Some of you may recognize this story from another site. I finally decided to get an account over here and am slowly uploading some of my stories. This is a different pen name than I've used elsewhere. See my profile for more info.

Please bear with me; I'm still learning how to format stories and chapters over here. In fact, I've made a slight revision to move the start of the next chapter here. I'll get this figured out yet!

Chapter 1: The Test

"Wake up! Wake up!" The bed jostled violently underneath the sleeping figure. "C'mon! 'Killer's' exam is in ten minutes!"

"Mmmpph." The shape under the sheets tried to ignore the persistent pleas even as one minuscule part of his brain began to achieve a semblance of consciousness. Once again the bed shook, causing his stomach to rumble ominously. "Go away."

"Well, if you don't want to know about the topic…"

"Mmmppfh." Man, what had he been drinking last night? He and his mates has been studying for – "the exam! Oh, God!" Giving all his effort to the task, he made himself pry one eye open. He had no strength left to focus on the blurry face standing over him.

"In case you're interested, it's the martyrdom of St. Peter." The bed shook with the ferocity of an 8.6 earthquake, and the man fell out halfway out of bed, head hovering inches above the floor, arms outstretched. In the recesses of his mind there was something familiar about the position into which he had fallen. A dull ache in the back of his head kept that information at bay. "That's a good one, but I don't think old 'Killer' will go for it. Just be prepared to defend your date of martyrdom – AD 67, or AD 64." A black trouser leg kicked at the bed, and the mattress shifted like a great fault in the earth. "Man, you are toast."

The jolt brought his head down to the floor with a great thump, which dislodged his nagging memories and half the contents of his stomach, the latter of which he managed to hold back. "Wait!" he called out as the door slammed closed. His eyes finally managed to focus on an ornate crucifix above his bed. His mother had given him that on the occasion of his acceptance into seminary. Only it was upside-down. No, wait a minute. He was upside-down. The resemblance to his sainted namesake finally sunk in.

"More like the martyrdom of Peter Clifford," he mumbled as he fell completely to the floor, a crumpled mass of bedclothes and pajamas. He let out a low moan. "Oh, God! The exam!" He found the clothing he had worn the night before tossed on a chair in a heap, rather than carefully folded as usual. No time to dwell on that, he decided as he quickly changed into the wrinkled outfit. He closed a book on his desk, grabbed it, and dashed off down the corridor. If he hurried, he could just make the exam.

As he raced past a row of classrooms, the memories of the night before came flooding into his head. And now that he thought of it, there was another part of him that was about to flood. He pushed that thought as far to the back of his aching brain as he could. Parker had brought in a bottle of something for them to drink whilst they studied last night. It must have been pure grain alcohol, given the enormity of his hangover. He was in such a hurry that he overshot the room. His shoes skidded to a squealing halt in the quiet hallway as he lost then regained his balance. After a deep breath, he composed himself and placed a hand on the door.

A notice taped to the door stated that the exam had been moved to room 342. "Oh, just my luck!" he cried to the empty hallway and ran up the stairs. The third floor was jammed with students, all going the opposite direction. Like a salmon swimming upstream, he pushed through the press to the classroom. He had a sinking feeling that his fate would ultimately be very similar to that of the fish as he entered the now empty space. Morning sunlight fought with gathering storm clouds outside, casting a sickly yellowish light inside of the lecture hall. He made his way down table-filled terraces to the blackboard where 'Killer Kearney' was gathering up the exam books.

He paused, staring at the elderly professor. That wasn't right, he told himself. Old 'Killer's' last name was something else, it was…

"Mr. Clifford." The teacher peered over a pair of half glasses with a visage of contempt. "You have until the bell rings to complete your exam." Sheepishly, the seminarian took a composition book and made his way to a chair. Just as he placed his things on the table, the bell rang.

"Sir," he attempted to stammer in reply, but the room was empty. And the bell would not stop ringing. The longer it rang, the more incessant it became. He knew that the bell tolled for him. In fact, if it didn't stop ringing soon…

A bare arm reached out from underneath the bedclothes and felt for the telephone on the bedside table. A black, unkempt shock of hair emerged next, which was shortly followed by a sallow face. "Uh, hello…hello?" That bell would not stop ringing. Peter Clifford looked quizzically at the telephone, and then replaced it on the hook. "Oh, God," he exclaimed as he shut off the alarm. "Five more minutes. Just five more minutes." He sank down in the bed and closed his eyes. This wasn't the seminary. He didn't have a test today. Slowly, Peter opened his eyes and looked about the room.