The Day of Legion

The Day Of Legion

By
Craig Taylor

Damnation Books, LLC.
P.O. Box 3931
Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

www.damnationbooks.com

The Day Of Legion
by Craig Taylor

Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-391-1

Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-392-8

Cover art by: Dawné Dominique

Edited by: Gerald L. “Moss” Bliss

Copyedited by: Kim Richards

Copyright 2011 Craig Taylor

Printed in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
1st North American, Australian and UK Print Rights

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

The knock on the door was firm, but John chose to ignore it, despite the fact he hadn’t seen anyone for days. He hadn’t washed for days either, but he couldn’t care less how he smelled. He was pretty sure some of the less-than-pleasant odor permeating the room was coming from the numerous take-out and pizza boxes spread all over the floor and the numerous empty beer bottles.

He closed his eyes and then heard another knock. It was exactly the same as before, not louder or impatient like when someone wants you to know they’ve been forced to knock for a second time, but as he did previously, John carried on with what he was doing; laying there and thinking about the day his life fell apart.

There were no further knocks, but he could sense the caller hadn’t gone away. He couldn’t explain how he could sense it, but he didn’t care anyway. The person could stand at the door all day. The last thing he wanted was to listen to a religious speech on how God could save him and make it all better, by a boy in a black suit sent halfway around the world to bring the Lord’s light to the godless.

He almost smiled to himself at that thought; God’s light. All he felt was blackness and pain, a desire to curl up and die. He’d thought many times about taking his own life. He had even tried once, but it was a spectacularly embarrassing failure. It wasn’t the fact he was scared, he would have done it again in a heartbeat. It was because he decided he wanted to live. Live to feel the constant pain he caused himself and his family. Live to relive that day as punishment.

Where was Doctor Phil when he needed him? John cringed at his pathetic joke and felt annoyed that someone was still at his door, but not knocking. He lay back down and closed his eyes, but his mind filled with the sounds of hell he’d experienced so recently, along with the visions he never wanted to see again but saw every night when he tried to sleep.

He reached for his beer bottle on the floor and cursed his stomach for being sensitive and making him unable to handle hard stuff. He knew he’d spend the entire day over the toilet if he had more than five drinks. Beer, on the other hand, he could drink all day and still get a reasonable buzz. It took his mind off everything for a little while, or at least made it hazy and difficult to focus.

There was another knock.
Third time lucky, persistent soul
, John thought as he rolled off the couch onto his knees, then to his feet. He was only wearing shorts and a white t-shirt that looked like it had been dragged through a pool of sweat, but he didn’t care.

“One look at me and you’ll be running,” he muttered as he walked toward the hallway. “Or one smell.”

The door swung open on its squeaky hinges, the sun temporarily blinding him. He shielded his eyes, barely able to see the outline of a man in a suit standing on the doorstep. He couldn’t quite tell but it looked like he was smiling. The Sun’s light surrounded the man like a glowing shroud. For a moment, John thought Death had finally come for him. Then he realized that Death probably wouldn’t knock at the door, and the Death that came for him would be dark, not glowing; and this guy had a suitcase in his hand. Unless Death was moving in, this man was selling something.

The man moved slightly to his right, blocking the sun from shining in John’s face. He was youthful, maybe twenties by John’s estimation. He was wearing an immaculate navy-blue suit with a perfectly positioned light blue tie. His face was impossibly smooth, as though he had just finished shaving that instant, and had incredibly deep blue eyes.

When he went to the door, John knew exactly what he was going to say: He didn’t want to buy anything, he didn’t want to donate anything and he didn’t want to adopt any African children, so please go away. He wasn’t going to be rude, despite the way he felt about the world and everyone in it. Now he suddenly had nothing. In a way, he felt a little stupid standing there in front of an immaculately-presented man who was obviously happy with his lot, while dressed in his shorts and t-shirt, unshaven for days and smelling like a hobo.

“Good morning, John.”

John stared at the man.

The man smiled and said, “If I could change it all, would you accept it?”

John didn’t smile back. He snapped out of his daydream. “Look, I don’t want any books from Watchtower or whatever you call it, I don’t want to be born again, I don’t want to discover Muhammad, I don’t want directions to the prayer wall, the prayer mat, the temple or the church. If you can’t see, I’m not actually having a good time.”

He decided not to slam the door in the man’s face, but swung it shut slowly. Just as the latch was about to engage, it swung open again. When he looked, the man was standing back from the door so couldn’t have pushed it open. He went to close it again.

“John, sometimes opportunity knocks very quietly so you have to listen for it.”

“How do you know my name?” He tried to think back to any forms he had completed recently or competitions he entered before the day it all happened.

The man smiled an easy, friendly smile. “I know your name and I know you.”

“Look, I’m trying to be...” John couldn’t continue. He suddenly felt sick. Nausea flowed over him and he threw up right in front of the man. “I’m sorry I just...”

The man didn’t react negatively at all to him vomiting on his own welcome mat. He showed more concern than anything. When he threw up again, this time into his hand to prevent it from coming out, the man placed his hand on his shoulder. John’s legs went from under him and he felt the impact of crashing to the polished wood floors. He couldn’t understand what was going on, then suddenly a brief moment of clarity.

The weeks of drinking beer, not eating properly or sleeping at all had finally taken its toll. His body was shutting down. He was collapsing in front of a stranger on his front porch. He just hoped the man would call an ambulance before raiding his house and trashing the place. Then he thought,
smash the place, burn it down; I don’t care.

Soon the sweet embrace of unconsciousness pulled him toward blackness. The last thing he saw was the stranger crouching over him and studying him.

When he awoke, he found himself in a hospital bed. His clothes were gone and he was in a soft, clean but thin gown under crisp white sheets. He had an IV drip in his arm, connected to a bag containing a clear liquid. He couldn’t figure out where he was. He’d been in the local hospital before and the rooms didn’t look like this. He had his own room, TV and toilet. It was amazingly clean, modern and quiet, but still had that hospital smell.

It looked like a private hospital, but he knew that shouldn’t be the case. He had no health insurance, so a private facility was out of the question. His family hated him and wouldn’t have paid. In fact, they probably wouldn’t visit him if they knew he was hospitalized.

He sat up. He felt sick. His throat was very dry and his lips felt badly swollen. His eyes felt dried out as though he hadn’t blinked in hours and the ceiling’s fluorescent lights hurt his head. He got out of bed and stood momentarily, before walking carefully to the window to try and see where he was. Both feet tingled; the blood flow to his extremities was impaired. His first step brought blinding pain, then blackness as he collapsed to the floor, the IV post crashing down with him.

When he awoke again, he was in bed, the IV was in again, and someone was in the room with him. He couldn’t quite make out who—the shadows of the late afternoon sky being the only light in the room—but there was a figure sitting in the chair in the corner.

“Awake again, I see,” the man said, in a familiar voice. “Stay there this time. The nurse wasn’t too happy when you fainted before.”

“Who are you?” John asked. “Where am I?”

The man stood up and walked toward the bed. John recognized him: It was the man on the doorstep he collapsed in front of. He was still in the same suit and immaculately presented. “You’re a lucky man, that I was on your doorstep.”

“You didn’t answer my questions.”

The man smiled. “You’re in Saint Michael’s; he’s a good man.” He turned and sat back in the chair where John could only see his silhouette.

He winced as a huge pulse of pain pounded through his head, working its way from front to back, which was quickly followed by another in the opposite direction.

“And you are?” he asked, closing his eyes tightly in a futile attempt to mitigate the pain.

“That’s one of the signs of dehydration,” the man said. “My name is Christopher. I phoned an ambulance when you collapsed and secured your house when they picked you up. The keys are in your coat pocket in the wardrobe.”

“So why am I in here, Saint Michael’s I mean?”

“This is where I told the ambulance to bring you,” he replied.

“But, it’s private,” John replied. “It’s expensive to be here. I hope they don’t think I’ve got health insurance because they’ll be very disappointed.”

John couldn’t quite see, but could almost feel the man smile in the shadows. “You won’t be charged for the treatment.” He got up and approached the bed again. “You need to get better. There’s a lot to be done.”

“To what?” John asked.

“You.”

Christopher turned on his heel and walked toward the door. “I’ll see you in two days.”

“What’s in two days?” John asked, his patience wearing a little thin with the stranger. The cryptic talk was annoying, his head pounded, and his stomach felt sick. The situation that had him at this point was still very real.

“The beginning.” Christopher replied, “Or the end.”

John was about to ask another question when another wave of nausea passed over him and he began to dry retch. He reached for a bowl beside his bed and saw Christopher leave out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to tell him to wait, but he couldn’t stop being sick.

When the nausea subsided and his body cooled down, he tried to figure Christopher out. He was still confused about being in this hospital and remained concerned about the eventual cost. He also didn’t like the last remark Christopher made –
the beginning or the end.