Authors: Phoenix Williams
The major shot one
of them as they came through the wall. “Fall back!” he
yelled over the ring of gunpowder. “Retreat! Fall back!”
He lined up another shot and blew an attacker off his feet.
Orange uniforms
darted backwards, stopping at intervals to return fire at their
relentless pursuers. The invaders were so close behind them that the
soldiers couldn't remain in the open line of fire before them.
“Take cover!”
the commanding officer hollered to his men. He could see the terror
in their eyes. He did what he could to diminish the fear with the
confidence of his orders and the aloofness of his body language. The
assault never lessened.
He peeked over the
crate he crouched behind and watched a hulking black man with
dreadlocks climb through the demolished portion of wall. Despite his
gigantic form, the man moved quickly, darting from cover to cover as
the soldiers fired at him. There were few of the mercenaries left
standing. They held their ground with as much patience and
organization as they could. In the end, it wasn't enough.
A flash grenade
detonated and everything went white. No sound could penetrate the
ringing in the major's ears, no image in his eyes. When his senses
began to creep back to him, his men were dead. Guillotine stood
before him, holstering his gun. The major searched for his firearm
and realized with despair that he had dropped it. Defeated, he turned
and stared into the face of his captor.
“On your
knees,” the voice of Guillotine hissed. He drew an oversized
and terrifying looking machete and gestured to the ground at his
captive.
The major obliged
with his face upwards. His mustache frowned along with his lips.
“You're the Guillotine, aren't you?” he asked the monster
before him.
Guillotine grinned.
“Swine,” he said before he struck the man down.
-Chapter Thirty-Three-
Davey
Davey Tolmes sat in
an off-the-road diner that stood untouched by time in the desert of
Nevada, early Friday morning. The coffee he had ordered first had
gone cold, and the eggs sat uneaten at the mercy of his fork. He
watched the entire place out of the sides of his eyes as he nibbled
on his toast. Two women ate at the other end of the bar, speaking
loud and giggling as they drank their iced teas, waiting for their
food. The cook was the only staff in the building. He was also the
waiter, having taken the orders and brought out Davey's eggs. He was
back in the kitchen cooking the ladies' meals.
The rest of the
restaurant was empty. There were only about four tables and six
booths, all sitting lifelessly in thin rays of light. The windows to
the place were small and closed up to avoid getting dust in the air.
One window faced the parking lot on the table side of the room, the
largest source of natural light. There were rustic art deco lighting
fixtures along the wall that illuminated local art. Each piece
appeared unique and characteristic. The variety between abstract and
lifelike was balanced and oriented to create the cozy, dark
atmosphere that smothered the diner.
Sipping on his
coffee, Davey recalled the previous few days and how he came to sit
here.
On Wednesday, he
stood in a sea of refugees at a camp set up outside of Los Angeles.
The city had been evacuated because of the heavy crossfire that could
be encountered in any of the hundreds of battles that had broken out
since the Decree Tower Attack. Everyone was directed to one of the
dozens of refugee camps that had been installed at a radius from the
city. Davey was at Camp Roosevelt.
The crowd he found
himself in on that night gathered before a stage. A comedian had just
wrapped up his routine for the refugees, stepping off of the stage to
the side and into the crowd. A military man came up and introduced
the next band as the musicians finished setting up their instruments.
Everyone in the audience still chuckled at the last line of the
comic's set. The air buzzed with positive energy. There was an aura
of community and collective worth.
Davey felt sick.
Unpleasant feelings washed over him and he bounced anxiously, waiting
for the show to be over and the tents to be assigned. He looked all
around but took none of the images in. Everyone else seemed upbeat
and the energy smothered him.
A man who tried to
move his way through the herd of people stopped when he saw Davey. He
almost continued on, but he looked a second time and recognized the
face as Davey noticed him staring. “Whoa, are you Davey
Tolmes?” the man asked with disbelief. The former late night
talk show host didn't respond. “Wow, dude, it's really you!
Holy shit, I'm a huge fan, man! I watch your show all the time.”
“Hi,”
Davey replied.
“What are you
doing here?” the man asked, the awe modifying his tone. The man
shook his head with realization. “Right, yeah, my bad. I mean,
like why aren't you up there?” He gestured to the stage.
“No one asked
me,” Davey answered.
“No one asked
you?” the man was shocked. “They have Davey Tolmes in
their camp and they don't ask you to tell some jokes? Those idiots,
man.”
“They don't
know that I'm here,” the celebrity said. “I don't think
so at least.”
The fan's grin
stretched from ear to ear as he looked deep into Davey's eyes. An
awkward moment of silence passed before the man noticed. “Well,
hey, when we get our tents, would you like to join me and my wife for
dinner?” he asked, rubbing the roots of his hair. “We
brought up a couple of steaks I think we could spare for a guest.”
For a moment, Davey
thought about it. An idiotic, expecting grin rested on the fan's face
as he waited for a response. He was honestly going to decline and
stick with the rationed meals.
But,
he had thought,
when
will be the next time I ever have fresh meat again?
The food was
excellent. Ever since the beginning of the war, it had been hard to
come across such tender delicacies. It had been seasoned by the man's
talented wife, who ate with her husband across from Davey. There was
a glow in both of their eyes of excitement at having such a well
known and respected guest with them, even if it had to be in a
refugee tent. The celebrity himself kept almost silent as the man
told their tale. He introduced himself as Jack and his beautiful
wife's name was Macy. They were some of the last people to evacuate
Los Angeles.
“It was
pretty terrifying, cutting it that close,” Jack explained.
“Three different groups were trying to seize the eastern
portion of the freeway, where we were just trying to get out. The
road was clogged like nothing I'd ever seen before. People were
getting kinda crazy, not able to handle waiting on the freeway. As
soon as the first Knights' attack began, everyone jumped out of their
cars and either ran for the hills or joined the lunatics. The
soldiers did their best to organize us all and send us in a safe
direction, but as soon as we were off of that freeway, we were on our
own.” Jack took a sip of his beer and opened another for Davey.
“The military guys totally lost track of us. All we had to go
on was a handful of rumors about how far the camps were and where the
Army had initially told us to head. It was such a vague direction
that we actually had to stay two nights out there in the hills. We
had no idea how well the camps had been concealed in order to divert
unwanted attention. When we finally got here this afternoon, we had
to go through a hell of a hassle trying to prove our allegiance and
our citizenship. We thought we were going to get turned away, didn't
we, Macy?”
His wife nodded,
gulping from her drink. Davey couldn't keep his eyes off of her as he
listened to the story. Her eyes were either kept low or darted from
each man's shoulders. It was apparent and notable to Davey that she
found it difficult to maintain eye contact with anyone. At first,
Davey had suspected that she disagreed with what Jack said. Like she
had a much different recollection of how events unfolded. After a
while of listening to the stories though, Davey realized it was
because she had seen some things in their journey that were difficult
to witness. Macy was distracted by those images for too long to look
elsewhere. She avoided looking anybody in the eye for too long,
afraid that they would be able to witness the things through the
reflection of her pupil. Davey understood the feeling. He didn't get
out of Los Angeles unscathed either.
Macy had a round,
silky face. It was shaded like a brown egg, but even smoother. Her
chin was delicate and her eyes large and childlike. Brown lochs of
hair dangled down past her soft features and draped over her sloping
shoulders. Davey was drawn to every bit of her. His heart beat just a
little faster whenever he glanced over at her as they ate. His
fingers would get warm and numb. He felt like he did something he
shouldn't every time he looked into her face.
He left once the
meal was finished, thanking his hosts. In the dark, he managed to
find his way back to his small tent.
Inside was nothing
more than a cot, which he laid upon and sought sleep.
On Thursday,
sometime in the still hours of morning, the nightmares woke Davey up.
He gasped for air in pitch darkness. There was only the hum of some
people around the campground's fire pit chattering ringing in his
ears, the night otherwise silent. The air was damp and humid with
springtime.
Once the horrible
images faded away and consciousness gripped the man, he sat up and
thought. What came to his mind was the angelic face of Macy, smiling
through the grime of the world. When he thought of her, the fear went
away. All the regret and shame that he felt so overwhelmingly was
quelled for the time being as her bright eyes burned in his mind.
He grabbed his coat
and made his way out of his tent. With a little hesitation, he found
his way back to Jack and Macy's tent. His eyes adapted to the
darkness by the time he sneaked in through the flap. Jack snored and
itched his beard, turning onto his side. Davey almost panicked but
managed to keep himself quiet with his own fist. Macy was on her
back, lips parted as she slept like a creature.
Davey stepped with
as much care as possible over the dirt floor, as slow as he could.
When he was by Macy's side, he slipped his hand over her mouth. She
stirred as he began pushing his other hand down into her pajama
pants. He watched over her with a sad, longing look. How much he
wished that she could be his for real. His heart hurt for her as a
survivor, both connected by life-changing terror.
We should be
together,
he thought as he moved his fingers about.
We could
console each other.
Macy's eyes bolted
open as Davey touched her. Without hesitation, she started panicking
and struggling against Davey's hands. Her cries were muffled only a
little by his palm, which he had trouble keeping held over her face.
His grip tightened as he pushed back down on her head into the cot in
order to hold her down better. Still, he tried to move the offending
hand around her underwear. She kicked and tossed about, made a
terrible amount of commotion. The noise grated on Davey's mind like
chalk on a board, creeping along his spine in a strange sensation. He
could tell he hurt her, but it didn't matter. Now she needed to be
quiet and enjoy his company.
“What the
hell are you doing?!” Jack cried, woken up by the racket. Davey
turned around in time to see the man stumble upwards, lunging after
him. Without any hesitation, Davey pulled out the knife from his
jacket and brought it up hard into Jack's stomach. The husband
stopped cold in his lunge and Davey caught him, supporting him. Eyes
wide and lips stone cold, Davey pulled the knife out and relished in
Jack's pained grunts as the metal slid out of his abdomen. The
celebrity stabbed the knife into his fan's torso again. And again.
And again. Over and over, Davey stabbed until all he did was coat his
pants in a dead man's blood.
“Jack!”
Macy cried as she managed to sit upwards, tangled in her bedding.
Davey watched Jack drop from his hands and fall over, gurgling in the
dirt. No time passed after the body hit the ground before Davey
turned around, ripped the pillow out from under Macy and pushed it
down over her face. Her screams were tiny and quiet from below the
fabric as Davey pushed harder and harder on the pillow. Macy's limbs
flailed and tried desperately to throw her assailant off of her, but
his grip was iron. The noises faded and the struggling transitioned
into light twitching, then complete stillness.
He stood in the
tent with the corpses, breathing deep from activity. Blood trickled
around his shoes from the draining man. For a few moments, Davey
didn't know what to do. All he could do was stare at what he had done
and clean off his knife. Then, as sudden as he had arrived, he was
gone.
He slept in his own
tent.