Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) (21 page)

He had forgotten about his free arm.  His hand, still bloodied from the effort it took to break the weakened chain, waited until Stamford bowed his head and then flew from its broken restraints.  His closed fist landed against Stamford’s temple sending him sprawling backwards, his right hip taking the brunt of the fall. The blow lacked a significant amount of strength, but the shock was enough to daze the doctor for a few moments before he managed to gather his senses, amongst a string of breathless obscenities thrown at Truman.

Truman had to make the most of the brief respite and decided to use his free arm to attempt to loosen the shackles on his left, not yet knowing how he was possibly going to break through another chain. In that time Stamford got to his feet and had re-assumed his position.

Truman tried to raise his arm finding that it did not respond.  He tried again frantically to wake the limb.  It was no use.  It simply would not move.  He looked down to see the needle buried in his forearm and a wave of nausea overcoming him so suddenly that his head fell back against the wall.  The pain dulled as he stared at the appendage protruding from his arm.  The plunger was fully compressed and every ounce of whatever was in the syringe now coursed through his body.

He expected the darkness to ascend on him as quickly as it had done in the surgery, the last time that Stamford had injected him with whatever evil he had mastered into liquid form.  Truman found himself welcoming the warmth, the glow, of the white room once more.  He wanted to return there now more than ever.

But neither the darkness nor the light came to him. That’s when he knew that something was very wrong.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The warmth was comforting, coaxing him into a false sense of security.  It started by flowing upwards from the entry point of the needle, quickly spreading up to his shoulders.  He could feel it buzzing through his veins for only a second before he slowly started to relax.

‘The beauty of the common lethal injection,’ Stamford said, his voice joining the deep thrum that was now pulsating in Truman’s ears, ‘is that it is administered in three stages, supposedly to make it more humane but since when do criminals deserve the right to die humanely?  If they have betrayed the ways of the Lord, they deserve to be thrown into the pits of hell!’

Stamford’s eyes were rimmed red, looking tired and angry.  The wild stare had not left his face, as if the pain in his head from the fall did not faze him.  He gave Truman another cursory look, rolling his eyes briefly displaying his annoyance.

But this is exactly what you wanted
, a voice told him in a hushed, gravelly whisper. 
This was the way you always dreamed it to be.

He concentrated on the patient on the bed before continuing. 

‘Sodium thiopental is used to induce unconsciousness, so that the
patient
is unaware of their body shutting down.  This you have already experienced,’ an avaricious smile plastered his lips, ‘the day we met at my surgery.  You - or should I say I – have no need for you to have this again.  I proved to Them that a controlled amount of this substance, together with the same of the second element, pancuronium bromide, can take patients to an unconsciousness so deep it takes them to the brink of death, the white light people speak of.  You know better than others what is actually contained within that light.’

He looked at Truman waiting for a response, but Truman could only stare blankly at him, drool starting to seep from the corner of his open mouth, as his body remained paralyzed. Truman could hear the doctor speak but could no longer make sense of the words.

His breathing started to suffer as his body tried to fight the invasion, unable to match its ferocity. Like Truman’s mind, his body was succumbing to the warmth and the strange feeling of final peace washing over him.  His eyes moved frantically as his limbs froze.  He could see Stamford standing in front of him touching the open gash on his cheek.  The chain must have caught his skin as his fist hit his temple, dragging the rusted barbs of the broken links across his face.

‘The Others, Mr Darke,’ Stamford addressed him as the DI he had been at his surgery.  ‘The ones who will try to take you from us, who will try to convince you that you are someone other than what you are, that you can be more than…’ he struggled to find the words, as he looked at Truman, “More than
this
,” he signalled at Truman’s limp body.

The most disturbing aspect of this sensation was the very absence of pain.  His body was not screaming out as he imagined it would during the onset of death.  He had always envisioned he would be on the receiving end of a nasty head wound or gunshot to the stomach, something more dramatic – more heroic – than this

‘What you should be feeling by now,’ Stamford continued with the lucidity of a college professor addressing a lecture, ‘is the power of my latest concoction – an elevated dose of pancronium bromide together with a kick of potassium chloride – the final two elements of a lethal injection. In the States they believe that these should be given separately to put the
felon
to sleep.  What I have discovered is that just the right amounts of both bring on a euphoric high, an unparalleled feeling of being at peace, which last for a few moments before your body cannot compete any longer.  The difference between how I conduct this practice, compared to those who supposedly do so to protect us from evil, is that you get to witness your own demise.  You will still feel regret, remorse, fear and everything right up until the final moment.  Your mind is the last thing to be taken over by the drug.  It remains fully awake for the entire procedure. Just when there is only a thread of your life left, when you are willing death to come and take you away, They will come for you.  That, Mr Darke, is what I have been hired to do.  To create the link between your kind and theirs – to bring forth the next stage of our salvation.’

No harm in enlightening him now
. 
Within a few minutes it would not matter.  No one can stop us now.

His smile lingered as he basked in the glory of it, the culmination of years of work, dedicated to this one patient, this one moment.  He closed his eyes for a few seconds to revel in it all.

Truman cursed himself whilst he still could for wasting a few precious moments feeling sorry for Stamford.  His initial gut feeling about him had been right – this man was severely unhinged. Truman’s own instincts had betrayed him.  Years of police training that had taught him to be mindful, if not suspicious of everyone around him, had faded since that night he had been chased from Colin Dexler’s house and branded a crooked cop and a murderer by his own men. 

That moment, Truman decided, had started the clock that now ticked down his final moments.  From then he had lost all judgment and awareness to any danger that days before he would have smelt coming from miles away. That felt like a lifetime ago.  Just another one to add to his apparent history of failed existences. 

Once a pillar of this community, one of the most admired, respected and feared men in Wildermoor now lay wasting away on a dirty bed in a damp cell, outsmarted by one of Hell’s henchmen.

The poison Stamford had sent forth to claim his soul was now sinking its teeth in and taking hold.  Truman lay in the jaws of fate waiting for one God or another – either his or Stamford’s – to claim the scraps that were left of him.

The warmth rose in one final surge from his toes, running up his legs and to his stomach, pushing twisted euphoria through his veins, absorbing into his vital organs and running through his bloodstream.  Once the feeling reached his face the shivers started as his vital organs began to malfunction.  His blood pressure and heart rate rose to deadly levels, the panic setting in to every fibre of his body as it fought valiantly to stay alive.  His head remained lolled to one side, looking blankly at Stamford who remained talking senselessly.

His skin became paler with each passing second, growing clammy as his body tried to acclimatise to the sudden changes in temperature. Grain by grain the sands of his life ebbed away. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and slowly ran down his cheek.

Truman lay transfixed looking at Stamford with longing. For what – he did not know.  He did not seek help from the man who had done this to him.  Maybe it was a longing for release, for he was now a prisoner locked in his own fading body.  His heart was slowing, running out of strength.  His lungs had already given up unable to pull in any more oxygen.

Stamford’s image became a blur. Not just because of the tears that now streamed from his eyes; his brain was starting to die.  The absence of oxygen had found its way to the last vital organ that the poison had left to claim.  The doctor’s face faded into a pale cloud above a dark, shimmering trunk.  The light around Stamford continued to shine, illuminating him as if he were an angel.

Stamford took a couple of steps toward the cot, his nose creasing up as he drew close to Truman. He had to mask his disgust at the smell of a body giving up, of organs failing, tissues dying and waste excreting.  He slowly bent at the waist so that his mouth was next to Truman’s ear.  He needed to tell him one more thing before his mind was gone.

‘They’re coming.’

Amidst everything around them that was beginning to fade, turn black and disappear, Truman saw the light that shone around Stamford, shadowing all of his other features.

The light continued to grow, taking over the room radiating searing warmth.  The thrumming that Truman had heard since the needle went in grew louder until in manifested into vibrations that he could feel shaking the ground beneath him and the wall behind his head.

The rumbling became a scraping, followed by a clunk as stone met heavy stone.  The colours began to return, rushing towards him as if pushed by a freight train, until suddenly his vision was clearer than before.  The bright white light was still there and becoming brighter, absorbing all of the darkness from the cell and breathing it in.  Truman turned his head, relieved he was able to move again.

Was he dead?  Or was this the out-of-body experience that so many talked about, that came with the final rays of light?

It can’t be
, he decided as he moved his arm freely finding it did not leave behind the image of his limp, dead body underneath.  He looked to the floor and found the source of the heavy thud that had woken him.  Four feet away from his bed lay one of the stone blocks that made up the impenetrable wall of his cell.  He looked towards the wall itself and saw a perfect aperture through which the light was burning through – not sunlight from the outside world but from the white light that he had already experienced before.  The thud came again as another brick fell.  Truman watched the wall torn away as if made of paper.  The third stone flew towards them with a flash and Stamford disappeared from Truman’s gaze, catapulted across to the opposite side where he lay slumped on the floor, his dazed limp body propped against the wall.

The stone had struck Stamford square in the chest, winding him and cracking his upper ribs.  Truman remained on the bed, powerless to move, staring towards him, trying to make sense of what had happened – what was
still
happening around him.  A faint moan escaped the doctor’s lips, but there was no movement to suggest he was conscious.

Truman averted his gaze and fixated on the wall behind him.  Brick by brick it was dismantling itself.  The rest of the structure was falling outwards forming an unkempt pile of rubble.  The light continued to glare brighter and brighter and Truman was forced to bring his hands up to shield his eyes.  The heat was as unbearable as the brightness itself.

His hands…he could move them both up to his face with no effort.  The shackles had fallen from his arms and even the cuff that belonged to the broken chain was gone – they had disappeared from sight.

‘Ewan…Ewan…’ the light sang, soothing him.  Truman responded to his old name without trepidation.  He looked up, straining his eyes, as a shadow drew closer to him from out of the white.  He knew that voice and at that moment he knew that there was a chance for him. The light around the shadow faded enough for him to take in all of the heavenly features he hoped he would see.

‘Evelyn,’ he rasped his throat dry.  The heat and the poison had drained all moisture from him.

Evelyn appeared at the bedside, as present in the room as Stamford had been – no longer an illusion.  Truman sat up on the cot, his legs hanging, his feet rested on the floor. There was no strength left his limbs.  It did not matter though. At that moment he was safe.

‘Ewan, we must leave,’ she said, ‘We must get away from here. They’re coming.’

‘Who?’

‘There’s no time.’ The urgency was clear.  She wanted to tell him everything but now was neither the time nor place.  It was too dangerous for them both.  ‘We must go,’ she reached for his hand.

‘I must see them.’

‘No, Ewan! You can’t. If they see you, I will lose you forever. There’s too many of them.’

His hand flinched.  Her touch was cold.  Not an unpleasant cold, a welcome one, a relief from the searing heat coming from the light that Evelyn brought with her.  Evelyn calmly reached out and touched his hand again.  This time he did not recoil or hesitate. He took her hand and rose to his feet.  Although he knew his body was weak, it was not an effort supporting his own weight again. 
How long had it been?  Days, weeks, months?
  He dare not speculate. As he stood, she led him away from the bed towards the now absent wall and into the bright light.

Truman paused looking back at the figure that lay against the wall.  Stamford had started to stir.  Truman stared at him wanting to know who he was, what he had done and why
any
of this was happening.  He knew that he would not get the answers he craved – needed – from that man.  Stamford looked back at him, his face more gaunt and tired than before.

‘Ewan!’ Evelyn tried to break Truman from his daze.  ‘We have to go, they’re too close…’

‘I can’t leave him,’

‘You must! There’s nothing you can do for him. He belongs to Them.’

As she spoke, Truman glanced over her shoulder and saw Them.  They started as spots, tiny black holes breaking through the walls of the white room that built itself around him. Then they grew.  They grew outwards, upwards.  They came together forming larger pools of nothingness.  Just as he had witnessed before they began to grow and morph into beings of their own.

Unlike his vision, they were not hazy or made up of black smoke or shadows.  They were foreign beings.  Completely black, they appeared as solid entities with arms, legs, torsos and heads. 

There were no faces. 

The only feature that made the bulbous shape on top of their shoulders appear head-like were a set of burning red eyes.  Truman stared unable to do anything more.  He could not move.  He barely even felt himself breathing.  They continued to grow but in that instant he realised that they were not just growing; they were drawing closer, from a distance beyond the white light, being drawn towards it.  Hundreds of sets of beastly red eyes shone towards him, never shifting and drawing nearer.