Joshs Blog

Beyond the green lushes that spread throughout the forestry of elderly trees, were thicker trees with undergrowth that made it impossible for a first-time visitor to pass through. Millions of creatures, species, mostly smaller critters and oversized predators, dwelled in these lands of enriched undisturbed forestry. Songs were heard, mostly angelic in nature, fatal to the curious crawler. These woods were dubbed the Blackwood Lairs, somewhere near the border of Belize and Guatemala; far away from the provisional American government in power beyond the promised five years to restore order.

Bending light and pumping components for life to exist, the forest was at the heart of nature’s beautiful amazons that saturated perceptions of man. When a breeze soothed sweat that raced down callused skin, thick branches deviated drunkenly and leaves clapped an ovation singing nature’s most recognizable songs. During the day, smaller critters and creatures that roamed the forestry took refuge from angry shouts of larger beasts hungering under the blotted pasty white moon that shadowed the world. It was life, a vicious cycle only allowed by the remarkable instincts of life, survival.

In one part of the Blackwood Lairs, a harvested opening existed where a rain drop crushed trees and thick shrubbery. Even though it wasn’t a hill, as hills are often bulging from the Earth, the small opening inside the forestry was the most elevated. On this hill that shouldn’t be called a hill, a small hut with thick logs capped with long sheets of bark and thick heartwood was built with gray-stone chimney and a stream of black pillowing smoke from its tip.

Destiny was life driven on purpose and meaning. Nonexistent was a life of happiness, like the fades of a winter cold during summer. Changing the world, welcoming death if called upon by destiny, saturated him into an insatiable desire to cull the wicked righteous and the greediest that consumed like a virus. Not through divinity, nor fabricated realities that pushed men to places they should never be, Heath Cole knew his purpose; to raise an army that would destroy everything, for only complete destruction could the world rise again to prominence.

Infatuation grew into corruption, thus economic collapse of the social classes. The Potosi, poor and homeless folk, became the majority, ushered through the borders of the Wasted like cattle on the day of their purpose. It wasn’t right, yet it was allowed after government reshuffling policies under the pretence of freedom-losing protection laws implemented to combat a wave petty crime blamed on the Potosi. In truth, it wasn’t the Potosi; something far more sinister manipulated the minds of free will into zombies. In truth, it wasn’t just the government, Heath concluded. All parts make a whole, and those parts must be wiped out, destroyed and rebuilt in his vision that would lead to lasting peace and prosperity.

Still, he had to raise an army. Not to battle the villain’s technological superiority; that suicide mandate would be ordered by him to the countless Potosi that must die for his purpose to be fulfilled. No, their purpose, their destinies must be fulfilled and dying for his cause would complete that. The armies would be raised to distract others from focusing on Heath, who was creatively designing a three-prong assault that concludes with the death of ten men. If he had to do it, he would level every city, street, and home if it meant killing ten men; no matter the consequences of guiltless life. Innocent life, Heath mused. No, they were not innocent; they were accessories that authorized this existence; they were enablers and zombies to the status quo.

Standing on the border where the forest met the hill that shouldn’t be appointed a hill, Heath closed his eyes with interlaced fingers behind his back. Feeling nature’s cool breath that snapped diseased limbs of infected trees and dislodged leaves that once pained a dance of light orange and dark red before crumbling into tiny bits of dust, Heath bathed in nature’s selective destruction based on a cycle that people believed they were excluded from.

It wasn’t the intoxication of nature’s qualities that he sought; rather a deep focus on the approaching disturbances; snapping twigs, clumsy breathing, anxious heartbeats beating against Kevlar vests with muted communication of a breeze-like whisper dictating orders. Silently, the Enforcers, a revised arm of Homeland Security Agency’s Enforcement wing developed after Tyran Ray’s apocalypse which seared the flesh of millions, approached from the north and south. Peering to his left and right, Heath observed his unmolested flanks. Coming for him with a small band of elite soldiers, Heath was a villain of the state, a terrorizer of the people, having his name invoked for the government’s secret attacks on their own civilians to raise levels of influence far beyond the point of no return.

Tens of thousands were murdered in his name, so people were told. In truth, that number was less than ten thousand. While destroying government entities which included messy assassinations; like a bomb taking out four city blocks for the targeted death of one man, many civilians became collateral damage. Over three hundred died when he took out Paul Hampton, former Senator turned Regional Director for Sector Four.

However, he was the antagonist of Uprisings in Cincinnati that led to many deaths. It was his anxiety that exploded into with raving fires, street executions and random shelling from indestructible tanks. Once the uprising had fallen, once Heath hid inside the loft of an abandoned residential building, he watched in horror as ordered AH-64 Apaches fired their 30 millimeter chain guns at the fleeing crowds; most of whom were innocent women and children; all of whom were unarmed. People weren’t just killed; they were shredded into bits of flesh, muscle and bone. It was at that moment that Heath believed in order for a destiny to be fulfilled, the world must be cleansed. It his vengeance now in which anyone that crosses his path was in mortal danger.

Now, a year later, watching the Enforcers emerge in their black uniforms and like-colored war pant on their faces, Heath revealed uncertainty. Three from the south, two from the north, five in all seeking the man that led the Uprisings of 2018 in Cincinnati that resulted in so many deaths, so many nightmares; too many regrets. Aiming their assault rifles at his hut, three specialized Enforces, also known as Hunters, gingerly walked past him, as if he was a mirage, or a shadow with no master. Turning around, Heath watched one man lean against the wall just to the right of the front door, another to the left, while the third stood readying intrusion.

When Heath opened his eyes, he found himself inside the hut, facing the front door where three Enforcers staged their unwelcome intrusion on the other side. A silhouetted dance of splintered wood exploded from the door’s frame that was unable to secure the door any longer. Just as the thick wooden door slammed against the floor, uplifting thin particles of decay, the nozzle of one Enforcer breached into the room.

Slightly convinced that the Enforcer wasn’t adjusting from the brightness under the sun to the darkness inside the hut, Heath quickly side-stepped against the wall. Barely relieved, though suddenly anxious, Heath pulled the nozzle with his left hand to draw the Enforcer violently inward, leveling his right elbow into the intruder’s neck that crushed the man’s spine. Just as the Enforcer began to collapse, Heath pivoted on his left foot, crashing his right through the man’s chest.

When someone shouted, “now,” Heath jumped, grappling a beam in the ceiling, clearing from the unyieldingly inexhaustible stream of bullets crashing through the hut allowing tiny beams of sunlight to lighten the room. While crashing through the walls around him, Heath pulled a small layer of thin wood aside in the ceiling and lifted himself into the loft. All Heath could perceive looking out the Western window was a scatter of panicked critters, but no Enforcers.

Sliding the glass open, Heath pulled himself through the window and lowered himself to the ground just as the enemy began breaching his home. Like stomping the accelerator, Heath sprinted, commanding every force in his legs to make him as swift and fast as possible. After a hundred meters, Heath braked and turned towards the hut that was camouflaged by twisting trees and unmolested growth. Pulling out a device from his pants, Heath looked once at the red button and back towards the hut. After pressing the red button, a fireball erupted into the sky, preceded by a shockwave that sent a gust through the forests like the winds before a storm.

Wicked, Heath smiled knowing their flesh burnt black, their bone decaying through the heat of morbid eventuality, turning to ash. They deserved their fates; these men were nothing but tools of a wider conspiracy, pawns to a game that’s been played for years. Heath was certainly no pawn; he was a king, a powerful visionary, a ruthless murder; all for the sake of what must be done.