Dusk Territories: Always Burning (10 page)

“Good advice,” Juvenico responded.

Heron, impatiently tapping her foot, bit her lower lip in irritation. “So are we going to keep standing around doing nothing?”

“’cause the old man might be dying or something,” Graham asked, receiving an annoyed sigh from the woman.

“No. I’m just bored as hell and Drifter might be too.”

_

Smoke billowed from the campsites, but it wasn’t of the vehicles. Oil and gas didn’t produce the pungent aroma that lit Graham’s keen senses aflame. No, only blood could do that. That metallic scent that stung the air, carrying along with it burnt flesh and life. Graham could see now. The caravans were fine, but Ragnar’s pack was nothing more than hemps of bones, piles of meat, and lifeless corpses.

The opposing force was practically non-existent. Remaining members of Ragnar’s cannibals was being mopped up with the effectiveness of an experienced janitor in a high school cafeteria. There were a few scrimmages of the most loyal followers of the pack, but nothing the lower members of the caravan couldn’t handle. But those fights were unimportant, irrelevant to the last one that people gathered around to see.

Heron flipped her hair, lips pursed together angrily. “We showed up too late.”

Juvenico put his hand in his pocket. “Not that we could have helped much. Looks like we haven’t missed the main event, eh?”

The crowd of Drifter’s men had rallied around the main caravan. Upon the large armored vehicle stood Drifter and what Graham assumed to be the leader of this ambush, the infamous Ragnar.
Holy shit, that’s a man,
Graham thought. An over nine-foot muscle-bound monster
stood across from Drifter.

Foam oozed from the corner of Ragnar’s mouth, down his beard and neck. His red hair masked the death-stare from his sunken hazel eyes. His yellowed teeth gritted against each other, back and forth like a saw. The large man gripped his battleaxe, made up of a tire axle and some scrap metal, with a new vigor. Sweat dripped from his brow. Bruises, bright purple and already leaking pus, were ripe on his entire body. Anyone would think that he was the one that supposed to be winning, not the smaller old man with just a cane in hand. They would be wrong. No one in the caravan seemed worried about the physical mismatch. No. It was more like they were cheering.

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed it could.”

“Anyone with Juvenico,” she added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not the best experience….”

“Didn’t clip a wing?”

“No. r.”

“Didn’t hurt your beak?”

“Fuck you, Drifter.”

“Now was that nice?”

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

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

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

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

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

Drifter, pleased, stepped aside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_

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

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

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

“OOOH! Raggy’s home!!!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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