ghostsneverdie

Tue, 21 Nov 2006 19:33:48 GMT

The cavernous office was dark; almost dark enough to smother someone unaccustomed to such complete blackness. The void was punctuated by a single point of light in the center of the room: a wax candle sitting on a large, ornately carved oak desk with clawed feet. The candle blazed in the blackness of the windowless room, illuminating the faces of the two men seated on opposite sides of the large desk.

The man behind the desk sat in a high backed leather chair, leaning back slightly with his fingertips together in front of him, his hands forming a tent. He was not a young man, but he was also not ready to accept the stigma of old age; in his early-sixties, he was still in better physical shape than half of his flock. Iron gray hair framed a gaunt, stern face with a large, square jaw and a pair of tightly pursed lips. His large nose hung like a hawk's beak over his face, a dominant hook that made him look only more intimidating in the soft light of the candle, casting a harsh shadow across his face. It was the eyes, however, that still contained the glint of an ambitious young man; sharp and dark, they seemed to penetrate into one's very soul, cutting through the person under observation like a hot blade. While standing, he was well over six feet tall, and had always possessed a large frame.

There was almost total, deafening silence in the room. The sound of the two men breathing was filling the enormous space; even the sounds of the traffic of the city could not be heard within this fortress. The man behind the desk waited, studying his prey. He was beginning to doubt that this poor wretch would be able to pull himself together enough to be useful to him.

The young man sitting across from him looked like a living skeleton. Tall and lank, Gabriel had practically no fat on his body at all. His eyes were sunken into his head, and his cheekbones protruded sharply from under his skin. His filthy, matted hair was long and hung down in his face, obscuring one of his bloodshot eyes. A long scar traced along his left cheek; a remnant of a fight on the street, no doubt. His clothes were ragged, torn, and patched, and his smell was overwhelming. A green tank top was covered in stains and holes, as were his camouflage pants. He was visibly shaking; the large man wondered if it was out of fear or from drug addiction. Gabriel's eyes were focused intently on the large opal ring that the man wore on his right ring finger. He began to tear up and a heavy sob pierced the oppressive silence of the room.

“It's the only way that he will forgive you,” the large man said.

The words hung in the air like a knife; an open threat disguised in a measure of concern. The drug addict knew that it was true, of course; his life, up until now, had been nothing but a burden on other people. The young drug addict had stolen, injured, damaged public property, assaulted a Peace Keeper, and committed who knows what else during the course of his short life. But he had never done this.

“I..... I can't.” Gabriel managed to choke out. His shaking intensified, and a tear slid down his grimy face. He met the large man's narrowed eyes, then quickly averted his gaze to the floor. He wanted this madness to end. He just wanted to leave, to go back to prison, to go back to the streets. Anything. Anything but this.

The large man heaved a heavy, weary sigh. Looking back up, Gabriel saw the man bury his face in his hands. The action was strange, somehow unfitting for a man of his stature and position. Was he crying? No, it didn't appear so. He was just disappointed. Disappointed in me, he thought. Guilt wracked his body. He was refusing to help this man, this man who had done so much for him...

Leaning forward, the large man rested his forearms on the desk and locked eyes with him, looking suddenly sad and exhausted. After a moment that felt like an hour, he finally whispered, “I understand, Gabriel. I know that you are not capable of understanding his will as I do, and I understand your moral objections.” The note of sorrow in his voice was heart wrenching for Gabriel hear; while he both feared and respected this man, he also could never forget that it had been he who had given Gabriel a second chance. It had been he who had had him removed from prison. Gabriel had already broken this man's trust and confidence once, by fleeing this... this fortress to get the fix that he had so desperately needed. Despite the fact that this man had given him a second chance, a job, a warm place to sleep, and food to eat, he had still betrayed him. He had been gone for nearly three weeks before a group of Peace Keepers found him and brought him back to this place.

He was trapped. Trapped by his own sense of loyalty to the man who had saved him from prison. For all his sobbing and his objections, he knew that he had no choice. He must commit this foul deed. He had no other options.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Gabriel whispered, “How would you have me do it?”

The man did not look surprised. He stared straight back at Gabriel, sizing him up, as he had done the first time that they had met. He stared, studying Gabriel's face. The candle flickered between them, burned down to half of its original size. The near-silence pervaded again, the sound of their breathing hammering in their ears. Had he changed his mind? Had he deemed Gabriel's lack of resolve unsuitable to do this job?

Finally, the man opened a drawer and drew out a small black pistol, setting it on the desk in front of him. The candle light glinted off of the cold steel. He said nothing, just studied him while Gabriel stared at the weapon between them, knowing what he must do. This is madness, he thought. But it must be done. His resolve strengthened and he grabbed the gun and stood, tucking it into the waist line of his pants. The man leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers again, and nodded slightly to him.

“I'll take care of it, if he deems in necessary.” Gabriel whispered.

“He does.” the man said, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

Gabriel turned and staggered out of the dark room. He was about to become a killer, but he supposed that, if he would forgive Gabriel for the act, then Gabriel could forgive himself some day.

Tue, 21 Nov 2006 09:34:20 GMT

The pounding in his head wouldn’t stop. Light piercing through the gap in the heavy curtains stung his eyes. He woke up, disoriented and miserable, trying to remember how he had gotten to bed. He could remember nothing from the night before. Nausea quickly overcame him. Rolling over onto his chest, he wretched over the side of his bed onto the floor. Bile burned deep in his throat. His cheek rested against the cold steel of the bed frame and he closed his eyes, hoping that he’d get lucky and die right here on this stained and lumpy mattress.

When Sigmund regained consciousness, he opened his bloodshot eyes and looked around the room. The man with the jackhammer inside of his skull was still hard at work and the smell of his vomit on the floor was threatening to make him puke again. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table: 2:27 PM. Apparently, waking up before noon was to much to ask of him this week.

Climbing out of bed, he headed to the bathroom. He paused in front of the mirror above the sink; he looked worse than he felt. Two days growth of beard covered his pale face. His hair was greasy and matted. Large, dark bags hung from his bloodshot eyes. He had trouble focusing them. He couldn’t help but thinking that he felt robbed of his youth; who was this withering, bald, sallow skinned man staring back at him from the mirror? Bracing himself on the counter, he stared straight down at the drain of the sink. He spit in it, trying to get the taste of bile out of his mouth. He ran some cold water and cupped some of the brown-tinted liquid into his hands, splashing it in his eyes. The cool water ran over his face and down his chest.

He walked out into the living room, searching for the source of his woes. Sitting open on the table beside his tattered, faded, moth eaten recliner was a quarter-full bottle of whiskey. He grabbed the bottle and took a mouthful of the drink, sitting down in his chair. He wore a stained white t-shirt and a pair of old boxer shorts. His socks had holes in the toes. The pounding in his head showed no signs of subsiding but his vision was becoming clearer. He was already beginning to sweat; the insulation in this building was terrible and the July heat was brutal. Grabbing the bottle again, he took another sip of the whiskey and closed his eyes. The pain was unbearable. What happened last night? The last thing he remembered was having a drink while he watched the evening's news broadcast.

Looking around the apartment, Sigmund surveyed the damage. The place was a mess. Week old newspapers littered the faded green carpeting, some folded neatly and others unfolded and strewn about. Several empty plastic liquor bottles covered much of the small counter space in his kitchenette. The viewing screen on the wall opposite his tattered recliner was left on from the night before with the volume muted. The news was on, and from the looks of the video feed, there had been another grisly murder. Big surprise. There were half a dozen murders a day in the city. Just last week a young man had been stabbed to death by a group of thugs attempting to get at his wallet right around the corner from Sigmund's building.

A few empty pizza boxes lay here and there among the living room and there were empty beer cans everywhere. He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled it open. It, too, was nearly empty, and the small light bulb was burnt out. Shutting the door, he rested his forehead on the cool metal of the refrigerator door and closed his eyes, willing the pain to subside.

Turning, Sigmund strode over to the window and pushed the button to rotate the horizontal metal blinds into their open position. He gazed out over what part of the city he could see from his fifth story apartment. A bright yellow sun was barely past its midway point in the sky and was bathing the city in its heat. In the distance, he could see the light glinting off of the metallic-looking surface of one of the government's observation dirigibles, tethered to the top of a tall office building and hulking low over the skyline like a great gray whale in midair, casting a shadow over an entire city block as it floated lazily in the air. Barely visible on the horizon were the great spires of the cathedral. Rising hundreds of feet above the pavement and constructed of stone, this building was not the largest in the city but was easily the most impressive. Constructed after the Arms War in the first decade of the twenty-first century, it was built in the ancient Gothic European style and featured vaulted archways, stained glass mosaics, and beautifully tended grounds. Sigmund had not been to the cathedral in maybe eight years, and frankly, he had no desire to return.

Turning his back on the cityscape behind him, he grabbed the plastic bottle of liquor on the table beside his lounge chair and took one more great gulp before twisting the cap back on, feeling it burn on the way down. His headache had subsided somewhat, and it was nearly time to get ready for work.

Fri, 27 Oct 2006 05:47:10 GMT

The words scrawled on the brick wall held Sigmund Pallavi's attention for nearly ten minutes. He stared at it, studying it, pondering it, a myriad of ideas playing through his head.

“Lost are the followers of the ancient faith,” was written on the wall. It was written crudely, as if by the hand of a child, in chalk on the wall. The penetrating nature of the words belied the thought that this was written by a child, though. Whoever had put this on the wall had some greater intent in mind than simple petty vandalism.

It was early morning, and the offending message was written on the face of an apartment building on Pine Street, an old war-era brick building rising roughly ten stories above the ground. The white chalk was etched right about eye level for Sigmund, maybe five and a half feet up the wall. It was a building that he walked by everyday on the way to work from his own apartment, a few blocks east of where he stood, but he had never noticed anything of this nature on this or any of the other buildings on this street. Graffiti was commonplace in the city, but it was usually depictions of gang signs and their colors, nothing like this. This was like something that he'd see written in a philosophy book, not marked on brick. Maybe it was a student at the community college around the corner, misguidedly combining a lower-middle class education with youthful mischief, the end result being this message.

“Lost are the followers of the ancient faith,” Sigmund mouthed silently to himself.

He abruptly turned on his heel and headed down Pine Street toward work. Sigmund was employed at the public library on Raintree Avenue, organizing book shelves, working the checkout counter. He couldn't be late again, or he was positive that he'd be fired.

“Lost are the followers of the ancient faith,” Sigmund repeated for the tenth time. His feet absently carried him while he pondered the meaning of the message. He could only guess what was meant by “the ancient faith.” Being no theologian, he felt a little out of his league. His limited knowledge of faith was procured through childhood church-going, a remnant of his past. Raised a baptist, Sigmund felt that religion was far too constrictive to endure while aspiring to live a happy life. The happy life had alluded him, however.

Since his high school graduation, Sigmund has been in a tailspin of depression, battling alcoholism along the way. He spent four years in the army, counting down the days until his discharge. He saw no combat, but his unit was sent to every dark, disgusting, uninhabitable, uncivilized region of the earth imaginable, and he hated every minute of it. No camaraderie was nurtured between Sigmund and the men that he served closely with; his introverted nature and lack of confidence led to making no real friends. He spent all of his time off duty reading, and nurtured a very strong interest in politics. Despite being in an armor regiment and operating a gravtank, Sigmund developed a strong anti-war sentiment that would have stopped him from ever firing a shot if he had been in a position to do so. He became a pacifist, and this attitude soon permeated into every aspect of his life. A combination of this pacifism and of witnessing the atrocities committed by genocidal warlords against their own citizens made Sigmund a very weak willed man, easily intimidated and bullied. As a nineteen year old, he had enlisted to become stronger, to find a place to belong. The army had failed to provide either one.

After his discharge, Sigmund was a man without a home. His parents had no desire for their atheist son to come back to live with them, and he had no real friends to speak of. The few people that he knew reasonably well in high school had long since moved away, were getting married, or going to college, starting their lives as contributing members of society. None had any time for the odd duck that had always been on the fringes of the group at school.

Sigmund headed for the city. He quickly located a roach infested one bedroom apartment on the east side of the river that was in his price range and quickly drank away his enlistment bonus and savings. He was still there to this day, three years later, struggling to hold down a job and to keep himself fed. On his days off, he often wouldn't bother to get out of bed or get dressed. He'd sleep the day away, and spend his waking hours reading books procured from the library. He'd been working there for eight months now, which was the longest he'd held down a job since leaving the military. It wasn't a very engaging occupation, but he enjoyed the easy access to books and the light physical requirements of the job.

A scrawny child grown into a scrawny man, Sigmund was of average height. Prematurely balding, his hair had receded into a very prominent horseshoe for a twenty-five year old. The hair that he did have was a mousy blond color and was already beginning to gray. His eyes were constantly bloodshot and had heavy bags hanging beneath them, and he was perpetually in a state of poor health. His job at the library had offered him basic health insurance for the last few months, and he was intent on holding onto these benefits and not losing his position. Full lips obscured a set of well cared for teeth, rarely cracked in a smile and even more rarely seen by anyone.

“Lost are the followers of the ancient faith,” he repeated once more as he mounted the steps to the library. Was this a reference to Greek or Roman mythology? Or perhaps it was condemning the Native Americans and their spiritual beliefs? Certainly those possibilities were ancient, but you didn't often see any headlines in the news about people believing in the Greek gods or in animal lore. The headlines were dominated by three groups: Christians, Jews, and Muslims. Maybe the author of the message on the wall was proclaiming the misguidedness of the followers of these faith bases? Sigmund couldn't speak for the Jews or the Muslims, but he could guarantee that the Christians were deluding themselves with their beliefs. Even their most exalted spiritual leaders were unable to avoid scandal; sexual abuses, embezzling, lying to their congregations for personal or political gain. Where was the wisdom of Christ when it came time to select pastors, preachers, and priests?

Thu, 26 Oct 2006 04:11:09 GMT

“I'm going to kill you, Sigmund.”

The beretta was level with his gut. A large hand encased in a black leather glove was wrapped around the cold steel of the weapon's grip. The darkness of the midnight sky was almost absolute. Where was the moon?

The click of the hammer sounded Sigmund's certain death. The gentleman holding the gun was a ruined man, wrecked, a husk of his former self. Only days ago, he had everything. Now it was all gone, and Sigmund was solely to blame. The man was now his executioner, a creature out of a work of fiction bent on sending him to hell.

The rain fell in sharp pins all around them, striking the cracked concrete paving the narrow alley, sandwiched between an old dirty Chinese Restaurant and a twenty-four hour laundromat. The stench was overwhelming. Rotting chicken and fish combined to make a stench formidable to that offered up by a decaying corpse. The two men stood face to face about forty feet from the street. Sigmund's back was to a wall. There was nowhere to go, and even if there was, there was no energy left in his body to attempt a getaway. When someone was intent upon your demise, there was very little one could do to dissuade his resolve.

Sigmund was shaking uncontrollably, a bi-product of his shot nerves, exhausted body, and the intense cold. His jeans were torn, his knees bleeding profusely. His shirt and jacket were soaked through with blood, courtesy of the grazing wound the man's beretta inflicted on his side, just below his ribs. He couldn't catch his breath and the pain in his side was excruciating. He swore that he could hear music playing somewhere out beyond the alley over the pounding in his head.

Sigmund collapsed onto the ground, his back against the wall. The man stared at him through pitiless eyes. He towered over Sigmund's crumpled form, his gun held steadily in his right hand. A smirk crept across his tightly pursed lips, betraying his elation at finally having the man that he had hunted for years here at his feet. It was the first hint of a smile that had crossed his face in weeks. Hatred coursed through his veins, hotter than any fire, purging his soul of its torment. His own soaked clothing clung tightly to him like a second skin, rain dripping down his face and off of the frames of his glasses. He was not shaking like Sigmund; he was in complete control. His was the determination of a condemned man- the determination to complete his task, regardless of the cost.

Sigmund made a feeble attempt to slowly reach for his gun, a Walther P99 carried in a holster inside of his jacket. The man's beretta emitted a loud crack and buried a bullet in Sigmund's shoulder. Sigmund roared as the pain seared through his arm like a hot iron. The shell expelled from the gun chimed as it fell to the concrete below, echoing down the alley.

The man laughed from deep within himself, a grunting sound that soon became a primal howl. Abruptly, the maniacal laughter ceased, halting as quickly and unexpectedly as it had started. The rained continued to pound down on the two men.

In the distance, the sound of the police sirens blared, growing with every passing second. A dozen uniformed police officers would be here within thirty seconds with weapons drawn. Now was the time, if ever there was one. They locked eyes.

“I'm going to kill you, Sigmund,” he repeated.