The Devil's Due: Chapter VIII
--EKB
Bradshaw set off once more, heading out across the field toward the valley. The grass was nearly waist-deep and heavy with the evening dew. The tall, wet stalks dragged against the lower half of his body, only serving to make the going that much more difficult and tedious. The sliver of moon ducked out of sight behind an encroaching grey cloud, obscured from view. Impenetrable blackness overtook the landscape once more, decreasing visibility dramatically. Again, Bradshaw found himself navigating blindly in the dark, only able to pray that the direction he was heading was the direction he should be traveling.
Keep going. The phrase had become a mantra of sorts, serving to keep him grounded.
Slowly but surely, he picked his way through the field. Every inch of ground that he covered was like a small shard of hope that he collected and restored along the way. Soon, he would be out of this. He would survive this--he had to. He wasn't giving himself a choice. So on he continued, the terrain growing rockier beneath his feet, treacherous in the impossible darkness. A sudden gust of wind rushed up from the valley below, caressing Bradshaw's face, cooling the perspiration lingering against his brow.
Unbidden, a chill ran up his spine. All his nerves, inexplicably, sparked to life. He whirled around swiftly, scanning the immediate area--nothing.
Darkness there, and nothing more.
His stomach twisted as he wondered just what in creation had caused that particular thought to cross his mind.
He wasn't going to linger around to ponder the prospects. He turned and broke into a run again. The grass swished dully against his legs; it made him think of corpselike hands reaching out for him, trying to pull him back.
Keepgoingkeepgoingkeep--
Bradshaw.
The voice that interjected into his thoughts was barely audible, scarcely above a whisper, though he heard it with all the volume of a shout in his mind.
Where a-a-a-are you, Bradshaw?
He could have placed that pitchy, singsong voice anywhere. Panic rose in Bradshaw's throat as he realized, with infinite horror, that Paul Bearer's voice was in his mind, Jesus H. Christ--
You know, your decision wasn't a very smart one. You're going to pay for it.
"Shut up," Bradshaw said aloud.
You can run as fast and as far as you want. He'll still pursue you. He'll still find you.
"Shut up!" Bradshaw screamed, shoving his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to drown out Bearer's voice. The sound of his gleeful, maniacal laughter echoed more loudly in the expanse inside his head than it ever could have in the open air. "Get out of my head, you bastard!"
Run, Bradshaw! Run!
He did so, breaking into a frantic sprint.
Now, another voice was imposing itself on Bradshaw's psyche, more of a dark reverberation that absolutely chilled him to his core.
Keep running, Bradshaw. Just keep running. Where you go is, to me, irrelevant. A man can travel to the ends of the earth and still not cheat Death himself. A man cannot escape the Reaper.
Bradshaw was sure as hell going to try, though.
He kept running, still running. The field seemed to stretch to eternity; he was no longer certain of where it ended or where it began. All at once, he felt a full sense of vertigo--of complete disorientation. It was as if someone had taken the world and tilted it inexplicably upon its axis. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. It was then that something--a force, inhuman--struck from behind and Bradshaw reeled. His vision went from normal, to blinding violet, to black. The last thing he recalled was the ground coming up from underneath, dragging him violently down to earth.
* * * * *
He came vaguely to in some indeterminate amount of time, skull throbbing with a vengeance. He was really beginning to make a nasty habit of doing this, he thought dryly, as he stirred. His head rested against something cool, hard and unyielding with a consistency of granite.
Great. I must have tripped, fell, and knocked myself out on a rock. Good job, jackass.
He groaned and pushed himself up off the ground, unable to help wondering just how many more violent blows to the head he could take before he wouldn't be able to get up again. His vision blurred and corrected--probably got a damn concussion, that's for sure--as he glanced down to examine just what he'd managed to crack his head on this time. When he did, all the air left his lungs in a sharp, startled cry of terror.
The stone was no rock, but an old, weathered tombstone. Out of morbid curiosity, he felt his eyes being drawn to the crudely-scrawled inscription--John Layfield. Rest in Peace. Bradshaw screamed and fairly leapt to his feet.
He heard a deep voice behind him chuckle, and in sheer terror, he turned, his heart nearly stopping dead. There he stood--the Lord of Darkness--an ominously amused look upon his countenance that was nothing short of sinister. Paul was behind him, looking terribly winded, but smug and appeased nonetheless.
"Looks like your good fortune just run out," he said matter-of-factly, and the Undertaker smirked, wordlessly. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The expression on his face, the glimmer of satisfaction in otherworldly green eyes that seemed to glow, spoke volumes. I win. I always win.
Bradshaw had it in his mind to make a dash for it, and willed his legs to move, but he found himself immobilized, his feet frozen to the ground where he stood. The Lord of Darkness took one step forward and Bradshaw dropped immediately to his knees in front of him.
"Please," he grated out, unable to keep the raw shame of fear out of his tone. "Please--"
But in his heart, he knew that any effort would be, at this point, severely in vain. The Lord of Darkness had long had his mind made up, and this was it. The end of the line. Somewhere in this god-awful place, in this land of death and darkness and evil, the man once known as John Bradshaw Layfield would meet his end. His time on earth was swiftly approaching its close.