Eadglis adopts a stray, or rather a student.

by Dana Short

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It was close to 6:00pm when they finally reached the outskirts of Memphis.

Eadgils was ready to drop off Patrick, fill up the gas tank, and push on. He still had half of Tennessee, and all of Arkansas to cross, almost 300 miles to go to reach Dora, where he planned to stop for the night. If he got moving again right away, he would make it sometime between ten and eleven that evening. A bit ahead of schedule actually, despite the late start.

Patrick gave Eadgils directions to his uncle's house. Pulling up out front, he watched as Patrick got out of the car, and walk up the driveway towards the house.

As he put the car back in gear to start his search for a gas station, a bathroom, and a bit of fast food to eat on the road, a police car came screeching around the corner, lights flashing, and siren howling. Eadgils pulled the car over to the side to let the police have the right of way on the residential street. The first car was followed by a second, as the first swept past Eadgils, only to screech to a halt in front of Patrick's Uncle's house.

Eadgils shut off the engine even as the second car blew past him, its brakes screeching.

The cops in the first car had gotten out, and were shouting something at Patrick, who stood on the driveway, holding his suitcase in his hand.

The police yelled something else, and Patrick with a dumfounded look on his face lifted his arms up away from his body, even as the second car screeched to a stop, and opened its doors.

The officers from the first car had drawn their guns, and were still yelling at Patrick. It was at that point the remnant of the handle on Patrick's suitcase decided to finish the escape it had begun in the Arby's parking lot. Patrick's hand and arm jerked, as the suitcase started to fall towards the driveway. At the sudden motion, one of the cops pulled his trigger. Patrick followed his suitcase to the driveway, a shocked expression on his face as bright red arterial blood spurted into the evening sunlight from a gash in the side of his neck.

"DAMNIT!" Eadgils yelled in his car. Even from this distance, he knew Patrick had no chance. The bullet squeezed off by the spooked cop must have clipped his carotid artery. He would bleed to death before anything could be done.

Eadgils could now hear one of the officers from the second car yelling at the ones from the second, while the other one ran to Patrick's prone form where it lay on the concrete, blood pooling and running into the grass.

The front door of Patrick's uncle's house opened, and three people came out onto the porch, and looked on in wonder at the scene unfolding before their house.

One of the women seemed to recognize Patrick, and with a scream, ran off the porch and over to the officer who was kneeling over the body, speaking into his radio. The officer dropped his radio to land in the pool of blood, and turned his efforts to restraining the woman who was trying to reach the body.

As Eadgils opened the door and climbed out of his car, he could hear the officer from the second car saying "Maple street, not Walnut! And what were you thinking drawing your weapons!"

"I told him to stop and drop the box, he just turned around and looked at me, then when Paul said to raise his arms, he did so, but he still had that darn bag in his hands. I'm sure Paul didn't intend to shoot him, but heck, even I jumped a bit when he jerked and dropped the bag. He could have been going for a weapon. We knew he was armed!"

"No, you idiot, the perp over on MAPLE is armed. This poor SOB, ah screw it. Talk to I.A.D., I quit." The officer said, turning to start securing the area.

The second cop from the first car, the one who had shot Patrick, now stood in front of what Eadgils took to be Patrick's uncle, trying to explain how he came to shoot the man's nephew.

Regardless of the fates of the officers, Eadgils knew he wasn't going to make it to Doris that night. He would be in Memphis for at least this evening. He would need to find a hotel.

An Ambulance silently pulled in from the far end of the street as Eadgils stood off to the side of the crowd which had congregated around the scene. By this time, several other police cars had also parked all over the place, nicely blocking the middle of the street.

Police were taking pictures. Some of the uniformed officers helped move police cars out of the way so the Ambulance could get near the body.

Eventually, they transferred Patrick from the driveway to the Ambulance, and the vehicle drove away.

Eadgils in the meantime had headed back to the car, maneuvered it through the slalom course made of the parked police vehicles, and had rounded the corner, then turned right onto Maple, and passed another smaller cluster of police cars, before stopping just short of the corner. Thus, he was in a position to make a right turn and follow the slow moving Ambulance as it emerged onto the street and headed away from the area.

Keeping a discreet distance, Eadgils thought perhaps a Law career might not be so objectionable, after all he was already acting as an Ambulance Chaser. Why not get paid for it.

The ambulance finally turned into a Hospital parking lot and Eadgils followed, obtaining a ticket and parking the car in the public area.

He approached the Ambulance, trying to sense the strength of Patrick's Quickening, while the driver and his partner got out and went around to the back, then removed a covered stretcher which they pushed on into the hospital.

From what Eadgils could feel, Patrick was not only still dead, but it would be a good while before that condition changed.

Deciding that was likely for the better, he returned to his car, and pulled back out onto the street. Since it was under five minutes, he didn't even have to pay.

A bit up the street, he found a Days Inn. The sign said "Vacancy", so he pulled in and parked the car.

A quick trip to the lobby, and he had two adjoining outside rooms on the second floor, left side. Paid for again in cash, but they had taken a copy of Sue's Visa Check Card to cover any incidentals. They promised it would not be processed unless there were additional charges for the two rooms.

He went ahead and moved Sue's new suitcase full of clothes into the first of the two rooms, opened the connecting door, then went around to the second room, and opened the connecting door from it's side as well.

Next off, he shuttled the Laptop case up to "his" room, set it up, and logged on.

The news was covering the accidental shooting of a man locally. No additional information was available at that time, other than the person shot was declared dead at the scene, and an internal investigation was underway.

He checked his email, received a confirmation from the trustees that his instructions had been received, so he sent a reply, thanking them, and thus resetting the clock by another day. On that note, he also sent a message off to one of his foreign investment banks, resetting their own clock. It would be a shame if he lost his investments just because he was dead.

That taken care of, he put his mind to his forthcoming task. From what he could tell walking past Patrick's body, his Quickening was still quite low. This made sense, because if his body had bled out, then the body had to replace the blood before it could restart his heart, and also his life. Blood was mostly liquid. The effects of the Quickening, while seeming like magic to most, followed some simple, hard rules. That liquid had to come from somewhere. Moisture could be obtained from the air around the body. In this humidity, any moisture touching Patrick's skin was almost certain to be absorbed instantly, but if they placed him in a climate controlled storage box, such as most morgues tended to use, then the amount of environmentally available moisture would be severely curtailed. At that point, the Quickening wouldn't be able to any more, and would simply have to wait for things to change. Oh, sometimes it would try and restart an Immortal who was in a nonviable situation, it had even happened to him once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March 1870, Wickenburg, Arizona

Eadgils was working as a mucker, the person who shoveled the remnants of trilled and blasted rock from the end of the mine tunnel into a ore cart, before he and his partner James, would push it out to where James crushed it, and sifted it in the shaker box, to extract the gold.

Not that there was much gold in this particular mine. Eadgils was thinking it was about time to cut his losses, and head back east. He had other investments, granted, much longer term, but certainly less laborious as well.

He was about to call out to James, when he felt the earth shift and rumble. The next mine over was blasting again. They were supposed to give out a warning before they set off a charge like that, give their neighbors a chance to get out just in case...

His thoughts were cut off abruptly; as he noticed exactly the 'in case' was happening. The last shoring timber had dislodged from its support beam, and the roof started to collapse.

Eadgils shoved on the ore cart with all the strength he could summon, since it was blocking his egress from the collapsing tunnel.

As the cart started to move forward however, the roof continued to come down, the shoring timber falling and blocking the tracks, stopping the cart and letting it roll back towards Eadgils.

It didn't get to roll far though, because the rest of the roof came down as well, and as the noise died away, Eadgils was left in a dark, dusty, and ominously quiet chamber, too short to stand up in, and too small to lay down in any direction either. He tried banging on the wall, to let James know he was still alive, but he didn't hear any response. Long after his arm started burning from fatigue, Eadgils found he could no longer manage to move the pick. "Air is going bad. Damn" he thought, and then all was silent and still, as Eadgils died.

Pain was his first reality. Pain of his heart starting, but more so, pain of hitting his head against both the low roof and the jagged wall as his body spasmed from a resurrection.

He was still in darkness, but at least the dust had settled. It had, at least until he started moving around again.

The air still did not smell any fresher though, in fact is bore a distinct stench. But he again tried to tap for help with his pick. Once more, after an unknowable time, but a much shorter one than before, his arms gave out, and he slipped back into death's temporary embrace.

Once more, his head was wracked by the pain of it's painfully impacting on the walls and roof of his small tomb, for that was what the sealed end of the mineshaft had certainly become.

As the pain faded, he determined the stench was at least better. The air now had a damp, musty smell, more of mildew than of death and decay. Once more, he tried to tap for help with his pick, but before long, the fatigue again overcame him and he slipped away.

"This is getting ridiculous" he thought to himself, as he again bashed his head against the roof and walls of his chamber upon reviving. The handle of the pick was slimed with mildew, but he grasped it anyhow, and again tapped, trying to get help. After an indeterminable amount of time, probably short, but subjectively quite long, most of which was spent envisioning an eternity of waking, dying, and waking again until the earth itself crumbled around him, he ran out of energy and drifted away once more.

This time, the entire episode was limited to a sudden explosion of sharp pain as his convulsion smashed his head fatally against a protruding corner of rock.

His next return was a bit different. Oh, it started with a spectacular burst of pain from his head as he once more brained himself against the wall, but what was different was his environment. He was now laying in water.

The musty smell was now a mossy smell, although there was no way moss could grow in the dark. But the water on the floor was a good two inches deep. Also, he heard a sound. A faint Clink-Chink, and a sound like water running in a streambed. He grasped the rotting handle of the pick, and once more pounded on the wall until the effort killed him once more.

He sat up with a jolt, the convulsive pain of resurrection shocking its way through his system, and though he expected it again, he did not hit his head on the way up this time, only on the way back down.

The air was fresh and clean. There was water running in a stream nearby, and there were voices as well. He opened his eyes, and saw light. Not much, as he was apparently laying on the floor of a mineshaft, with a canvas cover over him.

Pushing the canvas aside, he looked down the slope of the shaft, and could see it was night time outside. The interior of the shaft was light by oil lamps. Cautiously, he got to his feet, noting as he did how skeletally thin he had become during his ordeal. His clothed were literally rotted off of him, leaving him in tattered rags. He shuffled weakly to the mouth of the tunnel, where he could hear faint voices coming from a nearby camp fire.

"I ain't goin back in there 'till the Sheriff gets here and takes away the stiff. I always said that shaft was haunted, and we done found the haunt!"

"Now Willie," another calmer voice replied, "There is a perfectly scientific reason for the lack of corruption of the corpse. No air. It's been sealed in there all these years, ain't no way it could rot. Like one of those 'gyptian mommies we heard tale of, remember? Thousands of years old, and looking like they was layed away last week. It's the same thing. It don't make him no haunt."

"I tells you, I heard him cryin, An I heard him diggin, Minin he was with a ghost pick for ghost gold. I ain't goin back in there. No way no how. Charlie can muck the stuff hisself if he wants to, but I ain't goin in there!"

"Well, Charlie should be back soon with the Sheriff. They'll take care of the body. Then everything will be back to normal. Ok?"

"I just ain't goin in there. Scared me half to death when I found 'em it did. Damn near 'spected him to open his eyes and introduce me to the devil hisself, I did."

"Just rest some. Charlie and the Sheriff will be here any time."

Eadgils decided it was better to be an absent corpse than an active one, so he turned away from the fire, and headed off as cautiously as he could towards town, trying his best not to leave any tracks, despite his lack of strength or energy.

Eventually, he passed a series of shacks as he approached the town, and bending to necessity, he crept as quietly to the windows of several as he passed, and looked inside each one in turn. From one he stole some bread. From another he pulled a shirt off a chair just in reach. A third he fished a tin cup from a forlorn table.

His boots were still marginally serviceable, he now had a rough shirt which fit him, but smelled worse than he did, but he would need to find some pants from somewhere, least he continue to look like the walking dead. He would also need a wash, and quite soon. He didn't think Wickenburg would be a very healthy place for him to hang around for too long, not once his absence from the mine shaft was noted.

Turning towards Morristown, a good eleven mile walk from the other side of Wickenburg, but it was also in the other direction from the mine, and he certainly never wanted to go anywhere near there again.

Continuing his stealthy examination of shacks, he finally found a pair of wool trousers which looked like they would normally be a good fit. Given his current condition they would hang more like a tent, but if beggars can't be choosers, sneak thieves have even less room for discretion.

He also literally stumbled over a sleeping chicken, and stooping swiftly, yet painfully, he managed to capture it before it could raise a ruckus, and snapped its neck. If he could build a fire, he could eat at least. But first to put some miles between himself and Wickenburg before daylight.

When he finally made it to Morristown two days later, he found out he had been buried in the mine for almost thirty years. America was at war, and fighting Spain of all things.

Despite his reluctance, after getting a job in Morristown for a few weeks, earning enough for a new wardrobe, and putting enough meat back on his bones to look normal again, he hiked back to Wickenburg, and went back up to the mine.

When he arrived there, one of the miners, apparently Willie, saw him, let out a scream, dropped his pick, and ran for town.

Two more men, one of them Charlie, the mine's owner came out to see what was going on.

Eadgils introduced himself as Gil Gilis, Ed Gilis's son.

He said he had heard his father's body had finally been found in the old mine, and had come by to see to it he was buried proper and Christian-like.

Charlie had explained that while they had indeed found his father, that someone had apparently stolen the corpse, and made off with it while Charlie was off to get the Sheriff.

Eadgils forgave Charlie for losing the body, and asked about any personal effects which may have been recovered, especially an old sword which Ed had always kept with himself.

Charlie had indeed recently dug the blade up, somewhat rusted without having been cleaned for over thirty years, but the case it had been kept in had protected it all through the cave-in, it's internment, and recovery.

Eadgils, being able to describe both the case, the scabbard, and the sword, including its inscriptions was able to convince Charlie to give it to him.

Eadgils gratefully accepted the "Family Sword", and again exonerated Charlie for his having lost his father's body.

With his almost seven hundred year old sword back in his possession, Ed had walked back to Morristown, where he lived for four years under the Gil Gilis identity until moving west to San Francisco in 1903.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in the present, Eadgils figured he had at least a few hours before Patrick would try waking up, longer even if the doctors tried to do an autopsy on him, however unless the coroner had a night shift, that probably wasn't a concern.

It was coming up on eight in the evening, and Eadgils decided he would need some supplies; it wasn't like he could just walk in and carry Patrick out. Patrick would have to leave on his own two feet.

And to get out without raising a huge fuss, Patrick would also have to look more like one of the living, not one of the dead. That meant shoes, pants, shirt, etc. But Eadgils had a problem with that - he had no idea what sizes Patrick would wear.

But, at 8:00pm on a Sunday, where could he get clothes in Memphis? Looking down at the phone book, he came up with a good possibility; Wal-Mart.

Heading back down to the office, he stopped in and got directions to the nearest Wal-Mart.

Fifteen minutes later, he was wandering the florescent lighted isles, pushing a silver and red cart, in search of clothes for a man whose sizes he really didn't know.

Stopping off in the shoes section, he decided when in doubt, go a bit large.

Patrick had stood enough higher than Sue that Eadgils, standing next to him found his Adam's Apple at eye height. That put him about eight inches taller than Sue's 5'6, or about 6'2. Based on that, he selected a pair of black size 13 track shoes, and then because they were hopefully a bit too large, a whole package of thick, black tube type socks.

In the camping section, he obtained a spool of fishing line, the brightest six cell Mag-light, and the largest holstered knife they had.

He added a set of batteries for the flashlight, and some lead sinker weights before he literally pushed on into the store, heading for the clothing section.

Over in the Men's Clothing area, he selected a large black T-Shirt, and a pair of black workout pants, size 36, 38. Again hopefully too large, but the cuffs could be rolled up, and the waist cinched in with the drawstring until they fit. The t-shirt should cover them, hopefully.

Finally, he added a nice four and a half foot long black trench coat. After all, he would need such a coat in the future.

Continuing through the store, he added a medium sized black canvas duffel bag, a can of Hair Spray, and a case of Gatorade in large sports bottles.

Finally, he swung through the school supply isle and picked up a the largest, strongest looking pair of scissors he could find before heading up to the front to ring up his purchases.

Once in the car, he used the scissors to cut the tags off of everything, then he transferred all the purchases into the duffel bag, discarding the carton from the Gatorade in a dumpster along with the tags and the plastic bags from the store.

He then returned to the hotel, where he removed the Katana and its scabbard from his coat, pulled off his shirt, and removed the Bowie Knife and its carrier as well.

Opening Sue's suitcase, he removed a low cut black t-shirt, and a red top with a collar. He pulled off the blue jeans he was wearing and switched them for one of the two pairs of black jeans, then donned first the black top, followed by the red one on top of it, rolling up the sleeves of the black top so they wouldn't show.

He then collected his jacket, and returned to the car.

Once in the car, he added the jacket to the duffel bag, then started the engine and drove back to the Hospital.

Parking once again in the public lot, he collected the duffel bag and headed into the Hospital. Once in the lobby, instead of bothering the nurse, he strode purposefully towards the elevator, and pushed the DOWN button.

He had learned long ago, if you acted like you knew what you were doing and belonged where you were, you were almost never questioned as to who you were or what you were doing. On the other hand, if you looked around confused, people were more likely to challenge you, either to get you out of somewhere you didn't belong, or to help you out because that was their job.

Entering the elevator, he noted there were two sub-levels which didn't require a key, and a third which did.

Since he didn't have a key for the lowest level, he pushed the button for the one above it. Hopefully that was where the Morgue was. If not, he could always look around and try to find some stairs.

As the elevator descended, he removed the red top, placing it in the duffle bag.

Emerging on S2, he was relieved to see a sign labeled "Morgue" with an arrow pointing down the hall to his right. He was a bit less relieved to see the not too subtly mounted video camera pointing at the door labeled "No Admittance", but that was what the hairspray was for.

A brief squirt, not enough to do much to the lens, but enough to fog it so recognition would be difficult at best from any footage obtained, and he went on in through the door, can held in front of his body so the image from the camera would not show it.

On the other side of the door, there was another camera, fortunately pointing at the small empty, call it reception room, with it's single Stelecase desk and roller chair, computer console and phone. The phone had a line light active, so Eadgils assumed that somewhere was an attendant, speaking on the phone to someone about something. But whoever and wherever they were, they were not here.

Another hit with the hairspray on the new camera, and Eadgils was ready to try something he had not attempted in over two hundred years.

He set the duffel bag at his feet, and slipped the hairspray can into his pocket, then he stood in the center of the reception room, and tried to focus his mind and body into a single conscious force.

As his breathing and heart rate slowed, he relaxed his awareness of his body, focusing instead within himself. He then stretched himself out, focusing all his energy on the part of his mind which responded to other Immortals. He could almost feel himself expanding, stretching out in an ever growing sphere, and then, there. He felt Patrick. Off to the left, perhaps sixty feet away.

Even at full strength an Immortal as young and new to the Game should be undetectable unless he was within a couple dozen feet or less. Furthermore, some Immortals could not sense a dead Immortal at all, but that was a trick Eadgils had learned thousands of years before, from his first Immortal student, a fellow victim of Death and his Horsemen named Cassandra. She must be long gone by now, despite her mental and spiritual talents, the poor girl had been so twisted by her term of captivity as a slave and a plaything for Death that she was not quite sane. But she had been able to teach her teacher some tricks he had never heard of anywhere else.

That talent, coupled with the meditative focus he had learned thousands of years later, combined with the strength of his own Quickening allowed him to pull off some pretty impressive tricks as well, he reflected as he gathered himself back in, his eyes again opening as he took a deep, cleansing breath, almost like waking from the dead, only without the convulsions.

Bending down to pick up the duffel bag, he approached the doorway on his left, and cautiously looked through it.

His luck so far with cameras failed him here, as he could see a camera mounted on the far wall which would cover anyone entering the room.

There was a simple solution which he had planned on, but it was not as subtle as his actions so far. If anyone was monitoring the cameras, what Eadgils was about to do would almost certainly be noticed, even though it would be as effective as the hair spray for preserving anonymity should he get away.

Pulling out the flashlight, he turned it on and pointed it at the far wall, focusing it to the tightest beam he could. He then lifted the flashlight up and held it directly in front of his face, bathing the camera in the light. He then walked forward as quickly as he could, and with his free hand, pulled out the hair spray, and gave this camera a good thick coat, until the lens actually looked frosted.

Shutting off the flashlight, he went back to the door and retrieved the duffel bag, and entered the storage room again.

This time, no meditation was needed to identify the proper drawer. He could feel the faint whickering of Patrick's Quickening as it worked to heal his body and restore life.

Opening the proper drawer as quickly and quietly as possible, he pulled the first bottle of Gatorade out of the duffel bag, twisted off the top, and literally poured it into Patrick's mouth. He followed the first bottle with a second, and then a third.

As he did so, he listened as well as he could for any sign of activity outside the room.

He fingered the fishing weights held loosely in his left hand, as he lifted the fourth bottle of fluid to pour into Patrick's mouth.

Eadgils could feel the strength of Patrick's Quickening building fast now. So far, there was no sign anyone had noticed anything unusual and come to investigate.

With a shuddering gasp, Patrick suddenly sat up, spitting out Gatorade.

"Wha-what's hapennin?" he asked, taking in the morgue and his location in it with a bewildered glance.

"No time for that," Eadgils said, closing the lid on the half empty fourth bottle of Gatorade, and returning it to the duffel bag. "We got to get you out of here, without being noticed. Now, here, put this on. He said, handing the T-Shirt and workout pants to Patrick. "Quickly!"

Patrick automatically grasped the proffered clothes, but did no more than bemusedly stare at them as they dangled from his hand.

"Look, I'll explain later, but any minute, either an attendant or a guard is going to come walking through that door, and in either case I don't want to be around to try and explain things to THEM. Do you understand me, we have to HURRY! Now, get dressed!"

As Patrick started to put the shirt on, Eadgils fished out the scissors, and reached for the tag on Patrick's left big toe. "Hold your foot still for a moment." He said, snipping the wire and letting the tag flutter to land on the steel table top with a soft "tink".

"Ouch! That hurt" Patrick complained, his head poking through the top of the T-Shirt.

"Sorry. Now get your pants on. Come on, we gotta get OUT OF HERE!"

Patrick pulled on the sweat pants, and tied the string snuggly around his waist. The waist was bunched, but the length was actually about a half-inch too short, ending at his ankles.

"What shoe size are you?" Eadgils asked Patrick.

"What kinda question's that? I thought you said we had ta get outa here?" Patrick answered.

"A very simple one, oh, Mr. Barefoot one. Now, WHAT SIZE SHOES DO YOU WEAR?" Eadgils responded, the aggravation evident in his rising tone, even though his voice remained at the same quite volume it had retained the entire time.

"Uh, Size eleven. What, You mad 'cause I got big feet?"

"No, here," Eadgils said, passing the bag filled with Tube Socks to Patrick, "Put at least four pairs of these on."

"Ain't one pair usually 'nuff?" Patrick asked with a grin, pulling out the first pair, separating one of the socks, and pulling first it, then it's partner over his right foot.

"Not when you have size eleven feet, and size thirteen shoes it isn't. You can only tighten them up so much with the laces, you know."

"I woan even ax why, for now." Patrick responded, pulling the second pair out of the bag, and adding them both to his already covered fight foot again.

"That's a good idea." Eadgils answered.

Suddenly, Eadgils heard a door open in the lobby, he could not tell if it was the other door to the right of the desk, or the door from the hallway leading to the elevator, but in either case it was not exactly a welcome sound to his ears. "Shhh. Someone's outside. Finish getting dressed." He said, laying the shoes on the table.

Creeping to the door, he looked out into the lobby. The light on the phone had gone off, and a young man was now sitting at the desk, poking unenthusiastically at the computer's keyboard.

"Damn!" Eadgils hissed.

Patrick was finished getting dressed, and now stood anxiously by the table he had been laying down on.

Eadgils returned to his side, and gestured to the table. "Ok, lay down."

"What?" Patrick said, his voice rising to a squeak at the end.

"I said, lay down. We have to get out of here PAST the attendant, without raising an alarm, and I'd rather do it without killing anyone."

Patrick laid down as instructed, and Eadgils lifted the duffel bag and laid it between Patrick's knees. "Now, I'm going to close the drawer. I want you to count to thirty, slowly, and then start banging like you want to get out of there."

"What do a mean 'like', I'm not even in there, 'an I already wan out. Boy are you gonna owe me big time for this." He replied.

Eadgils slid the drawer back in, and closed the door, then crept over to the door. He was about half way across the room when Patrick started banging enough to wake the dead. "Next time, I'd better make it sixty." He said to himself, forgoing stealth for speed, hurrying to place himself just behind the door, even as it swung open and the attendant rushed in to see what was making the noise.

Patrick's voice filtered faintly from the box, "Hey! Leme outa here!" and the attendant stared in horror, his attention so focused on the impossible scene in front of him that he did not notice the movement as Eadgils shuffled up behind him, paused focusing his energy, then darted out with his hands and grasped the man's neck, pinching the carotid artery and squeezed for all he was worth, shutting off the flow of blood to the attendant's brain.

As the man passed out, Eadgils caught him, staggering under the unaccustomed weight, and lowered him to the floor, then opened up the door, and slid the still yelling Patrick out.

"Man! Don' 'yall EVER do that ta me again!" he said, leaping off the table, and bending over to take a deep, shaking breath.

"Quiet. This may work better than I thought. Help me get him on the table." Eadgils said, walking back over to the unconscious attendant's body.

"You don't mean you're gonna. Oh man. That's evil!" Patrick said, as he helped lift the man and carried him over, to dump him on the table he himself had so recently vacated.

"Take his shirt, and put it on over your T-Shirt." Eadgils instructed tersely, collecting the duffel bag from the floor where it had fallen when Patrick leapt off the table.

Eadgils then slid the drawer back into the wall, and pushed the door closed, leaving it just a bit ajar, not wanting to accidentally suffocate the attendant.

Checking that Patrick had the light blue hospital shirt on, he said tersely, "Now follow me, and if anything happens, let me handle it."

Handing Patrick the duffel bag, Eadgils took the flashlight in his left hand, and transferred the fishing weights from his coat pocket back to his right hand, then pushed the door open with his fist, and looked out at the morgue's reception room.

Proceeding through the room, he repeated the process of carefully opening the door to the hallway, then he turned to Patrick and said, "Wait here. I'm going to get the elevator. When I tell you to, I want you to RUN, you got it?"

"Ok." Patrick said.

Eadgils strode down the hallway, stopped before the elevator, and pushed the UP button.

As the up light came on, and the bell dinged, he called "Ok, Patrick, RUN!"

Patrick dashed down the hall even as the doors were opening, and followed Eadgils into the elevator.

Eadgils took the duffle bag from Patrick at this point and fished in it for the red top and both jackets. Pulling them out of the duffel, he pushed the first floor button, and pulled on the red top as the doors closed saying, "Ok, toss that blue shirt in the bag, and put on the coat."

Shrugging into his own coat, Eadgils zipped up the duffel and lifted the strap over his shoulder even as the door opened on the main lobby of the hospital.

A glance to his left showed Patrick, now wearing the black t-shirt and trench coat, standing nervously by his side.

"Ok, last part. Follow me out, act normal, and like you are in a hurry. Don't talk to anyone, or even look at anything other than the door. Got that?" he asked Patrick.

"Ok."

They proceeded across the lobby and out the door, across the drive, and into the parking lot without incident. Once to the car, Eadgils opened the doors, threw the duffle bag in the back seat, and got behind the steering wheel.

"We'll be at the hotel in just a few minutes. Just hold it together 'till we get there, and then I'll try to explain everything. Ok?" he asked, starting the car as Patrick settled himself in the passenger seat.

"Ok." Patrick responded flatly.

Five silent minutes later, Eadgils parked the car, collected the duffel bag from the back seat and went around to the back of the car. Setting the duffel bag down, he opened the trunk and extracted the knapsack which held the bloody blouse Sue had been wearing the day she died. Closing the trunk back up, he lifted the duffel bag, which he handed to Patrick saying "Here, carry this," and led the way upstairs to their rooms.

Once inside Patrick's room, Eadgils opened the duffel bag and extracted the blue scrub shirt, which he transferred to the knapsack. "Gotta remember to burn this somewhere safe. Too much in here would raise too many questions if it turned up anywhere. Ok Patrick. Go ahead. You can now ask whatever questions you may have."

"Ok. Why?" Patrick asked.

"Why what?" Eadgils responded, confused.

"Why all that rigmarole at the 'ospittal for one. Why was I in a Morgue, and why'd ya have to practically bust me out of it like I was inna prison for 'nother. WHY?" he asked, an edge of panic creeping in to his voice at the end.

"Well, before all that, what's the last thing you remember" Eadgils asked.

"Last thing? You dropped me off at Uncle Phil's, and then there was some cops." His voice suddenly trailed off into silence.

"And?" Eadgils prompted.

"And, then they shot me?" Patrick answered in confusion.

"Yes. That's about right. And then you died. You might not remember that part. Sometimes you will forget the actual dying."

"I'm dead?" Patrick squeaked. "I mean, I know I was in a morgue, but DEAD?"

"Not quite. You died. You just got better. Happens sometimes." Eadgils explained.

"But. How? I'm not a Vampire or something, am I? Or one of those Living Dead like in the movies?"

"No, you aren't a Vampire, nor are you a Living Dead. You my young friend are an Immortal." Eadgils answered.

"What's that? Like some sort of comic book character?"

"No, not really. As an Immortal, we heal from almost any wounds, all but one." Eadgils responded.

"We?" Patrick queried.

"We. I, like you am an Immortal." That said, he bent down, and pulled the boot knife from it's folder on is right calf, and clenching his teeth against the anticipated pain, sliced the heel of his left hand, and holding it out for inspection as the blood welled up from the razor thin cut.

"Oh my gawd" Patrick said, starting to panic, however his attention was suddenly captured as small bluish sparks started stitching their way back and forth all along the cut, until nothing was left but the blood on the hand. "What was that?" he asked.

"That, Patrick was what we call the Quickening. It is the force within all Immortals, to a greater or a lesser degree. It is what heals our wounds, restarts our hearts, and stores our memories. It is also acts as a warning as well, letting us know of the presence of others of our kind."

"How is that?" Patrick asked.

"When two Immortals meet, their Quickenings interact, kind of like some sort of radar, letting each know of the other's presence, and if one pays enough attention to it of their relative strengths in the Game?"

"What game's that? Somethin' like football, or more like checkers? I'm good at checkers, but I suck eggs at football." Patrick added.

"More like Chess, only with one piece, and you are that piece. Lose the piece, and lose the Game. Lose the Game, and lose your life. For good."

"Whah. I don't like the idea of playin for stakes that high. How do ya tell folks ya doan wanna play?"

"You can't. If two Immortals meet, they don't automatically have to fight. I know lots of Immortals, and none of them would raise a hand against another without provocation. But if a challenge is extended, it must be met. And if it is met, a fight will result, and from that fight, only one Immortal will walk away.

"We live by three rules as Immortals. First is 'All fights are one-on-one' This rule is mostly a matter of honor, and some will violate it on occasion, so you must always be wary. Rule two, is 'Holy ground is off limits for fights and challenges.' Basically, when two Immortals meet on holy ground, any type of holy ground, it matters not the god, goddess, or faith, they can not fight. If you try, bad things happen. Trust me, you never want to be involved in a fight on Holy Ground. I was forced once to defend myself and after the second blow we were both on the ground, and it felt like my head was going to explode. And finally, rule three, 'In The End, There Can Be Only One.' That rule is sort of self explanatory."

"But, I don't understand. What makes people Immortal? Is it somethin ya did ta me?"

"No, Immortals are born that way, not Immortal per say, they start out, grow up, and live as a normal Mortal. The only differences being all of them are foundlings,"

"I was adopted." Patrick interrupted, "never really thought much of it, I was treated just like the rest of my family, but Ma and Pa, they had ta adopt 'cause Ma had some problem."

"Yes, no one knows where infant Immortals come from. In almost four thousand years no Immortal I have ever heard of has found the source of the babies. Secondly,"

"Maybe when a Mama Immortal and a Papa Immortal get together in that 'special way..." Patrick interrupted again.

"No. As I was saying, secondly, all Immortals are sterile. They can neither sire nor bear children."

"Anything else?" Patrick asked.

"I suppose two other things, pre-imortals have a Quickening like all full Immortals, only very faint, hard to detect, that was how I knew what you were though. And finally, when they first die, unless they lose their heads, they will rise again."

"So that's why ya wanted me to keep calm in the morgue? So I wouldn't lose my head?"

"No, that's silly. I mean really lose your head. Decapitation. It is the one permanent way to kill an Immortal."

"But why would someone want to kill me for? I ain't gonna do nuttin to them, honest." Patrick complained.

"Doesn't matter. Some will want your head just for your Quickening. Remember the third rule."

"So then what?" Patrick asked.

"Then, whatever you want. You could live for thousands of years, if you keep your head about you." Eadgils answered with a grin, turning for the door to his room. "We'll talk more tomorrow. Whatever you do, don't answer the door or use the phone. Remember, you are dead as far as everyone is concerned, and considering the circumstances, we have to keep it that way. You said you wanted a new start, well this is about as new as you can get."

"Too bad I had ta die ta get it." Patrick muttered.

"Tell me about it." Eadgils replied, "Good night."

Eadgils exited the room, and closed the adjoining door, locking it on his side, before turning to the bathroom to wash his hand, get a shower, and get to bed.

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