Monday shook his head. “Bad, I think. I’m worried he got my kidney.”
“Don’t be a baby.” Laney bent long enough to slide an arm under Monday’s shoulder. She lifted, but he resisted her, fearing to stand after the grievous wounds he had received.
“I was stabbed.” Monday wasn’t one to milk his injuries, but he thought he deserved at least a modicum of sympathy. A man had stabbed him twice in the back. That should be enough to earn a good 15-minute sit down, shouldn’t it?
“You’ve got my blood in you, honey. He would have had to cut out your heart to stop you from standing up. Even then, it would be a near thing. Come on. We’re leaving this town.”
Monday let her coax him to his feet, still cautious it might do more damage. Once upright, he blinked down at her, his mouth open in surprise. “It doesn’t hurt. No, that’s a lie. It hurts like hell, but not like it should.” He pressed a hand to the entry points on his back. Yes, the wounds remained open, but oozed only a trickle of blood, and the pain was about that of a stubbed toe or ingrown nail.
“You’ll need to eat more,” Laney said, drawing him along the road. “A lot more. But in a couple of days you’ll be whole. You’ll see.”
“I believe you.” Monday looked over his shoulder at the four bodies lying inert where they had left them. “Are you two sure you want to go with me? That’s your father back there. I know he lied, but still.”
Driscoll followed Monday’s gaze and shook his head. “If we stayed here, we’d become them, and I’d rather die.”
“Same,” Laney said. “The blood’s a lie, but that doesn’t mean we have to be.”
* * * * *
David Alan Jones Bio
David Alan Jones is a veteran of the United States Air Force, where he served as an Arabic linguist. A 2016 Writers of the Future silver honorable mention recipient, David’s writing spans the science fiction, military sci-fi, fantasy, and urban fantasy genres. He is a martial artist, a husband, and a father of three. David’s day job involves programming computers for Uncle Sam.
You can find out more about David's writing, including his current projects, at his website: https://davidalanjones.net.
* * * * *
Justice for All by Derek Shupert
1
Is this the end?
It’s a burning question I seem to ask myself everyday. There isn’t much left to look upon in this world to give a person hope. Nothing but death, decay, and destruction to greet my weary eyes. It’s a sad reminder of what once was, a distant memory that I’m slowly starting to forget.
Even out in the middle of nowhere, I can picture bustling metropolitan cities and thriving communities. It’s not real, so I quickly dismiss the memory.
As I stand in this thicket of trees overlooking a wide plain of openness the sun is baking with its strident rays, I can’t help but wonder what the point of living is.
Breathing.
Fighting.
Killing.
Then again, that’s all I have known for so many years. It’s who I am. It’s what is imprinted inside my head.
I’m a soldier in the Corporate Wars that brought about the end of civilization as we know it. The collateral damage that happened all those years ago was more than most thought it would be. So many lives lost. Genocide on a massive level.
My hands have spilled so much blood, the flesh is tainted with the souls of the vanquished. Sometimes I blink, and I swear I can see the deep crimson color painted on my palms. I know it isn’t real, but at times, it sure feels like it.
I wish I could erase the horrid acts I committed while working for Obsidian. I was an agent of death, fighting Teledyne Specialists and hunting down part human, part animal Geno Freaks that could easily rip a man in two. It was a fad the rich enjoyed, perhaps a little too much.
I was always told we were the good guys, that what we were doing was best not only for the United States, but for the world.
All I am, now, is a man without a mission.
A soldier without a cause.
Perhaps in this Fallen World, I can make amends and redeem myself. If that’s even possible.
I tug at my collar and breathe in the humid air. It feels like I’m breathing in a swimming pool.
Christ, it’s hot, humid, and muggy. A miserable day, for sure. Feels like rain could be on the way, judging by the amount of moisture in the air.
The top of my head is wet as my tattered, brown Stetson is keeping any breeze away. I remove the hat and run the length of my arm across my brow. Copious amounts of sweat dampen my skin. The slight breeze brushes over my scalp and brings a momentary sense of relief.
A subtle noise, nearby, catches my attention.
What was that?
I train my ears and focus on the subtle noise.
Panting.
Heart racing.
Footsteps rapidly pounding the earth.
Whoever it is is not too far away.
I put the Stetson back on my head, step away from the trunk of the tree I’m taking refuge under, and walk to the edge of the woods. Tall, brown blades of grass tickle my rigid palms. I peer to my left. The expansive plains sweep downward and continue on for miles. My eyes narrow in search of the distressed soul who’s running so hard.
There.
I see...her.
A little girl from the looks of it. I try to get a better look. She appears to be around nine years old, give or take a year, and she has long, dirty, blonde hair. Her yellow, flowered sundress whips about wildly as she sneaks a frightened glance over her shoulder.
What is she running from?
I hear someone pursuing her. Two large men materialize from the thicket about fifty yards downwind of me, running hard and fast. They have rifles slung over their shoulders and sheathed knives on their hips.
Some of the advantages—if you want to call them that—of being a former Agent are the mental enhancements and the physical upgrades. Better vision, hearing, and speed, just to name a few.
The little girl is heading for an old farm on the far side of the field. She pauses at a barbwire fence, slips through, cuts to the left, and makes for a large barn, then disappears inside.
Her pursuers remain vigilant, keeping their eyes trained dead ahead, as they continue after her. I reach for the Glock at my hip, but then I stay that thought. I only have a few rounds left, and I don’t know if there are more people nearby. Discharging the weapon would give away my position. I pull my knife from the sheath on my hip. A thin beam of sunlight slices through the thick canopy of leaves overhead and gleams off the serrated steel blade. This will do. This will do, nicely.
The men rush over the barbwire and make a beeline for the barn. I take off after them in a dead sprint and race across the wide openness of the field, hoping to stop an injustice from happening in this Fallen World.
* * *
2
The surly men vanish from my sight as they enter the large barn. I run hard and fast, my boots hammering the ground as I blaze through the grass. It doesn’t take me long to arrive at the unkept fence. I leap over the strand of coiled wire with barbed tips with ease. I don’t miss a step as I land on the other side and continue toward the barn.
I slow my pace to keep my presence concealed from the two men. I draw a sharp breath and focus my mind. The imprint I was given was of a soldier with good fighting skills and a knowledge of battle. I’m good with guns. Better with knives.
I approach with caution and listen for any subtle noises as I hurry over to the right side of the derelict building. I press my back against the rotting boards. Numerous holes mar the walls. I turn and face the structure, peering through the holes in search of the girl and men.
“Come on out, you little runt,” one of the men says loudly. His voice is raspy, as if he’s swallowed razors. I can’t lay eyes on either of the men, but the sound of this one’s voice comes from my left. “Your parents want you home for dinner. Now come out, before you really piss us off.�
�
I quietly shift to the next hole to my right and spot the men. Well, their backs anyway. They’re standing still in the middle of the barn, then they pivot, looking around the inside. They reach for their knives and pull them free of their sheaths. I need to get in there, now.
I take two hearty steps back and check the building for a way in. I tilt my head from side to side as I look over the rotting wooden boards on the barn’s exterior. There’s nothing. I move to my right, heading for the rear. Pausing briefly at the corner, I sneak my head out to ensure my way is clear. I detect no visible threats, just overgrown grass and the large derelict house to my right.
The men continue to threaten the little girl, demanding she come out. I move silently through the tall weeds and discover that a section of the barn’s base is missing. I stoop down and part the dense vegetation, further revealing the gaping hole in the wall. It appears to be large enough for me to slip through.
I lay flat on my stomach and carefully crawl inside. The jagged edges of the busted boards snare my coat and hat. I move my body from side to side, freeing the fabric from the rotting ends. The wood bends and creaks but doesn’t snap free.
The musty smell of the barn invades my nose, causing it to crinkle. My fingers dig into the dirt, and my arms pull me forward. I pull the remainder of my body inside and get back to my feet. Looks like I’m in a stall or something. It’s small and cramped. I stay in the deep shadows and move. Lurking like a creature in a nightmare, I wait patiently for my chance to strike.
One of the burly men growls in anger. He tosses a tin pail across the barn. It slams into the far wall with a loud clatter.
“We don’t have time for this shit,” he says. “Why the hell are we wasting our time on that little bitch? There are more than enough people back in that town. This girl isn’t going to make a damn bit of difference in the grand scheme of things.”
I raise the hand clutching my knife, as I slither along the wall. Each footstep is carefully placed. My presence is still unknown to the vile men who continue to bitch and complain.
I stop just shy of the wooden gate before me and stoop down. The men temporarily stop their search and face one another. Standing toe-to-toe, they stare at each other with narrowed eyes. Their lips are pursed, barely visible through their scraggly, thick, black beards.
They reposition their hands on the handles of the knives they are clutching, then square off. If they want to kill each other, that’d be fine by me.
The one on the left brings his arm up and points the end of his large blade at his partner. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll forget the little girl and go back empty-handed,” he growls. “When we’re asked where she is, I’ll let you tell them why we left. After all, it’s a waste of time, right?”
The man pushes down the other man’s arm. “I don’t understand why you’re so scared of that freak. Yeah, it’s mean as shit and all, but he, it, whatever the fuck it is, needs us just as much as we need it.”
It?
Are they referring to a Geno Freak? I thought most, if not all of those things, had died off. They’re not known for having long lifespans. The majority of those that survived the procedure were spliced with long-lived creatures like reptiles. Still, I thought they had been eradicated since the Fall. Guess I was wrong.
Something moves along the far wall toward the entrance. I catch a glimpse of the little girl’s yellow dress as she hides behind a stack of crates. She’s ballsy, I’ll give her that. Then again, you have to be daring to survive in such a dreadful environment.
She starts to move again, but this time, the two men catch sight of her.
“Hey!” the man to the left yells. He points to the right with his knife. “Go that way, and we’ll cut her off.”
The men split up. She races back the way she came, then drops to her knees and vanishes in the darkness.
I search for the gate’s latch with my fingers but can’t find it. I climb over and land hard on the other side, drawing the attention of the two men. They stop dead in their tracks and spin about on their heels.
“Who the fuck is this guy?” the man to my left shouts.
“No idea. I say we take him back with us. There’s more than enough to go around, and everyone can get their fill.”
Just as I thought.
Cannibals.
They’re just as bad as anything else in this god-awful world. If you didn’t have to worry about feral dogs or other predators, you had to worry about your own species trying to eat you.
The two men flip their blades in their hands as they move to either side of me. I remain calm, poised to defend myself from the heathens.
“Not sure where you came from, pal, but this is the last mistake you’ll ever make,” the man to my left threatens.
I stay silent as my eyes shift from left to right. My fingers reposition over my blade as I flip it around in my hand.
Both men breathe hard, nostrils flaring as their chests heave in and out.
The man to my left advances. He raises his arm and brings it down at an angle toward me. I lean back and step to the side as the razor-sharp edge of his blade narrowly misses my face.
I punch him in the gut, then slash upward with my knife. It slices through a portion of his coat and opens a nasty gash along the right side of his face. With a painful screech, he palms the wounded flesh.
His partner advances, his movements clunky. He growls through clenched teeth and narrows his eyes. He thrusts his arm forward, trying to ram the tip of his blade into my gut.
I spin out of the way and grab the hand wielding the knife. I knock it free from his grasp and flip him end over end. He lands with a dull thud, flat on his back. Air gushes from his lungs. I twist his arm, snapping the appendage.
“Fuck!” His free hand comes up to grab my forearm. I try to stomp his face with the sole of my boot, but I feel something running up my left arm. The blade of his knife slices through the fabric of my coat but doesn’t reach my flesh.
I release my hold and step back. I twist to the side and take a defensive stance, bringing both arms up as I firmly plant my feet. The gash on the side of the man’s face is long and deep. Blood races down his face, collecting in his black beard.
He lunges forward, slashing wildly, hoping to find a mark that will end me. I evade each attempt.
He growls. His jaw is clenched so tightly, it looks like he could shatter his teeth. He drives me back a few steps.
I duck and step to the left, avoiding the knife in his right hand. I bring my blade up and bury it deep in the back of his skull. A final, faint gasp escapes his lips as his body ceases to move. I pull the blade free, and he drops his knife and crumbles to his knees. He slumps forward and hits the ground face first.
“You son of a bitch. You broke my fucking arm!” the man on the ground behind me yells. He slowly rolls over to his side, then his stomach. He peers at his friend. “You’re going to pay for that.”
The man presses his palm to the ground and pushes himself up to his knees. His face is sweaty and flush with pain, and he winces with every move. His face contorts in agony as he sways from side to side.
“You should’ve let the girl be.” I loom large before him. My head is tilted down, and the brim of my Stetson conceals a portion of my face. “Perhaps you’d still be breathing if you had.”
He goes to speak, but I sweep my blade across his throat. A gurgling sound escapes his gaping mouth. His eyes are wide as he brings his hand up to stay the flow of blood racing out of the wound.
These low-lifes are a scourge on a dying world that is struggling to rebuild itself from the ashes of decimation. They will not be missed.
I wipe the blood on my knife on the dead man’s shoulder. His arm drops lifelessly to his side, and his body slumps over, leaving his head dangling in the air.
I secure the knife in its sheath. I turn to my right, searching for the girl. I can hear her heavy breathing. I follow the sound into the barn’s shadows.
&n
bsp; “I’m not going to hurt you,” I softly say. “You are safe, and you can come out.”
She doesn’t budge from the small, narrow opening where she is hiding. I can only imagine how traumatized she is. The horrors she must’ve witnessed have certainly stolen a chunk of her innocence. I don’t blame her for not rushing out of her hiding place. Trust is such a hard thing to give nowadays. I know it is for me.
Her subtle whimpering plays inside my ears. I move further into the shadows and crouch down, close to the ground. I run my hand over the wooden boards to my right as I peer through an opening.
I spot the outline of her meager frame. She’s in the far corner with her knees pressed to her chest and her face buried between her legs. She pushes back against the wall, her lips trembling.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I calmly reassure her again. “The bad men that were after you have been dealt with. You are safe and can come out now.”
She draws her legs in closer. It burns me to no end when the wicked prey on the weak, the ones who can’t easily defend themselves. It makes dealing out justice in this Fallen World that much sweeter.
I stand back up and move away from the opening, giving her some time to gather her thoughts and muster up the courage to crawl out of her den of safety.
I clean up the dead bodies so they won’t frighten her any more than she already is. I drag the men outside and discard them to the side of the barn. I don’t bother burying them; they don’t deserve that much. Perhaps the predators in the area will enjoy a hearty meal. That’s the circle of life for those bastards.
I remove the Stetson from my head and take a seat on a crate inside the barn. I run my fingers through my hair as I lean back against the thick post behind me, then I place my hat over my knee. I fold my arms across my chest, and stare at the opening, waiting for the girl to make her way out. A few minutes later, I hear her move.
From the Ashes Page 26
