Ghost Anthem

Ghost Anthem

Chapter 1: Sunday, Bloody Sunday

         The sun cracks through the clouds like a million window panes shattering. Ringing out, echoing off the walls, the alarm clock screeches its bad electro music. Flooding into the room, the morning light stops short of his face. Smiling wistfully in his dreams, a scowl creases his face as he begrudgingly opens his eyes to stare menacingly at the clock. Reaching out and slamming down forcefully on the top of this little black box, the chirping stops. Tossing the covers back and rolling over to the edge of the bed, slowly bringing his feet to the floor, the man groans “Why can’t the day come later?” As he stumbles into the bathroom scracthing his back, he looks into the mirror and is not pleased. “Ugh, now that, THAT, is something I would not want to wake up next too!” laughing to himself gently as he turns the “Hot” water knob in the shower. Sitting down on the toilet to rest his face in his hands, the steam begins to billow out of the shower. Raising his face from his palm pillows, you can barely tell the tears lining his weary face from the water beading down it. Removing his clothes and stepping into the shower he begins to hum. The melody is a little off and the words a little hard to hear over the spraying water. “Broken this..fra..thing now. And I can’t, I can’t pi…up the piec…” The rest of the tune cut short when shouts coming from outside his apartment catch his attention. Quickly reaching down and twisting the water off, he towels himself down. Running out into his room and reaching underneath his bed, grunting once or twice before finally getting ahold of it. Straightening up as he pulls out a rather plain suitcase, he opens it and gazes at its contents for a second before reaching for the collared shirt neatly folded into a square. Now fully dressed in his black tuxedo, with his surprisingly deep, vibrant purple tie.

         The shouts increase even more so in decibels and the man turns right as a bang hits the door. The wood splinters inward upon inpact. Men dressed in black, with helmets, goggles, and armed with M-16s rush into the room,  surrounding the man. A rather stout man, noticeably so amongst all these soldiers in black, steps forward holding up his hand to signal the lower of their weapons. “Keith Zurotine, the Prime Minister wishes to see you. I, Captain Perot, am here to escort you.” Says the stout man rather grimly. “Tell him he can wait, I haven’t had my morning tea yet.” Said the man sternly. “If you do not come quietly, we are authorized to use any force necessary.” Stated the Captain. Replying quickly the man began “From what I see here, you’re going to need more then THIS force necessary to take me. Now about my tea..” before he could finish a soldier stepped forward to jam the butt of his rifle into the man’s spine. He ducked and spun, sweeping the soldier off his feet. Grabbing the M-16 from the dazed soldier’s hands he said matter-of-factly “No one is going any fucking where, until I’ve had my tea. Is that understood?” Mr. Zurotine reaching down, grabbed the soldier’s body armor, holding him slightly off the ground and said gently “Today, today is the day you should’ve called in sick.” A 5-inch metal blade now jutting from the sleeve of the man’s suit staring into the soldier’s face. Mr. Zurotine violently smashed his fist and blade into the young soldier’s face causing blood to spray all over himself and Mr. Zurotine’s suit. Soldier’s jumped back unsuspecting of this grisly show. “This ends now Zurotine.” Said Captain Perot. Before even finishing his sentence, the blade having just split the soldier’s face, was now staring into the Captain’s face, dripping fresh, warm blood. Gripping the Captain in an embrace and whispering so no one else could hear. “There’s a reason everyone refers to me as Mr. Zurotine. I hope you told all of them to say goodbye to their families.” Was the last thing Captain Perot ever heard as the blade found its home in his brain. Reaching deftly into his pocket, Mr. Zurotine retrieved a small gray ball and dashed it upon the ground. Erupting into a nova of light and dust, the room was now enveloped in a haze. Soldiers crying out in confusion and some in anguish. Always the efficient killer, Mr. Zurotine wasted little time in dispatching the soldiers, whether surgical strikes of his blade or broken necks felled them one by one in the haze.

         As the dust settled, no longer standing but sitting upon his couch was Mr. Zurotine, sipping a small green cup. Looking to be made of porcelain with extravagant etchings wrapping around it. Holding a small plate of the same quality, he calmly sipped and finished what he was drinking. Rising and walking into the kitchen, he came back out with a newspaper. Stopping only for a second to brush the dust off his suit and straightening his tie. Stepping over puddles of blood on the carpet and arms outstretched now frozen in death. He mumbled “Couldn’t they have just knocked instead of breaking the bloody door down?”

         Stepping out into the hallway, light finally hitting his face. Almost impossible to make out the color of his eyes in the light. Looking up towards the sky and smiling, then turning to stare down the hallway, his piercing bright blue gaze fixing on a small cat. Its ruffled fur and bent whiskers bouncing slightly as it almost pranced over to Mr. Zurotine. Looking up into his rugged face, the cat let out a soothing meow as if it was saying “Morning!” Bending down to get a better look at his furry friend, Mr. Zurotine spoke as if the cat was a person. “Why, you weren’t out all night again were you Agnelle? Oh no no no, you know better then that.” He cooed as he wrapped his arms around the purring ball of fluff and lifted her from the floor. “We need to find a new home, some men decided to remodel and it doesn’t fit my tastes at all.” He joked as he walked calmly down the hall with the cat resting upon his shoulder. As he turned the corner, Agnelle’s ears perked up just at the last second before rounding the corner. An arm fell outside the doorway, grasping at the air.