The Stranger (revamped and finnished)

[bloodbathmaster2]

THE STRANGER

CHAPTER 1

The Forgotten Empire

The hazy sun cast dim shadows in the dusty hotel room, and the sun bleached curtains swayed in the warm breeze. It is then that the stranger woke. The thud of his leather boots stirred the dust as he walked to the window to peer outside. Almost like looking into another world, the stranger gazed upon the desert that had been his home since he had gasped his first breath.
This wasteland was unimaginable. For miles and miles lay the vast expands of what was once called New York. The skeletal remains of skyscrapers, the rusting shells of cars, and the dead were all that remained of this ancient town. Legend told of a Great War that took place here. Fire fell from the sky, they said. The flames did not end for five years, and even then, the tormented souls of those whom fell victim haunted its ruins. Most people avoided this cursed land, but the stranger feared only the living.
The spark of a lighter flashed across the room. A familiar drift of smoke found its way to the peeling ceiling. He took a deep breath of its relaxing smoke and rummaged the desk for his notebook. A long empty Nuka-Cola bottle crashed to the dull carpet when the stranger rattled the table. The rustle of paper followed the crash. The stranger took his notes and sat down on the dirty, old bed.
The notes appeared to be a journal of events and towns that the stranger had visited. Sketches of bizarre deformities and ancient artifacts littered its yellow pages. He had been fascinated with trinkets since he was but a boy. His backpack was filled with them: books, toys, and various tools. It was always amusing to him that the most valuable artifact that he owned was a few handfuls of bottle caps, the common currency of the wastes.
The stranger’s hand found its way to a page filled with various details and accounts of New York. His eyes drifted out of the window as he took a charcoal pencil and began to draw. He gazed at the immense crater near the city’s center, half filled with the ocean’s salty water. It is in this crater that a valuable antiquity was believed to rest. This is the reason the stranger had come, for the stranger took pride in his knowledge of the past.
Gentle clouds of blue smoke steamed from the stranger’s sunburnt nostrils. He closed the leather binding of the sketchbook and stored it neatly in his faded black rucksack. Glowing embers cascaded from the cigarette as the stranger tossed it carelessly out of the shattered glass windowsill. A glint of silver reflected onto the stucco wall near the shadow of a gun. The faint click of ammunition was followed by a satisfying grunt from the stranger as he holstered his weapon. As the stranger put on his gear he smiled. The tails of his dark brown duster whipped around him, cloaking his identity. The faint smell of the worn leather brought back memories.

The front door of the abandoned hotel swung weakly on its rusted hinges as the stranger stepped outside and into the rubble that was once New York. Sunlight shone off of the cracked glass of a gas mask that he took from a pocket. The mask fit firmly over his scarred face. Primal instinct forced a flinch as he stepped onto the dried, flaked remains of bird shit. The birds here were an infestation worse than the rats.
Echoes of rodents, both grounded and winged, sounded throughout the husks of buildings as the stranger began his journey. He passed a collapsed section of roadway overpassing the filthy trickle that remained of a river. The feeling of being watched never left him, but the stranger ignored the ghosts. After an hour under the grueling sun, the stranger found his way to the lip of the crater.
A drop of sweat fell to the hot cement. The stranger looked in a sense of awe at the true devastation of what had once happened here. Buildings lay scattered like playing cards; their twisted remains still rotted under the harsh sun. Anything not incinerated by the initial blast had been left portrayed in a most gruesome fashion. The stranger could scarcely make out the faint smoke of what could only be human habitation.
The only thing worse than the desert was this pitiful society. Living in the dark catacombs of the New York underground, these hellish creatures were shunned across the expanse of the wastes. It is claimed that they were survivors of the holocaust. With possession of enough insanity to dare live within the radiated crater, they worshipped ancient gods and read from texts written in another era.
The wind rustled the duster as the stranger stood upon the crater rim. He tossed an emptied canister of medication down the slope. It rattled and leaped to its resting place near a rotten corpse. The words Rad-X were still visible on the faint print of the bottle. The stranger looked at the dead body without compassion. The bone of its skull was crushed beneath the sole of the stranger’s boot as he trod past.
The faint glow of the contaminated water illuminated the edge of a small hole. Drops of the liquid echoed in the hollow chamber below. Rubble cascaded over the edge as the stranger came to a halt. This was an unused portal into the unknown. He took a long cord of rope from his pack and looked for a metal outcropping. After tying the frayed end of the rope to a bent steel pole, the stranger tested the knot. Seconds later, he disappeared into the darkness.

Sounds of mysterious demons were carried to the stranger’s ears as he descended. A shrill voice could be faintly heard above gentle splashing of the pale green water. The stranger’s right arm pulled taunt as his other hand released the rope and grasped for the leather holster on his side. The ragged outline of a man appeared near the puddle of water and kneeled to examine the tail of the rope floating on the translucent surface. The whites of his eyes followed a glint of metal in the darkness. The deafening blast of the gun was followed by the dull sound of collapsing man.
After dropping into the polluted water, the stranger slowly stood and looked at the mess of blood on the stone floor. The warm water lightly splashed at the side of the limp body. Smoke faintly trailed from the stranger’s gun as he holstered it and took his rucksack from his shoulders. He reached into his pack and fumbled with the clutter of junk for a short while. After a seemingly long period of time, the stranger’s hand found what it was looking for. The yellow flicker of the flashlight blinked into existence and illuminated the room.
The blackened walls of the passageway were littered with strange pictures and foreign writing. Two rusty metal beams lay on the floor and expanded both ways from his view. There was a faint light down the passage. As the stranger began to venture towards the light, a cockroach scurried into view. The large insect looked blankly at the stranger, and the stranger looked blankly at the insect through the black lenses of his gasmask. After a moment of silence, the cockroach slowly backed away into a crack in the wall.
Faint chanting of human voice could be heard as the stranger neared the source of the light. He cautiously advanced to the entrance of what appeared to be a large cavern. From his view at the edge of the passage, the stranger observed the torchlit shapes of cloaked men and women. Grasping a low concrete beam, the stranger summoned his strength and lifted himself to the rafters as to receive a better view of these strange events.
The cloaked figures all huddled before a massive stone altar. The stranger’s eyes widened as a taller man stepped behind the altar and removed his hood. To his mind was revealed a hideously deformed face. A deep voice emerged from the man’s lips as he began to recite a new chant; the others quickly followed his lead. It was then that the stranger clenched his teeth, for the man behind the altar was reciting from an ancient text. A mist began to swarm upon the stranger’s thoughts as he imagined himself in possession of the text.
A metallic clank broke the focused chanting. The cloaked figures turned to face the noise, but reacted too late when the grenade detonated. A thick curtain of smoke encompassed the room while screams filled the air. In the chaos, the black outline of the stranger rushed from its perch near the ceiling. Laughter erupted from his lips as his hands firmly grab hold of the time worn pages of the text. A sense of pleasure like no other filled the stranger’s mind. This emotion was soon blasted from him as pain flared on the back of his skull. The image of the ancient text blurred and faded into darkness. The stranger collapsed like a rag doll shortly before losing consciousness.

CHAPTER 2

Ghosts of Yesterday

He woke to pain. A pain so great as to challenge the depths of hell itself, and it rolled in waves. His eyes flickered open, in greeting of a new nightmare, the hard reality of consciousness. Sometimes, he wished that he would just stop struggling, for then he'd never remember what lay within his dreams. The world was harsh, but at least it was an enemy he could face squarely.
Light flared into his mind and drove away the darkness enveloping his skull. He felt the dreams flickering away... and smiled.
He could feel the warmth of blood trickling down his chin. Loudly, he could hear human voices blaring in his ear. Was it just his dazed senses playing tricks on him? Slowly, his world began to come to focus. The blurred light of his vision sharpened into the features of a face looming overhead.
Deep creases stretched across the peeling skin of the face. A lifetime of frowns and laughs, anger and dismay, all gathered together to etch the mark of hard experience. The man's crusted lips moved, but the sounds formed no recognizable words in the stranger's ears. Thoughts and memories flooded the stranger's head in quick realization. His mind broke free of all the chains of dream, and his blood ran cold.
He was kneeling, garbed only in the tattered remains of his trousers. He felt exposed, naked for all to see. Every muscle twitched, trying to find feeling behind their mask of cold, dried sweat. With both arms bound tightly the wrists, he watched as his blood dripped to the crackled tiles of the floor, and stained it a rusty crimson.
From the shadows emerged the dark outlines of the shunned society. Their unforgiving eyes peered upon the stranger, and he could almost feel the hatred within their gazes, scarring his flesh.
The glare of light upon metal drove fresh pain into the stranger’s thoughts. When his eyes dared stray back to the man before him, he saw his own weapon, displayed for everyone to see. Gasps and enraged voices sounded from the audience in response. With a gnarled hand, the man directed all view to a poorly wrapped wound in his leg. Blood crusted the edge of the bullet’s entry and fleas began to gnaw upon the yellowed flesh.
The stranger understood what these people wanted now. Their hearts burned with the desire for revenge. Was all of this for a piece of parchment? The words echoed inside of him. “What have I done?�

Faint whispers of ghosts awoke the stranger. They beckoned him to repent his sins and abandon his quest. Cloaked in the shadows, they avoided the light of the solitary candle. He lay still upon the cold concrete. A salty tear slid to the floor. It slowly faded away, and not even the keenest of eyes could detect the self-shame it left stained upon the earth.
With seemingly limitless willpower, the stranger slowly lifted himself and began to study his prison. The ancient steel door and lonesome candle appeared as his only companions. His gaze ultimately found the familiar black rucksack and he smiled. His mind tried desperately to vanquish the image of the wounded man while his hands reached down to touch the folds of his clothing. He struggled with the thought whilst a ghost tickled his ear.
“Is it so wrong to kill? The people here lived in so much pain already. Did he do harm, or did he attempt to release a tormented soul?� Faintly, a softer voice countered the barrage. The thoughts refused to leave him, and the stranger soon gave way. The faint voice died out and he sighed in relief. Looming tall in his duster, the stranger contemplated his situation.
Flakes of rust fluttered to the floor as the stranger impacted a large dent in the door. Consequently, he collapsed to his knees in agony. A rivet of frothy blood streamed between his knuckles. Amidst his pain, he rose and stepped back. Again, his broken hand impacted the old door with great force. A loud crash erupted as it was flung free of its hinges. As the dust settled, the stranger walked into the dimly lit hallway, trailing blood from his left hand.
The sound of fleeting footsteps filled the air. A terrified woman leaned against the wall with her hand to her mouth; tears spilled out across her innocent cheek. The dark outline of the stranger passed in silence. A firm grip took hold of her arm, but she sighed in relief at the sight of her husband. Together, they watched as the stranger limped through the stone arch of the atrium.
Fueled with anger, yet restrained by fear, a group of the sub-humans stood below the stone altar. As the shadow of the stranger neared, they tensed. Leather boot upon the ancient tile rang throughout the air. The moment lasted an eternity, and from the darkness the stranger emerged. His worn eyes looked toward the altar in deep thought. The soft drip of murky water only added to the tension.
Reaching into his pocket, the stranger found the last cigarette. As it reached his lips, his other hand withdrew the tarnished steel of a lighter. His face was for a second illuminated, and then masked in pale blue smoke. From the mass of weeping men and women, a cloaked figure rose into the path of the stranger. The man’s determined face locked away all fear. In life or death, he would not allow the desecration of his home.
Their eyes met and the challenger was knocked from his feet, a yelp escaped his lips. The stranger readied for another kick, but no one rose to oppose him. His eyes scanned them, seeing their hatred. He turned his head. It was unbearable. Reluctantly, he neared the massive slab of concrete used for an altar.
He gasped in shock. Not one, but two books lay before him. He let loose a nervous laugh, for both the books were the same. “At least I will not suffer the guilt,� he thought. Loose pages from one of the texts fell to the tile when the stranger grasped hold of its spine. After a rustle of paper, the text fit snugly in the rucksack. His task finally accomplished, his duster whirled with him as he turned away. Without a sound, the stranger staggered out of the stone arch and disappeared forever from the lives of this society.

CHAPTER 3

Death and Rebirth

Fading rays of sunlight cast the wasteland in a blood red glow. Finding it difficult to continue reading, the stranger lay rest the ancient pages of the text. The towering ruins of New York faded into the haze, and only vast dunes of sand remained to please the eye. The landscape was filled with beauty, but the stranger looked beyond the surface. He felt the bitter pain of the land. Spinning as it slavishly serves the sun, it slowly dies.
Raw stench of sweat seemed to hopelessly fill his nostrils. From his seat on the top of the wagon, he gazed upon the source and observed the slow, laborious movement of the animal towing him and the makeshift caravan. He took an oily rag and tied it about his face in disgust. Though the ride was free of charge, it reeked of poverty. It was not that the stranger was unfamiliar to the icy claw of poverty, but rather it brang forth sad memories.
Long ago, when the stranger was but a child at his mother’s knee, the world as he knew it was one of joy. Never had he imagined the horrors of the wastes until that fateful afternoon. The soft wood of the walls seemed to paint the perfect mood as the hazy reaches of the sun peeked through the clouds. A knock echoed from the door, a knock that would be the end of the stranger’s innocence.
The door opened to the heartless faces of strange men. They entered the room, casting long shadows upon the stranger’s face. They struck upon his father with their clubs and knives. Their laughter rang throughout the air whist they defiled his mother and scarred the young mind of the stranger.
That day surpassed time, bringing a tear to the stranger’s eye at the mere thought. The day he had slept crying over the corpse of his father, whist the world tainted red with blood. Wiping the tear from his eye, the stranger banished the thought from his mind. No good may ever come from living on broken dreams. He must ignore such obstacles at the consequence of failure. He must not fail.
The stranger leaned against a rough wooden crate and began to drift into the realms of sleep. Most dreaded by the stranger, it was the only place where he could not hide behind masks. Fearing the nightmares, he struggled against the gaining weight of his eyelids. The gentle rock of the wagon soothed him, and he whimpered in defeat.

Sounds of the market reached the stranger’s ears, and he awoke from the death like trance of sleep. Slowly stretching his worn body, he took note of his surroundings. The caravan stood pushed to the side, while a crowd of men unloaded its goods. The reds of the dyed bazaar stalls swayed in the breeze. Grasping the cloth of his rucksack, the stranger climbed from his nest in the crates and sacks, and graciously thanked the caravan driver for his hospitality. Charity was not to be taken lightly in these trying times.
Forcing his way through the crowd of exited faces, the stranger reached the edge of the market square. The essence of spice and fresh fruit expanded in his twitching nose. The very smell of the town forced both pleasure and pain to his mind. This was all too familiar. Tears edged his eyes. This was home. But the stranger was afraid, for he was not ready yet to go back. His journey was not yet over.
A small child stared dumbfounded at the gasmask and giggled helplessly. This child knew nothing of who he was, nor did the child yet know why he should shun him. He too would outcast him like everyone else, if it were not for the dust covered lenses of the mask. The boy’s mother was quick to grasp him and turn his head. The stranger thought nothing of it, for it was better to be outcast as a stranger, than to be betrayed by those whom you once knew.
Passing the ancient houses near the edge of town, he stirred the dust helplessly into the air. Soft footfall of the leather boots treaded the familiar ground as though they had never left. Stopping before the burnt remains of an abandoned home, them stranger’s heart skipped a beat. What will he do? Will his mother forgive him? Bluntly ignoring these nagging thoughts, he pushed forward into the ashes of the home.
The bleached bone of a skull stood like a beacon amongst the char. His eyes watering, he approached the skeleton. Carefully embracing the touch, the stranger kneeled before the long dead corpse and held its hand. Comfort enveloped the stranger as he gently stoked the white bones.
In his mind, however, was painted a completely different picture. He kneeled before the haggard face of his mother. She smiled and placed her hand upon his head. Her features were troubled, but the stranger saw within her dark eyes the raw determination that will pull her through this tragedy. She was dying. He must find a way to cure her. Perhaps an answer lay in the shattered remains of the civilization long past?
Blackened ash swirled into the air as he dropped her hand; the dark cloud forced a cough from the stranger. Looking about himself, he gasped to see the house in ruin. Before him, he saw the unbearable remains of his mother. Confused, he stood and began to panic. Drops of moisture formed upon the edges of his gasmask as the stranger repeated the same message again and again. It echoed in his mind and drove him mad. “He has failed!�
Pages fluttered in the wind as they were torn from the sketchbook in anger. “Was it all in vain?� he almost screamed to himself, “All the long hours spent seeking antiquity amount to nothing! Nothing could ever bring her back now, not even the science of old.� The useless remains of the notes hit the cinderblock wall with a thud. Digging deep within the bounty of his pack, his callused hands grasped the thick binding of the ancient text. He called to it in despair. “Show me your answers! What could you do to save her?� As his hands flipped through the pages, his finger found a seemingly random verse.

Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? Sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must master it.

The stranger stared in awe at the words. With a start, he realized that this was not science. Yet, its words soothed the stranger and he read on. Hours passed, and a new kind of knowledge was made light to him. The pages spoke of noble people who lived long ago who had overcome fate’s hardships. This touched the stranger like nothing had before. Thoughts formed in his mind, and only one prevailed. He would have his revenge.

CHAPTER 4

Salvation of the Damned

As the fiery sun peaked with morning light, it looked down to see the unmasked face of the stranger. The hazel eyes flared with compassion and stood like beacons in the scars of his flesh. He still bore the makings of his painful memory. This face had changed since last seen in the watchful eye of light. His aura brought forth a sense of determination as he heaved the thick cloth of his rucksack to his shoulder.
The thick mark of charcoal made its way across a fresh sheet of paper left in the dying bind of the sketchbook. Carefully, the stranger copied every detail from the torn pages. Their knowledge no longer in vain, he tried to preserve his life’s work. Endless hours toiled past under the grueling pace of the sun. Men and children alike passed and paid no heed to the slouched form of the stranger.
A smile crept to the lips of the stranger, for there were no more pages left to toil over. He mused on the thought of such a simple pleasure. Sighing, he turned the crisp page and began to sketch the town. He knew every last nook as though he had never left. The rough outline of a building began to form, and the stranger halted. This was his destination. It was here that local scum bred their hideous crimes, even before the Great War. It was here that spawned the devils whom took his parents.
With a troubled brow, he carefully closed the leather hide of the sketchbook. To his surprise, a young boy watched from a distance. Their eyes met, and he smiled. The boy had been watching him all along. The child had followed him, entranced, for almost a day now. No. Longer. The boy seemed much too familiar. His dirt strewn hair rustled in the breeze while he stared back with equal curiosity.
He slowly advanced without fear. The young features of the child revealed tears bound to the crusted fringe of his eye. A limitless void of willpower must hold back such misery. As the boy neared his looming shadow, the comparison between them was almost comic. His small form clung to the seemingly massive hand of the stranger with an artful grace. The slightest tug commanded the attention of the leather clad man and together they slowly walked across the sifting dust of the street.

Standing now before the open doorway of a residence, the child released his callused hand. To no avail, the stranger attempted to catch the boy before he disappeared into the shadows. Why did the child lead him here? There was no time for such questions; he must pursue. A loud creak rumbled through the silence with the fall of a boot, and sunlight caught the last whip of his duster before it too entered the void.
His breath quickened at the sound of crying. It came from the next room, but before the stranger could move, it was drowned out with a scream. As he rushed across the warped wooden floor of the hallway, the screams grew unbearable. His heart churned violently in an effort to save the child, yet the hallway seemed to grow with every step. Slowly, the scene came into his view as he rounded the corner. He staggered for a moment in realization. A cold terror gripped his veins and his pupils seemed to withdraw from the sight.
The stranger’s nostrils flared at the stench of blood. Such a smell could never be forgotten, and it brought back memories. The child cowered in the corner of the dank room, shielded by the long fold of his mother’s dress. She bravely protected her son from the sight of crimson blood spilt across the floor. The collapsed form of her husband did not stir. Faint wisps of smoke still clung to the wound as the stranger knelt before the blood stained corpse.
A tear caught his haggard beard at the familiar sound of laughter. Looking up, his eyes ran the length of two men. Garbed in ancient black leathers etched with a faded icon, these men were nothing more than scum. This was a second chance for him. He could not allow them to hurt the child. Reaching deep within himself for the strength, he stood before the men.
It was then that the stranger paused before a wave of self-doubt. This was the moment he had feared his whole life, and the men terrified him beyond reason. He could feel their pride battering his soul. The struggle began without the raise of a muscle. A man with eyes like steel pushed his paralyzed body aside and stepped toward the woman. Breaking through all fear and doubt, a tiny ray of courage drove the stranger’s hand instinctively to his sidearm.
His hand brushed the holster and frantically reached for the weapon. With a start, he recalled its location. The cold steel of the gun rested deep beneath New York, and was of no use to the stranger now. Thinking quickly, his gloved hand connected with the soft flesh of the man’s face. The brittle snap of bone and cartilage confirmed the blow as the man collapsed weakly to the floor. For the unfortunate victim of this attack, the world smeared black.
Pain soared through the stranger’s side with contact from a blade. Grasping the handle of the knife, he withdrew is serrated edge from his own flesh. At the sight of such willpower, raw fear light the eyes of the blade’s owner. Kicking off of the ground, the stranger pounced upon him with enough force that they both crashed helplessly into the cement wall.
The tail of his duster dragged along the floor as the stranger stood. Scouring the room, he realized that everyone has fled. The stranger loomed tall before the unconscious body of the only remaining man. With little effort, the stranger forced the pistol from the man’s twitching hand and aimed. Only one bullet would be needed.
As his finger began to pull, the child stepped in front of the weapon. The blast was deafening.

His eyelids snapped open and he sat up. Trying to calm his breath, the stranger reminded himself that it was simply a dream. Cold sweat streaked clean lines upon filthy skin. “What did the dream mean? Why did the child prevent him from taking the life of the man?� He shook paranoid premonitions and stood up.
Night was beginning to fall about the ruins of his home. Word of his arrival would soon arouse suspicion, so he must move quickly. Taking the notebook from an outside pocket, he turned to the town sketch and circled the mercenary fortress. The time had come for redemption. His footfall made no sound in the dust as he departed.

CHAPTER 5

Holy War

Tom’s shaky hand lifted his canteen as he shivered in the cold. He hated guard duty. The bitter alcohol warmed him slightly, but the ice of the desert night chilled him to the bone. Pulling his leather jacket tighter around him, he began to hum. “Why the hell was he here? What decision along the path of life did he choose poorly?� The sound of a raspy cough startled him.
A mean, sweaty face greeted him with an uneasy smile. It was only Karl, thank god. He sighed in relief and offered the canteen to the larger man. Karl declined, and stared blankly into the night sky. Karl always looked out for Tom, even after he enlisted. Now that Karl was sick, it was the other way around. Karl had been lapsing in and out of the disease for almost a year now. There were times when Tom swore that his comrade would not pull through, and he still had his doubts if Karl would survive the next winter.
Karl stood in front of the light. Cast in darkness for a moment, Tom’s eyes strained to see. Their faithful service with the mercenaries had sharpened his eyes to a pinpoint, but with the lull of countless years, they deteriorated. With their experience, one would think they would be officers by now. Maybe it was the homosexual rumors…
Suddenly, Tom’s face erupted with violent pain. He fell to his knees in agony and wiped the salty blood from his eyes. His ears caught the dull thud of the stone as it hit the dirt. He had to get inside and alert the others. Reaching out for the small rock at his side, Tom threw it blindly back towards its owner.
Finally managing to get to his feet, Tom looked around for Karl. “Where is he?� he wondered, “Is he inside already?� With a skip from his heart, a sharp fear enveloped him at the sight of his friend.
Looking before him, Tom saw the empty hide of the holster at Karl’s side, and the cold steel of a tarnished knife standing tall from Karl’s throat. Before Tom could express the millions of emotions that flooded his mind, the roar of gunfire tore them from him. Slamming into the concrete wall, Tom shuddered and passed unconscious.
The stranger sighed and took the knife from the man’s unshaven throat. Amateurs. This might be easier than he thought.

Moonlight cast a pale shadow in front of the stranger. Behind him were the two collapsed forms of men. Ahead was a seemingly innocent metal door. He grinned. Naturally, it was locked. The faded red paper of a red cylinder emerged from the stranger’s pack. His butane lighter sparked to make legible an ancient word: Dynamite.
The oncoming blast echoed throughout the quiet township. It was blinding, almost unbearable, and it reflected from the glass of his mask. When the smoke cleared, only the twisted remains of the entry blocked him. He could hear people inside. Their loud breathing and rush of footfall indicated alarm. Click. The sound of a gun hammer snapped him to his senses.
The stranger’s hands blurred in reflex. They moved almost too fast for the sluggish speed of time. In the blink of an eye, they returned with a cocked pistol. Flinging himself to the ground, his firearm aimed itself at the noise. “Who am I aiming at?� The thought broke free of the chaotic mist forcing him to attempt murder. He hesitated, as though it could possibly be the child in his dreams.
Not a child, but a wounded man. With an arm in a bloody sling and the other gripping an UZI, his opponent paused with equal caution. Looking around, the stranger realized that everyone here was wounded. Poor bandaging and severe illness marked the dozens of men emerging from the doorway. Not a single man before him was healthy. Both the stranger and the wounded soldier clenched their teeth and pulled.
A finger twitched and a gun rattled. A spurt of crimson blood arced from the exit wound, and with it bone and brains. The sheer gore of the headshot would be enough to make a grown man vomit. Everyone here was jaded. There was no vomit. Only anger and chaos. And death.

Tom awoke to the bitter cold of the night. Pain throbbed about the wound in his side. Moments later, he faded back into the realm of slumber. His mind wandered helplessly in the void. No white light beckoned him. He was lost. Strange memories. Old memories.
His childhood passed before him. Years of humiliation. Now, he meets Karl for the first time. It was a joyous day. That day he wasn’t alone anymore. Time sped to his initiation at the mercenaries. He couldn’t believe it. He, the weakling, had passed the trials. Still, more recent memories.
A war. A terrible gang war. The mercenaries had been fighting this war. A rouge army had emerged to the south. The enemy unleashed a plague, and the outpost here had been turned into nothing more than a place for the infected to die.
War. Violence. Pain. Emotion. The definition of life. Pain. Lots of pain. A gunshot. Karl. Where is Karl? I am bleeding. I am bleeding?

Again he woke. How many times had he awoken? The pain hadn’t ceased. It continued to eat him from the inside. Something was different. It was daytime.
His hazy vision scanned the horizon. No one was around. They must all be dead. Lucky bastards. If they returned to find him alive, it would be an experience far worse than death. The army took delight in every scream too. He had seen it happen once, on a hologram anyway.
His head snapped to a faint crash from inside the building. A tear fell across Tom’s white beard. Something was still alive. With a weak effort, he crawled to his feet and began to back away. As long as there was life left in his bones, he would resist capture.
From the depths of the building, a dark outline emerged in the light. Strangely, the person wasn’t dressed like the others. His filthy duster reached his ankles, and with a gasmask in hand, he stared at the wounded mercenary. For the first time, Tom and the stranger met eye to eye.

CHAPTER 6

The Lonely Duo

“Hi.�

It was the first word that the stranger had spoken in recent memory. It was a small accomplishment in itself, one that took courage. But in Tom’s eyes, that raspy voice was the most horrific thing imaginable. He was at a loss for words. Who was this stranger? After a troubled stutter of muddled words, Tom found the courage to respond.
“Help me!� called the bleeding man. The stranger stopped. He had never been asked a favor before. How strange it seemed, that the outcast one would be seen as a savior. Both shared a look of bewilderment as he took from his pocket a syringe.
The stranger calmly replied to Tom’s distress, “This wont hurt, now stop squirming. You’re in no position to resist.� The rusty needle pricked into Tom’s arm and his eyes widened. They focused on the large red cross on the syringe so as to confirm it was not poison. When the flow of the Stimpack stopped, the stranger tossed the empty syringe away.
Tom could feel the chemicals working, and his wound stopped bleeding almost instantaneously. He had seen a Stimpack once before, in a merchant’s tent. It cost a small fortune then. This stranger must be rich.
“Who are you?�
“Might I ask the same, your face seems familiar.�
The two paused and stopped the line of thought. They had never before met, at least not to their combined recollection. In a moment, the conversation shifted.
“Why did you spare me?� Tom sheepishly asked. The stranger simply replied, “You asked me to.� Tom, still pondering those words, forgot his fear of the stranger and took out a cigarette from his fatigues.
“Can I have one of those?�
“Sure, they’re Black Deaths.�
“None better.�
They huddled together, pushing their cigarettes towards the sole lighter. Around them, corpses littered the ground. People were beginning to arrive. The crowd stared in awe. The stranger was the first to notice. With a quick puff of the smoke, he waved to the crowd. One of them screamed. Pulling Tom to his feet, the stranger gazed upon the horror stricken gathering.
“We should leave,� whispered the stranger. Tom nodded. The crowd would probably hang them both. Most people were too paranoid. If someone had the mentality to kill a group of men, then no one would be safe until he was gone.

The warm light of the campfire was all that could be seen for miles in vast expanse of the wastelands. Tom and his new companion sat together while the sun faded behind a distant mountain. He really didn’t know why he was sitting next to the murderer of his best friend, but he couldn’t imagine being alone. Even though the stranger was fast asleep, Tom was glad to have his company.
His sharp, steel eyes had looked upon the silent figure of the stranger with greed twice already. He was tempted to see just how much money he had. Both times his hand had neared, that face stopped him. It was innocent. Too innocent for his jaded mind.
Earlier, as they had walked across the flat desert, Tom had explained the current gang war. The stranger had seemed interested in the descriptions of the other army. Upon Tom’s conclusion to the tale, the stranger explained that the technology they possessed came from before the Great War. Very few places of such technology remained, and those that did were called vaults.
The vaults saved the last trickle of humanity from the fires above. It was legend that several of the vaults remained undiscovered, and that they were a treasure hunter’s dream should anyone be lucky enough to find them. Tom was no treasure hunter, but a change in occupation seemed unavoidable, and finding one of these vaults sounded like a good idea.
Now in search of the source of this mysterious army, Tom seemed to finally be content with what he was doing. It gave him an odd sense of happiness to know that what he was attempting was noble. It was quite a change from the pillaging, murder and corruption of the mercenaries.
A howl rang throughout the air. With a grunt, the stranger jolted upright, gun in hand. Tom quickly kicked some sand on the fire, casting them both into darkness. They could hear the dogs about a kilometer away. The stranger clasped a hand over Tom’s mouth. The silence lasted for an unbearable half-hour. With the fire extinguished and no sound of their prey, the wild canines eventually wandered elsewhere in search of food.
When they finally left, Tom sighed in relief and closed his eyes. He was too tired to stay awake, but the stranger’s voice kept him in this realm. He flatly asked, “Why didn’t you take my money when you had the chance?�
“I don’t know. I suppose I don’t want to leave. Where would I go, anyways?�
“Are you not afraid I will finish what I started? Or will that bullet be the start of an unlikely friendship?�
“You are indeed a very strange person. It is as though you can read my thoughts.�
“No. I merely understand people. I am but an observer.�
“If you are such an observer, then why do you seek fame and glory?�
“I seek not those superficial goals. I only seek knowledge.�
“I have never met such a man before. Most people in this world wish only to see others in misery.�
“What of you? What you want?�
“Company, I guess.�
“I wish I could but be alone sometimes. Such ghosts there are that haunt my dreams.�
“Oh, lord, look at us, the unlikely pair. Two drifters with not a care to anchor us down.�
Tom’s voice only met a snore. He laughed. Soon, he joined his new companion in the strange realms of slumber, eachother blissfully unaware of the other’s identity.

CHAPTER 7

Heathen’s Paradise

The town finally came into sight as the neared the edge of a bluff. They had been traveling amongst the outskirts of this place for days, wandering amongst empty houses and collapsed buildings. Now, spread below them, was a vast sea of the ruins. Somewhere down there, the orange glow of countless fires light it with a hellish glow. The stench of such vast poverty, it made Tom sick to look upon it. Unlike New York, this place thrived with the fast tempo of human life.
“Philadelphia,� called out Tom, “I hate the place.�
“This is truly the end of the earth.�
Tom had only heard stories of this city as a lad. Even in his service in the mercenaries, he never was allowed the two weeks of travel to visit this place. Even as he stared in wonder at the manifestation of human greed, he realized that the stranger was not standing nearby. He quietly whispered, “I am such a fool to fall behind. Now I shall never find him in this place.�
He staggered down the hillside, passing quickly into the small alleys of the city. It seemed to surround him, entrap him. The brown brick was anything but inviting, and it all stank of feces. He shuddered, but let his eyes stray. Above, an old clothesline swung in the breeze. One of the shirts seemed to reach out towards him. It was covered in blood.
Tom’s eyes now shone with fear. He was alone in a dangerous place. Loneliness had always been the bane of his life, and now he was forced to cope with it for the first time. He gathered what remained of his wits, and decided to ask a nearby girl for assistance. She was in her teens, and her brown hair swayed as she looked questioningly at him.
“Excuse me, little lady,� began Tom. The girl broke into a helpless giggle before he could finish the question. His temper flew.
“Have you seen a strange man in a long coat walk by here?�
“I see many people.� The line was almost as if rehearsed. Tom cursed the greed.
“Is a bottlecap worth your answer?�
The girl nodded. “Five bottlecaps and I’m all yours.�
Tom’s face turned bright red. “How dare you?!?!� He reached into his fatigues and flicked a bottlecap at her face. The girl’s slender frame bent quickly to receive the payment now in the dirt. She stood back up and smiled.
“He walked past here five minutes ago, muttering something about Fidel.�
“Fidel?�
“Fidel is the junk dealer on the east side of town.�
“Thanks,� said Tom as he pushed her to the side and walked down the street.

The stranger ducked inside a quiet building, and as he did, an old man looked up from a piece of junk. In the darkness, the wrinkled face could be mistaken for a corpse. His skin was as black as night, and there were sores across his cheek. Taking it from his duster, the stranger reached out a gloved hand. It was not greeted, but rather, the man snorted.
“Are you really so much better than me, Fidel?�
The man’s eyes light up with vigor at the stranger’s voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you without the mask!�
“No apologies are necessary, Fidel, just tell me what you have in stock.�
“As you can see…� Fidel began, pointing at various items cluttering the small room, “I have a good inventory. Times are good now that I don’t have to deal with mercenary red tape. Did you hear? Some strange group of men took siege to the place! Not a single soul survived.�
He was interrupted when Tom staggered in from the street. The former mercenary still wore his faded uniform, and his bandaged torso was crusted in blood. Fidel stared and let his cigarette fall from his lips. It hit the counter with a shower of sparks.
“Speak of the fucking devil!�
Tom squinted his eyes. The smoky air clouded everyone’s face, and he had a hard time getting a glimpse of who just said that. He was afraid to go outside after what he had just seen. A group of children had been playing with the rotten remains of an old woman. The very thought made him sick. Looking at Fidel’s face didn’t make matters any better.
The stranger snatched the cigarette unnoticed. Casually, he placed it in his mouth and caught Fidel’s attention with a free hand. Fidel blinked in confusion. Something didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The cigarette’s orange tip flared with every breath. Still, not a word escaped from Fidel’s lips. The stranger’s voice broke the awkward silence.
“Listen, friend, I need some information…�

Tom wiped the blood from his face. Fidel’s dead body slumped to the cement with a dull thud.
“Well…� he whispered, “I guess that dark skinned bastard bleeds just like you and me.�

Only five minutes before, the conversation had begun to heat to an argument. It began when the stranger asked a simple question.
“Listen friend, I need some information…�
“What kind of information?�
“About those men smashed up the mercenaries.�
Fidel grinned a toothless smile and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I’ve already sold that information.�
“What?!?!�
“I guarantee complete and total cooperation to the highest bidder. Now, on the other hand, should you provide a higher price...�
“How much?�
“One hundred thousand.�
The stranger bitterly stared deep into Fidel’s eyes. “I’ll give you fifty bottlecaps.�
“No deal. One thousand, or get the hell out of my store.�
“No one has that kind of money! Who did you sell the information to?� the stranger barked. The glow of the cigarette was intimidating, making the stranger’s face seem all the angrier. Fidel reached for something behind the counter, but the cold steel of a sawed-off shotgun stopped him. He looked at the barrel pressed against his skull, and a bead of sweat rolled across his face.
“I cannot disclose that information.�
“Don’t make this any harder for yourself, Fidel.�
The gun’s hammer cocked backwards with a loud click. Fidel winced at the sound, knowing that he would have to talk his way out of this one.
“Alright! I’ll tell you! It was Damien!�
“Damien? I thought he was killed five years ago!�
“Yeah, well, he’s alive and kicking! I don’t think he’ll be too forgiving about that nasty scar you gave him, though. If I were you, I’d leave him alone!�
“Where is he now?�
“He should still be digging through the ashes of the mercenary fortress. He’s looking for something.�
The stranger closed his eyes and said, “One last question, Fidel. What did you tell him?�
“I told you. I can’t disclose that information....�
“Oh.�
The stranger sighed and twitched his index finger. In an instant, Fidel’s complex weave of lies and trickery was undone.

CHAPTER 8

The Hero

Even while Tom watched the dead man collapse to the floor, a hand gripped his arm. The stranger nodded at a wooden door to the back of the shop. His boot slammed into the timber, splintering the wood and sending the door swinging open. As the exit was freed, the dull maroon of a brick alleyway met their eyes. Tom staggered into the alley and slumped to the concrete. He was weeping. Tom was weeping for the dead man, for all dead men. He thought of Karl, and he fell even further in his sorrow.
The stranger muted Tom with a gloved hand. The other hand was pursed to his lips, a gesture for silence. Now, without the loud tears, they could hear voices. Tom leaned towards the door, hoping to catch a glimpse. The stranger shut it before he saw anything.
“Holy shit!� cried one.
“Someone beat us to the job!�
“Look at that blood! It has to be the guy that Damien told us about.�
“I heard that the guy killed an entire outpost of mercenaries up north.�
“The man’s dangerous.�
“We better tell Damien about this.�
The voices then faded away. The stranger cracked the door, and seeing them gone, pulled Tom to his feet. They looked at each other in silence.
“They know we are here.�
Tom was still in shock. “How did you hear them coming?�
“I’ve spent my entire life in solitude. I’m sensitive to sound. Especially the harsh breathing and sloppy footfall of caravan guards.
“Caravan guards?�
“Yes, caravan guards. Damien must have hired them. Or they hired Damien. Either way, they are dressed for battle.�
“What will we do?�
“Follow them.�
Tom stood and shook the dust from his weary fatigues. The stranger reached into his rucksack and pulled forth the old, scarred gasmask. It covered his face in a perfect fit. The man was once again shrouded in a strange sea of isolation. For a moment, Tom thought it witchcraft. He shook the thought, and slowly, he followed the slow pace of his friend as they passed in the shadows and dark places of an unholy land.

Now, it towered before them. From a distance, the junk walls of the mercenary fortress seemed like cliffs. The true reality of their size was even more apparent now. Everything the mercenaries could find had been salvaged to create an impenetrable wall, a wall that had now fallen at places. “How could a group of men destroy such a building?� thought Tom. Yet, he knew that it was entirely possible with the technology the stranger had spoken of. This army was too powerful for imagination.
The stranger gripped an outcropped piece of the makeshift wall, hoisting his weight to a large hole. He peered inside. There was Damien, just as Fidel had said. He was searching a pile of corpses. “What for?� he asked himself before he slipped through the hole and inside the fortress courtyard. Tom followed silently, and they ducked behind a car that had fallen from the top of the wall, probably during the assault. The old Highwayman was build solid, providing great cover against enemy eyes.
Tom was handed a grenade. The pin glinted in the sunlight.
“Just in case…� whispered his companion.
As the grenade touched his hand, he fumbled and the metallic object was sent clanking into the side of the car. He could hear the sudden silence from Damien and his guards. They had heard it, and now the sound of shuffling feet filled the air. The guards approached slowly. Those who could afford guns cocked them and aimed at the rusting wreckage of the car. Tom peeked through the car window and held his breath.
There were about a dozen of them, and only himself and the stranger to oppose them. To fight would be suicide. He quietly opened the metal door and crawled inside the beast. Cotton pushed itself through the seams of the seating, and when Tom pushed his way through, puffs of it fluttered into the stale air. From inside the Highwayman, he could see everything.
The stranger stood to face with Damien. The gasmask fell to the dust, and they locked their eyes. When the stranger was the first to look away, Tom realized just how weak the stranger was. Damien, preferring to cloak himself in a roughly woven poncho, pulled an old hunting rifle from beneath the fabric. The barrel of the gun swung in the stranger’s direction.
“Look at yourself. Years in the wastes, and you still cannot change fate’s course.�
“You know me too well, Damien. Part of me is glad to still see you alive.�
“My old friend, have you overcome your demons yet? Are you ready to join me?�
“I can never join you, Damien.�
“What will you do then?�
“I will live. By any means necessary, I will continue my search.�
“You are but an observer! Join me and your knowledge can be used to change life for the better!�
“Even if I try, I cannot change fate. We both know that.�
“It saddens me to see you give up hope.�
“Let me go. I only want to observe.�
“I cannot allow you to ignore the deaths of the innocent. You once thought you could save them. Without your dreams, you are nothing.�
Tom tried to scream, only to find he could not. A loud bang filled the air with a deafening roar, and the bullet sped to its target. The stranger jerked from the impact and dropped to his knees. Blood running down his side, he struggled to breathe. For a number of minutes, everyone said nothing. Only the stranger’s coughs could be heard. Damien kneeled before his old friend and spoke softly.
“I’m sorry that it had to come to this.�
Gripping the rucksack from the stranger’s shoulder, Damien tossed it at one of his men. A roughly bound book fell as the pack sailed through the air. No one noticed, and the book hit the ground unheeded. The wind rustled its pages, turning them to an underscored verse:

My god, my god, why have you forsaken me?

CHAPTER 9

A Higher Power

The stranger opened his eyes. Nothingness awaited him. This void, it was soothing. Yet, some terrible monster lurked here. He could feel it. The tranquillity was an illusion. The dreams lurked closer. He had spent his life running from them, and now they rushed into his mind.
Everything he had once felt, all the pain and joy, it flooded upon him. It saw it all once more. His parents’ death hung like a shadow over the rest of his life. Then, he had been blind to the one thing watching him. A dark figure with eyes like steel. It seemed so familiar, yet, so threatening. It held his fate… and it laughed.
From the laughter, the stranger shielded himself. Alone. He wanted to be alone. Yet another soul sought him out. The wayward soul placed a hand upon his. His eyes strayed to meet the spirit. In this soul, he saw the innocent face of the child in his dreams. The child clung to him, fatherless.
A tear slid from his cheek. As it fell, it fell to no end, finding to floor to satisfy its drop. Such sorrow that trailed the falling drop, it scared the stranger. His breath was heavy. He was afraid, and he knew not why. He closed his eyes and bent to whisper to the child.
“You must be strong, child. Some unseen monster lives here.�
“I know,� replied the child, speaking for the first time, “But it is you that must be strong.�
“Me? You are but a child!�
“My battle with that monster is long past. I lost, and my only hope lies in you. Be strong.�
“Who is he? Who is the monster?�
“The answer lies here,� said the child as he pointed to the slain body of his father. A room appeared in the blink of his eyes. It was the same as in the dream before, only now, the corpse of the boy’s mother lay next to her husband. Their combined blood mingled in an overpowering stench. The stranger’s temper began to boil in memory of this place.
His eyes saw the monster here, peering at him from the darkness. The stranger stepped forward and barred his teeth. Forcing both hands into fists, he advanced upon the monster. It laughed. The laughter tormented him, and he swung out in anger. The thing disappeared. His fist hit the wooden wall with a loud snap of the timber.
A scream forced his attention over his shoulder. The child hung suspended in the dark cloak of the monster. It seemed to swallow the child into its web of misery. The stranger gasped for breath. Now was the time to save the child. His hands reached instinctively for the firearm, pulling it to face the monster. The child cried out.
“You are the slayer of my parents! You are the monster of my dreams! In your death I will be complete!�
The gunshot tore the monster in half. As it touched the floor, its dark figure streaked fresh blood. The monster, phantom of his dreams, was mortal. Its darkness began to fade only moments in death, and with it, the child too began to disappear. All was blissful, and everything faded for the last time.

When Tom emerged from the wreaked Highwayman, night had already fallen. The distant stars looked down upon the deserted courtyard with a lonely smile. The pale corpse of the stranger seemed even more ghostly in the silvery light. Tom had wept for him, mourning his friend for hours.
Damien and his men had never found Tom. Shortly after the stranger’s death, they had left in a somber line. Damien himself seemed deeply wounded by the death. Now that they were gone, and the sun away, Tom felt alone. He crawled weakly to his friend’s body. There, he saw in the stranger a man who died before things were righted.
He looked at the face. That innocent face had spared him. It had seemed so familiar then, on that day that they met. Everything until then seemed a dream. As he placed a hand to his face, he suddenly heard a noise. Something had moved. He glanced around the courtyard. Nothing was there. He laughed lightly at his own paranoia.
Then, he heard it again. This time, he glanced at the stranger, and he screamed. That pale and ghostly hand had moved! He backed away and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Still, the hand weakly neared the stranger’s hip. Tom looked in horror as the stranger’s entire body lifted as if possessed. The corpse turned to him, and it cried out with anger.
“You are the slayer of my parents! You are the monster of my dreams! In your death I will be complete!�
When the stranger pulled his gun and aimed it, Tom finally understood. He knew why the stranger had recognized him before. If this was fate’s true irony, to make them friends, then he embraced his death. When the blast echoed throughout Philadelphia, both the stranger and Tom fell to the ground lifeless. The wasteland had claimed their lives once and for all.

[Umpa]

its a pretty damn good story BB.

pretty ironic ending, not what i expected