“My god,” the old man exclaimed to himself, wearing a tattered red robe, forming the sign of the cross on his chest. “Truly,” he said to himself, “a sight to behold, for thee is the safe passage from desolate treasures and forbidden fruits.”

It was all an allusion; a disrupting vision of beauty soiled by unwelcomed events that brought about awful truths.

Gripping his wooden cane as a child grips a blanket after awaking from terrible nightmares, surely expecting a monster to emerge from darkness and swallow the child whole, the old man approached, leaving behind a wall that mirrored the tall the skyscrapers, centered with a massive metal gate patrolled with countless well-armed men.

Spending two lifetimes in the Wasted, a section of old America left alone by the three great Administrators that divided the country into quarters, the old man was taken aback by the civility, the riches displayed. It was a murdered feeling of his naïve innocence that revolted him while admiring perhaps one of the most gorgeous beauty’s he had ever seen. In his most optimistic of minds, he prayed the people that lavished in luxury were ignorant beyond the Sector Three walls, lied to by a Government that elected prosperity over human rights, science over the word of God and security over freedom.

This wasn’t the Wasted. For here no dead lay rotting in the unkempt streets, attacked by merciless Enforcers or a man-made virus that killed infants with an unrelenting attack on their immune systems. Here, the streets were often cleaned by automated vehicles with oversized brushes and high pressure sprayers. Malnourishment didn’t exist in the form of mutations or general deformities from the radiation spills, especially localized in the southeastern quadrant of Old America. A region the old man provided relief for, allowing those certainly to die, a moment of God’s presence, a living embodiment for confession, to ease their passing. It’s truly hard to imagine that the Wasted and this mega-metropolitan, surnamed Sector Three, once unified the greatest country the world had every known.

Gangs didn’t enforce eviction orders, discharging the final breath of those that once lived, for worthless treasures when food, clean water and fuel, the rarest of resources, were scarcely found. Law enforcement roamed these streets, with black sticks emitting a thin blue glow at their tips hooked around their belts while people walked freely, lavishing in their great fortunes, earned by the wealth of being born into great families.

With his cane, the old man pressed forward, reaching the outskirts where the shortest buildings lined with an embracing perimeter around the beautiful metal structures that punctured the clouds. Even though the moon was full with energy and life, the metal structures that bound this mega-metropolitan was filled with so much life, from the metal structures, the tall lamps in the streets and the many cars that passed without so much as the sound of a sneeze.

He was old, and his life’s goals largely achieved, yet always consumed with the voice that spoke to him, the old man would bow to each person that made eye contact with him. His pilgrimage, not of his own heart, led him to walk the very streets of a city that banished religion many seasons ago. People shot odd stares, which he related as mere curiosity.

So sad, he thought. They’re truly ignorant of the pain that burdens this world.

Lined with storefronts, ranging from disposable cell phones, reusable food stores to clothing shops with gowns cropped with a golden fleece and the sparkle of small diamonds in many windows, the streets were active. Couples slowly walked, hand in hand, expressing themselves with the feeling born of a new love. Cars in black, red, blue, green and even white whisked past, many with newer technologies that replaced gas with some new marvel.

Slowly walking, with the tick of his wooden cane tapping on concrete with each step, the old man fought the urge to cry. Purify in its purest form was not pure, rather diluted with illusions of grander, for the prosperity of it all comes within a scale too small for any common mind to fathom. God help us all.

When a violin played a sad son, with his radish colored eyes as the audience, it deepened his treasured misery. For in that bath he warmed himself with the reminder that God is in all things and no matter what, he reaches out with a soft hand to embrace everyone; even those that do not believe or have long since killed him within their many storms of selfishness.

NO! Peace, safety and comfort lived here, but God would not embrace a soul from these towers of the devil’s greed; nor would Christ, the savior of those that walk so arrogantly without purpose, or meaning. These were the heretics of nihilism. Youth and time long past due, the old man raged with fire in his heart; a desire to raise swords against his enemies, many of whom walked carelessly down the streets having killed a God. How can such people exist? How can the world of so much misery not see that once they killed God, that storms of the devil’s wrath baked upon those souls with vengeance against those that God choose to love?

But was it really their fault? Ignorance was a gift from a madman Administrator that forbids religion. Probably because he feared that properly guided souls wouldn’t accept the filth that governed so mercilessly. Stories of epic blood poured from the desires of wickedness crossed his ears on his travels here. If not for the families that crossed the great river that split the country, or the Mountain civilization in the East, he would have come with surprises of the fainted, rather than shielding his soul and heart with spiked swords and knights of the Templar, who are still rumored to exist.

Nearly four weeks ago, a pilgrim of the Sector One that held a great city nearly 100 miles wide on the northern East Coast, the Administrator’s aide Natalie Cousins, met the old man and asked that he visit the Potosi zones inside of Sector Three. It was an unusual request, considering the two had never met, though the old man knew of the Cousins’ faith and her request was genuine. While he wasn’t sure if it was the Administrator himself that asked he go, he knew the Government in Sector One was much more liberal, very open with a freedom that mimics what the Old United States stood for. Rumor always persisted of William Seymore’s ultimate desire to resurrect the once great country.

His goal, bringing the faith amongst the poor, was gladly accepted by his peers, who buckled under worrying hearts at the danger the old man would face. Spreading the word of God was something that spoke deep into his pumping heart, even if it meant eventual death.

However, it wasn’t here where he’d lead the flock of the righteous, amongst the filth that walked past him with a purpose greater than his own. Just beyond the towers, through the business zones and the entertainment districts, roughly another ten miles, sat a small section in town where slaves gathers after their masters were finished with them. The locals called it Potosi. The old man called it vile.

After two days of strenuous travel, interrupted by naps on the cold asphalt in the alleys, through the glorious, corrupt, fantastical layers of both heaven and hell, the old man reached the Potosi zone.

Children smoked in soot, with women forced into prostitution, men into manual labor, the many servants and slaves that were granted no rights, no homes, and no freedoms and, god forbid, food to fill their starving stomachs, easily outnumbered the masters they served. They were scared, tired, and many. So many.

He to fell to a knee, next to the dimming fire, and said, “let us pray.” His fingers crossing his chest giving the sign of the cross, the old man began.

Two years later

The irony wasn’t lost on the broken old man, showing the wear of many hours of torture that his brothers had seen nearly millennia ago, including a great Saint of his own bloodline. Scanning the court room, a building that reminded him of St. Peter’s Basilica of all things, featured four great stone pillars at the entrance with a distinctive doom on its roof. Aside from the paintings long devoured by layers of white paint along the walls and ceilings, with much of the interior completely restructured, it was unmistakable that this building was converted from a great cathedral into a court house. You can not get away from God’s law, the old man mused to himself.

The pews remained, as hundreds watched a high-profile case against the old man that led a rebellion that nearly sacked the Capitol City, deep inside Sector Three, not ten miles from what used to be called Houston. His wrists wrapped in chains, escorted by two men wearing black Kevlar, foggy helmets and electrified batons, the old man, broken into fragile bone, sunken eyes and wasted breath, slowly, yet proudly, walked to the lone table that stood before an erected bench where the judge would take his place.

A Judge of one, to hear the case, try it, and render judgment, all within an hour, provided that he wasn’t hungry for an early lunch. Of course the judge was appointed by the Administrator, or one of his inter-council. The state would judge this case swiftly, the old man feared. He knew, once this moment was taking place, not much was left for him and events that followed would end with his death.

Countless nights crying against the gray concrete walls in his cell, the old man didn’t fear much. But like so many people, he feared the uncertainty of death. His belief, his faith, begged him to remember that his death would only transmit him to a greater life, that of which stands aside his brothers and of God. Two years ago, he would have gladly died, for his experience included nothing but suffering and misery, his own included. He was tired, and ready to parish in the lands where his fathers and brothers died before him, to join them in eternal sleep. Now he was nearly out of time.

The words he preached led to a unification of slaves and masters, of race, creed and gender, all uniting because the word of God touched them. It was soon after that his sermons led to riots, eventually turning into rebellions, finally suppressed on the steps of the Capitol City. Those that led the violence of the riots and rebellions died during the suppression. All that remained was the father, the old man. Yet, he proudly admits that he fathered the inspiration of people’s spiritual revival even though he begged for the word of God not to be taught with vengeance and violence.

Not now, not this way. The old man pleaded to himself. I’m not supposed to die, for the word of God hasn’t spread through the blood of those that need his love. Not everyone has heard me. .

Hushed tones generated an eerie silence throughout old cathedral walls that the old man thought of as magnificent designs, where his forefathers and forebrothers once prayed freely to the Gods of their choice. Ah, a time that was.

“Court is in session,” a voice spoke from hidden shadow. “The honorable Thomas Nichols, presiding.”

A wiry frame that was hidden by his tall stature and a thick encompassing black robe that sat menacingly on his shoulders, the Judge strode up the stairs with grace and the perception of power. His thick black hair was invaded with lines of gray, as if painted stripes were suddenly fashionable in men’s hair. Once he surveyed the courtroom, his eyes locked on the old man’s, who quickly realized his shield wasn’t strong enough to hide the fear that betrayed his face.

“Mr. Henry More,” the Judge began, taking a seat with all observers behind the old man simultaneously taking their own seats. “You stand accused of treason as an agent sent by an enemy of this state” the judge said with a slight English accent which gave him the added perception of relative intelligence. “What do you say to these charges?”

The old man with chains wrapped around his arms and legs locked at his waist, stood as tall as an old man could. Wrapping his head around the word agent, the old man paused. He was no agent. But the quick mind of the old man quickly realized that the government of Sector Three viewed this as much as a public relations stunt, as it did brandishing their own justice. Could the state use him as propaganda against their own civilians, to remind those that rise against authority? Or could it be that the state was using the trial for some larger purposes, a display of power against rival states? It was then and there that the old man trembled with the thought his death was going to be nothing but sacrifice against everything he believed in. They would use him for their own ends, and that was a meaningless death.

“I am no agent of any enemy against any member within this state. But alas, I do not understand the specificity of my charges,” the old man cautiously responded with a smiling judge, who from the likes of it, enjoyed the occasional squabble with those he could devour with drunken words and a wooden gable.

“The Code of Law, Article 1, Subsection 13 states that no man, woman or child may conduct practices of mysticism, such as religion, organized religion, or group religion that promotes the idea of God, or other mythical deities, messiahs or general religious icons, including historical or present relics, all of which may be construed as offensive to the state, therefore classified as a treasonable offense.” The judge looked up and narrowed his eyes, “And treason, Mr. More, is punishable by death.”

The old man lowered his head when the Judge continued, “Your preaching religion and the fable that is God as a truth, when in fact, religion and God are pathetic ways to not only rich your own pockets, but to incite chaos and general anarchy, which in of itself promotes death and the destabilization of our great state. It is imperative that childish stories such as these remain outside our borders where the Wasted can perish to their Gods and the civilized, such as us, may prosper.”

The Judge shuffled paper and continued. “We have witnesses that claim you personally led The May Rebellions in which 1,553 military died in the span of three months, with at least 10,000 civilian casualties, many of whom were elderly and children.”

The old man felt hollow. So many people died, ranging from fathers protecting their families to children of fatal interest lining the streets to see the pilgrimage of Christ. The old man had heard stories that the Enforcers, the military police arm of Sector Three, using innocents as human shields. Disbelief would have run deep through his blood, if it wasn’t for the multitude of its travesty that he witnessed through his own heartbroken eyes.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He wanted to spread the word of God. Yet, some used it, like a radical, to generate support for a massive rebellion that lasted many months, spilt so much blood and bastardized the word of God. It took the remaining strength in his tired body to hide the sadness, only to pick up his head to see the viperous stare from the Judge.

“Quite honestly, old man, we have enough evidence to execute you as soon as we please, as you’re the destroyer of peace, and the master of chaos. The robe you where confirms our suspicions that true religion is never to be practiced while our great leader, The Administrator, breathes enlightenment from a culture based on science, success and solidarity.”

“Preaching the word of God is a thing of beauty, your honor. It brings us comfort and guidance, strengthening our resolve for love and mercy…”
“Yet,” the showboating Judge interrupted, “you knew our laws coming into Sector Three, did you not? Religion is strictly prohibited and of high treason, punishable by decapitation.”
“I know of no law above the word of god,” the old man said in defiance.
“Witnesses claim that you prayed within the Potosi zones, raising arms that led to this pathetic rebellion. Do you deny this?”
“I ask, my lord, why such a law was created. Is it because the Administrator fears the deity of something much more powerful, and much more important than himself? Does he worry about idols that possess reminders of guilt within his own heart,” the old man asked, surprised to see the Judge smiling, as if approving. Why, the old man had no mind to comprehend. Perhaps there were fractures within the government. Perhaps the old man condemned himself so fully, that the Judge can make an early lunch.  

The old man smiled in return and continued, “Because his weapon is love, not hatred, for many others exhibit those traits, do they not? I’m fully reconciled with the thought that I will soon join him in our quest to bring God back to this world. I am not, however, honored by the grace of his will, in that his word has been forgotten. It’s true,” the old man said pleading to the Judge and anyone else willing to listen in the room, “many have bastardized the word of God for their own means. Whether that’s money, property or a misguided meaning for warfare. By God, the United States of America was apart of such a conflict that led us to a world in which we live in today.”

“But the word of God, and his son, Jesus Christ, the true word, is about forgiveness, love, honor, virtue and salvation. Before the wars, before” the old man paused, “everything changed, communities were drawn like families. Neighbors helped raise the children of other families. The poor had a means to eat, for neighbors would go a night without dinner so others could feed. The weak had a means to defend themselves, for the entire community would stand next to each other to hold the lines of unity. That, your honor, has long left us. The Wasted and the Potosi are just examples of our low quality today. Yet they are also a shining example of how strength is found in a unified soul, and not through the strength of arms.

The room was so quiet that when the attentive Judge cleared his throat, everyone in the room suddenly shifted in their seats, remembering that this, was in fact, a trial.

“So you do not deny the charges leveled against you, sir?”
“I deny that I was sent by anyone other than that of God’s will. I do not deny my role as leader of the rebellions,” the old man said, bowing to his spoken words that will end his life.
“Through your own admission of guilt, you will be executed by decapitation tomorrow morning at 10AM. What do you say to this?”
“Lord Jesus, through the power of the Holy Spirit, go back into my memory as I sleep.” The Judge slammed his gable, yelling above the amazed crowd that such a man would recite prayer while having his life terminated because of it. “Every hurt that has ever been done to me,” the old man continued. “heal that hurt.” He shouted louder above the judge, and much more proudly. “Every hurt that I have ever caused another person, heal that hurt. All the relationships that have been damaged in my whole life that I am not aware of, heal those relationships. But, O Lord, if there is anything that I need to do, If I need to go to a person because he or she is still suffering from my hand, bring to my awareness that person. I choose to forgive, and I ask to be forgiven. Remove whatever bitterness may be in my heart, Lord, and fill the empty spaces with your love.”

Just as the guards were dragging him out, the old man turned to the crowd, many of whom were shaking their heads in disbelief, as if children experienced something radically new for the very first time. He smiled and lowered his head in honor of reaching those that he knew he touched.

Little did the old man know, amongst the observers in the courtroom, sat a child nearing his twentieth year that would change everything based on what he saw today.  

The Judge’s Chambers

Minutes after the trial concluded, Judge Thomas Nichols greeted his secretary, who artificially smiled before lowering her head in obvious disgust. Nichols felt her sadness, for it gripped his fragile heart like a steel fist squeezing unrelenting. He couldn’t hear her muted sobs, but he felt them.

Once inside his chambers, the Judge removed his heavy black robe and threw it carelessly over the back of his antique leather chair that many of his guests used. Placing his hands on the back of the chair, the Judge closed his eyes and leaned slightly forward, as if the two weights perched atop his shoulders were that of the Administrator, who specifically wanted a show of his rule, rather than a display of honest justice. Witnesses were never found to subjugate the trial, yet they appeared when the Administrator demanded them.

What had he done? Why, in a world so filled with desperation, does this man come along to free break the laws, forcing the Judge to kill a man of God? A martyr of God, destined to change a world where religion and God were banished like a plague so infectious that it could wipe out half of our civilization. Yet, it was he that condemned him to death. It was he that felt his heart split in half, his humanity dissolving. He cursed the old man, enthusiastically, for this was beyond the heart break promoted in his gut.

The Judge shifted towards his drinking cabinet, a six-shelved unit encased with a dark finish and duel glass doors. The middle shelf held several glasses, clear-like crystals with enough girth for Nichols’ large hands to grip, but delicate enough that they could shatter with a powerfully emotional twist that would be undone by the emotions ravaging the ruthless and composed Judge. A bin held fresh ice cubs, one shelf below the glasses and the top three units held to his most expensive bottles. He gently lowered three ice cubs from the bin into the glass, so softly he was afraid of cracking the glass. Everything breaks at his hand, why not his glass?

He stared at the line of bottles in front of him, ranging from cheap whiskeys in front to the more oft-used high-end bourbons near the back. That’s it. He arched his hand over each selection, pulling an unopened 100-year old bottle Chivas Regal Royal, feeling the weight in his hands. A quick poor and the glass was half full.

Turning to his right, he found himself staring in the mirror. Nichols, as vulnerable now as he was excited to originally hear of the rebellions two years ago, wiped the water growing from his radish-hue eyes. Am I such a coward that a man over seventy years has the courage to die honorably for what he believes in? The Judge grinned slightly and looked upon the floor. God’s word doesn’t apply to me, for I murdered a man of God.

A quick sigh, like a disgruntled laugh escaped his lips. He turned his glass in a circular motion, watching the Chivas Regal Royal push the three ice cubs, noticeably smaller, along the edges of the glass.

I’m in a position of power, of influence. I’m in the Administrator’s greater council, and when the time comes, when he must be disposed, I will honor the spilt blood of Saints and burn every non-believer alive. This, I promise, father Henry More.

First, he needed forgiveness.

“Please, God,” the Judge said, slightly craning his neck so he could look upward. “Forgive me for trespassing on the leader of your flock.” He tipped the drink into his mouth and let the alcohol sit there momentarily. After swallowing it, he flung his glass like a grenade across the room until it shattered into a tiny thousand pieces, mirroring his own heart.

The Next Morning

Wearing gritty torn clothing, gray and deeply stained by filth and dirt, the old man walked down the concrete hallways from his cell, passing onlookers, many of whom reached out their tortured hand. Some cheered, not for his eventual death, rather what he represented. He felt honored, grateful and terrified.

Chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, interlaced through a lock on his waist, impeded his movements, especially painful where they cut deep into his skin. Once the morning sun penetrated the concrete walls near the entrance, the old man raised his hands to sheild his eyes. Against his frail skin, he felt the energy of the sun, which had been absent for many weeks. Blinded by white, he turned towards the heavens and smiled, “Soon, my gracious Lord, I will feel your warmth – and the security of your shield. This world no longer belongs to us, as many have so long abandoned your grace. But by your grace, the world will be ours, once again.”

One the recently constructed perched platform, erected five feet with enough space for ten men to stand, stood the menacing executioner with a black hood hiding his face. The old man, a servant of god, was pushed up the wooden stairs. Observers, counting in the hundreds were quiet; many showing distaste for an inevitability that they didn’t truly understand. Others cursed at the old man, for being an engineer of chaos.

“Please God, give me the strength to fulfill your will,” the old man said quietly. Then he raised his voice. “People of America, children of the United States, sons and daughters of God, pray for me. For while I speak the true word of God whose time I fully expected to come I’m but a man, of flesh and bone. And I’m scared. Will you help me?” No one shouted, no one cheered, not a single word was spoken, a single breath drawn.

One of the two men that escorted the old man from his cell kicked out his knees, forcing him to kneel down, causing great pain to shoot through the old man’s body. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.”

Shoving his arms wide and slightly to the front, his back arched slightly, allowing his neck to settle on a freshly crafted block of wood. Scanning the crowd, he saw men besides their families, women with their children with several men dressed with expensive suits, flanked by Enforcers near the back. They came, undoubtedly, to see the deed done. Still, the old man wondered if any were touched by the word of God, like he was, and his forefathers before him. Blood thick with tradition, martyrism and Sainthood, the old man felt a surge of terror, yet honored to follow those that walked before him.

It was then that his proudest moment became realized. Somewhere, deep in the crowd of hundreds, a shout echoed out, “God bless you father Henry More.” His ears deceived him, surely, for this wasn’t the same crowds that he spent many days and nights preaching with; this wasn’t his flock. He recognized no faces. No, his mind was playing tricks on him. Surely.

Still, it didn’t prevent him from reassessing the crowd, most of whom were calm, solemn, showing the sadness of a lost parent. Others lowered their head in honor, and others still mouthed the same murmurs shouted through the crowd of “God bless you”, disregarding eventual retribution from a ravenous empire that freely killed God.

Smiling with pride, tears freely falling, the old man was ready. A hushed silence swept the crowd, when one final man shouted, “God take you, father.” Moments from his death and he couldn’t be happier. His legacy will be lasting while outweighing the forfeiture of his life, like his forefathers before him, who died for Christ, martyrs to the greater good.

The old man prayed with a smile, asking for God’s love, certain that life is but a small price to pay for his lasting legacy that would bring God back into the hearts of all. “God bless you, father.” His eternal soul, the diminishing fire now roaring, would finally come to rest. For having seen too many horrors, the old man felt the comfort of knowing that his martyrdom would bring about a lasting change, a seed planted for the tree of prosperity of all men’s souls.

Sleep, my prince, God’s booming voice thrust into his ears that only he heard. He expanded his arms outward, like Christ did on the cross. Doves scattered away from the breath of God’s winds in the distance, just above the children that sat perched on their father’s shoulders.

Just as he finished his prayers, a warm stinging sensation throbbed the back of his neck.

Invasion (2012) – A series that’s closest to modern times, taking into account actual events and incorporating them into a global depression which results into a full scale world war. Most of the series will take place from the perspective of a solider in the army, a civilian on the East Coast where the initial invasion happens and a corrupt politician who formulated the invasion plan in an effort to take over the country in a socialist regime.

Battle of Twins Hill (2034) – Takes place 20-30 years after Invasion, introducing new characters into the Sector Four universe, which focuses on the Tribal Wars in Sector Four and leads into the unification amongst all the clans to initiate a second Civil War to reclaim the country. Includes the Alexander Kruger series, who will be a primery protagonist later in the Sector Four universe.

The Civility of War – working title (2045) – Takes place roughly 10 years after the Battle of Twins Hill, 30-40 years after Invasion, where the unified clans have taken to arms with guerilla tactics, initiating America’s second Civil War where the rebellion is eventually suppressed, but the country is in absolute ruins.

Water of the Messiah – working title (2125) – Takes places 100 years after Invasion, focusing on two grandchildren of the Bale and Lukas linage. Introduces (hopefully) the Josen Kir era, who will become a messiah-like figure that’s developed special talents from an unknown source (many believing his special talents are from God himself, giving Josen the unwelcome Messiah title and a massive fanatical following).

Fires of the Messiah – working title (2125) – Follows up the Water of the Messiah series in which Josen Kir uses a fanatical following to achieve his own ends, which indirectly caused a massive uprising towards the ideals of Old America. The fanatics become out of control and Kir, feeling the responsibility, is forced into facing his former followers.

“Being alone in the world offers benefits that only one with such a perspective can see; nothing immobilizes you, nothing holds you to false realisms, even allowing one travel without oversight throughout this claustrophobic world. Detachment brings a form of serenity, sacrificing yourself to a cause not of your own; rather the greater good. At least peace can be achieved, if not everlasting.”

- Lukas 20 years later in Sector Four

The following story introduces most of the main characters in the Battle for Twins Hill series, coming from the perspective of a kid named Lukas.

Lukas’ older brother stood at the edge of Peak’s Eye; a slab of dark rock high that surveyed the Southern forest. Glued to his binoculars, reading every texture of the rolling landscape, especially the embankments of the river flowing north of the Forbidden City’s edge, his older brother was visibly upset. A full moon removed from his twelfth birthday, the young boy woke to shouts an hour ago, “Call the defenses and send out a scouting party”.

The Administrator’s best Captain, John Hando, geared up without protest, volunteering the Hill’s four best riders. When the wars devastated transportation, cars, buses and trucks, and the fuel that makes the engines breathe, the Administrator accumulated the strongest horses soon after becoming the Hill’s leader. A stable, one hundred paces behind the Great Gate’s that split the Intersect, cared for twenty Friesian breads that stood kingly with thick black manes and muscles chiseled around their legs and neck.

Beautiful, Lukas awed at the horses riding away, trailing a haze of dry dirt that sat in the air like an overnight fog. It was with a grin to see those black Friesians riding underneath the silhouette of a milky sky into the deadwood forest. Often catching himself wondering when he could mount the Friesians as a rider, he was reminded that his older brother thought of him as too young; and the young pony a mother Friesian bore isn’t of age to ride beyond the Great Gates, he was told. Lukas was wiser than boys his age; he knew his older brother cared for him, but sometimes that care felt like a smothering blanket. It didn’t prevent him from daydreaming during his occasional rendezvous, running his stubby fingers through the pony’s long silky hair while whispering to her the annoying limitations of their youth. Lukas comforted her, like one does with a certain destiny, “soon, we ride”. Lukas resigned to riding around the Great Halls of Hills Peak to the wicked looks of dodging inhabitants. Reprimanded by his older brother, he still thought of himself as skilled as any rider.

While staring at his brother, who looked obsessively, if not resolute, into the night like a man coming facing an unknown destiny, another memory yanked him. Four seasons ago, while riding behind the Great Gates near the plantations, on a dusty road that split corn, beans and grazing cattle allowing wagons and riders easy transport, Lukas kicked his heals and Wind sprinted like a beautiful song without instrument. Sprint, Wind. And for as long as her lungs sustained her, she did. I beat you, Lukas remembered telling his older brother. A pony and child beat the Administrator of Hills Peak. His older brother simply laughed as they returned for snacks and juice. Lukas beamed when his brother told him he’s as good a rider as even John.

Lukas dreamed of riding with the Scouting Parties under John’s command, fighting Wildmen and the warring Clans to defend the Hill with the nodding approval of his big brother. Lukas knew he would never ride without his big brother’s permission. The militia director accepted his own riders into the elite ranks after years of advanced training. John left the decision to big brother whose only family remained a 12-year old boy after the sudden disappearance of their sister that darkened his resolve and froze his heart.

Lukas phased back to the dark winter cold, now standing behind his brother’s right shoulder, curious as to what shook him from his sleep. After the fires in the sky several years ago, Lukas’s older brother led him and their surviving sister North towards Hills Peak. A chance encounter with a mouse with burnt black eyes told them to make way for the Twin Mountains.

“Follow the river north,” he said. “There will be a peak where humanity makes its stand against extinction. This is where your path begins.” The mouse explained the fortunes that lay ahead before fading like a ghost submitting to a cold winter breeze.

Lukas was filled with suspicions. The collapsing world around him was all he knew, being told that the only rule that mattered was surviving at any cost. By this time, old American communities turned into warring tribes, fighting for land and, above all, resources. Fuel was worth the eradication of entire towns. Before reaching Grayville, a small town north of the Main City, the smell of decaying flesh was far too recognizable.

“We should go,” Lukas remembers his older sister saying.
“I’m not sure, he looked scary,” said Lukas.
“We don’t have a choice. If what he says is true, there will be shelter, food, water, and above all else, protection. We can’t stay in Grayville much longer. I think we should go.”

Even though Lukas was far too cautious to trust the mouse he saw that night, his sister and brother were searching for that leap of faith they could take. The conditions were horrible when they arrived. Children without parents cried against the cave’s cold walls, hungry and terrified of being alone. Scarce food claimed the weakest, raiding parties killed the strongest and the savage wildmen kidnapped the youngest, resorting to cannibalism as substance.

The first Administrator, a balding man named Tavos, was mad with rage and paranoia. The original survivors called him, Tavos the Mad building a mountain city without defenses, transportation, food, water, medicine or even rule of law. Tavos, with his guns, led a charge to rebuild civilization in the Hills on the premise that his guns would defend everyone. In reality, he barracked himself out of fear near an isolated corner of a cave, barking orders to desperate people that would follow a roach into a bath of stink and filth because they had nothing else. Some rise during crisis, many fall and most follow without protest from their minds lost to hopelessness. One night his older brother disappeared and became the Administrator the following morning. Lukas he was far too analytical to think that something didn’t add up, even if his brother didn’t admit to anything.

Was it really that bad though? His older brother established rule and order, hunting parties gathered twice daily, older women tended to vegetation in a naked grassy patch near the rivers while children returned buckets from the Intersect to the kitchen for a boil. Survivors that once traded as engineers and scientists improved medical care and facilities, plumbing and treatment, even a solar panel was erected to sustain the cave with an unlimited power source. Strong men gathered supplies to build a massive wall made of wood and stone while scouting parties traveled to cities for supplies; including weapons, food and even fuel to bargain with.

Ultimately, Lukas concluded that his older brother either murdered or exiled the old administrator. Life was better. Families became families again. The weak grew stronger and purposeful. Children played and ate cookies and juice when that old dark woman allowed. Wine was served during dinner. On every seventh day, a movie was shown in the great hall; typically the same black and white movie of a world that appeared foreign to Lukas. Once boys came of age, they learned how to become men; riding horses, fighting with weapons and, most importantly, scouting and hunting in stealth.

Five years ago, his older brother, already the Administrator, left the safety of Hills Peak in search for survivors; mostly strong men that could defend the Hill. Three long painful months later his older brother, mounted on a white horse, leading a group of fifty men from an old Air Force base where the Administrator reunited with a young John Hando, who quickly accepted an offer to lead the Hill’s militia. John, ever loyal, trusting and strong, led the riders, rallied the guards and trained the next generation of defenders. Lukas’s older brother refused to call the riders, warriors. They are defenders of the Hill, no more, Lukas heard his brother conclude. John and his family grew close to Lukas and his older brother, even naming him godfather of their eldest son. They joked to Lukas that their daughter were betrothed to him. After a playful gag and shriek of “ew” the adults howled in laughter. Adults like stupid kid stuff.

In the seven years as the Hills Peak Administrator, Lukas’s older brother created a self-sustaining civilization; everyone accepted their part for the greater good. More importantly, people were given things to do, keeping them busy while adjusting to an entirely new life. His older brother feared absolute power for any single man, a lesson Tavos taught him well. So a Council was erected with the Administrator and four directors; the militia director John Hando, the engineer and science director Benjamin, the agriculture director Bobby, the life and law director James Harbinger.

After all that, all the hard work, the fighting with Wildmen and Bloodstripes, what has my older brother worked up so much that his eye on the South must hold firm?

Before the wars, Lukas’ older brother had a soft body, kind brown eyes peering through oval glasses and baby face cheeks. Now he stood tough as nails with a firm jaw line, steel black eyes and streaks of white intertwining with jet black hair and random patches of gray in his unshaven black beard. When the sun finally broke the horizon, Lukas could also see that his brother was pale like a full moon.

“You’re sick,” Lukas blurted out. Holding his tongue was a lesson that his older brother refused to give. Always speak your mind, Lukas was taught many times. While young, he figured his older brother wanted honest council from innocent and trusting eyes.

Lukas’ older brother turned to him with a forced warm grin and simply assured his sweet younger brother, “I’m just tired. Why don’t you run to the kitchen and bring us breakfast. We’ll eat together. But leave those cookies alone,” he grinned.

“You got it.”

Lukas spun around from the ledge of Peak’s Eye and ran down the twisted man-made stone stairway so narrow that many of John’s warriors have tumbled. Lukas, experienced a thousand times over, ran with the grace of his second best friend in the entire world, Wind.

The Great Hall, a massive gut inside a mountain standing a mile high and ten miles wide, centered the civilization with a great opening that led outside to the Hall’s east. Large canvas sheets stood from walls carving out offices, stores and kitchens. Additional openings led to areas with security; like housing, treasury, arms and fuel depots a good mile north from the Great Hall.

Lukas could feel stares against his chilly body walking towards the main kitchen surely thinking that he knew something of the Scouting Party’s haste. Lukas was the Administrator’s aide and young brother. Should I say anything, Lukas wondered. What could I say, I know nothing myself. Could they be thinking my older brother now like they did Tavos? That betraying thought scared him.

The smell of frying eggs and sausage warmed Lukas’s cold bones. Bobby Valitonio, the agriculture director, built a miniature farm with chickens and hens for eggs and meat; though chickens were rare enough that Lukas often craved the sweet suckling juices pouring off the meat.

“Ah, Lukas, good morning to you,” said an older dark woman wearing a light head bandana with spots of yellow pedals blotched throughout the material.
“Good morning, Cookie,” Lukas said acting the part of young boy scanning for the ultimate treasure. Cookie slapped his hand away like an ant at a picnic the instant his eyes ogled the prize. Cookie was the Hill’s untitled grandmother. She cared with meals, nursery tales and words of advice like sleeping if you’re tired, eating if you’re hungry or smiling if you’re sad. It was her addiction to Chocolate Chip cookies and grandmotherly love for the Hill’s children that granted her the childish title.

Anyone caught with a hand in the cookie jar that lay dormant in a bowl with white flowers interlocked across the bowl’s rim, was rewarded with a rather aggressive slap on the hand. They were hers and she would reward the kids with kind acts and good behavior.

“Breakfast first, Lukas. You’re still growing and if you’re ever to become a rider, you need your strength. After your duties past noon, you and I will feast on fresh warm cookies. I promise.”

Lukas smiled, but his stomach frowned impatience.

“I’m holding you to that promise, Cookie” Lukas pouted.
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Cookie laughed, “Wait here a minute and I’ll get you breakfast.”
“I need one for my brother also,” Lukas amended.
“Work is no excuse for any means to miss his feast.”
“That why I’m here, Cookie, to make sure he gets breakfast. Should I get rewarded for my generosity?” She laughed like a cough to Lukas’s feeble attempt at a free prize.

Lukas grew serious. “It’s not work. Something has him bothered,” Lukas confided. “Plus he’s not looking like he normally does.” Cookie’s grin faded and her eyes grew serious. “How so?”
“He doesn’t sleep because of these nightmares. I can hear him shouting her name from my room,” Lukas said looking away from Cookie wondering if he was betraying his brother’s trust by disclosing this sickness he didn’t understand. He had to tell someone that would listen to him with a care more than personal ambition, he figured. Cookie was always trustworthy, that didn’t concern him. However, his brother might get upset – not angry, he never got angry.

“You are your brother’s aide, right?” Cookie asked with a stern grandmotherly look Lukas instinctively nodded at. “You care for his business, right?” Lukas nodded again, but not sure. He cared for his brother, but his brother’s business was so boring. “Then, what we must do is get your brother to eat and sleep. Then perhaps his ills will cure themselves. Wait here a moment and I will get plates ready.”

Lukas nodded while Cookie white knuckled her cane against the kitchen’s backdrop and into a room that flowed with steam, buzzards and beeps. Normally Lukas would assist older ladies with canes. Cookie would have nothing of it slapping Lukas’s hand for his efforts. Lukas held his right hand loosely determined not to have that old woman slap his hand red ever again. She made great cookies, Lukas thought, but she slaps my hand like a skilled assassin, quick, efficient and effortless. His gaze went back to the cookie bowl, mind plotting a perfect scheme without Cookie’s notice. Four stacks of cookies, perfectly aligned, filling well past the bowl’s rim. Taking one from the top, he could shift the top cookie of another stack and cover both, like the cookie slipped onto another stack. No, he couldn’t, he realized. Cookie would notice that. Would she really notice one missing cookie? And what is the harm of having one cookie? It’s not like his body would shift from a 12-year old to a sickly fat old man that would snap Wind’s back.

His mouth watering and fingers stretching at their sides Lukas’s plan was partly in mind, but mostly in his stomach.
“Tell me, Lukas, what are you scheming with those cookies, this time?” a young girl’s voice said behind him frightening him out of his “perfect plan”.

Shocked and embarrassed, Lukas struggled to hide the radish hue that harassed his face. “What are you talking about,” Lukas said unconvincingly. “I’m just waiting on breakfast.”

“You’ve always been a horrible liar. My grandmother’s caught you too many times scheming for those cookies,” she laughed. “What were you planning? Take one off the top stack and cover the missing cookie by systematically shifting another cookie on the missing one? You know my grandmother set up those cookies in that manner to catch you and only you. You better hope for bags of ice with that red hand of yours.”

Cookie did take ‘caught red handed’ seriously. Too seriously.

“Shut up, Lyanna,” stupid girl, Lukas thought. She ran her soft hands through his long raggedy blonde hair with another gently laid across his heart. Lyanna was not much younger than Lukas reflecting her grandmother’s dark skin, full lips leaving a smile that makes Lukas’s stomach jittery. I’m only hungry. Only slightly, Lyanna differed from her grandmother with sparkling green eyes glowing like light bouncing off trees and long straight hair grown past the middle of her back that’s never been cut.

Lukas was only seven when Cookie and Lyanna found refuge in the Hill after Bloodstripe raiders ransacked their village killing everyone unfortunate enough to be in the streets. While Lukas saw Cookie as the prototypical grandmother, Lyanna was his best friend. Most nights they were found sitting at Peak’s Eye at night, playing games and always plotting the perfect plan for those tasty Chocolate Chip cookies; which, they’ve concluded long ago, was impossible. No matter how perfect their perceived plan was written, Lyanna’s grandmother always knew. Both were subject to punishment with red welts on the top of their hands. Lukas’s older brother only laughed when he came to him holding his hand asking him, what is it that you can’t plan? Lukas enjoyed a hearty laugh when even his older brother couldn’t achieve the impossible holding onto his own red hand when Cookie first arrived. He hasn’t tried since.

Lyanna took her hands off Lukas and walked straight to the cookie bowl, in haste, removed the top cookie and filling it entirely in her mouth. Lukas’s surprise was as illuminating as Lyanna’s red face; though he wasn’t sure if she was choking or laughing really hard.
“What are you doing?” Lukas panicked while she laughed harder with her hands resting on her knee caps.

While she was finishing the final chew of her massive bite, Lukas feared the worst hearing, “Lukas, what did I tell you?” from the old dark skinned woman who replaced her bandana with a standard hair net. Holding his hand still seven steps away from Cookie, he could already feel the growing welt that didn’t exist, yet.
“It wasn’t me, Cookie,” he protested. “Lyanna just took one, look at her. There are crumbs everywhere.”
“I did not,” Lyanna sweetly said batting her beautiful green eyes to her grandmother. Unfortunately for Lukas, it worked.

“Just for that Lukas, there will be no cookies for you today,” Cookie said handing him two plates of steaming eggs, a link of sausage, two pieces of butter melted toast, sealed cups of strawberry jelly with a half gallon carton of orange juice for the brothers to share.

“I swear, it wasn’t…” Lukas began.
“Don’t lie, cookie thief,” Lyanna giggled.
“Look at her,” Lukas continued, “She’s guilty, it shows on her face.”
“I will hear no more,” Cookie said raising her voice. “Get going with your bother’s breakfast, he needs to eat. And I expect to see both plates to return empty.”
“Yes ma’am.” Lukas said with defeated courtesy.

Stupid girl, Lukas shouted at Lyanna in his mind. At least you didn’t get a rose colored hand; he knew could hear her giggling back to him. He planned to see her later today and started scheming how to repay her in kind. Lyanna tried to keep a straight face when Lukas turned, but he could feel her laughing so hard that even a smile broke across his face.

Holding a plate in each hand and the carton of Orange juice inside the elbow of his right arm, Lukas broke the plane of the kitchen’s doorway when a loud horn sounded for two seconds declaring that the gates are to be opened; “the Scouting Party’s return”. Lukas returned the plates quickly to Cookie and took off ignoring her protests. He knew that Cookie would hold onto the plates and reheat them when Lukas and his old brother were ready. The Scouting Party took precedence right now and he wouldn’t miss the riders returning for the world.

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.

A diminishing light highlighted a rainbow of florescence, brightest along the horizon, darkest overhead with yellow, red, green, blue, and purple in between. Yet, the sun still peeked, refusing to part over a world that introduced its newest arrival, an image onto its own, formed eloquently from the principal of amnesty after years of struggle. When the light bid farewell, devoured by a green hue-like cloud, the oceans turned black, the sands a dark brown, and the milky white moon guiding his way home. Alexander Krueger replaced his washed footsteps with fresh ones to a small hut beyond the arms of a natural inhaler.

Yet, that light remained. No, not the moon, not the departed sun, nor the cooking fires or the glow of cherry red from his cigarettes. “Alex,” said a quiet whisper. “Come back to me, brother.” It repeated, some times more frequently than others, tirelessly defeated in the end. It came from the light, a transparent glow, reversing from above, descending, barely diminishing when colliding along the base of the shores. Just enough to cover his body, no more, the light’s circumference was, stationary, focused, and avoided at all costs.

Taking a seat on his father’s beautifully crafted rocking chair, constructed of dark maple, and an oil-based polish resisting the salty air, Alexander leaned back, pushing his body backwards with his thick legs, relaxing when the chair weakly tilted forward. Fully stocked, replenished with a magic that seemed all too fictitious, cigarettes were plenty. Still, he didn’t dwell on the magic that blossomed around him. A drag made him more at peace, relaxing under a constant temperature that was suited for tropical shirts, shorts and twine sandals.

It’s not natural, that light. It wasn’t influenced, nor does it influence. Alexander looked at it, paying close attention to the accompanying voices. They didn’t make sense, they were foreign, unknown, but they trembled, sometimes echoing within a large ball room in which a whisper accidentally becomes a shout. It wasn’t a concern; it amused him, kept him busy, a conversation in the company of strangers that didn’t speak his language.

Since arriving a week earlier, Alexander found his home perfect, save for one omission. This was it, peace, rest, a world to himself, doing as he pleased. He intended that, stretching his legs out, tucking his hands behind his head dramatically pushing his elbows outward. What happened, happened. It’s resolute to an ending that he had no idea existed; not like this, not like the books, the stories, or the lessons. Again, it didn’t matter. Here was here, and here he’d remain.

During the morning sun, when the currents calmed, he would stand in the shallows, motionless, like a statue with a pointed spear aiming downward. When seafood became less desirable, he hunted inside the black forests, lands that pushed deep inside the foreign world, thick with ageless trees, shrubbery and a variety of meats; infinite and endless. Spears and arrows did the trick; it was the warrior in Alexander that appreciated the hunt. He didn’t always win, the more nimble paranoid bucks would escape Alexander’s spear with the slightest anomalous twist of a disrupted forest floor. When he pulled his bow, radar hit its highest, commanding maximum speed to be reached within a fraction of a second. It frustrated, yet charmed him. Even though he couldn’t bring down the bucks, his admiration for their sense of survival grew. They listened to everything, independently rotating their ears. Many winters ago, he had killed the largest buck in the Minnesota cold, with his father quietly directing Alexander’s shot. To this moment, that had been the only buck Alexander killed. It consumed him, challenged him, and completed his right to passage of some form.

Wild hogs were plentiful, though dangerous. Nothing beats the smell and taste of frying bacon over the cooking fires settling on the beach during a rising sun, where the light isn’t as bright, and a large orange ball didn’t burn your vision into mythical white haze. However, like tiring of seafood, he wanted variety. He wanted that god damn buck.

The next morning, he left for a hunt; bow snug across his back, an ill-shaped blade at his hip, a long spear horizontally positioned within a tight grip of his right hand. Slowly, he walked, stepping around sawed branches, wild undergrowth, using his spear as an impromptu walking stick. His steps were methodically placed, premeditated, a path already seen in which the air would remain an unmolested silence; he was a hunter. Leaning against a tree, his body out of view, Alexander peered around. There it was, a sixteen-point buck, with the same body art, the same paranoid eyes and ears, grazing around a small patch of grass.

Slowly, carefully, allowing his muscles to tense to keep accidental disturbances to a minimum, Alexander removed his bow, drawing back an arrow he retrieved behind his left shoulder, anxious for his most monumental achievement. This was it, the buck that’s eluted him for a week, feeding, listening, always aware, always readying for escape. He could taste the meat, the sizzling warm substance that would settle in his stomach while smoking his accomplishments from a stack of replenished cigarettes before he uncomfortably slept.

The twine on the bow refused to draw further, rounding the bow to its most stressful position. His hand steady, the arrow in place, the task, the kill, the food, the challenge, all made possible lifting his left thumb from the arrow. When the buck lifted its head, it turned to Alexander, looked at him, stunned him, causing pause. Why wasn’t it running? Why did it look at him? Was it a realization of an end, or a question? Was it speaking to him? Foolish, it’s only a buck, allowed to graze for the amusement of hunters, filling stomachs, a coat to warm villages.

However, this wasn’t the world that Alexander recognized. This was different; all of the rules have changed.

Calmly standing, staring at Alexander with unblinking black eyes and ears circling like a radio antenna, the buck altered providence. The hunter lessened the stress on his bow, carefully stepping towards the buck. Snapping twigs, disturbed swishes of protesting underbrush, the buck wasn’t frightened, standing rigid, staring, lifeless, yet very much alive.

Alexander reached the openness, trees circularly separated, like an area, or a miniature coliseum. Slowly, he neared the buck, cautious not to alarm it, listening to himself whisper reassurances that it was safe, that it would be protected from the predator that no man had ever seen before. His hands lifted, pointing fingers to the sky revealing his palm to the animal, the befriended. The hunter smiled, becoming a friend, rather than a villain, a murderer, an enemy of orphaned children.

Closed to within a step of touching the animal, Alexander stopped. “It’s all right,” promised the friend. “I won’t hurt you.” Its eyes were a glossy black, its antlers numbered sixteen, similar to the buck he killed in the Minnesota cold with his father. “There, there,” Alexander said gently pressing his palm against the buck’s smooth coat, gliding over his hand in a linear motion away from its head. Closing its eyes, the buck lowered its head and made a funny noise, sounds of comfort the friend assumed; like the state of peace that Alexander has felt for seven days, and seven nights.

Through the deep forests, the black forests that suffocated daylight like an enemy at war, a rain formed. It wasn’t precipitation Alexander had known before, this was different; white specs with attached whiskers, flaps gliding from the trees, filling the forest floor like a winter snow during summer; except the snows were floating seeds negotiating newer generations of thriving forestry. Closing his eyes to feel the warmth of a passing breeze that brought an unknown rejuvenation, Alexander felt consumed, intoxicated, apart of the forest, the world, the air, the dirt, the water and even the snows that dusted the forest.

You have to get back!

A disapproving growl exploded somewhere in the forests, horrifying the buck into a sprint while instinctively spinning Alexander into a defensive spin. When he looked back, the buck was gone, disguised and aided by thick bases of million-year old trees. No more growl, no more buck, there was only Alexander; a form of him at least. Slowly, the former hunter tracked himself back to the shore, ignited a fire, relishing a slab of overstocked pork.

After his meal, as the sun dispersed into green smoke, he sat in his chair, rocking, smoking a cigarette, staring at the artificial light that never changed, never flickered, always there, always kindled, as powerful as the days and nights before. “Brother, come back to me,” said the whisper from the light; crying and frustrated. Alexander flicked his half-consumed cigarette and stalked the light, irritably shouting, “Who are you? Where are you? Why do you speak to me? Leave me alone, let me rest in peace!”

A beastly roar erupted, growling with mile-long fangs, trampling massive trees with the strength of inconceivable power. It didn’t bother Alexander; it was natural, a growth within his stomach and instinct. Stalking the light, Alexander’s own mouth curved into hatred, shouting curses, demanding answers to questions that didn’t make sense. Closer, trees buckled, shattered and trembled. Alexander finally disregarded the light, making way for his spear that leaned against the hut next to his chair.

It was too late.

The beast had already emerged from the black forest, approaching him on two hind legs, inverted for quick acceleration and powerful attacking leaps. The lining of its ribcage pressed against its stomach, pushing outward with each drawn breath from oversized lungs. Its arms, bulky and muscular, pushed outward with broad and powerful shoulders. Fangs rolled out from its mouth, exposed, independently scenting Alexander’s warm blood. Its eyes were red, black, and pure white, hidden behind thin strains of oily brown hair, wet, just removed from a red bath.

This was a predator, a beast, perfectly constructed by a god that demanded one pure mechanism of death in Alexander’s world. Slowly, the beast closed the gap weakly cupping the sand with oversized talons, compensated with legs of pure muscle. Only a child’s God would make such abominations.

Like two warriors before a duel of honor, to the death, their chests pumped with vicious poison and foul breath, their eyes locked through each other. The beast’s fangs were exposed, slowly drawing the salty air, prolonging a hypnotic trance.

Then, it growled. When its upper paw swung at Alexander, the warrior rolled away, feeling the fatal gust over his head. The warrior returned to his feet, crouched in defense, as the beast deflected its natural speed, for raw strength and power, looking to disable the warrior with one blow.

Alexander stood, kicked soft dry sand into the beast’s eyes. Covering its face, it howled, long and deep. Birds in the forest rose from the tall trees in panic, while other creatures and critters in the forests trampled. When its red ruby eyes returned a laser-like stare, Alexander bent his knees, extended out his arms, lifting his hands up.

The warrior jumped, extending his left leg outward, kicking the beast in the chest, knocking it into a three-step retreat. Alexander landed on his side, flipped over, and rolled backwards out of reach. Again, the beast approached. This time, Alexander sprinted at the beast, somersaulting over the abomination, landing behind it. With his right foot planted, Alexander his left foot kicked through the beast’s back.

Once the beast viciously turned around, it spread its arms and growled loudly. Slowly, the beast closed the gap, growling forcefully, shaking its head like an animal shredding away meat from the hide of its prey. Its right leg lifted, tossing a handful of fine sand into Alexander’s face causing momentary blindness. The beast lunged at Alexander, bringing both fists into the warrior’s chest. In slow motion, Alexander watched the ground pass under him before landing on the dry surface of soft sands. Wiping the sand away from his face, the warrior raised. Large impacted paws dig into the ground, while the beast’s talons were ineffectively neutralized; maybe it didn’t use its claws for speed; rather a tool for feeding.

Unexpectedly, the beast leaned forward into a four-legged sprint. The warrior motioned to roll away, but the beast leveled its shoulder into Alexander’s chest, propelling him backwards to the edges of where water meets sand. Back on two legs, the beast stalked the warrior who was shaking away excess water from his face and dark hair.

Each time, the beast threw the warrior, Alexander was closer to the light emanating from above. The moon was gone, darkness grew darker. Clouds blanketed light, his sight all but ineffective. Red ruby eyes exposing its position and heavy breathing dreadfully declared its intentions. Thump, thump, the beast approached in a sprint. Instead of rolling away, the warrior tried to stand against the charge. Rather, his chest squeezed, and he was airborne again, gliding past the dying cooking fire, and rolling forward to a stop, further from the light this time.

Disappearing through darkness, gone like dissolving clouds after a rainstorm, the beast was gone. Why didn’t it just kill him? What was the point of tossing Alexander around? Sprawled in the sand, out of danger, Alexander breathed, watching a white orb return from the thick depressing dark clouds. Returning to his chair and tending to his wounds, mostly bruises and a scrap along his forearm, the warrior resolved to his thoughts. It didn’t kill Alexander, didn’t mortally wounded him. Why? It was the first time that Alexander wasn’t at peace since arriving; as a result, from the forests came a grizzly beast with unlimited strength, commanding its will onto the only human existing near the shores.

The next morning, Alexander packed a loaf of bread, two makeshift bottles of river water made of coconut, and a ball of twine. With his bow across his back, his blade in his pocket, the hunter walked into the woods, slowly canvassing the area before stretching deeper into the black forest; a term he used because the sun wasn’t prevalent here, with trees that age in the millions; dramatically defending darkness, save for few penetrations that allowed its influence to spread.

Hunter and scout, Alexander allowed the wilderness to overwhelm him again; its beauty, its life, its serenity. Critters and creatures, fearless, however cautious, walked in paths across the hunter’s journey. Smell of the morning dew, releasing from the sparkles of green, intoxicated him again. Deeper into the woods, larger animals roamed, mostly herbivores, communicating with low rumbles that could be heard for miles; a low reverberation that collided, expanded, journeyed, until the voice was recognized, deciphered and responded to. Some were gray in nature; others were coated with a dark brown fur. White horses made of shadow ran near the planes off to the West, and Eagles twice their natural size squawked above the heaven-piercing trees.

West, he continued. Dim, bright, dark, luminous, it was all too random. Sometimes the black forest was true to its name when it wasn’t betrayed. Later, the explorer planned to chart the area, clarifying different regions for more appropriate names. He was learning to track, remembering claw marks that shredded weak bark, boulders that accompanied twisted trees, unique branches; everything was nominated. After all, if he was going to live here, shouldn’t he know this forest like the streets of Minnesota?

Further west, he walked, journeyed, observed, and learned, experiencing new creatures not born of Earth, but all too familiar. Many walked uncaringly past Alexander, as if the explorer didn’t exist. Some furry animal rubbed against his leg, drawing a blade for the trouble, and then relaxing with a gentle stroke feeling the contours of their smooth fur while vocally expressing acceptance. He was born of these woods, apart of the symbiotic life, accepted among some friends and ignore by most. Absent of threats, save for a beast that overwhelmed him during the last high moon, the forests felt of home.

The buck! Out of the transparency, the Buck stood, staring at Alexander. Its body faced, like two old friends walking alone on the street, bumping into each other for the first time since childhood. Alexander slowly approached, a bit more freely than their first encounter. Again, he put both hands out, showing it had nothing to fear, no reason to run. The buck lowered its head while the explorer ran his hands down its back, talking to it with additional reassurances. Its antlers were wild, sharp, and fatal with a punch.

“Hello, friend,” said the former hunter, now explorer and friend. Slowly, yet firmly, Alexander ran his hand over its back, along the fur towards its hide. He didn’t want to spike it, didn’t want to make the buck uncomfortable, so he never ran his hand towards it neck, always away, comforting his new friend.

Suddenly, it left, leaping, dodging, and sprinting to the south. “Wait,” shouted Alexander rather childishly. This time he pursued, sprinting, waiting for the buck to tire. The pursuer’s unlimited endurance kept the buck in sight. When the forest pointed a directional change, Alexander shifted west. The pursuer jumped deceased logs, ducked midlevel branches, and dodged stationary, unmovable trees. He could hear the trample, the four wild legs chaotically galloping on the ground, disturbing it into a haze of dirt and dust.

Just ahead, the sun slammed into an open field, unlike any thing in the forest. It was twenty helicopter landing pads wide and very exposed. Alexander slowed his sprint, holding onto the final tree along the edge, staring at the one thing that shouldn’t exist. It wasn’t normal, wasn’t apart of the forest. Yet, it was there, unquestionably there.

Casting shadows, bound to the annular grassland, an aging Ruin erected of ancient stone. Along the angled roof that pointed towards a heavenly tip were equally dissolved steps aligning towards the capitol of a missing beacon. Nothing existed around it, save for dead blades of grass. Trees kept their distances, forest dwellers opened a path around it; this building, this ancestry, visually warned Alexander that he shouldn’t invade it.

The ruin bulged from the ground, lifted, and breathed. A ghostly wind exhaled from its mouth, bending limbs, swaying shrubbery, freezing Alexander’s warm skin. A frost formed around his mouth, and the sun dimmed. The hidden buck returned, at the edge of its belly, taking one quick glance at Alexander before turning into shadow inside the ruin, unopposed and unafraid. Alexander looked down and picked up the baseball bat size log at his feet. It took the nervous explorer every bit of five minutes to reach the base, hesitant, feeling a sudden fright that overwhelmed natural curiosity. Running his hand over the stone walls, tracing his fingers over the unusual hieroglyphics, feeling the presence of something unusual, threatening, and perhaps, aggressive.

As he convinced himself inside the ruin, Alexander removed the bag from his shoulder, opened the top and revealed excess twine wrapping it around the fattest end of the log, bringing it to flame with his flip-top lighter.  Reflections peered ahead, a set of eyes, the buck’s eyes, encouraging Alexander forward. So he did.

The walls were bare, save for the groves where thick mud sealed large stones into place. Rough and sharp, his fingers felt the sandpaper grooves along the walls, stones shifted in time through corrosion, gravity, and moisture. Dirt composed the ground, the ruin built without a floor atop of grass suffocating without the succoring sun to sustain it. No other corridor existed, for now it was a single path, a single way, towards an unknown, perhaps unimaginable destination that only the curious mind of an explorer with replenishing motivations would allow. 

The buck was gone, he couldn’t see it; he couldn’t see much of anything, save for the circular plate of a flaming globe around Alexander. Slowly burning, his make-shift torch would live for a time, with another handful of twine in the backpack that rested over his right shoulder. Because the twine turned to ash, and the torch was slowly taking to flame, speed became an issue.

Seeing nothing ahead, Alexander leaned his torch against the wall, reading the graphics, the designs, and the hieroglyphics that accompanied him. A man throwing a spear at a beast, or a baby crying without a mother to guide his principles, a man, praised and honored, lifting his palms to the sky afore an uncountable crowd. Another woman, simply covered with a thin gown, stood over children. Stopping, Alexander looked at another, impressively interesting to his own instincts and curiosity. A single man, with a prepared spear, looking forward, throwing an elevation towards a distant enemy that stood with a humanoid figure, unafraid, defending something, or someone. They didn’t attack each other; one became the other, all the attributes of their strengths emphasized.

As he reached an intersection where the path split into three directions, Alexander stood at the center. Quiet and dark, each path represented a staunch defense against betrayal towards the path that it led to. Instead, Alexander backed away, returning to the outside stale air with a dark red sun; three times closer than before. The explorer choose to return to the shores, have a feed, get sleep and bring more twine with him. Each path could be endless, so he needed more fuel for a torch he had to design; flame would burn more efficiently if cupped inside a moist bowl. He’ll return tomorrow, more prepared, twice as eager.

Back on his rocking chair, having his post-meal smoke, Alexander stared at the light. This time, he didn’t care for it; instead reflecting on the ruin, the stationary ghost that survived unlimited time built by those he shouldn’t exist. The picture of a man and beast; the man overseeing people, the mother caring for children; what did they all mean? What was the civilization that existed before and the names of the storytellers that told the stories? In truth, he didn’t know what they meant. Alexander couldn’t read, understand or interpret them. He perceived them at face value, simply pictures that told a story without the hint of its sourced endurance. Still, they were too fascinating to ignore, to be left unread, telling stories of whoever lived before him.

Then he was washed with feeling the ocean breeze that surrounded him, touched and penetrated him. After another drag, he reflected that this was perfection, a world onto himself, made for him. No, not a world made for him; it existed long before him. Others came walked these sands, through the same woods and befriending the same buck. It had to be true, or no ruin with stories would exist.

Time was expanded beyond timelessness; a challenged theory proven with a rotational sun departed after a green cloud swirl. The moon was closer, twice the circumference as before, and the waves beat against the sands twice as powerfully. Sometimes he lowered his eyes, but critters and creatures in the woods made him uneasy. He was a warrior, always in tune, always planning an offense, or an escape; maybe not honorable, but it increased survivability odds and survival was always paramount. Survival, a funny word to use. No, he was an explorer, a hunter and a friend.

When he returned to the ruin the following morning, he carefully crafted his observations. Slinging his backpack over his right shoulder, Alexander pulled a ball of excess twine and a small torch with a curved cup soaked in salt water to slow the flame’s expansion. Once the twine took to flame, Alexander walked through the ghastly passages, ignoring the stories along the path. Having experienced this path already, he was similarly nervous and anxious. He couldn’t help but kick a feeling that this time tomorrow, something would be revealed.

Once he reached the intersection, Alexander dropped a drink of water on the dirt, tracing his fingers into the shape of an arrow. It’s possible that passages turned, bent, twisted, or broke into an array of directions; he needed to mark where he had been, arrows guiding him for a speedy escape.

After a quick sigh, he moved ahead, allowing the flanking corridors to momentarily remain undisturbed. Much of the way, walls were designed with stories before they were legends and legends before they were myths. His bow firmly lying against his back, his metal blade in his pocket, Alexander felt no threat. No reason to fear an unknown, with simply darkness that scares children during stories told at campfires afore him. Don’t fear darkness, nothing roams here, nothing that could bring death; survival was no longer paramount for a story that forecasted failure.

Then, a blue evanescence weakly emitted a destination ahead. Even it provided guidance, ironically the light made him more cautious. Alexander, the warrior, the explorer, the friend of a mighty buck, left his excess twine in the backpack allowing his torch to blink out.

He entered the circular room; tall and winding, explosive in size, with a single blue gem glowing from the room’s center, sealed with a stone grip that rose from many layers of soil below. Alexander looked around, seeking an unseen ceiling. It wasn’t long before he was gasping at the amount of stories, fables, myths and legends that decorated the stone walls. This was a library, but not of the modern scene. Rather than shelves of books, or rows of aging periodicals, the text were written on the walls, telling stories, documenting lives, generations and civilizations before this world invited an ignorant, however curious guest.

A stone staircase rose along the circular walls, reaching beyond the shadows that masked the ruin’s ceiling. Blue in light, powerless to shine the entire room, the little gem at the room’s center illuminated enough to ascend the winding staircase. Instead, Alexander wrapped new twine around his torch, putting it to flame causing a hypnotic dance of blue and yellow.

The stories were rich in nature, epic on the scales of who wrote them, yet undefined for the ignorant. Many told the transition to manhood, others showed battle, an epic battle, one that would raise a civilization, or destroy it. The fighting enemy was always a beast, always with fangs and dripping blood. The protagonist, the people, stood half-bare, cocking their spear.

It was the central man, a mighty figure sitting on an elaborately designed throne, looking over the children while protecting the women, holding a shaft with its upper tip outlined by an over-sized circle. A civilization lived here, people, with a leader, warriors, children and women, all breeds for a powerful kingdom. Where did they go? Alexander moved along the wall, taking to the stairs that spiraled along the walls. Reading the difficult stories and taking into account the pictures with the comparative narratives that designed Alexander’s character.

He read the next stone, seeing a civilization standing behind a wall with many archers aiming and releasing their bow from an elevated position. Scores of enemy fell, smaller beasts with thin chest plates and exposed helmet to reflect their deeply frightening teeth. Beasts threw spears, some proficient with a bow. A mighty beast in the rear pointed forward, declaring charge to its beast mates. They did, in waves, unlimited in number, unrivaled in ferocity with pointed metal swords towards the charge. When they mounted the wall, the people threw oil and tar, putting the hellish beasts to flame.

Next stone didn’t say whether that tactic worked or not, only that the beasts were risen again, encased in the same fire, growling more brutal in their hunger. Archers started falling, as the beasts climbed. Sword battles took place, many of the warriors slain. Yet, the man on the throne reappears, sitting over his children, women and his subordinates, the warriors. Men hacked along the paths of a city with its wall breached, while children and women huddled before the foot of the man that sat upon a throne.

Two circles formed around the tip of his staff, remaining vertical, without any guidance, or structure to hold it. Additionally a circle was drawn over his upward palms, each picture showing larger circles around smaller ones, eventually overwhelming the women and children within the largest sphere. The ocean swelled, far past the shores, through the black forests. A flood swarmed the lands, killing all of those outside the man’s protected sphere. Then, after the flood ended, the waters stood forever lost under leagues of pressing ocean. Passing ships, even modern in technology, would fail to find it, always hidden, always gone. The people moved; they had to. They came here, built this ruin, and told this story, among thousands more.

Central to all of them, was the man on the throne holding his staff, sometimes with an orbital tip and sometimes not. Men walked on water, others described fathers and mothers for no purpose. Always, the man on the throne watched, protected and fought when called upon. The man on the throne, opposite the beast that commanded a charge, faded from other scripts. The last story in this sequence along the staircase that Alexander ascended from showed the man finally departing from his throne, to confront the beastmaster. A bolt of lightening encircled both, a light blossoming from the thin air joining enemies as one. It was all very confusing, none of them were descriptive enough to make one less contradictory than the next.

Alexander turned back, meticulously examining each slab of stone that the ancient staircase, before trusting the steep descent. Using the blue gem as guidance, leaning his right hand against the while, gripping his torch with his left, Alexander halted midway when a shadow emerged.

“Who are you,” panicked Alexander. For days unremembered, the explorer had seen nothing that resembled another person. When the shadow fled the hallway, Alexander shouted, “stop”. The stairs were endless, without a fracture, a treadwheel of descent. Carelessly racing, Alexander slipped, tumbling the final three stones crashing onto the cobblestone floor. When he stood, he clutched his right shoulder sensing it damaged again, but from where? After he relit the torch, Alexander slung his backpack over his uninjured shoulder and left the library in pursuit.

The shadow cloaked in the guise of total darkness as Alexander pressed forward. Stopping at the crossroads, the intersection, with the arrow marking his way out, Alexander wildly looked at the ground, hoping for some direction that this shadow escaped. Instead, he turned to the right. No passages lived on these walls, just symbols of a language unspoken for such a time that no history book printed. Instead of dust and dirt, the floor turned to cobblestones, dark perceptions with a maroon flicker under fire.

When he reached the corridor’s end, Alexander emerged into another wide room, far less encompassing than the library, with a stone block and sharp cutting edges. Unlike the silent library, there was a distinctive hum, like a surplus of charged electricity waiting for instruction, or to unleash hell. Alexander circled the stone block looking for the shadow, ditching his explorative efforts as a secondary instinct. Sensing that he was alone, Alexander passed through the intersect again, down the scoreless corridor, braking at another big block standing at the room’s center with the same distinctive hum. No shadow, nothing. It was boring, a bland room with smooth walls, no breaks, made from a large stone that required a craftsman’s perfection of a flawless rectangle.

Thump, thump. When he jerked towards the intersect, a set of red ruby eyes menaced, encompassed by darkness and icing Alexander’s skin. Momentarily paralyzed, he stared. A dry throat, combined with shock and fright, muted his voice. Thick legs crushed the packed dirt floor, while red ruby eyes glinted, closing on its quarry like a terrifying nightmare that children fabricate after watching scary movies late at night. The currents humming from the rectangle intensified, an audible pulse generating power, growing in strength, unleashed once the switch was pulled. Creases along the stones illuminated a cat’s eye color, pulsating like a fatally slow heartbeat, or a war between light and darkness, the glow submitted to darkness.

Setting in place his torch on the rectangle block that centered the room, Alexander shed the blade from his pocket, standing posed and eager. Thump, thump, it grew closer, the room turned golden again, and the beast’s talons dragged along the cobblestone floor. Its eyes penetrated a deathly stare, and its massive frame emerged from the corridor’s darkness, silhouetted by the torch that was artificially distinguishing. The tight room turned out to be Alexander’s handicap, quickness and speed counterbalanced by claustrophobic walls. Breath to breath, eye to eye, the beast and warrior once again sized their bodies in alignment while golden echoes dimmed to darkness.

With its massive roar, the beast swung its incurable paws over Alexander’s evading head. Pivoting on his right foot, Alexander slashed the beast’s chest, forcing it to yelp in transitory retreat. Not to mention God’s most grizzly schemes, something was very wrong here. Alexander felt a siphoning sensation that trickled a warming liquid coat across his own chest, which revealed blood from his investigative hand.

Approaching with reverberating ponderous legs and thick talons shattering the cobblestone floors, the beast exploded a deafening roar. Instantly, the beast turned into a blur, a four-legged sprint covering the gap with a transparent approach. Impacting Alexander’s chest, the warrior took flight over the rectangle until his spine impacted the collision against the stone wall. On all four limbs, catching his breath with indisposed lungs, Alexander peered over the rectangle and noted that the beast was on its knees with its malignant paws holding it up for support. 

Using the rectangle block to propel himself through the air, Alexander fastened the handle with both hands, using the ill-shaped metal slab to target the beast’s shoulder; not the head, it could kill them both. As his biceps tensed, the beast’s head whipped up with its arms squeezing talons into Alexander’s injured shoulder and tossing him into the coordinator.

Leaving a wake of shattered cobblestones, the beast hunted Alexander, violently shaking its head, blotting the torch behind it. Once darkness painted the corridor and its terrifying red ruby eyes grew, Alexander crawled away feeling a paralyzing pain in his right shoulder before pushing himself into an erect sprint. Thump, thump, it walked, stalked and prowled Alexander. Feeling faint after losing so much blood, Alexander stumbled. Quickly afterwards, almost expectedly, the beast collapsed behind him, panting and breathing erratically. Alexander stood again, leaning against the wall, driving on intuition. Looking back, the red ruby eyes were encompassed behind darkness, and then shined, like a blink, or a heavily drawn sigh.

Using the walls to navigate through darkness, Alexander found a break, reaching the intersect. Turning right, Alexander pressed towards the library, leaning against the wall to delay his eventual collapse. The injured beast followed, infiltrating the ruin’s silence with a weakened roar. Alexander looked back, and its red rub eyes were blinking, unthreatening, injured, perhaps on death’s doorsteps. Since his lightheadedness prevented logical judgment and tactical analysis, Alexander pushed forward. His depressed and tired body entered the library, limping to the blue gem, with a cadenced swirl, like water reflecting a shine throughout the unlit hall. As Alexander moved his hand closer to the gem, the reflective light radiated more erratically, brighter, blinding. Singing, echoing, and shaking, the gem built an ancient energy, visually and audibly, shattering and shrinking the world like liquefying into a singularity.

When his fingers felt the smooth glass sides, the gem’s light turned to a blinding white light, forcing Alexander to shield his eyes. His connection with the gem was fierce, unrelenting and purposeful, strengthening violence of the ruin’s destabilization. Alexander pulled the gem from its base, feeling an overwhelming sense of dreadful power as he lost his balance, watching dislodged stones smashing on the ground. Stories were lost, a civilization at an end, no longer legend, no longer myth.

“Son,” something rang from the earthquake.

Paws attached to lethal talons painfully dug into his right shoulder, forcefully spinning him around, pressing both man and beast into an uncompromising final showdown. Powerfully dangerous, the luminosity of the gem’s irrevocable intensity blinded. Finally, the beast revealed its fangs, shrieking, loud, with an equivalent strength. Alexander couldn’t resist the beast, couldn’t avoid the fatal drillings into his neck. Severing muscle, tissue, and veins erupting into streams of dark blood, the beast savored the taste, drowning the library’s collapse with uncontrolled eruptions of lifelessness. Alexander’s arms and legs were numbing, his head spinning, his life-force shrinking. Exploding like shockwave of light, the gem overpowered the library, expanding past the ruins, into the fictional world that existed in dreams over long periods of sleep. The ruin’s structure shook, clouds of white smoke dissolving stones, dirt and air.

Only angels could sing the songs that Alexander perceived; a spectacular bliss passing an event horizon, waving good bye to a world he didn’t belong. Stones gave way from the ceiling, paving daylight’s breach into the library. White doves circled, diving into the library, studying Alexander’s body slowly dissolve into white smoke, like the beast inhaling life from his punctured neck. Once rivals, their dissolving bodies danced white smoke, lacing together like two becoming one; just like the stone that unified warrior and enemy, commandeering influential understanding that separates identities, allowing one to dance while the other could not.

Finally, the gem exploded, cleansing all realities, absolving all physical properties. The ruin was gone, while blue skies transformed to heavy gray clouds, opening ocean-sized rain onto Alexander’s curled up body. There was no rubble, no evidence that any structure ever lived. No gems, no stories, no extinct civilization; only Alexander’s decaying body existed that were two equal wholes.

Before opening his eyes, he asked, “where.” To his remarkable surprise, someone responded. “My name is Dr. Janice Dean, and you’re at Tryson City Memorial Hospital. Are you, you, alright Mr. Jackson?”

A mutual understanding existed, allowed by the unspoken word of civility and unmolested freedoms. Police patrolled infrequently, often found entertaining city guests when welcomed. They were paid well; not for their hard-nose police work, rather the opposite. For the most part, police were hindrances, and nuisances. Tax dollars poured into a costly service became an annoying waste in the Main City; a metropolis of gold that shines much brighter than six suns. Many didn’t want to upset the balance of a lawless city, so crime was non-existent, fearing an invasion from regional directors and commissioners.

Lacking common skills, like observations, instincts and common morality, the police were the wealthiest among their contemporaries in the world; ideal for the Main City, unmolested with cops intruding on business. Anywhere in the world, and the madness of a typical metropolitan city would overwhelm them into retirement. However, this wasn’t a typical metropolitan; rather a utopia for the wealthiest people in the world.

Long ago, the overseers of many cities, determined that crime was based on the need and greed of the poorer. Instead a powerful visionary, some called Franklin Gholston, others called him Talus Ndukwe, prophesied that if you cleansed away the poor, then crime would plummet and wealth would strengthen, becoming limitless. Both did. In the Main City, the poor were ushered to the Potosi zones; encapsulated beyond the borders, separated by walls, guards and sentries. Police patrolled the Main City infrequently, violently abusing the assimilated poor inside the Potosi Zone. They were bored.

A powerful storm warned by powerful gusts that disturbed silky golden hair of expensive whores interlocked in the arms of other woman’s husbands, approached. Unclaimed plastic bags artistically danced through the wind, settling in the alleys that separated skyscrapers and exclusive restaurants where reservations required a week, if not a month, of advanced planning.

An organization existed, servicing the pleasures of wealth, prosperity and property; high level gamblers, drug traffickers, and something called Enforcers. A Russian named Nikolai, no known last name, controlled the illegal trade. Police were paid, at the behest of State Senator William Thomas, the services demanded by wealthy constituents; gambling increased their wealth, drugs that enhanced their sexual rages, enforcers eliminating independent threats.

With the lack of a proper police presence, the Main City was also a breeding ground for illegal business, espionage, and anything that comforted the greedy man with the sanctuary that they weren’t traced, stalked or hunted. Many meetings were held in three neighboring grandiose hotels; the Tower Bells, the Golden Ta, and the Dominer Chateau. No prying eyes of surveillance, especially intelligence agencies; conversely, people thought.

Wealth inside the Main City was everywhere. Spending in the thousands during a single nightfall was commonplace, at restaurants, casinos and clubs; the illegal element held the highest profits and increased their influences that spread throughout the country. While people feared Nikolai’s outfit, they acknowledged his recreational requirements, stretching beyond each American coast. Tourism was encouraged, though, mostly disregarded, for they weren’t known, their statements private, their class undefined. Nevertheless, all wanted the services that Nikolai offered.

You were Potosi if you didn’t wear the most expensive suits, or the classiest dresses embroidered with diamonds and gems, sashes made of the finest silks. Fearing symbols would navigate Potosi reactions, like beards, blue jeans and cotton tee shirts, all were avoided. A pair of worlds separated by gates, walls, and patrols; two worlds on a single planet; two worlds within the same city; the wealthy in the Main City, the poor in the Potosi zone. A brewing war would eventually boil and explode. While the moment was close, the time hadn’t arrived because one man had yet to discover that legacy. His legacy.

While parked on Wayland Way, as the night crowds began dispersing to the three hotels penetrating the clouds that raced overhead, Alexander Krueger sat in a fairly new black sedan during an unusually warm November night. The clean shaven squirmy driver looked back over. “Remember Alex, we’re here only on business.” Business is good, Nikolai always said. It never dealt with a recession, or depression. Everyone needed their vices filled. Nikolai assured their addictions would be served.
“I got it,” Alexander said.
“We go into his apartment, make happy and leave. Do you understand?”
“Yea, I got it,” Alexander confirmed while screwing the Glock 22’s muzzle with an Evolution 40 suppressor. The young man slightly jostled the gun, satisfied with the balance and weight in his hand. Alexander felt the snobbish look from the squirmy driver’s face.
“What the fuck is that?”
“It’s a gun,” Alexander mocked.
“I know it’s a fucking gun. Where did you get it?”
“My grandma gave it to me for Christmas,” Alexander joked.
“You’re not bringing that in.”
“If you say so,” Alexander smirked.

Once Christopher slammed the car door and ran across the street towards the Tower Bells, Alexander grinned and tucked his beloved weapon inside his belt. Not only did he hate Christopher, he hated everything that the aging Captain represented. Being a servant frustrated Alexander. For nearly ten years, the young apprentice hadn’t seen his sister after his mind tore through disturbing changes after finding his mother and father murdered in the master bedroom. That morning, he bailed the Minnesota cold, while his sister was away at a friend’s house, and never returned, eventually accepting an offer from a Russian that passed through a restaurant Alexander worked at. His youth was a series of painful memories. A new start was needed. No one knew his old name, even Alexander struggled to remember at times. Don’t worry about it, it means nothing. That life died that cold morning. I am now Alexander Krueger. Forget about it, everyone else has.

Still, Christopher was a Captain, trusted by Nikolai. Alexander reported to Christopher and Christopher to Nikolai. It was the order of things, and Alexander scorned it. Order was corruption and corruption destroyed. Anarchy and chaos were constants, in a world that emphasized class. If Alexander had his way, he’d hire the poor. Bring them into the Main City to do minute tasks of the city; which including distributions, clerks, bussers, drivers, garbage men. However, they were the best informers, loyal to the dollar, of which was endless in the Main City. So far, Alexander hired, groomed, and gave a sense of entitlement to three Potosi, all young, two men and a girl, roaming the streets inside shadows, bathrooms and rooftops. He paid them for information, and the byproduct of his purchases encouraged complete loyalty, if not eventual apprenticeship.

Several cars streamed by, forcing an edgy Alexander to stand until limousines, Porsches, Lamborghinis, Maybachs, and even a dark blue LeBlanc Mirabeau passed with speed that turned white dots into blurs of white streams. Meticulously crossing the street, broadcasting himself with a diminutive click from his black shoes, he bathed in amusement watching Christopher’s impatience waiting on Alexander. Street lamps dimly illuminated where shadows never roamed, reflecting the street’s surface with a powerful glow, while the milky moon rested behind the onslaught of thickening clouds.

Alexander’s awareness inside the Tower Bells flooded his mind. The building’s service desk on the right was made of dark wood, spectacularly polished, with a young woman staring at her computer afore a tower of endless tiny slits designed for the tenants’ mail. In the company of recliners and couches, a grandiose lobby, across from the information desk, with a bartender wiping down his empty counter towards the back, openly welcoming guests and residents for a stiff drink. After disgustingly seeing two golden-plated elevator doors on each side of the hallway ahead, Alexander noted three exit doors; one beyond the elevators, another to the right of the bar’s lobby and a third bending beyond the service desk where employees roamed, likely taking a break from demanding guests with a drag of smoke to calm their nerves. Neither the bartender, nor the woman behind the counter paid any mind to the visitors waiting for the announcement to proceed to the penthouse.

“Good evening, gentleman,” greeted the Doorman.
“Marcus Thomas, please,” Christopher said.
“One moment, please.” The Doorman strolled elsewhere with his decorative long red suit, black cap and white gloves, extravagantly dressed for a servant. It shouldn’t surprise Alexander, having completed jobs in the Main City, seeing the wealth disgustingly flaunted. Nevertheless, it always did.

As impressed as Alexander was, he bathed in his anger, watching people needlessly parade wealth. Money often carried considerable suffering and pain; those that have it, got off on it. Given the chance, he would annihilate them all. Mother would be disappointed, being the daughter of a preacher, and herself spreading the word of Christ. Mother. How will he ever lose the memory of her pasty white gown, saturated in dark red, after her throat was brutally destroyed just before Alexander’s eighteenth birthday? God didn’t arrive with a mighty shield and sword to fend the weak and innocent. Not on that day. Not ever.

“People actually live here,” Alexander whispered. Growing up in a small town in northern Minnesota, victim to routine snow events that would shutdown cities like this, Alexander could only shake his head at the revolting self-indulgent luxuries. This isn’t how life is supposed to be lived. Poor suffered in the Potosi zone while the wealthy threw away money on diamond earrings, beautiful cars, the finest wines and overpriced prostitutes. It didn’t matter how many times he came to the Tower Bells Hotel, it was something he never got used to.
 
“Sons of Senators,” Christopher said grinning, turning to Alexander. “This client is of the highest importance, Alex. He’s critical to our success you know.”
“I know, Chris,” Alex said with a mocking tone. “You don’t have to remind me. He’s the son of William Thomas, the State Senator with enough influence to make our business succeed.”
“Not just succeed, Alex. It’s not only that,” reminded Christopher.
“Oh,” asked Alexander, pretending to be shocked with what his informers had already told him.
“Yes, so don’t screw it up.” Christopher still didn’t trust Alexander, and it amused him greatly.

So Alexander played the role of impatient apprentice. For months, Alexander pained a face of youthful exuberance, ignorant and excitable for the sake of masking certain truths. “I say we wipe out the building.”
“Don’t get preachy, Alex,” Christopher said indifferently.
“Preachy,” inquired Alexander.
“You tend to get preachy when you have an opinion,” Christopher revealed.
“I’m not preachy. I’m just saying we wipe out the building. No one has to get hurt,” Alexander argued. “Why are we waiting? Let’s just go.”
“Settle down, Alex,” Chris counseled.
“We can take care of them,” Alex said certainly, pointing at the few guards and workers at the Tower Bells hotel.
“We don’t want to take care of them,” Chris barked with a whisper. “Mind yourself and know your place.”

It wasn’t long after Alexander pictured beating Christopher into an unrecognizable mesh of teeth, muscle and blood, when the Doorman returned, “Gentleman, Mr. Thomas will see you now.” Christopher led Alexander to the second elevator on the right, chiming its arrival after pressing the ascending arrow.

A trap door hung above, with two red buttons below the control pad, which typically meant emergencies. Terrible music, Chris’ insufferable heavy breathing, and Alexander’s unsettling feeling of panic in tight corridors, brought unexpected anxiety. Focus on something, he thought to himself. Alexander stared at his reflection on the mirrors that formed walls in the rising metal death box. Thoughts that he never knew existed started infiltrating, confusing and compounding his constants. How did you come to be this way? If Mikey didn’t die, how would I be? If I didn’t leave Sophie, who would I be? If my parents didn’t die, would I have left Minnesota? What am I? I don’t know, what are you?

Reflections kill, Nikolai once said. Alexander believed his former recruiter was transparent, meaning the stealth of a kill, or simply reflection into oneself. He didn’t fear the mirror, Sophie was his heart, and his heart was broken, black with venomous reactions. The mirror simply amused him. A single thing, like a stupid mirror, can cause such a deviation with one’s life. Still, the thoughts were there, the questions unanswered, the feelings that accompanied, the regrets that wouldn’t dim, rather strengthen. No matter how loud he demanded that they shut up, they remained, unchecked. What was he? He had asked himself too many times to remember how many times he asked the evasive question.

Down the third hallway, three doors on the right, Chris knocked three times on the beautifully crafted heavy front door, with a profile view of an eagle’s head. When it opened, Alexander suppressed his laughter at the shocking revelation of a short man with slick brown hair, a nicely pressed purple silk shirt and black pants. Even his watch shouted, “look how god damn rich I am.” His living room was littered with antique paintings, gold plated disks, and beautiful tapestries to hide bare walls. A twisting metal heap stood on a pillar-designed stand made of marble, directly in the room’s center which dipped like a bowl, or a gladiator coliseum. Inside the fireplace was a television looping the same video, mimicking an actual fire like some awful Christmas CD infomercial. The patio overlooked most of the Main City, faced towards the Potosi in which his view wasn’t obstructed by similar skyscrapers. It was truly the best room of the three hotels.

“Chris,” the State Senator’s son greeted with a firm two-hand handshake.
“It’s good to see you again,” Christopher said, placing his hand on Marcus’ shoulder.
“Who is this,” asked Marcus, with a disapproving glare at Alexander.
“He’s Alex. He’s kind of in training, if you know what I mean.”
“Yea? What did you come from,” asked Marcus.
“West,” simply answered Alexander.
“Where West?”
“More north than south.”
“Where did he come from,” Marcus impatiently asked Christopher.
“Relax, Chris. He was recruited by Nikolai himself, in the Northern cold if I remember correctly. He’s training to become a Captain, at the urgency of our fair leader.”
“Is that right,” asked Marcus.
“Yes,” Alexander answered.
“I’ll never understand your two lives, Christopher. A man’s history can’t be easily wiped out. If it were me, I’d want to know everything about that person’s history. But you guys just eliminate it, create new names, profiles and histories. It’s a bit odd if you ask me.”
“If we may,” Christopher prompted, pointing Marcus to a chair.

Alexander didn’t like the distrustful look on Marcus’ face, suspecting that this meeting had two purposes. He would disguise an overwhelming threatening instinct by playing the role of youthful apprentice taken aback by gaudy decorations and six-figure art work.
“It must be nice being a Senator’s son,” remarked Alexander, scanning, observing, taking notes, but wide-eyed enough to lower Marcus’ discomfort.  
“Oh,” Marcus said with his aggravating light British accent, “it has its advantages. I can get a table, wherever I want, whenever I want.” Even the chair was constructed with a material that Alex wanted to tear apart like a vicious dog attacking a stuffed animal.

“How is my favorite client,” Chris asked, clearly softening up the son of State Senator William Thomas.
“Plenty good, friend,” Marcus smiled taking a seat, with Christopher sitting in the opposite chair. “In fact, I just acquired more land in the Eastern quadrant. We plan on putting up a few clubs, storefronts, and restaurants, all of that jazz.”
“Congratulations, Marcus. It’s time we get those no good detriments out of here,” Christopher said. “The Potosi should be eradicated, development in the Main City is pivotal.”
“We’re close, my friend. Once we have the lands purchased, we’ll put our objectives into motion. Soon enough, the Main City will be ours to govern, tax, and control,” Marcus remarked, keeping Alexander in his peripheral.
“Phase one is coming along nicely,” Christopher said. “Nikolai will have men ready, I can assure you.”
“Oh, I have no doubts. The police aren’t a threat anyway. A mother with a child suckling on her bosom could neutralize our heroic police force.”
“What’s phase two,” Alexander interrupted; Christopher’s shock revealed; Marcus’ distrust increased.
“Nothing to worry about, boy,” Marcus said, suddenly disregarding his British accent; it seemed American. Alexander’s awareness became heightened, as was his paranoia. Why was he shifting his accent, what’s the purpose? Why didn’t Christopher notice?
“Why don’t you fill those glasses with whiskey over by the counter,” Christopher ordered.

The two commenced business discussions, while Alexander walked to the left of Marcus’ closed bedroom, at the counter with three shelves full of many whiskeys and exclusive wines that cost a year’s salary for some. He pulled a vintage bottle of Macallan, a rare whiskey that’s thought to be extinguished, and no longer produced. Nikolai bragged one evening that he had the only bottle, and it cost him over one hundred thousand dollars to acquire. Was this the same bottle, a gift to his most influential client? As he poured the whisky in short crystal glasses, movement beneath the bedroom door interrupted his focused pour. Bodies were crossing the bedroom light, creating a flashing-like motion.

Alexander returned to both men, handing them half-full glasses with three ice cubes each. Christopher and Marcus continued their bound of hostile takeovers inside the Main City, expanding their territories into the Potosi. With his fingers interlaced behind him, Alex uncharacteristically tuned out Marcus and Christopher’s conversation. Typically, he would concentrate on Chris’ negotiations for information he would keep secret.  Instead, he was preoccupied.

Drapes and silk tapestries danced with the song of a night breeze through an open sliding glass door. A hunger formed in his gut. A thirst intensified, his throat feeling a sudden dryness, like stranded victims around by miles of impersonal specs of desert. Muscles in his arms and legs began to tense, spasm, as if they wanted to reach out and twist terrible souls. Developing this thirst for corrupted blood invited a bickering mother, a morally grounded father, or an impressionable younger sister. All were gone, but the thoughts just sat there. The only thing that remained was the scrubbing pad that cleansed those that affected his means. He had no jurisdiction of the beast; the beast commanded him. Instead of fighting it, he bathed in it, feeling a source of power with divine invincibility and insight. This was a trap. You and Christopher will be interrogated for information, to force Nikolai into serving Marcus. The beast was sure of it, and the beast commanded all when awoken.

“…all right, ten percent…” Marcus offered to Chris.

The switch finally turned, the world exploded with bright pulses of pure energy. The Beast acted, gripping the handle of his Glock. Pivoting his right heal, the beast turned and kicked in the bedroom door. Two rather burly men, dressed in expensive black suits looked up in surprise. Surely regretting their lack of preparedness with narrow columns of smoke excavating from their foreheads, both men collapsed, dead with punctured holes in their foreheads.

The Beast turned and aimed his weapon at Marcus.

“What’s the meaning of this,” demanded Marcus, now standing.
“What happened with your accent,” demanded the Beast.
“What?”
“You had an English accent when we first got here. Now, you’re speaking like a natural American. What happened with your accent?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Beast demanded punishment.

Marcus shouted when the beast fired a spit through his left kneecap. When Chris tried to wrestle the gun away, the beast squeezed his jugular and pushed him over the artistic twisting metal sculpture. “What the fuck happened to your accent,” he shouted.
“You’re mad,” Marcus rebelled.
“Actually, I’m quit calm at the moment. What makes me mad is waiting for my food ten minutes after placing my order. What makes me mad is when people don’t use their turn signal when changing lanes. What makes me mad is when people check out eleven items in the ten items or less lane. What makes me mad is when people fake their accents in an effort to seem bigger than they really are. Right now, I assure you, I’m quit calm.” Alexander suddenly shouted erratically, “What happened to your accent?”

“Alex,” Christopher said firmly. “Stop it. He’s the son of a State Senator.” The Beast rolled his eyes and pressed his weapon firmly into Marcus’ left eye.
“You were planning to ambush me. Why?” the Beast asked the question generally.
“I don’t even fucking know you,” Marcus asked.
“What’s my name,” he quizzed.
“Alex,” replied Marcus.
“You know my name, you know me. So why were you going to kill me?” Not us, not the Beast, just Alexander.

Silence.

“Why would I…,” Marcus paused. “What do you want from me? Money?”
“See, I should have said this earlier. But another thing that makes me mad is wealthy beggars that pay their consequence with money.”
“But I…” Blood nearly recoiled onto the Beast’s jacket, landing a pencil-length from his left shoe. “That was close,” the beast said looking at Christopher standing rigid, stunned.
“What the fuck did you just do?” Christopher shouted. “What did you do? Once Nikolai hears about this…”

After the Beast fired the fourth shot into his chest, Christopher collapsed onto the delightfully polished wooden floor. Alexander had a thing for beautifully crafted things. He regretted that the Beast kicked in the bedroom door, and the beautifully crafted floor that be stained with blood; no, destroyed by cursed flame. These were projects that Alexander’s father once skilled at. Destroying someone’s vision and design, brilliantly crafted, was unacceptable, even when necessary.

The Beast squatted next to him, dangling his weapon around his crotch. “You know, Chris, I wonder if I would do this job better if I didn’t enjoy it so much. Sometimes the thirst grips me, you know? The Beast swells in me, punctures me. I can’t control him. It roars an ugly roar.

“I really should do a better job making my artwork cleaner, don’t you think? Too much evidence, I would say. Maybe next time, I’ll just throw someone from the eighty-first floor. That way, an investigation would be limited because the presumption of some drug addicted son of a State Senator could be considered a suicide. It fits perfectly,” The Beast sighed. “Now he has a bullet in his head. They’d see that for sure. Well, we always learn don’t we?” The Beast mused jamming his handgun into Chris’ crotch.

“Why?”
Alex howled in laughter, “You think I have a reason? If it makes you feel any better, you already know my motivations.”
“Nolts?”
“Fuck no,” Alexander said. “Your deal with Nolts was your mistake, but not my intentions or motivations.”
Christopher’s eyes widened, a revelation revealed like sudden shock of an uninvited guest. “The Fighters. You’re an agent, aren’t you?”
The Beast just grinned a terrible grin.
“You know,” Chris continued, finding it difficult to breath, “this will come back… to…”

The Beast stood and fired the remaining clip into Chris’ forehead, feeling relieved sitting on the exquisite couch, with Marcus’ corpse lying on the floor by the patio. He calmed his breathing, finding rhythm.

Christopher was never the objective, that was a pure prospect, allowing the beast to exact punishment, benefiting Alexander promotion through the infiltrated ranks. No, not Christopher. Alexander had reconnoitred Marcus, a defined target, watching him through another’s eyes. Execution wasn’t supposed to happen now, brought upon the Beast, convinced of an ambush. Maybe Christopher too, Alexander wasn’t sure. It was all very confusing right now, thoughts erratic with displaced conclusions. It was the first time that the Beast allowed Alexander to think clearly, finding wisdom and insight within sudden events tonight.
 
Nikolai used Marcus for his father, a means for business arrangements. Often the Senator cited a lack of funding, forcing an understaffed law enforcement, allowing for Nikolai’s business to thrive. In return, the Senator accepted significant chucks of revenue made from the drug trade and illegal gambling. It was a brilliant arrangement. Christopher, on the other hand, was simply in Alex’s way for a much deserved promotion.

Now the Senator’s son sits in blood, likely creating a sequence of events that would entrench war within the Main City. No, Alexander alternatively thought. The Senator was much too greedy, and his son was a political detriment to his own goals. Alexander needed the war, though. The Beast was hungry, always feeling off the fresh blood that streamed like rain gushing into sewers. His death would serve the Senator’s greater purpose, eliminating a tabloid starring son. Nikolai might hunt Alexander however, if he learns of this night; Christopher a great Captain, the State Senator politically connected for the organization’s business. Still, Alex’s motivations are his own. His destiny, close, within his grasp, even though it was yet to be defined.

Lightning briefly scorched the sky, followed by a low rumble of thunder. Seconds after a drizzle, the clouds opened up. It sounded like tiny sheets of metal clanking against bigger sheets. Alex walked onto the patio, where a slab of concrete above provided some shelter. It wasn’t as he expected. Clearly, it was raining, his ears didn’t fail his ear heard it, his nose smelt the fresh rain overwhelm him. Instead of streaking transparent droplets, Alex only saw tiny gobs of water falling so slowly, it seemed as if they were suspended in time. Reaching, crashing to an obliteration, Alex watched one droplet fall into a hugging embrace of his left palm.

Loosely holding his gun, he opened his eyes and daydreamed, entertaining a terrible thought, unblinking, wondering an easy alternative. In a flash, it’s over. What did he have to live for that meant anything? Would he impress upon a better life onto others that deserved it? Then he remembered, “reflections.” You aren’t that man, a voice called out. You are something, much more. You’re close, oh, so close. Don’t stray. Don’t hide. Don’t cower with that gun.

Slowly closing his eyes, he thought of Sophie; her soft green eyes, accentuated dip on her upper eyelid, puffy cheeks that swelled red in the winter, dimples that flanked her thin lips, and long flowing black hair. His heart often pumped wildly when she whispered lovingly to him, pressing her soft skin against his, covered with a blanket under a sea of blinking white dots in the sky. Sometimes he showed off, pointing out constellations, making their names up. She often giggled when he named a constellation after her. When she asked later which constellation was hers, he often pointed to the wrong one. If she knew his mistake, she never called him on it.

It seemed like an age when touched her, made love to her, treated her as his queen several summers ago when their love was realized. Always together, even in the ages when children learned to walk and talk, they were always giggling, smiling and even conspiring. Now, she was hostage to Joseph; a burnt out addict, related to Nikolai in some twisted way.

At first, she, and only she, was his motivation until he was invited to a dark meeting in black alleys, with no names and unrecognizable faces. His fate and destiny began there, for she was still his motivation, but not his only. Circumstances turned difficult, unclear, like a heavy fog blinding even efficient eyes. Now, she was a shell. Her vibrancy for life, dead. She teemed with death, conspiratorially degrading. Sporadically, he had seen her from a distance, hidden far inside shadows. Her eyes were sunken and her natural smile, gone. If he called to her, he wasn’t sure she’d recognize him, or if he’d recognize her. It pained him greatly, the events that unfolded in the past five years; so much so that the Beast was born, the anger, and the style of terror integrated into his own. 

She’s dead, the Beast reminded. No, he shouted back. She’s far too gone, and our new objective is critical. We must continue, the Beast reminded Alexander, focusing him again on the present. The Beast murdered one of Nikolai’s Captains, and the Senator’s son, which benefited Nikolai’s business far too greatly. However, that depended on his father, William Thomas and his reactions.

Alexander had come too far to run, climbing a ladder from the footstool after Christopher’s death. Instead of running, he boldly played out scenarios for a lie that could exonerate him. It was an ambush by Marcus, and Chris didn’t make it. Better yet, Chris was in the midst of another legendary boozing session, and the bodyguards that the Beast easily displaced, took him out. Marcus Thomas was well known; perhaps victim of an assassination from a rival. That’s when Alex began to smirked. No, no, no. Alexander was set up, he felt it, a nagging twist in his gut, instinct, which he learned long ago to trust, without question. It’s why you left Sophie. Shut up. I didn’t leave her, replied Alexander.

After bringing his trembling hands together, he finally pushed off the patio’s railing, feeling frozen and stiff, like his spine was wrapped by a thousand tiny muscles. Back inside the apartment, Alexander placed small devices in the corners of the living room. Each device displayed a digital “twenty” on the face, once Alexander activated the censor reception. Flowing into the apartment like a gentle whisper, Alexander bathed again in the cool breeze calming his nerves, drying the growing perspiration from his face. For a couple of breaths, Alexander felt a therapeutic benefit to this apartment. He wondered if Marcus felt the same way.

After stepping off the elevator, Alex caught the Doorman’s attention and smiled. “Stepping out for a moment. That fireplace up there makes things rather stuffy.”
“Of course, sir,” the Doorman courteously grinned.

Standing next to the black sedan, Christopher’s keys already extracted, Alex pulled the pen-like device from his pocket, and followed the building towards the eighty-first floor. Innocents would be killed, it was the costs bothering Alexander. It was necessary, the Beast reminded. After the briefest thunderstorm passed, the moon already penetrating the destabilizing clouds, Alexander clicked the pin-like button. Exploding wildly twenty seconds later, rolling out like a ball disintegrating into darkness, Marcus’ room was under assault from a defenseless enemy. Evidence would boiled in the flame. Broken glass fell, crashing against the pavement in unoccupied alley stops and eateries.

While he watched, a spark echoed an intruding ding, like metal on metal, a familiar sound. Alexander instinctively spun into a crouch, leaning against the driver side door, hoping he guessed correctly. A killer was sitting above him with a heavy finger against a powerful rifle, waiting for Alexander to return to the black sedan. Cover was limited, yet paramount, and the crowds were emerging from stores, hotels, pointing, and crying in a panic from the explosion of the Tower Bells.

With a small camera fixed at the base of its hinge, Alexander positioned himself along the front tire, leaning out to expose the cell phone, giving him a third eye. Location. Where was he? Nothing. The first floor was dark, where the Golden Tǎ’s lobby should be. Save for curtains drawn against lightened rooms, the second and third floors were empty and covered. It wasn’t until a minor reflection against a magnifying lens three rooms from the left, fourth floor, when Alex grinned. Careless, leaving the window open, stationed. Someone was inviting him. The Beast wouldn’t let the invitation go unanswered.

Questioning escape routes, Alexander noted the gathering crowds, good for cover, great for confusion. It wasn’t enough, his position known by the killer. He needed another distraction. Maybe the killer already left, he couldn’t take the risk. No, he wanted to know who this was, why he was targeted. Knowing the line of sight from the shooter, it would be easier to plan; the cover known, his location revealed. He needed another distraction; create a second front of chaos. It was simple.

Alexander ripped a lengthy tear from his sweater, shoving it down the car’s filler tank, leaving several inches exposed like a wick. His lighter illuminated and took the exposed cloth to flame. Quickly, he rolled past two parked cars behind the black sedan, sprinting over the side walk, along the Golden Tǎ, reaching the rear door that led to the hotel’s kitchen. This was a sprint, a mad dash towards an immortal finish line. Leaning against the outer door, he waited, nervously glancing at his watch, scanning for disturbances of an escaping killer. Boom! The exploding car was loud, preceded with a powerful bright flash.

His patience drew thin, anxiety with an escaping killer, Alexander yanked open the metal door, pushing aside staff trampling guests, making their way through the lobby to the front doors, investigating the disturbance. Billowing black smoke, creating panic, confusion, Alexander slipped through escaping crowds.

The Golden Tǎ’s alarm loudly wailed, forcing a hasty evacuation, bumping, colliding, some women screaming. More chaos. The staff had cleared, adding to the chaos from a smoldering fire, and thundering boom. Composure, act as if you belong, Alexander patiently walked through the double brass doors, past the deactivated elevators. One escape route, cut off. To the right of the elevators, down a corridor filled with expensive art imitations, stood a glowing red exit sign with an adjacent emergency stairwell.

Streams of panicked guests, barely clothed, nightdresses, boxers, robes, tees and sweaters, running towards any exit, adding Alexander’s cover. Slipping through the crowds, pushing aside short petite women and aging men, Alexander sprinted, leaping, turning and hoping the stairs. Pushing aside, twisting narrowly, Alexander wasn’t without his bumps, curious looks, and shoves. It was pivotal that he read every face, every bag, suitcase, briefcase, to be certain that the killer wasn’t under the guise of a fleeting crowd. If the killer was skilled, he would hide among the crowds, passing Alexander without even a glance.

“Stop,” a uniformed guard said above. “This is a mandatory evacuation.”
“My daughter is in her room upstairs, on the fourth floor,” lied Alexander, still running towards the fourth floor. “I have to make my way up to her.”
“Sir, you have to go down, we’ll find her,” he ordered.
“No, you don’t understand,” Alexander pleaded. “She’s been instructed to only to leave her room when she hears my voice. See she has…”

Alexander yanked the guard’s right wrist, bringing his knee into the uniformed man’s nose, crushing cartilage and bone. The second time he yanked the wrist, the guard limply rolled down the stairs, colliding into the wall. Some cried, while a second, unseen uniform guard drew his weapon and shouted, “Freeze.” Within a blur, a blink, the time it takes to make a choice without options, Alexander pulled his handgun, with the suppressor resolutely screwed along the muzzle’s grooves, firing two spits into his right knee. Alexander allowed his gun’s exposure, scared onlookers opening an unmolested path. When he cursed himself for not removing the guards’ radio, or knocking him unconscious, speed became vital, company was certain. It was too late, returning now would waste time. Maybe save your life. Shut it. But he couldn’t rush, or be careless. The slightest error would be fatal; granting the killer as skilled, if not more so, than Alexander.

It was dark, save for sporadic emergency lights casting shadows down the hallway, with blue flashes on the red fire boxes that wailed loudly. Rooms were closed, locked behind a keypad that opened with the appropriate access card. With his gun firmly in hand and his eyes peering down the slide that drew its point, Alexander slowly and cautiously approached the third room on the right.

Before he kicked through the room, he saw a slight film of black along the door’s edge where a closed door should exist. He tackled through with his right shoulder and rolled into the dark hotel room, firing indiscriminate spits in all directions. Nothing. An open window that pressed against swaying silk purple curtains, a cigarette tray with five extinguished cigarettes, and a shell casing barely exposed underneath the edge of an undisturbed bed.

His awareness dropped, his observations struck through the open window. Who was trying to kill him? What happened that would call for his death? Did they know? Alexander couldn’t see, blinded with bright anger, the Beast advising Alexander, though not yet taking control. Soon actions would become uncontrolled and death serving every purpose imaginable. The beast was angry, spitting curses, growling terrible growls.

During critical breaths, sporadically shifting his focused eyes on the chaos below, Alexander searched the confusion, someone sprinting, paranoid enough to keep turning back. There! A man with a black long overcoat carrying a black metal briefcase  calmly leaving the panic, towards the Potosi, checking pursuers every third step. I’m right here, you fucking bastard. He was as good as anyone; killer or not, the Beast would make sure the encounter would be violent. Killing was paramount, breathing secondary.

“Freeze,” a shout came from behind. Two cops, both with drawn weapons.

Alexander lifted his arms in surrender, allowing his gun to bounce against the thick red carpet. One cop approached, holstering his weapon, reaching for metal restraints, while the second kept his weapon drawn, distant and nervous, aimed towards, but not directly at, Alexander’s head. As soon as the closest cop grabbed his wrist, Alexander flipped his hands over the cop’s hands, twisted his arm until it snapped shoving the officer into his friend. Alexander jumped onto the bed, propelling himself in the air, landing in front of both men, unable to regain their balance.

Alexander gripped one man’s throat, and pressured the point on his wrist that held the weapon, twisting both, until the gun fell, and the cop’s eyes bulged. Enough, something in his mind shouted. No, I must kill him. He’s the enemy. No, the enemy is escaping. He released his grip, forcefully shoving both men into the hallway wall. The Beast picked up the dropped weapon, a standard issue, and fired half the weapon’s ammunition harmlessly into the wall above their heads. He returned into the room, locked the door, flicked the cop’s weapon onto the bed, and retrieved his own, holstering inside his belt. Other cops began shouting their approach, which stunned him. The radio wasn’t destroyed. A critical error. Not now! Escaping became priority.

With the window still open, allowing another cold breeze into the room cooling his skin, Alexander passed through it, lifting himself onto the building’s ledge. Curious onlookers \ already spotted him, with the black smoke thinning out, betraying the hope that he could mask behind it. “What’s he doing,” someone shouted. “Get him, before he hurts himself,” and “Where’s the fire department? He can’t get out?!” an old raspy woman shouted.

Rivets and brackets sealing in place an oversized water pipe, barely out of reach, forced Alexander’s toes to grip the ledge leaving his heals hanging. Alexander needed all his upper strength to complete the transfer, jumping, catching a rivet with three fingers. His weight, the cold, and the sharpness in the brackets deeply cut into his skin. Certain death if he released his grip; it hurt, but death was worse. With a grunt, and furious ambition that deflected the sudden hopelessness most men would feel, Alexander lifted himself allowing both feet to sit on the brackets below his knees.

Climbing the thick black metal pipe was futile, slow, and pointless. The man with the metal briefcase was escaping, his shadow already disguised. Once Alexander reached the fifth floor, he leapt to the ledge, caught himself with a firm grip above the frame, pushed open the unlocked window and rolled into the room. Checking his corners in the dark hallway, Alexander turned and sprinted, without hesitation, aware that any shadow could be fatal. Banking on the cops calling reinforcements, and a negotiator to end the sudden siege in the guest room one floor below, Alexander slammed open the stairwells heavy metal door on the opposite end of the hotel, praying that he’d be gone within the relayed message of a man climbing the building.

Joseph, Marcus, William, Alex, Nikolai. Sophie.

He looked down the stairwell. Nothing. He looked up. Nothing. As he put his foot on the first step to go down, someone shouted indiscriminately below. A cop, coming up the stairs. Friends. Assault rifles. Alexander reversed and sprinted towards the fifteenth floor, kicking in the first room on the right, measuring through the window. He could make it. After two spits to clear out the glass, Alexander accelerated quickly to a full sprint, propelled his body over the window’s ledge and exploding through the cool air, feeling spits of rain slide against his skin. Time slowed, his body paralyzed. Droplets of rain slowed again, like a liquid gobs stopped by the command of a rotationless globe. Sounds of panic growled, while breathing became unnecessary.

The adjacent building’s window grew suddenly, forcing Alexander to push out his legs, aiming to penetrate the window with the least amount of injury. Other than a pop in his shoulder, violently rolling into the room, save for a few scraps on his face, Alexander successfully jumped from the fifteenth floor of the Golden Tǎ, into the fourteenth floor of the Dominer Chateau. After a quick sigh and a glance back at the Dominer Chateau, Alexander grinned, making the impossible, possible. He might yet escape, unnoticed, tracking the killer that marked him for death. Go, now.

Alexander ran wildly, with thick stomps from heavy legs, descending the narrow staircase of the Dominer Chateau, leaping over white metal railings when the stairs reversed direction. Seconds ticked away when he reached a door marked “exit” that led through the hotel’s lobby. His weapon secured, while heavily breathing and perpetrating through his dark torn shirt, Alexander opened the door gently, scanning for threats. The pain pulsating in his right shoulder throbbed; managing just enough not to be debilitating, yet still excruciating.

Emptied from curious onlookers along the corridors, in the bars and kitchens, the lobby exploded with oriental tastes, delicately crafted statues, and water fountains of historic figures. Alexander broke into the coat room using a small lock pick buried in his pants. Police were looking for a man with a long black coat. Appearing differently, however slight, could be enough to exit through the confusing crowds. Alexander left the Dominer Chateau with a short leather jacket, brown, with an extended collar, buttons with a zipper inlay, and two deep vertical pockets just above his hips.

With a special forces unit streaming into the Dominer Chateau, encased with black Kevlar vests, glass shield helmets and SG-550s, it was obvious they didn’t know he transferred to another building. They really were incompetent. Alexander hurriedly walked away from the chaos, no longer apart of the confusion, rubbing the pain that swelled in his shoulder.

Once the crowds were behind him, all staring, pointing, and gossiping about the consequences of both explosions, Alexander started sprinting, slowing only to peak down alleys, expecting the man with the black metal brief case. Nothing. What did he expect? He waited too long, the hunt, the escape, all for nothing.

Alexander sprinted faster, seeking any clue, the man, his destination, he felt a growing impatience. Frustrated, Alexander ran blinder, tilting his head for corners, hidden passages and raven infested alleys. Unable to quickly slow, he lost traction, sliding into the cop emerged from another alley. Without hesitation, or consequence, relying on vicious instinct, Alexander sent consecutive jabs into the man’s throat, sweeping his leg behind the cop plunging his head into the concrete. He wasn’t getting back up. Police were crooks, paid from the pockets from Nikolai’s illegal trade. It was justified, no matter how proclaimed the innocence was.

It wasn’t until the dark shadow, guided by his growing paranoia that all men were bought and paid for by Nikolai’s money, that he ran down the alley, easily gliding over a brick wall, landing quietly on the other side. There he was, turning into the nearest building, a small Chinese restaurant with a screen door that banged loudly. Was this man baiting Alexander into a trap? No time to spring it, he had to make this end. Patience. I have none. Answers are all that I want, all I came for. Answers were meaningless, all that mattered was death.

A floor above the Chinese restaurant, several open windows invited quiet winds of a decent cool stream, tempering warm bodies after a busy day of exhaustive service. Using the dumpster directly below the lit room on the elevated floor, Alexander jumped, and pulled himself through the window. An older Chinese couple began shuffling in bed. A nude woman flipped their sheets over her exposed breasts, while the man, clearly defended his home, his business and his honor, stood.

A bit short, with quick, yet weak impacts, the Chinese man attacked Alexander. It was too easy, deflecting punches, chops and holds. He had to put this to an end. Several shots into the kidney and a well placed hook into the man’s temple knocked him unconscious over the bed, across the woman’s legs. Before she could scream, Alexander pointed his weapon at her, leveling his vertical finger across his lips to remain quiet. She quickly nodded.

Carefully crossing one foot ahead of the other to avoid detected moans in the wooden floor, and his weapon drawn clearing each room with a glance, Alexander reached the stairs that led to the restaurant’s main dining hall, with a closed kitchen to the left. No movement, nothing. Maybe he left through the front door.

Patience. Fuck patience. Alexander hurriedly elapsed the stairs, keeping his weapon leveled, looking around corners, under tables, allowing awareness to flood his senses, listening, seeing and even smelling. The restroom. The kitchen. Where did he go? He glided through bathrooms, checked the stalls, and swept through the kitchen; even walk-in freezers. He can’t be gone, Alexander panicked. He must answer my questions, the man with a black metal briefcase had something that Alexander needed.

Just as he lowered his weapon, sighing loudly, processing new thoughts, Alexander had one of two options. Patrol the streets in disguise, spring the shadow, the enemy, the man with a dark metal briefcase who would surly escape. Call into control; learn new instructions, impressions, seeking information, key words, or uncommon phrases, whatever. Alexander didn’t know who was behind this, but even the Beast’s closest friends were now the enemy. But why? Nikolai. It had to be. Save for the State Senator’s son, he was the most powerful entity in the Main City. Nothing happened without his approval. No, he knew something, discovered by accident perhaps.

Just as he rubbed his temples, a massive weight slammed into his back, knocking him forward and sending a paralyzing pain throughout his body when his shoulder impacted the floor. Kicked away by the would-be killer, his weapon was useless now. A knee dropped into Alexander’s back, an arm wrapped around his neck. Circulation slowed, breathing problematic.

 “Clever, mate,” the enemy said. “Cause a ruckus, opening your escape. You’re bloody insane, you know. Even a fool knows when to ditch town, when a six figure contract is out on their head.”

Desperately, Alexander widely threw his left elbow into chaotic swings behind him, knocking the man sideways, loosening the fatal grip around his neck. Barely pushing himself away from the floor, Alexander swung his right arm connecting against the man’s face, sending him sprawling backwards. It was lucky; the killer had him.

Finally, both men stood, facing each other. The enemy grinned, licking away the blood the formed around the corner of his mouth. The Beast was absent, where did it go?

“Why don’t you leave, mate. Go away. Leave Main City, take some Potosi with you. Enjoy whatever life you can muster,” the enemy said.
“Who are you,” asked Alexander.
“I’m the one who answered the wire,” he said.
“The wire?”
“You don’t know, do you,” asked the stunned enemy.
“Know what?”

The enemy lunged, jabbing with short powerful blows that Alexander easily deflected, leaning backwards, throwing hooks, uppercuts, an old fashion boxing match, dirty and relentless. Slapping away weak shots, side-stepping powerful one, pressing closer avoiding others. The enemy wasn’t skilled with hand to hand combat; he wasn’t inventive, hadn’t seen every fighting style. Punches were thrown, chops, blocked, parries and counterpunches. Alexander’s arms and hands were a blur, prepared with years of instinctive combat training. He knew when and where the next blow was aimed, positioning his defenses.

When the enemy lunged again, Alexander backed, deflecting cautious jabs effortlessly. Suddenly, the enemy swept his right leg across the wooden floor, missing Alexander’s jumping legs, opening himself for a shot into the gut. Alexander stepped back, cursing his unresponsive lungs, and taking his enemy lightly. Where is the Beast?!

Another foot planted into Alexander’s chest, crashing him through the wooden curtain that blocked the restaurant’s kitchen. Pouncing, the enemy started crushing Alexander’s throat with a mighty squeeze. Breath. Just breath. His ankle. Alexander grabbed the enemy’s left ankle, and twisted. Shouting, the enemy backed away with a limp, allowing Alexander to sit up, roll over to his right and twist his legs into a circular motion springing him into a standing position.

Surprisingly, the enemy put up his hand.

“Who are you,” asked Alexander, more frustrated this time.
“My mother called me a bastard,” the enemy mused.

Alexander threw a kick towards the bastard’s knee, unsettling the dust, missing the enemy who lifted slightly to avoid the crushing blow. Shooting his forearms up, blocking a long-arm shot across his face, Alexander straighten his fingers and aimed at the enemy’s throat. Blocked by a diagonal parry, the enemy countered with body shot, forcing Alexander to spin away, opening the distance between the two.

“Who is your employer?” Alexander asked.

The enemy brought his leg up, aiming for the side of Alexander’s head. Krueger ducked, bent his knees, placed several shots into the bastard’s gut, and then connected with several blows into his face. Alexander swept his leg, the enemy jumped, cocking his arm in a downward blow. Leaning back, Alexander deflected tired punches, connecting with a few himself, purposefully grinning at his enemy’s low endurance. The enemy was a poor marksman, a thief, a shadow assassin. He wasn’t a warrior, inexperienced with hand-to-hand combat, lacking the necessity to win at any cost. Yet, the Beast didn’t exist, didn’t take over, sleeping, hibernating, on leave, away from Alexander.

Unwilling to connect with fatal blows to piece together the past thirty minutes, Alexander tried to wear down the enemy, allow the Beast time to return. The bastard was panting like a hot tired dog, wiping sweat off his face, allowing himself a defensive stance, prepared for counterpunches but worried his slow hand would become too fatal. Alexander could strike at any time at this point, but waited.

Suddenly, Alexander laughed loudly, “Good, eh?”
“Oh, fuck off,” the enemy said, suddenly taking a seat. The fight was over, both of them knew it. Alexander had wore him down, yet still stunning him that death wasn’t the end of a battle. Perhaps, a first.

“Who are you? Why are trying to kill me,” asked Alexander, slowly approaching, standing two tables away.
“There’s a contract out for you.”
“What’s your name, who’s your employer?” shouted Alexander.
“Employer? I work for myself, mate. When a contract hits the wire, everyone looks to get paid. The highest bidder, as some would say.”
“How much?”
“Half a million,” the enemy sighed. “Half a fucking million, sitting in front of me. I missed the bloody shot, get doped, chased, and then beaten in some Chinese restaurant.” The enemy pointed, “you know, some would call that an inevitability, no matter how much I try to kill you, it can’t be done.”
“Who put the wire out?”
“Who the fuck knows. It’s all anonymous. It hits the wire, a phone number is given to establish contact, confirm the kill, and instruction for money transfers.”
“What happens if you call? Tell them I’m dead.”
“A crony would need to see the body, photograph it and once the confirmation is made, the money is transferred.”

Alexander placed his hand to his mouth, thinking, wondering, growing impatient, but stabilizing his anxiety diving into wisdom of adjusted perceptions. Who put the contract out? Should he call Nikolai? No, maybe he put the hit out. He knew? Perhaps it was Nolts, Nikolai’s greatest rival. Government? Maybe Captains within the organization, Joseph, Raymond, or Riley, angered with Alexander’s uncommon ranks.

“Call the number, tell him to arrange at old Millens. No one will be there and there’s a startled couple upstairs that likely called the police.”
“Fuck you, I’m not bloody helping you. I still want my money, I expect to get it.”
“That might not be a problem,” Alexander grinned.
“What do you propose?”
“First, your name,” Alexander prompted.
“Simon.” The enemy finally admitted.
“Make the call, Simon.”

It was, as if he watched from above, maybe a movie, observing all from a helium balloon, a glider or a bird. Shocked and stunned, Alexander watched Simon, the bastard, the killer, the enemy, quickly unleash and discharge a surrogated dagger that penetrated his chest, near his heart. Alexander looked down, saw the handle but no exposed blade. Warmth grew around his chest, dizziness started blurring his vision. Damn you, he shouted at the Beast, still asleep, dying like Alexander. His posture lowering and his balance becoming imbalanced, he reached for a chair to regain it, but missed.

Alexander fell.

Landing on his back, watching white little dots form within his vision. Simon, the bastard, the killer, the enemy, hovered over Alexander, not the Beast. The Beast was gone, dead, for no reason. What had happened? Why did he lower his defenses? Did he really think this assassin would allow a walking fortune to go uncompensated?

“Looks like I’ll get my money after all, mate. I do apologize, however. You fight for a cause that should be fought. You would have succeeded if not for my bloody skills.”

Simon retrieved a handgun from his black metal briefcase, and returned to Alexander, hovering over him. His weapon aimed at Alexander’s forehead. “It was an honor,” said the enemy, a ritual of sorts between two fighters. But not warriors. This man wasn’t one; he was a thief, an opportunist, a deceiver.

What happened next was, perhaps, a dream. Or some transformation, like a page turned without words remaining in a book with no ending. It was so sudden, Alexander didn’t register it as it should be registered. Confusion, aided by lost feeling around his arms and hands, his lips coursing with a poison that overwhelmed his body. He wasn’t clear. All he saw, all that happened within his vision, wasn’t right. It was as if the enemy’s head just fell over, bouncing against the wooden floor and rolling over, while a loud thud marked the collapsed headless body. Once the head stopped rolling, it just stared at Alexander with unstunned eyes. What happened? Maybe he was dead, this was simply transformation from one hell to the next.

Another face appeared, blurry, yet known. He squinted his eyes, forcing the blur focused. The long wavy golden hair, the button nose, the thick lips; he had seen her before. When he finally put her face into place within his memories, all he could say before he saw darkness was, “Sister.”

Why don’t you depart from me alone?
Then wherever shall I go?
I don’t care, just leave.
You won’t permit me.
What?
If you wanted me forgotten, you would let me go.
Nevertheless, I don’t want you around.
Yet, hither I remain.

Then what is your name?
Oh, I’m a composite of possessions, all of which you’ve baptized me.
I’ve never named you.
I don’t think you swallow that, in face, you know it not to be veritable.
Then what’s your name, tell me. You have to have one. Everyone has a name.
Oh, you know.
That’s no answer.
Yet, that’s what I am.

I still don’t like you.
To be honest, I don’t care for you.
Then endow from me.
I can’t, this you were already told.
Why?
You won’t let me split away.
Even if I did that, I wouldn’t exist.
A dilemma you’re presented.

Maybe it’s best that I left instead.
Where would you go?
I just wouldn’t exist, I have no reason.
Stop feeling apologetic for yourself, you fool.
You say that because you need me.
If you say so.
It’s true, if I cease to exist, so do you.
Maybe it doesn’t work that way.

What do you mean?
I become all, one, and everything.
You’re still missing parts of the whole.
But I would exist, around the gaps of existence, unlike the timorousness you’ve become.
You still wouldn’t be whole.
Yes, but I would be for something.
Now you’re presuming.
What have I got left?

What then?
Maybe we do what we should have done long ago.
I don’t like the sound of this.
Unite, combine, integrate, become one.
Nevertheless, I don’t like you, you’re bad for me.
Usually in these scenarios, one doesn’t like the other.
Why?
One kills the other to control the whole, for the right to exist.

But I do exist, you don’t.
How do you explain this conversation then?
I can’t. I presume it’s typical based on similarities.
Because you presume a lot, it only means you’re often wrong.

Why then, should either of us exist?
A question posed in which can’t be answered.
Without one, there isn’t the other.
Not true, you’re still not learning.
If I destroy you, then I become nothing.
But if I destroy you, I become everything.
Consequently, you do need me?
Yes.
What do you want?
I don’t care, just be gone.

Maybe you give me my right.
You’re right to what?
To exist, motivate, to live long.
If that’s your wish, so be it.
What will come of us now?
What’s always been true.
Just go away.
This negotiation is over.

Stanley Jackson, a few days past his thirty-fifth birthday, awoke in the loft of his woodworking shop between the County Lands and the Main City. His long jet black hair was cropped with a frosting of light snow; his full beard covered most of his facial scars. Often wearing a wool flat cap, a flannel shirt and jeans, Stanley contemplated surgery to enhance his cover; he could modify his nose into a button shape, space his eyes a little wider, thin out his thick lips. There were options.

With millions stockpiled in his workshop, under a false cement block by the rusty water heater, Stanley was never concerned with cost. Still, he deflected the idea of surgery, deferring that if fate entered the front door, then he would take that in stride. After all, he was a simple woodworking repair man, without someone to go home to, or friends to call his own. Essentially, Stanley Jackson was born when a man named Alexander Krueger died the night a State Senator’s son, deeply involved with illegal trade, was murdered.

Every morning, Stanley awoke from his bed, brewed his coffee. Once his cup was full, he powered the television for this morning’s news while unfolding the day’s newspaper at his primary workstation. Always black, the coffee was especially hot. Short sips were annoying enough; slurping could get a man killed. Still, Stanley cautiously sipped his steaming black coffee. Winter storm blankets northeast, the newspaper headline read. Television recorded accounts of the storm, through interviews and hacks on the scene.

After he closed the newspaper, ditching the sports and style sections, and folding the crossword puzzle into his back pocket, Stanley’s next routine was to check the three handguns hidden in the shop; just below the cash register, behind the display case and at his workstation. He checked clips, chambers, breechblocks, frames, followed by an instinctive wipe with his clean white cloth. After a quick dusting of the furniture on display, and a spray of glossy finish on his prized creations, Stanley was ready to open.

In a lucky day, Stanley may welcome one customer every two hours; though selling furniture by the fingers of a single hand during his busiest days was often disheartening. Rocking chairs sold well, as did end-tables and simple dresser drawers. Without the skill his father had, Stanley kept his work simple; his accomplished creation being an oval conference table coated with a dark maple finish. Skillfully superior, his father built something like that in three days, provided, he worked day and night. It took Stanley two months, forcing him to focus on easier projects for a better turnover in the books.

The door bell chimes rang out.
“Good morning, Mr. Jackson,” Bernard greeted handing Stanley his brick-sized stack of mail, tied together with a thick rubber band.
“The whole world is covered in snow and ice, and you’re on time, dropping off my bills,” Stanley said saluting the mailman with his steaming cup of coffee “The mail never sleeps, Mr. Jackson,” Bernard said. “Nor does it stop.”
“Can I offer you a cup of coffee?” Stanley asked. “I have sausage breads in the back, if you’re up for a snack.”
“No thanks, Mr. Jackson. We have a lot of mail to deliver, being so close to Christmas and all. Plus, it’s not easy getting around in this stuff. The sidewalks are terrible. Not only do I have to negotiate a sheet of ice on the pavement, but I have to step through the snow that was plowed off the streets. Nevertheless, it looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas after all.”
“Indeed,” Stanley responded, cautiously sipping his steaming coffee, shifting through the mail.
“Good day, Mr. Jackson,” Bernard said exiting.

Stanley set his white coffee cup on the display case that housed glues, hammers, and chisels, among other tools for the craft. Bills, bills, bills, disclosures, it was much of the same. A new subscription finally arrived that claimed to revolutionize the woodworking industry for small businesses. While he thumbed through it, he was suddenly preoccupied. Encouraged with basic instinct through years of training, Stanley pocketed one of his handguns. When he opened his store a few years ago, he felt constantly threatened. In time, Stanley’s scenes dulled, often deflecting his instinct as paranoia. Unfolding a small section of the newspaper on the counter, Stanley licked the tip of his pencil and attacked the crossword puzzle while the news blared from his workshop.

Big men in black leather jackets, short hair and malicious scowls walked into the shop; the second of the two men, shorter than the first, cautiously flanked Stanley on the right while the taller man indifferently checked between shelving units, before twisting the knob to close the store’s blinds. Watching their reflection in the display case that bounced along an elevated glass directly towards the front door, Stanley observed their movements. By now, both men were on either side of Stanley, who kept his head down on his crossword puzzle, even answering fourteen across.

The front door chimes rang out again, broadcasting the emergence of a third person. This time, Stanley looked up, hiding surprise watching the Filth of a disgusting mustache approach with a long coat strapped to his neck, with arms inside the sleeves, like wearing a cloak. He pulled his gloves from his hands and removed his black hat revealing his bald head.

“Can I help you,” Stanley greeted calmly.
“Nice store you have here,” the Filth said mindlessly checking out the storefront. With a smile, the Filth pointed, “Stanley is it? Stanley Jackson, owner of the Old Country Shop.”
“Yes,” Stanley said returning to his crossword puzzle, observing the reflection of all three men in the display case.
“That’s a nice table,” the Filth pointed to the oval conference table. “How much would that cost me?”
“Fifteen hundred,” Stanley said, filling in seventeen down.
“Good price,” the Filth mocked.
“It’s crafted using the best plywood I could find. The structure was built with Rocky Mountain Douglas fir, using red oak, birch and maple for the designs,” Stanley looked up, quickly scanning all three men. “I see you brought some help to carry it out. It would be best to wait until moisture moves out of the air, not to upset the finish.”

The Filth smiled when Stanley returned to his crossword puzzle, expressing “Ah” when he figured out twenty across.

“I would like to purchase it,” the Filth said trying to get Stanley’s attention.
“Fifteen hundred,” Stanley repeated, filling in twenty-two down.
“Do you take cash?”
“Of course, money is money.”

The Filth pulled out a baseball-sized clump of rolled up bills, counting each hundred-dollar bill and piling fifteen on the table.

When the big man on the right began pressing his hand inside his leather coat, Stanley dropped the pencil, grabbed the handgun from underneath the cash register while gripping the handgun from his pocket with his right hand. With speed that neither man was prepared for, Stanley crossed his arms, pointing his weapons at the surprised look on both tough guys. Both men revealed their hands in surrender.

“Now, now, Alexander,” the Filth said jolly, setting his golden cane, tipped with a snarling rottweiler, against his leg. “You have to admit,” the Filth said extending both arms on his side, palms facing up, “that this reversal of ambush is rather poetic.”
“Get out,” Stanley ordered. “Or I’ll bury you in the Country Hills, so Wolves and Bears can feast on your dead body.”
“Or,” the Filth countered, “You could drop your weapons so I won’t have to feed you to my farm of hogs.”

Stanley uncoiled his arms, so he could extend both arms at the muscle. Neither shifted, but the Filth leaned his body against the glass display. “You remember me, don’t you,” the Filth asked. “You jammed your gun in my throat, threatened to kill me. Sadly, I was unable to do as you asked; being the areas regional director of the organization you used to work for.”
“What,” Stanley queried.
“See, Nikolai, your former boss, is my boss,” the Filth revealed. “You were his assassin, his number one enforcer. I, on the other hand, am simply a business man, pushing our products deep into the Main City. It’s no surprise that we never knew of each other, outside your unhealthy oppression with Sophia, of course.”

Sophia. Rage infuriated the boiling blood in his body, broadcasting with the click of both guns being cocked. Stanley wanted to point his guns at the Filth, fire off two shots into his disgusting mustache, then roll backwards into his workshop for cover. However, the two big men on his flanks were his biggest threat, and he needed to keep them neutralized.

“You remember her, don’t you? I couldn’t protect her any longer, in truth. Once Nikolai discovered her past with you, he took her from me.”
“And you let it happen, didn’t you,” Stanley spit.
“Of course, Stanley,” the Filth said, mocking his cover name. “You don’t go against the wishes of Nikolai. I got a nice promotion, complete with a six-figure raise.”
“Where is she,” Stanley asked.
“Let’s not worry about that. But I do have to thank you?”
“For what,” Stanley growled.
“Well, your advice of course. I was shooting up in that restaurant, and you told me to, how you put it, flush that shit down. I did. And now I’m the most successful businessman in your old organization. In truth, you answer to me now.”
“Where is she,” Stanley repeated.
“You took a blood oath, Alexander, and you must return, or face the trials.”
“It would seem that you’re at a disadvantage,” Stanley said. The Filth simply smiled.
“When she left me, she told me that she loved me,” the Filth said. “How does that make you feel?”

Alexander saw red again, pouring from the walls like rain penetrating a cracked ceiling, spilling from cups lively boiling like a spitting volcano, white snow becoming a river of dark red. After pulling both triggers, Alexander tried to swing both guns forward. It was too late. The Filth pulled out his own weapon, and shot twice; one grazing his right temple and the other penetrating his right cheek. Alexander saw a bright light made of gold fading to darkness, then nothing.