Last Light Falling

by J. E. Plemons

  “Looking for this?” I ask, holding the bullet. “You’re like too many other sheep on this earth—very predictable.” I pull out my Beretta and shoot him in the head. Something inside of me has deeply changed now, because the remorse I once felt has gone. I feel lost in a sea of hatred, and I fear it will only deepen as long as this journey continues.

  “The evil we face behind these doors will extend you no grace. Show no mercy here; that will be for God to decide,” I say with a rage I cannot contain. “Gabe?”

  “Yes?”

  “Not one of these motherfuckers leave here alive,” I say with a venomous distaste before we go on a killing spree.

  When I kick in the back doors, hell is unleashed as I hold back nothing. Through these doors is the image of pure bondage of sadistic torment. There are women being beaten into submission, paying back a debt to their owner, children about the age of fourteen with dog collars strapped tightly around their necks, tied down by chains, and forced into sexual favors. Hundreds of men of all colors and cultures who are bidding, buying, and breeding, roam the halls. Many are engaged in this sick, twisted act of sexual violence in this sinful warehouse.

  I waste no time as I strike down the first victim in front of me and slice downward on his chest, spilling blood and intestines onto the floor. Within just a couple of minutes I have cleared the first hallway—stabbing, chopping, dismembering, even decapitating every wicked and immoral man standing in my way. Gabe takes out those in the first rooms of the hallway with his Desert Eagle firearm, while I make a path for the next hall. Just around the corner, I see federal officers taking advantage of an innocent teen girl tied to a wooden post.

  I quickly throw one of my black-widow knives at the back of one of the officer’s heads, splitting his spinal cord. The other officer tries to draw his gun, but I pull one of the daggers from the side of my hip and thrust it up in his thorax, twisting the dagger as I pull it out. The dirty floor turns red within seconds as the officer falls to the ground. I untie the girl and tell her to run as fast as she can.

  I hear Gabe screaming my name, so I hurry back over to the first rooms where we came in and quickly notice federal officers trying to escape through the store. I run back into the store and shoot the first two officers in the head, then slash through the remaining three with the swords.

  I hear gunshots in the hall and immediately race to see if Gabe is in trouble, but to my surprise no one is there. At the end of the hall, three men run to an adjacent room, but the door is locked. One holds a gun while the others carry an ax and a bent metal pipe. I throw a dagger in the neck of the man holding the gun, which drops him to the floor, gasping. The other two men quickly turn around and rush forward with their weapons in hand, ready to pound me over the head. I stand firm and take a more aggressive posture as I get in a Jodan-gamae position.

  With my sword high, I immediately strike downward and cut off the arm of the first man, then I quickly crouch to avoid the blow of the pipe. While he strikes at the air with the pipe, I swing my other sword and slice his left leg off. He violently trembles on the ground in agony, until I unwillingly decide to split his skull, putting him out of his misery.

  I quickly run back through the halls to make sure Gabe is okay. As I turn the corner, I’m met head-on by six angry brutes with bloodstains on their shirts, and I can only hope the blood is not Gabe’s. I reach behind my back, pull out my scorpion dagger, kneel on one knee, and push the knife in one of the men’s inner thighs. The man pushes his arm back, clutching the wall as he falls backward into the others. I twist the dagger out, making sure the man can’t stand. With both swords in my hand, I go on the attack, slaughtering the other five men.

  “Arena!” shouts Gabe from around the corner.

  I jump over the bloody bodies and race into the next hall. Gabe is struggling with one of the men. I pull out my gun and shoot. The side of the guy’s head splatters red on the wall and his heavy body collapses to the floor.

  “Are you okay? Have you been shot?” I ask, looking at Gabe’s bloody arm.

  “I’m fine, this isn’t my blood,” he says.

  “Come on, there’s another open room down the hall,” I say. I reload my gun with a full clip and we search down another hall and into an open area. There are about fifty men scattered in the open warehouse, half of whom are federal officers armed with guns. To the right is a forklift loading large crates onto a truck, and to the left is another truck filled with dog cages.

  There’s an officer dressed in a very unique uniform standing upon a raised platform, barking out orders to everyone down below. I tell Gabe to get ready for an ambush and gun down the armed officers first. While everyone is running around panicking, we run inside and hide behind some pallets unnoticed.

  I didn’t bring my bow, so I will have to take out the man on the platform with my gun at about thirty yards away. I lift the gun and rest it on the pallet, aim for his head, exhale a small breath of air, and squeeze the trigger. A direct hit on his forehead abruptly stops him from yelling orders, and he comes crashing down off the platform.

  Everyone is so loud hustling back and forth that no one notices right away, until an officer nearly trips over his body and begins to shout. With both guns drawn, I take down officers one by one until all the armed men are dead—it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. I put my guns away and draw my swords to finish off the remaining swine, while Gabe shoots everyone who’s trying to flee off the dock. As soon as the last body falls to the floor, we hear a truck outside the open dock backing up. I’m completely exhausted, and the muscles in my arms can barely raise the sword. We both quickly hide to the side of the dock door just as the truck stops.

  Two men jump out of the vehicle and are greeted with an absolutely horrific sight of bloody carnage. While they stand there in stunned silence, I grab one by the back of his hair and place a knife beneath his neck while Gabe holds the other at gunpoint.

  “So, what are we delivering today?” I ask. The men say nothing, so I force the man that Gabe’s holding at gunpoint to open the truck. He’s so nervous, he can’t find the right key to open back door of the truck, so I pull out my gun and shoot it off the lock.

  “Open it now,” I say. He trembles, but when the door opens, a horde of women and children tumble out of the truck, gasping for air. They’ve been smuggled covertly into the country for slave trade and sexual exploitation for wealthy men who have denied any respectable decency or an ounce of morality.

  “Who sent you to transport these women?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “Tell me now or I won’t be as merciful,” I demand, as I slowly cut around his ear.

  “Some military gentleman, I don’t know for sure,” he says, stuttering and panting.

  “I reserve the right to judge, and gentleman he is not.”

  “Iakov, they call him Iakov,” says the other man.

  “How much did they pay you?” I ask.

  “No money, they promise us our pick,” he says, referring to the women or children they decide to choose for a slave.

  Just then, the man held at gunpoint quickly attempts to grab Gabe’s gun, but before he reaches for the trigger, I shoot him in the side of the head then slit the other man’s throat. We untie all the women and children that are bound together on a continuous piece of rope.

  “Run, you’re free now,” I yell, as they file out, nervously looking around for authorities.

  “Thank, you, thank you!” a woman hysterically shouts in Russian.

  “Don’t thank me, thank God for your freedom,” I respond in Russian. While Gabe walks back through all the rooms to make sure all women and children have been freed from their shackles, I make my rounds, killing the rest of the fallen men who are still writhing on the ground. We leave this place with the walls painted red and slaughtered bodies stacked on one another in pools of congealed maroon flowing into the rusty grates. The bloody carnage that’s left will be a small sign of God’s wra
th for those to witness.

  CHAPTER 18

  People stare at my blood-soaked clothes as Gabe and I exit the premises into the main alley. Because my hands are stained red and my raven hair is dripping crimson, I’m hardly recognizable. We flee as fast as we can down one of the back streets to avoid any other officers strolling around the main areas. They will be all over the place once they see the bloodshed we created. There’s a back alley next to an eatery that looks unoccupied enough for us to hide and catch our breath for a few minutes.

  While Gabe crouches down with his back to the wall, I notice a very active-looking shadow sporadically moving about just around the corner across from us. I can hear arguing followed by a scream and can only assume someone is struggling.

  I poke my head around the corner and see a burly looking man with his pants down to his ankles fighting with what I know now is surely a prostitute. I sidle up behind the man and cock back the Colt Python that I got from inside the pawnshop. The man suddenly stops and poses like a statue when he hears the click of the hammer being pulled back on the gun.

  Instead of pointing the gun directly at his head, I take an unorthodox approach and slide the cold black barrel beneath the man’s groin area between his legs. I’m more disgusted when I see his wallet lying open on the ground revealing a photo of what I assume is his wife and two kids.

  “If you want to keep your manhood attached, I suggest you pull your pants up, go home, and apologize to your wife for being a self-absorbed perverted jackass, and pray she doesn’t cut off that sad sorry sight for a penis,” I say.

  “It’s average size, thank you very much,” he says, shaking.

  “Yeah, if you’re a Hobbit. Hell, you’re an inch away from having a gender change. Now get out of here before my conscience decides to divorce me,” I say, as he scurries off, falling every few steps with his pants sliding down.

  I probably should have just shot the man and done his wife a favor, but since both parties were engaged in a consensual and mutual activity, my temptation to kill retreats. I have a moment of compassion when I see the woman crying and wonder to myself how one can do that to themselves, but instead of judging her bad decisions, I simply comfort her. She just needs someone to care for her right now, and if I can be a shoulder to lean on, I will do it.

  At that moment, Gabe comes around the corner. “Arena, what’s going on? There’s a man awkwardly staggering his way down the alley with his pants half-on, pissing himself,” he says with a confused look on his face. I shake my head and gesture for him to stop, because I don’t feel the need to relive the moment in front of this broken girl.

  Just then, a squelching siren pierces the air, breaking up a comforting moment. “Here, take this, you may need it,” I say to the girl, handing her the pistol. “No human being is immune to sin, He will forgive us if we ask,” I say before I take off.

  Gabe and I quickly leave the open area, where people are covering their ears from the hellish noise. As soon as the siren stops, everyone around us immediately notices Gabe and I covered in blood. When I draw my swords to prepare for an assault, all hell breaks loose—people scream in terror and scamper in all directions. We take off down the street back toward the hotel, hoping to find Henry and Finnegan waiting for us. Whatever is up ahead, it must be bad enough to make people desperately scramble for shelter in a panic.

  We proceed with caution on the backstreets, waiting to be met by some federal assault, but I see nothing that poses a threat. Not until we reach the library do we spot a small army of officers marching in from the west in a very regimented manner. About two hundred armed soldiers, who do not look like regular federal officers, are wearing gasmasks. I wonder if they are here for us or if they are really here to exterminate the people living here. If we’re to get out of here alive, then we’re really going to need Henry and Finnegan, because I’m not going to be able to do this alone.

  “Gabe, tell me you got something in that backpack that will distract these neo-Nazi gorillas,” I say.

  “I do, but not enough to kill all of them. Here, hold this,” he says.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s called a hornet’s nest,” says Gabe.

  “Let me guess, you got this idea from one of your comic books,” I say.

  “Actually, I got the idea from you. Does yellow-jacket nest and McKenzie ring a bell?”

  “So what the hell is it supposed to do?”

  “This metal nest holds about 120 explosive bees. Each bee-like round will attach itself to whatever moves within a range I decide. It’s very precise, so we want to make sure we have a pretty good idea how far away those soldiers are. Once the range is set, the bees will respond to any movement within twenty feet.”

  Gabe sites in the weapon for fifty yards, aiming and waiting for the right moment for the soldiers to march toward the dialed-in distance. “Whatever you do, stay still,” he says before he pulls the trigger.

  Tiny flying metal explosives spray the sky like a swarm of bees and within seconds they swoop down with a vengeance toward the moving soldiers, just as Gabe predicted. The bees pack a punch, exploding at will, and take out most of the men. It’s like firecrackers on the Fourth of July violently popping out of control. Soldiers immediately collapse when the metal bees explode on contact, while the remaining soldiers are too disoriented to stand. Before I run in closer to take advantage of the bewildered men, I take out a smoke bomb in Gabe’s pack.

  I pull the pin and toss it over to the staggering soldiers, making it even harder for them to engage. I draw my swords, slashing and dicing my way through the plume of smoke, killing anything that stands. I save my ammo until I desperately need it—I’m efficient enough to take the rest of the men out with my blades, especially with them being blind. Since I can see no more than the soldiers, I can only feel my way through the haze, carving up flesh every step I take while dodging the fallen bodies around me. As soon as the smoke clears, I brace myself for any soldiers who survived the vicious attack, but I’m the only one left standing in a pile of dismembered bodies.

  There was a point in my life I would have normally felt sad, depressed, or even disgusted at the sight of this carnage, but today I feel strangely comfortable. With their souls already departed from their bodies, I feel no attachment to the flesh that lays lifeless on the ground, but there is a part of me that feels pity. Whether it’s the rush from the massacre or just pure exhaustion, my knees begin to buckle and I falter, but my swords hold me up. I look out at a crowd of people across the street and can’t help but to think that many of those people are no better or worse than the men who have just died here. I bow my head and pray over the fallen; enemies or not, I ask God for His mercy.

  As I walk over to Gabe, I’m in absolute shock as to what I’m witnessing; a few thousand people are kneeling and praying. Gabe gestures for me to put my swords away so it doesn’t look like I’m posing a threat when I walk over.

  The very same people who ran screaming from me when we emerged from the alley don’t seem to be afraid anymore. “He hears you, don’t stop,” I say under my breath as I walk past the crowd.

  Moments later, the earth begins to tremble, and everyone stands to their feet, bracing themselves, but the only part of the ground that fiercely shakes is in the middle of the square where the bodies lie. Right then, the earth opens up, swallowing every dead soldier and every drop of spilled blood—just another reminder that God is in control of my fate.

  While I wring out the blood from my hair, a woman carefully approaches and holds out her hand to me. I grab the old woman’s hand, and she gestures me to follow her. Either she doesn’t speak English, or she is too shook up to say anything; nevertheless, I fully trust her.

  She takes Gabe and me down the street to one of the clothing stores, and I feel as though I’ve known this woman my whole life. If I never knew my grandmother, I would envision her to be like this woman—frail, meek, and kind. Inside the store, an older gentleman waves us to the bac
k. “Come, please, back here,” he says. “Sorry for the lack of communication from my wife—she’s mute.”

  “It’s okay, I understood her perfectly,” I say.

  “If it wasn’t for those damn officers, she would be able to speak right now,” says the old man.

  “What happened to her?” Gabe asks.

  “They came here a year ago threatening everyone who claimed Kerian,” he says. Kerian is a negative term that represents disloyalty or betrayal to the government. Years ago, a man named George Kerian refused to accept a new government policy that required a twenty-percent federal merchant tax to all businesses that were not already absorbed by the federal government. This ploy was to encourage small businesses to conform, but when George Kerian was caught giving his twenty percent to a small group of non-conformists who were preparing to revolt against the government, he was extradited and sent to prison for sedition.

  “They came in here accusing her of treason, because she forgot to turn in her quarterly merchant tax earnings,” he continues.

  “How is that reasonable for tormenting a person?” I ask.

  “It isn’t. They came here to make a statement, because for years we have been refusing to accept any federal assistance that may force us to become absorbed into their system. They knew exactly what they were doing when they forcefully pulled her away from me. When she resisted, they strapped a dog-like collar around her neck and pulled her on the floor, choking her.

  “When she passed out from the strangling belt around her neck, they released her. They didn’t feel the need to arrest a dead person, so they left her there on the ground to die and just took off. She survived the anguishing nightmare, but the damage to her vocal cords was too much, and from that moment on, she has never been able to speak.