Read Hellboy: Odd Jobs for Free Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Golden, Mike Mignola
Tags: Science-Fiction, Fantasy
weightless pieces and convinced himself it was just a trick of the light that the eye seemed to glower from within.
Under the watchful gaze of the single, open orb, Guy continued to fit the metallic pieces together, solving the puzzle until the jaw and a portion of the tongue snapped into place.
There was an impossible stirring beneath his hand, and then the head began to speak to him in a soft, barely audible whisper.
"I will make of you a king ... "
His hands spasmed open, dropping the gray mass to the floor. His every instinct was to flee, or to bring his foot down upon the dust ball and stomp it into oblivion.
Still, it whispered, with a voice dry as wasp paper.
"Restore me," it beckoned, "and I will make of you a king."
Guy closed his eyes and threw the cleaning rag over the damned thing. He sat still, praying under his breath, finally daring to take a peek once more.
The filthy rag completely covered the head. He was afraid to hold his gaze; if the rag should stir, drawn in by a breath, he would surely break down.
Holding his breath, Guy scrambled towards it on his hands and knees and looked away as he tightened the wrap. Mercifully, it made no further sound. If he heard it speak again, he knew he would scream.
Streaming with sweat, he frantically gathered up the various unassembled pieces and stuffed them into an unlabeled manila envelope among the paper debris he had thrown to the floor from the top shelf. He began to feel lightheaded, then remembered to take a breath.
He shuddered when his nervous breathing was echoed from within the rag.
Driven by fear
of staying, of discovery, of the damned thing beneath the wrap
Guy scrambled to his
feet and grabbed the largest broom propped against the door.
The urge to jab at the object or just smash it swept over him again, but he instead used the broom to keep the thing as far from reach as possible as he jammed it and the unlabeled manila envelope into the far corner beneath the towers of desks and chairs.
Once it was out of sight, Guy began to calm down. He broke down the cardboard and stacked the flats against the corner where the damned thing was now hidden, as if to blot it out. Regaining some clarity of mind, he swept up the broken glass and the shark embryos, consigned them to the trash bag, and then proceeded to mop the floor.
The pungent aroma of the spilled formaldehyde should have overwhelmed everything, but all he could smell was the head, a dry odor ripe with age, mold, and spores. He coughed and gagged, shook his head, and finished the mopping.
Whenever possible, he averted his gaze from the end of the room dominated by the stacked desks and chairs.
He jumped at the occasional echoes of his own breathing, couldn't put out the light or slam the door quickly enough.
He had somehow finished the cleanup, though he couldn't remember the final minutes. He continued to sweat as he left the Faculté, entered the Metro, and started the long ride home. As he got off at Richard'lenoir, he still felt anxious and afraid.
What would he say to Francine? What would he tell himself?
His heart sank as their appartement window came into view. The light was on inside Francine had waited
up for him. He could not simply slip into the bed and close his eyes. She would see something was wrong.
He'd never kept any secrets from her. How, where would he begin?
For the first time, he noticed how badly he smelled. The stench of his sweat and the cleaning fluids was bad enough, but he could smell something else. He sniffed his hands, and shivered: He could still smell the thing.
He was rubbing his hands against his pant legs when he staggered into the appartement, afraid of what he might say.
Francine looked up at him from her perch at the edge of the bed, her eyes red and swollen.
"Guy," she whispered, "Thomas is dead."
"Welcome to La Table D'or. And your friend would be
?"
"Abraham Sapien," Hellboy responded to the maître d'. "Dr. Kate Corrigan is expecting
Under the watchful gaze of the single, open orb, Guy continued to fit the metallic pieces together, solving the puzzle until the jaw and a portion of the tongue snapped into place.
There was an impossible stirring beneath his hand, and then the head began to speak to him in a soft, barely audible whisper.
"I will make of you a king ... "
His hands spasmed open, dropping the gray mass to the floor. His every instinct was to flee, or to bring his foot down upon the dust ball and stomp it into oblivion.
Still, it whispered, with a voice dry as wasp paper.
"Restore me," it beckoned, "and I will make of you a king."
Guy closed his eyes and threw the cleaning rag over the damned thing. He sat still, praying under his breath, finally daring to take a peek once more.
The filthy rag completely covered the head. He was afraid to hold his gaze; if the rag should stir, drawn in by a breath, he would surely break down.
Holding his breath, Guy scrambled towards it on his hands and knees and looked away as he tightened the wrap. Mercifully, it made no further sound. If he heard it speak again, he knew he would scream.
Streaming with sweat, he frantically gathered up the various unassembled pieces and stuffed them into an unlabeled manila envelope among the paper debris he had thrown to the floor from the top shelf. He began to feel lightheaded, then remembered to take a breath.
He shuddered when his nervous breathing was echoed from within the rag.
Driven by fear
of staying, of discovery, of the damned thing beneath the wrap
Guy scrambled to his
feet and grabbed the largest broom propped against the door.
The urge to jab at the object or just smash it swept over him again, but he instead used the broom to keep the thing as far from reach as possible as he jammed it and the unlabeled manila envelope into the far corner beneath the towers of desks and chairs.
Once it was out of sight, Guy began to calm down. He broke down the cardboard and stacked the flats against the corner where the damned thing was now hidden, as if to blot it out. Regaining some clarity of mind, he swept up the broken glass and the shark embryos, consigned them to the trash bag, and then proceeded to mop the floor.
The pungent aroma of the spilled formaldehyde should have overwhelmed everything, but all he could smell was the head, a dry odor ripe with age, mold, and spores. He coughed and gagged, shook his head, and finished the mopping.
Whenever possible, he averted his gaze from the end of the room dominated by the stacked desks and chairs.
He jumped at the occasional echoes of his own breathing, couldn't put out the light or slam the door quickly enough.
He had somehow finished the cleanup, though he couldn't remember the final minutes. He continued to sweat as he left the Faculté, entered the Metro, and started the long ride home. As he got off at Richard'lenoir, he still felt anxious and afraid.
What would he say to Francine? What would he tell himself?
His heart sank as their appartement window came into view. The light was on inside Francine had waited
up for him. He could not simply slip into the bed and close his eyes. She would see something was wrong.
He'd never kept any secrets from her. How, where would he begin?
For the first time, he noticed how badly he smelled. The stench of his sweat and the cleaning fluids was bad enough, but he could smell something else. He sniffed his hands, and shivered: He could still smell the thing.
He was rubbing his hands against his pant legs when he staggered into the appartement, afraid of what he might say.
Francine looked up at him from her perch at the edge of the bed, her eyes red and swollen.
"Guy," she whispered, "Thomas is dead."
"Welcome to La Table D'or. And your friend would be
?"
"Abraham Sapien," Hellboy responded to the maître d'. "Dr. Kate Corrigan is expecting