Authors: Phoenix Williams
The rancher stared
at the creature and its blank face. It swayed from side to side as it
spoke. All he could do was gurgle out a few terrified and
unintelligible blurbs of sound. The walls around him turned black,
then transitioned to images of Tim shooting from the wall of his
compound.
“You see the
image before you; describe what's happening to me,” the being
started.
The rancher's brow
wrinkled in discomfort as he witnessed the crazed rage in his eyes.
The way his lips curled skywards as he pulled the trigger. It made
him wince. Still, he opened his mouth in defense of himself. “I
was protecting my home from intruders.”
“You were
killing people,” his captor stated. There was no anger or
disgust in its tone. Just solid articulation. “At what time did
this become a possibility in your mind? When did you decide to be a
murderer?”
Tim's face blushed
red. He couldn't tell if he was angry at the implication or if he was
ashamed because of it. He tried to keep his tone steady as he
answered. “When people broke onto my property and tried to kill
me, in my own yard!” he retorted.
“How many did
you kill?” the creature interrogated.
Tim put his
forehead into his palms and thought about anything except how many
murders he had performed. Murders? Even he was thinking it now. Was
he not just a man protecting his house?
“I know how
many it was,” the creature said again after a long moment of
silence in which Tim patted his sweaty face. “The number
doesn't matter. The crime doesn't either. I can see your thoughts,
Timothy. Your true crime is the belief that you hold in your actions.
The blatant refusal to accept full responsibility. Do you understand
this?”
Tim's mouth hung
slacked as he listened to the voice. His eyes were wide in horror,
but understanding did not glimmer within them.
“Perhaps you
are unable to,” the being suggested. “I will give you one
chance. A choice.” It spread its long and thin arm to a
platform that had morphed out from the wall. Upon it rested a glass
of clear liquid. Tim followed the gesture and stared apprehensively
at the thing. “If you drink this, you will go into a deep
slumber. You will be imprisoned in a dreamless, comatose state until
such time as we leave the Earth. Or you can choose to wait out your
five minutes and be exterminated.”
The being climbed
out of the hole in which they entered, then turned around to face Tim
a last time. The old man was pale as he knelt in the bleached
chamber. He looked up at the thing just as the hole began to seal
itself.
“There is no
mercy on your soul,” it said. The hole closed tight and Tim was
left alone with the glass of water.
He looked back down
at the liquid. There was no way for him to tell how much time he had
left to make his decision, but he didn't need long. The glass shot up
to his mouth and the liquid was downed. It tasted just like water, no
a flavor at all. His heart raced as he waited for something to
happen.
The world vanished
and the floor swept away from below him.
-Chapter Thirty-Eight-
American
Prevailers
Andy rode along
the highway with his gun clutched in his fist. His eyes seldom
blinked as he crossed the border into Maryland. He did his best to
stick to back road driving, trying to remain hidden from the
creatures that had spent the last twenty hours collecting and
detaining people. He had felt the voice, too. Nothing but fear
remained in his stomach once the words had faded away. But not fear
for himself.
The sun still
ascended into the sky but was clipped by the edge of a cloud. It
spilled rays of sunlight all over the luscious landscape and trees as
they played in the breeze. There was nothing on the long and lonesome
strip of highway except for a truck speeding in the distance and
Andy's tiny motorcycle.
As Andy had
figured, it was only a small matter of time before one of the winged
creatures spotted him and began swooping downwards. It flew so fast
as it darted through the air like a fish does in water. It slammed
into the side of his bike with the broad part of its shoulder. Andy
was thrown high into the air. His motorcycle flipped over itself and
smashed into the highway, tossing sparks into the air as it scraped
along. Andy soared through the air like a mad rag doll, crashing hard
into the strip of vegetation that grew along the road. The wind had
been knocked clean from his lungs.
He turned over and
stared up at the clouds, gasping for air. Without a moment to collect
his senses and react, the creature dropped down from the sky and
landed on top of him. It leaned its face in close to his as if it
gazed deep into Andy's own. He tried to struggle underneath the
humongous creature. As his arms flailed, the being clasped onto them
and pressed them deep into the ground. Its legs stood on the
hitman's.
The voice hissed
from inside. “Your crimes have been recorded,” it told
him. “The wicked are forfeit to me. Your trial will determine
your fate.”
The hum that grew
in the background had arrived and then cut out. Andy could recognize
the sound of the engine rumbling off and car doors opening. Andy's
attacker turned its faceless head toward the noise and stood up off
Andy. He sat up to see a truck parked in the middle of the road and
about six men moving outside of it. There was no pause in the action.
The creature posed
as the men charged at it. Each one of them had an edged weapon in
their hands; axes, machetes, and swords swung about as they ran.
Before they could get all too near, the being spread its wings and
lifted off into the sky. It hovered above them. Andy continued to
lean on his elbows in the grass and watch the six new faces all
turned skyward. They stood in apprehensive stances.
“It's gonna
come back down. Just wait,” one man said to another.
Each of them were
impossible to look at well as they spun around, tracing the path of
the circling creature above the road. The smooth surfaces where its
eyes should be pointed down and almost taunted the militants on the
ground. They all gripped onto their weapons and had them ready to
swing. They all perspired, awaiting the winged creature's next move.
As the man had implied, it did not flee. Flying about in mad shapes,
it continued to tease them.
Andy was able to
steal a long gaze at one of the militant's face, as it was the only
one that faced toward him instead of the thing in the air. The hitman
laid back down into the grass and made himself as invisible as
possible. He managed to turn his head so he could watch.
The beast made a
crazed dive for one of the men. It tackled him down into the road
hard, disarming him. It used its legs to pin its target to the
asphalt and its hands to begin squeezing the life out from the
human's throat.
“Go!” a
man with a New York accent instructed. All of the militants circled
the creature. The man it choked panicked, trying to trash about, but
his attacker was far too powerful to throw off. The weapons began
swinging through the air. The men surrounded the winged being in a
bizarre but deliberate formation. The creature turned its head to
look at them all as it was attacked. It lost its grip on the man's
neck, who laid in the road sputtering. Feathers and blood were thrown
out into the air as the militants hacked away. The creature emanated
a frightening, shrill whimper that growled from within Andy's breast.
With just another swing, a massive feathery wing toppled to the
earth, severed from its body. Another cleaved the remaining wing free
of the beast, and it toppled over itself.
One of them walked
over and kicked the thing. It reacted only as a limp corpse would.
“It's dead,” that man said. He turned to the militant who
laid in the street, rubbing his neck. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
He grabbed his hatchet from the road and stood back up.
Andy could see the
man he recognized strolling over toward where he lay. He turned over
so that his face was concealed in the grass. He waited, his heart
pounding in his temples. He felt a hand grab his shoulder.
“Let's see
who we have here,” the familiar voice hissed. He pulled Andy
over and without delay the hitman had pulled his three-eighty auto
out and had begun pulling the trigger as fast as he could. It clicked
over and over, but nothing happened. Davey grinned at him.
“Woah,
buddy,” Barney Slechta said from beside the fallen creature. He
ran up and drew his machete at Andy, resting the cold blade on the
gunman's chin. Andy stared down at his handgun with confusion as
several more edges were pointed at him. He was surrounded. He
surrendered his weapon.
“That's not
going to work, is it?” Davey asked with his horrible mock tone.
“Who are
you?” someone asked from behind Andy. The hitman continued to
lay in the grass, leaning on his elbow as he stared at the faces.
Barney stood out as
the leader of these men. “Hey!” he grabbed Andy's
attention. “What's your name?”
“Andy,”
the assassin replied.
Barney looked over
this new man, sizing him up as he considered him. “Guns don't
work, Andy,” he explained. He gestured to the dead creature in
the road. “Not since they've been here.”
“Slechta,”
a man with short blond hair beside him started, “let's go.”
Barney turned back
and looked at the speaker, but turned back to Andy. “You're
packing heat there,” he indicated Andy's firearm. “Were
you a cop? A soldier?”
“A tabloid
columnist,” Andy answered without missing a beat.
“Did you have
any experience with combat, Andy?” Barney interrogated.
Andy's neck felt
tight with the sensation of half a dozen blades against it. Still, he
managed to talk clear and eloquent. “Oh yes,” he replied.
“Then we need
your help,” Barney began. “You need to come with us and
help us fight back.”
“Fight back?”
Andy scoffed.
The man with curly
black hair who had been tackled by the beast pointed his hatchet back
toward its corpse. “They can be killed, man. We can stand a
chance.”
“Not much of
a one,” Andy replied. “Why is he with you?” he
indicated Davey who smirked all the while. His eyes almost looked
hungry.
“How do you
mean?” Barney asked. “He fought against the Russos in San
Francisco. He's a skilled soldier.”
Andy's eyes became
angry slits the more he stared at Davey watching him. His eyebrows
pressed down hard on his eyes and his lips were cold. “A
skilled murderer? Yes, he is. This man kills innocent people. Women
and children.”
“Davey
Tolmes?” Barney said the name with as little severity as he
could get away with. “You have seen the Davey Tolmes Show
before, haven't you?”
“I know who
he is,” Andy said. He stopped staring into the infuriating,
enthusiastic face of the serial killer and turned up to Barney's. “Do
you?”
Barney turned to
Davey with a look of expectation. Everyone watched him to listen to
him explain himself. Still, he smirked.
“Some people
can never forgive you for the things you're asked to do during war,”
Davey commented. His eyes pierced Andy. Davey looked back at Barney.
“But I never killed children. That I know.”
“He's lying,”
the hitman interjected. “He killed for amusement. It had
nothing to do with war.”
“Now Andy,”
Barney started, “you can't just go throwing accusations at my
men. What people do during battle can be terrible, but they still
have to live with it. You have to as well.”
“Barney, we
should just go,” the blond man said again. “Leave him.
He's way too hostile to work with.”
“Damn it,
we're stretched as far as we can be!” the leader bellowed. “I
mean, come on, we need help. This guy is already trained.”
“Yeah, but he
sounds deranged,” the other militant retorted. “He seems
foaming at the bit about Tolmes. He could be dangerous. In fact, we
shouldn't even leave him. He can't follow us.”
“Nah,”
Davey said. “I don't think there will be any problem here.”
He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward so that his face was
only inches away from Andy's. The other blades retreated back to
their owners as he moved. “Will there?”
Andy looked around
at them all. The faces turned so curious toward him, the eyes peered
and gazed for the source of his morality. The lips almost seemed to
mouth little noises as they thought about letting him live, let alone
join them. The weapons were no longer against his throat but they
were not sheathed yet as they were held in the militants' hands.