"Are you sure they're dead? All of them? Well I guess he turned out to be useful after all, huh?"
Rachel was just starting to come to, and through the head-pounding haze that clouded her senses she was just barely able to make out this odd one-sided conversation. She blinked several times until the image of Ernest cowered in the corner talking on his cell phone came into view. He peered over his shoulder and, thinking quickly, she closed her eyes again, pretending to be unconscious still. She could not see what he was doing, but she could discern enough from his conversations with himself. She heard the conclusion of the phone conversation, followed by the sound of his approaching footsteps.
"The time is quickly approaching," he spoke quietly in her ear. "Soon I will truly be able to call you 'Saint Rachel'."
Thinking quickly, she slowly opened her eyes. "You can call me that now, if you like," she said in a low eerie voice, devoid of emotion.
Ernest jumped about a foot in the air. "But…you have to die first. It says so in 'Otherworld Laws.'"
Otherworld Laws…that name sounded oddly familiar to her, but she didn't concern herself with it at the moment. "You're only seeing my earthly form, remember? I can still do things for you here. But first I need you to do something for me."
He swallowed hard as he kneeled beside her. "Anything for you, My Lady."
She could barely suppress a giggle. "I need you to untie me."
"I…" He hesitated. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"I…we…um…" He looked over his shoulder briefly, and then turned back to her, leaning in close. "We're being watched."
"Then turn off the camera."
Ernest squirmed a bit, alternating between her and the camera in the opposite corner. She leaned in so that his nose brushed hers when he turned back to her.
"Who has more authority? Me, or the person on the other side of that camera?"
"Uh…um…" Finally he relented. He walked to the opposite wall, where the control panel for the surveillance system was located. A few keypunches, and the red light on the camera went out.
"There, now wasn't that easy? What they don't know won't hurt them, after all."
Ernest laughed nervously and moved behind her, working to unbind her with trembling hands. Once she was free, she rose to her feet and turned to face him with an indiscernable grin.
"Mmm, that's better." She draped an arm over his shoulder. "What can I do to repay you?"
Ernest murmured a string of unintelligible words as she ran her hands slowly down his body, stopping just short of his very obvious arousal.
"I want to experience just one last taste of earthly pleasure before I join you in Paradise," she said, lowering her voice to a seductive rasp.
"Are you sure it's okay?" he asked.
"Does it matter? No one will find out…if you don't tell them, that is." One hand strayed to grasp him lightly through the fabric of his pants, eliciting a less-than-masculine "eep" from him, but she soon withdrew her hand.
"Please…don't stop…" he panted.
"I…I thought I saw something," she said.
"What?"
"I think the camera is back on."
He looked over his shoulder. "But I turned it off. See, the light's off."
"I could've sworn I saw it just then. Are you sure they can't turn it back on from where they are?"
"I…I don't know…" He looked again, the paranoia evident on his face.
"Will you check it please? It makes me nervous."
Ernest promptly complied, feverishly dashing back to the control panel, turning back to look at her only once. He occupied himself with it for several moments, while Rachel sneaked silently up behind him. He had had the forethought to remove her shoulder holster before tying her up, but he hadn't given any thought to the possibility that she would have a concealed weapon.
"Put your hands up," she said quietly.
"Eh…?" He froze on the spot but did not obey.
"Put them up now."
"Rachel…?" He was trembling visibly now, and slowly did as he was told. She chuckled.
"You men are all the same…gullible as hell." She pressed the barrel of the Beretta into the center of his back. "I think you've been had, Mr. Baldwin."
"Damn you!" he screamed. "You're evil! Why would the Archangel come back as such an evil woman?"
"Eh, maybe she's just a piss-poor judge of character."
"Bitch!" He whirled around, but she was way ahead of him. A well-timed kick to the chest sent the middle-aged man plowing into the wall. He slumped over, momentarily stunned, and a second later his skull met the cold hard stock of the Beretta. Right away Rachel darted for the rest of her gear, replacing her belt and immediately reaching for her radio.
"Barry? This is Rachel. Respond." Receiving no reply, she tried again. "Barry, can you hear me?" Still nothing.
"Shit." She gave up and went to work trying to find a way out. There was a rickety metal ladder near where she had been confined, which she climbed up to investigate, only to find that the passage was blocked off by something far too heavy to move one-handed, or possibly even two-handed. She remained where she was on the ladder, lost in thought and still disoriented by the ordeal, when she was suddenly grabbed from behind by the ankle and jerked to the floor, where she landed hard enough to knock the wind out of her.
"Now who's gullible?" Ernest snarled as he straddled her, pinning both her arms and her body to the floor.
"Fucker! Get off me!"
"Oh I'm not nearly done with you yet, my dear." With that, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a syringe, which she eyed in horror.
"What the hell is that?" Unable to fight back, she could only watch helplessly as he plunged the needle into her neck.
"Ow! Son of a bitch!" Her neck flared with pain as if a two-by-four had been shoved through it, as opposed to a tiny hypodermic needle. Soon, though, a disturbingly familiar lightheaded sensation crept over her, and through blurry eyes she saw Ernest reach in to tenderly brush the bangs out of her face.
"Good night, Miss Goren."
The door that wakes in darkness, opening into nightmares…
Some time later Rachel awoke, still groggy and disoriented. She was vaguely aware of the hard scuffed wood floor beneath her; her arm was pinned under her body and was asleep. Slowly she sat up, rubbing the glaze from her eyes in order to get a good look at her surroundings. Much to her shock, the small claustrophobic room she had become so accustomed to in the past few hours had transformed into a completely different type of hell. The rough unfinished concrete walls were stained crimson with rust-colored rivulets, as was the floor. The stale air was heavy with the unmistakable stench of death. Looking around some more, she found that the passage at the top of the ladder was now thankfully clear, but in the process of looking in that direction, she saw something even more disturbing.
"What the fuck…" Slumped against the wall near the ladder was the body of a man, most definitely dead. From the looks of it, the death was not a quick and painless one, either. Rachel's eyes started at his feet and moved slowly up his ravaged body. His ankles and knees had clearly been shattered, perhaps to prevent escape. Moving on, she saw that the crotch of his pants had been ripped away, revealing a bloody, pulpy, indiscernable mass of flesh beneath. It almost looked as though his entire groin had been forcibly ripped from his body. As seasoned as she was, she felt more than a little queasy upon seeing this. But it was the next sight that pushed the envelope too far for her. His face was mangled beyond any recognition, seeming to have received the most sadistic treatment of all. His jaw was grossly deformed, as if he'd been struck in the mouth with tremendous force. But perhaps the most unsettling sight of all was of his eyes. They were still open, frozen in a perpetual look of terror, and were kept that way by a dozen small needles protruding from each one. His eyelids, too, had been pinned open, as if whoever had done this to him had intended for him to see one final thing before his death.
"Holy shit…" With this, Rachel had seen enough. She turned away and promptly vomited on the floor, retching violently for several moments. Once she recovered, she could not get away from the morbid scene fast enough, scrambling up the metal ladder with what little strength she had left. Once she reached the top she allowed herself to collapse to the floor, only to discover it wasn't a floor at all. It appeared to be a rusty metal grating of some kind, offering a view of a pitch-dark abyss on the other side.
"Where the hell am I…?" Rachel asked herself. Something told her she was a long way from Brookhaven, but at the same time the same air could be felt about the place. It seemed familiar somehow. She didn't spend a great deal of time standing around arguing with herself over it; her only concern now was finding Barry and getting the hell out.
Barry…
What the hell made her think she would find him here? Wishful thinking? At any rate, she wasn't ruling the possibility out. She continued down the surreal corridor, lined on both sides by rusty walls, her boots landing with a metallic echo on the grated floor. The hall seemed to go on forever, and she picked up the pace, gradually crescendoing into a full sprint. Just before she was ready to collapse from exhaustion, the passage came to an abrupt end at a door. She had never been so grateful to see a door in all her life, but part of her was apprehensive as to what might be on the other side. Seeing as how she had few other options, however, she pressed on, not even bothering to steel herself for whatever might await on the other side. As she soon discovered, nothing could prepare her for what she was about to see.
"What the hell…" She had said the words so often by this time they had lost all meaning, but there were no other words to describe what she was now confronted with. She found herself standing in the living room of her aunt and uncle's house in South Vale, just as she remembered it from when she was a kid. Still unsure if what she was seeing was real or not, she wandered around the room hypnotically, touching every piece of furniture, the walls, everything. It was all very real, as was the sight of a strange man
standing in the adjoining kitchen. His back was turned to her; all she could see was the solid black curtain of his trenchcoat, and the wide-brimmed black hat on his head that effectively concealed his features from view. In fact, she couldn't even be certain it was a man, aside from his height and the telltale width of his shoulders.
"Hey! Who are you?" she demanded, but received no reply. The man didn't even move to acknowledge her presence. She slowly advanced, drawing her gun.
"Police. Put your hands where I can see them."
He did not obey; instead, he reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out something which he lay on the kitchen counter beside him, but he did not remove his hand from it.
"Put your hands up! Step away!" she demanded, louder than before. Still he did not do as he was told, instead walking toward the door that lead to the laundry room. Strangely enough, he did not make it any further than that door, vanishing into thin air as soon as he crossed the threshold. She blinked several times and ran forward, groping the air where he had stood. The only thing that remained to indicate he had been there at all was a small plastic bag on the counter. She sheathed her weapon and held the bag before her face, closely examining the white residue inside. It crunched between her fingers like a fine sand.
"Drugs…?" she pondered aloud. As soon as the word left her mouth, a sudden excruciating pain ripped through her skull like an axe, bringing her to her knees in agony. Her field of vision filled with a blood-red light, and a horrid screeching noise, like someone was running their fingernails over a chalkboard right next to her ear, prompted her to clamp her hands to the sides of her head and clamp her eyes shut. She screamed; anything to block out the merciless assault on her senses. A moment later, her cries filled a silent room. She opened her eyes to find herself lying on the floor in the kitchen, or at least a place that somewhat resembled the kitchen in her former home. The place seemed to have aged a hundred years since she had seen it last, though in reality it had been only a couple of minutes. The whole place looked like a grainy black and white photograph of an old abandoned house; the wallpaper had all but crumbled away, exposing rotten wood panels underneath, and the furniture and floors weren't in much better shape. She would have guessed the house had not been occupied for decades, but the sound of voices from somewhere nearby disproved this theory. She followed the sound from the kitchen into the living room, and then into the back hall, eventually tracking down its source in one of the rooms there. The room was as decrepit as the rest of the house, and completely bare save for a few tattered photos hanging on the wall, and a large floor-length mirror that filled one wall. From the hall, Rachel could see her aunt Alexia in the mirror and, much to her shock, that strange man in black she had seen earlier. Once again his back was turned so that his face could not be seen in the mirror. Rachel drew her gun and remained out of sight as she eavesdropped on them.
"What were you thinking? You could have killed her!" Alexia shrieked, her voice louder and angrier than Rachel had ever heard from the mild-mannered woman. The mystery man remained where he was, unmoving.
"You probably thought I'd never find out, didn't you? Or else you figured if I did find out, I wouldn't do anything about it. You thought I'd back off, or I just wouldn't understand. Well I understand everything. I know about that drug. It's PTV, that drug they've been talking about in the news. It's killed dozens of people, and it could've killed Rachel!"
"PTV…?" Rachel was familiar with the buzz around the station about a mysterious drug that had been circulating among tourists in the town from an unknown source. She waited for the man's response, but still he remained silent. Meanwhile, Alexia was becoming enraged.
"I know about that 'religious group' too. Religious group my ass…you're just a bunch of damn drug dealers and murderers! And I will turn you in, the whole bloody lot of you. And I'll-"
Her rant was cut short by a sharp backhand to the face that sent the slightly built woman reeling into the mirror behind her. There she slumped to the floor, hands before her face in anticipation of another strike. It did come, but in the form of a heavy booted foot to the shins, causing her to lower her hands from her face to her legs, allowing him to land a couple good hard kicks to her head and chest. She collapsed to the floor, covering her battered face and sobbing. Once she shook herself out of her stupor, Rachel could no longer stand idly by. She charged into the room, pistol drawn.
"Police! Put your hands up!"
The man froze on the spot but did not obey. He remained where he was, with his back turned to her. Alexia wept on the floor, seeming to take no notice of her niece who had come to her rescue. Not that Rachel was doing a very good job, as the mystery attacker took the opportunity to land one more good hard kick Tears welled in the corners of Rachel's eyes, but she fought them back.
"I said put your hands up!"
Still receiving no cooperation, she drew her stun gun and charged him. She didn't get within a foot of him before he lashed back with one arm, which struck her in the face with enough force to send her flying backwards into the wall, where she lay stunned for several moments. By the time she recovered, Alexia and the mysterious man in black were gone. Rachel remained where she was on the floor, licking her lips and noting the acrid metallic taste of blood. It was then that she noticed her reflection in the grimy mirror on the opposite side of the room. She could barely make out a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth, and moved closer to the mirror to get a better look. Upon doing so, she was startled to see how sickly she looked. The dim glow from filth-encrusted light fixtures didn't help much, but there was no mistaking that she looked as bad as she felt. Her skin was unnaturally pale, in stark contrast to the dark circles that formed under her eyes and the half-congealed rivulet of blood that seeped from the corner of her mouth. Her head felt as though it was going to explode. Every muscle in her body ached with fatigue. She could barely support her own weight, and finally just allowed herself to collapse face-first against the mirror, pressing her sweaty forehead against the cool glass.
"What the fuck…?" It was then that she became aware of the sensation of hot liquid running down her face; her upper lip to be specific. She raised a hand to swipe at it, and was stunned to look down to see blood on her fingers. Her eyes shot back to the mirror to see a steady trickle of blood oozing from her nose.
"Nosebleed…" she muttered. She could not remember ever having one of those in her life, despite her heavy smoking. She dabbed at the blood and held an index finger along the bottom of her nose, when she noticed another well of blood springing up, this one from an unseen wound on her face. Her other hand shot up to wipe it away.
"What the fuck is happening to me?" As soon as she said this, two more trails of blood crept down her face from somewhere just around her hairline. She swiped them away before they could get into her eyes, but two more followed those, and then two more, until her bangs were soaked with blood and her vision was obscured. Through the pink haze she saw her entire face consumed with gore, which spread to her hands and flowed down her forearms like water. She watched the horrific transformation in the mirror, both of herself and eventually of the room around her. Soon the walls began oozing blood, dozens of tiny blood trails snaking their way from the baseboards and crawling up the walls, forming a grisly web-like pattern on every surface in the room. Before long the headache edged its way back into her consciousness, filling her entire being with debilitating pain. She collapsed on her side on the floor in front of the mirror, too weak to do anything else. Just before she let herself fall unconscious again, she saw something through the blur of exhausted tears; an ominous message formed in the blood on the wall:
Get ready to go to HELL…
