THE JOURNEY OF EVIL

Chapter 1

Cyrus Night lay within the confinement of his solitary cell that had just one bunk and a basin that consistently dripped a drop of water every five seconds; each drop echoed. The room was cold and damp, with its light source coming from a single small window high up on the wall, from which the Arctic wind gained access to the room. This was the Iceberg Jail, and Cyrus Night was freezing.

Deep within the darkness, Cyrus eyes opened. He shifted with unease as the residue of the dream he had latched onto him with intense fear. He heard a soft, feminine voice call his name in the cold wind, causing goosebumps to break out all over his body. He began to shake his head with extreme force because he didn't want to listen. He could live with anything but that voice. It was eerie, and it made his skin crawl.

"I'm in a cell. I'm in a cell," he muttered to himself repeatedly as he forced down the dream. He did not hear the door to his cell open, and two large men stepped in with a large black bag in their hands. He counted on fingers that were ghostly thin the days he had spent in solitude with no notice of the men creeping toward him, their breaths held and their muscles tightened on the grip of the bag. He had been in this cell for seven days because he had flung a man over the railing of their normal cells. The man lost a few teeth and broke a few ribs, but it was his fault for calling him a rapist cocksucker. 

"Hey, Cyrus!" A much deeper voice than any guard he knew called his name. He noticed their boots and the melting snow on them. He tried to rise and fight like he did to everyone stupid enough to enter his cell but a black bag went over his head. He struggled and kicked but he was easily overpowered and knocked out by the hefty men.

"My name is Anderson," a much lighter voice called to him. It roused him, but the scent of roasted chicken and barbecued pork was what made him open his eyes. In front of him was the source of the scent on a large tray. He moved his hand and noticed he was chained to a silver metal table with enough leverage to eat and that the uniform he had been wearing all through confinement was gray, not black like he had thought. "I'm sorry that we have to talk with you like that. But with, um, the history of your violence. Surely, you must understand; I mean you no harm."

Cyrus looked across the table. Anderson, a middle-aged man who wore an oversized coat and research glasses that made him feel larger than life, tried to smile but could only manage a weak curve of his lips. The type of man that'd be rammed, bullied, and found dead in the prison he came from, Cyrus thought, and it made him smile widely—a smile that made Anderson cringe.

 "Abducted from my own cell and then offered a meal in chains. Yeah, you mean me no harm? I call that bullocks, but I have to ask. Is this stuff poisoned?" Cryus enquired about the meal before him in a clear voice that must have shocked Anderson because he took a moment to shake his head.

Cyrus tore at the chicken and started devouring his meal. He watched Anderson bring out file after file from a black suitcase with raised eyebrows. A document fell on the ground; it was his document with a number written at the top right corner in red. "Six hundred and sixty-six," he muttered to himself. Anderson picked the document in a hurry from the ground and it disappeared back into the black suitcase.

"According to your file, your verdict was sixty years in prison for the rape of a libarian and murder of three huge men like you with a fork. A cutlery according to the file in front of me," Anderson said. The idea that men three times his size could be killed like that made his chuckle dry. He adjusted his glasses and took a glance at Cyrus before he continued. "And with your extreme violence in prison, if reevaluated you might get life in a more deadly prison."

Cyrus could not place it, but whatever shyness he sensed in the guy earlier was gone. It made him drop the last chicken he had been munching on.

"The lady, the victim of your assault, who had not clarified she was pregnant at the time of the charges, has now given birth to a boy. What is the right word, Cyrus? Should I say 'Congratulations' or an 'Oh no!' to such news?"  

"Are you messing with me, mate?" Cyrus growled. He stared hard at the man opposing him as the chains rattled from his attempts at freeing himself. "I can snap your neck for that."

"You can, and no, I'm not messing with you. Once re-evaluated, you'll get life imprisonment with heavy labor to raise money that'd be sent to a child you'll never see," Anderson said, pausing and smiling when Cyrus's brow furrowed. He had stopped shaking the chains.

"No, on the contrary, I'm here to offer you an olive tree—the whole damn tree. Work with us and go where we send you and destroy the things we ask you to," Anderson continued, but he had begun packing the files back into the briefcase. "And there's a catch: you'll be mostly free to roam and have amazing meals like what you just ate as long as you stay away from your little family. For each successful mission, two years would be taken off your jail time and a hundred thousand grand paid to you. Of course, a certain percentage will be sent to your kid."

Cyrus looked at the man in front of him and shook his head. "What type of missions would I be going on?"

Anderson shrugged at Cyrus' question. "That's not in my jurisdiction, but I hear it's bizarre and strange. Even outworldly. The unexplained."

Cyrus raised his two eyebrows for a moment and chuckled loudly. "Wait! I get dragged all the way from my sleep to chase ghosts. What else? Humor me. Zombies? Maybe you'll add dragons."

Cyrus stopped his chuckles when he noticed Anderson just stared at him with a grim face. "You can't be serious, right?" He asked.

"In my line of work," Anderson whispered. "Anything is possible."

Cyrus grinned at that statement. "In that case, I'll not be going unless you increase the jail time to four and pay me a million dollars. I might as well die on my first mission. Remember, bizarre and strange." He picked up his chicken and resumed his meal while staring at his opponent with intent.

Anderson chuckled at Cyrus' look of rage. "Okay, we'll meet halfway. Three years and a million dollars. Think about it very well; you can still go back to your cell and do heavy labor, but not after you agree to this. When you accept, bang the table three times. If you're not interested, do nothing. You'll get two more meals of your choice, after which you'll be returned to your cell the same way you came."

Cyrus' mouth was wide open at Anderson's sudden agreement. The man in his baggy clothes chuckled at whatever expression he had on his face and stood up, briefcase in hand, and made his way out. He had opened the door before Cyrus found his voice.

"Wait," he called. "Tell me the truth. What was the meaning of the number on my profile?"

Anderson sighed. "You're the six hundred and sixty-sixth candidate we're recruiting for this position."  

"And the rest?" Cyrus enquired.

"All dead," Anderson said, and left. Cyrus sat alone with the dark-brown wall staring back at him on all sides with the residue scent of the meal he had in the air. He felt the coolness of the chains on his skin and recalled the voice he heard inside his cell. He still had twelve more days to spend in that cell if he went back, but he shivered at that thought. He did not even notice the goosebumps on his arm as he tapped on the table. Three hard hits

The door swung open, and two large men came in behind him. He felt and saw the black bag swing over his head before he was knocked out.