Rico Stewart

I woke up in a hospital bed alone in the dark. The monitor beeped rhythmically as I lay there, useless. He was damned. That idiot. That brat tossed himself into hell for what? a miserable pile of flesh? Forcing my head back into the bed, my mind wandered back to the moment it held me. Touching god would be a dream come true for everyone but me. But that kind of god would ruin the concept for everyone else.

My thoughts were torturers that guided me through self-doubt, shame, and rage based on what had happened. But sleep gave me brief salvation, as my mind couldn’t handle it anymore. My shallow sleep was interrupted by clicking. Each click was a blade into my sleep until it finally woke me up.

Groaning, I stared through drugged eyes at my handler. The bastard was peeling an orange in the ambulance while chewing a cigar. The tall, neat man always towered over most people with his crucifix, whether in suit or casual clothes. His muscular frame, barely contained in his suit struggled to sit on the chair and avoid the major equipment in the ambulance as he sat with one foot up. His mood was as dark as his ebony skin struggling with the fruit's rind. He mutters a strange mixture of curses and bible scripture in a strange retelling of the story of King David.

However, it was my partner, a picturesque, square woman with a notepad. Her dusty brown hair was wrapped in a bun and her thin navy glasses highlighted her beautifully blue eyes. Her face was just as beautiful without makeup. She never wore the stuff for some reason. She sat in her simple office dress, writing something. Her pen never rested when I was around.

“So which slasher cut you?” She asked in her usual quizzical tone.

“You wouldn’t believe it, Monica, ” I sputtered, slinging back into the bed.

With a sigh, my handler started. “It got you good, you damn near bled out once they found you. But that isn’t the weirdest part. The fact the bleeding stopped without anyone putting anything on you and you just appeared in a hospital bed. I would say you got a guardian angel but, I- “

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

“That thing is no fucking angel! It is something that shouldn’t ever be a damned thing. Damn it! It is still out there and It has a family. I need to go back.” I screamed, struggling to stand up.

“Not yet. You were still wounded and that was unlike you. Are you attached to them? Who is the brat?” Monica asked, scribbling something down.

“What? Not the point, they have hostages, damn it. The brat was with me, damn it James,” I pleaded, struggling to get up. I couldn’t lie down and be like this.

“Half-cocked and without a doubt insane, you're not going back yet. Maybe if I feel you're ready and stable. Information first tho, what cut you ?” James spoke as he finally finished peeling the fruit.

“Fine you can go back, but you need the time to recover. I need to hear what happened,” James stated with a cold clinical tone as he sat up.

“ Sir with all due respect you would never believe what happened. It was something nightmare and brat is back in there. “ I begged looking up to the roof. If I was just dead, that would make sense, but I should have given up on that vain hope of a logical conclusion.

“A nightmare house killed My Strike team and anyone who didn’t die then I had to kill as they became flesh abominations. “ James spoke calmly.

“No fucking way” Monica spoke, looking at James, her lips pursed. I doubt she believed it, before this assignment I wouldn’t either. The problem was I was no longer that man anymore.

My mind sputtered under the news as I had never considered that. This could have happened before. But that raises another question: who is covering this up and what exactly is happening here? Why? How ?.

“I lost friends and saw things that scared me to God. I know the fact you didn’t put a bullet in your head means you're the right sort. That and the jewelry we gave you is dust now.” He responded by cutting the fruit and placing it on the tray beside me.“So I get it and unfortunately, you will be going back, but not yet. The mind may be willing, but I refuse to send out the wounded.

“You’re both insane,” Monica spoke, looking up at us. She was right, of course but instead of the usual smugness, it was fear.

“I think that is the problem. Logic left a while back and I know it is only about to get worse.” I grinned as the drugs finally forced me back under.