Wind
I wrote this for the "What is FEAR?" competition, but never submitted it because, well, like the majority of my work, I never finished it. Two years later, here I am, uploading it. I did submit it as part of my portfolio for another competition, but everyone said it was the one that killed my portfolio.
Screw you all. I like it.
It was a breezy night. The wind carried the heavy bass notes of the rotors through the otherwise silent night air, an extended drum solo in a metaphorical rock song. A figure stopped, and listened to the Black Hawks descending to a hover outside the Armacham facility, kicking up dust with the violent force of their flares.
She loved the wind. Or she used to. She'd forgotten what it felt like, locked in the Vault for… seven? Eight years? Yet though it brushed her face with a gentle caress, the rough fabric of her red dress hung still, her dark, lank hair refusing to reveal what lay behind its protective curtain; untouched by the wind.
She couldn't feel the wind that she had loved so much. Her nerve endings had long since failed, her flesh pale, cold and dead. Her veins were devoid of lifeblood, muscles frozen in rigor mortis, her entire being succumbed to death's cold embrace.
But still she walked, slowly and quietly, a living-- or was it dead? She couldn't tell anymore-- monument to physical impossibility. The light of the full moon filtered weakly through the thick cloud cover, briefly illuminating her outline, but no shadow was cast, no gloomy image of a dead eight-year-old girl shimmered into existence.
She stared, with eyes that had long ceased to give the gift of sight, at her reanimated self. Her body hadn't aged a day since she was imprisoned; even after all she had been through. The only change that she noticed was the unusual paleness and rigidity of her body. Flesh that belonged to a corpse.
"Breathe!"
"Make her push!"
That didn't sound like her father at all, she thought wildly, sobbing with the immense magnitude of the pain. She didn't know what was going on; she knew only pain; that of the shrieking thing inside her, fighting to get out, and the pain of the knowledge of what her father had done.
And suddenly it was over. The pressure on her womb was suddenly released as she felt the sensation of a large, foreign object sliding out. She could barely make out the screaming form of the newborn, cradled in her father's arms. Harlan Wade began to laugh, a low, evil-sounding laugh that petrified her, and he leaned closer to the child.
"Oh…" he whispered, the manic grin staying on his face, widening as she stared, trembling, at her father. "You will be a god amongst men."
Turning on his heel, he began to walk out of the ward. She suddenly felt cold, suddenly aware that she was lying on the hard plastic of the operating table. The emotionless, masked faces closed in around her, cold, gloved hands taking hold of her, the evil image of a syringe sliding into a vein, accompanied by a fresh wave of pain in her arm.
"Wait!" she screamed, with a voice far more aged than she really was. "Wait! Where are you taking him?!"
She watched the retreating figure of her father disappear behind closed doors. The sudden surge of energy leaving her, she sank back down onto the table, the hot tears flowing freely as her consciousness faded away. At eight years old, Alma Wade had given birth to her first child.
Her father's child.
Rage swept her, consuming her, breathing damned life into her being and suddenly she was not Alma any longer; she was umpteen different consciences. She felt their excitement, their fear, their happiness, their dread. The anger, unrestrained and powerful, exploded out of her, covering her, becoming her, until she was unsure who she was, what she was, unsure if she even existed.
Alma Wade would love the wind again, for tonight it would be scented with blood.
He felt the feeling of vertigo hit him like a brick as he fast-roped out of the helicopter, friction violently announcing its presence against his thick gloves. Combat boot met concrete, and he sprinted for any available cover, bringing his G2A2 rifle up to bear as he rolled behind an air-conditioning unit, scanning the area for potential threats. Overhead, the Black Hawks pulled away, having safely infiltrated their cargo to their destination.
The gruff voice of the SFOD-D coordinator crackled over his headset. He might have been listening, but he was preoccupied with… interference. A voice, just a short snatch of conversation.
Was it a little girl's whisper, a grown man's deep tenor? He couldn't tell what it was.
They all deserve to die…
He started, tapping his headset wildly, heart pounding as he looked around for the source of the voice. A strangled yell exploded inside his throat. He swallowed hard, eyeballing his surroundings, feeling embarrassed as another operator glanced at him, lowering his VK-12.
"Alpha Zero-Two, I repeat, Alpha Zero-Two, do you copy?"
The coordinator sounded annoyed.
He calmed himself down. Maybe it was just the wind, he told himself.
It would be the last thought he would ever think.
Paxton Fettel licked the bloody remnants of Alpha Zero-Two's ribcage clean. He'd already polished off the rest of the Delta team. Gore splattered his clothes, his leather jacket beyond any hope of cleanliness. He straightened up, letting the blood run down from his chin and dribble onto his clothing, further staining it with crimson liquid.
He licked his lips, savouring the metallic tang of freshly spilt blood on his tongue. Fettel shivered with an almost orgasmic pleasure that coursed through his body, the gentle wind slipping past him, drying the blood on his mouth with a silken kiss.
Revenge was sweet.
END