The Undead Who was Chosen

An evil young man finds himself in a humongous black closed off room. He can hear the echo of his breathing yet no air is brushing him.

"HEY!? Where the Hell am I?," Bruce questions himself.

He stumbles around, feeling the edges of the walls, looking for a way out of this trap. He can't remember why he is here, or what he's doing here; all he knows is that he wants out. He claws at the walls like a coward in the darkness, ripping at them hoping they would have the texture of wall paper so he could get out. Eventually the clawing does Bruce no good. He feels his fingernails grinding down to the bone against the stone surface, if he sees them, he's sure he's leaving smears of blood where his fingertips touch on the wall. He can feel the burn in the darkness.

Then suddenly a shred of light can be seen under a crack of a wall. As the far wall starts to rise very slowly; it has the look of an automatic garage door. Bruce watches the wall roll up and the light consumes all of his body, his ripped up fingertips covering his brow until he gets used to the light. He feels his cold blood tips smeared across his wrinkled up forehead- the light was just too much. He slowly stepped forward, anxious, curious and a bit frightened of what may lay in the light. He stepped cautiously, approaching the light as if it were alien, like a infant baby when it sees something new for the first time.

He staggers, towards the door. He puts a hand on the corner of the wall, where the raised wall had been originally. Knuckles bending slowly around the foot thick wall of granite, the light bouncing off of them. The light slowly finds it's way up the rest of his hand, and then his forearm and then Bruce takes the first step into the light. He looked back to what was, and the darkness was gone. The overbearing aura surrounding him vanquished all of it. His breathing got more intense. There was an echo once again, and then he felt the air. This hot air was all around him; he could feel his favorite suit sticking to his skin. The air would come in deep pairs, just about every time that Bruce would inhale. And then the air stopped and turned into a huge booming voice.

"Bruce Jefferson," a deep voice rang through Bruce's ears. "You are here for a reason."

"Reason, what reason?" said Bruce. "Where am I, show yourself, I want answers," the small voice demanded. But the ominous voice waited, and waited. "I have things to do, I have to get back to my company. We're losing money-."

"Money is of no importance to you anymore Bruce," the voice said. "It has consumed you, has cost you."

"Cost ME? Money doesn't cost me anything bub," Bruce says pulling out his wallet. He begins to throw twenty-dollar bills around the room. They're nothing to him as they clutter all around his finely buffed wing tips. "I make money do my bidding. The currency is my slave and I'm its master. Are we done here yet?"

"It has cost you something no simple refund or exchange can get back for you. It has cost you your life."

"You're an idiot, I'm perfectly healthy," said Bruce. "I eat salads after every power lunch I have with my CEO's, I work out all the time, you don't know what you're talking about Jack."

"I see, well when was the last time you can remember any of these acts," said the voice. "Or perhaps the last time you met your CEO's or made love to your wife?"

Bruce feels a quick and sudden pound in the middle of his chest. He jumps up to the tips of his toes.

"You leave my wife out of this, whoever you are. What have you done to Felicia?"

"No more pain than what you caused Bruce, you freed her of pain and brought only suffering once I brought you here. What about the pain you brought upon her, with your secretary?"

"Vanessa is a very talented typist and makes one hell of a cup of joe," said Bruce. "Anything else you may say about us, I would consider a lie."

"It is only untruthful upon yourself Bruce," the voice said. "You were the one that cheated on your wife with her. Which is why I have brought you here today?"

"You have no truth on that, I'll sue you for defamation of character if you want to go any further. And where have you brought me; I want to know now, I want out. I want to go home."

"You no longer have a home anymore, you shall wander the face of the Earth until your crimes shall be balanced out."

"What are you talking about, I've been going home everyday for the past fifteen years back to my wife, and you're ridiculous. I'm going home and I ain't gonna help anyone but myself."

"But you see Bruce," said the voice. "That is exactly why you're here. The lying, the cheating, and the selfishness you represent to walk and stampede over your previous forth comers and associates in life. You only cared about yourself in life, and so now in death you shall care about everyone."

"DEAD?! HAHA, who's pulling this joke on me, I bet it's old Frank in accounting. C'mon out ya old shitter, turn off this interrogation bulb. Ya got me, haha-"

"Laughing about it matters not," the voice shuddered and vibrated Bruce's spine. The vibration moved from his head down to his toes and all around, this did appear to be a force not to reckon with anymore, he thought. "You died seven years ago Bruce. I planned your whole car accident, the set up- nearly everything. You are now here to serve humanity."

"What are you talking about, you're lying to me. I want to go home, I want out." And Bruce began to run, and ran in the ominously lit room. But there was no end to the space, nor the constant voice booming around him.

"Your lifetime of evil shall be repaid back in good. All of the pain and horrors you inflicted, you owe them all back to the world. Now it is a world in desperate need of a hero. It is your punishment to do so, to be their slave and hero. Whether you like it or not Bruce."

"Stop it, just stop it!" Bruce screamed pulling on the hair of his head trying to block the voices out. He then realized he had a lot less hair than he could remember.

"You can't remember much can you Bruce? Perhaps this shall refresh your memory." A huge mirror appeared before Bruce's face, he halted in his path and fear struck its final blow in his body. It was the fear of realization. Maggots squirming their way out of his rotting skin. One side of his jaw hanging on by a shred of existence. His hair falling out of its roots of a grayish-green scalp. Bruce finally realized. He was dead.

"What is this, what have you done to me?"

"All of your answers shall be answered back on Earth. You shall not remember this conversation, but you will enact out on judgment. Knowing between good and evil and protecting the innocent. Saving those who you would have crushed from before. You shall wander finding answers only finding more questions. You'll desire peace. Yet the only thing getting you closer to it is being a protector of justice, an upholder of truth and a citizen of the truest of humanity. Still living under your punishment of your rotting flesh. It'll be the one thing pushing you along on your journeys. Wandering on a quest to find what you did wrong, but everyone will remember you for what you did good- as the being called MORT."

And so darkness washed over Bruce, he awoke in a dark city. Once again he was not sure why he was in a foreign place of wonder. He was lying in a murky puddle of a dark alley. Placed his ravaged bony finger tips on the bubbly black top and pushed himself up. He looked down his knees, seeing the view of his torso and crotch. He was wearing a some sort of fancy business suit, and a small red posy in the pocket- but why? His shoes were finely polished, bums and rumagers started to creep their ways out of the shadows of the alley desiring them. The finest shoes any bum had seen for the taking, and they knew teaming up they could take this guy down. Bruce didn't notice any of them, but he did notice a young girl being attacked by some thugs at the mouth of the alley. She screamed as they ravaged at her clothes and Bruce knew he had to do something. The bums watched those fine shoes bend and dash to the call of duty, to be on the feet of a hero.