The Warden's Mark
Brian S. Wheeler
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Copyright © 2013 by Brian S. Wheeler
Cover design by Eric Pfeiffer
The Warden's Mark
"Fifty-seven."
"Stop it, Jackson. Stop it."
"Fifty-eight."
"I mean it. Stop it."
"Fifty-nine."
"How am I supposed to hear those beasties coming with you counting? Stop it."
I dangle my arm over the side of my top cot and clatter my bracelet. Both my cellmates Jackson and Charlie go silent at the jangling of the human teeth tied around my wrist. They have murdered my prophet, but the brutes populating this prison still fear his flock who wear such bone jewelry.
"You can do your push-ups in silence, Jackson," I speak to the rising and falling shadow beneath my cot. "Give foolish Charlie the quiet he so badly craves."
Jackson Murphy, one of the Brotherhood's many three-hundred pound enforcers, snarls. "Yes sir, Mr. Greene. I'll do as you ask just a little longer."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Greene. Thank you." Charlie stammers.
I swat away the cold, trembling hand that seeks my arm. I'll never trust the groping touch of blind Charlie. There are no innocents in our prison. There is no one from whom to ask mercy. Charlie will be the first to tell you the blind murder as well as anyone else, and I'll not underestimate the drooling, old man's lean towards the wicked. Charlie sees almost as well as the rest of us in the darkness that has shrouded our prison since the Brotherhood murdered my master, and I'll trust neither of my cellmates in the shadow.
For my prophet foresaw how Charlie and Jackson's hands will be among those that deliver me my first death.
"Do you still hear them, Charlie?" I whisper. "Do they still talk to you from the walls?"
Jackson Murphy does not count as his body falls and rises. The prison has been very quiet in these three days following the murder of my master, Luke Turner. All of the inmates and guards know that it's Luke Turner's power extending from the grave that is responsible for the darkness that has shrouded our prison walls. The sun has not risen since Luke Turner has been lowered into the ground. There's not been one phone call, letter or email from the outside world. None of the guards who've taken that first step into the curtain of pure darkness beyond the prison gates have returned after vanishing in a blink. Everyone knows Luke Turner's power is responsible for the world of dark that has swallowed our prison whole.
"Are those monsters any closer?" I grin as Charlie's teeth clatter.
It is a muffled sound, but in the silence that suffocates the cellbock, a rattling noise echoes from the walls. Every cell throughout the prison hears the rattles that have whispered from the walls since the darkness descended. It is impossible for anyone to blame the rattle on his neighbors. The noise is not one made by a prisoner's hands. The rattle is a strange sound that seems to come from within the very masonry of the walls. It is a chilling sound, and so it is a sound the prison attributes to dead Mr. Turner.
Charlie slumps onto the bottom cot and curls into a ball. "Why do you torment me, Mr. Greene? What has poor, blind Charlie ever done to you?"
It's nothing that Charlie has done to me. It's what I know he will do.
"Are they still talking to you, Charlie?" I ask. "Are they still hissing behind your back?"
Blind inmates throughout the prison claim they hear words accompanying those rattles whispering in their cells. The blind say they hear a strange language hissed into their ears, that they feel hot breath upon the back of their necks, that they feel the touch of teeth upon their spines. Those hissing tongues in the walls, and the lurking fear that calls those sounds company, drive the blind mad. They strike their heads against the walls. They shake their prison cells and beg to be beaten out of their misery. The blind wail like caged rabbits awaiting the fangs of the jailer wolf.
Old and blind Charlie is no exception. He has nibbled at his nails until his fingers bleed. He jumps at every noise. He is certain that monsters will fall upon him the moment he sleeps.
"Oh give me a little peace, Mr. Greene," Charlie sobs. "I only want a little quiet. I only want to listen and make sure whatever's hissing in the walls doesn't sneak up and eat me."
Jackson Murphy's shadow rises from the floor. I feel his breath upon my face. Hatred emanates from his muscle like heat. I have no doubt of those desires Jackson Murphy cultivates for me. The dark shrouding our prison keeps me alive. It is because of those rattling noises from within the walls that Jackson Murphy has not taken the initiative to torture and murder me with his own hands. It is the fear that, somehow, Mr. Turner can still enact vengeance from the grave that prevents Jackson Murphy from simply snapping my neck right now in the dark.
For I am the most special of all of Luke Turner's disciples. Upon my skin alone twirls and twists the tattooed runes and symbols that define me as my master's most precious disciple, and it will take a mob's courage to murder me, to further challenge the power of my master three days ago shoveled into the ground.
"You've tormented Charlie enough, Wilson Greene," Jackson growls. "You leave him be to the dark."
"Since when have you concerned yourself with a blind and old man like, Charlie?" I ask. "I think I must torment you too, Jackson Murphy. Did your Brotherhood think they could murder my master without there being a cost?"
Neither of my cellmates respond. The rattles within the walls grow louder.
"Did your Brotherhood forget the cost paid by anyone who has ever assaulted Luke Turner? Did you forget how the red life bleeds out of the eyes of those who strike my master? Did you forget how those who spit upon my master burst into flame while they sleep through nightmare? What finally gave your Brotherhood courage to gather into a mob and stab my master with so many knives and think you would escape retribution?"
Though I feel the pulse of his breath, I can hardly see Jackson Murphy's hulking frame through the dark. Still, I know his hands clench into fists.
"Freedom, Mr. Greene," Jackson mumbles. "Warden Gillespie promised us freedom if we only picked up our blades and plunged them into that son-of-a-bitch Luke Turner."
I laugh. I think my laughter must torment my cellmates more than even the rattles that shake within the walls.
"And how tastes your freedom, Jackson Murphy?" I ask with a chuckle. "You might as well have made that deal with the devil."
Jackson takes a step away from my cot and lowers himself into push-up position.
"But we did kill him, Mr. Greene," Jackson speaks as his body lowers. "We put him beneath the ground, and even his darkness can't last forever."
I shake my wrist and the teeth of my bracelet clatter. "Are you sure?"
"Sixty-three. Sixty-four," Jackson counts.
"You are not," I respond. "Be sure to clean up your sweat when you're finished, Jackson. You know how I hate an unclean cell."
"Yes sir," Jackson answers as his body lowers and lifts through hi
s exercise.
I do not sleep. I listen to blind Charlie sob in the cot beneath me for only a couple more hours. I do not have to listen to much more of Jackson Murphy's counting. A commotion spreads through the cellblock as the mob comes for me. I hear the cups rattling on the cell bars. I hear the inmates howl and scream for my killing. I hear the guards' keys twist in the locks of my neighbors, and I know that many, no doubt including Jackson and Charlie, have volunteered to raise a blade in my killing.
Charlie is the first to attack me, stabbing me before the mob even arrives at our cell. He plunges his long shiv through my cot and into my spine, instantly turning my legs numb. Jackson's hands squeeze my throat before I can curse my attackers. The guards unlock my cell and the mob floods upon me. They pull the teeth out of my mouth. They gouge my eyes. They shred and cut with terrible blades.
But I gladly bear it all before the ultimate darkness descends upon me. For pain is, like my master Luke Turner preaches, just another type of reverence, and death but a temporary sleep before waking into a new dream.