The Church of Minos #1

The following takes place after The Walrus of Death, which you can purchase HERE

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CHAPTER ONE - I AIN'T DRUNK
Part One

-This is a first draft-

FOR AS FAR BACK as I can remember I’ve only ever had the one dream.

Well, that ain’t quite true, there’s always a bit of difference from time to time, but there’s a definite theme going on.

I’m always bound to some sort of object, that never changes. The differences come in what I’m bound with, and what I’m bound to. I could be strapped to a chair, handcuffed to a radiator, even chained to mountain top. Regardless, I’m stuck for good. Despite my best efforts, I can never manage to get loose.

What also doesn’t change is that sooner or later, as I’m struggling to break myself free, someone, or some thing, comes along, opens up my belly, and then casually begins to pull my insides out. I usually wake screaming at that point. Then it’s off to the kitchen for a warm glass of milk.

Eventually I’ll fall back asleep, but then it starts all over again. It tends to make for a fairly restless night.

Fortunately I don’t have the dream all that often.

Unfortunately, I was having the dream now.

I was strapped to a hospital bed, my arms and legs bound by thick, leather manacles. Above me are lights that burn and stab at my eyes. They blind me so that I see nothing else. That is until two figures step into the light, standing over me. They are some sort of doctors. But like none I’ve ever seen before. They dressed in surgical scrubs, but over the top of them these fellas wore long, leather aprons, stained with the blood of countless patients . . . or victims, I suppose. I couldn’t see their faces neither due to the gas masks that covered their heads, which, in a clinical situation, could be found to be somewhat off putting.

They spoke to each other as they gazed down on me, poking at me with fingers like steel rods. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. It was alien, like the chattering of birds mixed with the backward masking of an old record. One of them pulled a syringe of pale liquid from somewhere out of my line of sight. He attached a needle to it, screwing in on in a casual manner as the two continued to converse.

I tried to speak but nothing came out. I struggled against my bonds but it was no good. I was held fast and would have to endure whatever it was the doctors had in store for me.

Once the doctor had the needle on the syringe, he pressed the plunger and a thin jet of the pale liquid arched out to land on my chest where it popped and fizzed, eating through the gown they’d put me in.

Then the liquid then came into contact with my skin.

The pain was almost unbearable and I thrashed about on the bed, straining against the straps and screaming a noiseless scream.

The two doctors began to argue at that point, and though I couldn’t understand what they said, the meaning was quite clear. The one with the needle wanted to stick me, the other — who’d produced a foot long blade with a wicked looking hook at the tip — clearly wanted me awake when he cut into me.

I continued to struggle, hoping that with enough pressure the straps would snap and I’d be free to deal with these monsters in my own way. But it was clear that my strength would give out before the straps did. Didn’t stop me from trying, however.

In the end the doc with the knife won out and he bent over me, lifting the gown to expose the skin of my belly. He sliced into me and I found that I couldn’t move, I was frozen in place as the doctor made his incision.

To make matters worse, a surgical mirror appeared above me so that I could see every little thing that they did. I tried to close my eyes, but they wouldn’t respond. So I had to watch it all.

The incision reached from one hip, curved up to sail just under my belly button, then ended at my other hip. The other doctor dropped the needle and reached into the incision, using both hands to grab onto, and then pull out what I preferred to keep inside me. There was no medical reason for what the doctor was doing, he just simply reached in and came out with my guts, holding him out to his partner who used the knife to separate them from my body and then place them on a little tray next to me.

Satisfied that they’d gotten what they needed the doc with the knife placed the blade on the try next to my innards. He reached up and lifted the gas mask away from his face. Underneath was not a human face.

His face was that of a vulture, its red eyes staring into me.

I woke with a start and rolled off the bunk, my breath whooshing out of me as I hit the cold, painted concrete floor. I lay there and let my breathing relax before grasping hold of the bars of the cell to pull myself to my feet.

To be continued . . .



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