Samson could feel Saint’s nails slowly cutting into neck. Saint was covered in dirt and mud, yet his clothes were not wet. The blood and purple liquid dripped into a mixed puddle on the floor. Samson felt his last breath leave his lungs and the world start to become fuzzy. Saint’s sharp grin looking towards the hanging casket was the last thing he saw before his eyes faded to complete darkness.

He found himself outside his church laying against the bronze statue. It was morning. The sky was a light pink and the sun was rising over the horizon. His car was there, the graves were untouched, and all the blood and gore that consumed him was gone. He arched his head, taking in his surroundings. He saw her. She was sitting on the hood of his car with her arms crossed. Her teal streaks of hair flicking in the early morning wind. She waved him over. He tried to stand but realized he couldn’t walk. He glanced down at his legs which had turned into bronze. He waved to her. She laughed and started walking towards him. The sky turned from pink to red, clouds quickly consumed the sun, and a dark funnel cloud began whipping up the dirt. The graves became uncovered, ground cracked, and the church began to crumble. She sank to her knees. Blood dripped out of her stomach, slowly oozing down her legs. She tried to call out, but Samson couldn’t hear her. He tried to crawl to her, but he was pinned to the statue. Her eyes filled with blood and she fell to the ground bleeding both dark blood and that devilish purple liquid. Through the sand storm a figure appeared on the horizon waving to him. It was bright, shining through the sand. The funnel cloud was upon them. Lifting her lifeless body into the air, sending blood though the cloud and raining down on Samson’s head. He shouted, trying to reach her, but she was gone. Swept away in the funnel cloud. The cloud died down just as quickly as it came. Leaving nothing but a destroyed, blood-soaked land. He looked up to a towering figure with blue skin and black Stetson. Before he had a chance to scream, the figure fell into the ground disappearing into the dirt. Samson looked to the hills hoping to see who ever was standing brightly on the ridge. There they stood, glimmering in the now red sun, but Samson could not make them out.

“Samson!” He heard them shout. The sound echoing loudly throughout his brain.

He gasped. Waking up on the tile floor and vomiting more purple liquid. He saw Saint pacing around the chamber clutching Ruben’s book. Samson pulled himself to his feet. He could barely breathe. Saint had crushed so deep that Samson believed he may have destroyed his larynx. He sank to his knees trying to grab any breath he could.

“Morgan always did like to flower things up,” Saint mumbled, tearing carelessly through pages.

He tossed the book against the wall. The pages fluttered and landed face down, crinkling a good portion of them. His gaze made its way up the casket. His eyes still guarded under the large black hat but the crane in his neck suggested his view. He ground his teeth, sending small shards of tooth the floor. He made his way to the drawer, seeing the bundles of papers crowding the corner. He grinned and snatched them up as he mockingly waved them at Samson.

“No habla espanol padre?” He laughed.

Samson stood up again, coughing a little more purple liquid on his lips which he wiped away.

“You intend to release her?” He mumbled hoarsely.

“Suddenly taking an interest in me?” Saint gurgled.

“Ruben made sure she would remain here.”

Saint dropped the pile of paper and limped his way over to Samson.

“I am disappointed in you Samson. I thought you’d be more 21st century. You believe the ravings of the heat stroked lunatic inside that book?”

“I don’t believe you. If that were the case, you wouldn’t care about some old casket forgotten to history.”

Saint grinned and grabbed Samson by the hair, pulling him under the casket, lifting his boney finger at the base.”

“Alright, since you want to be involved what does that say?”

“Danger,” Samson said grimacing through the assault.

“No, next to the graffiti.”

Samson looked closer at the base. The faded words he made out.

Nevara Florentino

1867-1885

Survived by her three children

Saint released Samson’s hair.

“Your hero Ruben, he and his posse of self-righteous masons cornered and butchered an eighteen-year-old mother of three. Where was that in his memoir?” Saint yelled.

Samson stood in silence not sure how to respond to this knowledge.

“She was a monster. The children with no eyes.”

“The children with no eyes. Okay.”

Saint dragged over to the book still mangled on the ground. Clutching it in his palm he began paging through it. He stopped mid-way through.

“The fire spitting wolf. The demon that consumed her. He whittled himself down into her blood and marrow making her the shell for his destruction. Did they care about that!”

“I know what it feels like to be some demon’s shell,” Samson barked back.

Saint slapped him with the book. dislodging his back molar and making him bleed from his lip. Samson coughed more on the floor, holding tight.

“You are blinded! She holds everything. The knowledge to a better world. But you read the memoir of her killer and hold to that truth!”

“If your path to a better world requires violence to another it is not a better world!” Samson spat back.

Saint growled, tossing the book to the side. He pulled the mason jar of purple liquid from his coat. He clutched Samson’s frock, lifting him into the air. Samson, rejuvenated, struck at his wrist, sending the jar out Saint’s grasp. The jar toppled in the air before shattering on the floor, staining the first book in the purple liquid. Saint howled, turning to the wall, he threw Samson violently against it. Samson felt what he was sure was his spine cracking. He fell to the floor, crumpled and in pain. He couldn’t feel his legs from his waist down. Saint grabbed his hair again, dragging him to puddle of broken glass and purple liquid. He dropped him hard on the pile cutting Samson’s face in the process. Lifting his boot, he pinned it against Samson’s neck.

“Drink! I tried making it easy, but you wouldn’t accept.”

Samson could feel the glass digging deeper into his face, inching closer to his eye. He began lapping up the liquid, trying not to swallow any glass but the effort was not enough. Once he had lapped up a decent amount, Saint lifted his foot and pulled Samson upright. Samson felt the feeling return to his legs. He wiggled his toes to make sure.

“Are you done being obstinate because I can make it worse.” Saint growled.

Samson shook his head.

“Good, now get this casket down.”

Samson sat on his knees and brushed out the small shards of glass still imbedded in his gums.

“I can’t, they are too heavy. Even if I worked all night.”

Saint growled looking over the room. He slowly dragged himself to the far corner of the room. He ran his hand against the wall, climbing up and down every marble tile. His hand rested on one of the middle tiles, far out of Samson’s reach. He reared back and shattered through the stone with one strike. He reached his hands into the opening and produced a shovel and a pickaxe. They were still in very good condition with only a small bit of rust peppering the metal of the tools. The handles were sleek, the wood still strong but very dry. Saint grabbed them both and tossed them to Samson. Samson’s heart sank. He had hoped Saint would have broken the chain and saved him the plight of more manual labor. He clutched the pickaxe in his hand and approached the first chain. He lifted the axe above his head, nearly losing his balance as he was still woozy from the most recent attack. Bringing it down, it chipped against the stone, leaving a gravy boat sized hole. He swung again, cracking further into the stone. Releasing the chain more with every swing.

The minutes crawled by, each swing getting closer to breaking through the stone. Samson swung heavily, crushing against the rock. The brace which held the chain broke free from the wall, landing on the floor with a large thud. The casket rocked slightly against the chains that still held it. The strain could be heard in the walls gradually lofting to the ceiling. Samson leaned against the axe exhausted. Saint made his way towards him.

“Next one.”

“It would go faster if you helped me.”

Saint growled at him.

“Next one!”

Samson nodded, picking the axe up and striking the next part of the wall. His hands became blistered from the handle, small slivers making their way into his hand from the swinging. Again, he swung. The loud strike bellowed out in to the cavern as if he was mining for copper. He dug deeper into the stone. The brace becoming looser with every swing. He dug the wedge into the plate, pulling it from the wall and tossing it haphazardly into the middle of the room. The plate bounced and rolled towards Saint’s feet. Saint jumped back as if he was about to step in fire, clutching the back wall to regain his balance.

“Watch it!” He barked.

Samson wiped the sweat from his brow. He stared at Saint curiously before swinging the axe over his shoulder.

“Sorry, I will be more careful.”

He quickly moved to the next chain. The strain of the casket was beginning to roar as the six remaining chains strained to hold the casket in stasis. Without hesitation, he began his swings, chipping stone and metal around the room. Saint moved to the far corner, shielding himself from the barrage with the sleeve of his duster. Samson hewed at the chain with vigor, refusing to stop even as the marble put more cuts into his hands. Like clockwork the plate fell to the ground etching deeper divots into the floor. The strain of the four chains reaching to the ceiling sounded as if they were crying. The metal screaming as it bent under the weight. Samson opened his collar, allowing the white clerical collar to fall to the floor. He swung against the stone in a battle axe like fashion, chipping the pickaxe as well as the marble. His ever-widening strokes mauled up the wall, with several strikes even hitting far from the plate. As he struck the wall the loud strain of the chain chimed out even shriller. He again dug the wedge in the plate. Positioning the axe for torque he pried the plate from the wall snapping the wedge off the axe. He collapsed on the ground, leaning his head against the cold stone. The casket swayed freely, causing small grains of stone to fall from the ceiling, coating the floor in a layer of sediment.

Saint lumbered over to Samson, towering over him, letting the tails of his duster rest on Samson’s knee.

“The casket is still hanging,” he said with distain.

“I know,” Samson responded through deep puffs.

Saint ground his teeth.

“I can have you drink more glass, if you are looking at being difficult again.”

Samson held his hand up.

“I just need a moment to catch my breath.”

“Fine!” Saint snapped, turning his head from him.

Samson picked up Ruben’s memoir, slowly closing it and stuffing it in his coat, securing it in his belt. He rose up.

“I understand now,” he wheezed.

Saint turned back to him.

“You understand what needs to be done?”

“No, I understand why I have to do it. The casket cannot be opened by anyone who is not seen as righteous in the eyes of God, and you certainly are not. You need me to open it.”

Saint laughed in his throat.

“Very astute. Just because you know your role doesn’t mean you won’t fulfill it.”

“On the contrary, I think I have had enough.”

“Is that so!” Saint shouted.

Saint clenched his fist and Samson sunk to his knees. The numbness in his legs returned as did the pain in his head. Fighting through the pain he grabbed one of the chains and threw it in Saint’s direction. Saint jumped back and released his fist. Samson was quick to his feet, grabbing another chain and throwing it. This one landed over Saint’s shoulder causing him to scream. Samson kept moving, grabbing another chain, swinging it under Saint’s legs, sending him to the floor. Saint cried in pain trying to pull the chains off. Samson didn’t stop. He grabbed the third chain and wrapped it around Saint’s neck. Saint coughed as the chain began burning into his skin. He swung wildly at Samson getting caught in the grip of the chains. Samson threw the last one over him. The swaying to and fro dislodged Saint’s Stetson from his head, revealing his bald scalp. He glared at Samson, yet his frightening features increased. Where normally the eyes rest there was nothing but a blank patch of skin. Not even the sockets remained. He howled like a wild animal, even more guttural and inhuman than before. The chains were burning into his flesh sending wispy blooms of smoke up the cavern.

Samson ran towards the water. He guessed he could swim to the other shore before Saint freed himself. As he prepared to jump, Saint let out a one last screeching howl and struck the floor. It cracked under the assault. Large openings spread out through the marble. Samson lost his footing just before the stone lions. The purple liquid returned, draining out his nose. His headache returned in the form of a migraine. He clutched his head as the slow feeling of numbness returned to his legs. Saint rose to his feet, swinging the chains off his body and crashing them into the wall. Samson crawled towards the water, the pain reaching down into his spine, down to his ribs. Saint grabbed his hat and placed it back on his head. Samson laid flat on the ground, the pain becoming unbearable, coursing through his whole body. Saint was upon him, clenching his fist tight. He grabbed Samson’s ankle, hoisting him up into the air. He gripped Samson’s ankle tightly, shattering the bone. He breathed deeply, growling like a predator about to eat its prey.

“I am growing tired of these attacks. Have I not made you suffer enough?”

He dropped Samson’s head under the water, holding him there as Samson swung his arms, trying to breath. Saint lifted him up and dunked him a second time. Water filled Samson’s lungs. He coughed in the water as the blood filled his head. Saint rose him up again.

“Had enough! Too bad!”

Turning back to the room he whipped Samson through the air, snapping his knee. Samson soared above the casket looking down at the stone, waiting to fall his death. In a last desperate attempt, he reached out, clasping one of the chains, riding all the way down. His hands, blistered and cut, were now bruised and burned from the friction of the chain. He struck the top of the casket hard. It bounced and whined under his weight. He could hear the metal pop in the wall. Saint looked up at him. Samson gripped the side of the casket.

“I won’t help you! You might as well kill me!” Samson shouted at him.

“So be it!” Saint roared.

Saint limped to the wall, lifting his hand, he struck the wall, cracking the marble. The crack climbed the wall, loosening the chains.