Date: Tue, 21 Feb 1995 20:29:11 -0700 Reply-To: Greg Palmer Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Greg Palmer Subject: "Birth's Blood" Part 1 of 2 *** This is obviously a work of fiction, however I based a lot of it on my life and things that have happened to me. That's why its in the first person. Parts of this story I took from a thing that I wrote after someone close to me was murdered. This story is a prologue to a much longer one called "Life's Blood", which I'll be starting pretty soon. This is my first story, so I'm really nervous about posting it! Comments (good or bad) to: gpalmer@xroads.com *** "Birth's Blood" Part I by Greg Palmer, Copyright (C) 1995 (Some profanity and violence. I couldn't get the accents on the French parts so you'll have to imagine them :) ) SEATTLE, February 1995 "Prepare to die," he said, raising the large sword above his head. "There Can Be Only One!" I knelt there in shock, the blood running down my face from the repeated head blows I'd suffered, from fist and sword hilt. "Fucking bastard. I'll see you in hell." He lowered his sword, but only slightly. "Tell the Devil Malik sends his regards, cub. No more talking; now, my steel will take your head. Our Game ends now; you can go to join your pretty woman. And to think; you never knew what this is all about!" He laughed the same way he had in the restaurant. I closed my eyes, preparing to meet my Yvette. A sense of peace came over me as I surrendered to the realization we would soon be together again. I traced the patterns of her emerald ring with my thumb as I waited for the death strike. The bastard Malik had already pursued me through 2 countries and the same number of years... PHOENIX, New Years Eve 1992 I climbed out of the wrecked Camaro, dazed. I looked down at my torn and bloodstained clothes, and then back at the smoking wreck. As I peered around in the dim, piss-colored light provided by the sodium-vapor streetlights, I realized I was in a dry canal along side of the road. Slowly, the details came to me... I was coming home from a New Year's party, it was around 3 AM. I *knew* I had drunk too much beer, and I remembered my friends telling me so: "C'mon, Greg, give up the keys!" I had declined any offers of assistance, my apartment was only 3 miles away. I could make it. I remembered being on the road... I remembered the truck, its headlights blinding me as it swerved into my lane... I remembered the sound of metal shrieking, an instant of pain, and then blackness... I shuddered as the memories hit me full force. How had I survived the crash? The crash... I climbed the smooth concrete wall of the canal, with difficulty, and saw the smashed truck sitting by the side of the road, steam still coming from the busted radiator. I ran over. There were two people inside, both dead. There was no doubt they had died. The man in the driver's seat, his head lolled on his neck at an angle that necks don't allow; unless they're broken, that is. :The woman:... the woman had been impaled on a twisted piece of metal sticking out of the dashboard. The metallic scent of their blood pervaded the dry, desert air. Where were the police? The police! While recent events had sobered me up a bit, there was no doubt the police would give me an FST. I was standing here, drunk, in front two wrecked vehicles and two corpses! Not to mention the fact I should have been the third corpse, from the look of my car. Desperation made the decision an easy one. I ran back to the canal, slid down the side, and went through my car for things that could identify me. The inside of the car was a mess. I noticed now that it looked like it had caught fire. The upholstery was charred and black as soot. My license plate was lying on the ground a few feet from the wreck, and I grabbed it before I ran... I was gasping for breath when my key hit the lock of my apartment door. I stumbled inside and pulled the door shut behind me. I didn't turn the lights for fear of attracting attention. I made my way to the bathroom. I turned on the shower to extra hot and looked in the mirror, almost afraid to because of what I might see in my face. My clothes, what little of them were left, were burnt, ripped and bloody. My long, black hair was matted with dirt and sweat. I looked into the green eyes of the stranger in the mirror, thankful they were being obscured by the clouds of steam from the shower. I took off my clothes. Suprisingly, I couldn't find any cuts or bruises anywhere. I streched and flexed my muscles. No aches or pains, but my then eighteen year-old body always seemed to absorb any punishment it was subjected to. Too tired to wonder about the lack of injuries, I spent about 20 minutes under the hot shower, and crawled into bed. Almost immediately, I fell into a dreamless sleep. PHOENIX, January-August 1993 Life went on. The accident made the TV newz, a brief 1 minute story on each of the local stations. I gathered from the newz that the police didn't have any leads. I bought a new used Camaro to replace the old. In time, the whole thing started to fade from my mind... until that August when it was all brought back into sharp focus. Clad in only boxers, I was sitting at home about 1 AM, reading my e-mail. Without warning, a strange sensation came over me. It felt like a low current wire had been touched to the back of my neck. The buzzing in my ears increased and decreased, a wave of sound. Suddenly, I felt another wave; of nausea, breaking over me. Remembering the car crash, I wondered if I was suffering some kind of delayed head injury. Just then, I heard the crash of glass breaking from the living room! It wasn't the best neighborhood, so I had bought a gun when I moved in a couple years ago. I grabbed it from under the bed. The cold weight of the .45 automatic did a lot to relieve my tension. I yelled out, "Who's there?" No answer from whoever was in my living room. In fact, it had suddenly gotten quiet. Maybe I had scared the robber off. I lowered my gun and headed out to investigate. I tripped over Mimee, my cat, and fell to the floor with a thud. I rolled over, cursing, and looked straight into the eyes of the burglar! Just as I was wondering what sort of burglar carries a scimitar, he plunged the sword into my chest and withdrew it. As the blood rushed to my lips, I raised my gun and shot the man who wasn't a thief twice in the chest. My eyes closed for a moment from the shock of being stabbed; when I opened them again, there was no one there. I continued to fade in and out of the pain for a couple more hours, until I got lucky and lost consciousness. ************* My whole body jerked as if an electric shock had been applied. I opened my eyes and as my vision began to clear, I saw the familiar sight of my living room. Coughing a couple times, I sat up weakly. I gasped in shock as I saw the huge pool of blood I was lying in! The blood was everywhere, spreading out beneath me, and all over my chest. With a small start, I reached for my chest, expecting to feel a gaping wound. Instead, the muscles were smooth; without a trace of injury. Oh God, Oh God, I thought, what has happened to me? I unsteadily got to my feet, the task made a bit difficult as the blood had dried and stuck my body to the carpet. Already the disorientation was fading. I looked around. The sliding glass door to the landing in the back of the apartment was shattered from the outside, glass covered the floor near the kitchenette. The cool morning breeze made the fine hairs on my arms and legs stand up. The sun was just coming up; I figured I had been unconscious for about three or four hours. But how was I alive? Pounding at the door. "Mr. Palmer? Mr. Palmer! Police, open up!" :Oh shit.: Someone calling the cops had never seriously crossed my mind, considering what kind of neighborhood I live in. Probably my bitchy landlady. "Just a minute!" I yelled at the door. :Hurry.: I grabbed a shirt, jeans, shoes and my brown leather jacket off a chair. As I struggled to get my pants on, more of the dried blood flaked off. :My blood.: "Mr. Palmer! Open the door now or we're coming in!" :Double shit.: I finished getting dressed and grabbed my wallet off the counter. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I thought I could safely rule out letting the cops in. I let out a strained laugh at the thought. The cop's voice said, "Ok, break it down," The cheap door rattled in its frame. :Oh shit.: Well, what other option did I have? I bolted for the back door and jumped down to the ground from the second floor balcony. Somehow, I managed to get up and run. I knew I'd never see this place again. LOS ANGELES, August 1993-September 1994 I hopped on the first bus to LA. I wasn't sure why I chose California (the Land of Fruits and Nuts) as a place to run to. Given what had happened, you see, I wasn't in too clear a frame of mind. Soon after I arrived in Los Angeles, I got a job waiting tables at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, and a cheap apartment in an even worse neighborhood than the one I left. A few months later I cashed a check to myself on my Phoenix bank account, although I was sure the cops had frozen it. Amazingly, it worked, I got a little less than five thousand dollars. Soon after, the sword-wielding man caught up to me again. One night at work he was just sitting there at a table, staring at me. I hadn't got a good look at him before, but I did now. I would have known him from his eyes, no matter what the rest of him looked like. They suggested pure evil. He looked about 35, short (about 5'5" to my six feet) but heavily built, and had a broad Polynesian face. He was wearing a khaki trenchcoat, and I saw the bulge of the sword under it, although it would have been hard to see without looking for it. And, he showed no sign of having been mortally wounded three months ago. Somehow, that didn't surprise me. He smiled as he realized he'd caught my attention, revealing square yellow teeth. Jose, my boss, swatted me on the back of the head with his check pad to get my attention. "You go and get that hombre's order, yes?" "Yeah, Jose." My stomach was doing cartwheels as I forced myself to walk over to him. As I approached I began to feel that strange sensation I had at my apartment. It made me want to vomit. "What do you want?" I wasn't referring to food. "I haven't forgotten about you, Gregory. I'm still coming for you. And I won't stop until I've got your *head*. You," he pointed at me, "are going to die... very soon." His voice dropped to a whisper as he said these last words. I broke into a cold sweat as the fear blossomed throughout my body. "In the meantime, why don't you go get me a number 3?" He laughed. "Yeah, I'll go get that for you." I forced myself to walk slowly back to the kitchen. "Jose!" He turned around from the fryer. "Yes, Senor Gregory?" "I QUIT!" And I raced for the back door... PARIS, September 1994 Why not, I thought as I scanned the departure list at the airport. What better place to hide from the sword psycho? I put down $600 on a plane ticket to Paris and I was there the next day. I hadn't been in Paris since I was 16, on a high school class trip. I loved the city, so many things to do and see. I spent my first day just walking the streets, traveling the Metro. I got a cheap room at a youth hostel, and that night I lie on the sagging mattress, wondering just what the hell I was going to do. I could start my life over. Surely, the sword guy and the police would never find me here. The next day I walked along the Seine, lost in my thoughts and plans. I ran across a handsome old barge with a sign in both French and English: +-------------------------------+ { For Sale: By Owner } { } { D. MacLeod: US(206)555-0402 } {_______________________________} Too bad, I knew I'd never be able to afford such a nice place. Someday maybe, but not now. I didn't even have a job yet. Eventually, I got a job waiting tables in a sidewalk cafe near Sacre-Coeur. I rented a little flat on the Boulevard de Clichy. Life was good, for once. Ever the pessimist, however, I knew that someday the nutcase that wanted to slice off my head might show up again. I was always watching my back. In my second week on the job, I was bringing a cafe au lait to a girl at an outside table. Suddenly, I felt that same feeling I had felt at my Phoenix apartment and the Mexican restaurant. It distracted me so much I spilled the light colored coffee all over the girl's table, and her copy of La Monde. Ignoring her cry of outrage, I began to look around the crowded street for the man with the sword. I'm a quick learner. As fast as the feeling had come upon me, it was gone. I directed my attention to the blond I had spilled the coffee near. "Euh... suis desole, demoiselle." I grabbed a towel and started wiping up the mess. "Vous etes un bete americain!" she pouted in that way the young French women have. "Demoiselle, je suis vraiment desole. J'il y a eu distraire par quel'que chose...," I thought fast, "...par votre beaute." She looked surprised. I couldn't imagine why, after all, she was beautiful; long blond hair, warm brown eyes and delicate, intelligent features. She blushed. "Merci, monsieur. Est-ce que vous me voudraiez parler anglais? Vous parlez francais tres mauvais." "That would be great. I'm Greg..um..Parker. What's your name?" She smiled. I melted. "Je m'appelle Yvette Liliane. You are far from home, n'est-ce pas? D'ou viennez- vous 'Greg..um..Parker'?" "Here and there. Um, listen, I'd sure like to make up for this," I gestured at the coffee I spilled, "Can I meet you later on for dinner, maybe?" "Bien sur, Gregoire." She wrote on a napkin with my pen. "Call me at around dix-neuf heures..euh..seven o'clock. D'accord?" "Oui, mademoiselle," I smiled and watched her as she walked away. Yes, life was good. *********** A few months later, Yvette moved into my flat. She was studying English, and Renaissance art at a university with a name I could never pronounce. I kept working at the cafe, and I was thinking about going to school myself. Life was just getting better and better. I could almost forget the guy with the sword and all the stuff that went down in the States. After making love one night, as we lay in bed, I felt like I could tell her about all the things that had happened to me that brought me to Paris. "Yvette, I need tell you. About me, and about my past. You never ask. I want you to know." "Greg, I know you will tell me when you are ready. Why...'push' it? Je t'aime." "Je...t'aime?" "It means... I love you." She pulled the covers over us. ************ One night in September of '94 I came home after work, loaded down with groceries. I knocked on the door with my elbow so Yvette would open it for me; I couldn't reach the doorknob with my arms so full. Suprisingly, the door opened a crack from my touch. I pushed the door the rest of the way open and entered the flat. [End part 1] -Greg Palmer ------------------------------------------------ E-Mail: gpalmer@xroads.com WWW: http://www.xroads.com/pages/gpalmer/gpalmer.html =========================================================================