The War of the Dead

Book Two: The Rise of the Firebreather

Prologue

Somewhere in Nebraska, United States

The man was strapped tightly into the chair. Where his armor had been only an hour before was now only a thin layer of rags. The ropes dug into his arms, legs and stomach. They weren't tight enough to cut -not yet- but they definitely hurt.

He was in a pitch black room, with the only light he could see coming through a doorframe directly in front of him. He wanted to scream for help, but he couldn't; his mouth was taped shut.

He had no idea where he was. His mind went back to how it all happened; he and his squad had been marching through the forest when he had lagged behind. As he wandered through the woods, hoping to find them again, he had been jumped, beaten down, bound, gagged and blindfolded. Fast forward through a short trip, and here he was

Even when his blindfold had been removed, he hadn't been able to get a good look at his attackers, as they had been wearing gas masks. He had tried to listen in on their conversations, but they were silent for almost the entire trip. When they did speak, it was in low, hushed whispers that he couldn't make out.

His mind reached the present again, and longed for something to happen. To him, even death wasn't as bad as this wait. Finally, something did happen.

The door opened and a ray of light fell onto his eyes, temporarily blinding him. A slim shadow entered the room. As he blinked away the pain from his eyes, he adjusted to the light, and got a better look at this newcomer. They were dressed entirely in baggy black clothes, and on their head was a Phoenix helmet- his Phoenix helmet, he noticed with a start. He had carved his initials, JG, into the side to mark it.

The person moved into the shadows and reappeared with a stool that they dragged with a quick, smooth motion to a spot two feet in front of the prisoner, and sat down to face him. They reached their hand forward and got a grip on the tape holding his mouth shut and slowly tore it off. The pain was fierce, as the tape tore at his pale skin and the thick, brown hairs of his small mustache, but did his best to ignore it.

"Hello there," his captor finally said. From the sound of the voice, he could tell she was a woman. "Having fun?"

"What the fuck do you want from me?" he asked.

Her fist came flying out of nowhere and struck him hard in the side of his face. "Ow…" he said. "Bitch." The remark earned him another blow.

"You got anymore insults you'd like to throw at me?" she asked.

He didn't really feel like getting hit again, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Good," she said. "Now, I have some questions for you."

"Whatever it is, I'm not going to answer," said the man.

"Oh, you will," said the woman. "One way or another, you will. I'll make this very simple for you. Either you tell us what we want to know -willingly- or we make you beg for mercy. Your choice."

The man said nothing.

"First question," said the woman. "Who's in charge of your organization now?"

"Your mother," said the man. "I know because I fuck her every night. She whispers secrets plans in my ear while I go down on her."

"Oh, so you're a funny man, are you?" his captor asked. "That's very funny." In a single motion, her fist connected with his chin, and he saw stars in his vision. "How about you tell me who's really in charge."

"You… You talk like you expect me to know."

"You're in the army, aren't you?"

"Yeah. They don't tell us jack."

"I don't believe you."

"Well that's too fucking bad, because it's- ow! Fuck!" His sentence had been interrupted by her fist once again.

"Where is your garrison heading?" she asked.

"Like I'm gonna tell you that."

Another blow.

"Isn't your fist getting tired?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I would, actually."

"What are you planning? What is your army up to?"

"Again; they don't tell us jack."

She roared in frustration. "If you do not start talking, you're going to wish you were dead," she warned him.

The man laughed. "Try me."

That did it. She rose from her seat and punched him again, this time harder than ever before.

"Are you done?" he asked, spitting out a glob of blood.

"That depends," said the woman. "Are you ready to cooperate?"

"No," he said. "Just give up, lady. You can't break me!"

She slowly sat back onto the stool. She was silent for a few moments, before she said, "Maybe you're right. I can't break you. But I know someone who can."

Behind her, in the light leaking in through the open door, a dark shape began to form from nothing. For the first time throughout this entire experience, the prisoner felt true fear. It cut deep into his soul and soiled his very being. As the shape grew, it seemed to become more solid, until a dark, malicious creature stood where seconds before had been nothing.

The man began to shake in terror as the figure's two evil red eyes opened and stared at him. "Wh-what is that… thing?" he asked, terror dripping from his voice.

"Your new interrogator," said the woman. She stood up and walked around the creature, towards the door.

"No!" the man pleaded, pushing against his restraints desperately in an attempt to escape. "No, don't leave me here! Please! I'll tell you whatever you want! Just let me go!"

"It's too late for that," said the woman as she left the room. "You should have told me what I wanted to know. Have fun."

"NO!" the man screamed.

The door slammed shut, plunging him into darkness.

The house was in ruins. Furniture was overturned, and bodies lay across the floor. The walls were covered with bullet holes, and splinters of wood had fallen off. Dust and rubble were everywhere, and small fires spotted the wreckage

In the front of the house, a teenage girl with snow white hair soiled by dirt and grime was dragging the unconscious body of another girl her age to the front door. She was weak, and just barely able to accomplish this task.

As she opened the door, an armored car drove out of sight. She tried to walk down the front steps of the house, but tripped and sprawled forward onto the pavement of the sidewalk. Her arms and knees started to bleed. Her friend's body tumbled beside her and laid still.

Her arms trembling with the effort, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the transceiver she had retrieved when trouble had first reared its head. She held it up to her face and pressed a button on the side.

"Chicago…" she said weakly. Then her eyes closed and her head fell limply to the ground.