Dusk Territories: Always Burning

by Munden, Deston

  This had to be her. “How do you know my name, River?”

  “Spying,” River said, swinging her legs. “For a big bad Marine, I thought you would’ve noticed. How do you know my name?”

  “Reputation,” Graham said simply.

  “Ain’t it a fun thing to be recognized?” River looked down, swinging her legs. “You and Raggy know each other, right? Not knowing, not like best friends knowing. But, the guy you met in the mall last Tuesday type of knowing. Raggy say something. It’s rude.”

  Ragnar remained bitterly quiet. Apparently, Graham wasn’t the only one disgusted with this girl.

  “Stop pouting. Drifter isn’t going anywhere without his tank drivers. So,” she pointed her flaming index finger at Graham, “We get to play with Mr. Zombieface for a while.”

  A simple flick of her finger sent another fireball, bigger than the first, hurdling through the air. Graham pressed himself within a crevice of the wall to avoid the blast. The roaring screams howled down the corridor. The flames had no physical heat. Graham felt, however, the heat that it did possess. It’s the burning souls, Graham thought. Not even within its grasp, burning swept through him like a plague. He would die if he touched it.

  “Mr. Graham! Don’t make me come over there.”

  Graham heard the woman jump from Ragnar’s shoulder on to the ground. The tapping of heels against the stone got louder and louder as she approached. I have to act. It was good cover. Yet, when cover became a cage was when you had to move. Pinned down between the fire and the pan, he needed to act. She wasn’t a fighter or a soldier, but she was a demon. He would have to show her no mercy.

  River turned into his line of sight, her childish like features lighting up with glee. Her eyes glowed in the dark, hand fully aflame. “Looks like you acted—“

  “You talk too much.”

  With a stiff right jab out of the space, Graham knocked the girl in the jaw, causing her to tumble back. She recovered quickly, but not quick enough to capitalize on the soldier slipping from out of the situation. He fired several rounds as he increased the space between the two of them. The suppressed bullets disappeared in the cloak of flames surrounding the pig-tailed River. They slapped away the bullets instead of burning them, causing a pool of metal to swim at her feet.

  “Mr.Graham.” He heard her say, tinged with anger. “You really shouldn’t head that direction.”

  Graham slid to a stop, realizing that Ragnar taken a different route to cut him off. The giant stood, battle axe raised. He was trapped, cursed that he had allowed himself to be so sloppy. He danced backwards, getting his feeling for the situation. “Bit of a pickle you got me in. Took a different route, did you?” Graham eyed a corridor linking through a backroom he had passed to get here. Of course he’ll use that.

  “It’s a shame that you’re so predictable.” Ragnar swung his axe the only way that he could in this corridor, in a broad downstroke. Graham jumped back to avoid the swing, only for the heel of his boot to nearly touch a sea-colored flame. “I must say, I expected more from Drifter’s new pet.”

  “My my. You aren’t fun, Mr. Graham,” River growled, wiping the blood from her mouth. “I thought you would last longer.” She snapped her jaw back into place, grinning, red staining her teeth. Angry flames curtained her arms. “Look at you. You’re a hamster going round and round a wheel with no real objective in mind. Just do what you are told,” she whipped a flame to the right wall, “A puppet in the grand scheme of things.” She did the same to the left wall beside Graham, leaving him no movement room. “Just dancing a tune that you don’t even know the notes to...”

  “This world isn’t for you,” River added. A flame bird conjured itself in her palms, screeching loudly. “People like you, the good people, had your chance. Look what happened. The world still died. Only the wicked survives here. This is our playground now.”

  There are points in a person’s life where they knew death caught them. He had cheated it once. The grim reaper always found its way back. Haha. You’re afraid, even after what you did to that man. Survive, you told yourself. You don’t want to die, as much as you want to believe you’re willing to. Graham touched a grenade on his side. This may be his time, but hell if he was going to let these two walk away from this. “You won’t get away with this—“

  “Fair fight? I think not.”

  Those were the only words that Graham heard as the wall beside Ragnar crumbled. Broken bones of the concrete scattered against the ground, bouncing off and colliding into one another. Dust hung in the air, surrounding the figure that uttered the words. With a few coughs, the small man stepped from the dust, staring at the three parties with steel-colored eyes.

  He was a small man, on the lower ends of five feet. His body looked as though it had been strung together tightly with layers of wiry muscle and pale skin. Shaggy and curly brown hair fell from his scalp scruffily, reaching to his tight neck. A beard of the same features dangled from his small chin. The most noticeable feature was the man’s battle testaments. Around the bridge of his nose, down the side of his face, on his forehead, there wasn’t part of his face not covered in thick or thin scars. Bruises, old and new, lined his arms. Underneath the stature and the boyish grin was something dangerous.

  Clothed only in some patch-worked pants, the young man took steps forward. His voice was low, muttering in what sounded to be Russian. Ragnar turned around, staring down at the man not even half his size. “Who are you—“

  The punch was swift, punching clean through the giant’s armor, and against his rib. Ragnar doubled over, coughing up blood.

  Like any good man, Graham took the opportunity to climb over the giant and avoid being singed alive—or whatever that flame did.

  The Russian man cocked his head in the direction of the opening he made. Get away was the main plan. Ragnar and River were angry and annoyed now. Sticking around to see what happened next was unhealthy and counterproductive.

  “You have a reason for helping me,” Graham asked, trying not to sound ungraciously frustrated.

  “Does one need a reason to help someone?”

  Graham took the statement with grace. “You have a name?”

  “It appears that you are in luck. Indeed I possess one.” He gave a grin, showing a somewhat broken row of teeth. “Grigori Zachrov, comrade.”

  “What is a Russian doing in America?”

  “Sleeping mostly. Motherland, “Grigori searched for the English word in his head, “Motherland is cold.”

  Somehow that seemed like an understatement, if America was any testament. Graham could only assume that Russia had taken a brunt of some nuclear winter and this man was a refugee. But there were other questions. How did he get here? What was his real purpose? Was he leading him to a trap? Already, his body was preparing for the worst options. Trust is a low thing for you. The voice in the back of his head reminded him. Trust is a concept. He reloaded his pistol, keeping himself aware.

  Grigori noticed with an empty, if not lazy, expression. “Fair assumption, friend.” He eyed the metal, a smirk underneath the bush he called a beard. “What would I gain from killing you except more sin I cannot hold? So have no fear. I saved you because it was right, not of some ulterior motive.”

  “How did you know—“

  “That you needed help, not them? Good people know that they have sinned, and know it is wrong. Evil just takes more bites from fruits that does not belong to them.”

  “But—“

  “I will hear no more of this. Talking about it and worrying about my intentions, which are none, is not going to make you run faster from people who are currently attempting to murder you.”

  The point slithered down his throat as stiff pill would. Silently, Graham followed him through the winding corridors. Sounds of the angered beasts howled behind them. They were coming up fast now. The hermit of a man knew the bunker like the back of his hand, taking him down several different corridors. The fina
l destination was a small room to the side. A large bald man as well as a thin mutated creature sat in the middle of the relatively empty room.

  As soon as Graham stepped a foot in the door, the bald man raised his AK-47 and spouted Russian. The armed fellow stood to his full height, towering over both men. He roared more words, fuming with spittle spewing on his Russian army fatigues. Grigori returned in his native tongue, nothing more than a sentence or two. Whatever he said worked. The gun lowered, and so did the man’s facial expression as though he had been kicked in the gullet. “Little brother Ivan says hello.” Grigori said. “Boris. Come say hello to our American friend as well.”

  Boris crawled toward Graham using his hands and his feet. The mutant was some sort of hyena, fish, and bird hybrid. Long white hair trailed down his head and back. His body was covered with fur mostly except his belly and shoulder, which was scaled and feathered respectively. He had no mouth, just a slit where it should be and his nose was flat. Dark round eyes stared up, observing intelligently for a second before returning to Ivan’s side. A low almost musical sound uttered from the opening of his face.

  “That one,” Grigori pointed at Ivan, “chose not to learn English. Boris always thought in music and colors, speech were never of any use for him. It is disheartening that you cannot meet my brothers in a more desirable situation. What did you come here for, my friend?”

  “A clue was all I was told.”

  “Hm. Boris, remember what you brought me—“Boris left the conversation before Grigori had even finished. “Blunt type of man, he is.”

  Boris went into a deep part of the room, coming back with a black canister. The first thing that Graham had notice was the symbol; the arch that he had saw on the soldier’s arm. “Can I have that?” he asked hurriedly to the mutant. Grigori repeated the request.

  Very carefully, Boris placed it down.

  “Thank you.”

  Grigori relayed the thanks, and received a joyful high pitched laugh as a response. “He appreciates the thought. I suggest that you leave now. In fact, we all shall leave. They ruined my favorite sleeping spot. Are all of your countrymen so blatantly rude?”

  “We don’t try to be,” Graham mused. “Lead the way.”

  “Oh no sweetie, no you won’t.”

  Curtained in flames, River stepped around the corner into the room. Her hair was down, wreathed around her neck and down her face. Ragnar followed her, a safe distance away. “We haven’t played enough, have we, Graham-cracker?” The pre-game had stopped, Graham knew, the moment she shot the fire ball from her palm. She had hurdled nothing less than a small sun at them. It consumed the room much slower, with the sound of a million dead souls shrieking. He heard the voices this time, begging in pain.

  Graham felt outmatched, a feeling he never felt before. His hands went numb. His yes stared at the flames, calling out to him. Fear gripped him. I can’t do anything about that. Guns didn’t matter. His training didn’t matter. Just fear mattered. This…I can’t…

  “Stand out the way, comrade!”

  Grigori quickly took the lead, stepping in front of the flame. His pale skin began to glow red as he embraced it. It was only for a second, since the next motion was him slamming his fist into the ground. A fissure stretched itself through the floor, traveling up the walls, and through the ceiling. The room split itself in half, crumbling messily through the side. River’s bath of fire stopped as it leaked into the air. Boris rushed to his brother’s side as the small man’s legs gave way under him, tossing him on his back.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Graham roared, grabbing the canister.

  The two remaining members of the party nodded understandably. Graham charged towards the only route out of the bunker as the stone crashed in pain. You lucked out again in a game you can’t win. You’re still a human. And humans can’t live here. He lived, but inside he was dying.

  _

  Graham had never been so angry before.

  Pub, Haggis, and Crisium retreated back to the vehicles with low to mild injuries. Grigori regained consciousness, but was still leaning on Ivan for support. Everyone kept quiet within the desolate Boneyard, tending wounds and regaining their breaths. Graham recovered in a different way. He couldn’t get that feeling out of his head. He never met an enemy that he couldn’t handle, an evil he couldn’t face. He gritted his teeth.

  “It could’ve been a lot worse,” Pub reassured.

  “Especially if Ragnar was actually fighting serious.”

  “Dickweeds,” Crisium snapped. She cleaned the remaining bits of Beastmaster out of her hair. Around her neck was his hand, fastened to a necklace. “You aren’t helping any.”

  “Calm yer tits, warrior princess,” the brothers retorted.

  Graham ignored them, kneeling down to the recuperating Grigori. He had no real expression, especially for a man who could have died possibly in whatever his little act did. “See, the right thing. That is what you are known for.” He gave a bit of a weak cough, but overall he seemed better. “You have gotten what you have come here for. I hope it is of some use.”

  “What’d ya get exactly, mate?”

  Crisium grabbed the canister from the truck and examined it. It was nothing real special, and more than a little rusted. Yet the symbol on the side of it was recognizable. “God—this is Z-12.” She said in shock.

  “So the Ancestors made or used the Z-12 and we can assumingly the P-X35…” The words were almost sticky in Graham’s mouth. Humans were dark creatures, he knew. Yet, why would people create weapons like this, here? Whose order was it to make them? “Why?”

  “That’s the million dollar question—ooww!”

  “Stop being a little pansy, will ya?” Haggis urged his brother as he tightened the bandage. “You shouldn’t have gotten shot.”

  “You did too, ya muppet.”

  “Your wound’s a lot worse.”

  “And I shall keep the scar proudly!”

  “Stop it you two! Serious business here!” Crisium’s face flared up with anger. “If the Ancestors are behind whatever happened, we have to figure out why and who’s behind them. I doubt they are done with the world yet.”

  It was true. Whoever started this, they had to figure it out. But, how? Where would they start? This leader of the Ancestors could be anywhere. “Since we know about the Ancestor’s involvement now,” Graham said, breaking his silence, “Maybe Drifter can figure out where they are.”

  “The manuscript!” Everyone looked at Crisium as though she was mad. She went on to explain: “That’s what he was after going to Rootgrove. He was looking for the trade manuscript. Conjurer worked for the government before the war, a scientist I think. Drifter must have caught wind of something—“

  “Then shit! He can’t stay for long in Rootgrove. If Drifter connected the dots between the Ancestors and Conjurer, Conjurer’s on the defensive. He knows that he can’t handle Drifter in a fight, a fair one, especially with Heron and Wood. He might try something desperate.” Haggis took a deep breath. “Tell your Russian friends sorry, but we have to leave.”

  “I speak English, brother,” Grigori interrupted, lazily. “But go. Do not worry about me. We have made it through worse. Find out who destroyed home. Your home, my home, everyone’s home.”

  Graham nodded. “Thank you.”

  “No need. God look over your travels.”

  “How can you still believe after all of this?”

  “Is that not the meaning of faith?”

  Those words stayed with Graham long after they had left towards the town again. He hardly had faith in himself anymore. This world was kicking his ass, and handing it back to him on a silver platter. But, he needed to fight; if not for himself, for everyone who lost their lives to this psychopath of an organization. I’m willing to lose everything. I’m willing to kill everyone to get to the end of these lies. His subconscious voice went silent this time, appreciating the thought.

  _
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  “River…?” The voice said sweetly.

  Ragnar watched the fight patiently; he was doing the same for the aftermath.

  “River,” the voice repeated. “Would you care to explain the meaning of that atrocity?”

  River kept her mouth closed. Her small lips were tight together, eyes poised into the darkness of the room. She crossed her legs, tapping her toes on the wood of the stool. “Please don’t chastise me,” she said with a smirk. “You couldn’t have expected that either. You would’ve been just as surprised as I was that they got away. Yet, I’m the one that’s sloppy. Oh that’s rich. You entrusted the script to Conjurer, knowing all too well that his rivalry with the Drifter supersedes his actual logic. Needless to say, his actual logic is fleeting anyway. So, I guess we all just rained on the parade. Too bad, I should have brought rain coats.”

  “Don’t patronize me, girl!” The man snapped.

  “I’m just a girl?” River laughed. “That may be true. Forgive me, but I’m speaking to a boy who thinks he’s a man. First big job by the big man and you mess it all up. Brink, what will they think of you? And you’re supposed to be a Son of the Ancestors. All I see is a boy that fell off the monkey bars.”

  Ragnar couldn’t see the man’s face, but he saw him reach for River’s jaw and hold it tightly. “You think this is funny!” Lieutenant Brink snapped. “You think that this is all a big game and you are the only player here. On top of that, you think you’re winning. No. No. No. You’re a jigsaw piece, just a corner. So easy, that a child can figure out where you go! Either you do your job, or I break you. Understood?”

  She gave no response. Brink snapped his fingers away from her jaw. “When I run out of fun things to do,” she smiled, despite the red marks on her cheek from the man, “I’m going to have to find another swing to play on. I hope it’s not in your playground sweetie.” She jumped off the stool, swiftly heading in Ragnar’s direction, smiling.