This is the 80th in a series of 365 Flash Fiction stories I’m writing. You can find out more about the challenge here.
The Last Living Saint, by Jonathan L. Lawrence, 19th February 2013
Word count: 997
“Anything I do for you would cost me my soul, contact or no contract, ” Danny said.
“There’s no need to be melodramatic,” the gentleman said, “I have billions of souls, I haven’t come here for a single paltry. No, I just need you to carry a message for me.”
“I’m not really in a fit state to be messenger, if I was so much inclined,” Danny said.
“Your current state is what brings me here, you’ll be dead soon, so just pass a message on,” the dark figure said pressing his palm against the prostate form of Danny who was trapped beneath the wreckage of a car. “This means war,” the he whispered.
Suddenly Danny awoke in a cold metal box, draped in a sheet. He pulled the sheet from his head and tried to get his bearings. The box was small, he couldn’t sit up. After several experiments he found some kind of switch and a door beyond his feet popped open, he crawled out naked and cold. He wandered around and eventually found a changing room with ill fitting clothes in it, so he got dressed. It was quiet, he guessed through the fog that haunted his mind that it was night.