Smoke rolled along the grass, the smell fighting its way up his nose. The fire was advancing. Faster. It crackled in laughter as it devoured the holy land; the devil dancing among the ashes. His body seemed to be caving in out of pure despair, the only family he had ever known-had ever wanted- were slowly being eaten by the flames that licked the ground.
He was vaguely aware of the sound of his hollow footsteps, increasing in pace, faster. He wanted to welcome the fire with open arms, tell it to devour him. Beg it to murder him. But he couldn't stop. His legs kept moving, not knowing if he was being pursued or if he were himself, the pursuer.
The flames grabbed at his feet, pulling him back, enticing him into the sanctuary of death.
He saw the gates, and it gave him a second wind, he sprinted with his arms outstretched running at the iron gates.
They were red from the heat, and as he pushed them, his hand got stuck to the rusting metal, with one painful pull, he ripped away his hand, leaving a considerable amount of skin behind.
He simply stood there, outside the gates, watching the cemetery burn. He didn't notice when the flames started to caress his feet. He didn't notice the figure dragging out a body. He didn't notice when he was grabbed, and injected. He noticed the bricks on the church crumble away, revealing a blood smiley face.
He stretched and groaned as he slowly drifted back to consciousness. As his eyes opened the previous events suddenly came pouring back to him, and he began scanning around his current environment. Blank. He was at the top of a flight of stairs; however the bottom was cemented up. To his left was an open white door that led into an empty white room and to his left was a window, but a crumpled note was taped to the middle of it. He gingerly picked it up and began to read it
Patrick Jane. You will do what I say, when I say.
You will do nothing yet, but live on this land.
If you disobey me, your wife will pay.
I have started with the hand.
The note fell from his hand, gently floating down to the floor. It was only then that he realised he was holding something. It was only then when he looked down, and saw the cold dead hand he held in his. The veins hung out from the wrist were it had been torn away, several maggots crawled across the skin which was turning black. It was only then when he peered through the bolted round window to see the body of his six-month dead wife laying on a coffin, with some gentle flames stroking her sides. A masked body walked by, and Patrick flung himself at the window hammering and thrashing at it in undeniable fury. The figure stopped for a moment as if contemplating something, turned painfully slowly and waved. Waved twice and then walked away smiling. A face drawn in blood watched over the woman. She had no hand.