrik of The Twelve,” the stranger breathed.
“Of course you are,” replied George, immensely unimpressed.
George scowled as she removed her shoes, hitched her dress up and crept stealthily along the hall towards the surveillance room door. Very, very delicately she slipped her head around the door frame. Inside she saw two security guards. Both were chatting away in front of a bank of monitors which they seemed to be paying very little attention to. At the sight of them, George quickly snapped her head back around the corner and pressed her shoulders flat against the wall. “What the hell am I thinking?” she thought as panic constricted her. “I can’t do this.”
As the wave of anxiety passed, George calmed herself and snuck another look. On second inspection, they didn’t actually look that attentive at all, or even that intelligent really. “I wouldn’t mind belting that one who groped me across the back of the head,” she pondered, maniacally eyeing the fire extinguisher just inside the door. In the end she decided it would be best to bottle her anger and remain undetected.
She quickly scanned the room for her missing handbag. “Come on, come on where are you?” Warm relief tingled as George spotted the handle of her bag protruding from a nearby box. It coldly retreated as she realised that the bag sat directly behind the left guard’s chair. George rolled her eyes, after the day she had been through so far she should have realised this would be no simple task. She crouched lower and froze as her knees cracked. The guards’ conversation continued undisturbed. With steady, controlled movements, she slipped into the room then eased closer and closer to the target. Her heart pounded so hard that she honestly thought the sound might betray her presence. Luckily the guards were so wrapped up in their conversation that she probably could have just sauntered in, taken her bag and stomped out without being noticed anyway.
“Did you see the chick I locked up before?” asked the left guard.
“Yeah, had a look when I went for coffee,” replied the right guard.
“What do you think? Pretty hot yeah? Even scored myself a little feel, pretty sure she was into me,” continued the left. George arched an eyebrow.
“Yeah alright I guess, a little out of shape but, a bit too much ass for me,” replied the right.
“Pfft, like you’re a prize fighter you balding jerk,” thought George, swallowing her rage and fighting the urge to stand up and break his fat nose.
“Any sign of Dagger yet?” asked the balding jerk.
“Still nothing, the facial recognition software picked up one of those tattooed bastards on an external camera. He wanted to deal with it himself. Way easier with him gone anyway.”
“Yeah can you imagine if we had of let her get that close to the relic while he was around?” Both gave a shudder.
She reached her target and gently grabbed the handle. Ever so carefully she lifted it out of the box. Inch by inch it slid out. For the
first time ever, George found herself wishing for a smaller bag. Success! She backed out of the room, still keeping her movements tight and controlled so as not to attract any attention. Luckily, her nylon stockings slid smoothly on the hard, shiny floor, making movement much more fluent. She reached the door and slipped back out into the hall.
George desperately sucked in a string of deep breaths, she had all but forgotten to breathe the whole time she had been in the room. Triumphantly, George cantered back down the hall to Gudrik, desperate to get the whole ordeal over with. He held his hands up, frantically waving them, telling, warning, begging her to stop. But eager to get as far as possible from the scene of her great heist, his gestures were lost on her, she continued towards him. As George got closer he collapsed to his knees. Finally it clicked. “Ooh, right, right, amulet. Sorry,” whispered George.
She stopped and dug through the bag for the amulet; purse, keys, phone, sunglasses, a full urban survival pack. Finally out it came, glowing wildly as if trying to save itself. George placed it into the glimmering night stone box and locked the lid in place. Gudrik’s load lightened and he climbed to his feet. “Now get me far from this place,” Gudrik grunted.
“You’re welcome,” she mumbled.
George slung the handbag over her shoulder and ran to Gudrik. She propped herself under his arm and began guiding him down the hall. The pair limped