Arc 3 - Interlude VII: Doug Zirardgre II

(Prosinec 10, 46 / 10:41PM)

Many years ago…

A single knock thumped the wood. Opening the door, a woman with blonde hair and wrinkles gazed at the man in front of her. He wore a thin brown jacket, and his pants and boots were sullied with dirt. Carrying a huge bag in his right hand, his left wielded a trench gun.

“D-Doug? What brings you here?”

“Don’t mean to bother you, but is it okay if I rest for the night. I’ve been delivering messages since yesterday.”

“Oh absolutely. Come in.”

Stepping into the poor shack, he smelled the old wooden furniture, along with a strong dampness. As soon as he saw the old creaky couch, he didn’t hesitate to drag himself toward it. Resting his gun near the coffee table, he then placed the bag near a stack of photos. He then walked toward that couch.

“What did you bring? We’re you out hunting as well?”

“Around these parts, people here could get tense. I like to carry a gun, so that way people know I ain’t a normal messenger.”

“Ah ok. Need any blankets?”

“There’s no need. I could sleep fine, thanks.”

Resting his boots against the edge, he didn’t even strip off his clothes. With his trench gun to his side, and the heavy bag near the cabinet, he felt his eyes grow heavy. In fact, his whole face radiated a shilling darkness. His eyes especially, the eyebags that gnawed on his face stretched down his nose.

“I uh, have spare clothes you could use.”

“Don’t need anything ma’am. I just need sleep…”

“You sure? I could—”

“I haven’t slept in three days ma’am. Please, give me some rest.”

Finally closing his eyes shut, his chest exhaled up and down, again and again. His breathing loudened, it turned into snoring, as everything for him went cold. Completely binding to his wishes, Betty’s mom scratched her cheek.

“Oh well, I should be getting sleep as well.”

Walking toward a nearby lamp, she pulled down a metallic string, as the beads jingled by her pull. She walked herself to her room, leaving the chubby man to engrave in sleep.

________________________________________________________________________

An hour later.

Shifting repeatedly, her eyes took in the wooden ceiling above. Laying on an old mattress, there were no blankets softening the cruel fabric, leaving a spring or two to jab her back.

‘Why is a man like himself sending messages?’

Thoughts swirling around her brain, it was a jumble of theories and speculations without any leads. The gun, the bag, the way he hadn’t slept in three days. What could he have been doing?

‘Does that bag hold money? He is rich, so is he giving to the poor? To charity?’

Gripping the stringy blanket that covered herself, her fingers dug into the fabric. Continuing to stare at the wooden ceiling, she thought she heard the clock time. No wait, it did. Each passing second chimed into her soul. Hearing it, feeling it, the only thing that made her stop… there was nothing stopping her.

‘I need to confirm this. I’m so curious that I'm literally losing sleep over it!’

Getting out of bed, her bare feet caressed the old wood below. Having her hands close, she opened the door, but subtly for no wood to scream.

She didn’t have a hallway, as her room instantly connected to the living room. With each step pressing firm on the wood, it wasn’t long before she reached where Doug slept. She didn’t hear snores.

Knowing that he kept the bag near the cabinet, she tiptoed herself with soft toes. Inhaling in soft oxygen, it was meant to breeze against her throat, and to suffice her sweating. Feeling her own body grow warm, she stopped once she smelt something… off. Not even a second later, her right foot tickled a piece of fabric.

‘Bingo.’

Crouching down, she opened the bag without trouble. Looking like it was double wrapped, she untied the strings, as the knots meant nothing for her. Right as she loosened the first knot—

The smell worsened. Like a mixture of manure toejam, her face cringed.

‘Just what does he have in there? I thought it was just messages.’

Loosening the second string, she opened the bag at last… but the smell kicked her. Taking a step back, the wood creaked. Trying to decipher what was inside, it was too dark for her to see.

‘I’ll have to feel it.’

She bent down to grab whatever was in that bag. Feeling a carpet-like substance, she traced it with her fingers, yet it didn’t click to her. Sticking out her tongue, she grappled it with digging fingers, before lifting the object out of the bag.

As soon as her other hand grazed the bottom, she felt liquid ripple down her wrist. Furrowing her brow, that same liquid dripped onto the ground.

‘What is this thing? It’s cold, it’s wet, and it reeks of…’

—Silence reigned in the air.—

Not even the sound of her heart was heard. Breathing in and out, she felt like the world stopped. Black increasing in pitch, she stared at the object, but she couldn’t trace what she held. The object dropped to the floor.

“Ha… what is…”

She pressed her back against the wooden cabinet. Shaking and throttling the wood, it jittered the hinges and photos as well. Her breathing going haywire, she shook her head, her eyes and mouth widened. Looking down at her hand, she imagined the red that came with it.

“Why is it…”

—The roar of a gunshot came.—

Afterwards, she heard almost nothing, while walking herself to the right. She still saw dark, and her body… her legs gave out.

Losing feeling with her lower body, she didn’t feel anything, as her waist couldn’t decide whether to feel cold or hot. Clawing at the ground, the wood screeched, but her arms couldn’t pull her forward. She heard the cock of that trench gun.

“You shouldn’t have peeked.”

There was smoke, and then there was the stench of shit. Feeling it plunge into her lungs, it was a scent that she couldn’t get rid of. Shaking her head erratically, vile plunged from her mouth. Tasting what she usually excreted out, she wished it was vomit, or even blood. Moving her hand, she scratched where her stomach was. She felt a slimy substance…

“Why did you make me do this? After all the trouble I did to eliminate them…”

Screams poured into his ears. Faints, cries, panic, it all played in the deepest and darkest corners of his mind. Hearing it all play out, he traced to the point of time where it all began…

He would knock on the door, whilst his right hand gripped his trench gun. His left carrying a bag, it was latexed in leather, with two strings attached on its tip. Waiting idly, he stood with a straightened back, and a darkened face.

The door in front of him opened.

“Why hello Doug Zirardgre. What has brought you here?”

Doug didn’t speak. Keeping his lips sealed, he stared at the man who wore a tuxedo and slacks. Having a badge on his chest, he looked to be a butler, or a guard. Whoever he was, Doug kept his lips pressed tight.

“Doug Zirardgre?”

Glancing down at his trench gun, Doug cringed his face upon the wood and metal. Out of all the weapons, he chose the one that required short-range precision. The bullets spread, the recoil was like a spring, and the noise it could create…

Doug opened his lips at last.

“I got this gun from a blacksmith. He says that it’s one of a kind, top of the rare.”

“Sir Zirardge. May I ask why you brought it here?”

Dropping the empty bag to the floor, he moved his left toward his pocket. Pulling out a metal casing, it had a cylinder hole in the middle, perfect for the barrel of his gun. Gently pushing it in, he twirled the silencer around the tip, until he heard a click.

“What are you…”

The butler began to walk back with quivering lips. Nothing to defend himself with, his only option was the hallway in back of him, or lunge to the side. Hearing the reload, along with how Doug wielded the gun, the guard felt all of his body weight submerge to his stomach.

“Run.”

That was three days ago.

Throughout his time as a messenger, he worked tirelessly to deliver the messages of others. Making sure each family, each of the neighboring families had their message delivered, it was a stroke of luck.

“Hail Mary, full of grace.”

For a man who never killed, he pulled off what might’ve been the massacre of a century. Each swish of his gun, each slash of blood, it was a symbol of the humanity he had lost. Tears, cries, even the way they tried to fight back was all pointless.

He saw their attempts to flee, their attempt to reason. He couldn’t allow anyone to live.

“Mommy!”

“The Lord is with thee.”

Trying his hardest to pull the knob toward him, a boy barely ten tried his hardest to enter. Tugging with all his strength, tears wallowed out from his eyes. Tearing his vocals with each screech, his words wheezed out by force.

“Blessed art though among women.”

“Mommy! Help me! Help—”

His cries stopped. Slumping against the door, pink and bone glued itself to the wood. Lowering his gun, the murderer stared at his doing with darkened eyes, and frozen cheeks. Having the gun hung below, he moved onto the next victim.

“And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

It became a habit.

A mother’s cries? Snap. A father’s attempt to defend? Hushed. A guard burning out bullets? He indulged in them. Eating them like they were candy, his own body spit them out before pulling the trigger. Onto the next family. Again, same procedure, same outcome. Iron and manure radiating the walls, he moved on. Walk, shoot, reload. Walk, shoot, reload. Someone shot him back? Vomit the bullets. Again, again, again, again, again, again—

He heard a baby’s wails.

Opening the door, he stood with eyes that captured insanity. There was not a speck of life in those sankupen irises, a hell that he pushed in on himself. Shit and iron still roamed the walls, as he lost count of the many times he inhaled the scent. Closing the door, he walked where the baby cries…

—Stopped.—

“Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

And as if a wrench had struck his head, he returned to his reality at last. Unable to see in the dark, he chuckled in ammo, as the buckshot dribbled to the floor. As soon as he walked toward the dying woman, he took aim.

“Pray for us sinners.”

Moving his finger toward the trigger, nothing stood in his way. Not a single soul could reach him, or throttle him from his insanity. Hearing her gurgles, he had the barrel aimed where the noise was. Like sand tickling into his ear, each passing second gifted him the sweet release of—

“Now and at the hour of our death…”

Without hesitation, the wooden walls roared once more. In that split second, only the silence remained. Standing in front of him, was a fresh corpse he crafted with his tool. Smelling the smoke, the manure, the iron, it was a collection of scents he was familiar with.

As the gates of hell reserved a spot; just for him.

“Amen.”