Whispers Of Spilt Blood

Prologue

As a handcuffed prisoner is dragged towards a warehouse, a gun is trained on his hunched back to banish any thoughts of a struggle. A dark heaviness hangs in the air and the prisoner's thin uniform provides no protection against the chilling wind.

Endless fields surround a bleak landscape, offering no comfort. No chance of escape.

The prisoner has committed murder and the judge has ruled guilty. The verdict-a death sentence.

A life for a life.

Head hanging, the prisoner allows himself to be dragged along, defeated. His guards are simply blurred faces, cold features void of any emotion. Entering the run down warehouse, the man is immediately dumped in a cold, hard chair and within moments, all is silent other than the occasional rumble of thunder as the shackled man is left alone. The coppery smell of rust assaults his nose, making his head spin. As the prisoner sits, the irons keeping him bound begin to clank together as a tremble works its way through his stiff body. Hectic and rapid breathing follow, as thoughts of what lie ahead plague him.

To him, death is a vast abyss of darkness and misery.

Hours pass and as nobody appears, silence hangs in the suffocating air. The man is soon drenched in sweat as the temperature in the warehouse rises and perspiration beads on his receding hairline, soaking what's left of his thinning black hair.

Rain begins to pound on the roof of the warehouse, the frantic drum synchronized with the man's rapid heartbeat. Lightning illuminates the walls in an eerie light show and the prisoner's bonds chafe roughly against his heavily tattooed skin.

He begins to wonder what lies after the living. Can death truly be any worse than this reflective stillness?

Death. The price a convicted man must pay.

The heavy metal doors swing open and the unoiled hinges scream. The man startles and a jolt of fear passes through his body. His chair scrapes against the drab concrete floor with a high screech. The temperature in the room rapidly drops several degrees and with the loss of warmth comes the cold kiss of death.

A tall man enters, followed by a younger man. Their footsteps are soft as they approach the trembling convict. The prisoner can't stop his exclamation of surprise as he gets a closer look at them.

Tall and imposing, they're both good-looking, bordering almost on the line of beautiful. Dressed in business suits, they give off a sense of chilling calm. The calm before a storm.

Can this truly be death?

The prisoner begins to sweat once again as his anxiety rises, heartbeat spiking. He can only gape at the two men in awe and fear. These men seem almost otherworldly to the mortal prisoner.

The older man takes no notice of the reaction, instead he speaks in a calm, yet commanding voice.

"You have been sentenced to death." He pauses. "But I am here to offer an alternative."

The convict blinks at the man's unique accent, as well as his words. He's expecting an executioner, not two well dressed men in business suits, offering him a chance to cheat death.

The man continues. "You will be given the choice to come with me and my son and support our cause, or you may remain here a condemned man."

The shackled man appears to ponder this for a few moments, his inner thoughts still in turmoil. Then he wonders aloud in a gruff voice.

"What do you want with me?"

Lightning flashes, illuminating the shadowed room as the man smiles. A jolt of unease shoots through the prisoner as the frigid smile doesn't reach the man's clear, icy eyes. Gulping, he can't help but shiver at the man's next words.

"My dear man, you are going to aid us in building an army."