The trailer was now silent, save for the soft patter of cool rain on the thin roof. Wyland's blood was already warming back up after his second confrontation in a day with the God of Death. "The eternal death bird", his mind was already calling it, trying to trivialize what had just happened. It was the only way, really. He would have gone completely mad if his mind didn't rework it, mold it into something that was a normal part of everyday experience. Just a goddamned bird. Yes, an massive, ancient, immortal bird with the head of some long extinct creature and the behooved legs that the Devil wore, but still, just a goddamned bird. It even acted a bit like one, shaking and preening, with it's head moving in jerking movements.
Wyland sat against the wall in the aluminum trailer, still bound hands, feet and mouth, and Oliver and Crom Cunninghill, also bound the same way, both lay prone on the floor. Ollie was in the fetal position. Crom lay unconscious.
Ollie, now truly a marked man, sacrificed, as it were, to the God of Death, let out a painful, muffled moan, through the cloth gag in his mouth. In some way, through the blindingly terrible grinding, screeching, crunching noise, he had also heard the curse. It had been refined since he had last read it, there were new elements, and a syncopated beat and rhythm to it that flowed, sounded more like a chant and less like a student nervously reading a script. The new kid, his replacement, was damn good. The research was coming along.
There was a burning feeling in his throat, and he felt nauseous. He choked this feeling down, though, vaguely aware that to vomit right now would mean his death, as he would choke on it with a gag in his mouth. The feckin' yank still sat in the corner. At least Wyland would die too, Ollie thought to himself, but he hoped that he could help the Yankee bastard suffer a bit before he got shoved off.
Looking at the Yank, yes, he was cursed too. He was breathing heavily, his face a bright red, his eyes as wide as an American double-wide trailer. He had heard the curse. Ollie couldn't know that this failure of a man, this coward, hadn't heard the curse, and had, in fact, stood up to death itself, and scared it off.
And his brother now stirred, also letting out a painful moan. Ollie now teared up a bit, realizing that the Cunninghill name would die with them, that their father had either been circumvented, been "removed from office", or perhaps he had personally approved their deaths? He doubted his father, heartless bastard though he was, would have allowed both his sons to die. Especially not Ollie, he had always been the good son. Crom, sure, he was a loose cannon, a danger to those around him (and wasn't all this his fault, anyway?). No, the good father Elliot Cunninghill would never have allowed such a thing.
Anyway, the old man never would have expected a coup d'etat from the Professor. It would have been perfectly reasonable from the Professor's viewpoint to off the father and the kids in one go. The council would have been terribly weakened, and the Professor knew the secret now, didn't he? He no longer needed the council, the truth was now out, but the council didn't know. Probably shouldn't know; should never, ever, ever know. They could curse an entire football pitch now, thousands of people, without breaking a sweat! General Pia, the deposed dictator, would have surely used the knowledge to regain control of his country, at the expense of many, many lives. No, the council must never know. The Professor could now finance his operation without the council's help, through the simple threat of a curse lobbed from a distance.
Ollie now realized his failure. He had asked the Professor about analog vs. digital. Dammit! He should'a kept his mouth shut! He was now a liability, and the more dangerous kind. The smart ones are the dangerous ones. Crom could be controlled, his anger vented in a proper manner, with fist fights and bourbon. But Ollie, if he had figured out analog recording first, well now, the whole council, including the Professor, would have been the ones who heard the curse just now! And yes, he would have killed them all (save his father), and the Cunninghills would have been planetary emperors of a new age.
But alas, no, Ollie wasn't ambitious enough to save his family's life, he had been out drinking and fucking when he should'a been studying, building, and practicing. The professor had been the one building, planning, preparing. The Professor had won, sort of. He still didn't know any blessings, that would have sealed the deal, but this was close enough. A solid and decisive win for the Professor, for the odd brand of mystic research he practiced, and a brutal and final loss for the Cunninghills.
Ollie hoped now that the whole council was dead, regardless. If the Professor won, may it be a whole victory. May he and his have been kill't by the all-time winner, the new king and emperor of planet Earth. Then his failure would be, at least a bit, noble. A reasonable failure. Who could win against such an enemy as he who conquers all? But the Emperor would still remember their names in the dark of night, and nod quietly to the deaths of his once formidable adversaries.
No comments:
Post a Comment