Corruptable

Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Extra Bodies

"Everything alright?", Sarah called from the carriage.

Robert held his breath, half expecting to be dead. He opened one eye, then the other. The first thing he noticed was that all the lamps had returned to light, as if they'd never gone off in the first place.

"I– I believe so," he uttered, half believing it.

The fog had lifted a bit, enough for him to see the horse that stood face to face with his own. It was calm, but notably anxious. Behind it sat an old man at the reins. He was short and fat. His white hair was combed over and his bushy mustache nearly grew past his cheeks. He wore a ridiculous purple jacket over a bright green vest, with a sad looking bow tie and black pants. His black eyebrows were in a knit and his eyelids hung extremely low, almost shut.

"Bill? said Robert, as he took a heavy sigh of relief. "Doggonit, Bill you nearly scared me half to death!"

The old man just sat, staring blankly

"Bill! Hey Bill!" Robert said, sternly.

The old man blustered awake and blinked a few times.

"Oh Bill," complained Robert, "You fell asleep again didn't you?"

"Wuzzat?" The old man sputtered to life. "Oh, it's you. Naw, I was jus' restin' m'eyes there"

"Mhmm. Say, uh, where're you headed there, Bill?"

"Well I was uh... ya see..." he went cross-eyed for a moment as he tried to recall.

"Oh yeah, s'right, I was headed up to the ol' spook-house"

"You don't by any chance mean 1313 Shaded Glade, do ya?" Robert questioned Bill.

"As a matter of fact, I do believe I do."

Robert gave a smug countenance. He crossed his arms and his tone became increasingly condescending.

"And just how long do you intend to take to get there, hmm? 'Round eighty days, perhaps?"

"Eighty–what th–just what're ya gettin at?"

The window if Bill's carriage swung open.

"What is the hold up? Is there a traffic I was not aware of? Or are you such an incompetent driver that you have forgotten that there are places to be?" a disgruntled voice with a heavy Russian accent called from within.

"Hold yer horses," said Bill, calling back, "not too much left to go"

"Listen, pal," said Robert, "I just so happen to be headed up that way myself, why don't you just turn yourself around and follow me, hmm?"

"B–" the old man looked around, suddenly realizing he was headed the wrong way.

"Oh, uhh, well," he said, then, suddenly looking up at Robert with his sunken eyes, "sounds like a plan to me! Hey Ambassador," he called to his customer, "just hang tight; we're takin' detour!"

Without a single word of validation, a hand reached out from the carriage window to slam it shut.

Ambassador Alexander Nitrokoff mumbled something in Russian under his breath. It had been a terribly long trip from the embassy, and he was beginning to believe he was being taken in circles. The usual bags under his eyes had only grown heavier over the past few nights. He worked tirelessly on his great oration for the Committee of Societal Development. When he first received their letter asking to give a speech on the benefits of social anarchy, he nearly tossed it out. It seemed too trivial a thing for a man of his stature, but to be perfectly honest, he needed an excuse to get out of the embassy for a while. Lately, he'd been a little uneasy there; candle lights would flicker out, hinges would creak, he would see shadows moving in dark corners, and he felt nauseous and anxious quite a bit.

He sat back in the carriage and straightened his bow tie and sturdied his white collar. He was an older man, in his early fifties.

The ambassador had a somewhat squarish face, with a flat dome for a scalp. His permanently disappointed eyebrows sat just above his permanently disapproving eyes, which were separated by a rather large, downward pointing block of a nose. From his nose sprouted a mustache, which was properly trimmed just above his lower lip. His light brown hair formed somewhat of a ring around his head, cut off at the ears, not unlike a laurel wreath. Both above and below that line of hair, he was left bald, except for a small patch on the top of his head toward the back, and a rather large beard, which completely hid most of his lower facial features. His tuxedo jacket was left open to reveal a white undershirt, held in place by the red sash that cut across from his right shoulder to his left hip. His broad figure was made more rounded, especially around the stomach, while sitting in the small carriage.

His patience, if he had any at all, was growing thinner than his hairline. He breathed a heavy, tired sigh and took out a small pair of glasses from his jacket pocket and placed it on the tip of his nose. He looked down at an unfolded piece of parchment and began reviewing his speech as the night grew dark and the air grew frigid.