JackalA Story by OzDuroseDo the Jackals come to destroy of save?As the young man sat in the
darkness, the sounds echoed around him. The shimmering of the moonlight, the
warmth of her red lips, the slow churning of her tears. The footsteps beyond
the door and the sound of a trigger hammer cocked. The taste of lead and the
glimmer of blood in a pool of silvery glow. She reached out and he took her
hand. His heart a hollow of grief and nothingness, removed as a man watching
the pictures unfold from a far off land. He lent over her, tears falling down
onto her own as he kissed her forehead. He took her part of key, the third,
from the chain around her neck and added it to his own, then he took up the gun
by her side, heavier now than ever, burdened by loss and sorrow. The rain poured hard, cold and
stinging. The streetlamps shone with a halo of regret, the tracks of his tears
washed away by the downpour. The killer entered his car and turned on the
lights as the young man lifted the gun. And within the moment, a thunderous
clap, a shatter of windscreen, the terrible gargle of the blood overflowing
from the man’s now torn throat, creeping down his neck, over the chain, covering
the fourth part of the key. The spluttering as he coughed for air. The young
man continued forward, pulling the trigger again and again until the mighty
ricochets became nothing more than the dead click of metal on metal. And then, from the darkness of
the trees around him, the faint echoes of sickening laughter. Those evil
cackles surrounded him, bore into his brain like the sinister slivering of a
snake. They were here, what had he done? Had this been what they wanted all
along? As he turned to look back, the lights of the car grew in intensity until
all around him was a stark contrast of white light and deep black shadow, and
the sickening pale yellow of the laughing eyes. He fell to his knees, there was
no where he could turn, no way to run, to escape. In a filthy puddle of rain
and dirt he had given himself up. The young man held the two keys in his hand "
the third and the fifth. The jackal before him stepped forward. And then again.
And then, with a laughter so evil it tore his soul and broke his heart, they
attacked. --- The sky was a wash of black as the
old man sprinted over the gravel. His heart hammering in a panic of dread. Then
he wretched, his knees gave way and he crashed to the ground. The vomit hit the
dirt beneath him in a single splutter leaving a foul, acidic taste. There was
no time to waste, to rest or to recover. He lifted himself to his feet and
started to run, his robes hindering his movement as they waved around him, the
chain around his neck, the one that held the first part of the key, digging
into his flesh with the weight of every sin he had ever committed. He could hear the scraping chase of
the jackal behind him. The beast with the yellow eyes and mind-splitting
laughter coming for him. The old man ran faster now. He must be the last of
them, the sanctuary floor slick with blood, the crimson stains vandalised the
walls like some gruesome form of expression. And the beast was gaining on him.
He slipped into the forest and pressed himself backwards against a large,
twisted oak. As he breathed the air before him
glowed a pale blue in the scattered moonlight. Frantically he searched the
ground. A twig, no, something larger, a heavy stone. The laughter growing
louder now, as twisted as the oak, sending a shiver through every inch of him.
He could not stop the wretch, and spat the vile liquid from his mouth. The jackal was here. The fast
clatter of its paws against the gravel now a slow stalking for its prey. It was
right behind him. He picked up the heavy stone, a strain on his back, and as
the beast lept forward, cracked the stone against its head. The dark figure
scrambled away a couple of feet before falling to one knee. It jolted backward,
laughing and growling, white teeth glimmering in the faint night. The man
stumbled toward it, bearing the weight of the stone, dropping it onto the jackal’s
head. It buckled under the weight, and the man knelt on the black figure. He
lifted the stone again, and struck down on the beast’s head. And again, the
skull cracking and caving inward under the violent blows, blood and brain and
fractures of bone flew up and onto the man’s cloak, onto his face, into his
mouth. He collapsed to the side, panting
for breath, spitting out the archaic concoction from his mouth. He examined the dark figure with the caved in
head and with a cry of despair he found recognition; the keeper of the fifth
key. His chain gone, but his body fully in human form. Those b******s. Those
sick, twisted b******s. He convulsed forward, and emptied what was left in his
stomach upon the cold grassy ground. Deep within the forest came the
mocking snigger of the jackal. --- The blood dripped from the stone
tablet, a sound as chilling as the silent nights air. The old man, robed in
black and filled with sorrow took the key from her cold, naked body. The four other
Keepers stood watching in horror, but clutching to an uncertain hope. A hope
that was ancient and weary in their minds, a faith held together by the insubstantial
thread of time and mythos. ‘Here, to me.’ the old man held
out his hand, ‘quickly now, or her loss will count for nothing’ In the dim light of the five
candles " the sixth had burnt out - the four each in turn took hold of their
keys; the cold mental that hung on chains around their necks, a constant
reminder of the price which had to be paid. The Keeper of the Fourth was the
first to remove his chain. For ten long years he had carried it, holding tight
to the hope that one day it will be used. And now, surrounded by the strangers who held
the other four, that day had come. Finally the burden would no longer be his. As he lifted the chain from his
dark skin and over the tightly curled black hair he felt a pang of doubt from
deep within. Still he held out the chain
in his right hand, and the old man reached for it. He wondered if releasing the
key will lift the burden, or maybe it will deepen. He had been told what the
key would unlock when he took it up, he had heard what he needed to hear, it
was his way out or a past of pain and suffering. But from what he had seen
tonight, from finally meeting the other four, and seeing the blood of the
sixth, a doubt jarred any hope of freedom. And just as the old man took hold of
the precious item, the sound of laughter echoed from far away. ‘They are here. Run,’ spoke the
old man as he dropped the key to the ground. ‘RUN!’ In a chaotic panic the others
dispersed as the large man stooped low to retrieve his fallen key. It lay in
the pool of the lady’s blood behind the stone. As he crouched he heard the splintered
crack of the wooden door as it tore open. Then the scream of the fidgeting Keeper
of the Second mingled with the blood curdling screech of the laughing Jackals.
Why the hell did he not run!? He threw his back against the stone, sitting in the blood, and pulled the gun from the waist band of the jeans. He cocked the hammer. He had been warned about certain dangers, advised to carry protection. He never thought he’d have to use it. The piece felt cold and dead as a headstone in his large hands, he had never fired it, nor any gun. The thought of the unknown power of the thing made him apprehensive to do so. The screeching and screaming
stopped suddenly. ‘Hey!’ He waited. No response. ‘Hey, Second, you ok man?’ Nothing. He lent to his left to get a
view from behind the stone. Second was ok, he stood looking over something. Had
the nervous guy killed it? Cautiously he rose to his feet, clutching the gun as
though his life still depended on it. ‘Second,
you hurt man?’ he gave a quick look around the room. Signs of a struggle and
splashes of blood that weren't there before. ‘Second, answer me!’ Then second turned. As he brought
his face around Fourth knew something was wrong, and when he turned fully, he
could see a gaping hole where his jaw had been torn off. His blood still
spilled from the jugular in spurts, lending a visceral, congealing glisten to
his black robe. Then he saw the dagger in Second’s
hand. The old man’s dagger, dripping
crimson in the poor candle light. ‘What the…? Are you ok? Man, we need to get
you to a doctor!’ he spoke in disbelief. Hearing the words back he realised how
stupid they sounded. Of course he was not ok! The man was missing half a face! In shock, Fourth’s knees buckled
beneath him, he couldn't even imagine the pain the other must be feeling, but they
were safe, the beast was dead. Wasn't it? He hadn't seen the body, but… Then he looked up, Second stood, now
by his side, and rose the dagger. It came down and buried itself deep in Fourth’s
left shoulder, he unleashed three rounds until Second’s head was riddled with
holes, and the lifeless body dropped to the ground. The pain of the dagger then stuck
home. He couldn't move his left arm and it hurt to breathe. The cold blade,
struck deep, burned like hell, his blood creeping down the chest under his
robe. He panted for breath, tears now coursing down his cheeks from eyes squeezed
shut. He couldn't bear to see what he had done to the small guy. And then came the sound of that
laughter - that screeching, mocking laughter. The laughter that spoke into his
mind like a drill, planting words like twisted seeds. The Keeper of the Third
is upstairs. Get her. --- “My dear brothers and sisters, I
thank you all for your hard work and dedication to the cause. I want you to
know that this cause rises far beyond these mortal bodies of ours; names, race
and creed are nothing in the light of the mysteries we shall awaken tonight. My
friends, we have stood back for centuries, hiding in the shadows as the demons take
what is rightfully ours. Mankind has known torment and fear under the tyranny of
their black hearts and now it is time to release the Master and reclaim our
thrown. “Each one of you here has been
entrusted with a segment of a key; segments that form a key of lies - propaganda
for the jackal masters and his demon hordes! They say that the Master was
imprisoned for the good of mankind, that his release would bring about the
destruction of the world! These lies have kept those weak of spirit blinded
from the truth, the truth that the world the Master fought for was far greater
than the one in which we now live. “And now we gather to unlock the
prison in which he writhes. We shall overthrow the Jackal. We shall be the
victors. “Master, take this offering that
you may show mercy on us, your servants. “Thank you for your sacrifice,
Keeper of the Sixth.” She struggled, gagged and bound,
tears of terror pouring down her face, pleading for release, pleading on behalf
of Mankind that the beast not be awakened. But her cries had no effect. The Keeper
of the First plunged his dagger deep into the naked girl’s chest. © 2013 OzDurose |
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