CAGED HEAT
"Control, this is Unit 66, en route from the scene with package in tow."
"Unit 66, this is Control. Please confirm position."
Sergeant Rudy Micelli looked at his partner, Officer Mark Davenport, who was currently driving the police cruiser, and shrugged. "Control, we're under orders from officer in charge of scene. There are seven more collars expected, but OCS requested we bring this one immediately. Please confirm presence of SWAT at precinct."
There was silence on the radio for nearly a minute.
"Unit 66, deployment confirms SWAT team 16 is standing by and waiting for package. Please confirm status of package."
Micelli turned around to the backseat. There was no movement.
"Package handcuffed at wrists and ankles with chains interlocked, package has been rendered unconscious. Request of OCS, we have attached a car battery to the divider to dissuade package from attempting escape via the front seat."
"Affermative, 66," came the response, "take every precaution to bring the package alive."
The radio clicked off, and Micelli turned once again to look at the unconscious man in the backseat.
"Why do you think they're taking all these precautions?"
"I don't know," replied Davenport, "but after seeing that mess back there, and the surveillance we got of these guys fighting each other to the death - AND seeing the state this guy was in, I'm happy enough not to take any chances."
Micelli nodded, and they rode in silence for a few seconds.
Until he flipped the siren on.
"What are you doing?" asked Davenport.
"No chances," reminded Micelli, "the sooner we get this guy out of our custody, the happier I'll be."
The cruiser sped down the road as fast as it could.
STALKING
"I think we're clear," said Ray, as he tried his best to catch his breath.
Rocco looked around carefully. He had been personal security to Mantis, now he was personal security to Dez. In lieu of Dez, he had decided his primary goal is to make sure Dez' right hand man, Ray, is returned safely to the army's headquarters.
"Still, we should keep moving," he advised.
"We will," replied Ray, as he stepped towards a pay phone, "I just want to check in real quick."
"Hurry," said Rocco, as he stood back from the phone, and continued watch.
Ray's eyes darted nervously from side to side. He itched his arm manically, and wished he had some junk, cursed himself for even thinking about it, and wished for it even more. Ever since Dez started to give him more responsibility with the way things were organized, ever since he became Dez' unofficial assistant, he's weaned himself off his addiction so he could be more level - headed and focused.
It was an inspiring effort, though for dubious reasons.
"Speak."
"It's me," replied Ray, wary to use no names, though he recognized Carlesi's voice, "What's happening?"
"We're empty," replied Carlesi, "The man called and told us to hit the streets."
"What?"
Rocco's attention turned back to the phone.
"He called, told us the city needed to burn, and to burn it."
"What about her?"
"She's still here, me and Z are keeping an eye."
"We're on our way."
"Who's with you?"
"Rocco."
"Where's the man?"
"Pigs."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"So what's the plan?"
"We're on our way," repeated Ray, "and we need to figure out how to get him out."
"Okay," replied Carlesi, "will be waiting."
Ray hung up the phone and turned back to his bodyguard. "Carlesi wants us back at the house so we can figure out a way to break Dez out of the pighouse," he said, "The rest of the family is on the streets providing us with some cover."
Rocco nodded. "Let's go."
He stepped towards a parked car and raised his hand, but Ray stopped him. "We walk."
"Do you know how far it is?"
"We walk," repeated Ray, "we can't do anything productive if we get picked up, too... and the best way to stay under the radar is to stay under the radar."
Rocco nodded, reluctantly, and the two took a shortcut through an alley.
And... they were followed by a lone figure, hidden in shadows.
EVENING COMMISSIONER
"We've got half the force on the street already, trying to quell a riot!" shouted Deputy Commissioner Douglas Hagan, "We're losing good men by the numbers and you're holding your staff back! Now you give me one good reason, or it's your badge!"
Captain John Vega stared at his superior officer through the entire argument, a half - smoked cigarette burning in an ashtray on the side of his desk. "You done?"
Hagan froze, rage etched on his face. "I'm done."
"Good," replied Vega, "let's take a walk."
He put his suit coat on as he stood up and walked out the door to his office. "My guys broke up some kind of Fight Club earlier, eight arrests and a lot of positive idents on outstanding warrants at the scene."
"I heard," replied Hagan, as they walked towards the holding cells, "but from what I understand, all eight have been brought in and processed, and you even had use of one of my top rated SWAT teams to bring them down. We need every available unit out on the street keeping the peace, John... you've never been one to hide in your office before. What's going on?"
Vega opened the door, and gestured for Hagan to enter. "Count the bodies," he said.
He waited at the entrance while the Deputy Commissioner disappeared around the corner. After about a minute, he reemerged.
"There's only seven here."
"Other door," replied Vega.
This time, the Captain followed his superior, through the row of holding cells, around the other corner, where a closed and bolted door was guarded by two SWAT members.
"It's okay," said Vega, "let us through."
After a moment's hesitation, the SWAT team unbolted the door and stepped aside.
"You wanted to know why I'm holding my men back?" asked Vega, "It's because I want every available unit on premises to make sure this guy doesn't get away."
The door suddenly swung open, to reveal a barren room with dull gray walls, and a cage in the middle of the room with what looks like an electronic lock on the entranceway. Eight more SWAT members stood in position all around the perimeter, with regular uniformed police milling about in the background, also keeping watch.
"Two of my boys brought him in with SWAT escort at the door," said Vega, "on Detective Mitchum's orders. Mitch requested this setup, insisted we keep the prisoner incapacitated until we could get him behind bars, and has arranged for an eyewitness to come down for ID."
Hagan took a step towards the cage.
"Sir, I would advise you to please keep your distance," said the nearest SWAT.
"He's handcuffed and looks like he's taken quite a beating already," countered Hagan, as he stepped near the bars, "What's the story here?"
In half a second a hand wrapped around Hagan's neck from inside the cage. Another half second later, the butt of a shotgun cracked against the prisoner's forehead, and he released his grip, knocked back to the floor.
Hagan breathed heavily, as he stepped back. "Thank you, officer."
"Sir."
He looked into the cage at the handcuffed figure, bleeding from the forehead, from the shoulder, and from the shin. Besides the blood, he was also sweaty, shirtless, and scarred all over. His hair hung in his face in clumps, and there was a Spanish phrase tattooed on his chest.
Then he looked up.
He stared into Hagan's face with sunken eyes, black enough to obscure the pupil, blackened around the sockets enough to obscure the whites of his eyes, and he smiled.
"Evening, commissioner."
It was enough to send a shiver of panic up and down Hagan's spine, a shiver that refused to leave. He turned back towards the Captain, who had remained at the doorway.
"So," said Vega, "can I keep my SWAT team here?"
All Hagan could do was nod.
     
LAXSCAPE REDUX
"-like the one behind me, have become a target for a large group of citizens who have been rioting through the streets for nearly two hours. At this time we have no information on the cause of the riot, the targets of the riot, or a likely route for the rioters."
"Shhh," said May 32nd, "this right here is my favorite part."
She nudged Roderick, who turned his attention towards the television screen. A generic blonde woman stood in the foreground of a city street engulfed in flames, with various fire fighters, police, and pedestrians held back in awe.
"We will of course be providing the most extensive coverage of the riot, along with an up to date listing of the affected areas to our website, at WWW - dot-"
The woman's voice trailed off as she looked to her left, and saw a nondescript hand holding a gun to her temple. Without making a sound, the hand pulled the trigger, blowing a large hole on the other side of her head, and little pieces of brain and skull splattered against the news van. Before she could hit the ground, a PLEASE STAND BY graphic filled the screen.
Naturally, the Establishment cheered.
"That's enough!"
Briefly.
The Man entered the small room, and May 32nd shut the television off.
"This is a fucking disgrace," he said, as he sat down behind his desk, "Is this all it takes for you to forget? A bit of civil disobedience to wash all your troubles away? Last time I checked we're in the midst of a crisis, we lost another team member the other night, I don't think I need to remind you who that was May, I nearly blew up the fucking arena trying to kill that shitbag Legion, the crowd split, seven of them were nipped, and Dez was taken."
"At least-" started May, before Roderick shot her a look. She flipped him off and turned her attention back to The Man. "At least Dez' army is keeping the pigs from following up on any leads we might've left at the site."
She had a point, and the rest of the Establishment bristled.
"So what you're saying," replied The Man, "is that I should be thanking Dez? For the war that he's waged on Burton that's escalated things past the point of no return?"
"What I'm saying," said May, "is that with the police tied up, we can probably get back on - site and do a sweep, make sure there's nothing there that can tie the fights to the Establishment, maybe even catch up with Legion, that piece of shit owes me a dog."
She wasn't about to abandon Dez, but she also knew this was a precarious operation.
"Take Dick with you," said The Man, finally, "and find out what happened to McCabe."
"I'm here feller." McCabe piped up from out of nowhere, clutching an empty keg in his arms "Just got back from Alaska... long story so it is... don't suppose a drink is out of the question?"
"Great," replied May 32nd, "Let's go."
"If the pigs are still there," cautioned Roderick, "then just cut and run. We can't lose you, too."
"And what about Dez?"
Roderick turned from May's question towards The Man.
"I was about to discuss a rescue plan for Dez with Roderick, May. We're not going to leave him there."
That was good enough for the moment. May 32nd nodded her head and left, Dick Face following, and Jack McCabe stumbling behind.
As soon as she was clear, The Man gestured to Bill Gorman. "You two, find out where they've got Dez and get there as quick as you can."
"They knew to pick him up," replied Roderick, "I hung back, probably longer than I should've, and they dropped him in a car right away. They didn't wait for the wagon to show up that they took the other seven with."
"Meaning..."
"Meaning, they know what they've got."
"They don't know," pondered The Man, "if they did, he'd probably be dead by now."
Roderick nodded. "Point. So what are my orders?"
"First, find where he is. If you can lift him out, good, if not..."
The Vet listened closely, his rifle in hand.
"If not," said The Man, finally, "one way or another, make sure he doesn't talk."
NOTHING
"So what do you have?" asked Hagan.
"Nothing," replied Vega, "No identification on him, no fingerprint match, no mug shot match. DNA profile came back... murky..."
"Clothes?"
"Old and unidentifiable."
"Anything on his person?"
"Yeah," replied Vega, "this."
He pulled out a broad knife, serrated on one side, at least eight inches long.
"Jesus fuck," said Hagan, "What's that, blood?"
Both men turned towards the cage. Dez had moved to the corner of the cell where he leaned back against the bars, as if he was about to fall asleep.
"Some of it, yeah," he called out, helpfully.
"Any injuries or bodies found on site?"
"Negative."
"So, aside from the obvious, what are we holding him here with?"
"DNA test came up as murky - his blood type wouldn't commit in the analysis."
Hagan leaned against the wall. "What do you mean, his blood type wouldn't commit?"
"It kept shifting. It was strange, the damnedest thing we'd ever seen. So we did a search through the archives, local and national, to see if it'd ever come up before."
Vega looked at Hagan with worry.
"It has."
"Two separate instances," replied Vega, "August 6, 2005, report is filed by NYPD SWAT who responded to thirty 911 emergency calls from the same address-"
"Thirty?" interrupted Hagan, "That can't be right."
"Confirmed," assured Vega, as he elaborated, "All within five minutes. This was in an apartment building on the upper west side, NYPD receives frantic calls about a gang war taking place inside the building. SWAT reports on the scene from Lieutenant Wade Brodie indicate the fight was between two men."
He picked a file folder off the table and handed it to Hagan. "Take a look."
There was silence in the room for a few seconds while the Commissioner read.
"This can't be right."
"Oh, it's right."
"Shut the fuck up, psycho!"
Dez smiled, and these hardened detectives turned back to each other.
"Two officers responded to the call, and they called in the SWAT. Both officers deceased, seven of the eight members of the SWAT deceased, team leader incapacitated and retired on disability. Two people did this?"
"Exactly."
Hagan exhaled. "And the second case?"
Vega handed him another folder. "IA came down hard on this one. Broke up a black market human organ trafficking ring in a one stoplight town in western Colorado, early '07. But there were a few blurry security camera shots of a man who could vaguely fit this one's description seen in and around the place the same night."
As he read the report, Hagan kept going back to the raw numbers, again and again.
"Twenty one bodies were recovered that night, including six State Troopers. My God."
"Oh, I doubt God had much to do with this," said Vega, relieving a tiny fraction of the tension in the room, "but the same blood type variance was found in samples taken at scenes in both locations."
Hagan paced. "New York... Colorado... Los Angeles. What do you think it means? And is it some kind of virus? First blood, so to speak, of some kind of plague?"
"CDC's got no information for us right now," admitted Vega, "their pathology expert was long gone for the night, we're expecting a call tomorrow, midmorning. But take a look at one of the witness statements from Colorado."
He read. "Brodie?"
"The same," replied Vega, "Poor bastard lost his legs on duty, and something happened in Colorado that snapped his spine again, he's a quadriplegic at this point. But he insisted that the same man was responsible for both incidents."
Again, they both looked at Dez.
"It's possible that this guy is just a nut," continued Vega, lowering his voice, "but we're bringing Brodie in to make an ID. If it's the same guy..."
"...then we're currently sitting on a man who has potentially killed or participated in the killing of at least thirty people," finished Hagan.
"Bingo."
"Be careful," replied Hagan, "we need this done by the book in every way, shape, and form. He got his rights, correct?"
"Of course."
"Lawyer?"
"Verbally declined."
"Confession?"
"He started rattling off various body parts that he's eaten in the past day, but again - without the ident he might just be a nutcase."
"How far out is Brodie?"
"Plane landed, he's getting brought in by chopper. Forty five minutes, maybe."
"Good. Get the pilot on the horn, tell him to hurry."
QUICKENING
"We need to talk."
Roderick sidestepped Inmate, as he walked towards the cul - de - sac where he had parked his legitimate car, "I don't have time for this Burton," he said, as Gorman got into the back seat, his rifle held discreetly below eye level."
"I'll come with you."
"No, you won't."
Burton faced him, and for the first time in a long time, Roderick realized that he was talking back to The Inmate. "I need to come with you," he insisted.
"Get in the car," replied Roderick, finally, "but you need to leave before we get to where we're going. The Man gave us specific instructions, and we need to follow them to the letter."
Inmate sat down in the passenger seat, and waited until Roderick pulled out into the road.
"You're going after Dez, aren't you?"
Silence. It spoke volumes.
"That's why I'm coming."
"This isn't one of you guys' knock down drag outs," replied Roderick, "you already had one of those tonight. We need to do this quickly and quietly."
"You also need to remember that Dez is the only one who knows where Jess is," shot back Inmate, "so before you do what you need to do I suggest you let me talk to him."
"We'll get that information for you."
"How?"
"..."
"Roderick."
"Shut the fuck up, Burton, I don't know yet."
"You'd better figure it out," he cautioned, "because if something happens to Jess, it's open season on the entire Establishment, and I really won't have anything to lose. And if I find Jess without your help tonight, I might send you to the ground along with that motherfucker."
As the car rounded a bend, the city came into view. Rising from the structure was a half dozen or more huge columns of thick black smoke, and hundreds of small to mid - range fires. Roderick slowed, and finally came to a complete stop.
"Burton," he finally said, "at this point if you can think of anything that'll make this easier to survive, by all means, speak up."
INTO THE FIRE
"Shit!"
Ray ducked into an alley as another squad car passed, lights and siren blaring. Rocco kept walking, though he slowed his pace down enough for Ray to catch up as soon as he was clear.
"You can't keep doing that," said Rocco, calmly, "the pigs are too busy with people actually breaking shit to fuck with two guys walkin' down the street, man."
"Can you guarantee that?" asked Ray, as he reemerged.
"No," admitted Rocco, "but it looks a lot more suspicious t'dive in an alley every time a blue boy passes. You got a record?"
"Few busts for drinking when I was in high school," said Ray, "but nothing since I got legal."
"Well, I've got a record," replied Rocco, "and I ain't nervous."
Ray considered that for a few moments. "You're probably right."
"Course I am."
They walked in silence for a few moments, though Ray kept turning around.
"I feel like we're being followed."
"Paranoia, kid," replied Rocco, "we got outta there clean. Pigs would've busted us by now, and the rest'a the nutjobs that were there would'a tried something by now."
"Maybe."
"Fuck maybe, I'm right. Listen, we're both paranoid over what went down, and I know I'm worried about Dez, wherever he's been taken... we get back to the house, we regroup, we figure this shit out. Hear?"
"Station," replied Ray.
He looked behind them once again, but reminded himself that he's just being paranoid.
If he took a second look, he might've realized that just because he's paranoid, don't mean they're not after him.
DEZ ARAGON
"Man, what are you?"
Outside the walls, the city burned, but inside, the eight SWAT team members remained stoically at their posts. Every other officer has left the room, doing their best to keep the building locked down in the midst of the riot that continued to rage.
These eight men have slowly begun to regard their mundane task as perhaps the most important one they will perform tonight.
"I'm a reflection of you," replied Dez, "if you weren't so afraid of it."
He spent the past half hour walking the edge of his cage, his head tap - tap - tapping against the bars, answering everything that the SWAT has said, even when they weren't addressing him. His verbiage ranged from sociopathic to whimsical, and his guards have long since begun to regard him less as a prisoner, more as a caged predator.
"This guy's off his head."
"Have you ever seen someone off their head?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, have you ever taken anyone, and removed their head from their body? It's a pretty liberating experience."
"Man, you don't wanna talk about this without a lawyer."
Dez stopped.
"I don't need a lawyer. I won't be here more than a few hours."
"You're in for disappointment."
Suddenly, he rushed the cage. The guards on that end stepped back, the barrels of their shotguns aimed right at him, but Dez didn't do anything beyond grip the only bars he could with his hands cuffed, and stare at the man he was talking to.
"Disappointment is for you... not me. I am a GOD."
One of the guards stepped forward. "Alright, I'll play. What kind of God are you?"
Dez smiled. "Yours."
"Not likely."
"You see those people outside?"
"Who?"
"The rioters," answered another guard, turning toward Dez, "Right?"
"Those people out there, you protect them every day, right?"
"That's our job."
"Keep 'em safe and secure, keep the bad guys locked in cages, right?"
"Right."
Dez smiled, and showed his teeth.
"Those people that you protect, keep safe, defend from all manner of monster... they're outside this building looking to kill you."
The SWAT team shifted in their stances.
"They want to come into this room, tear into your flesh, ravish in your blood, and end your worthless, meaningless existence in as painful a way as possible. Think about that."
Some of the SWAT looked at each other, but they stayed in position.
"The people outside this building," continued Dez, "want to pay you back for all your hard work by ending your life in short, painful bursts. How does that make you feel?"
"Hey!"
One of the SWAT cocked his shotgun and aimed it, six inches from Dez' face.
"Crazy motherfucker," he continued, "shut the fuck up."
"And they're doing it for me," said Dez, his voice almost in a singsong lift, "They're less than people to me, they're just commodities to be used, abused, manipulated, and disposed of when they're no longer useful. And they know it."
The gun stayed level with his forehead.
"And they love me for it. They've killed for me, they've died for me. And they're outside right now, prepared to kill all of you, and die at your hands, just to liberate me."
He took a slow, deliberate step back. "How does that make you feel?"
"Oh, fuck this," said the same SWAT team member, "Whoever, whatever the fuck you are... you are not a God."
Dez laughed.
"Why don't you pull the trigger and find out?"
HOME IS WHERE THE FUCK OFF
"They couldn't have made this any more obvious," said Ray, as he walked up the steps to the entrance to the large apartment building that served as 'ground zero' for Dez Aragon's army. It was the only building on the block left completely untouched by the rioters.
"Relax," replied Rocco, "the place is a shithole to begin with, nobody's gonna look twice."
Ray appeared unconvinced, as he opened the doors, and stopped right inside.
The place was abandoned.
"Shit, they weren't kidding," he said, as he started up the stairs, "everyone's hit the streets for this."
"Dez told 'em to burn the city," reminded Rocco, "and we do what the man says."
"We do," replied Ray, "don't we?"
They moved slowly to the top floor - the fifth - and walked to the end of the hall.
"Carlesi," said Ray, as he knocked three times in quick succession on the last door, "It's Ray and Rocco. The Blind Men are far behind."
Movement, behind the door, which opened a crack, and a shotgun barrel pointed out.
"Calm down," replied Rocco, as he shoved the barrel down and flicked the door chain with his fingers, "it's just us. Let us in."
The man behind the door hesitated, but slowly closed it, unhooked the chain, and reopened. The apartment was little more than a single room with two couches and a refrigerator. Near the window, a blonde woman was bound and gagged and tied to the heating ducts. She sported a black eye and several bruises, but kept a defiant look in her eye.
"Jones called," said Carlesi, "he found the precinct where the pigs took Dez. He's got about six hundred rioters converging there, and they're gonna free him."
"Good," replied Rocco, "What about us?"
Carlesi looked at the woman. "Her."
Her eyes went wide.
"Jones thought it would be good to bring her down to Dez so he could finally off her."
"Why?" asked Ray.
"She's Jessica Burton," replied Carlesi, "Tyler Burton's wife. According to Dez that's enough."
FACE TO FACE
"Put the gun down!"
Vega's voice rang out and echoed off the concrete walls. "I said put it down. We're doing this by the book, Sergeant."
The SWAT member slowly stepped back from the cage, and lowered the gun. Dez blew him a kiss.
"Gentlemen," continued Vega, as he propped the door open, "please allow me to introduce Special Agent Wade Brodie, formerly of NYPD SWAT."
A large, skinny man wheeled a chair into the room, as the eight member SWAT team turned towards the new arrival. Dez, against the bars in the middle of the cage wall, crouched down to his knees, almost at eye level with the man in the chair.
"That's him," wheezed Brodie, "that's the motherfucker. Dez Aragon, he called himself."
Vega smiled. "Thank you, sir. Dez Aragon, you are charged with the murder of-"
Suddenly the building shook.
"What was that?" asked Brodie.
"They're heeeeeere..." sang Dez.
"Quiet!"
"He said they were coming for him," advised one of the SWAT members, "that they wanted to kill us."
Vega ignored the comment, and stepped outside of the room with his radio. They could only hear muffled pieces of the conversation, but Vega sounded worried. Finally, he stepped back inside.
"Okay, here's the deal. The first floor of the station is swarming with rioters. We've had to fall back behind security doors, but at the moment we're completely cut off from the street."
He pointed at two of the SWAT members. "You two, you're with me. We'll take the chopper from the roof to the federal building downtown and alert the National Guard."
"Is that necessary?"
Vega stepped towards the questioning member. "We don't have the authority to declare martial law, and the rest of the city's force is still trying to maintain command presence everywhere else."
"What about me?" asked Brodie, "I can't stay here with this... thing."
Dez replied by tapping the bars with his handcuffs.
"Trust me," replied Vega, "once we seal the doors you're much safer in this room than you would be in the air with us."
He looked at his staff, his gaze lingering longest on Dez.
"Let's move, people... and save some lives, our own included."
THIS IS THE END
"What was that?" asked Ray.
"Shhh," said Rocco, as all three men quieted down. Even Jessica Burton was quiet, though she still struggled as Carlesi worked through her bonds.
They all heard the same thing.
Someone was climbing the steps.
MY ONLY FRIEND THE END
"Stop the car," said Inmate, as they approached the intersection. Roderick did so, since they wouldn't have been able to go any more than half a block, what with the throng of people in the middle of the road.
"What the hell is this," said Roderick, to nobody in particular. He parked on the side of the road, careful with the only legitimate car in the Establishment's fleet that he drove with any regularity, "How the fuck are we supposed to get in there now?"
The front of the building was on fire. There were several older looking police officers lying prone in the street, and it looked as if they had been beaten to death. The cries of rage from the mob were almost deafening, and barely human.
"We need to regroup," said Roderick.
Inmate stared at the building. "We're changing the plan."
"What?"
"Get in the car, I'll explain on the way."
"Fuck that, Burton," replied Roderick, "you'll tell me now."
Inmate turned back towards Roderick, who was suddenly reminded of the fact that he was only there for intelligence and undercover ops. The Inmate was the only muscle in the area, and if he wanted to call the shots there was very little they could do about it.
"Get in the car," repeated Inmate, "and I think I can tell you what's going on, and how we can work this out for everyone."
Roderick looked back at Inmate, then back at the building. All of a sudden, the power to the entire block fizzed out.
"Alright," he said, finally, "let's get outta here before those nutcases see us."
OF OUR ELABORATE PLANS THE END
"Well, this is interesting."
"Coop, where are the NVGs?"
"In the van."
"Fuck. FUCK!"
Six SWAT team members were trapped in the dark, sealed in a room with a quadriplegic and a madman. The only consolation they had was that the madman was behind bars and handcuffed.
"Flashlights. STAT!"
There was a lot of scramble, and a lot of movement in the room, as they thought of anything they could to illuminate the room. Unfortunately, it was an overcast night with no moon, and the windows were too high up on the wall to reach.
All commotion stopped, when they heard the silent whine of a hinge.
"Shit."
OF EVERYTHING THAT STANDS THE END
Ray peeked his head out the door and saw the stairwell door swing wide, and a large man stepped through.
"Oh shit, oh, fuck, oh holy motherfucker," he said to himself as he shut and chained the door, and wedged a half - broken chair under the doorknob.
"What is it?" asked Rocco.
"Someone's coming," replied Ray, "and he looks big."
"I can take him," replied Carlesi.
Ray shook his head. "No you can't."
All three of them flinched as the first impact hit the door.
NO SAFETY OR SURPRISE THE END
It started with a flat palm to the nose, Timed perfectly, the bone was driven into the victim's brain, and death was instant. Dez hated to waste suffering like this, but six to one odds were never his favorite.
On impact, the dead man squeezed the trigger of his shotgun, which sent a blow into the ceiling. The five other officers acted on instinct, and fired in the same direction. Unfortunately, all they did was blow several holes in their already dead comrade.
They also gave away their positions in the dark.
Three quick shots from a rolling source took down three more SWAT team. Dez hated to use guns, but five to one odds were never his favorite.
The two remaining officers took up position in two adjacent corners of the room, and waited.
"What's going on?" asked Brodie, though neither remaining SWAT dared answer.
The room was silent, except for each of the four men, who could hear their own breathing and nothing else.
IT HURTS TO SET YOU FREE
None of them were armed. Carlesi had a piece of wood, and Rocco had his fists and his muscles, but all Ray had between him and the man at the door was the two guys in front of him.
The door was holding tight, but it was obvious the hinges were on the verge of splintering.
"Whatever comes through that door," said Rocco, "we attack it together."
"Right," replied Carlesi.
They didn't have to wait too long. The door flew in, practically exploding at the hinges, and would have hit Rocco and Carlesi except for the fact that it swung sideways, still connected to the chain.
Standing in the way was a large, shirtless, muscled man with three or four days' beard growth. Their great plan was forgotten, as all three men froze.
"Who the fuck are you?" asked Carlesi.
"Mickey Mouse," replied the man with a distinct accent, as he stepped inside. He looked beyond the three men, at Jessica Burton, and their eyes passed a look of recognition between them.
"Fuck you," replied Carlesi, as he stepped towards him, stick in hand.
"No!" shouted Rocco, but it was too late. The man grabbed the stick mid - swing, grabbed Carlesi's wrist with his other hand, let go of the stick and pushed him at the elbow to take him down. A quick heel to the face, and Carlesi was out for the count.
"I know you," said Rocco, "You were there too."
"Is that right?"
"You're..." his words were cut off as a hand wrapped around his neck and pulled him close, "...BORST"
"Yep." replied Borst, as he drove Rocco, headfirst, into the wall "And you're a fuckhead."
He watched for a second, then turned towards Ray.
"Do you want some?"
THE END OF NIGHTS WE TRIED TO DIE
The clatter at the other end of the room drew their fire. Both remaining SWAT were good, it took less than two shots for them to realize that Dez had simply thrown his shotgun away.
Unfortunately, he had their locations picked out before they finished firing the first. Doubly unfortunately, his belongings were being held in the same room as he was, and he had spent his time in the dark locating his pretty toys.
A long, broad, serrated knife, for one. It penetrated the windpipe of the first SWAT, and he pulled the knife up, splitting his brain from the inside. The sudden rush of air drew fire from the final SWAT, and all he did was blow holes in his team member as Dez rolled free.
He picked up the fallen shotgun and fired one last shell. From the sound of it, he managed to blow the last mans' leg clean off at the knee.
Good.
"What's that... who's there!"
Brodie. Lovely.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are..."
'Oh shit. Oh Jesus."
"Third time's the charm, Brodie," said Dez, to the wall. His voice echoed through the room. "Unfortunately for you, I don't have anything else to take."
"They'll catch you, motherfucker!"
He stopped. "No, I don't think they will."
"You won't get away with this!"
"I've already gotten away with it," whispered Dez, from directly behind Brodie's head. The former SWAT member wet himself. Without a sound, Dez drove the tip of his knife down into the top of Brodie's head. He used the serrated edge to saw his way back, and forward. Brodie's head peeled apart like ripe fruit, and Dez grabbed a liberal handful of the offerings.
"What the fuck are you!" shouted the lone surviving SWAT, undoubtedly sickened by the sounds. Dez walked to him, in no hurry, and stepped on his chest.
"I told you before," he replied, "I'm GOD."
Punch to the jaw, which loosened a few teeth and forced his mouth open. Dez shoved the barrel of the shotgun into the officer's open mouth and kneeled down.
"You should've pulled the trigger. Now it's my turn."
SOLILOQUY
"I wasn't always like this, you know."
Dez Aragon paced up and down the hallway in front of the holding cells, just outside the security room. He seemed oblivious to the sounds of the riot raging in the lower levels of the building, and all around the city streets outside.
"No, sir, there was a time in my life that I didn't know what I was meant to do. There was a time, not so long ago, that I was as lost as you. Oh, the things I did. Did you know I was a professional wrestler for a time?"
He stopped, and turned back towards the center cell.
"Commissioner, are you paying attention?"
The commissioner had little choice but to pay attention. His eyelids had been sliced off, his tongue had been removed, and he was strung up to the cell door about a foot off the ground. Blood streamed down his body into a pool below him, but there was no damage to his ears. He could hear everything.
"It was a confusing, confusing time in my life," continued Dez, as he stepped towards the broken man and stared into his wide, white eyes, "hiding in plain sight, and all. But it wasn't long before I realized... why hide, when I can disappear?"
He nonchalantly poked Commissioner Hagan in the ribs with the tip of his knife.
"Why pretend to be something I'm not, when I should be embracing what I am?"
Another poke.
"It was when I first came to this city and met The Man in a previous life, that it allll came together. Y'see, you people don't look at me. You tolerate the existence of me and my children because it makes you feel better about yourself."
He reached up, and severed Hagen's thumb from his left hand.
"To you, I'm the lowest rung of society, and I exist for you to stare at and say to your loved ones, 'At least we're not where he is.' Admit it, Commissioner... nobody but me'll hear you."
Dez cupped his ear and leaned in.
"What's wrong, cat got your tongue?"
To his credit, the Commissioner refused to give him the satisfaction of shrieks of pain.
"You represent a broken system, sir. You represent a society that turns its back on the freaks and the failures, the desperate and the diseased. You represent a social order founded on rules and morals, and that, my good man, is why I'm standing here free before you, and you're... well..."
He picked up a broken piece of mirror and held it in front of the man's ruined face. "See for yourself."
If he had eyelids anymore, Hagan's eyes would have gone wide at the sight of himself.
"This game is losing its luster for me nowadays. It's not enough to step into a circle of businessmen who feel superior to me, kill another human being for their amusement, and get on with my real work. It's not enough for me to own hundreds of others who will live and die, kill and rape at my command."
"No, sir, the time has come to burn this place to the ground."
He grabbed Hagan's right hand, and expertly sliced through the skin and bone of his remaining thumb.
"All of it."
Dez poked Hagan in the face with his own severed thumb a few times, and backed away, stopping at the main desk at the other end of the room.
"Jesus Christ was a carpenter, wasn't he? Not a social elite, not a cop, not anyone of importance. If he walked through that door, you'd look at him with the same look of contempt you gave me earlier."
He walked back towards the commissioner, holding two sharpened pencils in his hand. "Isn't that right?"
Hagan looked away as best he could.
"Don't like, Commissioner... Jesus doesn't like that. More importantly, Dez doesn't like that. And of the two of us, I'M the God you need to fear."
One pencil was shoved through Hagan's left palm.
"So am I just a murderer, Commissioner? Or am I a King? Or am I truly a GOD?"
The other pencil went through the other palm.
"Or do you just think I'm crazy?"
He smiled.
"What's crazy is that you're hanging there, bleeding to death, and I'm about to walk out the front door and do... anything I want."
"But don't worry, sir, you won't bleed to death."
Dez reached into the Commissioner's front pants pocket, and retrieved a Zippo lighter. "You'll burn to death first."
With that, he lit the man's shirt tail on fire, sheathed his knives, and walked out the door. Dez tiptoed over the dead bodies like one would avoid a pile of horseshit.
Behind him, Commissioner Hagan was finally making noise.
DAY OF DECISION
"When did you come up with this?" asked Roderick.
"It doesn't matter," replied Inmate, "You saw the building yourself. I doubt there's any cops still in control inside, and if we roll up we're a hell of a lot more likely to get mobbed than to get in, get Dez, and get out. Besides, you know as well as I do, he's gone too far."
Roderick looked towards The Vet, but Gorman was on the opposite side of the car, his rifle cradled in his arms, ready to snap to attention at the slightest sight of danger.
"The Man won't go for it."
"Are you sure about that?"
No answer.
"Besides, aren't you tired of seeing your rent boy's severed head every time you come to work?"
"Fuck you, Burton," replied Roderick, as he opened the car door.
Before he could call Gorman back in, Inmate had climbed in the passenger side and took the keys. "This is what we have to do to survive," he insisted, "and I'll go it alone if I have to, but we need to have it out with Dez and close this shit up."
"Man," replied Roderick, "you don't threaten him or negotiate with him. Or haven't you noticed? I bet the little Missus has figured that part out by now."
"That's once," warned Inmate.
"So what it'll come down to," continued Roderick, without acknowledging Inmate's warning, "is you walking into a swarm of mindless psychopaths, and smacking their King in the face."
"If that's all there was to it," replied Inmate, "then we wouldn't be having this discussion."
"He's a monster, Burton," said Roderick, suddenly, "He's not feral like May 32nd's pet, but he's as vicious and unforgiving as a starving animal. I don't think you'll survive."
Inmate exhaled, and exited the car. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, faggot, but leave that to me."
WHAT'S IN A NAME?
"You look confused mate," said Borst, "let me bring you up to scratch."
Ray was doing his best to stand his ground after Borst busted down the door and incapacitated both of the much larger men in the room, but he could feel his knees getting weak.
"I'll give you a choice," continued Borst, "I'll untie the bird, we'll both walk out of here, and you fuck off in the other direction, or you can get in my way, I'll batter the shite out of you, untie the bird, and walk out of here, easy way or hard way, up to you mate."
"I don't want no trouble," replied Ray, as he did his best to keep his voice steady.
"Too late." replied Borst, as he stepped towards him, "You've already got it."
His back against the wall, Ray's eyes drifted over Borst's shoulder. He caught it, and turned just in time to dodge a fist from Rocco, who had pulled his wits together. Another fist, which Borst ducked, and he drove his own into Rocco's stomach, and a second into his chin. Rocco staggered back into the wall, but remained standing.
It was at that point that Carlesi rose.
"Sure you want do this?" asked Borst.
"Three on one," replied Carlesi, "I like those odds."
He looked over Borst's shoulder and saw Ray busily untying Jessica.
"Two on one, still. Ray, leave 'er alone, this little bitch'll be on his ass soon enough."
Borst smiled. "Hard way it is then."
THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT THEY'VE STARTED
A gradual wave of space opened up in front of the police station, and even though the power was out for blocks all around, there were enough fires for everyone to be able to see.
What they saw was Dez Aragon, his hair matted with blood, his body smeared with blood and reeking of smoke, walk through the front door with a series of police badges hanging around his neck.
All rioting, all looting, all conversation rapidly quieted as he walked, briskly and light - heartedly, into the middle of the street. All eyes remained riveted on both himself, and the bloody knife he still carried in his hand.
Dez, on the other hand, moved his gaze from dead body to dead body, all across the ground. The street was littered with at least a dozen bodies immediately in front of the station, many of whom were still dressed in police uniform.
"Is this... what you do with your numbers?"
That was unexpected.
"Converge in one location, and wreak... chaos... on anyone who walks past you?"
Nobody knew where he was going with this, but everyone who could hear him listened.
"Do you know what they said to me in there?"
A few people actually called out their responses, but they were far enough in the back for Dez to ignore.
"They said I was the bad guy... that I was sick... Look around. THEY are sick. THEY brought this onto themselves."
There was a dead police officer a few feet in front of him, so Dez used him as a footstool to give himself a bit more height. "I say... these pigs get what they deserve."
A ripple of agreement went through the people.
"For every time you were wronged and the pigs didn't help you... for every time one of those pigs... pigs you... we owe them a life. We owe them what they gave us..."
"CHAOS."
He stepped off his footstool and walked into the midst of the people again, as a smile formed on his face.
"My children... burn this miserable city to the ground."
COWER
From the sixtieth floor of the Federal building downtown, John Vega stood at the window with his hands behind his back and a lump in his throat, as he watched his city burn. The night sky was black with smoke, but the glow of the flames gave plenty of light for the people on the ground to see by.
Hopefully, the decent people of the city are using the light to get as far away from these crazies as they can.
"Captain?"
"Yes, Private?" replied Vega.
"We're nearly mobilized, sir," replied the soldier, a young man in military fatigues, "the ground commander is finalizing his strategy with the governor as we speak; the initial entry should be within the hour."
Vega didn't answer.
"Sir? Commander Shultz thought you'd want to be there for the final planning."
"How old are you, son?"
The private looked momentarily confused, but quickly snapped to attention. "Twenty - two, sir."
"Are you originally from here?"
"No, sir," he replied, "I'm from Oakland, originally."
'Oakland," said Vega, "It's nice there, no?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you ever... seen it burn like this?"
"No, sir."
They stood in silence for a few moments, the private looking increasingly antsy.
"Sir?" he asked.
"Please tell them I'll be along shortly."
The private snapped to attention, saluted, and walked back around the hallway from whence he came.
Vega stood at the window for a good five minutes longer, pondering his city. Pondering if he'd done anything to cause the chaos that currently engulfed it, pondering if he failed to act, somewhere, to prevent it.
Finally, he turned and walked away.
FUCKHEADS
Rocco made the first move with a dive at Borst's knees, but Borst managed to sidestep out of the way towards Carlesi, and drove an elbow into his face. He dropped his fist on the back of Rocco's neck, and back-elbowed Carlesi in the face again.
"Still think you're hard?" he asked, as he kicked Rocco in the ribs, dropping him from his hands and knees to the floor, "Still think you're a double hard bastard?"
At the other end of the room, Ray was glad he had removed the two padlocks that had kept Jessica Burton chained to the heater, and was in the process of unwinding her bindings. From the look of the fight, it was a decidedly one - sided affair.
Borst sent Carlesi headfirst into the door, which finally snapped off the chain, It fell forwards, square across Rocco's back and shoulders. Not being one to waste an opportunity, Borst grabbed Carlesi by the shirt and throat and took him over, dropping him on top of the door, almost (if not completely) hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
He then stepped over, kneeled on his chest, and began to go to work.
Punch after punch.
Fist after fist.
Carlesi's arms were pinned by his side as Borst continued his assault.
First his nose broke, and his face was slick with blood.
Then his eyes swelled shut.
Then he turned his head to the side, and coughed out a mouthful of teeth. It was probably a bad move, since Borst's final shot caught him on the side of the jaw, which broke in two with an audible 'SNAP.'
"I'm gonna fuckin' kill you!" eeked out Rocco, from underneath the door, "Soon as I get up, you're fuckin' dead!"
It was enough to stop Borst's assault, and for Borst to laugh heartily. "I've heard that one before, classic."
Two handfuls of Carlesi's shirt, and Borst picked him up and flung him aside, standing back for Rocco to get to his feet.
"Really, you dumb foreign fuck."
Borst laughed. "Yeah, still gets me every time."
Rocco balled up his fist, but hesitated. Borst laughed again, and dropped his hands.
"I'm serious. First one's free."
Deep breath, and fire. Rocco's fist impacted with the side of Borst's jaw, with a loud enough *SMACK* to make both Ray and Jessica flinch. Borst staggered back a step, and felt his jaw, while Rocco looked at him with smug satisfaction.
"Not bad," replied Borst, "did your gran teach you to punch like that?"
With that, he fired a quick right hand at Rocco's face and a left at his gut. He doubled over, and Borst hooked his head around the neck between his arm and his side, and proceeded to pound him with his right hand in the back and side, slowly hammering him to the floor while cutting off his air.
"Now THAT is how to throw a punch..." continued Borst, as he released his hold and dropped the heel of his boot into Rocco's chin, "...I'll teach you how to kick next time."
Borst stood, and reviewed the area. Carlesi wasn't getting up. Rocco wasn't getting up. Ray was still slowly untying Jessica Burton from the grate.
"So," said Borst, "shall we be off then?"
THE GOD ACT
There was no sound but the crackling of fire and the occasional collapse of something that was too far burned to support its weight. There was the distant roar of the mob, tearing the city to shreds, and faint sirens that were undoubtedly trying in vain to stem some of the madness.
Around the shattered remains of the police station that had tried to house him, Dez Aragon knelt in front of a dead body, mutilated beyond recognition, and frantically peeled strips of skin from the corpse's legs with his knife and his hands. As he finished stripping the flesh from each body part, he held it up and immersed his face and torso in the bloody innards. His hair, his face, and most of his visible skin were soaked in rotting crimson, and he knelt in an increasingly wider pool of blood.
Even in his crazed state, Dez could sense the movement behind him.
Even in his crazed state, Dez could somehow know who was there.
"You couldn't sneak up on a corpse," he said, as he turned around, "Burton."
Inmate stood on the sidewalk across the street from the worst of the fires. He had shed his shirt since leaving Roderick and Gorman, and stood with his right hand wrapped around his left fist, faded black jeans, and black shoes.
"Of course," he continued, "if you walk away right now, you'll be able to practice on your wife. Fuck knows me and my kids have already practiced a pretty decent amount'a shit on that bitch."
If Inmate was rattled by the insinuation, he didn't show it. "Where is she?"
"Where is she?" repeated Dez, as he stood up and started to walk towards Inmate, "She's hidden away, Burton. She's either dead, or alive and quite honestly wishing she was dead. But the question isn't where is she... the question is, where were you?"
"What?"
"Where were you when Kinkade grabbed her? When he handed her to me and asked me to keep her hidden?"
Inmate's eyes shifted left and right.
"You look at me with disgust because of everything I've accomplished, Burton... but I don't hide my nature. I don't put the people who matter to me at risk simply by being. Where would... what's her name?"
"Jessica," replied Inmate, with clenched teeth.
"Where would Jessica be," continued Dez, without missing a beat, "if you didn't exist? She'd be alive and well, living an empty existence somewhere else. She's in the state she's in because of you, Burton... because of the things you did."
"She didn't do anything to you."
"Me?" asked Dez, as he started to laugh, "Where do I fit into this? When your wife was taken, I was being thrashed by that chick on a fire escape. When your wife was taken, you were fighting in a cage for a man you claim to despise for a prize that, according to you and your opinion on me and my way, is meaningless. You threw away your wife's life for a meaningless title that you ultimately didn't even win."
"That's not how it happened!" shouted Inmate, as he took a swing. Dez sidestepped it and backed up two steps without counterattacking, but the laughter continued.
"While the city burned," said Dez, still with his cadence, "I was sitting in that building in a cage. While my army took the streets, someone called the pigs just as you beat me over the head with a brick and left me to my fate. Are you really standing there, blaming me for things that happened while I was locked inside that cage?"
"You crossed the line," continued Inmate, as he stepped towards Dez again. The psychopath continually backpedaled as Inmate approached, not with fear in his steps but with mocking - the fact that he was able to stay back, "You and Kinkade both."
"We crossed the line, huh," replied Dez, "I'd say you crossed the line. Nobody forced you to help The Man when the feds were after him, did they? Nobody forced you to hide him in your apartment, showing him where you and the missus were living, did they? Look at you now, after all! You're pathetic, Burton. You want to blame me for things I've done, fine. You want to blame me for things you did?"
He stopped backing up and held the blade of his knife out. "That's where you crossed the line."
"Drop the knife," said Inmate, "so we can do this. Unless you're afraid to face me with your bare hands."
Dez laughed. "I'm not afraid of a thing, Burton... but why should I? Fuck you and fuck you. You don't tell GOD what to do."
"Ain't none'a your psychopaths around here," reminded Inmate, "I know you and I know who you are, Dez... you don't need to play the God act around me."
Dez' eyes narrowed. "Who says it's an act?"
FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT
Get the knife, said Inmate to himself, first order of survival is to disarm him.
He lunged with a right hand to the left shoulder, and Dez responded as he hoped - Dez rolled with the punch and retaliated with a right hand of his own, wrapped around his blade. The sharpened steel raced towards Inmate's side, but he deflected it by slamming his left wrist into Dez' right.
Quick as a cat, Inmate grabbed Dez' wrist and brought his right palm down on his hand, and his knee up to meet them both. Dez didn't make a sound, but as Inmate pulled his various parts away, the knife clattered to the ground.
Inmate followed up with two quick punches that caught Dez on the cheek, and a hard shove backwards sent him ass - over - head onto the pavement. Inmate picked up the knife and looked at his opponent for a few seconds, before he threw it, as hard as he could, into the burning police station.
Of course, Dez began to laugh.
"Last chance, Dez," said Inmate, "Where is she?"
"Last chance?" repeated Dez, "Really?"
He sat in the street with his legs straight out in front of him, leaning on his hands which were braced behind him. Twenty five years ago, he might have sat in kindergarten much the same way, though it's somewhat terrifying to imagine Dez Aragon as a toddler.
And then he laughed.
"What're you gonna do to me, Burton?" he asked, "Pound away with your fists until I give in? Newsflash, I've already been bludgeoned tonight. I've been tasered and beaten up by the pigs. There's been multiple shotguns pointed at my head, and I still held the commissioner by the throat."
He laid down in the street, his hands cradled behind his head. "You've got nothing to threaten me with."
Inmate took it as a challenge. He stepped forward, grabbed Dez by the throat, and pulled him up to his feet.
As soon as he was vertical, Dez brought his foot up and crashed square into Inmate's groin. His own grip loosened, and Dez knocked his hands away, drove a pair of elbows into Inmate's chin, and kicked him square in the gut. Inmate sank to his knees, and Dez kicked him in the head.
Now bleeding from the scrapes on his elbows, Dez picked up a stray lid from a metal garbage can, and brought it down hard on Inmate's back. Two more shots and Inmate went from his knees to his side, where Dez climbed on top of him, forcing the edge of the lid on his windpipe.
"I've been playin' with you for enough months," spat Dez, as drops of old blood fell from his face and hair into Inmate's, "wanted to see how much you could take... and you can take a lot, motherfucker... but I think the social experiment's over."
Inmate's face was beet red, rapidly turning purple, but he managed to get his hands under the outer edges of the lid. "Why... me?" he managed to gasp out.
"Why?" replied Dez, "Why the fuck not?"
By this point, Inmate had gotten his hands firmly wedged between his windpipe and the lid, and while he was in pain, he was no longer struggling for each breath. Dez got up and tossed the lid aside.
"Because I know you," he continued, "because I know what you're all about."
Inmate rolled to his knees and took a few haggard breaths. "You know nothing about me."
"Sure I do," said Dez. "You'll keep jumping through my hoops because you think it makes you different from me. You think you're fighting for something worth saving. Jessica, was it?"
He raised his head and watched Dez walk towards him. He was almost strolling, like he was in a park.
"All these morals," continued Dez, "about murder and mayhem and torture and death. Do you think this makes you better than the rest of us?"
Little closer...
"Do you think playing my little game makes you one of the good guys?"
Little... closer...
"Newsflash, hero... there are no good guys in this drama."
Inmate waited for Dez to be nearly on top of him, and he lunged forward and up, driving his shoulder into Dez' stomach. The lunatic doubled over, the breath knocked out of him, and Inmate pulled himself to his feet with a handful of his hair, and drove his knee into his gut over, and over again.
But somehow, Dez was laughing.
"Shut the fuck up!" shouted Inmate, as he shoved Dez into the closest building. His head bounced off the brick façade with a sickening thud, and he fell backwards, smacking his head on the pavement.
Still, he laughed.
"You might as well do it," said Dez, between chuckles, "Killing me won't bring your bitch back to life, but if you don't kill me I'll be sending you to meet her."
Inmate paused, and looked around at the debris. His eyes focused on a nightstick, held by a dismembered hand.
"Of course," continued Dez, "If you kill me and she's not dead yet, how can you ever face her again? You'll have betrayed your very humanity."
Inmate approached, with the nightstick in hand. Dez continued to lay on the ground, staring into the smoking red sky, blood gushing down his face from the header he took into the wall.
"But that's the problem, isn't it, Burton? That's the difference between you and me."
He drove the nightstick down, but at the last minute, Dez blocked the blow with his forearm. He spun his body 180 and tripped Inmate, knocking him to the street. Dez twisted the nightstick out of his grip and held him down by the throat. Blood dripped from Dez' face to Inmate's, as he smiled the sick, all - teeth smile.
"That's your greatest failing," he continued, "You're still human."
Inmate tried to talk.
"What's that? Last words? C'mon, choke 'em out, Burton!"
Through gritted teeth, Inmate pulled the crossbar out of his windpipe just enough...
"IT'S...NOT...A...FAILING..."
...and he grabbed Dez by the hair, and flipped him over. The nightstick clattered away, and both men nipped up to their feet.
Inmate punched Dez on the side of the head, and Dez took the blow. He followed up with a fist to Inmate's side. The blow nearly doubled Inmate, but Dez followed with a forearm uppercut that snapped his head back and staggered him several steps.
He charged Inmate, but he wasn't as dazed as he looked, as he stepped to the side, spun on his heel, and wrapped his arm around Dez' throat and pounded him in the back with punches.
"Big, bad Messiah figure didn't see that one coming, huh?"
"Course I did," replied Dez, as he choked through his laughter, "But if I kill you without giving you a bit of an opening, what's in it for me?"
Inmate could feel him struggling against his grip, which meant he was at least half bluffing. Dez pulled his arm off his throat just long enough to gasp a full breath, but Inmate's grip immediately latched right back. Still, the breath did wonders for him, as he was able to lean forward and hoist Inmate up on his back. Burton didn't struggle against this, he still had Dez' air cut off, and he knew with Dez carrying both mens' weight, it was only a matter of time.
Except...
"You're fuckin' crazy," said Inmate, as Dez toppled both of them into a flaming pile of trash.
Burton immediately let go, as he rolled out of the flames. His arms and face were singed, but didn't appear to have any lingering damage. Dez, on the other hand, stood up with his face burned and his right forearm engulfed in flame.
Before Inmate could react to the sight of Dez' emotionless face staring at his flaming arm, the lunatic was upon him, shoving the flames into his face. Burton beat the flames out with near manic fervor before they could approach his eyes, though he still felt the searing heat through his eyelids.
"No, I'm not," replied Dez, "I'm just evolved."
With that, he pulled Inmate to his feet and threw him, stumbling, into the fire. He only stayed for a fraction of a second, long enough to feel the burn and scramble away, but by then, Dez was on him again.
"I've come through the fire, and I've been reborn as your GOD," he continued, as he hammered Inmate in the back with a pair of fists, staggering him to his knees, "I've killed men, only to see them rise from the dead so I could kill them again."
Two hands on the back of his head, and a shove to the pavement. Inmate's head split above his eye.
"What did you think you'd accomplish tonight? You showed up here all brave and gallant, but all that's going to happen, is your entrails will join the mess of meat in front of you."
Another shove to the pavement.
"You can't beat me, Burton," continued Dez, as blood dripped from his own head onto the back of Inmate's neck, "you can see that now, can't you?"
Dez scanned the area, and saw a piece of jagged glass that was once part of a window within arms reach. He pulled Inmate to his knees and turned him around, facing the street, with the piece of glass at his throat. Inmate's world was spinning in front of him, but he could still see the destruction that Dez and his people had left in their wake. Bodies were strewn all over the road, fires raged out of control, and everything of value, and everything of no value, was utterly destroyed.
"This is my world now," continued Dez, "and this is what I create."
"You've created nothing," replied Inmate, "you've just destroyed."
Dez laughed. "EXACTLY!"
"You sick motherfucker."
He laughed again. "The only reality that matters is destruction. Look at you, Burton. You're fighting, for what? For your bitch?"
Inmate would have sprung up at that, but the glass was pressed tightly to his neck.
"Let's say you do the impossible and kill me. Let's say you do the impossible and find her. What then? You're doomed, Burton... you're both doomed."
Inmate's head was forced back as Dez pulled at his short hair, until they were face to face, albeit upside down.
"And it's my decision, who lives and who dies."
Dez grinned as he tightened the grip on his shard of glass.
"isnot..."
"What?" asked Dez, "Last words?"
He loosened his grip very slightly, and Inmate's teeth clenched.
"No... it's not!"
One hand grabbed Dez' hair, and the other went for his eyes. Pain skidded across Inmate's neck as the glass shard scraped his neck, but as Dez pulled his hands away, he could tell he wasn't about to bleed to death from it. Inmate braced himself and rose to his feet, twisting both their bodies around while still holding tightly.
He hooked Dez's head between his arm and pulled tightly, forcing the lunatic to his knees in front of him, his body bent backwards at a sick angle, his feet barely able to stay below him. Inmate held him tightly, squeezing his neck to the point where blood was openly gushing from the open head wound.
Still, he had that smile on his face.
"Do it," said Dez, through gasps of breath, "Go 'head and kill me."
Inmate looked at him.
"You're trying to live," he continued, "the only way you're gonna live past tonight is if I'm dead. Because I'm going to kill you."
And he hesitated.
He hesitated just long enough-
"Hah. Hahahahahahahahah."
-for Dez to hook him around the shoulder and under the arm, and flip him overhead, onto the steps of the police precinct. Inmate felt the air rush from his lungs as the uneven surface impacted against his spine and the back of his neck. He watched Dez stare at him with a curious look, walk six feet to the right, and pick up his knife.
"It was fun, Burton," said Dez, as he slowly walked towards him, "but you never stood a chance."
Inmate's breath came in ragged gasps.
"Now you can see what trying to hold onto your humanity gets you... you tried to follow the right path and look what happened."
He knelt down by Inmate's face.
"It took you this long to realize, that in this city - in this establishment - in this asylum - there is no right path. There are no moral choices."
The knife dangled precariously above his face.
"The only choices are survival... and... not. The only morality is what I create."
Dez smiled, showing all his teeth. Inmate could feel his body slowly regain all its feeling, and immediately he ached with pain.
"Goodbye, Tyler Burton," continued Dez, "I'd miss you, but you never really mattered."
"TYLER!"
The new voice took everyone's attention. Dez dropped the knife to his side and looked to his right with anger in his eyes. Inmate had a momentary surge of hope.
He recognized the voice.
They both watched as Borst approached, leading Jessica Burton through the devastation. Dez rose to his feet and walked swiftly towards them, knife glittering in his hand.
"What. The. Fuck," he shouted, as he stared into Borst's face.
By now, he'd completely forgotten about Inmate. Which is too bad, because if he had taken a few seconds to finish the job, Inmate wouldn't have been able to roll to his knees. And he wouldn't have had those few seconds to catch his breath.
And he wouldn't have used all the voice he had to shout, as loud as he could...
RODERICK, NOW!
A block away, Roderick had been watching the fight from behind a corner. He was completely out of sight, though he thought, several times, that Dez had seen him. Of course, if he had, and if he survived the fight, Roderick was dead.
The Man was probably dead, too.
Still, he was watching, like a good little subordinate. He remembered Inmate's instructions, and when he heard his voice, he pulled out his binoculars and spotted Borst walking down the street, half a step in front of Jessica.
Son of a bitch really did it.
Well, a bargain is a bargain, thought Roderick, as he pulled the radio from his inside pocked, clicked the button, and whispered...
GORMAN, NOW!
On the rooftop across from the police station, The Vet had been watching the entire fight through the scope of his rifle, waiting for the sign from his superiors.
He regretted the orders he was given, after all, Dez Aragon was a comrade in arms, a war buddy, a fellow veteran. However, they explained it to him. Dez was no longer fighting for the States, he had lost his mind and joined the Viet Cong. He was happy as long as he had a steady stream of bodies, but if they didn't stop him, he would swallow the entire free market with a plague of communism.
First, they had to free the POWs. Burton would give the signal to Roderick, who would give the signal to Gorman.
The signal had been given. The Vet lined up his sights...
...and fired.
THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA
For a moment, Inmate thought all hope was lost. Dez approached Borst and Jess, knife in hand, ready to slit his throat and have his way with her. As much as he loved his wife, the fight had drained him of his energy, and he knew all he could do in the next few moments was watch.
After the past few minutes, he didn't think Borst could take Dez. Dez was nearly feral, definitely evil, and had no problem making his opponents suffer before he killed them. With Borst dead, Jess was good as dead, and Inmate would wish he was dead.
Then, he heard the shot.
Dez stopped walking, and dropped the knife. He turned towards Inmate, who by now, was on his feet, and looked at him with a quizzical look on his face.
"That's strange," said Dez.
Then he sank to his knees, and fell on his face.
Nobody moved for several seconds, until Borst tentatively stepped forward and nudged him with his foot. Blood dripped from the bullet wound on top of his head, as Roderick emerged from his hiding spot, Gorman sank into the shadows...
"Tyler!"
"Jess..."
...and Tyler and Jessica Burton embraced in the middle of the road. Inmate was sore and beaten, but relatively undamaged. He was careful to step around Dez and keep himself between the two, but the lunatic's body was still.
"Is he dead?" asked Roderick, as he approached.
Borst nudged him again with his foot. "Looks like it."
He glared at Roderick. "You're welcome, fuckhead."
"Easy," replied Roderick, "The Establishment can compensate you for this."
"Off the books, right?" asked Inmate, "You didn't want him dead."
"What The Establishment wants," explained Roderick, "is not necessarily what I want."
Borst laughed, but regarded Inmate with a suspicious gaze.
"What now?" asked Inmate.
The former Asylum champion nodded. "Go home and have a lie down I suppose, bit knackered, we'll get back to the bitter feuding tomorrow though yeah?"
As if on cue, sirens could be heard in the distance as Inmate gave his reply.
"Sounds like a plan."
All four of them did what any responsible person would do in that situation, with the police enroute.
They ran.
EPILOGUE
"Statement to be taken from cell 115A."
"You're wasting your time."
"We'll see."
The police captain walked swiftly through the semi - lit halls of the hospital, accompanied by one of the orderlies, "Whether we get what we need or not is immaterial... we need to know what he knows."
"I'm telling ya," replied the orderly, "He don't know nothing."
They arrived at the door, and the captain opened the barred window at the front, peering inside. "You're saying he was just there?"
"Just there, nothing happening on the scene."
"Why is he still here?"
"DA's orders. He was witness to something, I think. He wants us to take care of him, just in case he comes out of it and they can use something he says."
"Waste of taxpayers' money."
"Ain't my call, mac."
"Alright, I've seen enough."
The two men stepped away from the window and walked back down the hall. A second orderly, pushing a broom, peeked inside, more out of curiosity than anything else.
Like he thought, there was nothing happening. Padded walls, and a patient strapped to a bed. Boring and predictable-
Only the patient slowly turned his head, from the wall to the door. He couldn't see the patient's eyes due to the way they were sunken back in his head, but he had the strangest feeling that he was being watched.
A chill ran up his spine as he returned to his sweeping. He took care of the area immediately around the cell, before curiosity got the better of him and he looked one more time.
The patient hadn't moved.
...but now, he had a massive grin on his face.
copyright ©
asylum 2000 - 2010
site scripted by tom
site designed by joe
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