Thoughts flew through the Mongolian’s mind as fast as the blood left his jugular. The steel chair, the humiliation in front of the crowd, that… that Thing that bit him, tearing his throat out. He stumbled backwards into the wall with a thud, then pushed past anyone and everyone, intent on walking towards Dr. Drake’s office. Pressing his hand to his throat did little to staunch the waterfall of blood trailing down his body. His vision started to go black as he fell to the cold unforgiving ground. Blackness overwhelmed him as footsteps and hands tended to his mortal body.
Bold’s eyes snapped open. In front of him lay the open plains of Mongolia, dust carrying on the wind, kicked up from horses’ hooves. It was neither day, nor night, but somewhere in between, like a foggy day where sheets of mist greet your every step. He saw his ancestral home, the nomadic hut and pen set up, easily broken down if needed. He spotted his brother and sister, both in the pen with their ancestral horse. He was named Temujin, the ‘finest steel’; also the name of the great Ghengis Khan.
His brother and sister tended to the horse, looking at him, calling his name over and over, “Chuluun”. The breeze gently pushed him towards them. He shook his head, digging into his memories. He wasn’t a kid anymore. Their horse perished during a famine, sustaining the family a bit longer. Both his brother and sister passed away. This was not real. Chuluun shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He closed his eyes as the winds turned into a full force gale, trying to push him towards the phantoms. It seemed like forever, but the winds stopped. Chuluun opened his eyes.
The house became derelict, completely in disrepair.The pen with the horse and his siblings lay empty. He glanced around and noticed another gate between him and the plains and mountains in the distance. Bold felt as if he belonged on the other side of the gate. He moved towards the gate, when a voice filled the air. It felt familiar, yet it was not a voice he heard before. Sweet and subtle, like a mandolin playing in the distance on a warm summer night.
“Chuluun, my child, you have died.” The voice said. Bold turned towards the direction of the voice, finding nothing to look at. The voice appeared again, this time behind Bold. “However, the gate appears to be locked for you. It is not your time yet.” Bold turned and tried to find the voice, but was unable to locate it, only the wind. “I have only seen this once before, but the circumstances have changed. You are not ready to move on. You still have battles to be fought.” The gate seemed to pull away from the Mongolian. “Fight your enemies Chuluun, win your battles, revel in your victories, come back when you are ready.”
The wind started to pick up, the grass from the plains rustling lightly before picking up speed, whistling in the air, blowing sand and dust across the plains. The sound got louder and louder, the winds whipping around Bold, tearing at his flesh at speed beyond hurricane force. A stray rock was picked up and hurled at Bold. It struck him in the neck, knocking him out cold.
His eyes slowly fluttered open, everything was blurry. The sound of beeps from monitors filled the air. His vision started to come back, he glanced around the room seeing multiple tubes stuck in his arm, some cloudy white, some red, and others he couldn’t identify. He sat up. His throat felt stiff, as if someone shoved a lead pipe down it and connected it to a plumbing system here in Cuba. His mind wandered for a moment, the gates in Mongolia, THNG, the pain from his throat. He needed to clear his mind, he had to get fresh air, he needed to be free.
Bold sat up immediately, ripping the tubes from his arm, turning towards the IV and blood transfusions. The staff did a good job cleaning him up, not a speck of blood could be seen on anything but his bandages. He tried to form words, but nothing would come out, his vocal cords shredded from the damage done by THNG. He slammed his fist against the standing IV bags, knocking them to the floor, splattering them all over the floor, the fluids leaking out as they splattered on the ground. Bold knew he had to get revenge when he got the chance. He noticed his stuff by the side, he grabbed his biking leathers, tossing them on, making sure to cover his throat as much as possible. He stumbled through the halls, seeing figures, but everything seemed blurred, as if they weren’t real, just ghosts of people, passing by in a moment. Despite knowing some of the staff, he couldn’t recognize anyone. He dismissed them anyway. He needed air.
Chuluun found his bike, brought to the venue by the staff. He kicked it into gear and roared off into the night. His first few gulps of fresh air felt refreshing, as if he could taste the wind biting at his face. His vision corrected itself, no more blurry objects, everything felt sharper and crisper. He felt free, nothing but him and the road ahead of him.
Hours passed, the crisp night did wonders for his health. He spotted the neon lights of a bar in the distance. He ignored it for a while, but from the IVs and the injured throat, his throat felt as dry as the Mongolian deserts. Bold parked his bike next to the bar and walked in. The bar smelt of booze and vomit, a case of wanting to forget and drink the pain away for these folk. The Mongolian sat at the bar, tapping the bar slightly, the bartender came over, washing a mug with a dirty rag.
“What will it be amigo?”
Bold struggled with the words for a moment, his throat still in pain and tight from the surgery hours before. “T… teq.. uila an... C..rve…sa.” The raspy and graty voice managed to spit out. Bold started coughing a bit, feeling fluids enter his mouth, tasting his own blood. It tasted different, a little less metallic, more like the taste of eating some overly dead hunted animal in the wild. His drinks were quickly put in front of him. Bold shot the tequila without a second thought, washing the viscous blood along with the harsh spirit back down his throat. He sat and stared at the empty shot glass. House Tequila, he thought, probably watered down. It tasted like shit, but it did warm his belly a bit. Still staring at the empty glass, he started to hear the music from the boom box.
It started low at first, like some small drums, but it seemed to pick up, just like a heartbeat, over and over, the tune never changing. He thought at first it would pick up to a drop like those dumb Americans like to listen to with dubstep and techno, but it never did, just beat, beat, beat. Khan took a drink from his Corona, noting that it tasted like shit, even worse than the tequila. Bold started to get angrier and angrier, pissed off by the whole situation. He slammed his glass back down on the bar, standing up and yelling to anyone and everyone in the bar.
“Would someone turn that fucking music off!” The patrons stopped and looked at the Mongolian, looking confused about what he was talking about.
“What music ese?” One of the patrons said, taking a swig from his beer.
Khan barely managed to finish his statement before he started coughing violently, tasting the fucked-up blood fill his mouth again. He ran to the bathroom, to get away from the fucking music and clean himself up. He slammed the door shut behind him, spitting into the sink. The blood coming out was almost a black-red. He turned on the sink, watching the colors mix in the basin before swimming down the drain. He filled his hands with water, splashing his face a bit, staring into the mirror. He looked almost dead, his eyes were bloodshot. Practically all the colors in his eyes were red. What the fuck was in those IVs? He splashed some more water on his face. Glancing again, at least he looked less like a corpse like now. He dried his face off with some filthy hand cloth left to the side before returning to the bar.
He didn’t know how long he was in that bathroom, but by the time he came back out, a man was sitting in his seat finishing off his drink. The drink was shit, but you never take a man’s drink. Eying the man as he shuffled his way back to his spot, he watched the man leave through the back door. Khan followed up but was hailed by the Bartender.
“Where do you think you're going amigo?”
“For.. Sm.. oke” Khan was able to get out without sounding too raspy or coughing up blood afterwards. He went out the back door and saw the guy leaning on a barrel smoking a cigarette. He immediately looked at Khan, glowering at the foreigner.
“¿Qué pasa? -What’s up.-” The Cuban said, taking a drag on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in the Mongolian’s face. Bold just stared at him, his vision going a bit blurry again. The smoke aggravating his throat, but he stood defiant, not willing to cough up more blood yet. “¿Estas loco? -Are you crazy.-” The Cuban took the cigarette and pressed it against Bold’s skin, hearing the sizzle on the skin, putting the butt out. Khan didn’t wince, instead the feverish pitch of anger finally took over.
He released a haymaker right at the man’s head. He felt sluggish, weaker than before, but somehow, this rage fueled him. It felt invigorating, revitalizing, fresh. His massive fist connected with the drunk man’s skull, sending him crashing into the building, blood spattering the wall. This drove Khan into a bigger blood rage after he released another blow right at his head. All this anger, this adrenaline, it consumed him, and his sight went dark.
He was standing back in the plains of Mongolia, but this time, instead of it being foggy, it was tinted with a red hue. He knew from lore that this was a blood rage, when a warrior gets too angry and just lets loose, nothing to hold back, just pure emotion, rage and anger taking over. He had no control now, he would just have to wake up once it was over. He paced a bit in the plains.
The thing about this place is that it is sort of in between worlds. Time has no meaning, so it is a good place to recuperate. The only constant was the wind and the grey fog, but it was never red. The winds seemed to have calmed down a bit. He glanced around and saw five figures. These figures seemed different. They didn’t resemble anyone from his life or even his ancestors. They were wearing different clothes from the Mongolian garb, they were out of place. They didn’t speak, they just stared at Bold. They didn’t feel threatening, but they did feel like powerful beings.
“Who are you?” Bold asked. The figures turned to look at each other, before turning back to look at Bold. Suddenly the vision dissipated. Bold vowed he would figure out more if he saw them again. Khan pulled himself from the man, leaving him a bloody mess in the alley. He coughed a bit and wiped off his mouth and chin clean before heading back into the bar.
The Bartender looked at the foreigner with a weird look, before nodding towards the Mongolian. “That was a long smoke break, how are you feeling?”
Khan stopped, turned his head and broke into a smile for the first time in a long time. His throat no longer felt stiff.
“Never been better.”