A New Profession

The first chapter to my novel, hope you enjoy.

It was a cold late autumn night in one of the numerous slum districts. These bleak streets were coated with a film of filthy black grime made up of decomposing rubbish, urine and in some places blood. The frequent rain turned it sticky and amplified its mild faecal odour. The air was still with weariness and the seemingly constant dull wailing of police sirens somewhere in the far distance.

 

Morden leaned his back carefully against the cold weathered wall. crumbling paint clawed at his hoodie with each slow breath he took. Two barking voices bellowed from the dimly lit alley around the corner. Their tone was confident, loud and ignorant of the surrounding houses and the their inhabitants who would undoubtedly come out armed to confront anyone who woke them up at 3am in a heartbeat. However under tonight's circumstances that would be suicidal. One of the shouting men (undoubtedly the owner of the louder and deeper voice) was a local gangster formally known as 'Tetanus', he quickly grew infamous due to his affinity for rusty blades as torment and murder weapons, Morden reminded himself. He was also well known for firing an excessive amount of bullets into anyone who pissed him off enough.

 

The second man was named Terry Friar, a junky lowlife and a particularly brawny one. He shared his devotion to heroin with that of 'muscle juice. He was known in this neighbourhood as a man who can get you any drug you might desire, and tonight he is serving as a middle man for a foreign businessman who is currently 28 minutes late for a major last minute drug transaction, as well as knocked out underneath a bridge 7 miles south west. Morden had orchestrated all of this last night.

 

He raised his stubble peppered chin and slowly wrapped a green and red wool scarf tightly around the lower half of his face, pressing his long nose inward uncomfortably. As he gazed upon the bleak, light polluted sky he reminisced over the first four times he had done this. Back then he wore a balaclava in order to protect his identity more securely. He remembered this alerted the drug dealers instantly upon approach. A scarf covering a face is common sight in these parts however, especially at this time of year and has proven to be much more advantageous. Sometimes even allowing him to throw the first punch.

 

He suddenly became self aware. He noticed that he was not afraid. He couldn't recall ever being afraid after whatever it was that happened to him, happened. He observed that what gripped him was more akin to anxiety. A sort of nauseating feeling that falls on you when you're aware of the inevitability of upcoming pain, and grows stronger with every step you take towards the potential threat. Almost like your body's futile attempt at overriding your will for the goal of self preservation.

 

With a deep cleansing breath he cleared his mind, put up the small hood of his bleach stained black jumper and stepped out around the corner. As he did the argument paused.

 

He was about 20 steps away from the two angry men. With a conscious effort he kept his pace natural and steady. The thumping of his heart grew louder with each step. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears. He examined Tetanus while trying not to look at him directly.

 

He was just over six feet in height. Broad, round, tattooed, veiny shoulders stuck out like cannon balls on both flanks of his burgundy puffer vest. His head was shaved and shiny, a single long bulging scar ran across the top of his head and parted the foggy sheen reflecting off of it. His bare arms lean and wiry hung and swayed loosely like slabs of meat on a butcher's hook. A bulky rucksack was tightly strapped to his back.

 

          "The f**k you lookin' aa!"

 

          "S**t. He saw me looking." Morden whispered to himself. "F**k it. Here we go."

 

Morden was six feet away from the men. He suddenly broke out into sprint directed at the muscular junky. Thinking on his feet he decided eliminating him first would make the fight easier through isolating the more threatening opponent. For a brief moment he acknowledged the fact that he has never fought anyone as strong as either of these men, but he quickly shunned the thought for it's current counter productivity.

 

The junky opened his mouth slightly, pulled an ugly shrivelled face, raised his shoulders and stood lightly on his feet. "he isn't a fighter" Morden thought to himself " he takes all that muscle juice just to preventing people from picking fights with him in the first place".  This eased his nerves.

 

With a jumping lunge Morden threw a punch aimed at the junkie's nose. He focused all his concentration on the movement of his arm, a while ago he noticed that doing this amplified  the force of the hit to astonishing levels.

 

The junky did not duck. Instead he instinctively tilted his head back as a feeble attempt to distance himself from the threat, consequently the punch fell square on his mouth. The impact forced his head to violently whip backwards hitting the wall behind him with a crunch and splatter of black blood,  the follow-through of the punch forced his jaw down, backwards and out of its hinges. Before stopping the fist went in to the unnaturally wide open mouth, levelling any browned tooth in its way. The leather gloves on Morden's hands protected them partially from scratches, however a few teeth embedded themselves in the skin between and around the knuckles. He felt the hot blood bathe his freezing fingers, but he did not feel pain, the adrenaline did not let him.

 

As he spun around to face Tetanus he saw him holding a snub nose revolver. Spray painter red, large and pointed directly at him, its wielder wearing an amused smirk on his lips. "Too slow" Morden thought to himself.

 

The gun shouted. The bullet hit him on the right shoulder directly below the collar bone. This pain he did feel, vividly. Tetanus used hollow point rounds, Morden observed. He had been on the receiving end of almost all types of ammunition over the past few months. An age old design tailored to deal maximal damage to unarmoured targets. Long made redundant by rip rounds and in the recent decades explosive micro shells, however they were still very effective and cheap.

 

The bullet made it's way through his thin flesh with ease, only stopping and mushrooming upon hitting the outer edge of his shoulder blade where it was deflected to one side. He groaned in agony and clenched his jaw so hard he felt something in his mouth crack, but he did not stagger. He started advancing immediately after the bullet entered him. Tetanus tilted his head in surprise upon not seeing his target fall on the ground as he expected, however his sadistic playfulness had not left him. He returned the gun to it's hidden holster in his baggy trousers and unsheathed a 10 inch bowing knife browned and scabbed with rust which appeared putrid in the dim light.

 

As Morden stepped forward and prepared to throw a punch he realised he lost control of his right arm, the muscles were jerking uncontrollably. He was haemorrhaging heavily. "f**k, it must have hit the subclavian artery" he thought to himself. And although he knew very well this wound should be fatal in this situation, he had previously learned that severe blood loss barely affected him. Never the less it will be messy, and he knew he will have to be careful not to leave a trail of blood leading to his home from this massacre. Although the muscles of his right arm were no longer obeying his will he still had full control over the limb if he focused hard enough. So he did.

 

When in range he threw a wild haymaker aimed at the gangster's shoulder expecting him to duck, and if he did not then the punch would most likely break the shoulder. But the killer was faster than expected. He ducked under the punch, Morden's forearm brushed over the bulging scar on the bald head.

 

With the spring from the duck, Tetanus forced the dull knife between the ribs under Morden's armpit, his brute strength ignoring the fact that the knife should not have the ability to penetrate flesh and provided an equal distribution of severance, blunt force trauma and agony upon the blade's victim.

 

The raspy blade felt like sandpaper on Morden's lung and inner muscle. He feebly tried to suppress a cry of agony and grabbed the gangster by his throat. Forcing him against the wall he squeezed his neck with both hands. Half of the blade and it's polished bone handle protruded rigidly from his side.  He was quickly losing the ability to breathe, but this was no more than a nuisance at this time.

 

The gangster's neck was as hard as oak, but as Morden squeezed it with all the might of his determination and his long, thin fingers he was reminded of squeezing a balloon with the intention of popping it as a child.  Tetanus was in panic, his wind pipe as well as all the blood supply to his head was completely cut off and he was losing consciousness quickly. He pulled out his gun once again, placed the still warm muzzle on Morden's ear and pulled the trigger without hesitation.  The gunshot was deafening. Steaming blood sprayed in all directions. 

 

The grip on the Tetanus' throat instantly fell limp and as it did he violently reaped a deep and desperate breath of air. But before he could regain his constitution and senses the right hand rested on his throat cocked back. The next and last thing Tetanus heard was the furious yell of agony from the should be corpse in front of him and the cracking of his own skull as the fist was brought down on it.

 

Morden rouse slowly. He had to consciously control every limb through will of thought alone. His body was nearly  clinically dead. He no longer had a heart beat, his chest was completely immobile with breathlessness. His muscles were limply convulsing. There was utter silence. He rolled the body of Tetanus on its front and with much effort he took off the branded bag, although he had full and precise dexterity in his fingers he no longer had any sensation of touch. In fact he had no perception of any physical sensation what so ever except for a searing pain quickly enveloping his body. This is what post death felt like, an intolerable internal wildfire deep rooted in his flesh and bone. So intense it overpowered all his senses except for sight which he could maintain through sheer focus.

 

After claiming his loot, Morden walked over to a window across the alleyway. It was cracked and blacked out from the inside. Thanks to the faint lamplight outside it could half act as a rudimentary mirror. He leaned in close, removed his scarf and what was left of his hood, then turned his head to the right. His ear was gone. Along with the majority of flesh around it. Ribbon like shredded skin flopped loosely around the crater on the side of his head. The smooth surface of his bare flawless skull was outlined in the epicentre, black and gleaming with blood. He sighed internally as he slowly pulled the rusty knife out of his torso, which made an ugly wet sound as it slid out along with liquid viscera and a short-lived dull ring as it dropped on the loose asphalt ground.

 

He walked away without expending a single glance at the corpses, those men simply no longer existed.

 

He had to limit his thoughts as walking required much attention which was hard to muster due to the intense suffering he was experiencing.

 

He took his time walking back, looking at the ground where he stood to make sure he was leaving no recognisable trail, as well as checking he wasn't being followed. The police made the choice never to enter this district at night a long time ago and the streets were empty as usual with the exception of the sleeping homeless person on every other street corner, therefore there was no reason to rush other than to end the pain he was experiencing as soon as possible. This pace was not very demanding on his mind however, And the walk wasn't very long.

 

He let his guard down as he entered the familiar street of his home. Although he currently had no sense of smell he felt the musky smell of marijuana out of memory as he passed the orange flat with boarded up windows 20 meters down from his front door. This resulted in a lack of focus which made him fall limply to the ground.

 

He was on the verge of passing out from mental exhaustion as he walked up the five neglected withered steps up to his front door. As he impatiently fumbled around for his keys in the back pocket of his blood stained trousers he noticed he accidentally trampled the dying dandelion which found a home in one of the larger cracks in the middle of three steps leading up to his front door.

 

To Morden's surprise the yellow, peeling door swung open violently as he opened it. He quickly lashed his hand forward and caught the rusty doorknob just before the door slammed against the bare brick wall inside the hallway. "That was way too close" he thought to himself, he also thought that if his heart could still beat it would be pounding right now. He did not live alone and could not afford to be seen in the state he is in now, he did not trust anyone and his fellow squatters were no exception, also he had grown quite fond of them and wouldn't want to be forced to leave or to kill them.   He wasn't accustomed to interacting with the world in this half dead state, he did not die often and the idea of self inflicting death for practise was far too unpleasant.

 

With great care he made his way down the rotting hallway. The shade-less lightbulb hanging above flickered infrequently and never stopped shining. The plastic switch operating it was smashed and nobody ever cared to fix it. Upon reaching the end of the hallway he made his way slowly up the narrow steps, carefully utilising the loose handrail on his left to sturdy himself he stepped lightly to avoid disturbing the old wood beneath his feet. looking down upon reaching the peak he noticed a trickle of blood fell on the browned carpet covering the stairs, he concluded it must have happened when he lifted his arm to reach the rail. He decided however that the carpet was too filthy for anyone else to notice the blood.

 

Turning right he entered what was once a respectable living room, now a dark den that reeked of drugs and moth. Regardless of the near complete darkness he navigated the familiar room with ease until he approached his bedroom door. With his keys still in his right hand he gently twisted the lock, then the handle and with as little pressure as possible he inched the squeaky door open. Before him was his room. tiny and cluttered, almost as if a hoarder made residence in a solitary confinement cell. Since he was the first to break into and start living in this house he could have chosen any room he wanted, however his chivalrous sensibilities forced him to move in to this one. His bed was in the centre of the room, its wooden headboard with a broken corner propped up against the spotty wall. It was covered by a see-through plastic sheet which he had laid down before leaving the house in order to stop his blood from spoiling his bed as he slept.

 

His keys fell on the stiffened carpet with a chime. Lacking the patience he had before, he closed the door, locked the thick bolt above the handle, fell limply on his lumpy bed and immediately lost consciousness.

 

That night as always the full moon haunted his dreams with the reliving of his otherworldly rebirth. 

Author's Note

Mainly looking for feedback on whether it's interesting. When giving feedback please let me know what genres you're mostly into and keep it specific. hope you enjoy.

Reviews

[Ian Reeve]

It certainly is interesting! Well written, and with a great hook at the end, making me want to know about his otherworldly rebirth. I'm into fantasy and sci-fi, so this is right up my street. I shall be following this story with interest.