Dusk Territories: Always Burning

by Munden, Deston

  “Your real name, amiga?” Juvenico grinned.

  “No.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything, but you’re going to have to trust me. I’ll bring you back to Drifter safely. I’m used to having men’s lives in my hands.”

  Heron and Juvenico exchanged looks, engaging in a wordless conversation. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, and narrowing them as they finished. “Some people might think of that in a different way.” Heron walked passed him, putting her hand on Graham’s shoulder. “No need to be alarmed, men that are used to protecting are also used to taking them. You’ll fit fine in this world.” She began to walk away, long hair fluttering behind her like a cape. “Come, Juv. Let’s go. We don’t want to keep Mr. Graham waiting after all this work he took to get here. Not to mention who he killed to get here.”

  Graham grunted, shaking his head. His eyes settled into a calm expression, eyebrows furrowing as though his entire face went rock solid. “Sometimes it takes killing men to make the world safer.” He could practically see Juvenico shiver at the words. But he meant every bit of it. That was the difference between a sinner and a soldier or a monster and a Marine. More than ever, he needed to make a clear statement of which one what he was, praying that he would never become anything less.

  “Damn….you two are cold as ice,” Juvenico said, slumping his shoulders.

  “Then get a blanket. This isn’t a world for the weak,” Heron’s voice echoed.

  “That’s what the strong are for. Not preying on the weak, but protect those who can’t protect themselves.” Graham touched his stomach, thinking back to the hunger. “And keeping true to what they are as people.”

  _

  Wood always watched these fights from the sidelines. However, he couldn’t say he was bored. He was just biding his time as he watched the firefight escalate into an all-out brawl. Was he worried? Nah, he had better things to do than that. If he cared enough, he would’ve gotten dressed in something other than some forest green pajama bottoms and a tank top. Yet, he wasn’t caring. So instead of battle, he was sitting in his favorite lawn chair, reclining and sipping what he assumed to be poorly made lemonade.

  Ragnar’s team of cannibals, at least a hundred strong, had stormed through the Plagues with a vengeance. More than half of them were gunned down; but the rest were protected by thick oak-forged shields. The ones that were lost were probably pawns in this game because the king on their side hardly seemed worried when they died. They had made it to the main forces, and currently were locked in mini melee fights throughout the camp. They held the nascent hope that they could win this encounter; however, Drifter wasn’t serious. Uncle never was.

  “Unc,” Wood looked towards the old man, who was eyeing the battlefield from afar. “We could just kill them, you know right?”

  Drifter stroked his beard, grinning. “And ruin this perfect chance, my boy? Besides, Heron and Juv hadn’t come back yet with Graham.”

  “How’d you know if they are even going to come back?”

  “I just do, lad.”

  Wood yawned. “So you’re waitin’?

  “Hm,” Drifter shrugged. “Aren’t you?”

  It was a true. Nothing was stopping him from coming down there and destroying their ranks. In an open battle like this with his power, his strength, only Ragnar himself would be enough to stop him. Even that was a gamble. Besides, his mutation was far too dangerous to use around a crowd. Did he exactly care about everyone on the caravan? Not exactly. But, Drifter was watching and he would rather not disappoint his kin. Besides, he was more than content watching the caravan defend itself with bursts of gun fire, explosions, and a few grenades.

  Crisium and Tyrus had easily racked up most of the kills. Crisium was a mutant like himself; though they did not exactly like each other, they respected each other’s ability. She could turn into a wolf; a fearsome mutated one with black and gold fur and horns. She could even breathe fire in that form, so she was more akin to a hellhound. Two-legged or four, she could transform effortlessly into either and often switch forms in mid combat. Watching her in battle was an interesting feat indeed.

  Tyrus, though normal in many regards, wield his shotgun with ease. He stood by Crisium. She watched his back when he had to reload. He handled anybody that tried to outflank her. They were a dominant pair in battle. The big man had easily held his weight, and was never bothered that someone was a mutant or a demon—at least on the battlefield. Wood knew that he was deathly afraid of him, but that probably was less of him being a mutant and more for other reasons.

  “Have you spotted Ragnar yet?” Drifter asked, ruining Wood’s train of thought.

  “Nah.”

  “Ya know what that means?” Drifter chuckled.

  “Yeah, I know. Want me to do something about it?”

  “Hahaha. Nah I think I’ll handle it.”

  Almost on cue, a sound of thick boots landed on the hood of their armored RV. The man the boots belonged to stood towering over Drifter and Wood, shadow casting down like a tree. Wood eyed the man from his reclining position. This was Ragnar, nine feet of complete muscled man. A long red beard trickled down his face, with equally red hair dripping from his scalp in tangled hemps. His pointed yellow teeth grinned, yet hazel eyes showed no such amusement. He held his battleaxe on his back, thick chiseled finger impatiently looking at Drifter.

  “So, we meet again,” Drifter said, pushing his broken eyeglasses on his face. “You owe me ‘nother pair of glasses. It’s hard for an old man to see, ya know.”

  Even in the poor light, Wood could see Ragnar’s pale face set aflame with anger. Last time they fought, Ragnar had left with scars, blood oozing from every pore almost. Drifter had just lost a lens on his only pair of glasses.

  “Drifter,” Ragnar roared, slamming his battleaxe on the hood. “You’ve wronged me” Wood always hated this man’s voice; it sounded like a broken truck engine in a wood grinder. The heavy clunks of his truck tire and scrap metal armor rattled in the night. “This is checkmate. Checking a king with a king is unparalleled, I know. But it is a satisfying victory nevertheless.”

  Wood prepared himself to get up, but was barred from completely doing so by Drifter’s cane. “No no, Wood. I don’t want you to get involved. Not yet. I want to see how this man works. What makes him tick, and has it improved.” Drifter gave his own cynical expression, which instantly made Wood recline back. The old man was in that mode again, the mode of battle.

  “Well…what are you waitin’ for Ragnar? You can’t take a piece by standing on your square! Ha ha ha ha!”

  As usual, Ragnar fell for the goading and it would inevitably lead to his defeat. So, Wood went back to his lemonade. This needs more sugar, he thought as the battle between the two leaders began.

  5

  Trust Me or Trust Nobody

  “Trust is something earned. You’re going to have to take a risk.

  You don’t have a choice, not many on the battlefield do. “

  They had made it out of the Plagues. Heron had figured, and guessed correctly, that Ragnar and his pack had fashioned a safer way out of the poisonous forest for their own wellbeing. A large tunnel was crafted out of the back in of the cave, over the chasm they had saw earlier, and out to the back end to clean air. More than likely the tunnel and the foresting of the back end of the cave was something done by slaves or peons. Hundreds or maybe thousands of lives were probably captured and slaved for this safety, this luxury. But Graham didn’t want to think about it. But then again, what did he want to think about?

  The three set up camp as soon as they were a good length away. Heron and Juvenico insisted that this should be done, despite Graham informing them of Ragnar’s assault. They didn’t seem too worried. In fact, they seemed to disregard the fact altogether. Besides, Heron wanted to discuss some things with a more level-headed and calm Juvenico.

  Graham saw them whispering across the crackling flame of the campsite
. He respected their privacy; they, in turn, respected his as he sat almost naked against the flame. His clothes were soaked from the dive in the lagoon, and they slowed him down. If they were to get into another battle, he would be burdened by the restricted movement. But, the downside, it exposed himself to the reality that he was struggling with in his mind. As many upsides that this condition had, emotionally he had been repressing what he really felt. The fear. It was the fear they felt when they saw him. That fear had extended to him. He was afraid, maybe not of what he was but what he may do.

  And the whispering of his new comrades put an unsettling feeling in his gut.

  He had known that he was the topic of their whispering by the way they spoke. They might have trusted him to an extent, but trust wasn’t something given too easily nowadays. No. He hadn’t told them about the hunger. That would only exasperate the issue. But, he did notice the way they looked at him. Heron might have been proactive on his accompany, but like Crisium, they had their own way of showing their mistrust. Drifter and Wood had been the only people that didn’t show that. The former was easily because of his potential. The latter, well, Graham was unsure how Wood worked. However, he couldn’t say that he felt welcomed anywhere. In fact, he felt lonely.

  Lonely. He hated that word with a fiery passion. It was a silly emotion. That’s what he told himself constantly when he was alone, anyway. Yet it was a real life thing. Even surrounded with strangers, nothing could make you feel more empowered than the company of a few friends. It was tough to handle. Yet, a part of him didn’t want to get close, scared to get close. Graham touched the cold, wet flesh of his body, feeling its odd temperature in his half-dead nerve. No matter how acclaimed, how honorable he was. No one would trust him, even if he cracked the sky open to heaven for them. Maybe he didn’t deserve the trust, somehow.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Juvenico cleared his throat after saying that. The dark skinned man shook his head, staring at Graham for the first time. “I gave you a hard time, amigo. I’m just…I just…”

  Heron rolled her eyes. “You understand our mistrust. But, he had no right to treat you any less than our savior.”

  “Ey, don’t blame this all on me.”

  “Be quiet and let adults talk.” She paused to allow Juvenico to grumble. “We never properly thanked you. Instead, we threw our defenses up. I’m not expecting you to forgive us for that. Forgiveness isn’t something I want. But I do want to make known that you did us a service. Beastmaster fled. You fought off men and women to get to us. That deserves something.” She looked away. “If Drifter trusted you—“she sighed.

  “Look who’s getting their words mixed up now. English ain’t even my first language, chickadee,” Juvenico mocked.

  “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to stomp your gut in,” Heron snapped, earning a laugh from Graham. “If Drifter can trust you, we can too. Just…don’t make me regret it.”

  Graham grinned, running his fingers against the bristles of his hair. “I’m not used to this,” he laughed. “I guess I’m greedy.” They waited for an explanation. Graham had to wade through the thoughts first. “My father didn’t know how to love quite right. He tried his best on his own. When I joined the Marine Corps, that was the first time I’ve ever saw him smile.” Even in the back corner of the haze of memories, he could see his father’s face gleam with pride. “So I guess I’m addicted to that proudness, that admiration.” He gave a thick exhale, grabbing for his pants and pulling them on despite the enduring wetness.

  “I’m used to handling trust. Trust is what I had with my men. It was how I was taught and how I taught people on the battlefield. Men respected me. I respected them. Everyone was strong, but not equal in strength. So, I was used to carrying the load. Now…all that I have felt, all the selfish pride that I felt is gone.” He growled unsure of what to say next. “Now, I can’t trust anyone or trust myself. This isn’t how anyone is supposed to live.”

  It was that moment where he realized how angry this situation had truly made him.

  Heron moved her hair from her face, and walked over. The blasé expression that naturally adorned her features hardly ever changed. Graham saw a difference this time around. She was looking at him, not through him. She tilted her head. “Despite it all, you still felt the need to tell us that.” She watched in amusement as Graham opened his mouth to speak, but the words retreated back on his tongue. “You probably met hundreds of men during your time, and they had faith in trusting a person they never met. That was a luxury, no different than a fine car or a mink coat. Now you are put into a situation where your allies are people that you can’t exactly trust,” she paused looking at him, “and can’t exactly trust you on sight. You have to get over that. This world isn’t nice, but when was it ever…Mr. Marine?”

  She turned on her heels, facing Juvenico. “Let’s go, Juv. Put out the fire.”

  Juvenico did as he was told, smothering the flame with dirt. Graham, in the meantime, donned the rest of his clothing and prepared himself.

  “How do we know that Drifter isn’t having a hard time?” Juvenico asked, dusting the dirt from his shirt.

  Heron didn’t respond at first. She just scowled. Only a few hours knowing her, Graham knew that was her go-to facial expression when she made one. “You really think Drifter is having a time with Crisium, Tyrus, and Wood there. Even without me, the’re strong…” Heron folded her arms. “Besides, he has a new recruit that appears to be pretty strong himself.”

  Juvenico shrugged. “Well, I guess you have a point. Graham.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have any weapon on you? I mean when we saw you didn’t and I doubt you’ve taken all those men and Beastmaster with your fist.” Juvenico inspected closer to make sure that he didn’t miss some concealed weapon. All he could see was the explosives and some remaining rounds.

  “Lost my weapon to that cat, crushed it to a pulp. Had to improvise.”

  “Dagon. That was a bobcat at one time, do you believe that shit? Whatever Beastmaster does to his animals, it ain’t good. Did you waste him?”

  “No,” Graham recalled the fight; he made his escape pretty cleanly. “He escaped through the caves or used one of his animals to get away. Can’t worry about him right now.”

  “Right. Right.” Juvenico frowned. “Are you going to need a weapon?” He tapped on the holster of his revolver, “I mean I could, maybe, might let you borrow mine.”

  “Nice offer, but no. You’re fine. Don’t feel the need to make it up to me. Besides, that’s your weapon, so it’s your skill with it that we need.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Heron said, mumbling loud enough for Juvenico to hear. The hispanic man grumbled an inaudible curse in response. These two were like siblings or a married couple. That was usually the case with people that worked together all the time, Graham knew.

  “You’re proficient with your weapon, in theory,” Graham added, making Juvenico growl a bit louder. “And I’m proficient with mine.”

  “And what weapon is that?”

  Pride swelled up in Graham’s chest, forcing him to push back some of the emotion to speak. “One mind, any weapon,” he quoted simply, stretching his arms. “I’m the best weapon that I have, and I’m going to use it.”

  Juvenico suddenly fell quiet, as he looked to Heron and Graham. Graham could see it in his face. He already felt like the weakest link. “Do—“he paused. “You think you can teach me a thing or two if we survive this? I mean you look strong and….dammit. We might not got off on a good foot, but—“

  “No need to explain yourself. You want to be strong and…you have a chip on your shoulder. Best kind of motivation,” Graham explained.

  Heron, knowing that she was that said chip, tossed her hair to the other side of her neck. She was ruthless and knew how to make people mad in all different types of ways. Graham had already been on the receiving end of her attitude more than once. She scorned with
a purpose, a reason like a drill instructor. The type of person that would push every button to see you either explode or rocket to the sky. She’s a bitch on purpose, Graham realized, but kept it to himself.

  “But one step at a time, we don’t know Drifter’s situation and we have to assume the worse despite the confidence you may have.”

  “Good advice,” Juvenico responded.

  Heron, impatiently tapping her foot, bit her lower lip in irritation. “So are we going to keep standing around doing nothing?”

  “’cause the old man might be dying or something,” Graham asked, receiving an annoyed sigh from the woman.

  “No. I’m just bored as hell and Drifter might be too.”

  _

  Smoke billowed from the campsites, but it wasn’t of the vehicles. Oil and gas didn’t produce the pungent aroma that lit Graham’s keen senses aflame. No, only blood could do that. That metallic scent that stung the air, carrying along with it burnt flesh and life. Graham could see now. The caravans were fine, but Ragnar’s pack was nothing more than hemps of bones, piles of meat, and lifeless corpses.

  The opposing force was practically non-existent. Remaining members of Ragnar’s cannibals was being mopped up with the effectiveness of an experienced janitor in a high school cafeteria. There were a few scrimmages of the most loyal followers of the pack, but nothing the lower members of the caravan couldn’t handle. But those fights were unimportant, irrelevant to the last one that people gathered around to see.

  Heron flipped her hair, lips pursed together angrily. “We showed up too late.”

  Juvenico put his hand in his pocket. “Not that we could have helped much. Looks like we haven’t missed the main event, eh?”

  The crowd of Drifter’s men had rallied around the main caravan. Upon the large armored vehicle stood Drifter and what Graham assumed to be the leader of this ambush, the infamous Ragnar. Holy shit, that’s a man, Graham thought. An over nine-foot muscle-bound monster stood across from Drifter.

  Foam oozed from the corner of Ragnar’s mouth, down his beard and neck. His red hair masked the death-stare from his sunken hazel eyes. His yellowed teeth gritted against each other, back and forth like a saw. The large man gripped his battleaxe, made up of a tire axle and some scrap metal, with a new vigor. Sweat dripped from his brow. Bruises, bright purple and already leaking pus, were ripe on his entire body. Anyone would think that he was the one that supposed to be winning, not the smaller old man with just a cane in hand. They would be wrong. No one in the caravan seemed worried about the physical mismatch. No. It was more like they were cheering.