Chapter 21

Raging Regeneration

The last time the hinges of the tall gates that guarded the old, small, deserted cemetery just outside of Autumnfield and far away from the Cedar Hills Motel had been treated with a few drops of oil must have been ages ago, possibly more than a century, because the shrill shriek that was produced when Malakai pushed his way through the gates after the darkness had fulfilled its duty to deliver him here was so ungodly loud that it echoed through the whole area before the sound trailed off into the night sky that would only have a few hours left before its dark shade would lighten; one who just so happened to be wandering around could easily mistaken it for a desperate cry for help emitted from a lost spirit haunting the property.

It had nearly been next to impossible for Malakai to get a good look at his surroundings, having had trouble to even see the gates that had been in front of him mere seconds ago due to his sight being almost entirely clouded by large, thick, red spots, but they weren't caused by the severe burns that had been inflicted upon most of his body, nor the searing pain that would make many beg for a swift death if treatment for this couldn't be offered to them. As a matter of fact, he wasn't even concerned in the slightest by all of that, for he knew exactly where it was coming from, having experienced it so many times that he had grown accustomed to it. It had been a long time ago since he had reached this level of raw, unfiltered, burning rage.

Slowly walking over the path in front of him that was constructed with nothing else but pebbles didn't do anything to make the red spots that obscured his sight or the intense fury go away, and a cold breeze that just so happened to roll across the cemetery didn't do anything either. The shadows of the night had carried him as fast as they have possibly could, though he could certainly hint a certain kind of gentleness in the way they had guided him to this cemetery that had been build on this small plot of ground sometime after the Second World War had ravaged most of the world, but not with the purpose of laying slain soldiers (or what had been left of them that had been brought home, anyway) to rest, more so for the civilians who lived near this area. He had the suspicion that the darkness guided him with this gentleness due the an underlaying fear of him literally falling to pieces if it had moved him any faster, and judging from Malakai's appearance, he couldn't fault them for this worry, despite the immense rage that was quite literally blinding him at this point. Pieces of his black suit had painfully fused with the skin underneath the fabric, and he knew damn well that attempting to pull them out was going to be an extremely foolish decision that would undoubtedly cause him more pain. Heat was still bubbling underneath the scorched flesh on his back and legs. One of his neatly polished shoes had been ruined by a large hole had burned into the leather when he had been struck by that cloud of brightly burning flames. They had been hot enough to send him to the brink, he knew. That fire had been blasted into his direction with the intent to end his life, because he could the skin on the right side of his head, his hands and chest crumbling away, leaving a trail of tiny black crumbles as he stumbled over the cemetery's sole path. Malakai had arrived at this place in the nick of time, and he was absolutely convinced that if he had only arrived a few minutes later, he would have been reduced to a pile of black dust before his fingers could even touch the cold, aged iron of the cemetery's gate.

Perhaps it hadn't been solely the darkness he had blended into and brought him here to which he should owe his life to, but also to the blinding rage that possessed him like a malevolent demon, causing him to hiss a number of foul words, some in English, others in his mother tongue. Malakai felt nothing more but the purest anger towards that wench, that little wench who had burned him to a near crisp, that goddamn little wench who should have met her end on the blade of the puppet that had once been the Night Slasher tonight. A part of his rage was also directed at the missed opportunity to incapacitate the young, blonde man, who without a shadow of a doubt was the ghost who had died more than a hundred deaths, bring him to him and make him take part in the key role that would make Malakai succeed in his mission; it had slipped through his fingers from the moment he had been blinded by a combination of fire and pain. But in the end, most of Malakai's anger was aimed at none other but himself. He had nobody else to blame for this failed ambush but himself and himself alone, all because in the end, he had failed to make sure the hindrance that was the little wench had died once she had disappeared over the edge of that roof; he should have looked down below to make sure her body had hit the concrete with full force, hard enough to make most of her insides burst outside in a rather satisfying explosion of gore. He had foolishly failed in this, way too focused on making Darby fall under his control and because of that rushed decision, he had paid a huge price; if he didn't hurry up now, he would surely perish before he could fulfill his mission, that one final purpose he had to accomplish before he-

'No, damn it… verdomme… Not now!'

If he didn't hurry up now, he too would become like so many of the deceased who had been laid to rest on this cemetery; completely forgotten thanks to the passage of time with no one to visit him, no one to keep his memory alive. Despite the thickness and large amount of red spots, Malakai could vaguely see the frames of those who were cursed to dwell this place until they would either find peace by themselves or were doomed to spiral out of control due to their frustration and abreact their fury on the innocent soul who was kind (or foolish enough, but then again, kindness is capable of bringing out some degree of foolishness after all) to pay a visit to a deceased family member or friend, and though the cold they spread was present too, it hardly did anything to ease the pain of the scorched parts of his body. Even though there wasn't going to be any source of proper lighting until the sun would eventually peek over the horizon, which in turn would surely cause a twang of nostalgia mixed with a strong sense of remorse to resonate within Malakai's rapidly decaying body, he could see about six ghosts roaming through the rows of widely parted tombstones, all of them in the Wanderer phase; it should be noted that only a small number of the graves looked relatively prim and proper due to the fact that they had recently been placed there, others had been properly maintained roughly a year ago, judging by the grungy, green filth that had accumulated on the marble and stone, while the vast majority had been neglected so severely that it was impossible to read the names of those who had been buried six feet down below, along with their dates of birth, death, or the few kind words that had been edged in there, thus fully erasing them from existence, and seeing how these ghosts hadn't shifted into the Restless phase yet, Malakai found it safe to assume that these ghosts belonged to the deceased that occupied the newest additions of gravestones on this cemetery. The elderly Wanderers, two females and four males, didn't even seem to notice Malakai's presence, slowly shuffling through the narrow paths between the tombstones, eyes that expressed not much else but confusion and sadness aimed staring down at the ground, occasionally mumbling something intelligible; perhaps their minds had deteriorated to the point where they had forgotten of why they were still roaming the world of the living to begin with, having remembered a glimpse of it once their spirits manifested but unable to do so shortly afterwards, and surely frustration was bound to form as a result of the forgetfulness… frustration that inevitably turn them into Restless. None of them were fit to fight under his command, Malakai knew. One glance at their limbs which were nearly completely void of muscle, their lack of sense of direction and their slow walking pace was more than enough to confirm this; not even the boost they would receive upon being infected with his influence was going to help them, they would still remain fragile at best. There was something they were good for, though; these were the kind of ghosts Malakai Black considered as nourishment. That would be their main purpose. They would be his fuel to keep going.

There was no time to waste. Without even as much thinking of the stories behind the ghosts who he merely thought of as substance for his severely damaged body to feed on, the half ghost reached out with both of his arms, aiming them at his targets. Even if they had noticed his presence, there would have been no chance whatsoever for them to even attempt fighting back anyway. In the blink of an eye, multiple chains made of hardened black liquid were launched painlessly from the half ghost's palms, their lengths seemingly endless as they headed straight towards their targets in the distance. It was only when the chains wrapped around their deadly pale, wrinkled, aged bodies like ferocious snakes that a reaction came out of the elderly Wanderers, their small eyes widening in shock and their mouths (some of which graced with dentures, others entirely lacking thereof) forming an o-shape to let out a startled gasp. More sounds coming in the form of panicked screams and whimpering emerged quickly afterwards when they saw their bodies liquifying in the same shade of black the chains that bound them possessed, and Malakai was soon proven right when he assumed that these ghosts were so powerless that they could never attempt to successfully fight back when he saw them weakly struggling in their bindings. In a matter of seconds, the collective sounds of fright died out one by one as each ghost was absorbed into the chains, and the nearly serene silence was returned to the cemetery. All of the chains returned to their wielder, disappearing back into his palms without leaving as much as a vertical cut in the skin.

Thankfully it appeared that the scarce number of ghosts that could be found here were enough for the maimed, roasted flesh on Malakai's body to be fully restored in a matter of moments, even being enough for the blackened parts to be healed, his clothing to revert back into their flawlessly neat state and not leaving one trace on his body that indicated the previous, nearly-fatal state of it, but they sure as hell didn't help to ease the unbridled fury that swirled inside of his head like the blackest storm, only briefly illuminated by raw, purple lightning. And that's why he clenched his eyes shut and opened his mouth to let out an ear-deafening yell of nothing but pure rage, unleashing it into the night sky and putting an abrupt end to the shorty-lived silence that had been lingering on the cemetery moments earlier. The echoes of his yell trailed off into the cold air, lightly ringing through the area before ultimately dying out. That's when Malakai felt it, causing him to grunt in pain. A sharp, agonizing, stabbing sensation had manifested itself behind his eyes, poking at the soft tissue as if it wished to be let out, being more than willing to pierce through his eyes and permanently blind him if it had to. Malakai knew exactly what would be coming to him if he wouldn't calm down immediately, he knew damn well that he couldn't afford to let this happen right now, not while he was this close to completing his mission at last. No, this pain wasn't caused by the intense fury he had carried along with him through the shadows on his way here, Malakai knew. It was all part of the powers he had received what seemed to be centuries ago, something he shouldn't be giving into now. But even during the time before finding and obtaining the powers he needed to reach his goal, this nearly inhumane level of rage had flared up inside of him multiple times throughout his life, especially after passing the age of 21. And every time, he had given into that unholy rage, which had always come with consequences; consequences he had refused to learn from, because once his anger would build up afterwards, he would simply give into it again. It was this rage that had resulted in him being harshly slapped into a pair of cuffs on the same day, sometimes on the day afterwards, over and over again. Not once had he felt remorse for letting himself be overcome by fury and unleashing it with full force, it was all that was keeping him alive during those days; but at the same time, it was the source of his self-destruction, and Malakai knew that there was point in denying any of that. Anger had been a part of him for as long as he could remember. Would it have been different if he had been fortunate enough to live under the same roof with better people at a young age? Perhaps so, but it was something he would never find out, nor did he have any interest in that. What he needed to do right now was to calm down… something which wasn't entirely impossible a few years ago.

And so the half ghost covered his eyes with his massively tattooed hands and crossed his legs when he sat down on the cold pebbles, shifting all of his focus on his breathing. He found a slow but steady pace, holding onto it and blocking out everything else. Thinking of the source (or rather, sources) for his rage would only risk him giving into it, so he completely rid his mind of any thoughts whatsoever, entirely focusing on the air that came in and out of his body. His fingertips dug into his scalp and slowly tugged at it, adding to the calming effect. Malakai had felt his hands trembling a few moments earlier, but now that he was taking his time on keeping himself together, he could feel the trembling cease. It took him roughly around five minutes, but he had managed to keep the stabbing sensation behind his eyes at bay, feeling it fading away until it fully vanished, like oceans waves after a high tide. Slowly opening his eyes, he realized that his sight had resorted back to its normal state; not one red spot could be found on the pebbles below. Malakai parted his lips to let out a soft, long, slightly exhausted sigh. It was gone. All of it was gone.

The half ghost slowly got back up on his feet and turned around, silently looking at the world outside of the cemetery gates. He noticed that he was able to think clearly again, which was exactly what he was going to need. Of course he hadn't noticed it earlier, but the cemetery had been built on one of the many hills that could be found outside of Autumnfield, thus granting him a view on the sight in the far distance. If Malakai was correct, he would come across a highway that would especially be full of traffic around this time of the year, given that it lead to many hotspots that were too attractive for tourists, travelers and vacationers to resist, like the many lakes that sparkled like liquid diamonds during the day and become unforgettable camping grounds during the night and the woods that made perfect spots for hiking trips that could last for a day, amongst other places; but these people were only a percentage of the folk who would drive down that highway, folk who were simply living their day-to-day life and were driving on that road to get to their work on time or drop their kids off at school. But even on nights like these, he could still see a handful of tiny headlights traveling over that highway in the far distance. It would never truly be empty, not at any time of the day.

And Malakai was aware of something else that could be found in the nearby area; an abandoned fortress that had once been home to those society deemed unfit to live in freedom many years ago, but even to this day, it would continue to keep them behind its massive walls, and thus earning the reputation it would forever be associated with, no matter how many other years would pass.

Keeping this place in mind whilst his sight remained glued on the highway in the distance, an idea began to slowly but surely manifest itself in Malakai Black's head.

Hidden in the darkness of the Cedar Hills Motel, he had seen how Darby had grown close enough to that little bitch to care for her wellbeing, not even hesitating to save her from a machete's blade. There was a way. There was a way of making the ghost who had died more than a hundred deaths come to him like a moth at a brightly glowing beacon, and for once, his companion could play an important role in this.

And Malakai was going to need many strong-looking ghosts for this.