Dusk Territories: Always Burning

by Munden, Deston

  He held his breath.

  Huh, he thought, I don’t need to actually breathe. Being a human being for…well all of his life, it was a habit. But whatever this was didn’t need air. Or at least, minimums amount of it. That scared him. But, oddly it invigorated him as well. At least it would get him through a battle if he needed to. He clutched the black, metal gun in his hands. Training told him to keep crouching and walk slowly. Caution. This needed caution.

  The corner of the last left hand turn near the exit had given him ample cover. Graham knew whatever was in the hallway probably couldn’t see him. His eyes wandered, peeking around the bend. He kept the gun near his chest. It wasn’t wise to make decisions with his trigger finger rather than his mind. So, he waited and listened, keeping true to his better discipline. Chatter soon drifted in the building

  “Do you think that we will find anythin’ here? I mean, places like these are dangerous in these times,” the first voice, a deep male said.

  “I’m not sure, but Drifter asked us to check the surroundings. It seems clear for the most part,” a woman answered. She paused for a second. “Do you really think it is wise for us to go anywhere near this base? There could be something—well anything really—in here that could probably kill us before we had the chance. Just look at the place.”

  The man seemed to have no answer. He lit a cigarette in response, its glow lighting up the shadows. “I don’t know. The crazy old coot always seems to be right, even though…” The man trailed off. “I’m not even sure if he’s awake half of the time, you know.”

  “Never stopped him from killin’ men,” the woman responded. She grabbed the cigarette from the man’s fingers, and put it to her mouth instead. From his shadow, he had nothing more than a shrug as a response, lighting another.

  “He wouldn’t have sent the great Crisium to accompany me on a weapon run.” The man looked to her. She blew smoke in his face. “He wouldn’t have sent one of his best mutants for this job,” he said, swatting the smoke away.

  Crisium laughed. “At least he didn’t send Wood with you, Tyrus.”

  “Hell if I would have went if he had,” Tyrus grumbled.

  “Scared, Ty?”

  “Don’t act like he doesn’t freak you out too, Cris. A man isn’t supposed to be that skin—“

  Crisium stopped his ramble with a flick of her hand. She took another drag of the small cigarette, stepping forward. For the first time, Graham saw her eyes. They shone yellow in the darkness, like reflecting light some sort of animal. Her movements were smooth and instinctive. She put one foot in front of the other, moving in a rhythm that mimicked even the most graceful beast. She smiled, throwing the cigarette to the ground. “I saw something.”

  Graham gritted his teeth. No way.

  The young woman, white as snow, continued forward. Her dark hair tumbled down her back, fanning out around her waist. She was unarmed, but looked dangerous. She pressed her fingers against her lips, tongue dancing behind it. The smile never left, instead it intensified the closer she got to the corner. Graham knew then, somehow and someway, she had seen him. He clicked off the safety, preparing for a battle.

  “What did you see, Cris!” Tyrus called out. She ignored him.

  Graham knew then that he had to act, and had to act now. All it took was one spray. Bullets could end the battle before it even started. He wheeled around the corner, and fired.

  The automatic rifle sputtered several rounds, sparks flying from the muzzle. They soared towards the woman in incredible speeds, tearing through darkness and concrete alike. Somehow, she managed to react in time, dancing away with some inhuman reaction time. She kept behind a stone pillar, giving a bit of a snarl. “What do we have here?” she cried out. “Another bandit? Another lost soul.” Crisium tipped her head from the side of the pillar, receiving another impulsive shower of metal. Again, she barely avoided the bullets, her black hair grazed by them. “What’s your name, hun? Can ya speak?”

  Graham growled in turn. “Corporal David Graham, and I’m far from the bandits here.”

  “Corporal, like Marine Corporal…” He could tell that she was oddly amused by this junction. “Name’s Marie Lache, but you can call me, Crisium, honey. Everyone does. How long have ya been held up here?”

  “Cris! He has probably been here ever since the world lost it. Just off him!” Tyrus shouted from the entrance.

  “No, no! That would be a waste of talent.” Crisium walked around the corner, hands up. Her thick soled boots echoed in the air. “David, was it? I’m not here to fight. This is only a means of survival, nowadays. You should know that.”

  “What do you mean by, ‘I should know that?’”

  “How else would you have survived, sweetie?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Graham turned himself completely around the corner now, gun poised at the woman approaching him.

  She stopped her approach, shocked. The look in her eyes flickered from amusement to confusion. Crisium cocked her head to the side, much like a canine. “What are you?” Her voice whispered those words twice after she had said it aloud. “What—“she crossed her arms, fairly unaware of the barrel pointed at her. “You’re a new one.” She looked over her shoulder. “Ty! You have to come see this man! He—“She struggled with the words. “He’s…he’s some undead mutant.” She cocked her eyebrow.

  Tyrus, a larger dark skinned man, shuffled ahead. In his hand was a pump action shotgun, most likely a Spas model. He pointed it towards Graham as well, beads of sweat dancing and dripping from his dreadlocked head. His brown eyes widened much the same way that Crisium’s did, probably even larger. “What the—“ Tyrus pumped the shotgun. Graham pointed his gun as a response.

  “No fightin’,” Crisium said. She narrowed her eyes, almost closing them. “What are you, Graham?”

  “Hell if I know, I just woke up like this…” Graham, cornered and a little angry despite his calm demeanor, waved the gun between the two targets. “I have no clue what is going on.”

  “We don’t either,” Crisium admitted. “But, you seem…” she pressed her hand against Graham’s gun, “in the right mind for the most part.”

  Tyrus gave a raised eyebrow. “Well, he hasn’t shot us yet.”

  “Ty. I’m thinking…the Drifter might wanna see this.”

  Graham held his gun harder, despite Crisium pressing down her weight on it. “I can’t trust you. My men are dead. This base is gone, and you expect…”

  “I don’t expect anythin’,” Crisium interrupted. “What I am askin’ is do you want to come back with us for you can find out what’s goin’ on?”

  Silence crept into the conversation. Tyrus snuck panicked glances at Crisium. Crisium didn’t return them. Instead, she kept her eyes on the ghoul of a Marine standing in front of her. She smiled. “You get outta here and on your way without no bloodshed, and we won’t have to deal with a zombie with military training. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

  Graham lowered his gun. She had a point, the less bloodshed, the better in a situation like this. For now, they seemed to be trust worthy.

  Tyrus must have made the same decision. He lowered his gun in turn.

  “Alright, I just want to get out of here,” Graham said, exhaling.

  “How ‘bout this? You seemed to have a gun, ammo, and some equipment,” Crisium said, as she quickly took in how armed Graham was. “You tell us where you got those and you get out of here. If you stay just outside here, we will take you to our boss. Or you can just bail and pretend we never saw each other.” She put her hands up in a light hearted gesture.

  “If I don’t…” Graham said.

  “Then, things might get a bit bloody right now.”

  Graham thought about it. In one hand, these people were probably bandits, looting dead corpses and an equally dead military base. But on the other hand, a bloody fight with them after they had been rather cordial would be underhanded and low. He sighe
d. From the looks of it and the way they talked, they seemed to have a right to scavenge. He sighed. “Alright, I’ll go as long as you don’t shoot me in the back.”

  “Tyrus don’t shoot him in the back,” Crisium ordered, grinning.

  “Woman,” Tyrus said in a protest, but stopped.

  “Just tell us where the goods are, if ya please.”

  From memory and honor, Graham told them the locations of the armories. Surprisingly, he could give almost every landmark he saw. At the end, he added: “be careful, the place is about to fall apart and you probably don’t have much time to get everything. Get what you can in one trip.”

  Crisium nodded. “That’s a pretty good insight from a person that shot at me. Trust-worthy man. Honor is…low these days.” She looked over to Tyrus. “Better get going, Ty.” The dark man nodded, his eyes still weary on Graham. “Stop staring. It’s not nice,” she added, punching him on the shoulder. “We have seen much worse.”

  Wordlessly, the two continued down where Graham instructed, leaving him alone in the dark corridor.

  The only thing left was to leave. The exit was right in front of him. Even from here, he could see the broken glass and metal door pouring in red light from the outside. He took steps towards it in a slow, hypnotic fashion. The way they spoke made him feel like he had missed something. That something was world-changing. Murder seemed like the normal to them. Talk of mutants and madmen. Even his body had been affected. What was out there?

  The closer Graham got to the door, it all started to settle in. He knew what he would find on the other side. No matter how slow he walked. No matter how he tried to believe something different. When he finally touched the cold metal door, bathed in the burnt scarlet sunlight, it all came together. He pushed it open, the sound of the metal grinding against the ripped concrete. One glance, the first glance, was all that he needed.

  Everything was gone and the sky itself was set ablaze in crimson.

  2

  Devil’s Cigarette

  “The world was the devil’s personal cigarette, dancing in his mouth.”

  Graham stared at the sky and the world around him, thunderstruck. The moment he entered into the world, he fell to his knees, eyes unable to absorb his surroundings. The building that he just exited from was a miracle, a half dead survivor amongst the wasteland. Irony of that bit him bitterly. We have that in common, he thought. All of it, every last dime of it felt like an endless nightmare yet he could not wake.

  Before him, the land stretched into a scorched, desolate wasteland. Miles and miles of just dried burnt soil and leafless trees that barely stayed rooted in its soil. Any grass that Graham could see was brown, almost black. The buildings of the camp were all tumbled over. Some were slumped to the side, just skeletons of their old selves. Others were blown to bits, broken in thousands of pieces amongst the ground. Dirt and dust swirled through the broken bones, weathering stone, wood, and metal alike.

  The very air felt broken, even a whiff of it was like taking sandpaper in your mouth. Haze of the heat drifted back and forth in the distance. A part of Graham hoped that what he was seeing was some odd mirage. But, no, he had endured heat like this before. Never in North Carolina, maybe in some desert country, but never in the lush and thriving lands of his home state.

  But somehow it wasn’t the bareness of the land that got him the most.

  It was the sky, set aflame with hues of red, orange, and purple. Thick rainless clouds drifted sickly through their paths. The sun was high in the air, just a dim red ball of light. It was like the entire world was caught in twilight, even though it was obviously midafternoon. Whatever rocked the land had rocked the atmosphere itself. The world itself looked as though it had gone through a war, a war that Graham slept through. He never had a chance to fight back, defend this land. Instead, he was out cold in more ways than one.

  Graham shifted into a sitting position, rifle in his lap. He stared at his decaying skin for a moment, then at his dirt-covered t-shirt. Blood seeped through the material. Quickly, he pulled off the shirt to meet yet another ghastly tale. Plenty of organs around his stomach were relatively exposed, he could even see a bit of them throbbing slowly. He looked back up, disgusted. No matter where he looked, that same level of disgust followed. Either he was going to look at his dead body or look at a dead world.

  He put his knuckles to his mouth, trying hard to ignore the bone of his index finger. “W—“he tried to speak. No words could adequately describe what he felt right now.

  All that was left was contemplation. How many months have passed? How was he alive in this state? What brought him back? What happened?

  The last one hit him hard in the stomach. What happened? He couldn’t even remember how he died. Could he even use the word ‘died’? Nevertheless, something killed him and he had no clue how. Was it relatively easy, did he put up a fight? He was a casualty of a pre-war strike. But where would he go now? The world was in a shattered shell of itself, and he had no clue where to start.

  Graham had every intention to leave and go on his own. But, he soon came to another conclusion that it wasn’t the right idea. First off, he had no clue where he would go from here. Of course, he could maybe find a map and hit landmarks he vaguely remembered. That, however, would get him nowhere—except for a place back in the grave he belonged in. Secondly, if he met with a “normal” person, they would probably attack him on sight. He wasn’t going to risk the life of an innocent because he was confused. He wasn’t sure if he could convince any rational human being that he could be trusted. Tyrus was a good example of that. So, it was smart to wait for the people that already had tolerance than be gunned down by people that didn’t.

  The waiting did give him a time to think and mourn in quiet. Seven good men, probably a lot more, was dead throughout the base. Good Marines who risked their lives each and every day for freedom. All of them were gone with nothing to tell their tales. He pinched his nose, wishing for the first time that he could cry. Right now, he couldn’t. He didn’t know if his tear ducts were gone or hadn’t been used in a long time, but they wouldn’t produce tears. Somehow, that fact made him feel worse. You’re a heartless bastard, David, he thought. But he knew that wasn’t true.

  Graham meditated on that for a moment before carefully continuing on with his train of thought. There was probably a lot he needed to be answered. It was no need focusing on them. Instead, he focused on centering his emotions, wading through the thick sea of them. On the outside, he kept a calm face. Yet on the inside, he felt the emotions gnawing at him. It was always like this before a big battle. He would think about emotions and feelings before targeting them at an objective. Right now, the mission was survival. “Survive,” he repeated, hitting himself on the cheek. “Get it together.”

  With his motives in mind, he reclined himself on the ground. Quite a few times, it crossed his mind to go back into the base and help the scavengers. He decided against it. Two people in a crumbling building were safer than three. He just hated doing nothing. Doing nothing meant inevitably trying to process this hell. And this hell couldn’t be processed.

  It wasn’t until a half an hour later that Tyrus and Crisium appeared again. They had emerged from the base, spoils in duffle bags hanging loosely from their shoulder and packs strapped on their back. They looked relatively uninjured aside from a couple of bruises and cuts on the man’s shoulder. Tyrus didn’t seem too bothered by it though. Instead, his brown eyes had grown wide at the sight of Graham lying down on his back in the sand. He seemed oddly surprised by Graham’s appearance. Crisium did not. She held an expecting smile on her face, pushing back her raven hair in amusement. “Told ya, Ty.”

  Tyrus grumbled something unintelligible before handing over his pistol.

  Crisium flashed a smile towards Graham. “Got yourself comfortable.” Her face had no look of surprise despite the rather grisly scene of Graham’s upper body. “We,” she motioned to the rather uncomfortable l
ooking man beside her, “had a bet. He swore that you would bail. I knew you wouldn’t. Now, I have his pistol. And he owes me a drink from his stash as well. Right, Mr. Banks?”

  Again, Tyrus mouthed something of a curse.

  Crisium stuffed her hand in her pocket, exchanging looks with Tyrus. A tickled expression laced her features but she said nothing. Mercifully, she turned her attention back to Graham. “You want somethin’ to cover those—“she searched for the word, “bad spots, hun?”

  Graham craned his head up, and looked at the throbbing stomach and somewhat exposed intestines. There were even a few spots where the ribs were exposed. He looked over to Tyrus, whose comfort seemed to slowly melt at the sight. His grumbling intensified. Obviously, they were sharing the same thought: this was pretty disgusting. It was a small wonder that Tyrus didn’t vomit. Graham nodded to Crisium and she tossed him a military grade first aid kit.

  “So,” Graham said, awkwardly as he tried to open the kit. “What’s going on?”

  Crisium cocked an eyebrow. She placed her duffle bag down, kneeling to Graham. He was obviously too frazzled to open a simple handle, though would easily deny that. “What do you mean?” She clicked it open before pulling down her black tank top. “Oh.” Crisium stood up again. She knew what he was asking. It was obvious. A once simple question had changed meaning so much. It was once used as a conversation starter. Now, it meant a lot more. She groaned, “It’s hard to explain. Ty.”

  “Cris,” the large man responded, stepping a few steps back.

  “Get your balls out yer purse, Tyrus. He’s not going to eat you,” Crisium growled.

  A scowl appeared on Tyrus’s face. “How do I know that, woman? We don’t know what he is or what he needs to survive. I ain’t gettin’ near that, ya hear.”

  Graham couldn’t blame him. If the situation was somehow reversed, he would have kept his distance too. He would have kept his gun poised at the beast at all times. Right now, they were acting on trust. They didn’t know he was a good man at heart, who treated his men and himself with respect. On outward appearances alone, that couldn’t be seen. All Tyrus saw was a potential threat that could eat him alive like a horror movie, but in broad daylight.