The Dead Men
At times I could get a little cruel. I don’t mean it. I never do. Mama, I hope you are now proud of me. Are you proud of the things I’ve done? Through every slap that you hit my heart with, you told me to never let myself be seen.
I’m not seen anymore. I created this shell like a roach. A scary thing to others. A strong to some. But the thing is Mama…
They’re like glass. Delicate. (Nov. 2017.)
Marc wished he didn’t know you so well. He wished he didn’t understand why you hid things from him, why you lied, why you hurt people. He knew that behind that shell was just another frightened little girl, afraid to survive.
He wish he didn’t know. It would’ve made everything so much easier.
Alas, he did. He knew it all. He knew that with every strike of your knife, your pistol, it came with a determination to see them helpless on the floor with blood tainted across your body.
He accepted that darkness in you. It grew from his love and empathy towards you. If he didn’t know the spiral you’ve gone through after your IED attack, you know he would hold distance from you from the start.
But he knew the trauma you went through. You knew his. And now you two were like reflections, staring back at each other with lost and vulnerable eyes.
The thing about that said love, however? Everything bad starts with love.
Walking into your flat, you were immediately greeted with embarrassment to have an unexpected guest step forward into the mess that you called your home. Inside there were pilled bottles of alcohol, clothes with splattered blood, and your mirrors, every single one of them, covered.
“Sorry about the mess,” you breathed out, tip-toeing your way around the mess. “Didn’t expect to have anyone in here today.”
Or ever, you said to yourself.
Truth be told, like it wasn’t obvious, your paranoia has made it hard to get out. Trust issues, too. So those two colliding against each other just made it into one huge problem. One that you couldn’t manage to pull yourself out of by yourself.
But Marc was more than understanding as he responded, “Don’t worry about it.”
From the few years that you’ve spent with him in the military, you didn’t learn much about him. He would tell you stories, lessons, fables — from Egypt, really — but he would never tell you about him directly. And now that you are recalling it to yourself, maybe there was a reason for his ‘niceness’ as to why he was always so understanding and kind.
As much as you would like to believe it came from the goodness of his heart, it didn’t make sense. Marc is known to be a dangerous man. He’s done things that even scare you. So, it couldn’t be possible that that man, the same man who has shown you more adoration and kindness than anyone ever, is the same man who people are afraid of.
That kindness, comes from what he has lacked back home, was your conclusion.
Moving your hair out of the way, you move your hands across the drawers near your bed. Finally reaching the bottom, you pulled out some clothes for your guest and you throw them to him. “You should probably get changed. There’s blood all over you.” You said, walking away to the kitchen.
Marc was almost in a trance, staring at your living situation. It was bad. Horrifying. All those empty bottles just shoved into a corner. Your pantry, open and empty. Dishes dirty and scattered from the table to the floor.
‘Do you think there’s a reason why all the mirrors are covered?’He heard Steven question, spotting him in a half-covered mirror. His expression was scared, to say the least.
The two of them wanted to brush it off, but Steven being Steven, was always left to worry.
“She’s paranoid, Steven,” Marc replied. “It takes a lot out of you.” Saying those words, he quickly realized that Steven was too familiar with that. With being left in the dark, thinking that he was being followed, watched, left in the dark of everything and anything as he would, for years, wake up to ‘nightmares’.
‘Right.’ The poor reflection nodded, slightly backing away. ‘I just worry.’
“Me too.” he whispered back to him, mostly towards himself.
Bringing him into your bathroom, you opened the curtain, showing him the shampoo and soap he could use, as well as the loofahs and other essentials if needed. Before you walked again to leave him bathing in peace, he softly grabbed your arm and thanked you.
You smiled. “Meet at the balcony when you’re done, yeah?” Marc replied with a soft ‘yes’ before closing the door and locking it.
Stepping out of the bathroom, he yanked the white shirt on before spotting you already outside. Slowly, he came to a stop. He didn’t know why, but he felt like something was off. But he couldn’t put a pin as to what was causing his random anxiety. Taking a brief look around, he thought it was best to savour this moment of relaxation before all hell was about to break loose.
Closing the door behind him, Marc was met with a cool breeze of air flowing through the streets of London. Night came, leaving only limited lights to shine bright.
On the balcony, he spotted you offering him a cigarette. “Want one?” He hasn’t smoked in a while. And by a while, he means since the last time he has seen you. The two of you always used to smoke before heading to sleep. A memory like that he wanted to bury deep inside his mind.
“I don’t smoke anymore,” he answered.
Blinking away, you responded, “Bummer.”
The silence of the streets was a kind gesture for the world to give you tonight. Most nights it wouldn’t be like this. They would be loud, unbearable.
Marc knew that something inside you wasn’t right. It wasn’t just simple paranoia of your past catching up to you. No. It was greater than that. And knowing Bushman, plus the fact that you worked with him (or maybe you didn’t have a choice, he’s made you do…terrible things).
By your body language, even Steven could’ve concluded the things you’ve been through since the last time you’ve seen Marc.
Sighing, Marc looked away from you for a minute. He shouldn’t have ever left you. It’s all his fault. If he didn’t leave, if he wasn’t so selfish, maybe none of this would’ve happened. Maybe not one of you would have carried the burden of what happened.
‘It’s not your fault, Marc,’ Steven spoke up, attempting to reassure his alter that maybe this was just inevitable.
It’s my fault, he kept thinking.
‘It’s not your fault.’
His fault. Fuck, it’s all his fault.
‘It’s not.’
His fault. His fault. His-
“Do you ever get that feeling that someone is in your head?”
Your question drove him out of his drowning guilt. Thankfully, if he was honest. One more second and he would’ve just considered ending this entire madness of a plan.
Furrowing his brows, he knew exactly what you were asking. What he didn’t know was why? Did he do something? Shit, was it that noticeable.
Trying to dismiss his obvious guilt in why you were asking, he thought it was rather best if he said, “What?”
Dropping your head to your shoulder, you smirked at him, knowing that he was trying to act stupid. But you knew him so well. Great, just what I need. For someone to know him so well that if you needed something out of him, you would always be able to get it out of him.
One of the upsides for you. A downside for him.
“I know you feel it. I’ve seen you.” Marc cursed at himself. “Talking to yourself at random times. Even before you know you...”
By the end of your sentence now it was you looking away from him. Jesus, the two of you had some sort of opened wounds that weren’t fully disclosed from your time together. Words left unsaid despite the two of you being here together, alive.
“What you’re asking me is not an easy thing to explain.” Marc breathed out.
“It never is.”
He knew that he had to tell you at some point. Alas, he never thought it would be when death was waiting to put a bullet inside your head.
But alright. You deserve it, either way.
So deep breaths, Marc. Deep breaths.
“My mom she…used to blame me a lot after my brother died. She would always say ‘It’s your fault.’ Those words never left my head.”
Marc knew that this story would break hearts into two. His own heart felt it every time his mother, his own mother, screamed at him, yelled at him, dragged him down into the low level that she felt.
Oh, how his own heart ached every time he thought of her. Because of her, because of what did she, he couldn’t escape her. Ever. Just as he couldn’t escape from Bushman, or even you.
“She left a psychological scar on me. Because of that, I have several…shit. I don’t how to say it.” He looked away from you for a moment, filled with embarrassment as he was showing you a vulnerable side of himself.
“By psychological scar you mean PTSD?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“More than that. It’s like suppressing all that trauma into one person, it tears them apart. Like a mirror shattering almost but in someone’s mind.”
“To different personalities?”
“To different alters.” he corrected.
Oh.
You didn’t know what to say next. No matter how much you have heard people say what they had to go through, you were never the expert on how to comfort another person. You didn’t even know how to properly cope and comfort yourself.
So, in a way, although your mind was racing with thoughts and confusion, you tried your best to push those aside.
“What’s their names?”
He blinked, then looked at you. As almost as if no one has ever questioned him about them. You suppose maybe that was correct. His words sounded like they were dying to come out. Like a breath of fresh air, Marc would describe it.
“Steven. Steven Grant.”
You slightly smiled, nodding at him.
“There’s another. Jake. But he- he rarely shows up.”
In a way to comfort him you scooted over a few steps closer to him, nudging him playfully. “Well, then. I hope to meet them.”
“All of them.”
He could only smile back. His heart was filled with a warm, sentimental feeling that he hasn’t felt in so long. Of course, it only took you to make that feeling come out of him.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Though all of these lovely and freeing feelings were shining though like the moonlight of the moon, all good things have to come to an end. Which mean:
“I guess we should address the elephant in the room. Bushman.”
His body tensed as soon as you mentioned his name. You couldn’t help but feel so guilty. It was so selfish that you dragged him into this. “I'm sorry, Marc. I basically just sentenced you to death the moment I slipped his name out.”
No, he thought. “Don’t apologize. I came up to you.”
“And do you regret it?”
Your guilt and self-hatred were so transparent. He could see it so clearly. And he didn’t want that. You didn’t deserve it. Anything of it.
Taking your hand into his, he rubbed circles over your thumb. “For you, I’d go back. For you, I’d give all of my peace up if it meant that you get what you deserve. Justice and comfort included.
A shuddered breath escaped your chapped lips at this point. His words were so endearing. It made you just feel so afraid but at the same time just so safe.
Bringing his other hand to your face, you flinch slightly. Freezing for a moment, Marc slowly wiped away your warm tears. “This game that he plays, it’s a hard one to get out of. And you deserve to get out of it.”
Nodding frantically, you shut your eyes. It took a long moment of silence for your to take it all in. And before you knew it, you were pushing him away and moving back inside.
“We should try and get some sleep”
Before you could go inside the door, he held your arm, making you come to a stop. Blinking a few times at his sudden action you eventually found your eyes staring into his.
“We’re going to get out of this,” he whispered. You knew he meant it — he means everything he says.
“I know.” You replied to him before heading back in.
You don’t know how stupid you could be. You let your guard down thinking you were safe and the moment they saw that, they took it to their advantage.
In your slumber the smell was distant. But as seconds passed it got stronger until you slowly began to wake up. Fully acknowledging the threat; your eyes widen in fear, turning to your side as you shook Marc awake from his own slumber.
“Marc?” As you shook him up, your eyes darted around for the source of the smell. And when your eyes looked over to your front door, you noticed it coming in from the gaps.
Practically jumping out of bed, you dragged Marc to which he immediately woke up, jostled by your sudden behaviour. Before he knew it his face was met with dark smoke that began to surround the room. The smell was horrifying, suffocating. “Shit. Shit!” He screamed out.
Hearing a faint unlock, you called out for him in the pure darkness. “Marc!” Hearing no response, you race back to the side of the bed you had dragged him from, hoping he was still exactly there. And to your gratitude, he was. Taking him by the hand, you have never ran so fast in your life.
The entire building was set on fire and the smoke was just the beginning as the ceiling began to crumble down. Women and men were going into every flat, screaming out the words, “Get everyone out of here. Now!”
Full panic has erupted inside you. How could you be so stupid? If you had time to bash your head into a wall for how stupid you were, you would. Seeing and hearing children cry, you couldn’t help but feel so guilty at the sounds. So in your guilt, you key go of Marc’s hand and raced to help those you could.
Running down from where you came from, you began at the end of the hall, busting the door open and sprinting inside. Through the cry of the fire and children, Marc could hear your voice, yelling “Go!” to those who were trapped there.
From there a woman, still in her work clothes in the dead of night, running past Marc and to the stairs carrying two children. Two innocent children.
Running past doors, haunting screams left and right, there was one so loud and so clear. Through all the noise, this one scream called out to your particular.
“Help!” A little girl screamed. “Mama!”
You froze in place, trying to ultimately decide if you had the strength and courage to go find the little girl. The thing is, it was a huge sacrifice. Either the two of you could make it out alive, or the two of you would die in each other's arms.
But you didn’t care. Maybe you couldn’t save this girl…
“Come on!” You heard Marc’s voice behind you. So close but so far away.
Should I? Should I?
Before you were about to hold Marc’s hand, you made your decision.
So you ran. You ran as fast as you could to reach the cry for help. “No. No!” He yelled behind you. Your heart began to beat out of your chest to this point. Maybe your subconscious was right. Maybe you couldn’t save this girl… But again, maybe you could.
You don’t know what was going on inside your mind. You didn’t even think you had actual thoughts fleeting through your head. They were all dragged into nothing. All of your attention was on saving the girl.
You had to. For all you’ve done maybe this can prove to others, to yourself, that you weren’t evil, that you weren’t a monster but that you were good.
That’s all you wanted.
Breaking down a door, you made it inside the burning apartment. Inside, there were so many screams and cries. Of her.
“Hello!” You cried out through the raging fires. Almost immediately you began coughing, feeling your lungs get filled with the dark smoke. Covering your mouth, you ran frantically around the home, continuously calling out.
No one was answering. For a second you thought you were too late. But then you heard her again. “Mamá! Mamá!”
Oh, my God. You sprinted to her. Seeing the walls come crumbling down, you found the small girl hiding in the corner, hugging tightly her bunny stuffed animal, seeing its white fabric turning black.
Without wasting another second, you began to reach to pick her up until the wall behind her fell.
No.
You didn’t care whether the fire began to attack you. You didn’t care that your clothes were beginning to catch on fire, all that mattered was finding her under all of this ruble, under all of this that was all of your-
Marc pulled you back from the fire, yanking and pushing you through the hallway and down the stairs as you, through it all, you screamed like a madman, throwing your hands up, trying to at least get out of his grasp so you can save the little girl you have abandoned.
She didn’t make it.
But the two of you did.
By the time you two had made it out the building had smelt of smoke, people were crying around you, coughing their lungs out. It wasn’t a pretty scene. Marc had looked around for a moment, catching glances of parents and small children, he couldn’t help but feel rather guilty himself.
The thing is, if he felt guilty imagine how you felt.
On your knees, you stared down at the concrete floor, a few sniffles coming out of you. Digging your nails into your palm, you gritted your teeth.
“Hey, you’re okay. That’s all that matters.” Marc said, putting a hand on your shoulder.
No. It wasn’t all that mattered. Because of you, people’s homes are now gone. Because of you, that little girl is-
You making it out was far from okay.
“The moment I get them they’re as good as dead!” You screamed out, your voice echoing around you inside the empty warehouse.
You didn’t care if the entire world awakened to your shouts of frustration, no one could ever understand the anger and pain that you were feeling knowing that you can never be free.
You knew the chances of actually being away from all of this were slim, but you were just so tired. So, so tired of hearing voices, of seeing people, of feeling like your mind and body weren’t your own.
With your anger radiating off of you, bubbling inside of you, you couldn’t help but throw the first object you could find. As soon as the object shattered, you dragged down the palm of your hands across your face, biting to cheek.
“You can’t be serious.” You heard Marc say behind you.
Scoffing, you shook your head. He doesn’t understand, you thought. He could never understand.
Taking in a deep breath, you allowed your hands to fall into place as you turned around to look at him with a disgusted face. “Ever since I’ve been with them my life has been a living nightmare.” You breathed out. “I can’t take it anymore.”
Marc didn’t like where this was going. And to be honest, neither did you.
There were two parts of you: the one who was full of forgiveness. The one who was filled with warmth and love. That side of you could easily retain your urges and somehow find peace and comfort in all of this.
But that part of you wasn’t in control anymore. Right now you only wanted to see blood — Bushman’s blood draped across your skin. You wanted to hear his screams and cries, a reflection of what you felt under him.
And Marc could see your thirst for that. It was clear as day. So it was stupid enough to ask the question when the answer was that clear. “You want to find him?” he asked.
“And I want to kill him.”
His mouth was left agape. He shook his head in disbelief.
“You almost died in that fire.” He said.
“Because others did!”
“That wasn’t your fault! You didn’t-“
“Because of me, because of what I did, and because I decided on my own, others are now dead! Mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters are buried in their graves because of me!”
It was unbelievable. He only wanted peace for you. Not to drown yourself because of the dying guilt you felt.
“Every word he has put in my head has molded me. Everything, every single he did to me…” Lowering your head in embarrassment, tears began to weld in your eyes.
Memories you had of there were buried for a reason.
But with one deep breath, you pulled yourself together despite the fighting urge to just scream and cry until they became deafening. “No more, Marc.”
He could only frown.
“I’m done letting this suffocate others.”
“So, what’s your plan?” Marc asked.
“I have connections,” You replied. “Not everyone is in favour of Bushman. Some of them want his power, some want him in a jail cell, most of them want him dead.”
Walking into another pub, jazz music began playing gently against your ear. You weren’t too fond of it, but it’d make do.
You would mostly try to avoid this place at all costs knowing the risk and cost, but frankly, you didn’t care anymore. Too much has been taken away from you to not be doing anything anymore.
For all the mothers and daughters, for all the fathers and sons, to all of them who your actions have caused despair, this was for them. You didn’t care if they forgave you, you were done hiding.
Marc stayed behind you, vigilant as he looked left and right. In your minds, all eyes were on you, but to be honest, not many were.
The only eyes on the two of you were hidden ones. Ones that neither of you could see. Ones that you should’ve made notice of.
“You already know that no one is giving up him,” Marc says, underestimating that you could actually get something. Or maybe he was just scared and wanted to get out. If your body wasn’t filled with rage you too would want to step out of here as soon as you can.
Alas, your body was filled with rage.
“I’ll get it out of them,” you reply. “Come on.”
“Y’sure this one won’t get shot up like the other one?”
You roll your eyes. Making it to the bartender, you spotted your eyes on an old man, about sixty years old pouring out drinks horizontally into shots. Smiling softly, you look back to Marc, gesturing for him to stay in place.
He nodded. You nodded back.
Walking up to the old man, as soon as the two of you meet each other’s gaze his eyes widen.
“Gerland, so good to see you,” you smirked. “Vodka with a cherry on the side, please.”
His eyes looked left and right before going closer to you. “You know you shouldn’t be here,” he warned.
“A vodka. Cherry on the side.” You demanded.
You weren’t moving, not even one bit. To that, he took notice that you weren’t going to take no for an answer. So he sighed, rolling his eyes before turning his back to you for a moment.
After a minute he turned back to you, slipping your drink, nice and cold, with a napkin on the bottom. You could feel Marc looking at you with annoyance. He didn’t come here for you to get drunk again.
Taking a large sip of your drink, you dried up your wet lips with the napkin before turning it around, seeing a name written in Sharpie.
“Thank you,” was all you said before walking back over to Marc, hitting him on the chest with the napkin. He took it into his hands and carefully looked down on it to see the name.
Hm.
The cold wind of January hit your face when you got out. Behind you came out Marc, holding up the napkin.
“June Miller,” you informed him. “Former marine, former mercenary. He knows exactly where Bushman is.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I’ve worked with him,” you replied. Spotting June far into the parking lot, you clenched your hands together, feeling your heart race.
Breathing deeply, you told Marc, “I’ve got this. I’ll be back, okay? Just don’t be seen,” and began to walk towards him.
Hearing his laughter fill your ears, you didn’t know who was in control of your body anymore. As you got closer to him, you took a quick turn, pretending that you didn’t want to bump into him.
June took notice of that and immediately recognized you. The dark, tall man quickly departed himself from his friends and began to catch up to you in an alleyway a few blocks from the bar.
Leaving Marc behind, he couldn’t help but feel anxiety rising inside of him.
‘This isn’t right, Marc.’ said his alter.
He was right. This didn’t feel right.
Heading into the dark alleyway, you walked faster until you stopped, seeing a dead end. “Hey!” you heard him call out, loud and clear.
“Miller! So good to see you.”
“You aren’t supposed to be here.”
You laugh. “You know what I’m here for.”
“You’d think I’d betray him to you? Out of all people?” He came closer to you, staying in place only for a moment before pushing you into the brick wall and slamming your body against it.
Groaning, your mind felt dizzy. And in an attempt to calm yourself, it was quickly taken away from you when he gripped your face. “Don’t forget where you came from.” he spat. “And where you’ll end up.”
Dragging his finger down your neck, he brushed your hair, interlocking his fingers across your hair before yanking it. “You’re special, remember?”
‘You’re special.’
You didn’t know what happened. One moment you were under his grasp, powerless, and you hated it. But the next, you kicked your knee hard in between his leg.
He screamed out, holding his crotch in pain. Panting, he looked up to you, “You bitch.”
“Guess he’ll be happy when he sees me bringing you back,” he said.
Shaking your head, you took out your knife from your pocket, holding it up for him to see. “I’m not going back.”
Running to him, you pushed the knife deep inside the flesh of his arm. Twisting it, he pushed you back onto the concrete floor. Hitting your head, you applied pressure, trying your hardest to get up.
Not feeling your knife in your hand, you flipped to your stomach to see it a few feet away from you. Crawling, you were about to reach it. You were so close. All until his leg pushed your back down, holding you in place.
“Fuck!” you screamed out. Inhaling through your nose, you stretched your hand out to grab it, but it was no use, it was too far.
You wanted to fight him, kill him, anything to not feel his body close to yours. You hated it.
“Time to go home, don’t you think?”
Gritting your teeth, you grabbed his leg and quickly pushed to your side with all of the strength you had in yourself. It was enough to send him falling to his side. And it was enough to make you free.
And with it, you used the rest of your strength, and all of your anger, your hatred, your guilt — all of it, and you went straight at him.
Wasting no time, you threw a punch, and another and another. Despite your exhaustion, you didn’t care how many times you hit him, whether he was still alive or even dead, you wanted to see red.
Blood was splattered across his face, around yours too. Your hands, at this point, were turned bloody and beginning to be bruised.
It was all until you felt hands once again, pulling you back.
Stumbling, you threw yourself out of them only to see Marc. He looked scared. Like he had never seen so much hatred inside a person. Like you weren’t even you.
Wiping away blood from your face, you looked down at June, unconscious but miraculously still breathing. Breathing deeply, you closed your eyes for a second.
Marc felt so useful, he couldn’t help it. It was like he was only a bystander in this story of your revenge. He knew it was selfish, but he didn’t want you to go through this alone. That’s why he agreed to help you. But in tiene yes, you didn’t even notice it.
You would wish you did.
“Come on,” you said, gesturing for him to help you pick him up.
“Are you always going to be this reckless?” he asked. You didn’t even try to look at him. You could feel his anger at you, it was radiating off of him.
Your silence didn’t help whatsoever. Taking a step close to you, he reminded you, “Remember we have to-“
“I know!” you cut him off. “It’s just…” you prayed that you could finally find the words that rightfully fitted this suffocating feeling of pain that you felt inside of you. But it was no use. There was no single word that could describe it all.
“Just?”
Shaking your head, you returned to pick up June’s body from the ground. “Never mind.” You said. “Let’s go back. We have what we need.”
The life that you chose was not an easy thing. To decide to go into it was the equality of deciding to commit suicide right then there. You’d had to be insane or willing to die to say yes to a man like Bushman.
And after that…he could be identified as death himself.
Pushing against doors, a man rapidly stepped into a room. It was dark, to say the least, but the hint smell of decaying bodies overwhelmed the poor man easily. It was an infuriating smell. Jesus, it was awful — blood was splattered across some parts, mostly towards the corners as some skulls were hung up.
Bushman was hidden in his office, looking down at a piece of paper you have written on. He found it shortly after you have escaped him. Your room was filled with these pieces of paper; written from 2017 to now — a total of eight years.
“Boss!” The man yelled out, no sight of the big man. Easily, this was a small sight to be relived, knowing how much his boss hated being interrupted.
Frowning slightly, he only paid attention to the crackling fire that mixed in with the aroma of the decaying bodies. Together it smelled rancid.
Looking around, he called out again, “Boss?”
Putting his guard down, the man was met with a knife lunging straight at him. Missed by just a strand of hair, the knife plunged itself into the wooden walls.
“Fuck!” He screamed out, covering his face as if it was even actually coming to him in the first place. No, Bushman loved the element of surprise. This an important detail everyone who worked for him should process and not let it brush over their heads.
The scared man came to face with him as he figuratively but legitimately came out of the shadows. His face was painted across with white, red dripping down with some parts.
As Bushman walked over, he was looking down, smiling at his knife. See, it was his favourite. You’re not a true psychopath if you don’t have a favourite knife. But that one held memories dear to him and his work. And if he was honest, the true memory it held to be seen as his favourite was because it was used to rightfully show his power to his traitors.
“Don’t you know to not come into people’s rooms without permission?” He asked, sighting the man in front of him who was shaking.
“He’s here, sir. The man.”
Looking up at his proud collection of human skulls, he stayed staring at the bear's face while he asked, “Which man?”
The man was almost too hesitant to answer. Bushman believed it would just be another simple setback. What he didn't anticipate were the next words that would come out of his mouth: “From the tomb raid. He’s back.”
From there, the man would regret being the one to come to him with the news as the knife was thrown deep into his chest. Without another second passing, blood-drenched his shirt, sending him to fall onto his knees before collapsing onto the floor completely.
Breathing deeply, he brought his hand to his chest, seeing his boss walk towards him ever so slowly, an ominous look in his wide eyes.
“From the dead?”