Jackson forced his eyelids closed and pushed away the foreign emotions, the thoughts of cold blood and fiery hatred. Become, something said within him. Become… the Order of Dust… Jackson fought a war within himself against emotions that now spoke as if sentient. Kill… the Un-Ascended…
“It’d be a real shame if that pretty girl of yours watched you be such a fuckin’ coward,” Azazel muttered behind his painted smile. “All I’m sayin’.”
A fire broke inside of Jackson. Rage unchained like nothing he had ever felt and boiled in him like an overflowing cauldron. Was this his own emotion or something the beings had placed within him? He looked in Usra’s starless eyes once more then to Azazel. “I’ll be your Order…”
Suddenly the white space swirled with vibrant colors of deep, rich purples and oozing greens. They enveloped him and soon all he could see were the beings who continued to hold him. Usra moved her hand to his chest and a warm, red glow ignited within him.
“This… is… the Heart of the Creator.” she said as her palm glowed. “May it heal your wounds... and sustain your life…”
Then Azazel placed his palm over his eyes and his head began to feel clouded, heavy. “Eyes of the Cruel. They will help you see the Un-Ascended who take up residence inside the bodies of innocents. Let’s say that you’ll see a different smile now.” Jackson began to grunt loudly as the pain swelled inside of his skull.
A finger placed over his lips and Usra’s voice rang sweetly in his ears. “Symphony of the Wise… to commune with the Order of Ascendance... Angels are what your people called them… and me… long ago.”
“Guts of the Strong will give you some strength and endurance that your kind would normally not possess. You’re welcome, kid.” Azazel thrust his palm into Jackson’s stomach who he let out a cough, winded from the blow. “And before I forget, here’s something important.” He placed his hands over Jackson’s ears and leaned in with his toothy grin. “Echo of the End…” he whispered, “now you can call on me whenever you need to.”
Jackson fell back as his eyes grew heavy and began to close. He laid and floated in the nothingness around him. As his consciousness drifted, he felt a cold, metallic weight on his chest. The item was dense as it pressed into his torso. Even with his eyes fully closed, he could feel Usra lay beside him with her cheek pressed to his. She placed a hand over the object and whispered in a way that reminded him of a short breeze on a summer evening. “Arm of the Savior…”
Damn it… my head is killing me, Jackson thought to himself.
Jackson sat up, finding himself in his own bed. His apartment lay thick with dust and the air held a musty scent. As he rose to his feet his body felt different, more mature and stronger than before. He slowly walked outside of his room, pushing the door with a force previously unknown to him. With each solid thump of his steps small clouds shot up from the raggedy carpet. He entered the hallway and passed a mirror that his fiancée had hung as a decoration. He hated it. When his eyes met his own, he did not recognize the reflection staring back at him. The face was doused in wrinkles of a long life which he had not had. Thick, gray stubble adorned his once smooth face and long graying hair hung from the sides of his head onto his broad shoulders. He raised a hand to touch his jaw, rubbing his chin and then pushing it through his hair. Even his hands had grown rougher. What truly threw him was the lack of a bullet wound on his head. Jackson touched a hand to the glass and outlined the reflection of his face; the man who looked back at him. If this was him, he thought, then time as truly changed him. He stormed off toward the living room where he saw a sight that brought on familiar emotions.
“No…” Jackson grumbled low.
In the center of his living room sat a large red, crusted stain. It coated the carpet having solidified into a circular pattern like old paint thrown onto a canvas then left to dry. It was not until he abruptly stopped that he felt something hanging on his side, and hit against his thigh. He reached down, grabbed it, and held it up. The object was a large gun that appeared very old, with a fantastical design. The metal was a smooth, shining amethyst color with decorative gold-swirling accents across the barrel. Jackson grabbed the dark, stained wooden handle and felt its cold surface on his palm as his finger glided along the trigger. He remembered Usra’s words, gentle in his ear as he quietly drifted away. Arm of the Savior, he thought to himself, a weapon to remove the Un-Ascended from a host.
In a moment, he felt the eerie creep of déjà vu crawling over his consciousness, as if he had held this gun before. Many times before. Somewhere far from here, in a place where life and death have a neutral place to meet. Muscle memory of his hand pulling that trigger so many times before, and the thoughts blurred as he tried to collect them. He stared long at the weapon, but nothing came; not yet.
After admiring its beauty, Jackson placed it back at his hip as he continued his journey towards the pool of dried dead memories. Jackson examined the gray carpet as it transitioned to deep red and had become rigid. While everything else in his apartment seemed untouched, even dormant, there was something here that had not been there prior; and it was not the weapon at his side. A small white box with a letter folded on top sat in the center of the dried blood. He knelt beside it and, with his now hardened, aged hands, snatched the letter from its surface.
* * *
“Well good morning, Sunshine. Welcome back to life. Ya may have already noticed this but it’s been 19 years since your train left the station, so to speak. We kept this place completely untouched for ya, including the friendly reminder here of why you became The Order. In the box you’ll find a little something I couldn’t give ya with Usra right there watchin’ us. You already got one for the Demons, so here is a little something for the rest of em. See ya real soon, kiddo.”
* * *
-Azazel
* * *
“Nineteen years…” Jackson said aloud. His large, old fist clenched and released quickly as he grinded his teeth. “This body… it doesn’t feel like me… Like a shell. Maybe, it was just hollow for too long. Is that the price of an Order, Azazel? Does your world destroy mine?” He spoke to no one, but inside he spoke to the Ender himself. Somehow, he felt that maybe he heard it.
Jackson removed the lid of the box to see something shining back to him, reflecting the light that crept in from between the curtains. The hard, silver metal glossed over the barrel and rested with a black grip. A much more modern weapon, for a much more modern problem. The barrel read “Beretta. Cal 9mm. Made in the USA” with a warning disclaimer about its loading. Jackson raised it up and held it in front of his worn face.
“Hmph,” he grunted. “I hope… this doesn’t get much use, Azazel.”
Utilizing an old kitchen knife with a rusted sharp point, he went to work. His new armaments lay before him on the counter as he hacked and sawed at the metal. Each line let out a shearing screech that pierced the hollow silence of his home. Flakes of metal built small piles like ant hills along the sides of the weapons and he let out a deep, warm blow from his lips scattering the shavings. Throwing the knife to the side, Jackson smiled at his handy work. He stood once more before the large mirror as a different man than the one who had laid bleeding on the floor nineteen years prior. A long, tan trench coat adorned him with a collar covering his darkened face. The graying hair rested at his shoulders and from this mane a furrowed brow stared back from the reflection. Each of his hands held a different pistol, engravings crudely carved along the barrels.
* * *
For Humans.
* * *
For Demons.
2
Scarab
From just outside of the door the air hung in thick, rich smoke with the smell of tobacco.
“Come on, let’s get this party started already!” said a robust, round man in an ill-fitting suit.
He sat in a row of chairs that faced a brightly lit, yet small, stage. Each seat held a man with a more sinister snarl than the last, with various upscale attir
e adorning their bodies. Clouds of heavy smoke rose towards the ceiling as they took deep, long drags of their cigarettes, and the streams of gray haze rose and twirled around them leaving a dense fog that filled the room.
A stage such as this one had no business being here. It had beautiful glazed wooden flooring with a thick velvet-red curtain draped over it, blocking a door that was just out of sight. Stained grey concrete walls, furnished with the aromas of blood and mold encapsulated the stage. It lay windowless with only the light from the stage offerings a glow on the disheveled audience. Behind the row of seating was a single steel door with no handle.
There was no escape from the inside. That is how they wanted it.
While so much of this world had changed, the most unfortunate part was that this city never changed. Crime had not changed in abundance, only in its victimization. New Ashton had once flourished during the industrial boom, with each block becoming a thick jungle of office buildings, apartment complexes, and corner stores. But, with commerce came criminals. New Ashton soon had lost the title as industrious, and traded it for new terms such as overpopulated, unemployed, poor, and, of course, murderous. Over the decades, once the great truth of the North-Lane came to pass, the Un-Ascended grew rampant. And, with supply comes demand, which was when the Scarabs crawled their way in.
“Get this auction started, Carter!” said a man, seated beside the round one.
Carter emerged from behind the curtain; tall and thin with a bone-chilling smile and eyes that mimicked that of a lifeless doll. His tight, black suit of velvet stretched across him and matched his slick, black greasy hair.
“Gentlemen…” said Carter in the silky tone, heard only from someone with years of dark dealings. “I apologize for the delay, but let us begin.”
Carter motioned his hand as the curtain opened slightly revealing a dark, opened doorway. The sounds of hastened breathing and sniffling echoed softly within the rich darkness.
“Our first item up for auction,” said the silver-tongued Carter.
A burly figure emerged, large in stature with a stoic face, and a shiny head. In his hand he dragged the arm of a young, almost nude man. He was visibly trembling with his hands bound by duct tape matching his covered mouth. His eyes flew back and forth in fear, and he hunched as he walked to the center of the stage.
“Stand up straight,” growled the burly man as he turned back to the dark room and disappeared.
“Some information,” said Carter as he slowly skated around the boy on the stage. His eerie presence clearly made the young man much more nervous. Carter placed a pale, cold hand on to his shoulder. “With his physique you can see he is athletic... captain of his college baseball team. Twenty years old, almost old enough for the drink. This young man comes not only with youth and vigor, but also a wealthy family involved in law.” He pushed his face close to the frightened boy, “And let us not forget…” he said with a sinister smirk, “he also has a gorgeous young lady by the name of Venus who is just mad about him.”
“Five. Hundred. Thousand.” A man from the row stands and shouts.
“Six hundred thousand!” screamed the man beside him.
“Stop the child’s play,” interjected the round man who hobbled up from his seat. “Two million dollars for the boy.”
A hush silence fell in the small room. A few men looked around to one another. The boy stood, shaking in his blue boxer-briefs.
One.
The round man approached the stage.
Two.
He stood at the edge, staring at his prize.
“Sold,” said Carter with a haunting whisper, and a bone-chilling grin.
The steel door flung open and crashed into the concrete wall beside it. The silhouette of a man in a long jacket stood amongst the pouring fluorescent lighting behind him. Straggled hair, coarse and flared, outlined a dark unrecognizable face. He took a large slow step into the room.
Seven chairs sat before him, directed at the small stage in the short distance. Six men stood at these chairs and turned to face him. Two more stood on the stage; one was thin, with ghastly features and a marionette expression, the other young, nude, and bound.
“Scarabs…” a low voice, as thick and raspy as gravel, came from the entering stranger.
“GUARDS!” shouted the round man who had re-entered the line with the other six beside him.
A metallic flash ran before them in a blur of shining purple and brilliant gold. The item was visible to them for only a brief moment as it pointed from the stranger’s hand.
Seven men stood, facing the stranger.
Seven bursts exploded from the barrel of the purple and gold weapon.
Six bodies fell to the ground.
In their place stood humanoid figures of a speckled sand with no distinguishable features. The specks moved within their human shape and those shapes were as still as snowmen. Out of the seven men who waited at the chairs, only one remained who now stood by the six figures of Dust. His face bent in horror, and beside him the face of Carter contorted with an odd excitement as if he fed on the thrill of danger, and the meal had just been served.
“Oh my,” said Carter in a cheerful tone. “You must be the strange man who keeps attacking my gatherings. I was hoping you’d make our little party here.”
“Hmph…” the man said as he walked closer, the stage glow revealing his true features. His tan trench coat, his grizzled face, his hardened stare. “Six demons, one human.” He grunted.
Jackson had been working these cases for a few months now, hunting Un-Ascended and searching for Scarabs. “I’ve learned a lot from hunting you,” he said taking another step closer. “One lesson stands out more and more at every one of your fucking parties.” He stepped once more and stood before them. “Some humans are no better than Demons.”
In his other hand he slowly raised a more familiar weapon of steel. A loud pop crackled through the small warehouse room, bouncing off each wall in a deafening boom. The bullet entered the last man through the forehead with a perfect circular hole leaking a thick crimson liquid. His eyes rolled back as his knees buckled and he fell limp over the back of his chair.
“Azazel…” muttered Jackson.
In an instant the dark presence revealed himself from a thick cloud of black smoke that wreaked of fire and ash, wearing a similar large grin to that of Carter. He leant over in a bow. “Thanks, Jackie.” he said, turning back toward Carter. “See ya soon!”
In a flash Azazel had disappeared as quickly as he came, taking the six Dust’s with him. Now Jackson’s cold eyes met the fires of Carter’s anxious ones.
“Ah, so you prefer Jackie then?” Carter said with a serpentine hiss.
“Jackson. I have questions for you, demon.” Jackson raised the Arm up toward Carter. “Where are the rest of the Scarabs?”
Carter began to laugh, his chuckle growing louder with every passing second. “Oh, you are newer to this than I thought! You’ve attended so many of my gatherings that I assumed you knew better than this!”
The amethyst barrel pressed against the chest of Carter as the two stood face-to-face. “Won’t ask again.”
Two large arms wrapped around Jackson’s waist. Before he could make out what had happened, he was flying backwards through the air. His back smashed into the row of chairs behind them, clattering and falling to the ground. The body of the human man tumbled along the side of him, leaving a small pool of blood on the concrete floor. Jackson quickly pulled the Arm up and fired it at the new threat who walked towards him. The gigantic man stomped slowly, and Jackson could feel the tremors ripple against his back with each step. He furrowed his brow and fired two rounds into the large figure.
The shots flowed right through him and out of his back. They did not faze him or slow his approach. Before Jackson could remove his other firearm, the large man was on him, bending down to grab his jacket lapels and tossing him like a child’s stuffed toy into the concrete wall beside them.
“Agh! D
amn it,” Jackson said as his shoulder slammed into the stone wall with a thud, like a bag of old, rotten potatoes.
Carter made his way to the open exit door and looked back at Jackson before he left. With a hollow smirk and a tilted head, he left him with one last piece of wisdom.
“There are hundreds of Scarabs in this city alone. I wish you luck in all your endeavors!” He gave a wave, as if to let Jackson know that he would take his leave now. Jackson’s vision was blurred and slowly came into focus enough to watch Carter smile at him once more, a smile that showed victory like a shiny new trophy. Just as he walked through the doorway out to the city street, Jackson’s line of sight became obstructed by a looming shadow. All that remained was Jackson, the large man, the nude boy, and the muffled screams from the dark room behind the stage.
Jackson raised his head as he crouched like a damaged toy on the ground. In the coffin of his flesh the splinters of bone debris scatter through his tissue like a grenade burst. Jackson’s vision was blurred and slowly came into focus enough to watch Carter smile at him once more, a smile that showed victory like a shiny new trophy, and just as he walked through the doorway out to the city street his line of sight became obstructed by a looming shadow. A large, Neanderthal-like figure glowered down at him, reached for him with huge bear paws that would end him. He took a breath, and the air stung as it entered his lungs and pressed against his damaged ribs. When he looked up only a moment stood between him and the large man.
A few months prior, Jackson struggled like a walking corpse in the solitude of his apartment, the one he had shared long ago with her.
“How’s the world treatin’ ya, Jackie?” Azazel said to Jackson from his living room, only a day after he re-awakened in his bed. “Ya look like shit, kid.”
Order of Dust Page 2