Dusk Territories: Always Burning

by Munden, Deston

“It’s not fun being with someone who knows how to play your game,” Ragnar said, mocking the girl.

  “Too bad he’s playing it wrong.”

  12

  The Break

  “The first domino has fallen, and now we can’t stop what is happening next.”

  Graham watched as the distance between them and Rootgrove closed. Rain clouds settled above them, their bellies slowly bursting in small intervals. Dusk passed, leaving nothing but the company of a dull night sky. The night should have been nice, yet the only thing that he could think about was the flames. It was like this with most near death missions, he knew. The reaper hung around; flaunting it’s near victory and telling you one day that it will win eventually.

  Despite even his current state, the reaper haunted him more than he knew. Some people accepted death. Many of his unit was like that. They didn’t care for what happened next. Graham told himself he was one of those men. He never was. Until he made the world a better place, he wasn’t going to die. A damn shame to die to a person like River, he thought. That’s what made him angry, he almost did. He gritted his yellow teeth, cocking his head back as the rain streamed down his face. He hated it.

  “Damn…things are looking bad at Rootgrove.”

  Graham opened his eyes, staring into the darkness ahead of him. Billows of smoke wisped themselves in the air. The sting of it grated against his nose and through his sinuses. Squinting, he could see no burning, much to his pleasure. Yet what he could see was something equally as bad. A large portion of Rootgrove was gone; and everyone knew exactly what part that was.

  “Conjurer blew it up!” Haggis said, looking at the black smoke.

  “Stop the truck.” This time the words were calm and so was his face. Even over the roaring engines, they did as he commanded. He jumped off the side of the truck wordlessly, his boots entering in the mud with a deep splash. “Get to the tanks. Prepare to hurt things. Secure the exit.” Graham grabbed his SAW, received from the Scotsmen, from his back holster.

  “Something wrong?” Crisium asked.

  “Don’t worry about it, head to the tanks.”

  The words didn’t start the engine. Graham looked from the corner of his eyes, a look in them as fierce as a lion. “Go.”

  They did as they were told. The wheels screamed as they dug through the muck, but soon they were on their way and heading around to the long side to the tanks. Graham was alone—alone with his ammunition and a hate for what this world had become. His world became nothing more than killing. Maybe that was the reason he was brought back, to even out this murderous game. It wasn’t a bad purpose. Good people with guns and powers needed to fight bad people with those resources. I see it. There was no reason to truly fear death, if you were going to become it.

  Tireless miles felt like nothing under his feet, even in knee deep mud. He made it to the edge of town without being detected. The spot lights were on now, sweeping in long arches across the fields. The pattern was recognizable after a few sweeps. Thought would only soil the movement, so he went completely on instinct. He followed the path his feet guided him, carefully running through small openings down the side and occasionally when two of the beams crossed. A feather light weight swept through his body. He knew where to go with speed and gracefulness. Not a single thought distracted him.

  Before long his muddy boots touched the edge of town, the large gate they had used earlier. It was closed. That somehow didn’t seem like a problem. Graham analyzed the situation. The side wall could be easily scaled, but the added weight of his gun would be problematic. His best bet was to pry open the gate. The lock seemed far from sturdy, and if he was smart, he could break or pick it undetected. Pondering would only waste time, so he acted.

  Graham tried to work some magic. He pulled a knife from his shoulder holster, and tinkered with the lock. Blocking out the sound and focused on the tumbler. After a few times, it didn’t open. Cursing his inability, he took his side arm, and knocked at the lock with calculated swings. The rusted lock shattered after a while, plopping into the mud.

  A foolish man would open the gate as wide as possible; a smart one did the opposite. Graham carefully pushed the steel gate open, bit by bit, making as little noise as possible. The mud caused a significant amount of resistance. The upside, however, was that it served as a muffle. He stopped, intermittently to listen to other sounds around him. If they had heard, the situation would be more difficult than he hoped. For now, he would avoid causing trouble.

  The door finally gave way to a small opening in which he slipped through. Time passed, and he found himself back in town. The once quiet roads were abuzz with vehicles, and white soldiers like before appeared in swarms. Graham kept to the shadows and the side roads, heading to the debris of the exploded building. Plenty of charred bodies sat in the base of it; all disfigured by the blast. Graham recognized some of the clothing as a portion of the Drifter’s party. Conjurer must have ordered them dead after things went sour. I took too long.

  In the short time knowing Drifter, he knew he wasn’t going to lie down and die.

  Graham continued on, carefully taking steps despite his trailing mud-covered feet. The stench of death grew thickly in his nose. They were close. His body buzzed with ambition. This time he knew what his body wanted. I get it. Just wait.

  “Now, play time is over, Drifter,” he heard Conjurer say. Graham remembered voices. They were equally as important as faces. “Hand over the book. I played nice with you before, but are you willing to lose everything over something as foolish as the truth?”

  Drifter guffawed at the prospect, “what would a man of only lies know of the truth?” Insanity’s cackle drifted in the air like bees in the spring. “You can only bury things so deep.”

  The sound of gunfire sang into the air, followed by thuds on a thick surface.

  “You cannot hide behind your co-dependent nephew and that harlot forever.”

  Drifter doesn’t have to.

  Graham pulled the gun from his back, placing it down around the corner. He set the tripod up within the darkness, lying down slowly as though the gun was his lover. He stopped, and observed. This is where a normal person breathed in, took in what he was about to do. No. This time, he allowed himself to be empty, taking in no sin.

  The moment of killing felt slowed as he squeezed the trigger. They hadn’t expected it, and he was fully loaded with hollow point bullets. The SAW sputtered with the satisfying fire, and Graham watched each of the bullets slam into the targets. Their heads were knocked nearly off their shoulders, chests tore open, bodies turned to pulp before his eyes. He locked eyes with the Conjurer as he fired from the darkness. He must have seen the dull eyes and the satisfied grin on Graham’s face. Conjurer was in the far end of the group, his men turning into mesh before his eyes. It wasn’t long before the rain of fire got to him…

  And Conjurer got to watch his own arm being ripped from its socket from the five consecutive bullets.

  Two female associates quickly yanked their master from the battle. Graham didn’t waste bullets on them; he just finished the rest of the soldiers in the circle off. In the end, he ran out of soldiers before he ran out of bullets. He stood up, picking his weapon up as it whistled smoke from the barrel. They didn’t even get a chance to shoot back. And you don’t give a damn about that, do you, Corporal?

  Graham wheeled around the corner. The dark world now held pink and red in its measures, courtesy of the men who died. Adjusting his scrap, he kneeled down; picking up the arm that he had successfully tore from Conjurer’s body. He stared at it for a moment, before taking his first bite. He wasn’t that hungry, but took pleasure in this.

  Blankly, he stared at the dome of rocky skin ahead of him. “It’s clear,” Graham noted, crunching on the index finger. The rock-like skin lowered, revealing a shirtless Wood. Soon after, the second layer—a one made completely of some water substance—dropped showing Heron and Drifter without a scratch. The three
returned Graham’s look with pleased expressions.

  Drifter lowered his glasses. “He learned.”

  “’bout time.”

  Wood’s right, about time. “I just don’t give a damn anymore about the guilty.” His mouth was full of tendrils, but his words were clear. “Let’s get going, we lost enough already.” He chomped down the rest of the arm, hastily, leaving nothing but a few bits of bone.

  Heron laughed an impassive chuckle, but said nothing.

  “The north entrance should be relatively clear by now. Pub, Haggis, and Crisium should have taken it. How is the rest of my team?”

  “Alive, I believe,” Drifter said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Never can be too sure. I suggest we hurry on the leaving though. I rather not be in any more gunfire.”

  “I’ll radio anyone in the area to head to the North Entrance.” Graham relayed the order smoothly across all safe frequencies. “Let’s head out.”

  Upon their own orders, the party sprinted through the long roads of Rootgrove. The eerie light poles they had seen earlier fired small electrical balls as they went passed, like some sort of security measure. They were easily handled by Heron. She shifted her blade around her body, arms moving as though she had no bones in them. She blocked in all directions, her silver sword moving as liquid would. Only a few times, she missed. Those times, her very skin would harden to conduct the energy. In fact, she was like humanized water.

  “Demon powers are unique,” Graham stated, grimly.

  “You fought against River’s. Lost your cool.” She stated it as fact. “Mutants, demons. They are no different than humans, you just have to find their weakness.” Heron slashed through another energy ball, the sparks flying off her sword. “It was disheartening for you. I can see it. You never lost your cool before.” She held back her smile. “My, you are spoiled.”

  “Little feather,” Drifter interrupted, voice serious. “Everyone learns in their own pace in this world, even you.”

  Ridicule for sloppiness had been expected, so Graham took it with dignity. He focused on picking off anything he could with his side arm, covering the sixth. Wood handled anyone dumb enough to get close with his right arm—grossly mutated into a mass of scales, an insect wing, and some tentacles. Escape was the primary objective at the moment; they didn’t need to focus on anything else.

  With little less than a bloodbath of resistance, they made it to the North Entrance—or rather the exit in their case. The cloudy night sky was tinged with oranges and reds. Earsplitting booms echoed into the air as the cannons from the Abrams tore through buildings. Rattling of the machines guns hissed in the background. The sound of shrapnel danced on the concrete. Before, he never really recognized the sound of battle. They were blurred in his ears and mind as he fought. Now, clarity. A lot more things than that was clear.

  There was only one brigand, a squad of about 15, left until freedom. He switched back to his LMG. “Move aside,” he told the rest of his party. Yes. I understand now. They did, and he fired. The recoil, the flash, the sound, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was bad people died. Body after body fell. He didn’t care if they shot back or even if they hit. They were in the way, and they needed to be handled. He came down to a small click, the gun empty. No more people to kill. Graham lowered his gun, taking steps forward. “Let’s get out of this hellhole.”

  Graham saw the eyes of the civilians. Drifter’s caravan was exiting Rootgrove with the same looks from the entered with: respect and fear.

  _

  “Why didn’t you take us along,” Emelle snapped.

  The caravan escaped. Everyone knew that the Drifter was strongest on the road. With a blinding speed, they assumed their stations. The moment that they started their engines, they assured their escape. Drifter was nothing less than effective. Any resistance had been swept away and crushed. They were headed west by Drifter’s orders and was given little to nothing more. Everyone needed rest and time to reflect.

  Graham was doing just that when they came in. He had kicked off his boots, removed his uniform, and lied back in his cot. Majority of his wounds and decay had receded, insides no longer as exposed. Still, his body was still a mass of purple flesh and red tears, but that didn’t matter. He was comfortable, and quite frankly, he didn’t care enough.

  The Gatekeepers, or at least that was what they called themselves, stormed by his truck during a break in travel. Emelle was the first one in, staring at him with large eyes fuming with anger. One by one, the members of his group flowed in. Raleigh brought up the rear, standing awkwardly behind the crowd. Everyone glared at their commander, relaxed in the bed of his truck. Graham hardly acknowledged them, just readjusted his body to fit better in his bunk.

  “Why didn’t you take us along,” Emelle repeated. Her husband held her back.

  “Answer the question, sir.”

  Graham kept a steady eye, still on his back. “It was the right call.” He turned on his side.

  He felt the team drill holes with their eyes as they stirred with anger. “What do you mean it was the right call? You could’ve been there and back before Conjurer went crazy and decided to wipe us out!”

  It was true, in theory. But what the hell matters in theory. “I got the job done.”

  “But at what cost?”

  Cost? The word stung hotly in his ears. The decision wasn’t just for their safety as they believed. What happened at Rootgrove couldn’t have been avoided. They were there to save people. If they were with him, they would have been fodder for the beasts. What do they know about cost? Graham thought, despite himself. He swallowed the negativity. “You’re alive because of that decision. I barely made it out alive. Pub, Haggis, Crisium barely made it out alive. You would’ve been dead, I’m sure of that.”

  Forrest scoffed. “Sir, that’s not a reason. Turn, face us, and tell us why you didn’t trust us coming.”

  Graham did just that. Slowly, he turned his body and brought himself upright. His limbs creaked, bones popping loudly. Before long, he was on his feet. Despite his average height and hunched stance, everyone looked at him like he was the tallest man there. “You weren’t ready,” he began softly. They knew this voice, but somehow it felt different. “You want to know why the hell I didn’t bring you. It wasn’t a matter of trust. You know how inexperienced you are. You know these people are dangerous. Do you think for even a small moment, a small fucking moment, that I would risk not only your lives, but the missions’? You want to know why I didn’t bring you; I couldn’t baby sit your asses. That’s why. Are. You. Happy?”

  Silence.

  Graham was back on his bed, but kept glaring at the five. Tyrus was notably absent, having no part in this. Or he understood the reasoning behind the choice. The rest looked as though they had been hit by a bus. Rachael’s eyes were casted down. Emelle and Forrest looked at each other timidly. Raleigh already began to leave. Juvenico was quite possibly the worse, who just stood, soaking in his own sweat. “Are we happy now?”

  Everyone nodded briskly, followed quickly by a “yes, sir”.

  “Now, get out of my sight.”

  Rachael’s jaw dropped. “But sir—“

  “Leave!” You’re really losing it. Graham’s inner voice told him. You just need to be alone, but you’re being damn cold. “Just get out.”

  They left his presence as quickly as they came. Time passed and he still felt their bruised ego several yards away. See, that’s not how you handle a situation. You’re pissed, I get it. That wasn’t reason to go ape-shit like you did.

  Walking around the bed brought him to the place where he piled his clothes. Bloody gore still stained them, leaking into the ridges of the vehicle’s uneven floor. Upon returning, he began scrubbing off the fatigues. The task felt tedious, just tedious and nothing else. A grim task like that unsettled his stomach in the past. Now, he just didn’t feel like doing it. It’s like homework, not some horrifying task, Graham thought. The buc
ket of water that he used turned crimson, and smelled sour. Neither the sight nor the smell affected him. What was he turning into?

  “You’re adapting.”

  Graham turned only his head. Celine.

  She made herself comfortable on his bed: legs crossed, hands on her lap, and sitting upright. Like the last time, she had no facial expression. Amusement was in her eyes though. “You did as you were told and found a fragment of the past. I’ll admit, I’m mildly impressed. Only mildly, however, so don’t think I’m praising you.”

  “I’m not looking for your praise; I don’t know who you are.”

  “Good. And it’ll stay that way. I’m not here to exchange pleasantries. Even though, from your previous display, you aren’t in the mood either.”

  “Then why are you here?” Graham focused his attention on his uniform, scrubbing the blood off with a bath cloth.

  “Drifter and I had to talk, and I thought I would drop by. Everything doesn’t have to be about you. You’re important to the grand picture, but no, you aren’t that important.”

  “Then why are you badgering me?”

  “You’re breaking. That’s why. You ate human flesh; I wanted to see how you reacted.”

  There was no denying it, he had. Though it was an arm of a vile man, it was his first. He thought he would hate it, thought that he would hate himself afterwards. Nihilism met him with open arms. The angel in him reasoned it was justice. Conjurer deserved what he got and he deserved to be fed. The devil thought the same, just without the added bells and whistles. As much as he tried not to think that way, he couldn’t help it. “I’m really trying to be the hero here. This world needs one.”

  Celine laughed.

  “Is there a problem,” Graham said.

  She didn’t respond immediately, as though relishing the thoughts in her head to pick the best one. “You should know by now. There’s no such thing as heroes in this world.”

  Graham stopped. “It saddens me that you think like that.”

  “It annoys me that you don’t.” Her words were hot and annoyed. “The Tear is going to teach you something. It’s either going to break you or make you stronger. The Descendants are nothing in comparison to the Daughter, Grand-sons, and Sons of the Ancestors. Demons, Mutants, normal men and women, are all blood thirsty monsters under a single banner. So, don’t be stupid. Honor can only get you so far.”