The Devil's Due: Chapter IV
--EKB
For the longest of moments, Bradshaw could only stare in outright disbelief at the man in front of him, could fathom no sort of logical response to the sort of claims he was making. His soul? The words themselves made no sense. It was dawning rather quickly on Bradshaw that the Undertaker--the Lord of Darkness, whoever the hell he was--was quite clearly and presently out of his damn mind. Insane, even under the current circumstances, seemed a vague understatement.
He was bluffing, Bradshaw thought. He had to be. Hell, he couldn't possibly be serious…
"All right, Taker, dammit." conceded Bradshaw. "Why are you doing this? What do you really want from me?"
"You don't listen very well, do you?" The Undertaker remarked dryly. "Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time, so I'll repeat myself once more. I. Want. Your. Soul." He placed a careful emphasis on each word.
"Money," Bradshaw tried, fighting down the surge of panic that was threatening to rise into his chest. "Is that it? You want money, I--I can give you anything. You just name it."
"I have named my price," the Lord of Darkness snapped. "And I am not a man who can be bought easily with trivial things. Your time of bargaining, Bradshaw, is past."
"You've lost it," said Bradshaw. "All that formaldehyde you got down here, it's fried your damn brain or something."
"A man reaps what he sows, Bradshaw," said the Undertaker eerily. "He reaps what he sows and he carries it to his grave. Your time to pay what you owe has come--and believe me, you will pay. Dearly."
"I don't owe you a damn thing," sneered Bradshaw. The Lord of Darkness chuckled in response.
"I admire your conviction," he said. "And I always did like it when you put up a fight. Serves to keep things interesting, as it were." A sadistic grin spread across his face. "Now, I suppose the question is, what shall I do with you?" He paused a moment, as if considering, and nodded toward Bearer. "Paul, go to my study, and fetch my book of ritual sacrifices."
"Yes, my lord, it will be done." Paul bowed deeply and scurried from the room--like a rat, thought Bradshaw. A great, big, fat rat. Bradshaw scowled with displeasure, watching him go out of the corner of his eye. Then, a great sense of dread settled over him as he realized he was now alone with the Lord of Darkness--and that he was nowhere within his sights.
Amazing how that conspicuous son of a bitch can disappear right in plain view…
Presently, there was the harsh grating sound of metal dragging heavily against concrete, off to the left out of his line of vision. When the Undertaker came back into view, he had an old, rusted shovel in his hand.
Oh, dear God. What the hell's he gonna do with that--
"Do you know, Bradshaw," the Lord of Darkness ventured, "how long it takes a man to dig a grave by hand?" Bradshaw didn't--though he was afraid to speak and answer either way. "Don't worry. I'll give you some time to think about it." He smirked and raised the shovel, hefting it in his hands. Then, without warning, he drew back and swung hard. The blow connected with Bradshaw's skull, catching him above the temple, rendering him unconscious for the second time that night.
When Bradshaw came to once again, he was alone in the dungeon. His head was throbbing more so than before, and he was fairly certain he could feel the sticky, wet warmth of blood pouring down the side of his face from his temple. He felt dizzy, lightheaded; all his limbs were dead and heavy.
He had no concept of how long he had been out--or even how long he had been here, in this god-awful place. There was no way of knowing how much time had passed--if time, here, even existed. The only thing Bradshaw knew about time was that, presently, his was running out.
I gotta get out of here.
Bradshaw tugged on the chains experimentally, putting all the weight and force into them that he could manage, but they did not budge. Damn it. He raised his head to survey the structure above him, to see where his bonds were anchored--and instantly looked back down again, shutting his eyes tight. To his dismay, he recognized the high arch of the not-quite-cross, the two stakes intersecting from either side across a "T" shape. The very symbol of the Lord of Darkness.
"Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no." He fought against his bonds again, kicking and struggling with all his might until he was exhausted. When that effort failed, he took a deep breath and screamed at the top of his lungs, hoping that someone, somewhere, might hear him. "Help! Please, somebody! Anybody! HELP!"
"You can scream all you want," came an amused voice from the staircase. "But nobody can hear you out here. Nobody but me and Paul, and the spirits of the dead."
The Lord of Darkness reappeared, carrying with him a large, bound book and a long, black leather case. He set both on the table and took a seat, opening the book to a marked page. Bradshaw watched him warily all the while.
"The hell're you doing?" he demanded.
"Keeping you company," answered the Undertaker sardonically. "I figured you'd be lonely down here. Afraid of the dark, maybe."
"I ain't scared of you, Taker."
"Keep telling yourself that," was the disinterested answer, as the Lord of Darkness flipped to the next page and frowned. "Hmm. Phlebotomy. How boring." Bradshaw could only close his eyes and groan.
"This isn't happening," he murmured aloud. "This can't be real. This is all just a horrible dream."
"So wake up. Dream yourself out of these shackles and back into your bed." The Lord of Darkness raised his eyes from the page in front of him, his penetrating stare no less unnerving even from halfway across the room. "Rest assured, Bradshaw. Even if you could, even if you did, you would never be safe. I would never rest. I would hunt you down, and believe me, I would find you." With that, he resumed his reading. "How do you feel about evisceration?"
"You're going to kill me, aren't you?"
"There are fates far worse than death." Bradshaw let his head drop down against his chest, eyes to the cold concrete floor.
"Why are you doing this?"
"You should be aware of the reasons by now."
"Well, I'm not." His head snapped up again. "And I can safely say that, soul or otherwise, I don't owe you a goddamn thing." At this, the Undertaker glanced up once more, one eyebrow arched quizzically.
"Why, you really don't know. Could it be that you've forgotten the terms of our little agreement?"
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. More than likely because you're crazier than a rat in a tin shit-house. Now, listen, because this might be hard for you to understand. I have changed. Unlike you, I've escaped servitude to that darker power of yours. But more importantly, I stepped out of your godforsaken shadow, and I made a life of my own, on my own. No thanks to you, of course."
"How horrendously inspiring," the Lord of Darkness deadpanned, without looking up.
"Perhaps it's time," Paul Bearer's voice nearly startled Bradshaw out of his skin. "Perhaps we should tell him the truth, Undertaker. The entire truth. After all, it's the least we could do."
"The truth?" Bradshaw's eyes narrowed. "What aren't you sneaky bastards telling me?"
Bearer and the Lord of Darkness exchanged a knowing glance; both men smirked.
Bradshaw couldn't help the sinking feeling that this was only going to get much worse.