Fred Masters died screaming. His mouth is closed, his eyes are glazed. He
is staring off into space. So how do I know this? I just do. I know all
about death. It was my job.
I don't remember much of what happened before hell, but I know what I was and why I did it. Why I became a part of the rebellion. I remember because I have thought about it every day for the last thousand years.
I wish I could say I did it from love of mankind, but that would be a lie. I am no martyr. My reasons were purely selfish.
Nobody likes the creature that takes away their loved ones. Death is the bad guy. The Grim Reaper is evil. That skeleton in the cloak with the scythe. I promise you I don't look like that.
I don't know what I was thinking. That maybe if I sided with Lucifer I wouldn't have to do it anymore? I wouldn't have to take any more lives.
I helped screw up the world because I wanted to be fucking liked. The moral of the story? Always know the lesser evil. I don't deserve to be liked.
Warren looks at the body and says, "It looks like a bear attack." Fred's body is ravaged. There are rips down his chest big enough to be a bloody elephant with claws. His left arm has been ripped out of its socket and is lying a few feet away. His body is twisted, his spine is broken, and he is staring up at the heavens with dead eyes.
It does look like a bear attack, but it isn't. We are an hour out of the city. The land is only just turning to forest. It's still too close. No bear comes this close.
Besides I know what did it, and it wasn't a bear.
I've bent down towards the body. I don't know why but for some reason I can't let them go on thinking it was a bear. It would be the smart thing to do, but I just can't do it.
I peel away Fred Masters' flannel shirt and we can all see it. The claw rips down his front were done to hide it. There are several slices in Fred's body where he has been stabbed with a knife. Or a sword, they are that big.
"Go Jack!" says Owens, "You just had to find an excuse to take his shirt off didn't you."
I roll my eyes and retort, "Better his than yours." Owens pretends to be hurt.
Fred Masters is over forty. He is almost bald, has labourer's hands, and he is dead. He's not exactly my type. Do I have a type?
"Damn," says Burke, eyeing the body. He doesn't want another murder on our hands. I don't blame him.
I know exactly what I have to do now. I don't like it, but I have to do it. I have to find the thing that killed Fred Masters, and I have to send it straight back to where it came from. I have to send it to hell. Because it is just like me.
I step away from the body and off into the bushes. It probably looks like I am going off to puke, but I don't care. If they think that, the guys will leave me alone. I need privacy for what I am about to do.
I send my senses out of my body and search for the spirit of Fred Masters. If you want to know who killed someone, the easiest thing to do is to ask them. Fred Masters was mauled, terrorized. That stuff tends to stick with you. I should know.
Fred Masters is trying to elude me. He is one bitch of a spirit to find. It's probably got something to do with the mode of death. But I'll nab him. I'm good at what I do. What I do is death and I am good at it.
Fred Masters spirit is not as broken as his body. At least not the physical manifestation I see. Being ripped to shreds is bound to leave mental scars.
Anything human that came across me now would not see what I am seeing. They would see me talking to thin air. I don't need to look any more nuts than I am. Hence, privacy.
Masters floats there forlornly. Does he even know he is dead yet? Sometimes they don't know. That is the worst. Once it was my job to tell them.
"Who killed you Fred Masters?" I ask him. His spirit looks like it is about to fall apart. I know he is supernaturally wounded. Damn. I won't get much information out of him.
"Who killed you?" The question is more forceful, demanding. Fred opens his mouth. The real Fred couldn't open his mouth. There isn't much of it left.
"Valadheir." It's an angelic name. How does he know it? Has someone been revealing themselves to the humans? I don't like what this portends.
"Hey Jack you alright?" It's Warren Beady. He's looking at me strangely. I think he heard me ask Fred the second time. Damn again.
I flash him a weak smile, "I'll be fine." It's not true, but it seems to appease him. He nods and heads back through the underbrush towards the body.
Too bad I have lost Fred in that moment. I don't think I can call him back to me again. If I could would he be any use anyway? I am going to find Valadheir.
I am dead. I am so not fine.
I don't remember much of what happened before hell, but I know what I was and why I did it. Why I became a part of the rebellion. I remember because I have thought about it every day for the last thousand years.
I wish I could say I did it from love of mankind, but that would be a lie. I am no martyr. My reasons were purely selfish.
Nobody likes the creature that takes away their loved ones. Death is the bad guy. The Grim Reaper is evil. That skeleton in the cloak with the scythe. I promise you I don't look like that.
I don't know what I was thinking. That maybe if I sided with Lucifer I wouldn't have to do it anymore? I wouldn't have to take any more lives.
I helped screw up the world because I wanted to be fucking liked. The moral of the story? Always know the lesser evil. I don't deserve to be liked.
Warren looks at the body and says, "It looks like a bear attack." Fred's body is ravaged. There are rips down his chest big enough to be a bloody elephant with claws. His left arm has been ripped out of its socket and is lying a few feet away. His body is twisted, his spine is broken, and he is staring up at the heavens with dead eyes.
It does look like a bear attack, but it isn't. We are an hour out of the city. The land is only just turning to forest. It's still too close. No bear comes this close.
Besides I know what did it, and it wasn't a bear.
I've bent down towards the body. I don't know why but for some reason I can't let them go on thinking it was a bear. It would be the smart thing to do, but I just can't do it.
I peel away Fred Masters' flannel shirt and we can all see it. The claw rips down his front were done to hide it. There are several slices in Fred's body where he has been stabbed with a knife. Or a sword, they are that big.
"Go Jack!" says Owens, "You just had to find an excuse to take his shirt off didn't you."
I roll my eyes and retort, "Better his than yours." Owens pretends to be hurt.
Fred Masters is over forty. He is almost bald, has labourer's hands, and he is dead. He's not exactly my type. Do I have a type?
"Damn," says Burke, eyeing the body. He doesn't want another murder on our hands. I don't blame him.
I know exactly what I have to do now. I don't like it, but I have to do it. I have to find the thing that killed Fred Masters, and I have to send it straight back to where it came from. I have to send it to hell. Because it is just like me.
I step away from the body and off into the bushes. It probably looks like I am going off to puke, but I don't care. If they think that, the guys will leave me alone. I need privacy for what I am about to do.
I send my senses out of my body and search for the spirit of Fred Masters. If you want to know who killed someone, the easiest thing to do is to ask them. Fred Masters was mauled, terrorized. That stuff tends to stick with you. I should know.
Fred Masters is trying to elude me. He is one bitch of a spirit to find. It's probably got something to do with the mode of death. But I'll nab him. I'm good at what I do. What I do is death and I am good at it.
Fred Masters spirit is not as broken as his body. At least not the physical manifestation I see. Being ripped to shreds is bound to leave mental scars.
Anything human that came across me now would not see what I am seeing. They would see me talking to thin air. I don't need to look any more nuts than I am. Hence, privacy.
Masters floats there forlornly. Does he even know he is dead yet? Sometimes they don't know. That is the worst. Once it was my job to tell them.
"Who killed you Fred Masters?" I ask him. His spirit looks like it is about to fall apart. I know he is supernaturally wounded. Damn. I won't get much information out of him.
"Who killed you?" The question is more forceful, demanding. Fred opens his mouth. The real Fred couldn't open his mouth. There isn't much of it left.
"Valadheir." It's an angelic name. How does he know it? Has someone been revealing themselves to the humans? I don't like what this portends.
"Hey Jack you alright?" It's Warren Beady. He's looking at me strangely. I think he heard me ask Fred the second time. Damn again.
I flash him a weak smile, "I'll be fine." It's not true, but it seems to appease him. He nods and heads back through the underbrush towards the body.
Too bad I have lost Fred in that moment. I don't think I can call him back to me again. If I could would he be any use anyway? I am going to find Valadheir.
I am dead. I am so not fine.