Dusk Territories: Always Burning

by Munden, Deston

Graham watched Raleigh itch at the thick bandage on shoulder. “Don’t do that,” Graham warned. “It’ll make it worse.”

  “I can’t help it,” Raleigh grumbled.

  “What happened? Sure you don’t want me to drive?”

  The blonde haired, thickly shouldered man shook his head. “Nah…” he paused, before adding in a mutter, “Driving and inventory’s all I’m good at.”

  Graham bounced as they drove over a large bump in road. “You’re not going to get any better by avoiding it.”

  The driver looked at the road, then at his passenger. Words formed on his lips, never leaving. Raleigh’s brow furrowed thinking about what he would say next. “Got caught by an axe, as all. I always get injured. I’m fucking useless.”

  “What’d you do before—“Graham searched his mind for the word. “What’d you do before this?”

  Raleigh went silent for a moment. “Mechanic and gunsmith, it was the family business.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, just got used to doing it…” Raleigh gripped the steering wheel harder. “I heard that you were a Marine.” He pursed his lips, realizing that it sounded worse than he meant.

  Was, I “was” a Marine. What am I now? “Yeah. Been that way since I was eighteen, never been too great at anything else,” Graham nodded at his foggy memory. “You’re not that used to battle, aren’t you?”

  Graham felt an odd increase in speed, Raleigh’s foot heavy. The vehicle slowed after a few seconds. His action received a brief scolding from Crisium over the radio. Raleigh drank in the verbal attack without even a murmur.

  But, Graham had received his answer. It was solid yes. The large fellow muttered incomprehensibly as he tried to come to terms with what to say next. Raleigh reminded him of Hacke, Private First Class Abraham Hacke. An Alabama born man, Abraham always grumbled and was more than his share of clumsy outside of battle. The man could barely hold a can of soda without dropping it all over his uniform. When battle came around, he was more focused and stronger than any man that he could ever think of. Fondly, Graham smiled at the thought. His memories weren’t as clear as he wanted, but things were coming back. Maybe, Raleigh needed to focus as well.

  “How about I teach you a few things?

  Again, the vehicle fluctuated speed, this time lowering. “W-what?”

  “I’ll teach you a few things. No. I’ll train you like a Marine.”

  Raleigh’s eyes widened as he absorbed the thought.

  “You won’t be alone, of course. I’ll recruit a few who feels that they’re slacking in comparison.”

  “But I don’t have any special powers or mutations—”

  “Don’t give me that excuse again, or I’m going to punch you,” Graham interrupted, suddenly slipping into his stoic, authoritative voice. However, he forgot the added gravel of his tone. So the next reaction was Raleigh breaking out into a sweat as he pursed his lips and focused on the road. Graham put down a mental note. If he was really going to train some of the men and women, that was going to be a real good tool. A living, breathing, drill instructor was already effective, how great would a dead one be? “You don’t need superpowers or—unfortunate mutations—to protect what you want.”

  Raleigh nodded in response.

  “You just have to have that motivation. If you really want this, I can hammer it into you. How about it? Tired of being useless.”

  Raleigh weighed the options in his head for a while, before bursting out in a grin. “Y-yeah—I can do that.”

  Graham reclined in his seat, a smile on his grim face. Raleigh wouldn’t be grinning when the actual training started. “So,” he said, offering a change in topic, “where’re we going?’

  “A place called the bone…the bone somethin’—“Raleigh grabbed the radio, underneath his wheel. “Crisium—“

  “Yes, Raleigh, whaddya want?” the radio crackled in.

  “What’s the name of the place we’re headin’ to?”

  “The Boneyard, idiot.”

  “Where was that in the normal states of our country?” Graham asked. Raleigh repeated the question to Crisium. It took her a good five minutes to respond back.

  “Georgia. Drifter has gotten some information on somethin’ there. Something big. Maybe a lead.”

  “Thanks, Graham wanted to know,” Raleigh explained.

  “Good, if you just were askin’ to be askin’, I was gonna to kick you in the balls.”

  Raleigh put the radio down, carefully as though she was going to reach through the speaker and do just that. Simply put, a swift kick to a man’s soft spot brought a man down. Raleigh must have been on the receiving end of such brutality by Crisium. “So we’re going to Georgia,” he said awkwardly. “It’s not long from here, maybe a day or two if we stop a few times.”

  “Good. Good,” Graham mentally sorting his thoughts, “Where does Drifter receive information from?”

  “Plenty of people.”

  “Well that’s specific. Does he tell you where he gets this information?”

  Raleigh shook his head. “A few times, he has told us. We tend not to get too nosey, you know. Especially with Wood around…”

  Before, Graham couldn’t see why people were scared of Wood. Their reasoning seemed justified now. That form was nothing less than something you would see out of a nightmare. The hulking creature was almost imprinted in his mind, sitting by his equally dangerous master. Drifter sent out a command, and Wood attacked without question. Funnily enough, Graham was used to seeing people take orders, but not like that. In no way did Graham think Ragnar should live especially after viewing his clan’s cannibalism. Drifter, though, took it to the next level. Wood was like sending a pet tiger to maul an annoying neighbor.

  The worst part about all of this was that Graham felt that it was necessary. Drifter had enemies. Enemies got you killed. Killing enemies was a part of life. It was their life or yours. Graham snapped himself out of the grim thought. “Any other reasons you guys afraid of Wood….besides the spitting acid, lizard-beetle thing?”

  Gulping and staring at the road as though it was an exit, Raleigh whispered, “It’s not what he turns into that bothers us. It’s what he did before.”

  _

  The Caravan had stopped for a late afternoon dinner. The red sky above them had dimmed down to a deep sanguine color, and the sun teetered on the edge of the horizon. Members of the moving metropolis, at least a hundred or more strong, had dispersed into several smaller groups both in and out of the vehicles. Families and friends gathered around fires, while appointed guards circled the dusty grounds.

  Graham helped Raleigh with fitting the guards before getting himself better equipped. Raleigh had scavenged him a digital combat uniform; complete with an assault vest, various pouches, knee pads, gloves, and desert tan boots. When it came to weapons, he was almost in heaven with choices. A few of the guns weren’t in the best condition, but he had managed to find decent conditioned M249 SAW. That pleased him more than anything. He pocketed equipment from flash bangs, smokes grenades, and a knife to his stock pile of grenades he had acquired earlier. All of this must have come from our armory.

  Yet for the first time since his awakening, he felt like he could truly mess some things up.

  He cracked his neck, pleased with the weight that he had on him. “Hey Raleigh.”

  “Umhm,” the large man said, distractingly. He had been counting the equipment from the Marine Base. If he broke away for a second, he’ll forget what he was doing.

  “Going to step out for a moment, gotta talk with someone.”

  “’kay.” Raleigh waved him off, and Graham left him to his work.

  Graham stepped out into the main circle of the camp, receiving a much better reception than before. A man in a uniform, dead or no, was a welcomed extra protection. Well, at least until night time came along. Graham’s eyes wandered. Drifter was sitting around the largest fire, with Heron at his side, but Wood was
nowhere to be found. Only one option remained, he was still in the RV. They were going to have that talk, like he promised. It might not be any of his damn business. But, he needed to understand. That was the fundamentals of a team, a unit, a squad, a band.

  With defiant steps, Graham approached Drifter’s Caravan. A few of the guards peered heedfully at him, almost as though he was insane. He knocked on the door. Then again. Then again. This continued until finally, the scrawny, tall man loomed over him. He was surprisingly better presented this time—the closest idea of formal he could get. The long blue jeans and large tank top drooped over the sleepy eyed beast as though he was wearing curtains instead of clothes. “Ah,” Wood exhaled, “Uncle told me you were coming by.”

  “I figured that you wouldn’t have gotten dressed otherwise.”

  Wood gave a weak laugh, “Hell no. So, are we going to get this over with or not?”

  Graham shook his head as he followed the wiry man into the door. Wood was only a few steps in before he plopped down on the floor, underneath the counter, his toe nails digging into the already chipped cabinets. Beside that spot were bottles upon bottles of beer, all empty and all scattered on the floor. There were at least twenty or more, yet he didn’t look drunk, hardly even buzzed. The stench of the beer on his lips was the only thing that made it clear it was him drinking in the first place.

  “But, really, what do you want?”

  The words were sharp, but they had no effect on Graham. He just scowled. “You have an entire Caravan frozen with fear. That deserves some clarity.”

  “You saw what I turn into. You think they are going to invite that to dinner? I thought I was the one drinking.” Wood guzzled down half a bottle. “You think that people want me around? No. And I don’t care. All I care about is my Uncle, that’s all I need.”

  “So what are you to him, some sort of pet?” Graham questioned.

  Wood gave a laugh, the corners of his mouth morphing into a twisted and toothy smile. “A pet is accepted and loved. Why would I hate being one?”

  “It doesn’t mean that they’ll be loved like a son.”

  “Oh—stop it.” With an angry jerk of his arm, Wood slammed his beer bottle into the edge of the counter above him. Shards of broken glass danced in the air, raining down on the man’s stomach. “Just fucking stop it. You can’t even deal with your problems and you’re already tryin’ to fix others. This isn’t your Marines. This isn’t Afghanistan. You just got here.”

  Face red with anger, Wood reclined back, popping open another dark colored bottle. “Don’t think you can fucking fix everything.”

  “I wasn’t trying to fix your hopeless ass,” Graham said, raising his voice. “I was just trying to figure out how you tick. Why people stare at you with fear. So no. I’m not going to stop.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Wood took a gulp from his beer, “Why are you so obsessed about us? Too busy tryin’ to figure out our problem, huh? Oh, that’s rich. Why can’t you figure out your damn own?”

  “What’s with the animosity? I just got here about a few minutes ago.”

  “’Cause why the hell not? You’re just going to judge me like everyone else. Hell you’re already doing it now.”

  Graham took a step back, folding his arms and leaning against the closed front door. He was right. Almost unconsciously he had decided to fix this person. It was a habit. If a person was hurt, help them. If they needed someone to talk to, talk to them. It was a reflex, edged into his bones. Did he think it was a weakness? Sometimes, but that is what he did and was trained to do. Thinking otherwise felt impossible now, an instinct.

  Discomfited that he even decided to deal with this, Graham shook his head. “What did you do before this?” he asked, remembering Raleigh’s words.

  Wood almost choked at the question, wiping spittle from his mouth after the near call. “You—“he coughed. “You really want to know.”

  The room went so quiet; Graham had the half mind to walk out.

  “Y’know what I did, I killed people. Not like you, it was much more personal than that. I was that guy that y’all saw on television and thought: ‘that’s the lowest scum of the earth’. But were watching in, never knew the reason. Never knew the person. Just judged them by their actions,” Wood reclined back, “You aren’t here to save me, Graham. I’ve been gone way too long.”

  Reeling back his residual anger, Graham took some steps forward. Yeah. This guy was the type of person that he swore he’ll burn in hell himself. Even now, he wanted to scream at him, and fill him with bullets from his weapon. But he didn’t. Something in the back of his mind told him no. Right now, he didn’t know if it was the angel or the devil he was listening to. “Wasn’t right for me to judge.” Graham flexed his fingers. “It’s your damn life.”

  “Guilt-trip. Really?”

  “No, I’m sincere. Whatever you’re doing is your business. Whatever you did, you have live with.”

  “You don’t think I know that. I just don’t lose sleep over it. Can the same thing be said to you?”

  “I’m not a murderer. I do what I do to protect what I believe in.”

  “If that’s the case,” Wood yawned, “I can claim that same right.”

  A dry swallow accompanied the thought of that truth. Graham sighed. He was right. Anyone could claim anything was right. It was a normal human thinking. But he knew there was a difference. He just didn’t have an accurate way of wording it. If he did now, he would sound self-righteous. I “am” self-righteous, he thought grinding his teeth together. It wasn’t a bad thing. But, it crippled men if used incorrectly. Even righteousness needed discipline.

  He centered himself, staring at the pale man cracking open another bottle and almost completing it in one guzzle. “I’m not going to try to change you.”

  “You couldn’t if you tried.”

  “But, you keep Drifter safe, right? No matter what.”

  For a moment, a brief one, Graham expected that he would transform into that monstrosity again. He even touched the gun, fresh with rounds, ready for it. But, Wood didn’t.

  His demeanor was strong enough.

  Wood stared with one hand clutched against the neck of his bottle. The sleepy eyes were ablaze, mouth tightly pursed together. He was mouthing words as though he was unable to properly say what he had swimming in his head. Graham couldn’t either. It was immeasurable, incalculable. Graham did notice something, however, something he hadn’t before. In Wood’s fist, all this time, was a ring. It was a single red-gemmed ring that danced in his free palm as he drank. He smiled, laughing off the foolishness of the question.

  “No need to worry about him,” he said as he sipped at the dark liquid, “You need to learn that this world isn’t going to favor a Marine. No. I might even like a pet that much better.”

  _

  Graham found himself silent for most of the day after the discussion with Wood. The Drifter’s Caravan had made more progress to the Boneyard, being a little below which was once North and South Carolina’s border. Since he was sleepless and adept, patrol duty came to everyone’s mind for the first job. He didn’t mind. The time gave him something to do and some time to be alone with his thoughts. Even with the occasional scare from a mutated bear or wolf from the rest of the sentries, it was still a good time to get himself together.

  He paced the roof of the armed truck, boots thudding against the thick metal. His first thoughts were about Wood. Thinking back on it, the words stung like a swarm of bees protecting their queen. Graham knew in different circumstances, he would have never seen Wood at all. If he had, it would have been in his barrack or a living room on television with a lit cigarette in hand and a spiteful look on his face. His honor didn’t want to believe that he went from working with good honest men to the very hosts of moral ambiguity. But, he knew that he couldn’t complain. Not in this world, not with danger lurking around every corner. He had found allies before he had found enemies, and that was luck or a
blessing at its finest.

  Months ago, probably going on a little closer to a year, life was simpler. If he had heard himself say this on a deployment, he would have laughed. But, it was true. It was easier to know who the enemies were then. There were the people trying to kill you. Certain people were your enemy—targets if you must say that—and you needed to defend as many people, defeat them quick and clean, and keep your friends alive. Now, it was life or death by any source in your own country. I hate that it’s come to this.

  He took a deep breath.

  At least his memory was returning. When he had first awakened, he hardly remembered anything. Now, floods of memories cluttered his already muddled thoughts. The corpses of his comrades flashed in his mind, hand in hand with the memories of them. They were really dead. Why couldn’t the force that brought him back, bring them back too. They had been good people. He wasn’t any more special than any of those young men.

  Survivor’s guilt is what they called it, he knew. He had saw and even met fellow Marines that had went through this exact thing. They were broken men, with not nearly as much help as they should have gotten. Some went mad. Some dreamed and hallucinated images and sounds as though they were real. Others just panicked. Graham always thought that this would never happen to him, he would never have to deal with losing everyone. If it had happened, he would know a way to channel it to make himself strong and keen.

  That was the stupidest damn thing I’ve ever thought.

  If he was going to break, he was going to break. Hell if he was going to let this world bring him down. Not like this. He inhaled through his nose, sharply. No. He wasn’t going to become a product of this world. The truth behind this was something he needed to find out. Closure was something that needed to be found. He was at an unwilling funeral of a world without something of a eulogy. It would take him to write one, even if it takes going on this journey with the Drifter and finding any and all clues to that point.

  “It appears that I can help with that.”

  The voice had taken Graham by surprise, but quickly shot him into defensive action. He turned his entire body, whipping his light machine gun (which was anything but light in weight) with deftness. He knew in his training that this was ill advised, and relatively impossible for a normal human to do, but he had no choice. He had to react. This person might be an enemy and if so, they would receive at least fifty from his two hundred round belt of ammunition. However, the woman didn’t seem an ounce impressed, even with such a dangerous weapon between her eyebrows.