Dusk Territories: Always Burning

by Munden, Deston

  Graham, Heron, and Juvenico approached the throng, standing beside Tyrus and a half-naked Crisium. The latter was cleaning herself with a towel. “’bout time you showed up,” Crisium said. “I was thinkin’ that I didn’t have to handle your shit any more Juv.”

  “Not going to kill me that early, Cris.”

  “So…is the Drifter done with his little game yet,” Heron said, yawning. “I wouldn’t mind a nap if I’m not going to get some action.”

  “That’s your fault, sweetie, for gettin’ captured in the first place,” Tyrus commented, stretching his big arms.

  Heron turned with the half-mind to slap the big man in the face. She ultimately decided against it. “It could have happened to anyone.”

  “Indeed it could.”

  “Anyone with Juvenico,” she added.

  “Aw. You had to go there, didn’t you?”

  What surprised Graham most about this conversation was that everyone was so casual. Their leader, an elderly man, was in a battle with this super brute. Yet they showed no concern. It was like they were watching a boxing match instead of a fight to the death.

  Graham craned his neck up to Drifter, who stood with his cane watching Ragnar. The old man looked over his glasses, amusingly. “Lad, are you gonna sit there all day plotting your next move?”

  Ragnar swung his axe, aiming to lop off Drifter’s head. The blade was easily parried by the thick cane, which didn’t even move from the incredible force. It’s made of something other than just wood. It had to be something that was harder than metal, because not even a scratch was on it from the heavy battle axe. Graham looked closer; Drifter also knew—either through instinct or through knowledge—how to block. It reminded him of how a medieval soldier blocked with a buckler. The success of that fighting style was winning a good defense for him and great frustration to Ragnar.

  Over and over, Ragnar tried to attack his foe. Nothing, no matter where he aimed or what angle he attacked from, Drifter would either block or dance away. Ragnar had excellent perception skills on prediction, but not as good as the old man. Even with his superior strength and speed, there was nothing he could do. And that was killing his attack plans, contaminating them with wasted movements. Each mistake was countered with a swift strike from the cane; which Graham had no doubt could have broken bones on normal men. Alas, the muscled hide and make-shift armor of Ragnar had protected him from walking away with a limp arm or shattered leg.

  They kept the melee fight on for minutes almost: dodge here, strike there, new attack patterns. All of them were in Drifter’s favor and none in the challenger’s.

  “Drifter!” Heron cried out, as the two men broke away from their battle. Ragnar was too busy huffing to continue on to his next attack.

  Drifter’s eyes darted to the corners of their sockets. “Ahhh, my little Heron has flown back from her flight. How were the Plagues, dear?”

  “Not the best experience….”

  “Didn’t clip a wing?”

  “No. r.”

  “Didn’t hurt your beak?”

  “Fuck you, Drifter.”

  “Now was that nice?”

  Ragnar, trying to take advantage of Drifter’s relaxed conversation, vaulted his battleaxe for a powerful overhead attack. He came down with all of his strength. Singing of steel against the cane flew into the air, followed by silence. “An effortless block”, everyone seemed to say with their eyes. One set of eyes changed. Drifter’s playful glance dissipated into smoke. Everyone, even Graham impulsively, stiffened at the change in demeanor. Authority was in those eyes. Power. “I’m bored with you, Ragnar,” he said, coldly. A silver pistol was in his free hand now. No one was sure how it got there. “I can’t bring back what you lost.” He clicked the safety off. “But I can take more.”

  “No…” Ragnar seethed. “You will not take any more from me!”

  A cold ire remained in those blue eyes as he said: “I’m done with you. Killing you like this,” he shot at the man, missing his head on purpose, “might be a little too easy.” A plastic thin veneer of madness stretched across his face, fear settling in Ragnar’s. He lowered his gun. “Scared of guns boy. Then I won’t kill you like that.” He had other plans, something far more enjoyable. “Wood.” Wood, whom was reclining and munching steadily on a box of granola bars, sat up for the first time. “Your parents are home.”

  The statement didn’t make sense to Graham, but everyone else seems to go silent.

  Wood stood up, face twisted in a sudden angered expression. The upper parts of his shoulder blades rippled underneath his flesh. Parts of his flesh were torn away from his body to make room for a grotesque black carapace to grow across his body. His fingers and toes turned to three pronged claws right before Graham and Ragnar’s eyes. His limbs snapped back, face contorted, and tongue grew long unable to stay in the mouth. What was left of his skin turned green and became scaled. Amber silted eyes stirred in his skulls searching for a target. A monster, some hybrid of a lizard and an insect, stood in Wood’s place, hulking. It’s a command. A fucking command…

  Drifter, pleased, stepped aside.

  Graham couldn’t even comprehend what happened next. One moment, Wood (if he could even call the creature that) was a good length away from Ragnar. The next instant Ragnar was sprawling towards the edge of the RV, skin torn asunder by the black chitins of Wood’s sudden savagery. The creature, fangs long and sharp, snapped at its prey. Ragnar couldn’t even grasp his axe long enough to mount an offense. Instead, he was focusing on survival as Drifter’s unleashed beast tore at him.

  Ragnar backpedaled away, trying to dodge the attacks. He wasn’t swift enough. Wood’s wild claws attacked his already bruised skin. A few times, Wood had even leaped up with his bent legs to scratch at Ragnar’s face. One particular time caught him right between the eyes. Howling of pain told everyone that the claws were hot tongs to the face. The skin on Ragnar’s face bubbled after being caught, blood spraying madly across his eyes.

  It wasn’t long after that he fell completely off the edge of the roof, face first, and covered in blood. Ragnar scrambled to his feet, despite the pain, and darted in the direction of the Plagues. Even then, he wasn’t safe. Wood, even from a distance, was dangerous. He belched green liquid from his mouth, shooting towards the escaping Ragnar. A few spray slammed into pieces of car part armor, dissolving it, forcing Ragnar to both run and tear the scraps off before it reached his skin.

  The giant soon escaped into the distance with his life barely in his hand.

  Graham looked at Wood from the ground level. The monster curled up beside Drifter, drooling acid from his mouth onto the hood of the roof. His long tongue swept back and forth on the metal, those spine-chilling eyes searching back and forth for something else to kill. Never once did he look at Drifter with such consideration. Instead, when he did look at him, the stare was much like a young boy waiting for permission from his father. Drifter smiled at him. “It’s okay now, Wood. Your parents have gone to work.”

  Wood hunched over. His mutation receded slowly, parts of him becoming human. Drifter gave him a one arm hug, allowing him to get to his feet. “That’s my boy,” Drifter said, patting him on the back.

  No one else said anything, but Graham could feel it. Blood was frozen in veins all around him. Even himself, tempered to adverse conditions, was almost petrified. Drifter picked up on it, grinning. “Welcome back, Corporal Graham!” He stretched his arms out as though he was giving a large hug to the crowd. “Welcome, welcome, welcome! And fantastic job everyone for driving them off!”

  The sound of the Drifter’s mad laugh whistled through the air. Swiftly followed it were the cheers from the entire Caravan.

  The world is mad. Hell. I’m going mad, Graham thought.

  _

  Ragnar touched the bridge of his nose, blood still oozing from his burnt open wound. The red liquid pattered on the ground like rain. He liked the rain, it was nice. When was the last
time it rained in this god forsaken part of the world? Maybe he could bring the rain. Maybe with blood, he liked blood as much as he liked rain. The very thought sent tingles down his spine. He needed something to deal with this anger that tore through him.

  He stumbled back into the backside of the Plague, limping through the corridor. Yes. He was very angry that he lost to the Drifter. He had expected the caravan to be short of Crisium and maybe Tyrus. They were two of the best trackers that he had in his possession. No one, and Ragnar meant no one, else could have been sent through the Plagues and survived. The tactical advantage was perfect and Beastmaster could have easily handled Crisium and Tyrus. What the hell went wrong? Heron and Juvenico shouldn’t have come back.

  Heaving heavy exhales, Ragnar entered the cavern that served as his bedroom. He removed what was left of his armor and his boots, tossing them with a large clatter on the cave floor. Then just stood, axe in hand, seething angrily at his lack of success. He’ll pay one day, everyone is going to pay one day, he thought. Breathing became loud and heavier in his lungs with the thought of ripping their heads off their shoulders.

  “OOOH! Raggy’s home!!!”

  Ragnar frowned. That voice, he knew that voice. He craned his neck.

  Sitting cross-legged on his gigantic bed was a smaller woman of an almost girl-like height even to a normal man. Her bluish-black hair tumbled down her back in pig tails. Her face was also very childish with round eyes, small chin, and very light skin. Ragnar saw that this girl seemed oddly out of place in this world. She dressed in a short colorful skirt, black shirt, a pink sweat shirt wrapped around her waist, and simple black shoes. In the other world, she would just look quirky. In this world, it was unsettling how she looked like a teenager where everyone else dressed for practicality.

  She had a smile on her face with an open book in her lap. Ragnar quickly recognized that book as his personal journal and growled. “River—“he said between clinched teeth. “What. Are. You. Doing?!?”

  River, the small girl, giggled madly. “Raggy, I didn’t expect you to come home this soon!” Her high voice squealed in amusement. “And you are a mess,” she sung. “Come over here!”

  Ragnar walked over, not because she told him to. He did so to snatch his journal away. Just cut her head off, he thought with his axe in one hand. Cut it off and be done with it.

  “Oh silly. I was just looking. You draw pretty well.” She chuckled again.

  “What are you here for,” Ragnar roared. The yelling had no effect on River. An opposite effect happened. She went into a small

  “Someone missed snack time.” River shrugged, happily. “Good thing I’m a good guest!”

  River hopped off the bed, and skipped to a corner of the room. Like she was some Vegas show girl, River stretched her arms as wide as she could to present her present: a man tied up, covered in scars. The man was shivering in fear, already broken beyond repair. “I give you, dinner!’ The gagged man gave out a muffled cry. “Silly, you won’t even feel it!” She smiled at Ragnar. “But first,” she put her finger up, “you have to come here.” An over exaggerated pout slid on her face, one of her many mask. “No complaining.”

  Ragnar gritted his teeth, approaching the young girl half his size. “You’re so TALL, Raggy! Kneel down silly, you’re like…” She struggled with the word in her head, instead leaning on abstract hand motions. “Like a giraffe!”

  “That’s very eloquent,” Ragnar remarked, bending down.

  “Not everyone was a doctor! Now, close your eyes!”

  “Alright.” Again, Ragnar did as he was told. This time he wasn’t sure why. Just deal with her. She’s here for a reason.

  Unexpectedly, River began licking the blood off the man’s face. She had to step on her tip-toes to do it, but she managed. The warm muscle of her tongue caressed his face, being ever so careful of his prickly beard. There were times where her tongue just stayed in one place. Those lengths of time were even inappropriate for a person licking candy. But she enjoyed it. She enjoyed the liquid on her tongue as much as he liked muscles in his teeth. “I’m done! You can open your eyes now.”

  “Now, what’re you here for,” Ragnar said, wiping some of the saliva from his face.

  “Oh!” River scratched the back of her head, as though she struggled to remember. “OH! I was here to tell you about Mr. Zombieface.”

  “Mr. Zombieface?”

  “Mr. Zombieface!” she repeated. “I was minding my own business in your territory and I saw them fight.”

  “Saw who fight?”

  “Your men and Mr. Zombieface, of course! Aren’t you listening?” River slapped him on the ears. “Hello! Are they working?”

  “They’re working!”

  He pushed the taunting aside. Thinking about it, he did see a new face in that crowd that resembled something odd. Ragnar quickly recalled that face in the crowd with the others. There was a corpse like figure new to Drifter’s group. But, he was too far in a blind haze to realize that he might have had something to do with this. He scratched his beard, thinking of how one man could take some of his best men and Beastmaster. He had to be trained well. Not some sort of makeshift training that anyone could learn nowadays. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Hm. No. He’s interesting, though,” River said, hopping happily to her own mental music. “But he’s the one that let swan-lady and Texas hold-up man go.”

  “Herons and swans are two different animals, River.”

  “Soooo!” She pretended to push the fact away. “He’s the one that screwed up your plans. Thought you should know!”

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  “If you do kill him,” River tilted her head, “can I lick his bones clean?” She lost herself in a fit of laughter. Ragnar waited patiently for it to subside. “I’ll go watch him for you. I’ll come back with a name and information of some sort! Maybe his favorite animal. Some sort of hobby. His favorite color—”

  “Why are you helping me?” he interrupted sternly. Ragnar knew that he couldn’t trust River. Many who had come in contact with her gave her trust equal to a grain of salt. Those that didn’t were either dead or regretted it later. Thusly, he avoided as much contact with her as possible. “You aren’t exactly the most dependable person.” Parts of him wish that he could kill her for being the anti-thesis of a dependable person. She had information, and was going to get more.

  “I’m not asking for you to trust me!” River’s face went deadpan for a moment. “That would be stupid.” She rearranged her features again. “But I’ll say this; I get a kick out of it. You get another notch on your revenge belt, everyone’s happy.” She twirled around, armed stretched to the ceiling, to make her point. She stopped perfectly on her heels, albeit a little dizzy.

  Ragnar knew that he didn’t have much of a choice. If Drifter had a new and deadly weapon, he needed to know about it. “Deal for now.”

  “Yay! I’ll be back later with some information!”

  The deal set, River disappeared into the shadows of the caves, sounds of her skipping echoing in the distance.

  He did know one thing about River. Ragnar hated that girl.

  6

  The Incubus’ Sleep

  “History had told us once that men’s nightmares and horrors were caused by demons named the Incubus. The Incubus was known for paralyzing and exposing us in our sleep. Those people who believed in them weren’t far off. Thoughts are the closest things to demons in our head.”

  Graham underestimated the efficiency of the Drifter. He knew now, that this was a mistake.

  The Caravan had been up and running after the ambush in mere hours. The vehicles and people easily returned to their standard duties and formations. Work was continuing within those hours. Engineers, weapon specialist, machinist, and medics were scurrying around the camp, helping anyone that needed their specific expertise. The swiftness of the executions was amazing. Injured parties were handled in s
everal vehicles to the north, repairing services to the south, and everything else was carried in between.

  At the end of about three hours of preparation, roars of the engines hummed through the air. They were on their way. To where, Graham didn’t have a clue. Ultimately, he decided to stay.

  Per his request, Graham stationed himself within one of the Humvees. He felt the most comfortable in that setting and even reclined back a bit like old times. His driver was Raleigh, the man that he met earlier who gave him and the Drifter information on Heron’s and Juvenico’s disappearance. Graham now knew that this man was also the Quartermaster of the Caravan. Though not the brightest man, from the stories of the Caravan, he handled weapons and vehicles with deft efficiency. Once out of those fields, he lumbered through life as though he was an oversized bear balancing on a beach ball. But overall he seemed pretty nice, reserved but nice.

  Raleigh kept his eyes on the road most of the time. However, he would occasionally steal a glance. It was obvious that he was still uncomfortable. That could be said for most of the Caravan honestly. But they knew that he was relatively good. Besides, Graham had gotten in good favors with the Drifter. They couldn’t deny that. He felt as though he was the hero of a small kingdom; everyone might not trust you, but they couldn’t deny that you slayed a dragon for them. Still, Graham found the need to at least ease himself into the crowd. Making enemies didn’t seem to be the smart thing to do in this world.