The Devil's Due: Chapter VI
--EKB
The Undertaker opened the long, black case, withdrawing from it a long, metal object that Bradshaw didn't have to look at twice to recognize. He had grown up in Texas; he knew well what a branding iron looked like--though he had to admit, the knowledge in itself didn't serve to help him any. His eye caught the end of the brand, the symbol, the "T" with two stakes intersecting.
Christ. He's going to brand me with his symbol and bury me alive, or burn me at the stake, or whatever it is that he does to people in his spare time. Dear God, help me.
He felt the acrid taste of bile rising up from the pit of his stomach.
"Please." The disembodied voice sounded alien to his own ears; Bradshaw wasn't sure it even belonged to him anymore. "Taker, you know you don't have to do this."
"Ah, but I do," countered the Lord of Darkness, turning the branding iron in his hands experimentally. "You see, you made this choice yourself. If you had just upheld your end of the bargain and come to me before I was obliged to hunt down your sorry ass, this wouldn't be happening. Men seal their own fates, not I."
He was moving across the room, toward one of the lit torches, and Bradshaw felt a rise of panic. He watched in outright terror as he extended the brand into the flames. "How the mighty have fallen, Bradshaw," he remarked, flashing a sinister grin in Bradshaw's direction. "You know, this is going to hurt like hell."
Bradshaw drew in a sharp, shaky breath.
The Undertaker removed the brand from the fire, the heated metal glowing maliciously, as he strode back toward Bradshaw. "Make no mistake, you will suffer by my hand." He smirked. "If anything," he said, "you can seek solace in the fact that this will all be over very soon."
He took the brand in both hands and raised it, murmuring something in a language Bradshaw didn't understand. Then he drove it forward. The red-hot iron seared through the material of his shirt and into his chest, seemingly all the way to the bone. The stench of charred flesh invaded his nostrils and the pain was excruciating, setting every nerve in his body on fire.
Bradshaw screamed until he couldn't.
* * * *
Consciousness faded in and out, sketchy periods of lucidity that were like waves upon the short--rushing in with force, only to wane out again. Perhaps, thought Bradshaw, it was shock from his injuries, head trauma--or perhaps it was that the Lord of Darkness had taken possession of his mind when he had begun his ritual. The Undertaker's words echoed in what now remained of his conscious mind, a litany repeating itself over and over again.
This will all be over soon.
He heard voices--one or two--from somewhere not too far off. He was vaguely aware of someone rattling the chains that bound him; his mind registered the sound of a key turning in the padlock beside his head. Then, his shackles abruptly released, his legs gave way, and he slumped unceremoniously into a heap on the floor.
Half-dazed, he found himself staring up into the grim countenances of the Undertaker and Paul Bearer. Bradshaw's head reeled. Then, those menacing green eyes turned on him, and he felt an involuntary jolt of fear.
"Earlier, Bradshaw," said the Undertaker, "I asked you a question. I asked you if you knew how long it would take a man to dig a grave by hand. It wasn't a rhetorical question, as luck would have it." He paused, contemplating. "I don't know the answer, I'm afraid. That's why we're going to find out." Here, he passed an old, iron shovel to Paul. He assumed it to be the same one he'd been hit with earlier; he could still see blood drying on the spade.
He reached down, hauling Bradshaw to his feet with ease. "You're going to go with Paul," he commanded, "and you're going to go quietly." The calm in his tone veiled an underlying threat. "Don't try anything stupid. Remember, you can run, but you can't hide from me." Here, he turned to Bearer. "Take him, Paul, and go to the churchyard. I will follow you once I have prepared myself for the ritual."
"Yes, my lord."
With that, the Undertaker turned and strode from the room, disappearing into the shadows beyond the staircase. "Well, you heard the man," declared Paul. "The two of us are going to take a little trip. And it shall be ever so much fun."
"The hell're we goin'?" asked Bradshaw wanly.
"Oh, we're just going to take a little walk in the woods." He shoved the shovel at Bradshaw with a nasty smirk. "Here," he said. "You'll be needing this."
* * * *
The air was damp and chilly, the night sky moonless as Bradshaw trudged up the steep path ahead of Paul. The forest around them was pitch-black, and were it not for the lantern Paul carried, it would have been impossible to see. I'm not gonna make it, came the morbid thought, as his bare foot hit a patch of wet leaves and promptly skidded, nearly causing him to lose his balance altogether. I don't know what the point of all this is, anyhow. I might as well just lay down right here and die. Behind him, the lantern danced, casting wavering lamplight over the slick ground. He could hear Paul slogging along behind him, swearing lightly under labored breath.
"Hell of a climb," he remarked almost cheerily. "Keep going, Bradshaw, Keep going."
He kept climbing, pushing forward, as if compelled by some force stronger than he--it might well have been madness that drove him. The idea that he'd finally snapped wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. Still, he moved gingerly as he went, each movement arduous. The brand on his chest throbbed unceasingly. His limbs felt dead and heavy, as if they might give out at any moment. At long last he stopped, winded, and looked up at Paul.
"How much further?"
"Not far," Paul replied. "Just to the clearing at the top of this hill."
"Could we stop a minute? Please."
"All right. But remember, we're on a tight schedule."
Right. Don't want to be late for my own funeral. Bradshaw nearly laughed.
"You know, Bradshaw, I don't like this any more than you do."
Well, that's one hell of a profound statement, there. Bradshaw snorted.
"Easy for you to say," he sneered.
"No, I--I sincerely mean that." Bradshaw promptly scowled at Paul. "Of all the half-rate minions that served the Ministry of Darkness, you were always the one with the most potential. I always saw that, and I think he did too."
"Please. Don't you go gettin' all sentimental on me, Bearer."
There was a long silence between the two of them before Paul spoke again.
"If it's any consolation at all, I'm truly sorry that it has to end this way for you." Bradshaw looked up wearily.
"If you're so opposed to this, then stop it, Paul. Let me go."
"You know I can't do that. That is not his will."
"Can't blame a man for tryin.'"
Paul raised his eyes to the path ahead and sighed gravely.
"We'd better keep moving. Come, Bradshaw. It's not much further to the top." Paul started back up the hill, moving past him, the lantern-light dancing ahead of them into the darkness. Bradshaw sighed and started after him.
It wasn't until he had nearly tripped twice over the shovel that had become too heavy to carry, that John Bradshaw Layfield had a thought. It was a revelation that dawned on him, and hit with all the force of a freight train--and it only intensified as he glanced from the handle of the spade in his hand, to the retreating form of Paul a couple of meters ahead.
The Undertaker's somber warning intruded on his mind. Don't try anything stupid. You can run, but you can't hide from me. Given the circumstances, he decided it was a chance he was willing to take. What the hell have I got to lose?
This, he realized, could be his out--his opportunity to escape.
His hands were suddenly trembling, his heart pounding painfully against his ribcage. He quickened his pace, putting less distance between himself and Paul. He hefted the shovel in his hands, raising it discreetly. Do it, Layfield. Do it while you got the chance--
Without as much as a second thought, Bradshaw lifted the shovel and took aim, swinging it hard. The spade caught Paul at the back of the skull with a sickening clang, and the man buckled to his knees. Bradshaw struck again, taking him down completely. He was facedown on the path, out cold.
Bradshaw dropped the shovel and bolted, fleeing into the dense forest as fast as his legs could carry him. He knew he had to put as much distance between himself and the path. It would only be a matter of time until the Lord of Darkness came looking for him.