Oh, How We Drift

Chapter Six

6.

The elevator doors swung open and the dimly lit chamber was suddenly flooded by the bright office lights. Chris stepped out from the doors and took a heavy swig of his coffee, gulping down the caffeine in huge mouthfuls. He walked quickly down the office hallway, stepping into his small glass prison and locking his door behind him. He set the mug down on the table and ran his hands through his hair, stepping to the large glass window at the back of his office. The day had been an eventful one; a middle aged white woman with dyed blonde hair who'd fallen down her spiral staircase in her lavish house, an elderly man who suffered a fatal heart attack on the bus back home after visiting his wife in hospital, a cyclist who was crushed under the wheels of a careless lorry driver and his cargo, not to mention the biker early in the morning.

He looked out of the window at the storm clouds that hung over the city. The threat of rain here was constant, yet the waters never came, instead the constant overcast skies loomed overhead like a burden carried on the shoulders of Atlas. Chris was sick of it, he was sick of the skies, he was sick of the grey, he was sick of the heights and the roads and the crowds and the work. Telling people they were dead was hardly the easiest career choice, but that was just it, it had never been a choice.

He walked away from the window and sat at his desk, picking up his coffee and taking a deep, long gulp. Outside his frosted glass door he saw shadows of other workers walking back and forth on their busy schedules. It was late in the day and yet most people still had a few hours left of work to perform, paperwork to fill out, busy phone calls to make to higher ups and lower downs, yelling and screaming in the end-of-day-commute. The normal thing.

As he flicked through his little black book he checked off names with a dark black pen, the figureheads of people he'd guided either up or down the ladder of ascension. The underworld would leave today with a few more playthings, and maybe the big man upstairs would harvest a couple more angels for his collection. It never mattered to him, he'd never even seen the 'Great Lord', only his less desirable counterparts.

The day he'd died was a strange day, he struggled to remember now, it had been centuries since he'd lived on earth, since he'd breathed fresh air, since he'd tasted real food, since he'd genuinely spoken to anyone human. He remembered the hot blast of sun in the desert beaming down on his skin, chainmail weighed down his already heavy form and his sweaty hands gripped the slippery hilt of his broadsword. He looked around him at his comrades, their white garments stained with blood that matched the red English cross on their chests. Their crusade had lead them deep into the heart of the middle east, where the lands were strange and foreign, an almost alien world to the lush green fields of England from where they'd once belonged.

He and his soldiers had wandered through a small shanty village earlier that day; children had been playing in the streets whilst a pair of elderly men had played music for them from the roadside. He'd smiled as a little girl ran up to him, handing him a small mug of water from which to drink, he took the mug and gave his gracious thanks, passing it round to his men who eyed him with suspicious glances before reluctantly drinking from the cup. The old men had stopped playing their music, instead they now stared at the gang of Englishmen, peering with wisened, suspicious eyes.

"I don't like the way they're staring at us Christopher," One of the men said angrily, raising his sword slightly, "Almost as if we were the devil in sheep's clothing." The group suddenly started whispering between themselves.

Chris turned around and raised his hand for quiet, "These men mean us no harm, they just disapprove of our mission." Chris turned to the men and spoke to them in their own tongue, "Don't mind my men, we are just passing through on our way to meet with our army. We are a small group, all you see is all we are, seven men; we ask that we may take some water with us on our journey to the holy land, perhaps some food for the long road too?" The men stared back at Chris with judging eyes, the use of Arabic language seemed to have swayed their initial judgement, albeit only by a small amount. Chris had taken the time to learn the local tongue in his many years marching towards Jerusalem. It had helped him in many situations where he had to rely on the compassion of others for support.