Local Jail
Raysburg, Indiana
6:17am

The room was dark, and the air was cold. The lights easily slid through the bars that held a single boy at bay within a simple cell. This boy wasn’t a boy so much anymore though. The nineteen-year-old apprentice to the town doctor was accused of murder. This boy would be hung tomorrow morning, for killing his girlfriend in the cemetery. Perhaps a bit of irony made the suspicion that much easier for the towns folk to bear. Well most of them anyways.

“Slow night, it always get boring round here this late?” Came a slow gravely voice, from beyond the bars. Thomas Randall’s head turned towards the shadowed face beneath a worn full brimmed hat. Tommy could make out the strange coloring of random stains that made its way around the curve of the hat, could even see the dents in the long mane of silvery white hair, which bunched up at the shoulders of the matching trench coat.

“What?” Tommy asked, the boy would have shrieked if he wasn’t so exhausted, cold, hungry and stressed out by the night’s events. “How did you get inside here?”

“Oh you mean the one deputy who was working this late? Well, he stepped out for a cigarette. Not used to such light security. Tell ya the truth I was expecting a mob of people waiting for the big day, ya know?” the voice commented in an air of uncaring. Ironically His presence here did not hold up to such scrutiny.

“Okay, look who ever you are, I don’t care. I’m in jail as you can see so unless you’re a preacher to give my last rights, I couldn’t care.”

“Look -- Thomas is it -- I saw what happened tonight. Tell you the truth I’m still trying to figure it all out myself.”

“Wait, you . . . you killed Marissa!” Tommy leaned up dashing towards the bars. The boy’s fingers curled about the cold metal. Tommy looked into the man’s face finally, watching the slender yet dark eyes--eyes that had seen far more than just the death of his girlfriend.

“No, Thomas, well I didn’t physically kill her.” The man slipped his hat from his head letting the silver hair cradle down his unshaven cheeks. “But I could have stopped it, but that’s not why I’m here. My problems don’t concern you. But your problem . . . well your problem seems wrong. I can’t allow you to die. Since I saw the killer, and that killer wasn’t you.”

Tommy stared at the strange man a moment as his hands relaxed from the bars. His face went slacked, expression completely vanishing from the boy’s face. “Who are you, a lawyer or just a good natured soul . . . who saw my girlfriend stabbed to death?”

“Tommy, you okay in there, boy,” called a male’s voice, from the main room of jailhouse. Frank Michaels, the deputy of the late shift began to fumble with some keys to enter the cell room.

“My friends call me Mitch,” the stranger mentioned as he turned to back into the shadows of the dark hallway of cells. Tommy’s eyes watched as the last flicker of the brown trench coat tail flickered into the dismal shadows.

“Hear you talking to someone, Tommy? Hearing Marissa again?” The Deputy asked his eyes going narrow as he looked at the youth. Frank’s son Alex, went to school with Thomas, played football with him, Frank had Tommy over at his home a lot when they were both younger.

“Yeah Mister Michaels.”

“Happens to me to ya know. Still can hear my wife. Ol' Preacher Bradley says ya shouldn’t pay them no mind. Just to some people, the dead can’t stay dead.”

	Presents..... "No Escape" Part 2 GUILTY UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT
SHOWCASE #3 - February, Year Two	by Jae Lizhini

A Small Cabin
East of Raysburg

The blond haired man sat back, against the rock, his lungs heaving as he’d been running all night. The bag he was carrying slumped to the corner in a simple toss of ease. This stranger had seen a lot of things with his eyes as of the late, but most importantly his task was now complete. The eyelids closed tightly as his warm flesh shivered, small patches of goose flesh pricking up over his chest. His clothes were clinging against him as though they were a second skin, but the unmistakable stains of blood were not to be removed from the clothes no matter how much washing one would do.

The screams of the girl named Marissa still rung in his ears, the joy of feeling her heart stop, the gushing of blood, that same blood that was now coagulated in thick chunks caked under his finger nails. The Stranger couldn’t help but feel the compelling nature of the hunt, the need to feel the warm blood flicking up against his face. The man could still taste it on his lips even after the rain had managed to at least get that bit off of him.

The cabin was really not much more than that- that’s if you could call it a cabin to begin with. It was more a lean-to built into a cave, deep in the woods that surrounded the town of Raysburg on both sides. This particular cabin had been freshly built not long before this fellow made it to the town. A man who’s presence was almost as surprising as Mitch Shelly’s own coming to the strange town. The difference was this man saw things, heard things . . . his mission was obvious, even as he opened his eyes for the first time. The Call was loud, a voice that came from the very cabin where he now sheltered himself from the rain. Perhaps that’s why when the voice croaked out in a rather feminine voice to the killer, the killer didn’t respond with shrieks of terror. No, this stranger knew it was coming. The killer had come back here, with the exact purpose of telling the voice that the mission was accomplished.

You have returned, the omniscient voice spoke echoing through the epicenter of the ramshackle hut. There was a couch to one corner of the wooden walls, but the killer did not dare sit on it. An overwhelming fear that he found hard to pin point let him believe it was a bad idea. As though the moment he got to close to any of the furniture a demon would spring out and finish him off. Finish him off for his vicious thirst to kill a girl, that done nothing but simply exist. Simply exist to feed his cravings for blood shed.

“Yes, and it has been done,” the killer mentioned his head hanging low, as if something suddenly popped out of the wall to bring him into the bowels of hell he’d surely not see it coming.

Excellent, and what of the Resurrection Man? With his newest meta-human gift he surely knew you were coming . . .

“I . . . I did see him. But he simply stayed hidden and watched. As though he got something of a pleasure of watching, as I did committing the very act.”

Yes, as he should have. This one, this Resurrection Man, is falling right into the place he should be in. Questioning himself. Soon all will be as required, the voice stated simply. And even as the killer was left alone, he could have sworn he heard a bit of laughter echoing from beyond the walls. Yet straining himself to listen he heard little more than the constant raindrops ticking on a metallic roof.

Town Square
Raysburg, Indiana

The footfalls crunched loose gravel under the tough underbelly of boot soles. The rain had all but stopped and the comfort of the down pour was missing as well. It was the first time since Mitch arrived that it had been silent. The silence cooled his mind, and made the would-be hero take a moment to notice the tranquility of a town he’d only dreamed about. Mitch had always said there would be one place on the earth where he could finally get the rest he deserved. One place on the whole planet where he’d not have to wear the mantle of Resurrection Man as curse, one place where Mitch felt comfort in just existing. A few simple hours ago Mitch would have named that place Raysburg, Indiana yet now more than ever, he was again thinking about what it meant to never die. What it meant to continue being reborn time after time. What it meant for him… to never fully understand the big sleep.

Even with his resentment of letting that girl die, how he watched wishing that had been him, his weary eyes would finally close for the last time- there was more on his mind. Mitch had faced demons before, some had stomped him flat, some he’d had victory upon. But this, the cool sensation of his own greed, his own deepest wishes all circulating around him, Mitch could not let this one win. He could not let an innocent boy die with the tragedy of his love being murdered without retribution. The Shakespearian logic would be it would be an end to a beautiful love story, where a wrongly accused man dies just so he can be reunited with his lost love. But outside the Globe Theatre, in real life things weren’t so easy. Tommy was but nineteen, and if Mitch had just stepped forward, stopped the brutal slaying, then the boy would still have his girlfriend, Mitch would still have his sanity, and there would be no demons running around in this small town. Only dreams, and like Shakespeare said, “Parting with dreams is deep sorrow.”

Mitch’s footfalls clamped loudly on the moist rock, yet the rest of him was deathly silent, like a wraith whose ethereal form was there to haunt the living, to let them know the enjoyment that they took for granted. Yet Mitch was very much alive. He knew, the boy needed help, the help that only the eye witness of the killing could readily access. He wasn’t sure where to start, but it was evident that if there were to be any clues to the murder the logical place to start was where the murder took place. Time was not on his side, he’d have to move quick, stop this travesty. He could deal with his own demons in time. But demons don’t lie dormant, this had to be expected.

Norman’s Inn
Raysburg, Indiana

Usually by this time at night, the people filling the tables and bars would have made their way back home, or to the rooms upstairs leaving Stephen Norman to his own vices. That is, his own bed where he’d prepare for the next day of business, and return to his wife of forty-two years. Though with the excitement of the murder and the public hanging scheduled for the next night, the towns folk who usually found themselves with their own family by now were still at the tables, still ordering drinks, the whole atmosphere still a roar even at this time of night. Norman couldn’t believe what had happened when the first of many of his patrons ordered up a drink and announced the news. To Norman something just didn’t sit right. Sure Tommy wasn’t the brightest torch in the tool shed, but if there was one unexpected tale of the night, it had to be the thought that ole Doc Randall’s son could be capable of something so grotesque. Norman tried not to let it bother him. Served up drinks as best he could but the questions and comments kept coming.

“Look, I don’t know what to believe here usually Seamus, but we’ve all known Tommy. Can you honestly tell me he’d do something like murder? His Papa is the town’s doctor after all. Seems a little strange if ya ask me.” Norman replied to the newest person to comment on the actions of the night.

“Well it is quite strange I’ll give ya that Norman. But it’s not unlikely. Lots of times it’s the one who you don’t expect who’s gonna do the job,” the patron explained, his hand gliding through locks of oil dark hair. Seamus was one of the workers at the old mill, had lived here his whole life. Though Seamus didn’t drink out in public very often he was a known drunk. It was only last month that he’d been put into lock up himself after a bit of domestic violence.

“Well, I’d be slower to pointing fingers, Seamus. Especially when your as a guilty as is most the men in here in that suspicion. Personally, I don’t think it was Tommy who did it. But who am I, just ol’ Norman.” Norman slid a tankard towards the mill worker, hoping to still his mouth with the crystalline vision of Seamus’ refill.

“Well you could be right, Norman. But whose guilty doesn’t matter much now though does it?”

“Well I haven’t stopped believing that there are other forces at work here. Not just yet. If there’s a god and he’s like he’s supposed to be in the Good Book . . . well there is no doubt, that Tommy will not be hung tomorrow.”

Caretaker’s Cabin
The Raysburg Cemetery

Earl hadn’t noticed anyone come through the cemetery gates. The Caretaker of the Raysburg Cemetery was in fact in his study reading the real life accounts of the immortal man, Dorian Gray. Gray was a figure that Earl respected and admired. Like his father and his grandfather and all those before him, he had to live his life burying the dead until he himself was buried. Many times the caretaker thought about this twist of fate and the books of the fabled immortal man who was cursed to live forever or until his eyes finally laid on a painting, and reversed the spell. There was more to it than just that, as the story goes on, Gray was also one of the members of the League of Extraordinary Gentleman led by another of Earl’s idols Allan Quatermain.* Though, like all the members of this so called league, it was merely a story. None of it was ever proven. But one thing was true, Dorian Gray did live, and die, but he lived a long life and one that was filled with many adventures, and he too was finally put to rest. When his time finally came he embraced death. Dorian Gray in Earl’s eyes was a fitting story for his life.

[[*check out the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen by Alan Moore and Kevin O’Neil]]

“No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.”* A voice sounded out through the darkened doorway that led from the musty study. Earl’s eyes flashed from his books his body turning upwards as his pushed against the cloth covered bench he was laying on. The figure simply watched for a moment admiring the wooden shelves that lined the walls.

“Who . . . are you?” the caretaker croaked out, wisps of curly blond hair flooding over his eyes. The caretaker watched in silence for a moment. Waiting for the speaker to walk through the doorway, the caretaker knew what the speaker was quoting, yet it scared him greatly.

“Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely,"* the speaker continued as he finally stepped through the doorway. The trademark full brimmed hat, and trench coat covered Mitch Shelly. He was already getting tired of this cryptic entrance he kept doing to people. Batman would be so proud.

“All Art is quite useless,”* the caretaker finished for Mitch. The caretaker now stood up to view his visitor, sizing him up, if indeed he’d need to protect himself. But it took only a moment of thought before he recognized the silver haired man. A moment before he realized that this same man was in the cemetery only hours before. This man watched Marissa’s death just like he had.

[[*-From Oscar Wilde’s classic The Portrait of Dorian Gray]]

“You recognize me.” Mitch said gently as though he was finally starting to get a handle on his ESP powers, and the shock definitely was in his favor.

“Yes, I saw you out there, with Tommy, Marissa, and the killer,” the caretaker exclaimed as he finally stood up from his bench. Earl was shaking his eyes wide as though he was looking at the face of death.

“Settle down, Caretaker. I’m here to ask some questions. Saw you reading Dorian Gray and couldn’t help myself. It’s one of my favorites too,” Mitch informed him. “We both know that it wasn’t Tommy who killed the girl. It was not me either. It was another, and I personally can’t let the boy die, knowing he was wrongly accused.”

The caretaker did finally settle down, still shaking. Though it was not because Mitch asked him to settle down, it was because he spoke the truth. The caretaker didn’t want Tommy to be hung either. Earl wasn’t going to mention such things to this interloper. Not to this stranger who just broke into his house. “Yes I recognize you. But I don’t know much to say you’re not guilty of some crimes yourself. Don’t seem to be the innocent type.”

“No, I can’t say anyone’s ever called me innocent before. But Tommy sure as hell is.”

“So what exactly do you want Mister . . .”

“Shelly, Mitch Shelly.”

“Sounds like the name of a character in a novel,” Earl mentioned truthfully.

“Well, they do say everyone’s life is a story yet to be written. But it was a biography writer who said that.”

“So, Mr. Shelly, you plan on finding the truth? Is that it? Well I’ll tell ya I saw the whole thing, but a lick of good it’ll do ya. The man’s face was covered; mostly I couldn’t see much save for his blond hair.”

Mitch took a deep breath as he kicked aside a bit of loose paper, the same loose paper that seemed to litter most of the squalid wooden floor. Mitch could not see how anyone could live like this. It was one thing to have no choice and be forced to live in dumpsters, but to build your own dumpster out of decision, that was something else entirely. On the walls where bookshelves hadn’t been covered there were newspaper clippings of various events, the Titanic sinking, Superman saving the world, the Justice League coming together. The strangest thing about the clippings was they were all from random scattered years, and none of them were yellowed with time. None of them even looked crinkled or messed up. Unlike the rest of the place that looked as though it’d been part of a gravesite, the walls--specifically the clippings all looked fresh. “Well blond hair is a start. Can you tell me about what time the killer arrived? Or at least when you noticed him?”

“Well, despite what people may say about me Mitch, I’m not exactly a voyeur. Usually I watch only when things get too loud, or when I think some kids are going to be defacing some tombstones or something. But for some reason I was watching. I guess mainly because it was weird for some kids to be out in the graveyard during a storm. And you and the other guy, well that really just made it even more bizarre.”

“So any identifying marks of time? Any I mean before the killing?”

“No. I don’t actually keep clocks or anything around.”

“So you’re telling me that amongst this junk you don’t keep a single time piece.”

“Well I have a pocket watch but I haven’t winded it in forever.”

Mitch sighed as he watched the caretaker’s face a moment. Earl wasn’t really that old, Mitch could usually say he had a few centuries on almost anyone he met in circumspect. In reality he continually was reborn the first few millennia of his lifetime. Though Mitch knew youth when he saw it, the man’s skin was smooth but the creases that lined his face were that of worry. The real marker that gave away the man’s true age was his hair, shimmering with vitality despite its unkempt appearance. The blond shimmered like that of a new born child. “Well didn’t you tell the cops the time of death? Don’t they have to report that sort of thing?”

“Well not always, Mr. Shelly. Sometimes when the facts aren’t there the facts aren’t there. But I gave them a guess. I usually can tell time by how it looks outside. How shadows are cast, that sort of thing.”

“Well telling time that way doesn’t much help, when there’s a cast over. But I suppose time doesn’t matter. Well how about his exit? Did he head back towards the town?”

“Well that was the strange thing. There is nothing for miles, outside the city and the killer, and he headed for the woods. Ran like a bat out of hell.”

“So this guy headed for the woods. Did you tell this to the police? Did they do any tracking?”

“No I didn’t really think to mention it,” the caretaker mentioned gravely.

“That’s good. There should still be footprints. Do you remember which way he went… into the woods?”

“He went east from where the body laid. There’s an old trail that snakes back towards the hollow hills. But, look Mitch, I know your heart’s in the right place, and I like Tommy okay. But this killer is dangerous. I don’t much think I can live with more deaths on my hands. One is enough.”

“Well first off, you shouldn’t blame yourself for the murder of Marissa. Secondly, me and Dorian Gray have a bit in common.” Mitch didn’t wait for him to say anything else on the subject. Time was not a virtue he had. Mitch couldn’t take his own advice and not blame himself for the murder. For the fact of the matter is if he stepped in, the killer couldn’t have taken anything from him. Death was not a forfeit for him. Mitch felt all this mess was his fault, and he had to make things right. Even when deep down he knew he envied Marissa- still did.

Cell B
Raysburg Sheriff’s Office

Thomas Randall had been in big trouble before, but nothing like this. Tommy had even gotten in trouble for things he’d not done, but never was the penalty like that he was looking at now. Strangely he wasn’t sure how his whole life could come to a screeching halt like it suddenly had. Yet somewhere deep in his mind he was ready for it. Ready for what ever was coming; ready to see Marissa again. The sight of her lying bloody on that grassy ground, his thoughts of her never telling him she loved him. Tommy felt his heart beat furiously against his chest. The boy brought his legs up against his chest his hands clasping across his knees as he closed his eyes rocking himself endlessly trying to calm himself.

The silence was deafening; each thought loomed overhead like thousands of cattle all running forward and shaking his body still. Yet with his death looming over his head; a death that got sooner with each fleeting moment; he could not think of himself. Tommy’s mind was engulfed with the thoughts of her. With the thoughts of Marissa and the blood that was cool over his hands. Even after being cleaned, he could still feel it. The thoughts of her heartbeat gone forever was painful to bear. Tommy wanted to cry, wanted to find a way to make it all better. But all Tommy received was a break in the silence.

“I told you,” came the graveled voice that was all too familiar to the boy. Tommy’s head whipped around to see that same skull he was speaking to in his father’s briefcase. This time it was sitting on the floor, tucked against the wall.

“You . . . Hooker!” Tommy exclaimed but quickly covered his mouth so that the deputy wouldn’t think he was losing his mind again. Though in the realization that this was the second time this skull had appeared before him . . . Tommy considered the realization that he could be losing his mind. That maybe he did kill Marissa.

“Oh, so you remember me. Well that’s good. But I think with a face like mine it’s hard to really forget me, huh?”

“Look, if you’re some sort of perverted vision of my own insanity then I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want any of this. Damn it.” Tommy shook his head feeling the burn in his eyes from the coming of tears.

“Now hold on champ, who said I was a vision of anything? You aren’t hallucinating and ya ain’t insane. See the funny thing about insanity is that if ya question yer sanity, then that means you’re perfectly fine. Least that’s what I always heard.”

“Okay, so if you’re not a hallucination, then that means I’m talking to a skull who feels like he’s in my head.”

“And Vanna tell the boy what he’s won!” This was followed by a garble of what could only be considered as laughter. “No what I told you was the truth the whole moon thing, and how I can’t die so I’m stuck as a skull.* Trust me I ain’t pulling your chain here. But you did put the right things in place for me to succeed. So I thank you for that. Not that you really had any chance in not doing it.”

[[*as dictated last issue]]

“What do you mean?” Tommy asked.

“I mean you loved Marissa, and of course you’d run to her aid and be caught with your hands dipped in blood. Oh love has so many sad tragedies doesn’t it kid?”

“So you’re saying that you think I’m innocent too?”

“Look, you’re just part of the over all plan.”

“Over all plan? What are your talking about?”

“Mitch Shelly, me, you, Marissa, the killer . . . it’s all just a piece of what is truly wanted in the end. It’s all designed to put the right pieces in the right places, so that we can make amends for the devil’s own ends. It’s the way things have to be. You’re just a piece of it. Supposed to make the other pieces think of making a move. It’s all about circumstance.”

9:00am
Main Assembly Room
Raysburg Sheriff’s Office

The Town hall for a small town like Raysburg, is a multi-functioning complex, and the Main Assembly Room is a room attached to the Sheriff’s main offices, where the prominent members of the Town go to discuss orders the town needs to discuss. Usually these things happened in the afternoon, after work had been completed in the mills, and in the fields. But, this order was scheduled last minute, and most of the town folks wanted to get closure on the matter at hand. For by the time afternoon had come the town would be readying for a public hanging. So the dusty filled room, lined with chairs and a podium was opened to the public earlier than usual. The subject at hand, was one that most of the town had been a buzz about into the early morning, and even now they couldn’t quit speaking on it.

Nick Bryant, was the town mayor, and though he usually didn’t hear about rumors until the following morning, he had a call from the police station late last night to identify the body of his daughter, Marissa who’d been stabbed to death. The explanation was that the son of the town doctor, Thomas had conducted the murder. The mayor was in no position to deal with this so soon after he had heard the news. Mayor Bryant knew Thomas was a trouble maker, knew that he was no good and definitely not the kind of man that his daughter should be with. But this news . . . this didn’t make a lot of sense to him. Unlike most of the town, he wasn’t sure of the allegations. But with the proof as he was given it, the court hearing would have to happen as planned. Three hours from now, and at the strike of midnight, he would see Thomas Randall put to death... and finally he could let his daughter be buried.

“No Man should have to bury his children,” the mayor began not quite sure if that was the best opening line, but it’d have to do. As his voice bounced from wall to wall of the dusty room, all the talk about what happened only six hours ago went still. Everyone was looking at the mayor, a man who was trying hard not to shed tears. “It is unfair we have to live in a world where, even a small town such as ours is riddled with violence, especially that of this nature. I do want you all to have both my family, and the family of Doctor Randall in your prayers. For it is no doubt that there will be two deaths, of two young members of our town being ended tonight, both by the outrageous hand of greed and misconduct. Of course I speak of my daughter Marissa Bryant, and that of Thomas Randall.” The Mayor took a moment to bring up his hand, dotting his eyes of the tears that were glazing down his cheeks. “I know many of you want retribution for the act. You want it quickly administered, and I agree with you. I wish to finish this as quickly as possible. The public execution has been planned already, as there is little doubt that Thomas Randall will be found guilty--with all the fingers of blame already surrounding our fair city. In three hours time, at Twelve p.m., I ask all of you to join me in the town’s court for the hearing, to give me strength and to give strength to the other families who have been plagued with this . . . most disturbing outcome. But even with the doubt of who truly is guilty; please do not labor over finger pointing. Instead I ask you to keep an open mind. For there were two others in the cemetery that night, and they too are being looked for as we speak. God speed to the sheriff and his deputies in finding this Mitch Shelly, and the other man whom was last seen going into the woods east of the cemetery.”

The Eastern Trail
Raysburg Forest

Mitch had been lucky that much of the footprints were deep covering most of the trail. The caretaker was right, the killer must have been running fast, to make the footprints so deep. Mitch had been following the prints for a good hour or two, not particularly wondering how someone could run so fast for so long. Mainly Mitch was trying to get his demons out of his head.

Though as he walked in silence, he had no idea there were forms following him. The silence of those watching him was a bit too hard to denote, when he himself was focused on following the trail. That was until a simple snap of a twig alerted the Resurrection Man to those that were behind him. Turning his head quickly his eyes glowed bright and blue as small creatures loomed in the great branches of trees all around him. Mitch growled as he bent down to scoop up a rock into his hand. Watching them still he targeted one of the forms and threw the rock. “Is it all a big joke?” he asked. “Life and death, does it matter?” Mitch screamed out as the rock pegged one of the silhouettes.

Even as the silhouette plummeted from the tree, more of the strange creatures began to come into view leaping off trees, hundreds of small creatures landing around Mitch, the like he’d never seen before. The creatures were barely that of human shape, with large heads, and cream yellow bodies. Their skin gleamed with some shiny sort of oil. Mitch hadn’t the time to look or analyze them though, as the creatures began to leap towards him- large thick claws pointing towards him. Mouths screaming undecipherable words filled with teeth that looked more like broken glass.

“This is madness!” Mitch began as his fists closed hitting skulls closest to him. The small creatures began to repel as his fists struck the hard skulls, knuckles burning. Though as many as he struck many others raked claws across his flesh. His skin was soon tortured and bleeding. There was little he could do against this threat. His forearm thrashed forwards volleying more of the creatures from him. But, as he cleared more of the creatures away, double the number sprung on him. Mitch had fought many things in his time, and among those things he’d fought the impossible, men who could heal with every hit, and of course those who were immortal like he was... but he had a more useful power. Mitch fisted his knuckles up as he swung at another lot of them, his body craning upwards, fingers stretching, looking for the sky as the yellow skinned goblins were flung free. It was as Mitch brought his body up did his ears pick up the sound of a gunshot but it was much too late to react, as the bullet drilled right into his head. The Resurrection Man felt the shell collide into his skull. The burning sensation of the shell splitting his skull was only an instant sensation as he felt the world suddenly dissolve like he’d closed his eyes.

The form of Mitch Shelly fell hard onto the soiled ground in a thud. The masked gunner held his gun upwards as vapors of smoke streaked from the barrel. The Goblins began to hop away from the fallen Resurrection Man, small hands and feet padding out of the blood that jelled around his body. The gunner let a silently slick smile form over his lips, blue piercing eyes watching the still body even as the blood continued to flow from his wounds.

To be concluded…

NEXT ISSUE: The finale of No Escape is finally here, and all the questions will be answered. Why Mitch found himself in this strange town? Who the strange voice dictating all the actions is? And of course more Hooker!

  Story © 2003-04 Jae Lizhini  and may not be reproduced without permission