Chapter 12

Emily and Near sat with Emmet well into the afternoon. Jessica came and went as she pleased, briefly chatting to them as she checked Emmet’s vitals. However, Doctor Kerry hadn’t made a re-appearance since that morning. Emmet, despite his obvious progress, wavered in and out of consciousness. During those moments when he was aware of his surroundings, the pair had briefed him on the amulet and he managed to respond quite colourfully to the news. However, matters were only discussed when Jessica was out of ear shot and, although Emmet kept swearing; it was passed off as hallucinations.

The younger man was, to say the least, unhappy; Emmet had all his hopes riding on the piece of enchanted jewellery. He curled into a ball and weakly pulled the sheets up tight around his neck. He was warned on several occasions to watch his stitches and IV drip. Emily did her best to comfort the young man but, frankly, Emmet didn’t want to hear it.

“There’s other ways.” She cooed, “We will sort this out.”

She received only a harsh grunt in reply.

Near moved closer to the bed side and gently laid his hands on Emily’s shoulders.

“We should go.” He whispered.

Emily glanced from him to the young man lying on the bed before sighing deeply and rising to her feet. Emmet’s head was turned to the side, his eyes fixed on the wall opposite and his teeth clenched.

Near gently placed his hand on Emily’s shoulder and she stood to her feet. Jessica waltzed into the room just as they were leaving.

“Shall we see you tomorrow?” She asked.

“I’m not sure. But his friends, Joel and John, will be in.”

“Oh good!” She smiled, “His parent s will be in this evening so I do hope he isn’t tired out.”

Emily and Near simply smiled in reply and left the room.

They walked down the hallway into the reception area of the hospital. It was bursting with both injured and sickly people. Evening dinner was being served and so the faint clanging of dishes could be heard over the rising din. The activity was comforting; the living walking the corridors reminded Emily that she was not stuck in a harsh nightmare and the fading light outside brought to her hope of a better day tomorrow.

Evil. Such a word could not describe the inner most circle of hell.

Pulled from his cell mere hours after his encounter with the living dead, Emmet was roughly heaved by the chains binding his wrists along the course concrete. He winced as the flesh of his back was ripped and torn, the vertebrate smashed against the solid ground and his humerus made an agonizing ‘pop’ as it was pulled out of place. His shattered ankles lay limp, each movement sending searing pain through his broken nerves. He bit down on his chapped lip to keep from crying out. Above him the grunts of his kidnapper mixed with the cries of the fallen. Screams of torment, the rattling of chains against brick, the harsh thumping as victims beat their fists furiously against the heavy cell doors; each being had their own death toll.

Emmet’s back hit sharply against the threshold of a door way, his body was carelessly pulled up the step and once again his back hit concrete. However the course texture was coated in the slime of bodily fluids, some fresh and some caked into the gout.

The young man’s weak body was hastily lifted and thrown onto a putrid, stained metal table. He whined as his body hit the solid surface, his muscles screaming in protest and his dislocated arm beating sharply of the edge.

As his vision came into focus, he quickly wished it hadn’t.

The walls of the dimly lit room were not covered in brick, as one would expect. Bodies, of all shapes and sizes were ‘pinned’, like prized insects, to both wall and ceiling. Some had limbs missing; some had their entrails dangling from their flesh; some still twitched and moved. Directly above Emmet, there was a young man, his hands, feet and hair were both tied and nailed to the brick. His head was sharply held back at a painful looking angle. His eyes moved around in their sockets, the pupils were pale and his mouth hung wide. Suddenly, the baby blue irises gazed down upon him. His tongue flicked and then lay loosely out the side of his mouth. The man was naked, his body covered in horrific wounds and burns. Emmet glanced over his flesh, taking in every bruise the stranger had gained. Upon reaching the man’s nether regions, Emmet gagged and shut his eyes.

The penis was torn from its rightful place, his pubic hair was so covered in blood and urine that it was hard to tell if any of the organ remained.

He heaved. His body convulsed but alas, nothing but bile left his stomach. He leant over the table and allowed the sour liquid to drip to the floor; all the while he held his battered ribs tightly trying to encourage the agony away.

“Young boy!” His shoulder was grasped tightly and he was pushed back into his previous position.

He stared up into the maniacal features of Amon, one of the demons of wrath. He grinned and his face became a frenzy of needle like teeth. His eyes were sunken into hollow sockets, the skin was gray and fetid, and in places it hung loosely from his skull revealing the vile, ancient flesh below it. The long matted dreads of his hair brushed against Emmet’s skin and he jumped at how unbelievably straw like it felt, swearing up and down that he felt something move within it.

The demon chocked a hoarse laugh. His breath hit Emmet’s face and the smell of blood and death filled his nostrils.

“My dear boy we have not met but brother tells me all about you.” He proceeded to gawk into Emmet’s face, his own nose inches from the boys, “Yes, yes you smell so fresh. Will; it practically oozes from your pores.”

This demon was filled with pure energy. The way he spoke and acted was childlike and filled with excitement. He stood to his full height, dropped his long, tattered coat to the floor and clapped his hands together.

“This. This shall be so fun.”The look in his narrowed eyes sent shivers down Emmets spine.

Amon then began to do something most unexpected; he began to sing. As he did so, he sauntered gracefully across the floor to an assortment of shelves and cabinets. From then, all Emmet could hear was the clanging of metal objects, the banging of wooden doors and the shrill drones of the demons voice.

He put on what looked like an apron and he pulled his matted hair into a tight pony tail. Emmet watched as the demon strode back over with a filthy tray of blooded, rusty instruments of torture. His breath caught in his throat, his heart beat violently against his rib cage; this was madness.

“Now, now Emmet. Don’t fret.” The nasty little being brought his own decaying nose was close to Emmets; the young man could smell the musty stench of blood and years of decomposition, “I’ll take good care of you my boy!”

The demon screeched like an excited child, with drew and reached for a set of rusted claw like devices. The attached around Amon’s hand like brass knuckles and once the toothy grin began to spread across the creatures fetid face, Emmet knew what was to happen. He opened his mouth to cry out but was muffled by Amon’s free palm.

“We can’t have that racket.” He sang before strapping a leather strip across his open mouth and buckled it underneath the table, “There. No squirming and no screaming. Naughty boys scream and squirm and make a fuss; you just need discipline.”

Emmet felt his naked skin break out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t take his eyes of the blades upon the demons knuckles and begged that this was all some horrible dream.

Amon began to lower the device to Emmets chest. His movements were so frustratingly slow and all the while he hummed the vilest tune to himself. However, this all changed within a matter of seconds. Without so much as a breath, the demon forced the ‘claws’ into Emmet’s chest, sending a blinding fury of pain through his body, and began to drag it down.

Emmet bit against the leather, his eyes wide and filled with unshed tears. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt. His broken ankles, with the bones splintering through the flesh, did not match this. If he had the function of his mouth, he would have begged to be killed.

“This,” The Demon shouted over Emmet’s muffled protests, “Is called ‘The Spanish Tickler.’ its a little beauty, one of my personal favourites and it makes a delightful display of colour,” he smirked, “Of course you wouldn’t think so.”

Emmet really didn’t care for the name of the device or for Amon’s reational for using such a thing; he just wanted it gone. The agony that moved through him as his flesh was stripped piece by piece was unbearable and he felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness; and wondered why he wasn’t dying?

Emmet sat bolt upright. His skin was covered in goose-pimples and a light layer of sweat. The freshly bandaged wounds on his wrists burned along with the delicate markings which spidered along his left arm and his shoulder blade. He didn’t need the frantic shrill screech of the heart monitor to tell him that his heart was thumping roughly against his ribs but it continued on regardless of his displeasure.

Around him the colours of the room swam and mixed together, creating a sky of blues, whites and small splashes of flashing greens. His very bones seemed to shake with the rhythm of his heart and, instinctively, he gripped tightly at his chest.

The memory had been so vivid. He could feel the claws boring into his flesh; he could taste the blood in his mouth and in between his teeth. Even the smell of body fluids and putrid decay lingered in his nostrils.

As the moments passed his mind began to calm, his heart became slower and he was able to think rationally. Abbadon had wanted him to see this. After all the demon was part of him and, since becoming active once again, he was sharing a mind with him. It suddenly dawned on Emmet that Abbadon could do what he wanted as long as he was active. He could make Emmet see things that weren’t there, hear things that did not exist and remember things he had tried to forget. However, as long as Emmet kept fighting his body would remain under his control and not the demons; At least, he hoped.