by James Sperl
Inferno glared into the sea of dirtied and bloodied faces and issued a look of horrifying sincerity. “The countdown begins now. Five...”
A heightened sense of inevitability swept over the crowd. Death was near, and everyone felt it.
“...Four...”
A lone man hastily set his rifle on the blacktop, his actions mimicked by a pair of distraught women, who laid down a shotgun and a pistol. Their surrender encouraged other nearby groups to follow, as a smattering of guns found their way to the ground.
“...Three...”
The relinquishing of arms spread across the crowd in an anemic wave. Some buckled under Inferno's threats while others clung to their firearms in a stoic display of solidarity—they would not go down without a fight. That was until Inferno reached the penultimate number in his countdown.
“...Two...”
The immediacy of a promised massacre proved to be too much. Rifles and handguns, knives, makeshift spears, and machetes—all were placed on the ground by the vast majority of the fearful people of New Framingham. But not by everyone.
It wasn't enough for Inferno.
He started to say the number “one” but was cut off at the initial part of the word's pronunciation. The sound he uttered was a distinctive “whuh,” it the last thing out of his mouth before a voice in the crowd interrupted him.
“Don't do it!” the voice screamed.
* * *
Andrew was halfway to the truck where Inferno had delivered his threat.
“...Three...” Inferno said coldly into the megaphone.
Andrew could have easily put a bullet between his eyes from this distance if he'd had his Blaser bolt-action with him. Hell, he could have done it from twice the distance. But he didn't have his Blaser. Instead, he was relegated to the AR-15 he had commandeered from someone who no longer needed it. Most gun enthusiasts would consider the assault rifle an upgrade.
Not Andrew.
He detested the weapon. He hated everything it had come to represent, its stigma as the go-to gun of choice for mass murder weighing heavily on his conscience. That he could wrestle with morals at a time like this seemed unfathomable. Inferno was a lunatic hell-bent on killing everything in his path. So many people had died already, and Andrew believed to the depths of his soul that more would follow if he were allowed to leave this place alive. He had to stop him.
Still, irony was a bitch: in his hands rested the very type of weapon used to kill his wife. And now, he had to rely on this same weapon to take down a lethal megalomaniac.
“...Two...”
Morality was only half the battle—Andrew wasn't proficient with an assault rifle. He had no knowledge of its kick or how it responded when fired. His shots would be all over the place. Because of this, he needed to be as close as possible to Inferno to assure maximum hit potential.
He had yet to consider the issue of what happened if and when Inferno fell. Only two scenarios seemed likely. The first was that his followers would be so stunned by his death that their shock impeded their ability to respond. With luck, the recognition of a failed objective, inclusive of a downed leader, extinguished any further desire to fight. Then cooler heads could prevail to sift through the aftermath and work toward a peaceable resolution.
The second was that Andrew's action initiated an all-out bloodbath—just as Inferno had promised. He didn't delude himself: the former was the ideal; the latter was more likely.
He slipped his finger inside the trigger guard and took position.
Eyes cast about in nervous anticipation, as everyone awaited the end of the countdown. Resistance fighters scrambled to lay down their arms, men and women whose faces wore expressions of regret and no small amount of fear for what happened next.
The time was now.
Andrew swiftly raised his rifle and drew a bead on Inferno. Thoughts of all that he had lost, of his buried wife and child and the now burned-out home he had built in their memory, flitted through his mind like flicked Polaroids. Anger replaced necessity. Andrew would never get back what had been taken from him. What had been stolen. But he could help preserve someone else's future memories before they suffered the same fate.
His finger tensed on the trigger.
Inferno brought the megaphone to his mouth. “O—”
A familiar voice screamed, “Don't do it!”
* * *
“Two...” Inferno barked into the megaphone.
Clarissa streamed toward him, Dustin trailing her step for step. She didn't know what she was going to do, only that she needed to do something.
She couldn't let this happen. Not now. The Sound was over. Humanity had a second chance, and she wasn't about to let that do-over begin with mutual execution by people whose primary motivation to kill was derived from fear. Without fear, they had the chance for a new life. New beginnings. Everyone could start over. But to achieve that, she had to convince everyone of what she believed. No—of what she knew.
She weaved past scared citizens and fierce fighters with purpose, sifting through the crowd until she was close enough to Inferno that she thought he could hear her. Clarissa cupped her hands around her mouth, as Inferno raised the megaphone to his lips.
“One,” was what he intended to say. But Clarissa chopped it off at the knees.
“Don't do it!” she yelled.
Heads turned in shock to look at her. Eyes wide with either optimism or rage gaped at her. A circle began to form around her as people cleared away.
Clarissa sucked in a courageous breath and repeated what she said.
“Don't do it!” she screamed again. “Don't set down your weapons! He's lying!”
The people that had been gawking at her looked at Inferno, who stood motionless. He glared down at Clarissa and slowly lowered the megaphone to his side.
It was all or nothing now. Clarissa started toward him, the crowd parting around her. People muttered audibly at her audacity as she passed by. Some cowered, fearing the threat of retaliation for her insolence, while those who still possessed their weapons nodded approvingly, emboldened by her brazenness.
Inferno's dutiful warriors sprang into action to apprehend her, but he stayed their intentions by commanding, “Leave her.” He eyed Clarissa with unsettling calm, his head canting inquisitively. Straightening, he brought the megaphone to his mouth.
“Clarissa,” he said behind a switch-activated click. “How good it is to see you again.”
Clarissa grimaced at him. How she wanted to leap onto the top of that truck and scratch out Inferno's—Travis's—eyes from the holes in his skeleton face mask, to inflict as much damage upon him as she could until someone pulled her off him. It was a fantasy scenario to be sure. For even if she managed to evade his loyal followers, who swarmed her on all sides, she'd never make it past the two individuals who stood at cool attention at the base of the truck and eyed her with unnerving serenity. Either one would kill her with a snap of Inferno's fingers without breaking a sweat. She knew this not because she knew them, but because Valentina had told her about Inferno's devoted murderer apprentices, Ludi and Mr. Stitch.
Clarissa stopped a comfortable distance away from the pair and waited to see how they responded. When they did nothing, she turned her eyes to Inferno. She glared at him with burning hatred, but rather than give him the satisfaction of engaging him, she turned her back on him and yelled out to the crowd.
“Don't surrender! Once you're defenseless, he'll kill all of you! Every last one of you! Even you, his followers!” she said, singling out several war-painted men and women from the perimeter of the crowd. “He's a sick, twisted man who has no allegiance to you, only to himself. He's using you to get what he wants, and it has nothing to do with New Framingham.” Clarissa turned then and shot Inferno a venomous look. “It has to do with me.”
The crowd grumbled. As expected, Inferno's warriors expressed disapproval at Clarissa's accusation, but it was the ones who remained silent and cast questionable stares at th
eir leader that heartened her to continue. That, and the fact that no one had shot her yet.
“But no more of us have to die today. Especially not for him. He wants you to believe the world is ending, that there's no future and that you should live only for the moment. Before today, I might have agreed that the future was uncertain. But not now. I stand before all of you to tell you that the nightmare we've lived through for the past several months is over. The Sound is gone.”
The crowd erupted into an all-out protest of disbelief. Faceless voices hurled expletives and hate-filled sentiments. “Bullshit!” one person shouted. “You're a fucking liar!” screamed another. Personal attacks ranging from “You stupid cunt!” to “Go fuck yourself, bitch!” were added for good measure.
Clarissa anticipated the reactions. In no pre-imagined scenario did she envision people simply laying down their weapons and going about their day. What she alleged took convincing, and that convincing would need to be bolstered by unshakable conviction. Clarissa thought she was up to the task, but the vitriol and hatred spewed at her from so many people weakened her resolve.
Then she saw Andrew.
Edging his way to the perimeter of enraged followers, he gazed at her with a ghostly calm. It was as if he didn't exist within the angry mob, the fighters too taken with expressing their outrage to notice him.
Andrew spoke to her using only his eyes. Subtly, he glanced down at the rifle in his hands then cast a look in Inferno's direction. His brows rose into inquisitive arcs.
Clarissa understood the mime: Do I shoot him?
That no one had tried yet baffled her. Certainly, others in the crowd had the opportunity, but no one had taken a shot. Were people that afraid of him? Of what would happen if they succeeded in taking him down?
Inferno stood idle as the crowd whipped itself into a frenzy. Inexplicably, he had allowed her to speak her piece, even going so far as to call off his minions so she could accuse him of being a self-serving tyrant. Just as inexplicably, he had remained silent through it all. It left Clarissa feeling somewhat conflicted.
Andrew could put an end to Inferno's reign with a pull of his trigger. It would be over just like that. She would be lying to herself if she said the idea didn't tingle the part of her mind still clouded by thoughts of revenge. But she wasn't that person anymore. There had already been too much death. Too much killing. Putting a bullet between Inferno's eyes—Travis's eyes—would be a quick fix, but she feared the resulting backlash. The action could incite even more fighting. She was no Pollyanna. Though she abhorred it, she understood violence was sometimes necessary to achieve a peaceful end. Fight fire with fire, as they say. But she didn't want to give in to that way of thinking. Not anymore. She could find a way out of this. For all parties involved. Besides, a public execution was too good for her once-upon-a-time rapist.
Delivering Andrew a covert head shake—no—Clarissa took a step toward Inferno. Her movement prompted Ludi and Mr. Stitch into guarded stances, even though she had no intention of approaching any closer.
“I know you don't believe me!” she screamed at him before she turned to address the crowd. “I don't know if I would believe me either if I were in your shoes!” The clamor settled to a flurry of sporadic shouts. “But it's true. I know some of you have seen for yourselves a place of darkness in your dreams. A place where scary monsters lurk in the shadows to take you away.” The shouts hushed then dwindled to crypt-like silence. She had the crowd's full attention.
“I've been there too. I've seen what you have. But I figured out how to beat them. We figured out how.” Clarissa motioned to Dustin, who stood several steps away from her. She held out her hand; Dustin took it and joined her by her side. “We destroyed it. It's all over.”
Random cries of distrust were shouted out from the crowd—but the vast majority of people continued to listen.
“We were sent there,” she continued. “By Rosenstein. I know some of you have heard that name and think you know what they are. Maybe you've heard stories of their benevolence. That they're responsible for this place, for your safety. But those were all lies to draw you here.” Clarissa thrust a finger at the sky. “They are the ones responsible for the Sound. They are the ones who created it, who lured you all here so they could use you as guinea pigs to find a way to stop it.”
Wheels of thought turned in the minds of those who had committed themselves to defending New Framingham. Quizzical scowls replaced worry lines on foreheads, as battle-ready stances devolved into hip-leaning postures of consideration.
For the restless marauders, the truth was less impactful. They frowned curiously—Who or what was Rosenstein?—as they tried to make sense of what Clarissa was saying. Despite their confusion, one thing was clear: they were listening. More than that, it looked as if some believed her.
“They are the ones we should be fighting,” she went on. “Not each other. We are not enemies. Not so long ago we were neighbors. Friends. People who you would say hello to on the street. How did we get here? How did we go from those people to this?” The crowd had no answer. “But we can get back to who we once were. We can be those people again. The Sound is gone. Now we have the chance to—”
Inferno had had enough.
“A very entertaining story,” he said, his loud voice cutting off Clarissa's non-amplified one. “I have no doubt you would like everyone here to believe that you and you alone have somehow single-handedly brought an end to what has terrorized the world these past months. How convenient that you've done so now, right as we take over.”
Clarissa swallowed dryly. Some of Inferno's followers began to nod in eager agreement. Others shifted restively, hands fidgeting in uncertainty. She found Andrew again. His finger poised over the trigger, his eyes imploring an approval: Please. Still, Clarissa shook him off.
“I admire your attempt to sway people into believing your fable. That took courage. But you've always been strong.” Inferno glared with fierce determination at the many faces that looked back at him. “It's true that I know this woman. That she's part of the reason we are here. But I assure you, she is only a small part. Our goal to seize this place for our purposes hasn't changed. We will take what we want and discard that and those we deem useless. Can you fault me for wanting to reunite with such a fearless old friend when I learned she was among those we intended to raid?” Clarissa shook her head in disgust at the use of the word “friend.” “A friend who is both dauntless and stalwart in her convictions? A friend who would make a more than worthy addition to our family?”
Cries of “No!” rang out from around the parking lot.
Inferno settled back in satisfaction. “I knew you would see the opportunity as I did. But this talk that the Sound is over is irresponsible. Even I would not delude people into believing such hope existed. If there is a God, then we have been excluded from His good graces. All that remains of this world is what each of us carries through it to survive it. That is our reality.”
Inferno's attempt to regain control was working. His people became riled. Fists pumped the air, and faces grimaced in anticipation of further conflict. Clarissa felt played. Inferno had allowed her to speak uninterrupted for the express purpose of making her story seem concocted and desperate. But mostly to make her look foolish.
“But enough is enough,” said Inferno. “People of New Framingham, the time has come to surrender yourselves. I am through entertaining false notions of an optimistic future. There will be no countdown this time. You will lay down your arms now, or I promise you the conse—”
“No!” bellowed a man from somewhere to Clarissa's left. Once again, heads spun as if on a swivel to seek out the person who defied Inferno. His followers became unruly, their patience for protest reaching an end.
The man, though, was undeterred.
“You all heard the Sound!” he yelled. “You saw the sky! Something is different! Something has changed! He just doesn't want you to trust yourselves!”
Clarissa dropped her
eyes to the ground in focused concentration. That voice. She knew that voice. She craned her neck to get a look through the crowd at the place where people backed away from the offender. Her heart galloped in despair when she saw Jon, who was left standing in a widening circle of asphalt.
He gestured at Inferno as he accused him, but unlike when Clarissa spoke, he had attracted the barrel ends of several dozen firearms. But Jon didn't stand alone. Not entirely. Several men and women from the New Framingham security force had formed a loose circle around him. They aimed their rifles at those who threatened their comrade. It was a classic standoff.
“I know this woman too!” he roared. “Clarissa is telling the truth! If she says it's over, then it's over!” Jon turned from Inferno to address the people that would just as soon kill him than listen to him. “And you all know it! All of you! Don't let him control you. Think for yourselves! Trust what you saw and heard. The Sound is gone!”
Several people lowered their weapons. Even more exchanged looks with their fellow compatriots, each of whom appeared to be suddenly fraught with questions over the purpose of their actions. The seeds of doubt had been sewn.
Inferno brought the megaphone promptly to his lips. His entire body went rigid with the furious response he was about to deliver. But just as he inhaled a full-lunged breath to unleash his wrath, he lowered the megaphone back to his side. He stared past the crowd into the far distance.
That's when Clarissa heard motors.
Like a wave effect, the crowd about-faced to gawk at the train of military-grade vehicles that now streamed in from New Framingham's southern border. Headlights blinded everyone from seeing what was coming. Then the lead vehicle peeled off to a side and screeched to an urgent halt. Subsequent vehicles mimicked the behavior of the first, each one veering left or right in an alternating pattern until they formed a continuous, impenetrable wall of 4x4 trucks, armored Humvees, and personnel carriers. The two-group standoff had just turned into a three-way deadlock.
