Born with a birthmark that separates him from the pack, our hero is wanted. But for what?
Read Part One here.
They finally unchained me (very grandiose and way over the top to begin with if you ask me), and we sat in that cold warehouse and talked about the scheme I’d just signed up for.
“We don’t want to go into details now, but it’s pretty fucking dark. You might not be ready to hear it.”
“Come on, what am I? Six years old?”
The others looked at the black dude. The black dude looked at me.
“We want to train you. We want to pass on as many of our skills as we can, before we start. Like we said, you won’t have to kill anybody, and we’ll be there with you. And like we said, this shit could get you killed."
Oh, yeah, about that. So we’ve all got this infinity birthmark, and my folks told me to keep mine hidden ‘for my own safety’ (which is a fucking weird thing to say to a kid who can’t die). But we can die, apparently. I mean, you know, if we die, we come back. Okay, now I’m waffling. Let me start over.
If we drown, our lungs fill with water, we stop breathing, we die. Then, it’s like a back-up system kicks in and we come back. We cough up the water, and presto. If we don’t cough up the water, we die again. But then we come back again. And again, if need be. If we get shot, let’s say we take a bullet to the chest. Our internal organs are messed up, we die. Then slowly, the cells regenerate, and we produce more blood, and we come back. If we get blown to a thousand pieces? We’re fucked. You don’t come back from that. Cement shoes? We’re fucked. Get chopped up and the pieces buried in separate locations? We’re fucked.
Now, I haven’t actually seen any of this, it’s all just hearsay. Conjecture. But it’s been passed down round campfires for generations. I’m in no hurry to find out if it’s true. All I know for now is, my new pals could have done one of the above, but they didn’t. So I think for now I can trust them. Even if they do want me to do something that could get me killed-killed.
See that’s the thing that made me nervous. For us to stay dead, somebody would have to want us dead. Who? Apparently, they don’t want to tell me. Yet. And they don’t want me to kill anybody. Which is nice. That, I would not be comfortable with. Unless it was child-torturing pedos. Fuck those assholes. But I’m not a killer. I’m a computer guy. I’m pretty fucking good at it too. I’m not a killer, but I look at Iggy, I think he might be. The chick and the black dude? Not sure.
Anyway they want to pass on some skills so we can do some shit together that drags me from my boring life and involves me not killing people? Fine.
“Fuck it. Let’s go.”
I hop down from the splintered door my new pals had chained me too, shortly after they’d spiked my drink.
The black dude comes over and offers me a massive hand to shake. “Dax.”
Then Sadie (that’s the chick) comes over and then Iggy.
“So which of you assholes owes me a tequila sunrise?”
Dax speaks. “No booze. Training starts now.”
He points behind me, and I turn around to see that I’m not in a warehouse, it’s more like a hangar. A corner kitted out with gym gear and those dummies you can punch in the head, weights, practice mats and other fighting shit. A corner kitted out like a living area, sofas (no TV), books, beds, kitchen. Oh, and a shooting range.
“We only practice indoors when the weather sucks, but this is here whenever you need it.”
“So what now?”
Iggy says from behind me, “Your first real test,” and I hear a sound which for all the world sounds like the clicking you hear on TV when somebody does that slidey thing to load a gun. I turn around and sure enough, that skinny piece of shit is aiming straight at me.
And I was worried about having my drink spiked.
“You mother fff…” was all I could manage, before he fired.
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In this blog I'll be bringing to you short tales of things that go bump in the night, true stories of weird and unexplained events, and the real-life news of all things odd and macabre, and entertain you along the way.