The Last Days_Conclude [Book 3 of 3]

by Chris Ayala

  "Are you afraid of me?" He said softly.

  The cowardly fatso that dared to stand his way was now on his knees, staring at the floor. Any other time, he'd feel sorry for this poor soul. But it was weak. And weak was why they were in this predicament in the first place. The man mumbled the truth, because lying was impractical in front of a god. "Yes, Supreme Leader."

  "Good," Marcel said leaning down. "So are they."

  With that, he turned and walked out the door to stop this madness.

  Royal's view had been obscured the entire battle, but she stood her post above the hill with Bruno by her side. With the sniper rifle still in hand, she scanned the crowd. When Adam bellowed Marcel's name, she understood that this war was something more than collapsing the Union and any government control, this war was about freedom. Oppressed freedom that sat in the depth of the vocal chord, controlled by stress, rules, and even by oneself. It had escaped in the castle courtyard this moment.

  After searching the crowd through the glass scope, she couldn't find Adam. But he was alive. And once she got this shot on Marcel Celest, the war would be over.

  From the balcony, glass doors slid open and the curtains swayed violently, even though there was no wind. Using her jeans, she wiped her sweaty hand and placed it calmly on the trigger. One bullet and this would all be done.

  Marcel Celest stepped onto the balcony.

  Rowdy and unruly, suddenly the crowd quieted. Unsure the Supreme Leader would even make an appearance this evening caught some of the rebels off guard. Rumors beforehand said he would be too chicken-shit and would just hide in his office. Apparently not. While some took a step back, others took a step forward. But everyone was silent. So silent, she could almost hear their exhausted breaths.

  "People…of…Bliss." Marcel said. His voice carried through the winds. Royal covered her ear. It was like the dictator was only inches from her head. "Bliss?" He repeated. "This is bliss? Death? Murder? Deceit? This is what you want for the future of our world?"

  Her covered ear could still hear that voice. That disappointed voice. Bruno shielded his ears. "Shoot," he commanded. Until he said that, Royal had forgotten about her grasp on the rifle. Her left hand shook. It never shook. Around her, others masked their ears from the sentimental tone.

  "You see me as the villain? You're wrong. I am the savior," Marcel said, his words making Royal feel a sense of guilt. "You are Casca's dagger lunging for Julius Caesar's throat, Booth's gun pointed at Lincoln's head, and the noose around Hussein's throat."

  "Shoot," Bruno repeated.

  "What if," Marcel whispered, "What if they all lived? The world would be vastly different. Who are you to decide the fate of our rule?"

  Royal took a deep breath, concentrating on the sights of the scope. It was about the timing. Always the timing. Not the aim. She waited. Marcel wobbled his head. Just stay still. For just a nano-second. Then they could being a new world.

  The Supreme Leader paused and looked ahead, his eyes black as the sea at night. He looked directly into Royal's scope. She pulled the trigger.

  Marcel held up his hand and the bullet stopped in mid-air, inches from his nose. It spun, red in color. Royal stood up. "Oh God. I missed." She'd seen that look on Marcel's face. It happened the day of the rally. Right before he attacked hundreds of innocent civilians with the powers of wind. "Run!" She bellowed out, nearly tripping over her feet as she dashed down the hill. "Run! Everyone!"

  Calmly, the dictator reached up and grabbed the spinning bullet. His lip curled as he set it down on the balcony ledge.

  "Run!" Royal pled to dumbfounded people.

  As though he could somehow hear her, he called out. "It's too late for you." Marcel shot his palm and hundreds of rebels flew in the air, screaming. More people flung like rag dolls and landed on top of each other. Terrified cries filled the courtyard. Royal tried to help people up, but got toppled by people running away from the castle.

  "No! Stand your ground!" Adam's voice echoed. It broke as he repeated, "Stand your ground!"

  A whirlwind dragged Royal and others into a circular hurricane. She tried to grasp onto the dirt, but could find nothing to hold onto. Dead bodies smacked her to the point she had no idea which direction she was going. People pled for help. "Please God, help!" Someone called out.

  Grabbing her feet, a woman begged, "Help me!" She lost her grasp and smashed into the side of the castle.

  The whirlwind stopped, but the chaos didn't. Dizzy and bewildered, Royal tried to stand. She could see Marcel's smile even from this distance. Thrusting his hands outward, more people flew backwards in thin air. In just a few minutes, the People of Bliss were screaming in triumph but now were screaming in horror.

  "I'm sorry," Marcel's voice whispered, so sincere that she could imagine his eyes watering. "But in order for there to be peace…you all will have to die."

  The ground rumbled. Whatever was next, Royal wouldn't even have the chance to make it. Make it to Adam and demand they retreat. No one expected this. Expected him to be this strong and this sadistic. She tried to get up again, but something grasped her leg and made her fall again. Turning, Royal couldn't understand what was happening before her. A dead Union Keeper, one eyeball with a knife stuck in it and lips crystal blue, tightened its hand on her ankle. Black goo raised from the ground. Whatever it was, it made the dead immediately undead. Seeping into the corpse's open wounds, the black matter coursed their veins like a new blood. With one twist, the Keeper threw Royal across the field. She slammed into the ground, face down into the mud. Hurriedly, she cleared the dirt from her eyes.

  Surrounded by slews of raised dead, Royal wasn't the only one in danger. Everyone killed by the hands of the rebellion had come back for revenge. She watched as her side of this fight was losing, when she had been assured their fight was already won. The undead chased after the living, ripping off arms, breaking legs, and cracking necks. She crawled backwards, like a lobster.

  A lobster. The thought reminded her of Zharkova, the Russian leader and her gang assault. Even though a vicious, bitter woman, she had a point. And Royal not crawl away in a panic no more. A zombie stormed toward Royal. The same one with the dagger in its eyeball. It motion down to grab her, while she reached out to grab the knife from his socket. She yanked it out and then cut its throat. The Union Keeper stumbled backwards as the black goo spat out from its mouth. It was all about the timing. She waited until the undead tumbled forward and she cut its head completely off. Decapitated, the corpse lost its color again and the black goo returned to the ground.

  "Cut their heads!" She commanded. "It's not over! Cut their heads!"

  Expecting shouts of triumph, Willie instead heard shrieks of terror. He finally made it up the staircase onto the courtyard. Corpses, from both sides of the battle, had been piled up everywhere like it was trash day. People fought with a ferocity that would make even wrestling fans cover their eyes. He was immediately thrown back by two men brawling and fell down the flight of stairs onto the grass. Surely, the bullet wound opened up again because he felt the cloth in his hand soak with blood.

  "William!"

  Only one person would call him that. Pierre swiftly dodged through the crowd to Willie's side. "I've been shot," he stated to keep the Frenchman from tackling him. "I'm dying."

  "No, you're not!" Pierre demanded, as though it was his choice. "Get up. Is there a safe place we can hide?"

  Willie looked around the horizon. Outside the gates, he watched as Nelson's jet swooped down and fired on incoming vehicles. Bullets, like spots of light, shot back at the jet in a useless attempt to take it down. More fleets were approaching and Nelson could only do so much. Besides the mayhem outside and the mayhem inside, Willie couldn't see many options. "There's trees, to your left." He said through his teeth, trying to stand. Pierre's warm hands aided him to walk; being that he was blind, Willie did most of the guiding.

  They reached the set of trees and Willie sat his back against the trunk. This was his mo
ment. The moment he could say goodbye, but he didn't even know where to begin. Before he opened his mouth, Pierre put his hand up. "I know how to fix you."

  Considering the amounts of blood discoloring Willie's clothes, he couldn't imagine how to be fixed except with a doctor.

  Pierre said, "I'm going to need you to glow."

  It was over.

  Marcel took a deep breath and smelled relief. The blood of a rebellion spilled onto the courtyard and he could only wonder how they would get that grass to be green again. "That was for hurting us," he whispered. And he meant it. For all those years of silly oppression and violent demands, the government's rebellion would finally collapse and be buried before the Union Castle. A structure built on the past, for the future.

  Dark matter seeped from the ground like oil had been struck. It latched onto more of the undead. Without looking, he could feel Lucifer's hand pat his shoulder. Together they had accomplished what none of his predecessors, a line of men and women with his power to alter the future, could do. The Light was gone.

  "Sir?" A voice behind him said. Sensing by the tone, it wasn't the first time he'd been beckoned. Either that or the officer couldn't interrupt Marcel's magical slaughter of thousands.

  "Yes?"

  "It's urgent. Without power, we lost track of…him."

  There could only be one him being referred to.

  Disney World used to have this amazing smell when entering the park. As a kid, Marcel used to wonder how they did it. How a smell could create both desire and taste. And now, he had that same overwhelming feeling. Except this time it was Gerard's deceit. The odor tasted sweet. Sweeter than the others. And just like at a theme park, he'd have to follow that scent. Because it was just too satisfying to let the opportunity pass by.

  "How long before the manual guns arrive?" Marcel asked, eyes closed concentrating on Gerard. What he had done. What fate will await him.

  "They should be crossing the bridge soon. Next fifteen minutes or so."

  Opening his eyes, Marcel looked down at the fighting in his courtyard. Blood really did squirt out of torn ligaments, just like those horror movies he used to watch as children with his brother. Brent would stare wide-eyed while Marcel peaked through the slits between his fingers. Pity that his brother had to be murdered, in this exact spot actually. Marcel looked to the floor. Even after six coats of paint, he could still see Brent's blood soaking the floor.

  "Sir?"

  Whatever the officer asked him, he didn't care. Marcel commanded, "When the guns arrive, shoot whoever is left and hang their bodies for people to see."

  Clinching his hands, the officer asked cautiously. "Maybe this is going…um…we shouldn't…I mean…hang them…where?"

  Marcel shrugged. "There's hundred thousand of them. Hang them…everywhere." He turned and walked through the balcony door. "I will handle my brother-in-law. Let's prepare to hang his corpse over my balcony."

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Even though he didn't need the boost in confidence, Marcel reminded himself he was a deity, a god with the power of persuasion. Persuasion that can control elements and minds. Gerard would be dead before this brawl even began.

  He wandered the floors of the castle, sniffing out the delicious scent left behind by Gerard's rage. Particles of dark matter crowded the air, but gave him his best sight.

  He betrayed you, a candle burning said, trying to provide some light to the blackout.

  Another candle, on a table in the hallway, ignited by itself. Let no one else defy you, Master.

  Gerard needs to be a message, the wind from an open window said, playing with the curtains.

  Marcel tried the door to the left. The kitchen area. Potent smells filled the room, but not the dry odor of Gerard's darkness. He closed the door and continued up a staircase, spiraling towards the thirteenth floor of the castle. As much as he enjoyed roaming this structure, he found himself in a rare place. The thirteenth floor was empty, a vastly open space with nothing but stained glass walls allowing some moonlight in. Saints and Archangels stared, colored by enriched and vibrant tones. The room used to be the Throne Room. In the center, a flat pedestal used to house a large chair. A king would sit, surrounded by worshippers and loyalists. Maybe, after they cleaned up the bodies of the People of Bliss, he'd reestablish a throne in this room and make it a place where everyone would bow to him.

  He's here, a gust whispered.

  Marcel knew, he could sense Gerard. But where? Nanobots in his blood surged as adrenaline pumped through the heart. Besides storage boxes and cabinets, there weren't many places to hide. Marcel stepped onto the pedestal in the center of the room.

  Something clicked behind him. He turned quickly. In less than a blink of an eye, he saw Gerard ten yards away using both hands to point two guns. Bullets spat out and Marcel held up his palm. Wind swatted the bullets away, breaking the stain glass windows and ricocheting off the concrete walls. It was an automatic gun and the bullets seemed endless. Gerard dropped one gun when it was out of ammo, while continuing to fire the other one, then yanked another gun off his belt and kept firing. Holding his bond with the air element, Marcel created an invisible shield and bullets kept flinging away. He ended up stumbling to the ground backwards while holding his palm out, it's all he could do in the force of the firepower.

  Finally, he ran out of ammo. Gerard tried two more guns hidden in his back pockets. Both clicked empty. Always trying to be sarcastic, funny, or both, Gerard said, "Seriously? Not even one bullet got through?"

  Marcel stood slowly, not smiling, preparing for this Mexican standoff with fights and not guns. The time for joking concluded this evening. Before he could Marcel could even clench his fist, Gerard rushed in and jumped. Both feet swept into Marcel's chest and he flew back. His opponent left little time to focus, spinning kicks and swift punches kept Marcel from concentrating. He blocked one movement, but immediately got socked with another. It was like fighting a large snake with hands tied behind his back. Gerard struck at his nose and it snapped. Blinded by blurry vision, Marcel did his best to continue blocking punches and kicks only to dodge half of them. He finally had an opportunity to grasp Gerard's waist, he body slammed him to the ground. With this brief moment to catch his breath, Marcel pointed his finger and panted, "I get what you're trying to do. You're trying to break my concent-"

  Before he could finish the word concentration, Gerard kicked his mouth and Marcel lost his step. His adversary flipped back up. Every uppercut, jab, and side kick was countered by Gerard; the bastard had prepared for this fight. Everything Marcel had been taught by his best friend was used in retaliation and defiance.

  He shoved a stack of boxes over Gerard and took this minute to quickly aim his attention on the element of air. Shards of stained glass lifted off the ground. Not even surprised by the magic, Gerard dodged behind pallets of stone as the shards smashed the walls only inches from his head. Marcel checked around desperately for the help of water or fire elements, but it was too late. Gerard ran and slammed him, knocking them both out the window.

  Falling for a few feet, they crashed onto the top of wooden scaffolding. Marcel tripped over his own feet and grasped onto the wiring. Sounds of wood snapping echoed in the bitter cold air. The scaffolding shook as more wire snapped. Gerard put Marcel into a head lock. He cried out, "You're going to kill us both!"

  Gerard punched the side of his head, "That's…" he punched again, "…the…" and punched again, "…point!"

  Marcel twisted and the both fell backwards, plummeting onto the next floor of the scaffolding, breaking the tether holding it to the castle. The entire structure swayed as more wires loosened. Both men grasped tightly as the angry wind made the matters worse, without his direction the elements were disobedient children. Hundreds of yards below them, ocean waves crashed onto the peninsula the castle stood on. Maybe the water could help him. Marcel reached out his hand to it, pleading, and the ocean began to swirl.

  Suddenly, Gerard kicked a latch and t
he scaffolding released. Ten stories of steel rods and wood floors leaned to the side. Marcel clung to the metal pillars holding the scaffolding together. It fell over so much, it became practically a bridge. As fast as it tumbled, it halted, leaving them dangling by whatever cords were still holding it for now. The force of the bounce nearly made him lose his grip. He looked to see Gerard holding onto like monkey bars. Without even hesitating, his brother-in-law tried to kick at him. Marcel lost some of his grip and was left swinging like monkey bars too. They both were trying to kick the other loose. Marcel refused to get beaten, beaten like Brent had beaten him. Screeches of metal bending pierced his ears. Gerard wouldn't give Marcel even the slightest moment to concentrate on the waters below to save them.

  A loud crack and the scaffolding gave way.

  They fell, gravity shoving them down to the ocean so far down. Marcel, feeling like a parachute without a parachute, did his best to focus and open the pupils of his eyes. Water listened, twirling up to create a water spout like a worm. The large entity, more vast than the castle itself, reached up and caught Marcel. The spout's end, a wall of liquid, hurt as he pummeled onto it. Before Marcel could compose himself, Gerard fell next to him and punch him in the head. Marcel lost his train of thought and the water worm fell apart, leaving them once again falling toward the ground. He shook his head, trying to stay attentive and the water spout reformed clumsily. It grasped them before they hit the ground, going horizontally in an aimless direction. Inside the spout was like being tossed around in a dryer. Both men couldn't grasp anything to steady themselves, being thrown from one end to the other in this tunnel of havoc.

  We have to kill him, air demanded.