The Devil's Due: Chapter IX
--EKB
"On your feet," came the command, and Bradshaw found his weary form hauled up roughly, superhuman strength dragging him with little effort into a standing position. Pain sang through his protesting shoulder joint at the forceful contact. "Now move."
For a long moment, Bradshaw hesitated. Whether it was that he was trying to regain his exhausted bearings, uncertain of whether he could go on, or it was that he was tempting the Undertaker in the hope that he might strike him dead then and there--either way, he could not be entirely sure. "Your resistance," growled the warning voice, "would be most unwise at this point."
Bradshaw nearly barked a laugh. He felt the unsteady pull of hysteria at the outer fringes of his psyche.
You're going to kill me anyway. What could possibly be worse than--oh. Thankfully, he had not verbalized the question. If anything, this served to reassure him that he at least had some inkling of sanity left.
"Lead on, o' bringer of death," he said wryly. The little fight he had had left was waning fast, quickly resigning itself.
"Death is not the worst evil," the Lord of Darkness replied almost conversationally. "It is worse to want to die, and not be able to."
Unsurprisingly, Bradshaw did not reply.
Their trek led them not back up the steep embankment from whence Bradshaw had come but, instead, in a wide arc that followed the edge of the forest line. Gradually, the tall weeds diminished and gave way to shorter, manicured green grass. They were in a cemetery, Bradshaw realized, and one that was well-kept and tended.
He found himself contemplating, bitterly, if he'd managed to run in the wrong goddamn direction. Then, a thought even more unsettling--that this had been part of the Undertaker's plan to begin with. Allowing him to escape, allowing hope to bloom even briefly in his chest, only to tear it away again. For all he knew, every trail in the entire goddamn forest led here, to this place. He wondered how many others, how many other poor fools had been here before him, only to suffer the same fate.
Between two monstrous, twisted oaks, there was a clearing, beyond which another branch of the graveyard extended into its own secluded alcove. The scene in itself was almost tranquil. Old marble tombstones, a weathered crypt, bathed in the pallor of the moonlight drifting through the gauzy clouds above. A circle of trees surrounded the area as if they were sentries, protecting a sacred ground.
At the center of the clearing, a funeral coach was parked. Its back hatch was open, and within, an old-fashioned coffin waited patiently for its intended occupier. There was not a doubt in Bradshaw's mind who that empty casket was meant to enclose. The thought sent a shudder through him bodily.
So this is where it ends. Some cemetery in god-knows-where, back in the woods where nobody will ever bother to look. Nobody will ever find my corpse, nobody will--Jesus Christ.
The Lord of Darkness strode past him with regal purpose. Waving a hand at Paul, he said, "Bring him." A hard shove from behind send Bradshaw staggering forward. As he ventured toward the hearse, his every sense overwrought with dread, he heard the Lord of Darkness speaking low in that odd, archaic tone, some sort of command. An invocation. Then, he raised his eyes back toward the entryway. "Come, my minions."
Bradshaw watched as, through the clearing, a small assembly of druids, all of them cloaked in black in the same fashion as their master, came silently forward from the entrance of the alcove. One by one, they assembled in a circle around the Undertaker. All of them seemed to be regarding something that Bradshaw couldn't quite see--
But Paul was shoving him forward again, and then he saw it, realization hitting home quickly. There was a pile of fresh dirt, next to an open grave. His.
Buried alive. Oh, God. I'm going to be--no.
"No!" Bradshaw made an effort to bolt, though it was all in vain. He scarcely made it a yard before he found his ability to move compromised, and he crumpled to the ground, purple lights dancing in front of his eyes. What the hell did he--
"I sincerely regret having to do that," came the Undertaker's voice, the amusement in his tone betraying his words. "However, you forced my hand. As entertaining as it might be, I do not have time to cavort around the forest in the dark chasing after your sorry ass. The time for games is over." Then he was speaking to the druids, "Bring him here."
Six black cloaks advanced on Bradshaw, massing around him, and he found himself being lifted and moved like a damn piece of furniture. He was acutely aware of the sensation of being fully conscious, yet paralyzed. His arms and legs were dead weight. The druids lifted him into a haphazard standing position, and his eyes cut directly to the dark form of the Undertaker before him. Eyes closed, hands outstretched and upturned, the Lord of Darkness appeared lost in some sort of sinister meditation. As he spoke, offering invocations in that mysterious tongue once more, the earth within the open grave began to glow with some sort of otherworldly energy. The casket levitated, floatingweightlessly from the back of the hearse to suspend itself over the opening in the ground. Its lid swung open, expectant. Waiting. Then, despite the screaming protests Bradshaw heard only in his mind, the druids lowered Bradshaw's board-stiff body into the casket.
His terror-ridden eyes watched helplessly as the scene played out before him. The Lord of Darkness stepped close, intoning once more. The druid closest to him passed the consecrated ceremonial dagger to him, and he saw the Undertaker lift it in his hands.
"Powers of darkness," he spoke the words with authority. "Accept this sacrifice in my name, and deliver his soul into my possession. By my hand, and by his blood, let this ritual be done."
Bradshaw saw him raise the dagger, wanted to scream but couldn't, even as the blade plunged savagely into his chest, tearing through flesh and he fought to breathe. Then, the lid of the casket slammed shut and it began to sink, down into the abyss of earth that would serve as his final tomb.
He found his voice only when he heard the clatter of dirt against the lid of the coffin.
His final breath gathered in a primal scream, even as the life warring within him slowly faded.
Silence followed darkness. Then, it was done.
----
Author's Note: Hello, again! This is your humble author, just popping by again to thank all of you for all your kinds words, your encouragement, and all the lovely reviews. This is not QUITE the dramatic conclusion of this particular tale. If only poor Bradshaw could be so fortunate! We are, however, nearing the end. Stay tuned to see what happens. The conclusion may surprise you.
...hell, it might just surprise me, too. ;)
Thank you all for reading. I humbly appreciate it.
Regards,
--EKB