He slammed the front door of his flat shut behind him, leaned against it and took a few moments to catch his breath. He had run all the way back to the apartment block, not bothering with the lift and sprinting up all twelve flights of stairs. To say that he was tired was an understatement. Adrenaline and terror were his motivators. It hadn't been made any easier by the gaping wound in his right hand.
He looked down at it. He could the flesh and bone within his hand, and blood leaking from severed vessels. He could even see right through to the floor beneath him. The moment he realised that he felt dizzy. Perhaps it was exhaustion from all that running, or perhaps the shock. Most likely a combination of both plus blood loss. The wound was still seeping, with drops leaving red marks on the grey carpet. It hadn't stopped at all since he'd been attacked. It had taken him ten minutes of not stop running, not including the time it took to climb all those flights of stairs. He would have gone to the hospital if the roads hadn't been so bad. He'd had no choice but to head back to his flat and try to patch it up there.
Jory was no doctor, but he's taken first aid one time at school, and he could remember the basics of what to do. First, he had to clean the wound as best he could. He used a wet dish cloth for that. His hand stung sharply every time the cloth touched his open flesh, but he bit his lip and fought through it. Next, he had to make a bandage to help stop the bleeding and protect the wound. The best he could manage was several layers of kitchen roll, held together by a bit of Sellotape. After that, all he had to do was let it rest. Within only a few minutes his hand was aflame again, burning like it was trapped inside an oven. He began to fear that it was infected, and that he might have to have it amputated. He would go to the hospital to get it looked at the moment he could.
Until then he was stuck in his flat. He had no plans to go back outside, not after that experience. He was still quite shaken up by it. Paranoia filled his mind. Most people don't get attacked by rabid homeless men with golden arrows on their person. He would be going over that experience with a therapist for some time, he was sure. What if that man had tried to follow him? Was there a chance that he had been able to keep up with him, even though he'd run through many alleyways and streets, through all that traffic? He had to try and stay calm, he knew that. Panicking wouldn't help. Letting paranoia set in wouldn't help. He had to be realistic. That man couldn't possibly have followed him.
Even if he'd wanted to leave the flat, his entire body was exhausted. The last time he'd run that far that fast was during his sixth form sports day. He'd never been a talented long-distance runner, but when his life was in danger, he'd found the strength to keep going. Right now, he needed to lie down, to rest his legs and his wounded hand and hope that nothing else happened to him for a while.
He made his way across the room, his foot catching an empty beer can and sending it rolling. Several piles of dirty plates, bowls and cutlery lay in the kitchen sink, yet to be cleaned. A foldout bed with a ruffled blanket and flattened pillows hung from the furthest wall. Between that and the door was a ragged sofa, a stained coffee table and a silver box TV set. His dad wouldn't have approved of his living space or lifestyle, but he wasn't here to judge him.
Jory sprawled out onto the sofa, making sure to prop his injured hand on a cushion to keep blood flowing through it. His eyes fell tiredly on a small wooden picture frame placed on the corner of the coffee table. Inside was a photograph of Jory as a child. Stood beside him were his parents; his adoring yet apathetic mother, and his intelligent yet spiritual father. He must have been about four years old when that photo was taken. He was smiling happily, the three of them standing on a beach and holding each other's hands. He couldn't quite remember where they had gone for that holiday, though he was pretty certain it was somewhere in England. The waves were quite tall and approaching them quickly from behind. Someone else must have been holding the camera for them, a stranger probably. It made Jory feel nostalgic, not quite sad though. He didn't have the fondest memories of his parents, but at times he'd enjoyed their company, most often earlier in his life. Even his father had given him some good memories… but that was before he 'found god'.
He reached out with his good hand and gently turned the photograph over, so that it lay face down upon the table. He didn't need to see the judging gazes of his parents at that moment.
Outside the sun was descending behind the horizon. Through the glass screen doors of his balcony a pale orange light started to fill the room. Jory's hand was still thudding with pain, but his tiredness was thankfully starting to dull the burning sensation. It was probably best he got some rest. He was expected to go in to work again tomorrow. Hopeful his hand wouldn't hurt so bad in the morning.
He couldn't be bothered to get up and move to his bed. He fell asleep right there on the sofa, his head lulling against the arm, feeling safe now that he was back in his flat.
He awoke to a heavy knocking on the door.
Jory sat up with lightning reflexes. Considering his recent experience, he had every reason to be jumpy. Immediately paranoid thoughts shot through his minds, fears that the hobo had followed him, had come after him to finish him off. His hand was still thudding with pain, but that wasn't at the forefront of his mind anymore.
He waited for a few seconds. Another knock, this time louder and with enough force to make the door shake. Someone outside was desperate to get in. That gave Jory all the more reason not to open it. But whoever it was out there wasn't planning to give up soon. The knocking continued, and Jory realised that he would have to confront them.
Outside the sun had almost completely set. The room was almost too dark to see in, yet he didn't want to risk turning a light on, as that would only prove that he was in the flat. He quietly and cautiously made his way over to the sink and from one of the draws he grabbed a knife. With it in hand he apprehensively approached the door making sure to keep the weapon behind his back in case the person knocking wasn't looking for trouble. In case the knocker was just a concerned neighbour, he didn't want them panicking and calling the police.
His front door had a small peephole. In case it was the hobo, or someone else seeking to hurt him, he didn't want to blindly open the door for them and let them in. Cautiously, he placed his eye upon the tiny piece of magnified glass and pierced out at stairway beyond.
No one was there.
Jory stepped back, puzzled. "What...?" He muttered. He looked back through the glass.
Still nothing. There was Nobody there. The knocking had stopped several seconds before.
Another thing to leave Jory confused. Was one of the local kids playing a prank on him? They hadn't done that before. Most of the other residents on his floor paid him and his home no attention. Perhaps whoever had been knocking had given up and left before he got to the door.
He was about to turn around and go back to the sofa, when the knocking started again. Jory made a full one-hundred and eighty degrees turn on his toes, startled by the sudden sound. It had started up again so unexpectedly, loud enough to deafen him and hard enough to knock the door from its hinges. There had been no one outside, he was sure. No one could have reached his door from wherever they were hiding that quickly, nor could they have known if he was looking through the peephole.
"What's going on?" He growled, tired of the stress, the anxiety, and the interruptions. He wanted to be left alone, away from other people. He needed his space. He needed to rest his hand. Whoever this person was, he would tell them to go away.
He peered through the peephole once more. The glass was starting to fog up, but he could still clearly see through it.
Nobody was there.
Jory gritted his teeth, feeling a shooting pain spread up his right arm. This was the last thing he needed.
"I don't need this right now!"
He reached for the door handle, planning to have a nice shouting match at whoever it was that was playing games with him. He couldn't take these stupid pranks right now. He would give this trickster – whoever they were – a piece of his mind.
And then the door exploded!
It was not just thrown open... it was shattered into pieces!
Jory was thrown backwards across the room, chunks of plastic and metal bits sailing past him and into the wall. It had been like a bomb going off, though there was no actual band. The force of the blast was strong enough to throw him off his feet. He landed against the sofa, knocking it over onto its back. His head hit the side of the foldout bed, making his vision spin. Everything was suddenly in chaos, with no apparent cause for the destruction.
Pale smoke filled the room, remnants of the damaged doorway raining down all around. Jory coughed and spluttered. His hand stung like mad, but now his lungs, his chest and his head were aching too. He tried to sit up, the room around him filling with this mist. At first, he'd though it was remnants of the door now atomized into a cloud. But there was far too much of it. He could taste water when he breathed.
"Water vapour?" He muttered, utterly puzzled by what was happening. He could feel the room getting hotter with each second. As the droplets in the air settled upon his skin, he could feel them burning up and evaporating again, leaving behind red blotches. "No... steam!" Where had all this steam come from? Had a hot water pipe burst in the stairway? He tried to wipe the droplets off, but it was a fruitless task. More and more rained down around him, not cooling despite the colder air that had been in the room before.
A sudden heavy footstep snapped his attention back towards the doorway. A man was there, stepping through the bent doorframe. In the mist he was only a silhouette, though his distorted figure appeared large and looming. Jory immediately felt the dread and paranoia return. It wasn't the hobo. This new figure was far larger, almost the same size as the doorway itself. Despite the fact that he was a different person, he had a similar overbearing posture and sinister aura to him, enough for Jory to instinctively know that he was in danger.
The figure stepped into the room, the mist seeming to make a path for them, revealing their shape. Indeed, this man was not the hobo. He was well shaven, clean, and far too muscular to be the homeless man who had attacked him. He was also restink a well-used cricket bat against his right shoulder. As he approached Jory, he swung it into the TV, imploding the screen and sending sparks and shards of glass spraying everywhere. A joyful cackle escaped from his muscular jaws.
Jory backed away, pushing himself up against the pull-out bed. He still had the knife in his hand, and he held it out in front of him in some hope that it would make the man think twice. He didn't want to use it, but he might not get the choice.
With cricket bat in hand, the large man approached, kicking aside the coffee table and throwing the photograph of his parents into the nearest wall. She swung the bat around threateningly, striking at nearby obstacles, some of which broke from the force. Then he reached Jory, and rested the bat upon his right shoulder once more. He smiled down at him... and started laughing.
"So, this is who he picked, is it?" He looked disappointed. "Blimey, Sting, ya picked a real pussy this time."
Jory stared at him in terror. So much was happening, so much that he didn't understand.
"What do you want?" He pleaded, the knife wavering in front of him.
The man laughed again. "Want? I want you, ya dunce!" He bellowed. "I don't come kickin' down most people's doors, ya know! Ya got chosen, son!"
His head was still spinning from the blast and the impact, but these nonsense statements were only making that symptom more acute. He recalled the hobo shouting something about joining some family, but Jory had fleeing for his life at the time. What was going on anymore? Hobos were stabbing him with golden arrows and body builders were smashing through his front door.
"I don't understand?"
The man rubbed his face with his empty hand, seemingly bothered by Jory's lack of comprehension. "Good grief, you're thick, ain't ya!" He pointed the cricket bat at Jory's head. "That wound on yer hand. My good pal Sting gave that to ya earlier t'day. He picked you out. You're part of our fam now, son!"
"Your fam..." Jory rubbed his head.
"Family!" The man shouted at him.
What was he talking about? Jory already had a family. His mother and... at one point his father.
The man suddenly lunged out with his free hand, his massive fingers threatening to grip around Jory's injured arm like a group of boas.
"Stay away from me!" Jory screamed. He threw himself away from the man, towards the glass door that opened onto the balcony. The large fingers missed him by an inch, but the arm kept moving. It took a hold of Jory's leg and dragged him back across the room. The steam cloud was getting thicker again. Jory kicked at the hand, but his shoes weren't leaving any mark behind. The man hardly seemed to notice the strikes.
"Stop that!" The man snapped at him, tugging on Jory's ankle, and dragging him harshly across the carpet. "That''ll do ya no good! Like it or not, you're comin' with me. There's someone wants to meet ya."
But Jory didn't want to go with him. He didn't want to be kidnapped by this stranger. He didn't want to meet whoever it was waiting to meet him.
"No!" He screamed. With his left hand he swung the knife around and sliced the back of the man's gripping fist.
He exclaimed in pain, as blood rose out of the wound. His fingers lost their grip, and instantly Jory slipped free. He would have run for the front door, but this man was blocking his way. The only direction he could go was towards the balcony. He slid the glass door open and ran out. He was twelve storeys above the ground, with little space between him and the metal railing. Steam spewed through the open doorway, dissipating into the open air. At least that wouldn't be bothering him anymore. But he still had his attacker to worry about.
The man was walking towards the doorway, swinging his bat around in both hands.
"Ya bastard! That fuckin' hurt!"
He struck the glass panels, shattering them and throwing glass everywhere. Shards sailed out past Jory's head, raining down onto the street below.
Jory had his back to the metal railing. Behind him was the open air and twenty metres below that was solid tarmac. If he were to fall, he would most certainly die... but when compared to the fate this man probably had planned for him.
He began climbing the metal, placing his rear onto it and trying to spin his legs over. If he was going to die, he would rather it be his choice as to how. It wouldn't be a pretty way to go, but he dreaded to think what this man might do to him. He would only be falling for a few seconds, and then it would be over. Comparing that to the possibility of prolonged torture and abuse... the choice was easy.
He jumped...
...and a hand grabbed him from behind.
He had barely begun to fall before his neck was suddenly being strangled. He couldn't see the arm that had him, but its hold was far tighter and far firmer than the hobo's had been.
"Now, don't go doin' anythin' stupid like that." The voice of his attacker stated with terrifying calmness. "I need ya alive."
Jory was turned around to face his attacker, feeling the fingers around his throat grip ever-so-slightly tighter. He was lifted away from the railing, above the floor of the balcony by about half a foot. He looked down at the man, desperately gasping for air and trying to grab the arm that had a hold of him. His fingers couldn't find it, no matter how hard he searched.
Then he felt the area of his neck that was being gripped… and realised something impossible.
Neither of his attacker's hands were touching him. One of them was holding the cricket bat, but the other hung unused at his side. Nothing was holding him... and yet he was being lifted off the ground and strangled.
The man's grin was massive, malicious, and full of yellow teeth. "D'ya see now, son. I ain't no normal man. I am X. Ya can't escape me. Ya can't escape yer fate. You've got two choices now." Something invisible pulled Jory closer to his attacker's face. "Ya can either come with me... or ya can die!"
His empty hand lashed out, grabbing Jory's injured palm. Immediately he winced and tried to scream as the pain shot through him, but his throat was too crushed for the sound to escape it. His mouth opened but no noise escaped it.
The man who had named himself X laughed evilly at his captive's pain. "You really are a weaklin', ain't ya." He squeezed harder on the wound, and Jory writhed and wriggled in pain. "Doubt ya'll be much food for the Master, but he'll have to make do."
Jory's right had burned and ached with the pain. The bandages had been ripped off, leaving red marks from the sellotape and exposing the gaping wound the arrow had left. It was still bleeding, and X's further punishment had made it drip more profusely. Whatever parts of it had started to heal were now opening once more.
Something shimmered beside his attacker.
At first Jory thought he was hallucinating. He couldn't breathe, his brain was losing oxygen. His vision grew fainter with each second.
Then the shimmering became solid, taking on a shape. With the continuous pain shooting up his right arm and the inability to breathe, Jory had every reason to assume that the image was an illusion. With each second though it was growing, becoming visible, becoming solid.
He blinked, and suddenly there was another figure standing in front of him.
He stared at it with wide eyes. It wasn't human. It looked human, but only a little. It had two arms and two legs, a head, and a torso, but other than that it was barely human at all. It was naked and almost a foot taller than X was, and somehow much fatter and more muscular too. Its proportions reached dangerous extents, beyond obese. Its torso was massive, and detailed with round grey warts. It had multiple holes covering its body. When it breathed, air was sucked through them, and when it exhaled Jory could see steam being billowed out. So, this thing was the cause of the steam then? One of its long, muscular arms was extended, its fat, three fingered hand gripping Jory by the throat. Its squat, wide head had two large, emotionless eyes and a wide, lipless grinning mouth full of gritted teeth. Two holes sat as nostrils between the eyes, inhaling air and exhaling steam just like the others. And if all these physical abnormalities weren't enough to convince Jory that this thing wasn't human, its skin was a pale turquoise shade.
X followed his gaze, and laughed joyously.
"You can see him now?" He exclaimed triumphantly. "Finally, you're wakin' up! I knew ya were strong enough to awaken! Not long now 'til yer own friend shows up."
Jory had no idea what he meant by that. Who would come to save him? His parents wouldn't, he didn't really have any friends, certainly none in London. He had no one to be worried for him. He would die here, at the hands of this madman and his inhuman companion, and no one would know.
He was starting to lose consciousness. With every second his eyelids grew heavier. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Slowly reality was fading away into blackness.
He was not completely sure what happened next. He knew that something was going on. He could hear grunting, thrashing, some sort of a scuffle. Then a shout. He could hear X bellow something, followed by an inhuman grunt.
And then suddenly the grip on his throat was broken... and he was falling!
He opened his eyes. The sky was above him and get further away with each second. The air roared around him. Something gripped the back of his shirt and pulled him downwards. He tried to roll over, but the grip on his back wouldn't let him. He could only stare upwards at the dusk sky.
Finally, with the grip on his throat gone, he was able to let out a horrific, guttural scream.
Then he landed.
It felt nothing like he'd expected it to. They said that a human body splattered when it struck the ground after reaching terminal velocity. His body still felt as if it was in one peace. He'd been taught that the dead didn't feel anything once they had passed on, but his throat still ached and his hand was still aflame.
It took him a few seconds to realise that he was not actually dead.
By some miracle he had survived the fall, landing on both feet on the side opposite side of the street. The apartment building in which his flat was located was in front of him. He looked up towards the twelfth floor. On the balcony of his flat he could see X and the inhuman thing staring down at him, shouting expletives and curses.
"Ya bastard! He's mine!"
Jory realised quickly that the large man was not actually shouting at him. He was shouting at someone else. The question was then brought up about who it was that had grabbed him. Jory was about to turn around and find out, when suddenly he was pulled backwards again, and dragged across the street.
He yelped in surprise, his legs trying to struggle but unable to stop him from moving. He was pulled by the collar across the pavement. Immediately started to panic. Had the hobo come back for him? Where was he being taken? He struggled harder and harder, but to no avail.
"Come on!" A new voice said. It wasn't the voice of the hobo, not full of malice or joyous evil. The most noticeable thing about it was the accent. This person had a faint irish accent, not terribly strong but just noticeable. His voice was also much kinder sound and carried with it more care and concern. He didn't sound anywhere near as malicious as X or the hobo had. In fact, he sounded trustworthy, not that Jory was at all prepared to put his trust in anyone right now.
He stopped fighting. Even if this person was not actually trying to save him, he was at least getting him away from that maniac with the cricket bat and his bloated, turquoise coloured companion.
They came to a stop a few moments later. Jory was still in the grip of... something, so he couldn't turn and see what was happening. He was rather startled by the sound of a motorbike engine starting up.
"What's happening?" Jory cried, still struggling to breath and nowhere close to calming down.
"Just stay quiet, I'll get you out of here." The Irishman told him, trying to speak calmly but evidently rather rattled himself. Jory felt himself being lifted onto a seat, facing away from the person who was rescuing him. He could still feel something griping him, only now the sensation had moved from his collar and was instead wrapped around his lower body. It felt an invisible seatbelt was holding him in place. He struggled for a moment, but immediately the Irishman snapped at him. "Don't do that! I'm trying to save you, you eejit!"
"Who are you? Who was that man? What's happening?" Jory blurted out, knowing now that his rescuer was going to talk back.
"Not now!" The man shouted back, as the engine roared and spurred the bike into movement. His voice was almost lost beneath it. "You're safe now! Just hang on! I'm getting you out of here!"
Jory couldn't follow what was happening. The blast had left him stunned, the strangulation had left him breathless, and the fall had shaken him up. He had no idea where he was anymore, who it was that was holding him or why any of this was happening. His hand was thudding and burning up. So was his head. His brain felt like it was melting. He tried not to slump forward, and narrowly avoided falling off the bike.
"Nononono!" He felt whatever was grabbing him pull him back into his seat, and the driver barely managed to avoid hitting a wall. "Don't you give up on me! Don't you give up just yet! Hold on, lad! Hold on!"
Jory tried to stay awake, but the whiplash and shock had overwhelmed him. His eyes drooped, as streets, roads and people sped past him. He couldn't hold on any longer.
He let his consciousness slipped away.
