Immortal Fear 7.1

Image: Archer TV FX

Les and I had been in Honduras for six months. The pay was good and the duty was light.

He found this commission for us and negotiated everything down to the letter. I never really understood why he brought me along on the job but he said, “We were tadpoles together. We were frogmen together. What’s a few more months watching businessmen make sure they don’t get themselves killed?”

He had a point. By SEAL standards, this was a walk in the park. U.S.-Honduran relations had never really recovered after the Iran-Contra scandal in the late 1980s but that didn’t really effect America’s lust for global economic domination, but the current political climate in Honduras shaky to put it mildly. So we followed around business diplomats to make sure that everyone took them seriously.

“Isn’t that the President?” Les asked over the com.

I was standing at the door inside of La Infuega, an upscale restaurant inside of the capital city Tegucigalpa. Today I was basically a glorified bodyguard.

“You think I know what he looks like?” I replied.

“Castonette doesn’t brief us on anything,” he said. “It’s starting to piss me off.”

I made my way around the perimeter of the restaurant. Its large dining room overlooked the entire city from the eleven-foot tall windows covering the southern wall. It was a ritzy place. The table linins were expensive looking and I absently wondered what this place would look like during the lunch rush. At present it was vacant except for the wait staff, the cook, excuse me ‘chief,’ my client and his guest. I stopped before the windows, taking in the view.

“Jumpy Les?”

“It’s a high value target, Bishop. I’d rather not sit out here scratching my balls when political dissidence could be around any corner.”

“- it’s a simple exchange, Mr. President,” Roger Castonette was saying. He had the kind of charisma that took people far in business; an honest face and the gumption to follow through on the plans he made. The gray hair that streaked his temples seemed to lend the man more credibility as though pointing out a flaw to highlight his honesty. “You look the other way and my associates can assist you with your little media fiasco.”

“I am already a very rich man, Siñor Castonette. What makes you think I can’t buy my way out of this,” the President said in a thick South American accent.

“It’s him alright,” I said over the com.

Manuel Zelaya was shorter than I thought he would be. He wasn’t the worst guy as far as politicians were concerned but the political winds were blowing and he didn’t look like he had much of a chance.

“Let me be blunt, Mr. President,” Castonette began, “I have a lot at stake here. My clients are not exactly forgiving men and there are potential competitors everywhere.”

“I am a man of my people, Siñor Castonette. This is exactly the kind of operation that I want to keep out of my country.”

I walked to the kitchen as the server came out with their food and stopped him.

“Déjame hacer—”

“Silencio,” I interrupted, checking his badge. Guns let you do the talking. Everything checked out so I waved him on.

I wasn’t in charge of food tasting or anything. This was just a personnel issue. He gave them their entrées then glared at me on his way back to the kitchen.

“You ever get the feeling Castonette isn’t exactly running a moral organization?” I asked, continuing my patrol of the room.

“You think he would need to hire ex-Navy SEALs if what he was doing was moral?” Les said. “Ever hear of a guy making millions hob-nobbing outside the country just having lunches and meeting dignitaries?”

He was right. I didn’t really like the guy, but his checks always cleared. Six months out here in a third world country was rough. It wasn’t anything like Iraq or Afghanistan though. There you’re in a tent, you’re in a temporary barracks; here though, we lived in the lap of luxury while people lived in wooden shacks and dumped their sewage in their drinking water. On deployment you make accommodations: you see people living like that and you can relate, you’ve got the budget of the U.S. Military behind you so you also have indoor plumbing but here I slept on a pillow-top mattress and stood at the bow of yachts watching for pirates.

“Well there’s illegal then there’s immoral,” I said.

I walked back out to the windows, watching the landscape. It was a beautiful city, if you’re into that rustic, old world kind of thing. We were sitting high atop the metaphorical Mount Olympus, gods looking down upon mere mortals. I saw motion from down one of the side streets.

“We’ve got movement in the eastern sector.”

“I’m on it.”

I quickly walked back toward the table where the two men sat making small talk over their lunch. “Sir, we’ve got movement. I’d like to get you and the –”

Windows shattered as bullets crashed through them. I pushed both men down under the table before propping it up as a shield. “Shots fired, Les.” As soon as the gunfire stopped, I peered over the top with my rifle primed, ready to light someone up. There was no motion in the streets. The shock of sudden violence quieted the room. After a few agonizing, seconds three shots rang out from below.

“Tango down,” Les said.

I breathed a sigh of relief and helped Castonette up who then reached out a hand to help up President Zelaya. I went back over to check the windows. Les waved to me from an ally behind an abandoned commercial block.

“He gonna get his virgins, you think?” I asked.

Les scoffed. “This isn’t Iraq, Bishop.”

“You think Muslims are the only ones who like virgins?”

“What are they talking about up there?”

“They don’t pay me enough to listen.”

“You’re not even curious?”

“You know what they say about the cat.”

“So we have a deal then, Mr. President?” Castonette asked from behind me. I turned to watch the two check themselves over. The glass shattered two of the eastern facing windows; the manager pushed his way through the restaurant staff that huddled in the kitchen doorway in shock of the damage done to the dining room. He ran his fingers through his hair, his wide eyes staring down at the glass covering floor and tables, cursing under his breath.

“You haven’t given me much choice, Roger.” Zelaya replied.

Castonette’s wolfish smile was ear to ear. He reached out and shook Zelaya’s hand. “Excellent. I’ll make sure my associates are in place by this evening.” He removed a pen from his breast pocket and handed it to Zelaya to sign a document he placed at the end of the table.

Castonette waved me over after dismissing the President of Honduras. “You two do excellent work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“The President will be staying with us outside the city for the remainder of our stay.”

“Yes sir.”

He smiled and walked toward the kitchen, speaking with the staff. He’d obviously made progress in his business dealings because the weight of the world seemed to have slipped from his shoulders.

“Whatever it is,” I said to Les, “I don’t like it.”

Immortal Fear 6.2

I looked up at the incoming clouds and realized that the umbrella I was sitting under was wiping wildly above me in the wind and the dark gray skies were drizzling rain down. I packed up my computer and walked inside.

The place had seemingly become a ghost town. I had always assumed hipsters didn’t like the rain, something about ruining their greasy hair-dos, and it looked like the majority of them had elected to head home: their blog forced to wait another day for an update that all their friends would ignore.

I sat down inside and began combing through local news and police bulletins trying to see if there was any information about Philips or my accident in the last couple of days. Luckily in a city this size there isn’t a lot of time for local authorities to talk about menial cases. I did find a report of a solo motorcycle collision reported the night of my accident. It looked like no one had seen the mysterious cars who caused it, only a mangled body. My bike was impounded somewhere in the north city; it would be more trouble than not to get it out. The plates were falsified, as was the registration. They probably hadn’t gotten that far looking into it with how mangled it had been. Even if they had, they would only have found Adam Smith. One of five thousand Adam Smiths who happen to have missing social security records.

It was time to get real. My conversation with Franchesca hadn’t gotten me anywhere and going through my normal channels was bringing me up empty handed. I packed up my computer and walked out into the rain.

It was only a short block away. A place I called home away from base. Andy’s was a bar and grill on the road in Coronado right in the middle of the town, a mile away from base. It was one of a couple SEAL hang outs and after BUDs it had become a place to go where locals would buy you drinks to hear you spout bull shit about what you did as a SEAL. I remember making all kinds of shit up. I’d told a kid once that they made us raise kittens at the start, only to savagely murder them before our graduation. Just so the instructors knew you would do anything for the Team. Mostly, though, we would get drunk and get into fights.

It had been nearly ten years since I had been back to Andy’s. Some things never change. I knew I could still get some intel from these guys. I also knew it would be nice to be in a familiar place for a change.

I approached the front and I was struck by nostalgia. So many drunken nights. It was a badge of honor to show up to morning P.T. hung over. I’m not sure why, but we all felt like a hangover somehow gave you super running endurance. I remember running at the front of the pack, sick as a dog but not even losing my breath. We had gotten into plenty of drunken brawls here, but always taken it outside out of respect for the establishment. The old chalkboard marquee out front had their old Slamburger listed and suddenly hit me: I was starving.

I walked into the cramped little bar. It was definitely a military establishment. The SEAL flag hung on the railings of the banister at the back. It was still early in the afternoon so it was relatively quiet. The short bar was directly to the left and a young Polynesian guy in his mid-twenties was drying a mug behind it. Tables occupied the back of the room near the enterence to the kitchen where a few patrons quietly sat and ate. With the rain, it would likely be a quiet night aside from the locals who braved the weather. I walked down to the end of the bar and took a seat at the bar facing the door.

“What can I get you?” the bartender said.

I took a minute, examining the taps behind the bar as though I didn’t know exactly what I wanted. “Arrogant Bastard.”

He smiled as if expecting that and turned to pour my drink. The TVs were all on Sports Center still going on about yesterday’s happenings. If the Padres were in town, they’d probably be rained out, I thought absently, somehow reverting to a previous life. The kid returned with my beer, setting it on a coaster in front of me.

It was a beautiful sight and a smell to match. There’s something about a freshly poured beer, the first one in a long time. It smelled earthy. I took a long pull from it before setting it down with a sigh of contentment. The bartender was looking at me, approvingly. “Ready for your burger?”

I looked at him questioningly

“I don’t do names very well, but faces I never forget. It’s been about ten years since I’ve seen you around,” he said.

“You must be mistaken, kid.” I said. “Ten years ago, you would have been in grade school.”

He scoffed, shrugging it off. “I’ve been here since I was fourteen, busing tables and what not,” he said. “Burger. Dry. No tomato. Extra pickles.”

I eyed him critically from behind my beer glass before nodding.

He smiled and turned around, entering the order into the register.

“You’re a vet.” He said as he was typing. It wasn’t a question.

“I think you’ve got me confused for someone else.”

“You have to realize that’s our thing.” He said looking about, his arms directing me to the rest of the room. “You guys are family. We take care of family.”

I grunted non-committally. The last thing I needed was this guy to drop his bartender psychiatry on me. I gulped down the rest of my beer and pushed it back toward the bar lip. The kid took it and refilled it without so much as a word. I nodded my thanks to him.

A minute later and a guy came and sat the most blessed item in the world in front of me: a Slamburger and fries. My mouth watered. My eyes welled. My stomach pined. I grabbed the ketchup from a basket at the corner of the bar and began to poor it over everything. The first bite was amazing.

This was my comfort food, mind you. I’m not comparing this to a gourmet porter house – it was better. It was the first thing I’d eaten off base after Hell Week, it seemed fitting somehow that it was my first meal after being dead for three days.

“Just the way you remember it?” he asked.

I took another drink of my beer to wash the food from my mouth. “If you take care of family, then maybe you can help me out. I’m looking for someone. Goes by Philips.”

“Like I said, I’m not so good with names. Describe him?”

“Five-ten. Athletic. Graying hair. Shoots the golf course here once a week or so.” I said.

“You’d have to be more specific.”

I thought for a minute. I could pick Philips out of a crowd, but I hadn’t been up close and personal with him. “Cold blue eyes. Statuesque. Walks around like he owns everything.”

“Have you checked the Hotel del? Guys usually hang out at the bar there if they don’t stick to the club house. There’s also the marina.”

“Not a bad place to start,” I said. I tossed some money down on the bar and stood up.

“You seem like a guy with a lot on your shoulders,” he said. “The Teams can chew guys up. Everybody needs somebody.”

“Thanks for the advice, kid. I feel much better. I think I’ll call my shrink and cancel for this week.” I said turning back to the door.

The door closed behind a man who had just entered. The cold, gray light shining in from behind him made his features hard to see but as the door swung closed and he pulled off his sunglasses I knew I recognized him. Tan. Sandy blond hair. His cleft-chin and set jaw were clenched around a near ever present toothpick.

“I always said if I ever saw you again, I’d kill you,” he said. Seeing him, I was too stunned to do anything. He swung at me with a right hook. He connected.

I was out.

Immortal Fear 6.1

Image: http://www.ecoronado.com/

      I grabbed some cloths, some cash and a driver’s license with the name 'Mike Hilliar' on it. It wasn't fancy alias, he was a car sales men who grew up in Utah and made his way out west to strike it rich when he settled down with a woman. She didn't bear him any children which turned out to be a blessing because she was hit by a bus after he found her sleeping with his manager.

I still like to have a back story in case someone decides to get overly friendly, it keeps me from killing people who get too chatty while I'm on the streets hunting for information. I grabbed the .357 and tucked it away into a backpack with my laptop.

San Diego is an odd place. It's a college town. It's a military town. It's a port city. There's all kinds of shit that goes on here – so you can pretty much find whatever it is you're looking for. The thing is, you've got to know where to find it because as much of a clique town as it is, it's also a tourist trap.

Tourists are good in their own right. Good for banging. Good for swindling. Good for catching people off guard. But knowing what's going down in a city, they're the worst.

I stood on the street and waited for the cab I'd called. The weight of the world sometimes just falls on your back. Grimm needed me to get him a packaged for which I had no information, on threat of eternal pain and suffering. That bitch Sigyn had somehow managed to brand me. It must have acted as some kind of weird leash on me. I would have to find her a way out of Neflheim, again on threat of eternal pain and suffering. Some do-gooder priest was holding on to my gun as some form of salvation collateral, and to top it off I had a job to do. Philips had somehow figured out I had a bullet pointed at his brain and had turned the tables on me, nearly getting me killed.

I don't do well with that. I had more than one reason to want him dead now.

I got into the back seat of the cab when it pulled up and told him an address out on Coronado Island. I may be working under a blue collar alias but I knew the military. Buy the Teams guys a couple of beers and there would be stories all night long, so long as you didn't stop the booze from flowing or somehow make an off handed comment about a chick who happened to be a sister. Hey, shit happens. Live and learn.

In fifteen minutes we were crossing over the bridge. It had been nearly fifteen years since I'd been here as a tadpole. BUDs seemed like an eternity ago but this place had been my home for almost a year and a rush of nostalgia washed over me as I saw the flowers on either side of the road entering the island.

It was an awkward feeling when I was first sent out here. I was a baby face kid with no experience. I'd actually gotten into worse shape after boot camp from having trained back home for the SEAL physical. I was sharp, fierce, and scared out of my mind. I'd made a lot of friends back then, until they washed out. Washing out was shameful. We called them X Division; instead of getting the eagle and the trident, they got a turkey and a mop. It wasn’t just shameful to the person who rung the bell, but to all the rest of the guys in the team who relied on them. You couldn't even make eye contact with the guys afterwards. Maybe it was a machismo thing, but X Division turkeys always had a chip on their shoulder, that and I always knew I was better than them. So I guess I only made a couple friends in BUDs.

Well actually, just one.

The cab pulled up to the coffee shop and I exited taking a breath of the fresh ocean air. It was cloudy out, the marine layer was thick today and didn’t look like it would burn off any time soon. It looked like rain was a distinct possibility, but it was a perfect seventy-two degrees in San Diego. I guess at least I had that going for me.

The coffee shop was a pretty standard chain. By that I mean, it was surrounded by hipsters and wanna-be authors. It was a nauseating sea of horn-rimmed glasses and MacBooks. After grabbed my coffee and took it outside. None of the hipsters seemed willing to brave the wind or impending rain. Privacy was always a blessing.

The great thing about coffee shops isn’t the eye candy or the mediocre, over-priced coffee. It’s the open WiFi network. Whenever illegal things happen, it’s important to make sure your name isn’t attached to it in any way. Using open networks and the host of other tools at my disposal kept me anonymous. Of course the FEDs could show up and search everyone there but I would be long gone by then.

So this is where it gets complicated.

The internet isn’t a thing. I mean, it isn’t one thing. It’s millions of things. Computers actually, linking together sending requests and receiving data. So if you understand what you’re doing, you can look at basically anyone’s business if they’re connected to the internet. Firewalls and encryptions make things more difficult but unless someone was actively trying to stop me, I basically did whatever I wanted.

Now, like most people, Philips didn’t have everything I needed to know to find him stored in one place. I had set aside some points of interest that led me to my first attempt on his life, first among them being his bank account. I had a program watching his IP address to see what he was accessing, the problem was a successful business owner used multiple devices from multiple locations so it was hard to be sure. I had programs set up on his devices to watch for data he was requesting, and from that I could figure out what he was up to. As I pulled up my interface though, all my ties had been severed. Not everything can be that easy.

Damn.

One was still intact, coming from his home. Recent activity showed a lot of social media garbage. Franchesca. One thing was interesting however: divorce lawyer.

That struck me as odd. You don’t pay to have a man killed then have that escalate to divorce. Its pick one or the other. The activity was on going which meant she was still at her computer.

I did some quick coding, embedding a script enabling her webcam then set up a virtual desk top, allowing me to see what she was doing visually and remotely control her computer. Her face popped up in my screen. She was laying on her bed, her dark brown hair pulled up in a high pony-tail. Even though she wore no makeup and what I can only assume were yoga pants, she was still hot.

Stop what you’re doing. I wrote, I can see you’ve called an attorney, you think he can’t?

Her eyes widened as she read the small black text box that popped onto her screen. Her brow furled down in concern.

Who is this? What are you talking about? She returned.

No thanks, not taking questions today. Only answers. Where’s your husband?

She got up and walked out of my line of sight then. I can only assume it was to check and make sure she was alone. She walked back on screen and I saw they were indeed yoga pants. Hot.

She crossed her legs pulling the computer to her lap, giving me a much better view of her cleavage than her face. What do you want with him?

Just trying to finish my job.

I watched her breasts rise and fall as she took a deep breath. She really did look good for an older chick. He’s been gone for days. I don’t know where he went. His assistant won’t tell me anything. Why is this taking so long?

Admittedly this job hadn’t gone the way I’d planned it but I’m always surprised at how uppity people get when you fail to kill someone on their projected time table when they’ve given you a lot of money. It speaks volumes to the morals of man. Cash is king.

There was an incident. I may need a plastic surgeon. Maybe you could recommend yours?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? She wrote.

Your tits look real. It’s like you’re twenty.

She covered herself at that, looking about the room wildly.

Relax. I wrote, This job just got a lot more complicated. I’m going to need a bigger up front deposit.

You don’t do the job then you ask for more money? Is this how it’s going to work? I’m thinking about cutting my losses and going with the blood-sucking lawyer.

Not a great idea, I wrote. He’s onto you. He nearly killed me three nights ago. You think he hasn’t put it together that you hired someone to do it?

She clenched her teeth in frustration and typed in what I can only describe as a fury: Well then I’d better turn you into the police. Then I’ll be a hero.

That would put you in a difficult situation. You hired a killer to handle your marital problems. You think I won’t put a bullet in you to protect myself?

That rattled her. I watched her struggle with the situation. I took it as a point of pride not asking for more money than I quoted but this had gotten out of control and I was ill prepared for the shit storm that was about to follow. Think of it this way, you’re spending money to give him a fancy execution. People love it when you spend money on them.

I can’t, I don’t have access to the accounts right now. He froze them or something.

Well you’d better dip into your charity fund then, I don’t leave enemies I’ve made around to haunt me later on. Three-thousand. Cash. Bring it to Saint Ann Cathedral. Ten A.M. tomorrow. With that I severed the connection, overwriting the section of her hard drive that had housed our conversation. She would be looking at an emoji of a smiley face with a bullet in his head in place of our chat window. It was harmless and would go away once she shut her computer off but it always seemed to get my message across.

Immortal Fear 5.4

Image: Valhalla Rising

< < Back to Immortal Fear 5.3

I gasped for breath, clutching my abdomen. I summoned as much strength into my arm as I could, raising my gun level with Grimm’s chest and firing as steadily as I could. The hammer clicked impotently into the cylinder and my hope of survival rapidly diminished.

“Or maybe they were your bullets,” he mused, opening his right palm spilling unspent rounds onto the linoleum floor. “Sometimes I forget. Not often, mind you. And certainly not this time.” He gingerly walked to my side, his footfalls the only sound I could hear over the rush of my heart beat, and knelt down beside me. He looked down menacingly, his one eye penetrating my soul. Then, he smiled and flicked me in the forehead. “Don’t be so serious, Silas. Hah! I like that. Serious Silas.”

This son-of-a-bitch had the nerve to—

He grabbed my hand, pulling it away from the bullet wound and I saw… Nothing.

There was blood all over my hand, but my body was intact. No holes. No scars. I ached fiercely from my gut at the throb of my broken bones echoed that pain.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Weren’t you paying attention? Nothing is as it seems. No matter how you look for the puzzle it stands right before you: completely invisible.”

“Who are you?” I shouted.

“I told you, I’m Grimm. Grimm today, Grimm tomorrow, Grimm till the end of time! I’m always Grimm, though sometimes I’m spiteful and cunning and ruthless too,” he said.

I lay there rubbing my forehead. “What is the question I need to ask for you to give me a straight answer?”

“Ah straight to the point, Serious Silas. I can appreciate that.” He stood up and offered me a hand. I gave him a straight look.

“You expect me to just stand up?”

“I do.”

“With your help?”

He nodded.

“With a broken leg?”

He scoffed. “What a silly barrier to hold you back.” He clapped several times in an odd syncopated rhythm. As he finished, cool air swept down onto my arm and leg. I looked to see that both casts had been split neatly down the center. I gritted my teeth and gingerly extended my leg, then my arm. I felt like I could sleep for an entire year and my body cried out with the punishment it had been through but it looked as if my broken bones were mended. He offered his hand to me again.

I took it, pulling myself upright before retrieving my towel and wrapping it around my waist. He took a seat on the chair, leaning it back on two legs, hands clasped behind his head stretching his legs out on the corner of the bed; leaving me with no place to sit but the floor. I elected to stand – a man’s gotta posture to his surroundings.

“There are things at work that require someone of your, shall we say… talents,” he began. “You see I —”

“How am I not dead?” I burst in. “This is at least the second time, in as many days that I can remember, that I should have died. Yet here I stand without as much as a fucking scratch. You appearing outta nowhere. Demon dogs and sadistic bitches carving their name into my ass. What the fuck is going on with me?”

“My, my, my you have been busy since last we spoke haven’t you?” he said with the same relaxed posture. “It’s not surprising you haven’t puzzled it out yet, but I hate spelling it out for people.” He stared back at me as if waiting.

“Humor me.”

“You can’t die!” he said, as if wanting nothing more than to spell it out for me. “Imagine, a mortal who cannot die. It’s so novel, isn’t it? Take a moment to breathe it in. You must truly feel blessed,” he said.

I looked down at him doubtfully. He returned it with expectance.

“I can’t die.”

“Technically.”

“And you did this?”

“I may have had a hand in it,” he said, dismissively. “Though that brand on your neck may have short circuited the initial intent.”

I quickly clapped my hand over the scar at my neck and turned back toward the sink, feeling self-conscious and concerned about my exchange with Sigyn. After a moment a cleared his throat.

“There’s a package I need to recover, but certain obligations prevent me from taking position of it directly. You are the only person who can retrieve it for me.” He said.

I faced him. “What are you? Some kind of Alien? A wizard?”

            “Maybe both,” he said, “but definitely neither.”

            “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“The world is full of contradictions, boy. You’d best grow accustomed to them if you’re to work for me.”

“And now I’m working for you?” I said skeptically.

“Again, not my initial intend but certain forces have prevented me from compelling you. Suffice it to say I can be quite… convincing.” There was a dull ache in my belly as I thought about the gun shots from earlier. “Besides,” he said cheerfully, “this arrangement will be mutually beneficial. I’m the only one who can lift the curse!”

“I’m cursed now.” I said with a flat look.

“Of course you are! You can’t die.”

Frustrated I said, “You just said that was a blessing!”

“I said you would think it was a blessing.”

This was easily the most frustrating, convoluted, conversation I had ever had. I slipped down, pulling my legs into my chest. I stared blankly onto the floor. “And I'm supposed to get a package for you?”

“Simple as that.”

“And if I don't?”

Blinding pain shot into my entire body. Suddenly I was back on the hospital gurney. Shattered pelvis, broken bones, bloody face and all. My back arched as a blood curdling scream came to my lips. As the fire in my belly pushed the air from my lungs, blood gurgled from my mouth.  I gasped for breath and took in nothing but the blood.

Grimm appeared above me, a maniac straddling a broken man. His one eye twisted into a snarl. “If you don't, my boy, this will be the most pleasurable experience you have for the rest of your very, very long life.”

I screamed again, the sound filling the room, echoing in my ears as the most excruciating sensation I'd ever felt ripped my body up and down. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was gone.

I opened my eyes and I was back in the motel. Sweat covered my body and the towel doing nothing for my modesty. The dull ache was ever present but Grimm was gone. I pulled myself to my feet and checked the room one more time, just to be sure.

“Where do I even start” I shouted, not really expecting an answer, then a knock came to the door. I wrapped the towel around myself and tucked the gun behind my back before answer it.

“Is everything all right in there, sir?” he said. “I could hear screaming all the way across the parking lot.”

I opened the door with a smirk on my face wearing nothing but the towel and sweat sheen on my body. “What? You've never had a patron who liked rough sex before?”

Immortal Fear - 5.1

Image: http://pastelhospital.tumblr.com/page/2

< < Back to Immortal Fear - 4.2

I opened my eyes, sitting up with a gasp.  It wasn’t the first unexpected thing to happen to me today.

The most disorienting thing about being unconscious isn’t, Where am I? it’s, Why am I? I looked around and was overwhelmed by the musky smell of old people.  An assisted living community? No. A hospital.

That’s what they should call hospitals anyway, I didn’t think I’d be living without their assistance.  I took stock of my injuries.

My right arm was in a cast at my elbow, raised above me, while my left was strung with IV fluids and slung to my chest. Flexing my left hand, it worked alright, though a little numb from lack of use. I struggled to get my arm out of the sling then reached out to examine my body beneath the hospital blankets. I panicked briefly as I reached down between my legs at the unfamiliar object attached, then let out a sigh of relief.  There has got to be a better way to have an invalid man relieve himself than jamming a tube in his dick. I mean really, it wasn’t about the discomfort.  A man’s just gotta have some dignity.  I guess some guys are into that kind of stuff though. I gingerly removed the catheter. A cast covered my right leg.

Nothing to it, right?

I wiggled the fingers on my right hand. No pain there, I thought and tentatively raised it, relieving the weight from the sling holding it above my head. My wrist was fine it seemed, the doctors must have thought so too, as they hadn’t placed it in the cast. I tried to test the extension of my elbow. I remember very clearly where the break happened and there was no sign of lose bone as I felt my arm press against the cast. I looked up at the IV to be sure I wasn’t simply high. My meds were draped on a long metal poll with a box about halfway up. I was most likely doped up on narcotics.

Medical dramas like to paint a picture of a hospital that isn’t really fair.  Sure, a hospital is where you go if you’re sick or hurt and people will care for you.  I mean, they don’t even ask for payment upfront if you’re in as bad a shape as I must have been in, but on T.V. there’s always bright, crisp lighting. Glass doors so the doctors can keep an eye on all the patients at once.  They look clean and modern, like people are there to do science.

By contrast, pastel colored flower wallpaper adorned my room.  It was ancient; its color bleached out from the sun, which was odd in-and-of-itself because the only light entering the room was through windows to my right, high up toward the ceiling.  It felt more like a dungeon for 1950’s art than a place of healing.  A curtain hung from a track attached to the ceiling giving me, what I could only assume, was an administrators idea of privacy.

The job had gone bad but I needed to decipher what was real and what was a product of my over stressed mind.  My body ached faintly but a ball of warmth swam in my stomach.  I thought back to the shape I was in coming into the operating room; these must have been some serious pain meds.  The truth, the real question that rocked my mind, fought to the surface.  I had just been in Hell fighting off demon dogs and the creature, Sigyn?  I lay back in bed, exasperated, trying to wrap my head around it all.

“Sweet merciful Maker,” I voice intoned.  I looked up to see a man no older than me. He wore a black windbreaker and carried a cup of coffee in one hand while crossing himself with another.  He looked at me, stunned.  If not for his priest collar, I’d have assumed he was just another beach bum. His combed red hair slicked to the side showed the respectability of his station but his shaggy beard left me wondering if it was just casual indifference.  He hurried over to my side and sat on a chair I hadn’t yet noticed, a warm smile lit his face.

“Well, Son, aren’t you the Lord’s miracle at work?” His voice was thick and Irish.

I squinted at the irony of his words, “I’m not sure I would put it that way.”

His laugh ambled forth from deep within, “When we left the ambulance you looked no better than haggis!” he had a glint of familiarity in his eye.  He looked as though trying not to embrace me due to my condition.

“I’m sorry, do we know each other?” I asked, beginning to feel annoyed.

“William.” He said, switching coffee from his right to left hand, extending it to shake. “Father William, I suppose.”

I eyed his outstretched hand then fell back onto my pillow ignoring it.

That apparently didn’t bother him because he went on in the same friendly tone, “We’ve all been calling you Joe, does that bother you?.” He waited expecting me to answer the unsaid question. I didn’t see any reason to answer it, “I suppose Joe will do, then.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days, actually.  It truly is the Lord’s will to see you up this soon.  Why, you’re lucky to be alive at all.  As a point of fact, I read you your last rights at the scene.”

“I remember the accident.” I started, remembering his words.  More specifically, I recalled my annoyance with his presence. “I’m sorry I don’t remember.”

“Doctors say some memory loss is to be expected,” he said.  The smile, I was growing aware, was a permanent feature of his face. “Though who can be sure you were even conscious by the time I arrived.”

Three days. In three days, I had experienced some hellish nightmares.  I had to admit though, it was terribly unlikely that I could have recovered so quickly from that accident.  Seeing my body in the operating room, though for all I knew that could have been a dream as well – my mind trying to deal with the trauma to my body.  I’ve had some pretty lucid dreams but the nagging feeling that it stemmed from some sort of reality were hard to shake.

“It truly was the work of God,” Father Williams said, smiling down at me.  He had mistaken my troubled thoughts for reverence.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“Well,” he began, “your arm was broken as well as your hip. They took you off intubation last night. You had several broken ribs and a punctured lung. When I came in last night they seemed surprised you were able to breathe on your own. I should probably go let the doctors know you’re awake.” He started for the door.

I laid back and waited for the bad news.

A nurse was the first to enter; she didn’t really pay me much mind, just went straight for the monitors and checked my vitals and medication levels. A clean cut guy in a white over coat came in next, followed by Father Williams.

“With the speed of your recovery I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said. He leaned over with his penlight and flashed it into my eyes.

I squinted back, “Easy, Doc.”

“Sorry,” he said absently, “I’m just checking for pupil response.”

He clicked his light off and moved on to the stethoscope pressing lightly onto my chest. “Does that hurt?” he asked.

“It’s a little cold.”

He looked over at the nurse.

“His dosage isn’t that high,” she said.

“His pupils are responsive as well.”

Father Williams sat back watching the whole scene, grinning from ear to ear.

“You guys want to let me in on your little secret?” I asked.

“You had three broken ribs on your left side. We couldn’t surgically repair them due to your loss of blood prior to surgery. You should be in a lot more pain than you are.”

“Well, the rib fairy came and left me a butt-load of medical bills, but missed one? I must be a total badass.”

“I suppose it does,” he said, looking at my chart. “I’d like to double check some test results, but it seems like we’ll be able to discharge you in a couple days, Mr. Adams.”

I wasn’t expecting them to have one of my aliases. I looked to Father Williams who gestured me to go with it. I looked back to the doctor just as he was setting down my chart. “Uhh… call me Joe.”

He nodded as if expecting that. “I’ll refer you to a physical therapist that you should speak with immediately. The sooner you get started on your recovery, the more likely you’ll regain full function of your extremities.”

“Well thanks, Doc, but if you don’t mind, I’m sure the good Father here is excited to get me home. The sooner I can be discharged, the better,” I said. Father Williams shot me a worried look.

“You do realize, recovery from injuries this severe takes an incredible amount of time,” the doctor said. “We want to keep you here for observation; to be sure there aren’t any of the usual complications.”

“I understand, Doc,” I said. “I’d really like to get some air though. Any chance we can take a stroll in a wheel chair?”

“I would prefer you didn’t. With your injuries, it’s not out of the question that you’re recovery is temporary and the trauma will return once you’ve been conscious for a few hours.”

I gave him a level look. I picked up my right arm, cast and all, and wiggled my fingers and wrist at the other end. “A short ride won’t do me any harm. Really, I feel pretty good.”

“I can help him out of the bed, doctor,” Father Williams chimed in. “He’s my brother, you see. I know that look in his eye: Joseph won’t give up until he’s had his way.” He managed to hold onto that grin even through the lie.

“Family is family. He should be fine to move, there’s no signs of continued internal bleeding. I just don’t want to see him worn out on his first day back in the waking world.” He turned to leave, then, as if remembering at the last minute: “You really have made a miraculous recovery, Mr. Adams. Your brother never left your side. I’ll likely be publishing a case study on your file.”

“Please, could you list me anonymously?” I asked. “I’m not really one to seek out attention.”

He smiled then nodded, turning to leave the room.

“I’ll bring in a wheelchair in just a couple minutes,” the nurse said. “Just make sure you hang on to your IV stand. You’re going to feel like you were hit by a truck once we start weaning you off of the pain medication.”

I stared at here in disbelief. She looked at me, then at Father Williams, who I’m sure had a look similar to mine.

“Sorry,” she said. “I guess that’s how you should feel.”

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, I’m pretty sure it was an SUV.”

She walked out of the room, abashed. A short time later, she wheeled a chair in and placed it at the foot of my bed. Once we were alone, I turned to Father Williams.

“You’ve got a pretty good poker face.”

“It’s not just choir boys that are called to the cloth, brother. You’re a gambling man yourself, though, expecting me to take you out of this place.”

I sat up, slowly putting my feet off the side of the bed.  Father Williams looked as though he were about to stop me, but in seeing the fluidity of my motion he let me continue on my own. I took in a deep breath, grabbed the IV rack and hoisted myself into a standing position. I was shaky, without a doubt, but I eased myself over and into the wheel chair that Williams brought to my side. He stood before me, arms outstretched ready to catch me if I were to fall.  I waved him off as I plopped myself into the chair with a sigh of relief.
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Immortal Fear - 4.2

Image: http://xxx-versii.blogspot.com/2013/06/ad-and-hell-hounds.html

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The mist dissipated from around my body into an unfamiliar enclosure. The woman was nowhere to be found.  Instead, in front of me slept an enormous beast, two heads full of teeth and claws.  Its body was the size of a bear with jaws like a wolf.  With a silent breath, I took a step back. Usually I got the better end of an exchange with women.  We’d have sex; I’d give cab fare.  I guess I appreciated the challenge.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” I mouthed looking for an exit.  She’d sent me here; I could only hope she would take me back.  I continued back peddling away from the two-headed beast, heart pounding in my chest. It was another circular room but darkened by mist more than the previous. The hound snored softly.Hurray for small miracles, I thought.

My heel thumped against something and my heart stopped. I turned. Beneath me, the skin of a two-headed dog began to smolder like the embers of a dying fire. The all too aware glow of its yellow eyes found me and bared two sets of vicious fangs.

Predator instincts or not, I ran for the only exit that I could see which is to say, into the blackened abyss beyond.  With each step, the glow of the hound’s skin told me that the pack had awakened. Their burning skin illuminated the hall; the black stone walls reflected the horrible scene in front of my eyes: a nearly naked man running for his life from a pack of wild, two-headed hounds. There was only one explanation.

I was in Hell.

The hounds nipped at my heels. I turned back to gage the distance when one leapt towards me.  I twisted, falling onto my back and extending my foot out, throwing the hound over me.  Its jaws snapped wildly as it sailed through the corridor. 

I just started to regain my footing when the second of the pack plowed into me with a double head-butt.  I groaned feeling the force crack ribs beneath my burlap coat-of-arms. Its right head snapped at my face. I threw my arm between its jaws forcing it away.  Razor sharp teeth sliced through my skin and I let out a bellow of rage, punching the beast between its heads.  It shuttered, releasing me, my left hand hung limp and blood dripped down my arm.  Five more hounds charged me, skin ablaze and eyes burning.

Maybe I was dead.  Maybe this was the manifestation of my eternal suffering, but I wasn’t going to go down without a fight.  I got up to my feet just as the first of the pack arrived, welcoming it with a kick to the chest.  It stumbled slightly as agony exploded from my foot, its chest was hard as steel. The first attacker leapt onto my back, pinning me to the ground.  The hound’s ember skin hissed as it began to burn into my flesh.  I cried out as the jaws closed around my shoulder, cracking my collarbone. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes, sure the rest of the pack would descend upon me any time to finish the job.

I opened my eyes back in the woman’s room still laying on my stomach.  My broken collar made it impossible for me to look for the dogs, but the missing weight from my back made me hopeful.

“Respect is something you would be wise to learn, lest you find yourself in a similar situation.”  The woman hadn’t moved from her bench facing the brazier. 

I lay my head down on the cool stone with a sigh of relief.  “Thank God,” I whispered.  My body must be in a state of shock because I was only vaguely aware of a growing sense of exhaustion.

“Rise, Youngling.  Let me look upon what the tide has wash upon the shore.”

I lay there breathing, trying to get my head wrapped around her request.  “Look lady, I was just mauled by a pack of burning demon dogs,” I croaked, “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t just jump up and—”

A piercing crack emanated from the stone beneath me; I pushed myself up to my knees by reflex then examined myself in stunned silence.  My wounds were closed, all signs of scare tissue fading with them.  I looked up at her reverently.

The woman was standing now, a dark wooden walking staff held in her hand, as tall as her eye.  She was much taller than I’d first guessed but her hair still flowed down to her waist.  I tried my best not to look at her tits – I knew where that had gotten me last time.

“I think you and I got off on the wrong foot miss…”

“You may call me Sigyn.”

“Miss Sigyn—”

“Just Sigyn,” her accent was sexy and soothing all at once.

I took in a deep breath and asked the question I’d been wondering all day. “What’s happening to me?”

She walked towards me. Her eyes locked on mine, until she stood a foot away searching my features.  She gently cupped my hand then with blinding speed she pulled a knife from her loincloth, slicing across my palm.  I gasped in pain, a cross of anger and confusion in my eyes as I looked back up at her. She nodded back to my palm.

The wound had begun to seal itself.  I looked back at her; she must have seen the questions in my face.

“I may have a use for you yet, Youngling.”

I poked, testing the new flesh at my hand. “So what does this mean?”

“You are a man of little faith, Silas Bishop—”

“How does everyone I meet know that name?” I began, frustrated; though the emotion never reached its full potential as she spun, staff leveled at my head, cracking my skull at the ear.  I fell to the side in a heap.

“You burst into my realm and expect me to reveal to you truth such that the gods themselves seek? All things come at a price, Youngling, a truth I can see written in your own mind.  Listen well, for Odin himself in all his wisdom sought prophecy among the seers and desperation is all that could drive him to pay the toll.” Her voice burned with scorn in my eardrums even over the ringing.

I gasped in a stuttering breath as I returned to my senses, eyes opening wide.  I’ve killed a lot of people; I’ve taken a lot of beatings.  All that fighting had left me blunt – tact wasn’t my strong suite. I pulled myself up to my knees and sat back with my eyes cast down. My head throbbed. The last thing I needed to do was antagonize the woman anymore. I’m accustomed to deadly games, but I clearly didn’t know the rules to this one. 

My skull throbbed along with my collar and back.  Whatever was holding me together certainly wasn’t keeping me from feeling the pain.  I was accustomed to that, though. Mind over matter; pain is my body’s, my mind is my own.  “What’s the price?” I asked, not looking up.

I could hear the smirk in her voice, “Already you kneel before me and that is a start.”  It was a tenant of information brokering: always set your terms, they’re non-negotiable.  All I had to give now was my obedience; I had to hope it would be enough.

“You imagine yourself a broker of men’s lives not of information, Bishop.  I have long known mortality the blessing that it is – a lesson you are certain to learn yourself.  Now, cursed with the frailty of your body and the endless suffering of the Gods, living in the shadows of those they have created.” Her words dripped with bitterness, I dared not look at her even as my heart began to race with excitement.

“I find myself… inconvenienced,” she said. I looked up when she paused, her hair tossed over her shoulder, her hand reaching to her neck.  On it, I saw the strange rune that was burned onto the headless corpses. “You,” she said, her gaze bearing down on me, she knelt down cupping my chin in her hand “are free of the restrictions placed upon me in this realm.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen in my life. “So long as your body lives, you remain tethered to the realm of Midgard. Yet, in your pain, you drift between worlds; down to Niflheim itself.”

I wetted my lips. I felt flush. Why was it so hot all of a sudden? “You mean I can get back?” I asked. My mouth must have been dry too because it came out in a croak.

The sudden lust in my body was overwhelming as she spoke. “Yes. I have what you want,” she said reaching between my legs and grabbing my hard shaft, “Mortality ever plays to my advantage.” She shoved me to my back, legs parting over me and mounting without a flinch, still holding the massive walking staff vertical.  It happened so suddenly I couldn’t control myself as I began thrusting wildly. She slammed the stick down with an ear-shattering crack, pressing her body onto mine, a bestial smile gripping her face.

“The nine realms hold perils for gods as well as men. The mists of prophecy are clouded by immortal threads of will but I care little for that. My son walks free while my daughter keeps me in this cage.” Her words nearly lost to me in my uncontrollable lust. My eyes locked on her hips as we writhed together on the glossy black stone. “Find the portal to this realm, there the Wolf shall greet you; answer to me until I’m free, a slave to all who bind you.”

What had she just said? I think it was important, but I was close now, deep insider her ethereal hips. She slammed her hand around my neck stopping me cold. Her eyes deep black and her mouth twisted in fanged smile, she looked down on me as a harpy to her prey. “You would know your way through the Underworld? Then you will satiate my desire.” With that, her fangs dug deep into my neck and my scream finally echoed through the cavern.

I wasn’t sure if from pleasure or pain.
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