The Devil's Due: Chapter III
--EKB
It was dark where he was--this much, Bradshaw was able to tell even in his dazed state of semi-consciousness. His head was pounding, reeling violently as he came roughly to. He opened his eyes, his vision taking a ghastly blur, and shut them again just as quickly.
Christ Almighty, where the hell am I?
Hell. Is this hell? Am I dead?
Dead. The word brought on a barrage of whirlwind thoughts and recollections from somewhere in his mind. Death. The Lord of Darkness. Darkness there and nothing more.
Bradshaw groaned. He found himself trying to move, though it was an effort he found in vain. It dawned on him that he was chained--arms over his head, ankles shackled below--to some sort of metal structure he couldn't quite make out at the moment. His mind was fighting desperately to make sense of his current situation: where he was, why he was there, how the devil he'd gotten there in the first place. He had a sick, sinking feeling that he would soon learn the answer to all these questions, in due time.
His eyes fluttered open and closed again, seeing naught but black, his mind comprehending nothing. Then, a shrill, singsong voice was piercing his incoherent senses all at once.
"Hello-o-o-o-o-o, Bradshaw!" Sweet Lord, that voice. He recognized it at once, though he was having a hell of a time believing it. "Wakey, wakey!" A hard slap across the cheek brought him around full-circle. His double vision came at once to rest on the plump, black suited man who stood to his left. Paul Bearer.
"Now I know I've died and gone to hell," groaned Bradshaw.
"Oh, goody!" exclaimed Paul. "He's alive, my lord."
"Of course he is," the answering deep voice resonated from somewhere else in the room. For all Bradshaw knew, it could have come from another planet entirely, an alternate plane in some other nightmare universe. "I've no need to be killing him. At least, not yet." The sound of heavy footsteps, retreating away. His.
Paul cackled gleefully, and Bradshaw found himself grasping for complete control of his senses. His vision corrected itself gradually and he glanced around, taking in his surroundings as they came to him. The large area he was in was unpleasantly cold and damp, with concrete walls and flooring. It gave him the impression of an underground cellar or basement or--a dungeon.
Bradshaw's heart dropped.
Ain't no good gonna come from this, son.
Senses now on high alert, he studied the rest of the room around him. Chains and shackles adorned an adjacent wall, while the next showcased an array of barbaric torture instruments, each one capable of maiming and inflicting the worst sorts of pain. The most dastardly device of torture and punishment, however, was nowhere to be seen. Where was the Undertaker? Correction, Bradshaw reminded himself, the Lord of Darkness. Where had he gone?
It occurred to Bradshaw that he was now alone with Bearer which, even under normal circumstances, would not have been the ideal scenario. It beat the hell out of being alone with both those evil sons of bitches, as it were.
"It was you," said Bradshaw, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall.
"Hmmm?" came the reply. Bradshaw turned his head in the direction of the voice. Paul Bearer stood to his left at a table of sorts, flipping idly through a large, leather-bound volume. Shutting the book abruptly, he strolled over to Bradshaw.
"You called me, didn't you? That was you. On the phone."
"Well, aren't you the observant one?" A smug smirk flitted over Paul's features.
"Why?" Bradshaw demanded. "Tell me, why'd you do it? To warn me?"
"Why, certainly not," Paul replied with exaggerated, theatrical surprise. "Consider it a courtesy call. I always did think it was terribly rude of people to show up without calling first."
"Funny," sneered Bradshaw. "That's almost as bad as somebody showing up uninvited." His eyes narrowed. "You know, I hope both of you know, you ain't gonna get away with this. Your fat ass and your half-dead friend are gonna be in a world of hurt once this is over. I can guaran-damn-tee it."
Paul grinned, his face contorting like a Halloween mask.
"You say that, Bradshaw, as if we intend to let you walk out of here. There is only one way anyone who is brought here can leave this place." He drew a finger across his throat in a slashing motion.
"Why you--" Bradshaw started, struggling against his bonds. The chains rattled loudly against their metal frame. "I swear, if I weren't chained to this damn wall, I'd whip your sorry--" He stopped, mid-threat.
The eerie sound of a rusty-hinged door creaking open reached his ears, followed by slow, heavy footfalls approaching. The Lord of Darkness reappeared, clad in some sort of snug, medieval-looking leather getup, dark hair hanging loose over his shoulders. There was a heavy brass urn in his left hand, and he set it on the table by the book Paul had been perusing. As he approached, he fixed a predatory gaze on Bradshaw.
"Well, well," said the demon with a grin. "How nice of you to join us. The fact that you are conscious will serve to make this all the more entertaining--for me, I'm afraid."
"You sick bastard," said Bradshaw with a glare. "What the hell are you planning? What is this, and what the hell does it got to do with me?"
"He certainly asks a lot of questions, doesn't he, Undertaker?"
"Too many questions, indeed."
"Perhaps we should remind him what curiosity did to the poor, unfortunate feline. So much blood, Undertaker, so much blood--"
"Bearer!" Bradshaw exploded. "I swear to God--" He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. "This isn't happening," he said. "This can't be real. Both of you are supposed to be dead!" His eyes opened and came to rest on the dark figure ahead of him. "Ten years ago," he said pointedly, "Mark Callaway killed you. He performed a ritual to rid himself of your sorry ass. I know because I was there. I assisted him. You were supposed to be gone."
"Right," said the demon with disinterest. "And how'd that turn out?"
"Judging by the fact that you're standing here? Not so good."
"What's the saying? You cannot kill that which is already dead." His gaze drifted to the urn on the table beside him. "Poor Mr. Callaway. Such a shame that he had to get in my way." Bradshaw felt his stomach twist.
"What the hell are you on about? What have you done to him?"
"Don't worry, Bradshaw. He's close by. His spirit is here with us." He gestured toward the table. "In that urn, if you will." There was a momentary pause before he continued. "The man you know as Mark Callaway is dead. I killed him." The words were so cold, so empty, that they sent a shiver through Bradshaw's subconscious. "For the longest time, there was him, and there was me. I was trapped within his mind. Forced to do his bidding. Now, the tables have turned. I control his mind, his body, and there is no him. There is only me. I am the Undertaker now."
"You bastard," Bradshaw's voice was thin when he spoke again. "Whatever it is that you think you're gonna do with me--"
"Ah, and it always comes back to you, doesn't it, Bradshaw?" the demon interrupted. "You always were a sniveling, self-serving coward of a man. Perhaps that's what landed you here to begin with." He grinned slyly. "Undoubtedly, you're wondering why I've brought you here."
"The question's crossed my mind," Bradshaw answered bitterly.
"The answer, dear Bradshaw, is simple." The Lord of Darkness strode toward Bradshaw, that unnerving gleam once again flickering in his otherworldly green eyes. "This meeting of ours concerns the matter of a debt you owe. You see, you possess something rightfully belonging to me. Specifically--" he paused, and a sinister smile spread across his face. "Your soul."