by C A Gleason
Sometimes, he was frightened during the dream, as he was while it was actually happening when he was a young man.
He couldn’t prevent the dreams. They were too hard-wired into his subconscious. Although an annoyance, he accepted they would happen every so often. And pondered them while he was awake.
The nightmares were muddled, confusing. Sometimes he was an adult. When in fact, he’d been a young man, fifteen or so. Onnin didn’t know exactly how old he was. He didn’t know his birthday. Or how many years he’d been alive.
Dreaming with his adult mind, the way he thought of things now, the details were occasionally different, like who he fought. Sometimes they were people he killed after he was out of there.
But the main events were accurate. Almost. The difference was he never escaped in the dream.
Days comprised of real life compressed into minutes or hours. It depended on how long he slept for. He was never sure. Sometimes, he woke up in the middle of it and wouldn’t have to endure the rest. When it got really bad. Sometimes not.
After living through the terrible place, he was on the move ever since. One reason he was thankful to go through such an experience was he’d never again encountered anything close to its horror.
It was probably why he envisioned a quiet life for himself. And also why he wanted to go somewhere without knowing exactly where he was headed.
Hopefully a place without violence, without the necessity of killing. He wondered if it were possible for a man like himself to live in such a place. And if such a place even existed.
To live in peace. For me?
He was traveling because of the why, not the where. It made sense enough. And he didn’t plan to explain himself to anyone anytime soon. He wasn’t like regular people.
Regular people needed to sleep every night. Sometimes during the day as well, which he never understood, but he could go without sleep for a long time.
He’d never heard of anyone else who could do what he could. He could go days without rest and then needed a few hours of sleep. But he did enjoy closing his eyes all night.
Maybe it was because he knew that sleep made him vulnerable, and not because he was abducted when he was young. There was more to it. Some deep part of his subconscious understood things.
He didn’t require sleep often, so best to get it over with as quickly as possible and when necessary. But wasn’t everyone vulnerable when they were asleep?
The urge to slumber during the night—hidden and out of sight when he could get away with it—was the same for others, he suspected.
There were times when he felt safe, or safe enough, and would indulge in sleep. From when the sun went down, to when it peered over the barren flat. A flat often staggered with sporadic spires.
Allowing himself to be consumed by deep sleep ended up happening only a few times a year. If that.
Onnin propped himself up on an elbow and yawned, feeling itchiness on his thick neck after splitting his massive, overgrown, beard. He put a finger in his mouth and rubbed it over his teeth, cleaning them. Then he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the other hand.
He peered around, feeling invigorated with so much energy he could leap up and run to those mountains without stopping.
The flat was quiet in the way it was after a storm. Probably from hearing something so loud for so long and then the quiet afterward was the opposite. It was also the kind of quiet before Home began to stir with people.
Before the weather got active too, be it wind or rain. He was still wet from the storm during the night, a little chilled, so he made a fire.
Rubbing his large hands together, he felt appreciation as flames warmed him. What a luxury. Building a fire was something he seldom did. The light of it was too visible.
No one who sought one of his fires out ever wanted to get to know him. To ignore all of the nonsense whispered about him. Especially over the net. Even if there were seeds of truth in some stories.
All anyone wanted was his backpack, so fires were risky. But fires were so warm. And being warm felt good. And he liked the smell of the smoke. Another yawn, deep in thought.
What he endured, happened about twenty years ago give or take days or months. Seemed longer to him because of how much he changed, how much he grew. Physically and mentally. Really, it seemed like a hundred years ago.
He’d retained his humanity after emerging from where no other emerger did, as far as he knew. But he ended many lives in order to survive. Everyone he killed was less than human though. People weren’t human once they lost their humanity.
What happened was a part of him. Made him into who he was. There was nothing he could do to change it. The regularity with which he thought about being cast down bothered him because he was forced to remember something so terrible. Parts of him were taken. Stolen.
The missing pieces would have made him more human. Made him more recognizable to others and appreciated by people. It would have allowed him to appreciate life more. Instead of being wary of it. Hard to trust people after encountering people who tried to eat him.
But the terrible place transformed him into a warrior. Or at least made him a better one.
The yelling, screaming, and gnashing teeth. Humans reduced to nothing but predatory animals. Perhaps it was best to remember, so he wouldn’t find himself in the same situation again. But he doubted another place like it existed.
No matter how much he thought about it, he didn’t know why someone would create a place to do something so horrible. The people were like everyone else before they changed. Before the place changed them.
Its purpose was for punishment or some other sick reason. But what had he been punished for? Being born?
In the end, it didn’t really matter. It happened. Nothing could change it. There was no going back. They tried to cast Onnin down with the lowest of humanity, for reasons he still didn’t understand. But one valuable lesson was, he learned what he was truly capable of when pushed.
By some he crossed paths with, they mentioned the place began as somewhere to dump folks who were bad. Someone’s enemy. A plethora of other incomprehensible barbaric reasons. Like a plan of revenge against a few by one person.
But then over many years, it evolved into something else, something worse; a sadistic game.
Onnin did learn something wounding. He wasn’t taken from his parents, he was sold by them. He wondered how much currency they were paid. Couldn’t have been much.
At first he didn’t believe the rumors, but then he heard similarities over and over and he realized it must be true. However partial the truth, he tried not to let it bother him. It was a long time ago.
His parents were probably dead now. Long gone. The currency likely spent by whoever stole it from them. Murder was usually the end result of shady deals.
There was a footstep.
That’s what I get for making fire.
He slowly turned his senses toward the direction of the intruder. It was difficult to determine where it came from at first. He or she was hidden well by the dark terrain.
It was the tail end of night. But still dark. When Home was quietest. And he’d been staring at the flames. It affected his vision. Temporarily.
Another footstep.
Someone was trying to sneak up on him. To steal his belongings, everything in his backpack, his weapons. Hoping for some plants they were too lazy to pull themselves. He didn’t know if the person was of the group following him from before he camped.
Whoever snuck around his camp, didn’t know who they were creeping up on. If they caught sight of him when he was upright they probably would have avoided him. Would definitely lose interest in what they were interested in doing.
Onnin’s muscles always felt warm and loose so he was always ready for a fight. Or chase someone down who meant to harm him. Before they knew what was happening, they would be on the ground.
“Stay down, emerger.”
An outlier. One of the uncivilized folks, wh
o didn’t call any town home. Onnin could tell by the way he spoke. Even he could speak better than the average emerger.
Emerger was what they all were, being descendants of the survivors of the war. Rising from its ashes. But emerger was also often used as an insult, meaning a primitive, and the way the outlier muttered it to Onnin was definitely meant that way.
There was more than one. He turned slightly.
“Move again and I’ll take your head off.”
The one aiming the rifle was trying to get a better look at Onnin’s belongings. His eyes rising and falling. He was disheveled and thin. Weak from hunger, as many who lived out here were. Onnin could grab him and kill him quick if he took one more step.
No one realized how fast he could close a distance. If he got one of his large hands around an arm or leg, whoever it was, they would be down on the ground in an instant.
Even when Onnin was a grownup, the times he fought other grown men, for him it was like fighting a child. They were weaker than him no matter how natural a fighter, or how skilled, or how well they were trained.
It didn’t matter if they knew the fighting skills from Earth or not, Onnin plowed through it even if they got lucky enough to strike him. He beat them down or even killed them, depending on their threat.
And he never let them get close to his manhood, where even he was vulnerable. Defeating an enemy was what he did well.
When he was young, he fought a lot. A part of growing up for boys. Almost every day it was established who was toughest—and for some, like him, it was multiple times a day. He always won his fights. Then he wouldn’t have to fight again for a long time.
Until some kid came along who didn’t know him, their parents new to Orthal. Sometimes, a new kid refused to know any better and would want to establish his dominance by picking a fight with someone who was bigger than him.
One thing for sure, no one ever tried to fight Onnin twice.
As a grown man, he felt no different. Other grown men, if you could call them that, were no different than the children he beat down when he was as young as them, in terms of a challenge.
But the difference was, when he grew up he sometimes needed to kill. Because they were trying to kill him.
At least fighting when he was young allowed him to understand how much pressure was required before a kill.
Most, he still fought with a mad scramble, a flurry of wildly thrown punches. Not with anchored technique and skill, which he intrinsically possessed. He never practiced or trained. He was born to fight.
Sometimes, he wondered if he should feel badly for winning so easily. It always seemed like it should be more of a challenge. He never did feel bad about defending himself, but he also never took pleasure in it.
Onnin lunged forward. He swiped at the barrel before the man could react, or knew what was happening. The man made the mistake of tracking the gun with his eyes as it was knocked out of his hand.
When he looked back, Onnin was already aiming his revolver.
14. Onnin
Onnin didn’t hesitate. He squeezed the trigger and the blast pierced his eye, dropping him to the ground. The gunblast echoed.
A different outlier attempted to tackle him at the waist, but Onnin barely budged. Instead he looped his arm under him, picked him up, and threw him to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of him. He gasped as he struggled to breathe.
Onnin’s biceps flexed when he raised closed fists and brought them down, pulverizing the man’s head into chunks of skull and brain and blood.
When he shook the gore from his fists, he glanced around and saw more men. They were lying flat on the ground but surely aiming weapons. Except Onnin already saw them. He tore his eyes away from the campfire long enough so his night vision was ready for intruders.
Tossing his revolver on his bedding, he snatched his lever-action rifle beside it and aimed. They didn’t know the marksman he was. He hit whatever he aimed at. Shooting was something else he was always skilled at, but skill wasn’t needed at this range.
Plus the outliers shouted to one another, giving away their positions. Even though the wind kicked up, their noise carried easily. He almost shook his head to himself. It was too easy.
He shot a man in the cheek who was yelling at the one farthest away from him. He was dead instantly. Then Onnin shot a man far in the distance.
The sudden panicky movement of the rest of them gave Onnin an even better view, which was what he intended.
Cocking the lever action of the rifle, he shot the outlier farthest away in the head. It snapped sideways and the rest of him crashed to the ground. The remaining three finally got wise to their lack of cover and ran.
Another stupid move. Not because they intended to steal from someone with gun skills such as his, but because there was nowhere to hide if things went wrong. And wrong was just beginning for them.
He sat down on the ground and cocked his rifle, resting his elbow on his knee. Aimed. And shot each fleeing man in the back.
All three of them collapsed to the ground.
He’d find out soon if they were dead.
Even if he didn’t have a rifle, he was extremely quick at drawing his revolver, and his aim was accurate because he was always calm. Nobody made him nervous. There’d been enough of them to handle one man, but unfortunately for them the one man turned out to be Onnin.
If they’d all made the mistake of getting up close like the first outlier he’d killed, then he would have killed them all at once.
The wind kicked up more, whistling past his hair and long beard in a gust, making it so the distance was temporarily blurred by a wall of dusty haze. He didn’t see anyone moving.
He waited a little while longer to make sure.
Dead was dead and the dead could wait. He could hide or bury the bodies later. Something he would have to do no matter how irritating. A trail of stinking corpses was an easier way to track him down. He wished he could have killed them all at camp.
Instead of dealing with the dead, he towed the closest corpse away. Far enough for now. Then he went back and lay down. He wanted to close his eyes and rest a little longer. Before getting up for an early day.
Except, there was a noise in the distance. A sound he didn’t recognize. Almost sounded like whimpering. Of someone he failed to kill? Strange. That hardly ever happened. In fact, he was having trouble remembering the last time.
He exhaled irritably. He should have checked if they were all dead. Another way to lead outliers to him was a strange voice. He must deal with the dead or dying. What was the difference? Both ended the same.
He wasn’t looking forward to doing what needed to be done. He was already in a peaceful mindset and wanted to put the gunfight behind him.
Whoever was still alive, maybe they were so close to death they would die on their own. Maybe he wouldn’t have to end them.
Whoever was vocalizing was pathetic. Why couldn’t they accept their death? Why keep blubbering?
Onnin did the right thing by counterattacking after they made a move. He had no quarrel with any outliers. No quarrel with anyone. He always minded his own business. They could have easily gone their own way.
But no, they decided to pursue him, probably wanted to steal his belongings, believing, falsely, that he stole from them, so they got what was coming to them.
He looked forward to a day when he didn’t have to decide to kill someone. And wanted those days to remain in his past. Continue until his last day.
More irritability shook his head for him as he organized. Finally rested, he realized he probably hadn’t slept so well in years. He knew it was by staying ahead of those in pursuit. Even though he eventually had to deal with them anyway. They were the ones following him days ago.
Did he actually miss a shot?
It wasn’t impossible. He pulled the trigger fast and didn’t see where all the sizzles went. Maybe too confident. Overconfident. Overconfidence was his only weakness he could think of. Other
than his lack of social skills. And he was not un-killable. No man or woman was.
A gunblast to the head would do him in as much as anyone else. Of course the trick was to get close enough to him. Not many could. Let alone getting into a situation where he couldn’t return fire.
Whoever was doing all the wailing, could be faking like he’d been shot, fallen on purpose maybe, and Onnin assumed he was dead. Some gunblasts didn’t do enough damage to kill. Gunblasts were deadly, but not as destructive as the guns from Earth, which fired bullets.
No guns on Home fired bullets as far as he knew. The knowledge of how the guns of Home functioned were not known to him. Lost to time for most. Maybe there were tinkerers who took guns apart to understand their functionality, but all that mattered to him was how to use them.
And if whatever guns he carried were damaged, there were plenty of extra guns to be discovered.
He’d seen plenty of people fake death to survive. Except he knew the difference and his eyes were sharp.
He shook his head. “No way.”
He’d shot all of them. He was positive. Even if the initial pull of the trigger wasn’t a kill shot, this long after a gunfight they all would be dead. None of those bodies came back to life and walked away.
Finishing striking his camp, he looked out and slowly scanned the horizon, looking closely for anything that might give away hint of life.
Anybody walking around out there. Someone who was somehow still alive. Even hiding. There could be more.
No way around it. He would have to investigate where each man fell. Especially when he heard the same voice again, in pain. He shook his head again. Pathetic. Weak. He would put them out of their misery.
He left his lever-action rifle and grabbed his revolver. He spun the cylinder, priming its gun battery. One spin of the cylinder produced six potential gunblasts. Six sizzles.
The whimpering was coming from a few hundred feet away at least. The reason he heard it was because of how sharp his hearing was. Anyone else probably would have trouble picking up on it.
