Mass Fallout Effect
Alive. Eyes flashing open, nostrils flaring, all five of his senses came flooding back. Like lightening to metal, he became aware of several things. Instantly.
Blood. The stench was all too familiar to him. Somewhere he was bleeding, but adrenaline prevented him from detecting the wound. He was also tied up. Coarse rope bit into his flesh and some type of fabric, linen or cotton maybe, filled his mouth. A handkerchief or bandana? Idiots should have used duct tape. Regardless, he could not speak; and his movements were limited to a crawl. They were smart enough to bind his feet too. If he decided to make a break for it, the odds were drastically against him. Assuming his captors were nearby. Allowing himself to pause and think pays off. Within moments he can make out their voices.
For a brief moment, despair takes hold of him. But his will to live returns swift as a coursing river. No, I'm not dying. Not here. Not now. Shaking his head as much as he could, a calm soothes his body. Restoring it to the man he once was. A soldier.
Eyes darting all around, he made quick observations. If I'm going to escape they can't know I'm conscious yet.
He determined it was late evening and they were in the middle of nowhere. Better yet, the moon was near full. Not ominous. Plenty of light from the moon and stars and... Wait, I smell a cigarette. Suddenly, he became aware of his shadow cast across the glowing orange sand. There's a lantern or two behind me… and at least two people. He identified two humanoid silhouettes towering over his prone form. One smoking, the other holding what appeared to be a shovel. It seemed they were not paying attention to him, which gave him a chance. But who are they?
Curiosity devouring logic, he did his best to strain his ears and listen.
"Think she's going to settle for his initial offer," a gruff voice asks, seconds before sucking in another breath of tobacco. So he's the big one on the left. His eyes continue studying the shadows and their movements.
The other hoists the shovel high enough to rest over one shoulder. "Who cares," he replies, "This whole job is a wash! I was hoping we'd get VIP passes into the Strip for marching all the way out here."
"You're just pissed you won't get to grab that sweet ass of yours at Gomorrah one more time."
The other man threw the shovel into the ground, the dirt coughing on impact. "Hell, yeah I am! Man, Dazzle is such a good—oh shit, here they come!" Almost as if in a panic, the man snatches the shovel and scrambles. His shadow disappears as two new shadows appear; both swaggering onto the scene.
Within moments the shovel is put to work somewhere off to his right. Somewhere behind him. Parallel to his head, to be exact. So somewhere he can't see unless he rolled over.
My grave? Or someone else's?
Again, he strains to listen; his heart pounding like a drum. Maintaining his breath was growing to be a challenge. Soon they would discover he was conscious.
"The fuck!? I thought I told you to dig! You two just spend your time dicking around up here or what?!" The new voice is surprisingly female and quite harsh. As if the individual were used to barking around orders… or knew she could. Her lithe shadow stood out from the other two shapes. Is she in charge? "I should rip you in half for taking so long, Jessup."
"Cool your jets, Lady." The other newcomer says, his focus elsewhere. "He up yet?"
Shit. A panic clutching his essence, he starts fighting the urge to make a break for it. Then reminds himself that with four of them present, he didn't have a chance. As far as he could tell, there was nothing but sand surrounding him. And besides, they were most likely armed. Thinking about that for a second, a new panic sweeps over him. So now or never. Move it, Sawyer.
Adrenaline igniting his veins, fight or flight senses claim him. With all his might he begins thrashing about, trying anything to free his hands and gain control of his fate. His attempt proves futile when a strong hand grips his collar, and yanks him onto his knees.
"Nice try, Hotshot, but I don't think so," the cigarette man says, the smell stronger than ever. He must be holding it in his other hand. "Well boys, and lady… I guess… should I finish it?"
"Hell yeah," the woman exclaims, "the sooner the better."
"Whoa now, let's not be hasty," the newcomer interjects, his tone seemingly more civil. A consequent hiss indicated that he too was smoking. "Maybe Khans kill people without looking at em' in the face, but I don't work like that. Turn him around, let him see us."
Squeezing his eyes shut, the captor's grip on his collar loosens. Hesitation.
After what could only have been an exchange of looks amongst his captors, the woman speaks up. "For fuck's sake, do what he says."
Helpless to resist, his captor twists him around. His knees drag through the sand then come to a rest once more. Despite closed eyes, he can sense the assailants standing in front of him. Their presence menacing. They knew they were in control. Worse, I'm their only victim.
Gritting his teeth and tightening his fists, his eyes open to face his fate. What he found standing in front of him was surprising, to say the least. Of his four captors, three he could identify as Great Khans, including the big one standing next to him. The fourth wore a checkered suit. A devil in the pale moonlight…
"That's better," the man wearing the black and white suit says, before taking another puff of his cigarette. His hair was a shiny black, his face clean-shaven, and his eyes were dark. Heartless. And from the Strip…
"Listen up, Pal," the captor-in-charge continues, throwing his cigarette into the sand. He stomps it out and smirks. The mirror image of a sly devil. "You just made your last delivery." From his coat pocket he reveals an envelope, an incredibly familiar envelope. "Sorry you got twisted up in all this…"
Powerless and curiosity blooming, he watches the man return the envelope to his pocket. That's when the large, African-American Khan steps away from him. "Come on, man. Get it over with."
A cold shiver shooting down his spine, his vision darts to the female Khan who crosses her arms. The Khan's alpha. Wearing only a tank-top and cargo pants, the heavy ink coating her arms and shoulders became evident. The intricacy of every line caught his eye. Every single one whirled its way into a design or symbol of sort. One might even call the thousands of tattoos beautiful; in a chaotic sort of way. Stranger yet, this woman chose to shave her head. She had no hair.
"I'm getting there… hold your—," the woman interrupts the man in the suit by leaping forward.
Startled, he flinches away from her at first, then stands his ground. "You're kind of handsome," she chuckles, those hazel eyes searing into him. Full lips, no wrinkles, heavy lashes, and some dark makeup around the eyes. She's young, twenties maybe? "Damn shame we have to kill you," she chuffs, jumping to her feet. Whirling away quick enough to spray sand, she stalks back over to the man in charge and leans into him. "Hurry the fuck up, would you? You're not paying us enough for this shit."
Holding up a hand to placate the Khans, the checkered suit nods. "Yeah, yeah, alright," he sighs, pulling a pistol from his coat. "Guess this is where it ends for you, Pal."
Fear taking hold instantly, adrenaline spikes into a craze. Memories racing through his skull, the figures before him turn invisible. His fate inevitable, none of it mattered anymore. Still, he doesn't move or flail. There's no point. No escape. This was the end.
"From where you're kneeling this must seem like an 18-carot run of bad luck…" his will-be murderer mutters, examining his handgun. "Truth is, the game was rigged from the start." The gun takes aim, nerves shooting daggers of petrification into every ounce of his being. "Name's Saren by the way… and I'll see you in hell, Pal."
SAREN? I've heard that name—
Echoing, blinding, and fiery, the bullet leaps from the gun and ends his very existence.
