Disclaimer: The characters from Chronicles of Riddick are not owned by Keltic Rave. She is making no money or profit from this, it is intended for entertainment purposes only. She also doesn't own Village of the Damned, neither does she own the Borg.

The life of Sirrah McCormic

Chapter 3

Quasi Dead the experience of a life time...Ok Bad pun.

I don't exactly know what I was expecting when the Mexican girl walked out of the quasi dead chamber. Maybe to have the dead eyes and deader soul of the converts, to be crying and begging for death, or completely insane and blabbering about pink monkeys. I didn't know what the quasi dead were, only the parting words the more you fight the worse the damage will be.

What if you just gave in? Did you have to give in or could you fight? If you fought would you die? If you gave in silently and willingly would your head explode? Would little orange bunny rabbits pop up on some moon somewhere and do the salsa? Well OK I didn't think that the rabbits would do the salsa, or be orange for that matter, wow that's an interesting picture. My imagination was working double overtime, thoughts were racing around my head miles per second. The door opened some five minutes later. The Mexican girl stepped out... Wow it's so... freaking anti-climatic. She is staring into space, a lot like the two Asian people were after I woke up.

I am sitting on the ground still, mostly because there are no chairs. The floor is metal, the ceiling is metal with horrific designs, the walls are the same. Who ever designed the place must have loved Dantes' Inferno or maybe he was a serial killer with interior design skills, who always wanted to sculpt. Ok,I have to stop this internal ranting.

One by one they are led into the quasi dead chamber one by one they are lead out. The Asians, Africans, the blue eyed guy, the goth, all of them come back out quiet and staring.

...My brother...

I tense up, they all seem perfectly healthy if a little quiet. Nothing will be wrong with my brother. Five minutes later he walks out...same eyes as the others quiet and stands in with the others. They all mirror each other, backs ramrod straight, their breathing is quiet, no one talks or moves. It is almost as sad as the zombies, yet they are still alive, and he is still my brother in the crowd.

And it hurts, I was expecting him to be different. Why didn't he come over, comfort me, explain away my fears, explain what the quasi dead is? All my life my brother stood beside me. He supported me in my decisions, backed me up, and defended me from bullies, guided me on the right path. He was my older brother, so why would he leave me? Alone?

I walk toward him and freeze as they all turn towards me their movements sycronized. Some weird ballet of contained movement and motion. Controlled.

Creepy really fucking creepy.

It's like village of the damned, like the children who are all interconnected or like a borg, one part of a collective. I look at my brother, his eyes just a few minutes before were filled with the horror and hurt that was reflecting in my own eyes. A planet and it's people are gone, nothing more then a desolate planet with no way of supporting human life. His eyes unlike mine are now cold. Not empty like the zombie servants but cold. Deep ice frigid cold. My brother has hazel eyes a mixture of green, amber, and rusty brown. I don't want to know how they made hazel eyes, with warm earthy tones that cold. I don't want to go into that chamber. The Native American enters the door. I am by myself. Alone in the crowd like high school, like always.

One last look towards the group before I back away and go sit in the corner. I am shivering again. The bone chilling ache is back. My chest is tight, my head aches. I want to cry, to scream, to curl up into a little ball and wish it all away. But I do none of that. I sit and stare at my only blood relative.

A man walks out of the chamber, it is not the native American Man. This confuses me, where could he have gone? The zombies might have taken him away, why was he so special? The man, dressed in a black overcoat, black shoes, black gloves... Get the theme here?

He motions me to follow. I can feel my face pale more, my skin paper thin, my mouth is so dry I cannot swallow. I don't want to enter the den of hell, yet I do not want my soul ripped from my body, if I refuse. Bowing my head in acceptance, I risk one more glance hoping for some sign that my brother is in that facade but receive only the cold stare. Turning my head back, my heart hurting for an entirely different reason then a dead planet, or maybe it's just one more straw on the camels back, not knowing if this next experience will break it.

I walk slowlytoward my fate. Or my doom.

To be continued.