Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,35
woman,” Two said softly. They both raised their eyes, noted the soul of the departed woman lingering at the back of the room. They looked at each other and offered a reciprocated shrug.
“We’ve been looking for you.” Two slipped the timer back in his pocket and raised his gun at Michael again.
One declared: “I think you have something that belongs to us.”
“Give it to us.”
The two assassins made a point of pressing their guns closer to Michael, aiming in the centre of his chest. Michael met their threats with a wide grin and crossed his arms over his chest.
“You didn’t think that through did you?” he asked cockily.
They exchanged glances again; a thought seemed to pass between their shaded eyes before they returned their gazes to the reaper.
“We may not be able to kill you,” One told him. “But we can find plenty of ways to hurt you if you do not give us want we want.”
Michael nodded, “What do you want?”
“The soul,” One told him. “James Paddington.”
“Waddington,” Two corrected.
“Waddington,” One repeated with a nod.
Naff was still motionless at the back of the room, looking bored with the situation. Michael shot a glance at his friend before relaxing his own casual posture and facing the men with a look of negotiation.
“Fair enough,” he said as genuinely as he could. “I couldn’t give a toss what happens to him, but first you tell me why.” He glared at each of them in turn, expecting something to flicker behind their staunch apathy, but nothing budged.
“Why werewolves?” he pushed. “Why steal their souls? What could you possibly want with them?”
“I’m afraid we cannot divulge that information.”
“It is none of your concern.”
Michael sighed loudly. “I’m getting fucking sick of hearing that.”
“Hand over the soul and we shall be on our way,” One declared.
Naff stepped forward from the back of the room, suddenly interested. “And why do you look so much alike?” he wondered, his eyebrows arched inquisitively as he strode to Michael’s side and studied the doppelgangers. “You twins?”
“Close.”
“We are clones.”
They both smiled simultaneously, as if to emphasise their statement. Naff looked a little less interested and took an instinctive step closer to Michael, feeling creeped-out by their smile.
Michael moved forward, leaving Naff to battle his disturbances without the shoulder of his friend to lean on. He looked at them both closely and they let him, taking pride in their status.
“Weird,” Michael said under his breath. “Every little detail.”
“So how come you’re not constantly speaking over each other?” Naff wanted to know.
“Were genetic doubles, we are not the same person.”
Naff looked bemused; he opened his mouth to issue another question and then slammed it shut when Michael offered a different line of questioning.
“So does that mean you’re both mortal?”
“Yes,” one answered proudly. “Of course--”
“Shit.”
Michael planted his hands on their shoulders and grasped tightly. Instantly the colour drained from their faces. They fought back, tried to wriggle free, but their strength rapidly leaked from their body. Their limbs quickly became incapable of resistance; their lungs incapable of breath.
They slunk to the floor like rag dolls, dropping out from under Michael’s grasp. Their cold, lifeless bodies, coiled around his feet.
He stepped back, brushed his hands together and happily announced, “That was easy.”
Naff inspected the corpses with a gentle shake of his head. “It scares me that they gave you guys that ability.”
Michael tapped his friend jokingly on the shoulder, Naff jumped instinctively and then cursed under his breath.
“Just be thankful they didn’t give it to someone like Chip,” he said.
Naff felt a chill coast through his body, he shuddered. “Good point.”
Michael bent down to inspect the dead duo. He reached into the pocket of Two, and withdrew a timer. It didn’t look much different from his own; he could have easily confused the two devices.
“What do you think?” he asked, handing the device up to his friend, who had only just finishing pondering a world where Chip could kill anyone who annoyed him or didn’t buy him a drink.
Naff took it, turned it this way and that, inspected the screen, toyed with the buttons and the menu. “Remarkable,” he said after a few moments, his eyes wide. “This is our timer,” he held it up like a trophy, “our technology.”
“Copy?” Michael wondered, still on his haunches as he searched through the dead men’s pockets for any further clues.
Naff shook his head. “No. Straight off the line. I’d say someone somewhere was missing a timer.”
“Why would they need it?”
“To keep tags on you I guess. They weren’t