The Devil's Disciple

Chapter Two


The rain beat down, a constant tapping sound on the corrugated tin roof of the warehouse . Gusts of wind tore at the loose wood used to board the windows and swirled empty trashcans across the disused yard. Zep reached his truck, the last few steps taking most of his strength. Climbing in and pulling himself up onto the seat, he rested a few moments against the steering wheel. His stomach clenched and a wave of nausea encompassed him. Zep hurriedly pushed open the truck door and vomited. Shutting the door and rested his head against the cold glass of the cabin window, condensation cooling his temple. Taking a deep breath, he turned the key that remained in the ignition since he had abandoned the truck hours before. Unsure and scared, Zep drove back to his apartment, knowing the blood smear down the side would not be questioned in his neighbourhood.

The apartment was dark and dingy, the lights flickering and then dimming. There was a faint smell of damp, a feature common in the entire block of apartments. Zep threw the keys onto the table in the hall and leaned against the wall as he pulled his boots off his tired feet. He stumbled, his body exhausted and still recovering from the poison, into the bathroom. Pulling his t-shirt over his head caused his biceps to flex, the muscles burning in an intense protest to the movement. Zep winced, his arms lowering to a comfortable position. He ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair, smoothing it back into position, a comforting action he had performed since being a toddler. He removed the rest of his closes gingerly, mindful of his aching muscles.

Zep stepped into the shower, the hot water intermittent and regularly replaced by sharp spurts of cold. Using a clenched fist he hit the shower box, causing a brief interruption to the water flow, followed by a steady stream of water at an acceptable temperature. Zep leaned his head back into the water, his hands rubbing over his face. He placed the shower gel on his sponge and used it over his body. His circular moments were halted as he rested his head against the tiles and whimpered as the soapy water crept into his wound.

Cleansed, albeit not of his sins, Zep stepped out of the shower and roughly dried his hair with the towel before wrapping it around his waist. He examined himself in the mirror, water droplets covering his skin. Once again he undertook the comforting action of smoothing his hair into place with his fingers. Exanimate he walked into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of vodka from the back of the counter surface. Drinking a few mouthfuls from the already half empty bottle Zep continued to dry himself. The sudden incompatible mixture of exhaustion, Zubrowka and the nerve agent, brought Zep to his knees. He pulled himself up, gripping one of the kitchen cabinets for support and made his way into the bedroom. Still clenching the neck of the vodka bottle, he took another mouthful before setting it down, his vision slightly blurry, on the end table. The room was pleasingly dark, the absence of the light somehow comforting to him. The now torn, raggedy edged poster of Che Guevara, a turning point in his teenage years, clung desperately to the bland wallpaper covered walls.

The mundane task of putting on clean underwear seemed to take most of his dwindling energy. Zep lay on the bed searching through the drawer of the end table and took out a small sewing kit. He struggled for several minutes to thread the needle. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took the bottle of vodka and poured a generous quantity onto his leg wound and cleansed the needle and thread. Inhaling sharply and biting into his right forearm, he smothered his cries. Taking another drink from the bottle, he steadied his nerves, and with a deep breath closed the wound with his thumb and forefinger and with the other hand, used the needle and thread. The initial scream came from deep inside him, a sharp intense roar, filled with agony. Pain unrelenting, he continued to close his wound with the black thread, pausing to release more cries of pain that he could no longer suppress.

The stitching was good considering, a wry smile creeping over Zep's lips. "This would even have impressed you, wouldn't it you old bastard" Zep smirked. "Can't put me in the locker now and tip it upside down for ruining my uniform, can you Sarge?" Zep whispered, his voice contorting in anguish as he remembered the bullying he faced in the barracks. Again Zep's fingers searched for the bottle and he drank staring blankly at the yellowing photographs he treasured from his otherwise rather be forgotten childhood. He thought of the times he used to play soldiers in the meadow with his sister, the fake blood she smeared on his face made from corn syrup stole from their Aunt's pantry. Somehow now, the corn syrup blood seemed more real to him than that covering the walls and floor of the public bathroom.

Images of John, Larry and Adam flashed through his tired mind. His father's demonic gaze mingling with that of a pig's head, the same bleak stare. Zep's body swayed gently, the carpet moving up the walls and the legs of the chair beside him curving under the influence of the alcohol. The pounding in his ears ringing out like gunshots during a military training drill. He smiled to himself, the alcohol stained euphoria of the realisation that he, for the first time in his life had overcome the odds and had survived, warmed him. "Thank you, John... " he whispered as the terrifying pictures usually so vivid in his thoughts began to fade.

He leant back on the sheets, his eyes closing as his head touched the pillow. He fought the tiredness long enough to put the needle set neatly back in the drawer. "Everything has it's place doesn't it.... Mother" he muttered to himself before taking another drink of vodka and falling into a deep sleep.

Zep slept , his dreams for the first time in many years not filled with torture and despair. He awoke mid morning, the sunlight creeping through the curtains, warming his bare back as he lay face down on the bed. The distant sound of sirens in the direction of the old warehouse remarkably did not alarm him. It would be a few more hours before he noticed the white envelope propped against the toaster.