: I will become immortal
: Well, I've got a news flash for you, brain trust. That's not how it works. You die, and a demon sets up shop in your old house, and it walks, and it talks, and it remembers your life, but it's not
You know, they have these stories and these movies I don't know if they're true about zombies down in Haiti. In the movies they just sort of shamble along
, with their dead eyes starin' straight ahead, real slow and sort of clumsy. Timmy Baterman was like that, Louis, like a zombie in a movie, but he wasn't. There was somethin' more.
There was somethin' goin' on
behind his eyes, and sometimes you couldn't see it. Somethin' behind his eyes, Louis.
Don't think that thinkin' is what I want to call it. I don't know what in the hell I want to call it. It was sly, that was one thing. Like him tellin' Missus Stratton he wanted to cut a rug with her. There was somethin' goin' on
in there, Louis, but I don't think it was thinkin' and I don't think it had much - maybe nothing at all - to do with Timmy Baterman. It was more like a... a radio signal that was comin' from somewhere else
There is a thin, mean world that exists between life and death
, a place of grotesque horror
, devoid of pity and kindness. The things
there prey on transitory souls migrating from here to the hereafter, like salmon spawning upstream. However, they wearied of living off scraps and decided to go straight to the source. They can sense the moment we die, and so schemed to snag a choice body from our world - one dead but comparatively undamaged, cramming it with their surprisingly subtle technologies
. My flesh and bones, my marrow and genetic code were rewritten to make me into an engine of creation. My blood
became a vehicle designed to infect others - drones, warriors and workers, their sole purpose to construct a corner of that alien environment here on Earth.
I went straight down to the Coopers
an' had them lock me in a room with the boy. Called the demon. Ordered it into that smashed, torn little body an' watched it crawl around, sealing up the holes an' rips behind it. Then I gave Harry Cooper
his pride and joy
back. I legged it
. I ran.
Not that anyone noticed. So long as Harry had his son, he wasn't gonna go barmy an' start some soddin' holocaust, an' that was all they cared about. But I had to get out. I couldn't stand bein' near the Coopers a second longer, an' I couldn't stand those little five-year-old eyes
, borin' into my back like fuckin' laser beams. I was the only one who knew the score. Not Harry or Norman
, not even Brendan
or Rick the Vic
. I know magic's double-dutch to you, mate, but this bit's horribly simple. The control sigil
I cut into that thing's soul? Well, a cut on a soul's just like any other one. It scars over. It heals. An' sooner or later, it's gone like it was never there.
Chas: How long?
Constantine: Two or three years at the most.
Chas: But... that means-