Chain of Darkness
Chapter three--
**********
Faith drove the RMP the next day with no argument from Bosco. He had shown up late for roll call with bloodshot eyes and a splitting headache. He felt nauseous and all he wanted to do was go home and sleep the hangover off. If he was lucky Faith might let him sleep in the car.
No such luck.
"Late night last night?" Faith asked as he leaned his aching head against the window.
She knew he'd gone home and drank. Alot. He had only shown up like this a few times before. One of the times was the morning after he arrested his brother Mikey. He'd pretended like it didn't affect him but he had shown up late, disheveled, and practically begging for aspirin.
He groaned in reply.
"Listen Bos, I don't want you beating yourself up about yesterday."
"I'm not," he lied. His stomach was burning, his head was throbbing and his eyes were stinging. And now Faith wanted a deep heart-to-heart talk. She always did. It was annoying, but deep down inside he knew he liked it when she cared. Faith was the only one who cared about him.
"Yeah right, look at yourself—you're hung over. I'll bet you went home and drank yourself to sleep."
"So?" he muttered. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms. The motion of the car wasn't helping and he felt like throwing up.
"So? That's not the way to deal with things."
When Bosco didn't answer, Faith glanced over at him. He looked miserable. He needed a few aspirin and a good old' cup of joe.
Sighing, she slowed the car down and parked outside a 7-11.
"Come on, let get some coffee."
**********
Officer Michael Jacobsen jogged up the stairs leading to his third floor apartment. His shift had ended a few hours ago and he had run home from the gym after a hard workout. He went to the gym almost every night, trying to keep his fit, muscled body in top shape. Sweat covered his young, handsome face and his breathing was slightly labored. Yesterday had been a hard day for him and he'd taken out his frustrations on the punching bag.
Michael licked his dry lips and swallowed. He was parched.
His key clicked softly in the lock, opening the door of his one bedroom apartment. The heat was left on and the living room was warm and inviting. His heavy coat and gloves came off as he walked into the small kitchen.
Instead of reaching into the refridgerator for the bottled water he always drank, he opted for a faster soulution to quench his thirst. Grabbing a large glass he filled to the brim from the sink tap. Greedily, he downed the whole glass and held it under the stream of water for more. The cold water soothed his scratchy throat and he sighed in contentment.
Michael glanced at the clock over his stove. It was 7:38 pm. Good; he had twenty minutes to take a shower before the game was on. He finished a third glass of water and headed for the bathroom.
He emerged from the shower a short time later clad in sweats and a white tee shirt, his dark hair wet and tousled. His stomach was feeling weird, almost nauseous. 'Must be hungry.' Nothing a quick dinner couldn't fix. He turned on the TV and flicked to the game. The pre-game show was on and the commentators were making their predictions.
As he threw a frozen chicken dinner in the microwave, Michael noticed his muscles felt a little stiff and slow. He flexed and unflexed his well-built arms and wiggled his fingers. They were starting to tingle and he saw that they were shaking slightly. His mouth had a bitter taste in it and the room was getting too warm. 'I must have pushed it to hard today at the gym. I've never felt this weird after a workout,' he thought, writing it off to over-exercising and hunger.
His stomach felt sour and tight and he ate his dinner quickly to try and soothe it. His efforts only made it worse. The bitter taste in his mouth was stronger now and his stomach was turning painfully. Michael moaned softly, rubbing his stomach. 'Have to get this terrible taste out of my mouth,' he swallowed as he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
The mint-flavored toothpaste helped only for a minute and the taste returned stronger than before. He bent over and spat in the sink, then bent down and drank from the faucet, trying in vain to rid himself of the bitter flavor. Looking up at himself in the mirror he saw his blue eyes were wide, and sweat was beading on his forehead and upper lip. His breath was coming sharp and raspy. 'What the hell is wrong with me?'
He felt himself panicking and turned and staggered to the living room couch. His legs were stiff and his stomach was in agonizing spasms. He groaned in anguish and pulled his knees to his chest.
Michael felt his stomach heave and his dinner start to come up. He stumbled into the bathroom and threw up. He stayed in the small bathroom heaving again and again until nothing came up anymore. His eyes were red and tears of pain were streaming down his face. Every muscle was stiff and burning. His heart beat painfully hard against his chest and his lungs were on fire. 'Oh God, I feel like I'm dying.'
He wiped his face with a trembling hand and struggled to get up but his legs buckled beneath him. With every move his body protested with intense, fiery pain. 'I need help,' his mind raced,' I need to get to the phone.'
Michael, almost screaming now in tortured agony, crawled slowly towards the phone sitting atop the kitchen counter. Everything burned excruciatingly and he couldn't catch his breath. He stopped and tried to control his breathing, but panicked and started to hyperventilate.
His breath now came in short, painful gasps, each making his heart beat louder and more violently. His head was throbbing as his legs and arms stiffened and seized up. 'I'm going to die!' his mind screamed.
The phone was now only a few feet away. He moved slowly but surely, almost making it before his body went rigid with convulsions. The cord to the phone was just out of arms reach. 'If I could only reach it and pull it off the counter.' Using every ounce of strength left, Michael stretched, grasped it and yanked it to the floor with a clatter.
The phone was in his hands, but he could feel himself blacking out. His shaking fingers refused to cooperate and all he could manage to dial was 9, before he stiffened again and dropped the phone. He was sobbing now in agony and defeat.
"Oh God, please, I don't want to die! Please God, please, please…" were his last words through clenched teeth. He choked as he passed out, his eyes rolling back in his head. Michael's heart gave out and stopped, his tortured body lying still.
He never noticed the dark form watching from the window.
**********
TBC... Don't ya just love a good cliffhanger?! Please reveiw if you want more :)
Chapter three--
**********
Faith drove the RMP the next day with no argument from Bosco. He had shown up late for roll call with bloodshot eyes and a splitting headache. He felt nauseous and all he wanted to do was go home and sleep the hangover off. If he was lucky Faith might let him sleep in the car.
No such luck.
"Late night last night?" Faith asked as he leaned his aching head against the window.
She knew he'd gone home and drank. Alot. He had only shown up like this a few times before. One of the times was the morning after he arrested his brother Mikey. He'd pretended like it didn't affect him but he had shown up late, disheveled, and practically begging for aspirin.
He groaned in reply.
"Listen Bos, I don't want you beating yourself up about yesterday."
"I'm not," he lied. His stomach was burning, his head was throbbing and his eyes were stinging. And now Faith wanted a deep heart-to-heart talk. She always did. It was annoying, but deep down inside he knew he liked it when she cared. Faith was the only one who cared about him.
"Yeah right, look at yourself—you're hung over. I'll bet you went home and drank yourself to sleep."
"So?" he muttered. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms. The motion of the car wasn't helping and he felt like throwing up.
"So? That's not the way to deal with things."
When Bosco didn't answer, Faith glanced over at him. He looked miserable. He needed a few aspirin and a good old' cup of joe.
Sighing, she slowed the car down and parked outside a 7-11.
"Come on, let get some coffee."
**********
Officer Michael Jacobsen jogged up the stairs leading to his third floor apartment. His shift had ended a few hours ago and he had run home from the gym after a hard workout. He went to the gym almost every night, trying to keep his fit, muscled body in top shape. Sweat covered his young, handsome face and his breathing was slightly labored. Yesterday had been a hard day for him and he'd taken out his frustrations on the punching bag.
Michael licked his dry lips and swallowed. He was parched.
His key clicked softly in the lock, opening the door of his one bedroom apartment. The heat was left on and the living room was warm and inviting. His heavy coat and gloves came off as he walked into the small kitchen.
Instead of reaching into the refridgerator for the bottled water he always drank, he opted for a faster soulution to quench his thirst. Grabbing a large glass he filled to the brim from the sink tap. Greedily, he downed the whole glass and held it under the stream of water for more. The cold water soothed his scratchy throat and he sighed in contentment.
Michael glanced at the clock over his stove. It was 7:38 pm. Good; he had twenty minutes to take a shower before the game was on. He finished a third glass of water and headed for the bathroom.
He emerged from the shower a short time later clad in sweats and a white tee shirt, his dark hair wet and tousled. His stomach was feeling weird, almost nauseous. 'Must be hungry.' Nothing a quick dinner couldn't fix. He turned on the TV and flicked to the game. The pre-game show was on and the commentators were making their predictions.
As he threw a frozen chicken dinner in the microwave, Michael noticed his muscles felt a little stiff and slow. He flexed and unflexed his well-built arms and wiggled his fingers. They were starting to tingle and he saw that they were shaking slightly. His mouth had a bitter taste in it and the room was getting too warm. 'I must have pushed it to hard today at the gym. I've never felt this weird after a workout,' he thought, writing it off to over-exercising and hunger.
His stomach felt sour and tight and he ate his dinner quickly to try and soothe it. His efforts only made it worse. The bitter taste in his mouth was stronger now and his stomach was turning painfully. Michael moaned softly, rubbing his stomach. 'Have to get this terrible taste out of my mouth,' he swallowed as he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
The mint-flavored toothpaste helped only for a minute and the taste returned stronger than before. He bent over and spat in the sink, then bent down and drank from the faucet, trying in vain to rid himself of the bitter flavor. Looking up at himself in the mirror he saw his blue eyes were wide, and sweat was beading on his forehead and upper lip. His breath was coming sharp and raspy. 'What the hell is wrong with me?'
He felt himself panicking and turned and staggered to the living room couch. His legs were stiff and his stomach was in agonizing spasms. He groaned in anguish and pulled his knees to his chest.
Michael felt his stomach heave and his dinner start to come up. He stumbled into the bathroom and threw up. He stayed in the small bathroom heaving again and again until nothing came up anymore. His eyes were red and tears of pain were streaming down his face. Every muscle was stiff and burning. His heart beat painfully hard against his chest and his lungs were on fire. 'Oh God, I feel like I'm dying.'
He wiped his face with a trembling hand and struggled to get up but his legs buckled beneath him. With every move his body protested with intense, fiery pain. 'I need help,' his mind raced,' I need to get to the phone.'
Michael, almost screaming now in tortured agony, crawled slowly towards the phone sitting atop the kitchen counter. Everything burned excruciatingly and he couldn't catch his breath. He stopped and tried to control his breathing, but panicked and started to hyperventilate.
His breath now came in short, painful gasps, each making his heart beat louder and more violently. His head was throbbing as his legs and arms stiffened and seized up. 'I'm going to die!' his mind screamed.
The phone was now only a few feet away. He moved slowly but surely, almost making it before his body went rigid with convulsions. The cord to the phone was just out of arms reach. 'If I could only reach it and pull it off the counter.' Using every ounce of strength left, Michael stretched, grasped it and yanked it to the floor with a clatter.
The phone was in his hands, but he could feel himself blacking out. His shaking fingers refused to cooperate and all he could manage to dial was 9, before he stiffened again and dropped the phone. He was sobbing now in agony and defeat.
"Oh God, please, I don't want to die! Please God, please, please…" were his last words through clenched teeth. He choked as he passed out, his eyes rolling back in his head. Michael's heart gave out and stopped, his tortured body lying still.
He never noticed the dark form watching from the window.
**********
TBC... Don't ya just love a good cliffhanger?! Please reveiw if you want more :)