The telephone rang out into the night. Harsh and loud, it was like the
staccato sound of machine gun fire, accentuating the cacophony of the already tumultuous night.
Outside, the storm clouds vent their wrath on a landscape so barren a mouse
would have starved. There was no rain however. Flashes of blinding light cast
an eerie glow. And by this, the true horror of the situation was revealed.
Smoke still rose from the burning embers of some houses, while others were only
masses of blackened wood. They were not in a row and could not have been caught
in a fire. Randomly situated and almost all destroyed. Not even the gardens
surrounding the houses had been spared. Only one hovel remained from the
bustling town that once existed here. The only other signs of civilisation ever
having existed were the charred remains of countless bodies arranged in rows,
with all the loving care a mother gives to her son. It bespoke of great care
and tenderness. A loving attention to detail. One might have been forgiven for
thinking that this was the work of a person who cared deeply for all these poor
souls. One would have been almost right. But, this illusion would have been
torn apart by one look at the faces of the dead, for they had not been charred
beyond recognition and neither had they been restored to some semblance of
dignity. Snarling faces, contorted in fury and pain spoke of a nameless horror.
A young man with his eyes gouged out, leaving deep and bloody furrows in the
face because he had torn his eyes out rather than seeing what was occurring.
The phone continued ringing. The man stirred. Even in his drunken stupor he
recognised the sound. He loved the sound. He hated the sound. It brought back
memories. Memories loved, hated and feared. He looked at the dirty, stained and
broken mirror that adorned one of his walls. A middle aged, filthy, slovenly
man looked back at him. He had been handsome once, but was now bloated.
Bloodshot eyes and a fat jowl were the only accessories of his face. He quite
liked the impression, though. Feeling perversely pleased with himself and
chuckling slightly, he picked up the receiver. A metallic, disembodied voice
said, “We need you, ______. There is no better killer. Same place, same time.
Do not fail me." The effect of these simple words were overwhelming. The
receiver crashed to the floor. The man looked as if he had been hit with a
sledgehammer. He collapsed on his bed, breathing heavily. A feverish light
shone in his face. A beatific smile that slowly turned into a taut leer. His
gait, when he stood up, was steadier, purposeful, assured. He walked with slow,
measured steps to the only other piece of furniture in his room. His wardrobe.
His uniform, though long in disuse, still retained some amount of dignity.
Without turning his head, he called, "_______, where are you? Get me my
gun, will you?" Cocking his ears, he waited for a reply. There was none.
'Must have gone outside', he thought. As he was about to take the uniform out,
he stopped suddenly. Recoiling, he turned back and went out. Outside, the wind
howled into the night. As he walked amongst the rows of the dead, he seemed to
be searching for something. His walk, now, resembled that of a hunting wolf.
There was no mistaking the deadly grace and assured purpose of his walk. The
fetid stink of dead bodies decomposing, which would have made any other person
gag, seemed not to affect him at all. In fact, he seemed to revel in it. After
a while, he came across the young man with his eyes gouged out. He looked at
the face with disturbing intensity. Something that might have been tenderness
crossed his face. Then it was gone, leaving his face like stone. His sparkling
blue eyes might have been gemstones for all the emotion they showed. Then,
suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed. It was a madman's laugh,
possessing something bestial in its wild abandon and mirthlessness. He laughed
until his throat ran dry and he began to choke. Then, as suddenly as it had
appeared, the laugh was gone and the stone was back in place once more. Hands
going to his waist, he fumbled around until he had withdrawn a hunting knife.
Cradling it in his hands, he fondled it, crooning as if to a baby. There was
something quite eerie about the way the knife sparkled whilst the rest of the
man was so grimy. Bending down, he began to carve something on the young boy's
face. As he stood there admiring his handiwork, a large rat climbed on the face
of this boy and began nibbling on his nose. The man started shaking as if
caught in an epileptic seizure. Then suddenly, with astonishing violence, he
skewered the rat with his hunting knife. He stood staring at it for quite some
time afterward. Then, he tore off a part of the young boy’s clothes. After he
had finished wiping the viscera from the knife, he chuckled. He muttered to
himself, “Won’t be bothering you again, my boy. Oh no, I took care of that.”
Still chuckling, he turned back quickly and went into his hovel. After a few
moments, the man who came out all decked in uniform was unrecognisable from the
man who had gone in. He was not clean, far from it, but there was an
indefinable quality about the way he stood. It inspired confidence and trust.
Getting into his jeep, he drove off.
A sudden flash of lightning brought the carving on his face into sharp
focus, just for a fleeting moment. “I
love you, my son. You have given me Hope." The first drops of rain began
to fall.
