by Marc Mulero
“Oosnie,” he whispered.
Laying eyes on it instantly brought him back to his last adventure, where he was left for dead if not for the kind spirit who rescued him. Her face formed in his mind so easily: large eyes, mocha skin speckled with dirt, unevenly cut hair… a pretty girl who had even less than him and yet smiled far more.
Then, like a blackened veil of night, she was wiped from his mind’s eye, leaving nothing but thoughts of uncertainty. What of her fate? Would she be spared, or yanked like his mother was?
He collapsed the case closed, and his fists balled with intensity.
I’m ready, Oosnie, to keep my promise. To come back. I know you need my help. I can feel it, and I won’t let you down. Just hold on a little longer. Please.
Staggering winds shouted at the boy, blowing his shaggy hair all around, and taunting him. Every idle minute put him on a more restless pace at the edge of the plank, and eventually to the flower again. He held it close to shield it from the gusts, before a scoff of impatience tugged eyes onto him… and then to the ocean.
Spurts of air shot up as the divers returned. Some grasped at jagged rocks as they broke from the water, while others backstroked away to clear a path. Hand signals marked protocol.
Keep swimming back. Make way, Lesh read. Go.
And when everyone was set in position, the head diver raised his scuba mask and pressed the button to release the only automatic anchor. A deep bubbling commenced like a stopper pulled in a bathtub. Small waves cartwheeled away with white mist as hands, the divers bouncing with them, and then floomp - a violent surge up, up, up came the sleek vessel to breach the tide, arising unharmed, rocking turbulently in its release from forced submergence.
A ship resurrected from the depths and was called upon to fulfill an impossible mission, much like the Sins.
Sadness followed, however. Groans, almost resentfully. It was dreadful. Madness. What did it mean that their transport was unscratched? A future? Perhaps at some point. But what it meant now, was that every passing second assured that they’d drift further from their fortified fortress, their families, from home.
Lesh observed their weakness with disgust. “Fear may rule you,” her sharp face turned to slice at their guilt, “but would any of you have survived the Quake if not for the people we’re heading to save?” She walked into the crowd, challenging each soul that she peered into. “Where would your shelter be if Morn hadn’t struck a deal? Where would Morn be if not for Farah? I’ll tell you - bled out and lifeless on the cold ground. So gather your sacks, if you have them. I have an oath to keep.” She passed a straight-faced look at the two boys who convinced her to take this journey, and then faced forward as everyone began to board the vessel.
The ship sailed swiftly through a divergent sea. It treaded rough water, glided around a whale carcass here and there… that is until the waves gradually became steeper the further they voyaged. It started slow at first – the bumps beginning to slap a little harder, but soon after everyone was bracing.
Lesh tensed her jaw... could it be? Remorse? She looked back to the two youngsters holding tightly oto a wooden fixture, their heads bouncing with each clap.
Fucking boats. She snarled to herself.
It got to the point where the vessel had to crank grudgingly high over waves like an amusement park ride. She could feel the height, the inertia, not being able to see what waited from beneath.
Then came the fall - a crash into the water that toyed with everyone on board. Whiplash first, then a splash. Those who dared stay deck-bound were covered in muck – sand, seaweed and otherwise, all slapped together to make grimy green chains around their bodies.
Frantic workers climbed from the control room out of fear that a tidal wave was upon them. No, thankfully. A sigh of relief. They were still alive.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they got past it – the sets of swelling waters, and now the beige buildings were in the horizon.
“That clay city is gon’ be in ruins, sweetheart. The Yuprains live week-to-week. Ain’t no time to think about the end of the world when you’re hustlin’ just to feed your family,” Morn said.
“All the more reason that we make this trip, wouldn’t you say?” Lesh looked as though she was about to spit in his face. “Farah needs us. You, of all people, should realize this.” She eyed his metallic arm.
“No, no, no,” Morn waved his hands, “wasn’t suggestin’ otherwise. Just talkin’.”
“Hmpf. These two behind me are right. She made you whole… on a whim. She could’ve told me to go fuck myself. But she didn’t. She risked everything for us. Now, as fate has it, we will do the same.”
Morn snapped his tongue in disapproval. “Time and a place to be a heroine, sweetheart. This is neither of ‘em.”
Annoyed, Milos took a step forward and pushed the Southerner. “This is the only time!” he shouted. “People need us, Morn. So stop thinking only about yourself.”
Morn slightly turned to look back at the boy, raising eyebrows in response to his brashness.
Lesh, on the other hand, kept her eyes forward, the broken city now manifesting into existence – buildings crumbled, smoke rising high into the air. It was chaos.
She rested her arms over the ship’s railing to get a closer look. “This trip will be short, regardless of its outcome,” she said, realizing that Morn’s words could hold true.
Milos recognized the tone shift and took a deep, frustrated breath before stepping back next to Kentin. He clenched the wooden fixture so hard his fingers were turning white.
“This won’t do,” he muttered, sharing a look with his friend that said it all.
She needs me… and I’m going to find her.
Nearly an hour had passed, giving ample time for that nervous energy to rise up once more. The city was now clear in the horizon, gunfire erupting to welcome them.
Lesh, however, was stone. She fell silent and hardened at the wheel of the ship, acting as the figurehead statue on the bow. It was clear - she was going to get what she came for.
Morn, on the other hand, was all sour grunts and groans. A click of his tongue every time he glanced at the toppled city, every time he heard a bang in the distance. It all just validated his words.
“These Hiezers are firin’ like maniacs. Doesn’t sound like they’re trying to keep order to me.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Lesh agreed.
As soon as the ship tucked itself into the half-torn bay, Milos was gone like dust in the wind. Five taps of shoe against hard wood, then a hop over the ledge with another set of feet trailing, a more hesitant pair – Kentin’s – following closely behind.
Milos was a volcano about to erupt, and so someone had to be there when he did.
Lesh nodded to the two kids before passing a look to Morn. “Keep a close eye on them, and make sure the crew is armed. I will not have another incident like the trade run. Hear? Buck up… this city is a warzone now, and our pass through needs to be swift.”
And just like that, she was gone, a blur whizzing in the opposite direction.
Morn tilted his head as if asking a higher power, “Why me?” rolling his eyes before looking around. Everyone scurried about – scrambling, shouting to one another, what have you – all while he stood still.
“Oof. Babysittin’ in the apocalypse. Fun.”
He turned to the sound of marching on stairs, the crew, resurfacing from the engine room with rifles in-hand. It was pathetic though. Why? Because no barrel was steady. These weren’t fighters… these were tradesmen and tradeswomen. Traumatized ones at that, whether from the Quake or gunshots panging off clay, it hardly mattered.
“Oh,” someone crashed into his shoulder. “Oh!” Another almost fell into them.
“Alright,” he slammed his boot, trench coat jingling with precious metals, “listen up! At any second, the shockwaves could resume, right? Or maybe a stray bullet could poke ya bloody. But maybe, if you listen to me, that won’t be your fa
te.”
The crew slowed to a stop, now seeing that their commander was gone, and this Southerner was all they had left.
“Guard the ship. Guns loaded, pointed away from your allies.” He poked a barrel from aiming at his chest. “Hiezer, marauder, anyone that you don’t recognize, less they’re with me or Lesh, shoot to kill, eh?”
He nodded in an exaggerated way to help the crew do the same. “Good,” he glanced away to see Kentin’s stocky legs round the corner into the city.
“We’ll be back before you can say tsunami.”
And with that, Morn whirled, trench coat swishing in the gusty winds to catch up to the sprinting boys, radio in hand.
Milos hustled through cracked streets, desert dust parting from his path as he blew through it, jagged land nearly scraping him on every zig and zag made. He was careful though. He knew what to do, where to turn, what to move, all the while he could hear the panting of his friend, the noise dissipating behind him.
Hold on, Oosnie. Just hold on.
He retraced the steps that the girl had dragged him through a time ago, his mind firing off quickly, relying on a cherished memory as best he could. Rehashing the trail was difficult… so much had changed since then. Ruins all over the neatly marked streets, bodies, cries, it all warped Death Valley into something more fitting of its name. And yet he needed to run, no matter what lay before him. He twisted his body and kicked off battered clay homes, flipping past his obstacles in a mad rush to find her, to keep his promise.
Kentin took an exaggerated breath, feeling deflated, discouraged the more he fell behind. All the while he couldn’t help but recognize how much of their trainer’s skills Milos had adopted. He was a living shadow of her, and the darkening skies becoming overcast with clouds made something else even more true. He was cursed. Even nature wasn’t shy about it. The darkness followed him wherever he went.
“Ack!” Kentin sneezed from dust, waving a hand to get it out of his face, eyes red and squinted.
He nearly stumbled when the air cleared – to his left, a sobbing mother, one eye dripping blood, the other tears. The brawny boy couldn’t help but follow the sorry sight, losing his footing more than once as he ran down a slab of cracked ground. It wasn’t the mother who jarred him. No. It was the slain child in her arms, who was riddled with bullets. Kentin was used to this sort of thing, true, but the sight here, out of Senation, meant something else entirely.
He’d thought the rest of the world was different. He imagined a place of peace outside of exile. “I guess not,” he mouthed to himself, then shook himself free of shock.
“Milos!” he shouted. “Something’s wrong!”
Milos’ thoughts were of no such wonderments, his eyes focused in one direction: forward. He blocked out his friend’s shouts and sped on.
Crack. An adobe roof just ahead broke off and crashed into the dirt. Nope, Milos thought to himself, refusing to stop, instead diving horizontally through an opening, somersaulting – hair now a brown sandy mess – back onto his feet. He heard a civilian scream for a fraction of a second, and when it stopped, he knew…
Don’t think about it, he told himself. Another heap of clay, this time from a second story floor, tumbled down to strike like it was waiting for him to pass. A dash to zag out of harm’s way gave him more confidence. More speed.
“I’m going to make it.”
Rounding a corner showed that Terras and Yuprains were everywhere, and it was just as crowded as his first visit. Only this time, their walks weren’t leisurely. It wasn’t for work. It was to live. Survive. Citizens were desperate, rummaging to find their families, friends, valuables before attempting to flee the city.
Fatalities were great in number. The two boys alone could have counted nearly a hundred bodies scattered on their short scan of the town. Fault lines fractured the land, claiming homes as well as lives. Some of the fissures made up the width of an entire block. Yet it wasn’t nature’s wrath that caused today’s screams. It was the Hiezers. It was their orders from the Grand City of Nepsys that kept the town moving. All citizens were to be kept in Quarantine of their respective areas until the highlords deemed appropriate. Any resistance, any at all, gave the soldiers the right to shoot on sight.
Milos quickened his step when he realized what he was up against, rounding what he remembered to be the last corner before the block of Oosnie’s basement home.
Please be okay. Mom, if you’re watching, please let her be okay.
Dirt kicked up all around as he slid to a hard stop. Anxiety was rising, fists balled so tight that it hurt to open his hands. Fingers tingling.
“This was the block… where is everything? I must be mistaken.”
But he wasn’t. He swung his gaze from side to side, and then turned completely around to try and understand which pile of debris was the remains of Oosnie’s house.
“God, no. She was in the basement… no… if she was sleeping or hiding. No. Mom…. please.”
His heartrate quickened as the glimmer of hope continued to dull. He imagined himself there with her, next to her, watching the ceiling tremble above. To suffer something so terrifying alone…
“Why couldn’t she just come with me? Why!”
His legs were now frozen in place, paralyzed by vivid imagery, mending him with the floor. The stiffness rose upward like he was rapidly being turned to stone.
“She was too innocent for this, to suffer and die alone.”
Kentin closed in seconds later, halting his steps to a hesitant walk and stopping a few paces behind his friend.
He let Milos take a moment of silence, and then spoke his mind. “Maybe she got out in time. You said she was always where she shouldn’t be. Maybe she escaped this place…”
Milos was still, numb to Kentin’s sanguinity.
“Come on, let’s keep looking,” Kentin suggested. “We’re dead anyway when Lesh catches up to us. We might as well make the most of this.”
After hearing no response, Kentin shook Milos’ shoulder, snapping him back from despair. “C’mon,” he repeated, and took the lead.
Milos followed with a blank stare, falling back into the state of shock that plagued him countless times before. Same as when he’d witnessed the death of his mother and partook in the murder of a traitor, the nimble boy was thrown into grief. Mind engulfed in guilt, his body moved forward on impulse. He was just a shell. The only thing that assured his friend that he was still here was the Sin mark that suddenly began to pulse with life.
He was mid-race when he felt his body suddenly jerk toward the floor, shirt stretched from being pulled, and when he turned, about to curse loudly, he saw Kentin with an index finger over his mouth.
“Shhhhh.”
They were both ducked behind a jagged piece of clay, some voices shouting at one another ahead of them. Milos peeked – a sea of bodies decorated the block, like a mass execution took place here, and the ones still standing were about to be next.
“You must let us go. We won’t survive another day in this wasteland!” a father shouted, standing defiantly with outstretched arms to shield his family from harm.
“No tolerance, defiler. Get back into Quarantine and savor the time you have left. Don’t sentence your young to death,” the Hiezer shouted back.
This elite seemed hesitant for some reason, which was odd, at least for a Hiezer. He was short of patience, at his wit’s end, and seemingly filled with regret. What had he done? The boys wondered. But they could’ve guessed. Perhaps some of these people beside them were lifeless on his account. The fresh bodies were still warm, it looked like. And his smoking rifle was as good as proof.
This block seemed to be claimed by the elites – instead of tall buildings, there were piles of bodies. Instead of rain, puddles of blood. What else did any of them expect from their protectors? Sheep herders on the grandest scale. Enemies of humanity… and to Milos, they were the only enemy.
Gravity of circumstance cleared his thoughts. Anger filled his
shell with life, pulling him into action. And so he rose from cover, eyeing the Hiezer whose back was facing him.
He’s just one man.
“Get back!” Kentin barked in his loudest whisper, but he was just out of reach to restrain the determined boy.
“We’ll fall into the earth, be shot by your kind, or worse, starve! There’s nothing left for us here!” the father shouted. “So you’ll have to shoot me in the back if your orders are so absolute.” He took a breath and braced for what was to come next. But no shots ever followed.
Milos didn’t share the hesitation that these men exhibited, you see. He’d already walked that path, and lost his mother because of it. Now emerged a different being. A mere shadow. A new generation of Spade, perhaps, for his training taught to act on instinct. And so he did.
A mad dash forward with knife in hand – a silent blur. He was learning to be like her. It was happening in the heat of everything. It was just like he was taught, that the only sound he was allowed to make was when it was too late for his victim - the chrrrt of knees sliding against sand, Milos slid right between the gap of the guard’s planted feet.
Eyes lowered in shock. Was the man seeing things? A youngster? Curtains of curly hair that shadowed his face like a crazed mental patient. It was only when he eyed the bloody knife did the guard feel a warm liquid spill from his leg.
A precise incision. Made by a surgeon’s hand again. Unshaking and deadly accurate.
There was nothing left for the Hiezer to do except fall to his knees, on cue, and offer the softness of his neck as he cowered forward. The Sin boy swung twice, opening his gift with red ribbons of blood and rolling out of the way before the gurgling Hiezer found the strength to jam down his trigger. Erratic gunfire ripped into the clay ground beneath them, but found no flesh.
Kentin caught up, in a slight state of shock, watching first as the hostages scurried out of harm’s way. A family of four, all older and wiser than Milos, owed him their lives. And then he heard the clunk of the guard’s armored body meeting the floor.