A Depraved Blessing

by D. C. Clemens

  The two-legged menace lunged at us in what must have been a leap of thirty feet. It forced me and all others to recede from its presence, with much of my group and I pulling back just behind the truck’s front bumper, though not completely, so as to keep an eye on the situation. The fiend presently stood behind the last truck, a mere seven or eight yards from me. While this was the closest encounter yet with this type of enemy, the haze of the sandstorm made it a little easier to endure. Still, I could recognize how emaciated its loathsome figure was. Its rubbery skin was tearing away from bone in places and blood never seemed to stop pouring out from its wounds and orifices. An ill-fated soldier was now the central focus of the creature’s bloodshot eyes. He desperately relinquished his bullets as his fear consumed the air. Paying no attention to the point-blank rounds striking every part of its frame, the senseless monster seized a stranglehold of the soldier’s neck with a bare hand and slammed up the nuisance against the side of the truck with such force that the truck nearly tumbled over. At that moment, with my eyes fastened to the horrifying sight that was too horrific to look away from, the soldier was engulfed in flame. It was redder and brighter than any flame I had ever come to witness, having me believe I was looking into the epicenter of a star. The soldier was soon completely replaced by an orb of white hot fire that the infected must have created. There were no more sounds emitting from the victim, neither scream nor bullet, though the writhing of the soldier showed he was still alive. I couldn’t tell if the soldier did it on purpose or if the flames activated it, but the detonation of a grenade was triggered, leaving both the attacker and victim lifelessly on the ground in my next glimpse. The comrade of the fallen creature was more successfully dispatched without danger to anyone else.

  With the horror casted away, we resumed embarking the vehicles. I entered the second truck, where my mother already rested, along with Siena and Eloram. The only space left for me was by the corner of the tailgate. Not feeling comfortable taking back Dayce in my precarious position, I allowed my mother to keep her hold of her grandchild, fighting the potent instinct to take him in my protective arms. Moreover, I contented myself in believing I would be of some use in aiding the soldier sitting opposite me, with the notion of offering him cover fire, if it proved necessary. Mr. Kay and his granddaughter were unable to move into our transport and had to take the truck following our own. As the convoy launched forward, I saw that despite the marring the tires the third truck suffered in the grenade blast, it still rolled on its way relatively smoothly, though it was difficult to see it in the slipstream of sand that seemed to derive from every which way, which was exasperated in the drive. I, for one, was glad that I was spared the opportunity to look upon its scars and the bloody traces of the lost soldier.

  My eyes labored against the wake of the dusty storm, unmistakably sent by an unseen force that desired to see us squirm. I didn’t know how much longer I could have taken its bitter foray, but as if someone wondered if the sandy blizzard could get any worse, it did. In the first opportunity the truck was able to turn east, it did, meaning the gale was funneled into the opening of the truck. Surveying my surroundings became almost impossible without needing to rub the sand out my eyes for as long as a minute, only to see no more than a second of my surroundings. What I did see mainly consisting of a repetitious, speckled image of the lowly road, lighted by a scattered light of unknown origin. I was positive that the same grains of sand were zipping by me and were being recycled to strike me later.

  I certainly felt the truck moving below my feet, but the calamitous situation we were in forced it into a sluggish caution. Time became a muddled concept as I could sense her losing sway over this world. Minutes morphed themselves into days around the crawling truck. I felt every pebble we bowled over, and the adrenaline boiling fervidly in my veins caused the unrelenting impact of every sand particle on my aching skin to count weeks like seconds. So in what must have been anywhere between four seconds to eight years since the commencement of our journey, I heard an unusual gravelly sound, promptly followed by the much more familiar noise of a crash that had to have originated in the direction of the third truck. I barely had the time to turn my head in the attempt to discover the cause, when our own truck took a sharp swerve to the left. I was not fully braced for the sudden motion, in effect, my body pushed against the tailgate. It could be that the tailgate was destabilized from a previous exertion, or it was faulty to begin with when an apathetic manufacturer didn’t take as much care as usual, but whatever the exact reason, the barrier easily gave way. In the fraction of time between being in midair and the confrontation with the road, I could cite the truck’s rasping engine, some pithy gasps, shocked screams, and exclamations of alarm. At first I thought these sounds to be twisted from my disordered mind, until there were two voices that bested all others. I heard Siena scream out my name and Dayce yell out “Daddy!” before they too dissolved into the sand with the others.

  Before their echoes could disappear completely, I met the unfriendly ground with an impact that convinced me that my previous estimation of the truck’s leisurely pace had been severely underestimated. The pain that stabbed my left shoulder was worse than I ever deemed feasible, however, the worst of it lasted only for a split second, for my head also met the terrain. The resulting blow deadened all other sensations and sent me into a stark daze for an indefinite amount of time. While these brutal indicators had signaled the completion of my tumble, my wildly spinning brain could not send or receive any clear data, not even the obvious fact that I had stopped falling.

  The first credible message from the outside world was my fingertips telling me that they were attempting to stabilize themselves on the road and use it as leverage to force my body to stand up. I was sure I had not given the command to begin standing, but I did not oppose it. It required all the strength in my body and more than all the power in my mind to finally succeed in lifting myself to my feet. I searched for signs of my truck, but it had already been inhaled by the sandstorm. The sense of isolation struck me hard and gave me the set idea that I was the last living being on this world. That is, until I found the only thing that I wasn’t searching for, and yet, the only thing that would have given me some nature of clarity at that moment. Blocking much of the road to my left rested the answer to a question I had not yet asked myself, and being the sole reason why I was standing where I stood. Propped up like an overzealous speed bump was a wall of dirt several feet high. This was what the obstruction the truck had veered to avoid and what caused me to nearly vomit from every type of pain.

  Before I could contemplate this striking feature any longer, some movement caught my attention. At the fringe of my vision, stirring on the ground three or so yards to my right, was a desert-colored soldier, and even across the sandy air I recognized him to be the same soldier who had been opposite me in the truck. Just as I was about to move to aid him, a raving phantom materialized from the monsoon of sand and tackled him before he could rise. That moment of pure fear expanded exponentially when I realized my hands no longer held my rifle. I began to desperately seek every which way of me, returning my gaze more than once back to my hands, praying I would see it once again in my grip.

  Century-like seconds befell me, each one acting like an iron chain clasping every limb, before I was able to behold the weapon laying a few feet to my right, wishing for my hand to save it from being buried by a future sand dune. I felt the chains that were heaved upon me break away. As I reached for the primitive projectile weapon, I could make out the stomach-churning, squelching sounds of the helpless combatant being cyclically pounded into the ground, all while the infected grunted heavily and satisfactorily with every sickening drubbing. No matter how badly I tried to take away the image from my mind, I could actually feel the helpless soul’s bones being beaten and crushed enough to become a permanent lump on the road, and I saw it all in my mind’s eye as clearly as if I was the one performing the callous act. I hoped his life wasn’t stubborn and had
let go long ago.

  I held the gun tight in my hand and, with one fluid motion, I whirled around to face my imminent executioner, and toward what was possibly be the last image I would ever witness. My eyes settled on the most sordid excuse for a face that I ever deemed conceivable, whether in the realm of the living or in the abyss of our dead. The skin on the infected being’s face was ruptured around the eyes, making it a wonder its eyeballs did not roll out of their sockets. Nevertheless, it was these blood-filled eyes that possessed a sheen of intuition, as though it understood something important that I could only comprehend if I joined in its malady. Due to its tattered lips, its red stained teeth were eternally exposed. It was already halfway en route for my soul by the time I heard the bullets being relinquished from the barrel. Since my left arm couldn’t aid in lifting my gun, I was forced to aim low at its lurching legs, the only chance I had to just maybe live to see another moment of this life, as dismaying as it had become.

  One of the bullets I let loose found its mark in one of the creature’s knees. As it stumbled and fell, its engorged, distorted hands reached out for me. It was too far out to reach my body proper, but the contorted hand was able to clutch the rifle’s barrel and wrench it away from me with one monstrous tug. I had never felt such a disparity in my mind and body. One was in the greatest state of disjointed haste while the latter was as immovable as a granite mountain. The demonic eyes of the infected never unglued themselves from mine. I could hear it craving for my life, wanting to quench its thirst with my blood, squeezing every ounce out of me. Oddly, the idea to make a run for it never fully established itself. Perhaps I was more frightened of what I couldn’t see in the storm, or knew that even its hindered form was still more than a match to outrun me, or maybe I simply wanted this fucking thing dead.

  With time becoming more merciless in its rapidity, and as the creature at my feet was convulsing and twisting its way to me, I drew out my less formidable revolver, not knowing if it was powerful enough to accomplish its purpose. I aimed the firearm at its head, but the mixture of blinding sand and its erratic movements converted the two feet that divided the gun from its target into a good two miles. I understood that anything less than perfection would leave me vulnerable to its incursion and it would all be over. Suddenly, all the thoughts filling my mind completely vanished, leaving only one left. Acting out this lone plot, I stepped closer and shoved the barrel into its mouth and pulled the trigger until the chambers were empty. Its vile, gooish blood splattered in all directions and the abhorrent eyes continued to stare at me, but the flames they once held were extinguished, leaving me staring into unreserved pits of hollowness. Its bulk became limp and crumpled on the street, looking to be half the size of what it was a moment ago.

  I stood static for an unknown number of eons, expecting to awaken at any moment with Liz by my side and having Dayce rushing up to jump onto our bed. In contrast to my expectations, the singing and beating of the sandstorm hooked themselves into my eardrums, latching the sense into this version of reality. It was through this open pathway that a stifled scream was able to revive my other sensory organs, helping me recall that the dead infected at my feet did not represent all that threatened me. Gunfire rang loud across the desert to the west and the cloudy silhouettes of fleeing people came into view. They headed for a line of buildings lining the southern section of the road. Feeling I had little choice but to find safety in numbers, I decided to fuse with this assembly of the damned. I had taken only a step in their direction before the high-pitched shrieks of the unholy sprang from every way. Even the discharge of bullets that had come from my revolver did not sound as crisp as those shrieks.

  As I continued to run closer to the terrified, I passed a scene that needed an extra-long, dissecting glance. Lying sidelong between two walls of rock and sand was a military truck, which I figured had to be the last in my lost convoy. The design of the four-foot wall was exactly as the one I had seen farther up the thoroughfare before being attacked, except my truck was adept enough to avoid this eccentricity. I could only conclude that these obstacles had not been set hours beforehand, but had been warped by our enemy, the only technique fast enough to raise that much rock to surprise a driver, the only method that explained the coarse sound I had heard just before the vehicle crashed. But was it truly possible? Were the infected learning to warp lucidly and using the Spirit-given ability to set traps against their worshipers? Such as it was for most things, there was little time to think of the implications. More motivating cries of the infected signaled their morbid approach.

  The vague ciphers absconding before me were now becoming clearer, and so were their voices. One despondent voice in particular reverted all others to shadowy paradoxes. It was a youthful cry that tore more of my heart open, a broken exclamation that wanted to return to her grandfather. The search of its possessor bore fruit when I saw Sendai being steered away from the crash site by a soldier.

  I never stopped running once I had begun moving and no soul around me could even think about stopping to take a breath, even though we were all in need of it. The assemblage collected into the nearest building, which also happened to be the easiest to enter, with its wide double doors allowing the crowd to enter without stampeding over one another. The blustering wind became gagged and the sand before my face shifted into a dim light, as the heavy wooden doors were bolted behind us—the deep echo telling me we were inside a spacious room—and for the first time since I could remember, the searing on my tender skin had ceased. It wasn’t until I rubbed the residue of sand from my eyes did I see we were inside a Spirit Temple.

  A hasty assessment had me believing I had wandered into one of the oldest buildings in existence. There were no modern materials that composed the globular building, except for the glass in some small triangular windows circling twenty feet above us and nestled between archways ten feet below the domed ceiling. Everything seemed to have been birthed from Evon herself—the podium, the pews, the decorative carvings on the wall, the bare floor, even the two dozen or so people I was with. This was an ancient and pure Evon that could not be touched by the blight outside, standing as pristine as it had been built from the sands of this desert the day before. Not including the smoky, pale light that fell from the brittle windows, the only sources of illumination came from two small oil lamps suspended above the podium, burning small but intense flames. The fluctuating shadows and light that flowed from the flickering flames and the kaleidoscope-like windows gave the stagnant room the appearance of movement to the engraved wall and statuesque people. I frequently saw images and scenes that were not there. There was no life in anyone’s eyes, a great contrast from those of the infected I had encountered, giving me awareness to the fact that the living were now more lifeless than the roaming dead. Then I saw Sendai, who appeared more like a sculpture than anyone else. She was alone, simply standing and staring in calm terror at the two doorways, as if knowing their closing meant a great deal. She did not notice my approach.

  Gently, I said, “Sendai?” It was less not to startle her and more because I did not want to tempt the ghouls from reawakening on the other side, for at this moment they were silent. She abruptly turned toward me, as though she had not heard her name called in years. I first noticed her eyes. They were like staring into a deep, empty lake after a long drought.

  “Mr. Rosyth?” she said, almost in disbelief. I thought some kind of relief tried forming on her face when she saw me, but it was never quite able to come through. “Oh, Spirits, did your truck crash too? Where’s Dayce and everyone?”

  “Still on the truck, I hope. I was the only one who fell when we swerved to avoid that wall. Are you hurt?” I did not know why I asked such an obvious question.

  Her eyes strayed from mine and she slowly shook her head as she lowered it. I was relived I could not see her face, as her voice alone carried the weight of the world.

  “One of those things was coming for me,” she said quietly, but that couldn’t stop her voi
ce from trembling, “and… and grandfather got in front of it… and…” She covered her face with her hands and began crying, but even then she was quiet while she tried filling those dry lakes.

  I reached out to console her, something I was only too familiar in doing, but the jolting pain in my arm reignited itself and I couldn’t stop myself from wincing from the flare up.

  Sendai noticed the grimace and asked, “Are you injured?” which I barely heard through a pain that briefly affected all my other senses.

  On cue, the agony raged to its utmost when I lowered my arm, and all I could say in return was a weak, “Don’t worry about me,” with a tone the most gullible wouldn’t have believed.