His back was toward me, and he had begun sniffing at the air like a dog or big cat would do when hunting their prey. Not sure whether
I
was his prey, I remained silent and motionless. He turned and looked straight into my eyes. Our eyes locked. His were cold and lifeless, with a milky hue. At their centers, the pupils were completely dilated, like jet-black coals in a sea of white paint. I briefly wondered what he saw when looking into mine.
The overall appearance of his eyes reminded me of an early victim of mine. She was an albino, and in death her eyes were almost identical in appearance to those of the zombie before me. In her case, confusion was written in her eyes, as I had not given her enough time to understand that I had extinguished her life, but in any case the resemblance was uncanny. From my position I could see that his right forearm was hanging lifelessly by only a few remaining tendons. Something—or perhaps someone—had chewed right through his arm.
I was both amazed and curious, as he was seemingly able to smell me in spite of the powerful scents that must be flooding his olfactory senses. He turned to face me and began to growl, low at first but very quickly the sound evolved into a feral-like roar. Somewhere deep in whatever it used to think with, it had finally decided that I was its prey. With its mouth now fully open, the thing began to drool uncontrollably. A mixture of blood and saliva, combined with a greenish fluid, came forth and ran over his lower teeth and lips, then down the front of his shirt. He raised his left hand, forming it into the shape of a claw. His right hand would have done the same, I guess, had the forearm enough tendons and a working elbow joint. Instead, it hung there, swinging. He took a step toward me . . .
Suddenly the door to the execution chamber was flung open and slammed against the wall. Another prison guard—half running, stumbling, and yelling—fell through the doorway, landing on his hands and knees, slipping on what I could only imagine was blood that presumably once belonged to the drooling guard before me. The one-armed drooling guard spun in the direction of the noise to face our new visitor. Loud but barely intelligible, the panicking guard kept repeating “Fuck! Shit. Fuck! Fuck. Shit. Fuck!,” and though he used only two words, the meaning was plain and simple: he was running for his very life, and subsequently cared very little for his command of English.
I was still immobile but had not lost my humor as I watched with amusement as he finally managed to scramble to the door and lock it closed, just as the first of his pursuers reached the doorway and slammed against the now-impenetrable entrance. The door shook only slightly as his attackers collided with it. The guard’s vocabulary was reduced by 50 percent to simply “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” each time the door shook. I couldn’t see much more than this from my prone position, but judging by the sounds coming from outside, there must have been dozens of them. I could only imagine, so assumed that a mixture of guards and prisoners infected or affected by some exotic virus were now attacking every living thing in the prison.
According to Hollywood, it usually starts with a bite from a monkey or fruit bat, if my memory serves, that is. Perhaps if had I known how close to the truth I was, I would not have found it so amusing. For the time being I was pretty sure that they would not be able to force the door, because like I mentioned before, it was comprised of reinforced steel, which would probably stand up to pretty much everything short of a tank or an RPG.
The guard was young, perhaps in his twenties, and sported a mustache and short-cropped hair. He was probably ex-military, or more like a military wannabe. He obviously worked out, as he was missing the normal pot belly that many of the Florida State Prison guards and officials strut around with. At about five foot eight and 160 pounds, he was certainly no linebacker. He was built for speed rather than strength, which is most likely the talent that had kept him alive until now. Covered in blood and sweat, he was now bracing himself, palms against the door, pushing at it. His legs still pumped away as he slipped this way and that on the bloody floor, fearing that the door could possibly give way to the onslaught coming from the other side at any moment.
Our new arrival, now with his back to us, had obviously not taken note of the current room’s occupants, as he remained oblivious to our presence. (I’ll refer to these infected people as zombies for the simple reason that it’s the closest matching description that I or probably anyone else could come up with.) The zombie guard had spun around so quickly that in spite of the serious situation, I had to hold back a laugh as its swinging appendage—that is, his right forearm—continued in its motion, due to the laws of physics, specifically inertia and momentum, and bitch-slapped him on his left cheek. The young guard managed to turn to face the new threat, while the zombie looked for the source of the recent bitch slapping. With his back against the door and with nowhere to run to, the younger guard stood seemingly rooted to the spot. His face twisted into a picture of fear as the zombie guard then refocused its attention on him, having been unable to identify the source of the recent assault to its face. The zombie charged, and as he charged, so its growl and roar repeated once more, this time loud enough to drown out even the noises coming from behind the door. Astonishingly, the guard seemed to come to his senses, stepping forward and to the side and thus avoiding sliding on the slippery surface. As he did so, the zombie instead slipped on the blood, landing on his back and slamming the back of his skull onto the floor with a loud, wet thwack, and sliding feet-first toward the guard.
The guard was fast and in one motion came forward and crashed the heel of his boot into the side of the zombie’s skull again, again, and again. Blood, skin, and eventually brain matter squished and squirted away from the pounding as the guard’s foot finally plunged through its broken skull casing embedding the boot deep within its head, causing one of its eyes to catapult across the room and land on my chest.
Chapter - 2
- The early years -
I looked up to my mother. Tears streaked her face, causing small rivers of mascara to run like charcoal veins, ruining her carefully applied makeup. She was dressed for church, as we all were. Today was different, though, as the church was completely empty, except for we three and the priest.
My palm was sweating in my mother’s grip. Whatever was going down was not right, and I was confused. The whole situation made absolutely no sense to me. During the Mass, my father placed his hand firmly on my shoulder. It was there for reassurance—whether his or mine, I was not really sure. His firm grip became viselike and anchored me in place, preventing my escape. I looked up at him. He returned the gesture and looked down at me, the only difference being that his face could have been carved in granite. Not even the slightest of emotions bled through that indomitable mask.
We were standing two or three pews from the front as the priest energetically recited his sermon. The feeling that the proceedings were for my benefit were becoming more of a reality when he focused his stare on me alone and began literally launching word after word at me, like some demented, shuriken-throwing ninja. He was not only preaching, he was ramming the word of God into my face with such passion and strength that my hair literally stood on end. This onslaught first pounded at, and then wrenched at, my chest. With my heart hammering against my ribs, I wanted nothing more than to escape this Hammer House of Horrors.
It hurt and then it burnt, so badly that my struggles for freedom intensified to almost epic levels, but my father held me in place, giving me a bruise that would remind me of that day for months to follow. Sweat poured from my beetroot face, and the anger in me grew and grew until I saw only red. The old priest then seemingly on cue came closer and placed his hand on my head. He then quoted verse upon ancient verse from his thick, tattered Bible. To this day, I have never heard those phrases repeated again. I suspect they originated from a slightly different version of the Holy Bible than the one my parents owned; one that was designed for challenging sources of evil rather than teaching the word of God, I guess.
Occasionally, holy water was splashed on my face, and the sign of the cross was then drawn on my forehead. This caused me to struggle still harder against my father’s hold. But as I looked up to the priest’s face, I noticed that his confidence was in question, his fear and state of mind were clearly visible behind a fragile veil, and I knew he was weak both in body and spirit. His faith was not as strong as the facade that he portrayed, and he would be unable to finish this ancient act, and, knowing this, my resolve strengthened.
The priest returned to the raised pulpit. He walked up the twisting staircase, until once again he looked down upon me. As he prepared for the next round, I recall feeling myself relax. My heart rate dropped back to normal, and I no longer felt the dread that had followed me into the church that day. As he began his recitation he looked toward me, then stuttered, he had clearly seen the alterations in my demeanor and was obviously disturbed by them. He took a couple of steps backwards in reflex to what he saw lurking in shadows behind my eyes. Perhaps it was one, or perhaps it was two—in either case, it was definitely one step too many, as the unlucky priest fell backwards down the stone steps that led up to the pulpit. As he fell, striking each step on his way down those unforgiving stairs, the air was pushed audibly from his lungs, until at last his head was caught at what must have been the perfect angle, whereupon a final snapping sound echoed throughout the now-silent church.
As we left the church, I looked back and took a mental photograph of the strangely twisted corpse dressed in robes, whose head now faced the ceiling while the rest of his body faced the floor.
These very strange Stephen King–like memories vanished from my mind until only recently, and while I remember them as if they occurred yesterday, I have come to know several facts. One, this was indeed an exorcism of some type and was focused on removing something from my soul. Two, the memory of the event was taken from me. And three, whatever they had tried to remove still lurks within me to this very day. It hadn’t slept, and it certainly wasn’t dormant. It was wide awake and skulking inside me, maturing within me over the years. The deceased priest had indeed failed, but that did not come to me as a surprise. In fact, he had managed to only suppress the knowledge of what lay within me and what I truly was.
Before going on, though, let me set one fact straight. I’m no more possessed than any of you who are now reading these records. In fact, we are more alike than either you or your kind would care to admit. I’ll try to describe what it is that lurks inside me, and perhaps you know this about yourself also. Imagine, if you can, a werewolf standing erect, strong, powerful, and menacing, with every muscle visibly defined, but also covered from head to foot in dark, thick, coarse hair, its hands powerful, with long fingers and nails that end in vicious points. These tapered nails are thick and sharp enough to rip flesh from a crocodile’s hide. The werewolf’s head is perhaps the most fearsome of all, where sharp teeth in an elongated jaw threaten to tear even the toughest hide clean in two. It’s this that is inside me. I feel its need to rip, to tear, and to shred with teeth and claw.
Granted this is a temper—a state of mind, if you will—but to me this is the monster that is kept in check behind my eyes. Only with time and practice have I been able to hone its/my need to spill blood. It is a symbiotic relationship of sorts that we share, one where I also benefit by borrowing from its reserves of strength and will, but I also revel in the dark bloodlust within its soul. Tell me, what is the beast that lurks within you?
Six years later
When I was twelve, I was often the focus of anger and violence. Somehow I attracted violence. It was not until I reached that grand old age of twelve that I came to realize that most of the problems I encountered were actually caused by myself. It turns out that I would soon develop into the universe’s focal point for all that is negative in this world.
I can’t recall how many times I found myself in situations where I was outnumbered and outmatched. The first resulting piece of knowledge that I always walked away with was this: if I kept my mind focused, I could do really amazing things. The second piece of knowledge was that really amazing things happen when fear and danger come together. I’ll rephrase that: when fear and danger come together and fuck like rabbits, amazing shit goes down!
In fact, during my school years I had become somewhat of a curiosity. Whenever any bully had sought me out, usually when they believed they had the advantage, I would use whatever advantage they thought they had and turn it around to ultimately evade some really nasty situations. Then, finally, at some point after the event, I would exact my revenge, sometimes immediately, sometimes days, and sometimes years later. Eventually, though, my parents had quite enough of my scholarly antics and shipped me off to an English boarding school, hoping beyond hope that the new environment would finally bring me under control, but my fun would not be stopped.
Hounds-Tor School for Boys was as bleak a place as its name implied, and if you’ve ever seen the original black-and-white movie
Sherlock Holmes &
The Hound of the Baskervilles
, you’ll get my drift immediately. For those that have not, Dartmoor is a barren region of land, treacherous and unforgiving. Every step one takes on the moors has to be taken with caution, for one moment you may be walking on granite, then in the next the ground is trying to swallow you whole.