“This is Millie,” he began as she sobbed behind him. He flashed a glare at her with his smile and then back to the group. “Millie only just celebrated her twenty-second birthday, I hear! Is that right?” he asked her as she continued to bawl silently and struggle. “Healthy, athletic, and our sources say that her parents are pretty well off. Better yet…” He then said with a snarky tone, “Only child, or as we in the business like to call it, the sole dependent.”
“Thirty thousand!” shouted a balding older man behind Jackson.
“Thirty-five!” cried a skeletal woman from a chair at the end.
As they continued yelling, and the girl’s cries intensified, Jackson felt that same strange punch in the pit of his stomach. That fire that screamed from his insides, the rage that begged for a way out, and anger that could barely be restrained. He felt the Arm at his side, his fingers wrapped it like tentacles and locked into place with his index resting on the trigger and thumb at the hammer. It was comfortable, he thought, and he slowly pulled it from his hip as the amethyst and gold glinted from the dim light of the corner. Jackson took a breath and felt the staunch air flow past his lips and expand his stiff lungs before he exhaled in a steady, focused gust.
“Do I hear sixty?” asked the old man as Jackson turned around.
His eyes focused on Jackson as he turned around, ripping the Arm from under the cover of his overcoat and pushing it out firmly in front of him. Jackson’s eyes pointed down the barrel where the old man stood stuttering realization.
“It-It’s him! It’s him!” He cried out just as the trigger pulled in a concussive explosion, and a bullet of pure, spherical light fired forth and cleanly pierced the old man at his sternum.
He fell over as a lump of flesh, and where he stood was the glowing, orange sparkled silhouette of his Dust. As the thud landed the girl’s cries grew behind the tape, and Jackson hesitated as he stared at the strange swirling and dancing particles of the Dust. In many ways, he thought, it was utterly beautiful. The way the lights flickered like an entire solar system encased in the shape of a human body, standing stiff and lifeless yet in many ways just as alive as ever.
Jackson’s hesitation and admiration proved a poor decision as the group scrambled to their feet within the moment of a blink. They scattered like sewer rats around him before he could aim the Arm again, and already the older woman had ran down the dark hallway as another ran around him toward the door. Jackson fired another illuminating shot, right as the balding man grasped the door handle, and watched him slump over leaving behind another perfectly formed Dust. Another ran for the hallway, and this time Jackson fired two shots that both flew passed the man before releasing a third that caught him at the center of his back.
“Fucker!” screamed someone beside him followed by the sharp pinch and an intense tingle. It didn’t register then, and Jackson turned as he pulled the trigger right as the barrel aligned with the new foe’s forehead. He fell into Jackson as his Dust released and stood stiff before him. He looked down at the source of the pain, only to see the chrome shine of a knife protruding from his torso.
“Gah!” Jackson exclaimed and stumbled back a bit. He watched his thick blood slowly leak over the blade and drip down to pool at the waist of his pants. “Damn…” he exhaled and ran his free hand over the wound only to feel the warm ooze coat his fingers like engine oil.
“You must be the guy we were warned about,” a grizzled voice murmured from in front of Jackson.
He looked up, trying to remember if he missed anyone else, but before his eyes could meet his opponent there was quick sound of wind and the crushing smash of blunt force that rattled against his skull and dropped him down to his knees. His vision blurred and his brain throbbed within its shell. Jackson struggled to balance himself, the world seemed to spin before him and as he rose to his feet another solid hit plowed into his side and threw him to the ground.
“What? That’s it?” said the voice. “You got all these old body-hoppers but can’t even take down a guy with nothing but a bat?”
Jackson saw the fuzzy image of the figure before him just as another smash echoed in the room and the bat found another landing place at Jackson’s back. His head felt crushed, his body was pummeled, and he coughed up hot, red syrup on the old carpet below him. Suddenly, the pain of the knife blade no longer seemed like the worst pain he had ever felt.
“The leader of this whole thing said the person coming was most likely dangerous,” and he huffed as the bat smashed down on Jackson again while he tried to crawl away. The stranger took another step forward to follow him, “But you’re just a rookie, aren’t you? Not even worth my time,” and a big thunderous hit bashed the back of his legs.
Jackson dropped to the floor. His breath was shallow as he sucked in air that tasted of blood and mold. He tried to push himself up, but his body failed as if strength did not even exist at all anymore, and like the world itself was pressing him into the damp, dirty floor.
“You know, I like that gun…”
Suddenly, the soft pounding of footsteps thudded against the floor and the vibrations shook gently against Jackson and he stared out in a daze. He heard muffled screaming, and the sound of something smashing the wall beside him.
“You bitch…” said the stranger before the sound of a skirmish scuffled behind Jackson. “Get off!”
Jackson suddenly realized that the young girl, bound and terrified, was trying to help him. Despite the opportunity to flee, to find assistance, she was helping him. He heard the man shout as she cried through the muffled tape and he felt the thuds of their bodies clash in a fury behind him. With whatever was left inside, whether it was human or just whatever the foreign rage inside him could muster, he forced himself onto his back and inhaled a deep breath. The blur of figures flashed before him, the color of a swaying blue dress standing above as the rush of the man with a baseball cap scrambled to his feet again.
He blinked rapidly, his vision slowly focused again until finally Jackson could almost see what was happening before him. The man with the baseball cap rose up, bat firmly grasped in hand as the young girl threw kicks at him and flung herself to knock him over once more. Jackson ran his free hand over his torso and pressed on the bleeding knife wound at his side, then raised the Arm until he had a clear enough shot. The man swung the bat horizontally, knocked the young woman back with a shriek and throwing her to the wall. She fell and he raised the bat again, coming down with a deep thud.
“You,” he cried with another swing, “dumb,” he cried again as he swung down.
Jackson pulled the trigger, and the explosive boom interrupted the man before he could swing again as the light pushed through his back. Jackson watched the light pierced him, and then pop out the other side without a trace. The man turned back, and gave a smile that was all too human.
“So,” he said with a coy whisper. “That thing can only take out the body-hoppers, huh? Doesn’t seem to do all that much to us normal people. Tell me,” he added, then turned back to the girl who lay limp on the ground below him. “Could you see their souls? Their Dusts, as that dickhead Fortega said?”
Jackson inhaled a sharp breath of shock, and he coughed viciously from the forceful air with spurts of blood misting with each dagger-piercing cough. His heart pounded like a drum again, and his adrenaline was all but spent as he fumbled for his pistol from Azazel at his hip. His fingers trembled and shook as they grazed over the metal grip, weakly attempting to pull it from its holster.
“Hmph, let me know if you can see hers,” he said with a low, spirit-crushing laugh. He looked down toward her, “You know, I had planned to be a lot gentler with you once you were mine.”
He lifted the bat up again as Jackson finally pulled the weapon free from his side. The For Humans reflected light from the wet blood that had flowed down over it, and his hand felt nearly lifeless as he tried to pull the trigger. The bat came down in a heart-stopping crack just as the gun erupted in a bursting flash followed by
the spatter of blood that spit from the man’s back. As he dropped, Jackson fired twice more, rapidly, as the man screamed. One hot, lead slug popping through his shoulder and the other missing to crash into the wall beside him.
“Girl,” Jackson murmured and coughed. He dropped both guns to the ground in two thumps and forced himself over into a desperate crawl. He could see more clearly and could get a look at the man who gushed lifelessly onto the carpet. “Girl…” he muttered again and pulled forward with one agonizing push at a time.
His legs dragged behind him and he clawed in slow fury to get closer to the girl in the blue dress. As he passed the now-dead assailant he could finally see her, her pale skin spattered in liquid crimson that rose up and stained her dress. Beneath her the blood pooled more and more, and he was nearly at her side.
“Girl… Girl!” He said and moved a shaking hand over her to gently shuffle her. As his hand touched her neck, he felt nothing. No pulse, fading warmth, a hollowness that seemed unreal yet too real. “No…” he whispered as his mouth quivered. “You… have to be okay… Please…”
Jackson jostled her gently, staring into her open, unblinking hazel eyes as she stared off into nothingness around them.
“Azazel… what do I do…” he said to no one at all, until he smelled the charred ash and rich smoke of the Ender.
He shuttered as he heard the cackle behind him.
“Well, nice job ya did here, Jackie,” Azazel said, passing his eyes from one body to another. “Lot of Dust for me here, and look you even took out some humans. Good for you.”
“Azazel,” Jackson huffed barely conscious. “Please… help her…”
Azazel approached and loomed over the two, pools of blood rimming his shoes.
“Already did,” he said and leant over just a bit. “She was in the North-Lane only a little bit ago, ya just missed her.”
“I could have… Saved her…”
“Agreed,” he said coldly. “That gift you got from me, wasn’t meant to be no back-up plan. But, you still don’t see the world that way, Jackie.”
Azazel snapped his fingers together, and suddenly all of the stiff silhouettes of Dust vanished from around them. Jackson dropped to the floor, breathing heavily as the warm blood soaked through his overcoat.
“Ya see, think of a knight,” Azazel said, bending down toward Jackson. He lifted him up by the neckline of his jacket and shirt and held him up in front of him in a feat of unworldly strength. “The Arm is your sword, ya swing it and take out the enemy. But, the special present is your little shield there, Jackie. Might not always use it, but the knight always carries it in battle, right? You’ll get it as soon as you let more people down, I’m sure. Now, come on,” he said and tossed the large body of Jackson over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “I’ll drop you on your stoop. I’m not too fond of your new roommate.”
When Jackson awoke he was hunched over in the shadows beside the steps up to his apartment building. His body felt crushed, there was pasty, drying blood smothered on the side of his face, and it hurt to take in the air. Every breath made the bones of his ribs snap in a pierce of pain, and he could barely scramble to his feet before falling back to lean on the wall of the building. Once he was standing, he slowly lifted his shirt with weak, shaking hands only to find the puncture of the knife had healed over and all that remained was a swollen, throbbing bruise that bloomed like a violet flower. He took another painful breath, and spit the taste of blood from his mouth before wandering toward his front steps.
He trudged up the cracked concrete of the old steps and walked into the front lobby. The office called it a lobby but in reality it was mildly wider than an average hallway, with a staircase to the right of the entrance and an elevator next to it that had permanently added an “Out of Order” sign to its door. The cracking mustard yellow paint peeled around each door frame and was stained with the oily handprints and food spills that come with age. Just to his left was the opening of the main office, which held items inside such as a desk, a filing cabinet, shaggy dirt-colored carpet, and of course Erma.
Erma had worked in the building’s office for longer than most even lived. Her main duties included calling past due tenants, collecting said past due rent checks, stocking the vending machine, and of course, standing miserably behind the desk reading worn-out romance novels. Jackson had never had issue with her, rarely spoke to her, and honestly did not believe she even realized his long absence. Someone was paying the rent so no reason for her to ever need him. She did not look up from her book as he entered the building, the same way he had not paid her a glance as he stomped up the stairs.
Before he could reach the steps to his apartment, he fell again in a thud that shook the lobby, and caused Erma to jump out of her seat, dropping her book. She looked over the counter at the damaged man who slowly started forcing himself up to all fours.
“‘Scuse me,” she called as she paced around the front desk. “I said ‘scuse me,” she repeated.
Jackson ignored her as he dug deep and pushed up to standing once more.
“Ya live here?” she asked. “Don’t think I’ve seen ya.”
“Jackson,” he muttered and dragged himself toward the stairs. “You know me, Erma.”
“Jackson? Crowe? Nah, can’t be. Not a big old dirty fella like yerself,” she said, walking around to get a better look at him. “No way, and yer gettin’ blood all up on the dang carpet.”
“Not mine,” Jackson said, pushing open the stairwell door. “Well…” He paused. “Some is.”
“Now, I knew Jackson, and that sweet girl of his. You ain’t him mister, gonna have to leave now,” she added but he continued walking. “Come on, time to go.” But he continued forward as he pulled himself up the top step.
“Can’t you hear me? You got to go!”
“Erma,” he said, breathing heavily before turning around to face her. “My name… Is Jackson Crowe. I worked at the bank over on Union Street. I sent you tulips on your birthday years ago, and a gift card on the one before that.” He took another painful breath and shuttered as he gripped the railing tightly. “You came to my job, got denied a loan to open a bookstore, and then tried to butter me up with spaghetti. When you realized I don’t make those decisions, you tried to butter up my boss with the same spaghetti.”
Erma paused and looked closely at Jackson. “Can’t be…” she said softly.
“It is, now let me go in peace,” he grumbled and pulled himself up to the second and third step.
“Jackson Crowe, I knew I hadn’t seen ya in a while, but my-my how you’ve changed!”
“We all change…” Jackson said, and continued to ascend the stairs.
When Jackson entered his apartment, he was a broken man, and fell on the floor of his living room like nothing more than a pile of bones and meat. He crashed down, the cold carpet felt like blissful agents against the beaten skin of his face, and he took sharp breaths that twisted daggers into his ribcage with each exhale. Although he had died once, in this moment it was as if his life was draining from him like a faucet spewing down into a spiraling drain.
“Order!” A voice called, so distant it was almost television static. Loud footsteps approached, and a shining figure bent down close. “Order?!”
He felt his body splinter and crack as the figure hoisted him up and laid him down on the couch, pulling hard on the buttons of his shirt until they snapped, like opening a book. The body beneath the shirt was splattered with thick black bruising and the sticky warmth of blood like fresh ink across a blank page. He heard the voice in muffled bellows and felt hands upon him but everything was fading out.
“Hold on!” was all he heard before fading out of consciousness completely.
When he awoke he felt so brittle he could snap just from lifting himself up. He ran hands over his torso, and felt fresh stitches on his wound, and melted frozen vegetables placed on several spots over him. His vision was still dulled, but before he nearly passed out again he coul
d see Ayres standing over him, and he thought he almost saw her smile.
“Well,” she said, staring down at him. “Good Morning, Order.”
He shoved himself up to sit and his body screamed in pain. Jackson’s face twisted and contorted as he adjusted himself to find any resemblance of comfort. He groaned loudly and clutched at his side as he exhaled a deep, hot breath before sucking air through his teeth again. Every breath of air was more like inhaling needles that stung at his insides, and his head pounded as if his skull were fracturing.
“Shit,” he groaned and pushed his eyes closed. “Don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad, even when I died.”
“Of course,” she responded with a smirk. “Death itself is quick, dying is the part that is torturous.”
“Good point,” Jackson grunted back. After a few moments of silence, where Jackson had moaned in pain even more, he said, “I wasn’t prepared. Some things felt… familiar.” He adjusted himself again, “But I still was in over my head. There is a blur in my mind, fragments of training I had done that sometimes is instinctive and other times remains nothing but a mystery. How am I going to do more of these? Next gathering is only in a few days.”
“You’ll heal fast,” she answered him, and rested her hand on the hilt of her blade. “Do not worry about your body, Order. It is your mind that needs your attention. You should easily remember your training; it should all be instinctual.”
“Well, it isn’t!” he barked back and writhed in his agony. He hung his head and pressed his palm to his forehead, “How the fuck am I going to do this?”
Ayres looked down on him and her expression had changed. She looked at the battered man she barely pieced back together, and thought of how in many ways he was absolutely right. She knew he would not last long in this line of work, and even with all of his gifts he still had one major design flaw: he was human.
Order of Dust Page 7
