Kevin reclined in his computer chair, his feet propped up on the desk in front of him. The latest comic he had ordered—something about space rebels—had came in and was now in his hands. He had a cup of warm, relaxing tea beside of him, and a bag of popped popcorn next to it. No school work to worry about, no company coming over, meaning he could stay in his pajamas all day, and he had just finished a nice, hot shower. There would be a Star Wars marathon on TV later, and after that, The Hitchhicker's Guide to the Galaxy would be coming on.
Life is good.
And then he heard it—a loud 'bang'; his door was being kicked in. He tried to stand, but he tripped in the process, the chair going down with him. His hand flew up to grasp the table in an attempt to pull himself up, but his fingers ended up catching the side of his teacup, and he knocked it over as well; the liquid poured over the side of the desk, scolding his arm and face. He screamed out in pain, but the sound was cut off; the thing—the alien, he saw out of his undamaged eye—was standing over him, its long fingers wrapping around his neck and choking him.
The monster lifted him up, his feet not touching the ground, as if he weighed nothing. It pulled him away from the turned-over chair, its nails digging into his skin, and dropped him partially; it still had him by the throat, but his lower back and legs were being dragged instead of dangled. He tried to get free, but when the nail belonging to its long, slim finger pressed against his burnt eye, digging in, he went from struggling to get free to struggling to get his face free, all rational thought leaving him.
If irony mattered in a time like this, he would have been thinking that no, no life isn't good. But as he was being dragged, the life getting choked out of him and his flesh being torn into by something he had always found fascinating, irony didn't occur to him. He couldn't think at all.
As Kevin Stoley was being thrown out of a two-story window, the only things that did occur to him were fear, panic, and pain.
...
It was snowing when he woke up; he could feel flakes falling on his eyelids, his cheeks, his fingers. He wasn't confused as to why the cold wasn't bothering him; he could tell that his body was slowly coming back from a numbness, his soldier instincts kicking in and telling him that he was fine—and that was the weird thing.
Hell. He had been in Hell. The last thing he could remember was having a chat with the Prince about something—gun control? It didn't matter. It was obvious by the feel of ground—snow was seeping into his shirt—under his back and the cold slowly making itself known to his skin that he was back on Earth.
His eyes shot open and his hand flew up; it wrapped around something's neck—something grey, something tall, something beastly God had made, something leaning over him. Never taking his eyes or hand off of it, he sat up slowly. It didn't seem on edge, but he still didn't let his gaze wonder as he did a mental check.
It was snowing and he was back on Earth, so he figured it was save to assume he was in South Park; he would ask it to make sure though. He slipped his free hand into his shirt and ran his barely-numb fingers over his chest; there were still scars, but he couldn't find any open wounds and he didn't feel any blood. A quick flex of his toes let him know that he had on combat boots. His shovel was still on his back. And pat of his pocket told him that he still had cigarettes; he wouldn't check in front of the creature he was holding, but he would wager his knife was still hidden under his trouser leg.
He moved slowly let the abomination go, his hand moving to his shovel in case he needed a weapon.
"What are you? Where are we?"
The monster didn't look offended by his treatment of it; if anything, it looked pleased. Christophe's eyes narrowed, his teeth grinding together a bit. He had been on edge before, but the fact that the thing in front of him wasn't on guard, didn't even look nervous, made it worse. His hold on the shovel tightened.
"I am a friend. I have brought you home. Now, come, I need to show you something. We have a proposition for you."
We?
His hand never letting go of his weapon, he followed after it as it moved through the cemetery.
...
Butters had been running when he heard it—a loud 'thump' as a body hit the pavement across the street. He stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding against his chest, to look for the source of the sound. His head turned, and then he saw it—or, more specifically, him.
Kevin Stoley.
Kevin was bloody, was dead, but his clothes, though they were covered in blood, weren't completely unrecognizable, and Butters could see them from where he was standing. He could see Kevin's blue jacket, the one he had wore for the last few years. He could see his arm, one splayed away from the rest of his body, the other in a position that was not natural; it was broken, looked like it was almost snapped in half. He could see—his gaze traveled higher, and from Kevin's window, he could see the thing that had slung him out of it.
"Oh hamburgers. . ."
The mutter had been a quiet one, but the monster's eyes were instantly drawn to him. He made eye-contact with it, his heart beating even quicker, before he took off running again, praying that it wouldn't come after him.
He had to warn the fellas.
...
The snow had stopped crunching under his feet; they had come to a stop at someone's grave—Phillip Pirrup's. He couldn't remember the boy—assuming it even was a boy and not a man—but he had been home-schooled, so it was no surprise. He didn't wonder about the person under his feet; after a quick glance to see whose grave it was, he kept his gaze on the creature in front of him.
"The proposition that I mentioned earlier is a simple one; we need you to do what you're good at—we need you to be a mercenary. We're waging a war, you see—a war on his pathetic planet. We thought that since the young boys who live in this town were the reason you died, you would like to help us. Were we wrong?"
There was no pause; it assumed it knew his answer.
"The young boy under us this very moment died as well because of the misery that happens in this town. He suffered; his insides, his organs, were crushed. And for what? Nothing. No one even noticed. He was a kind boy, too. We watched him for years, as we did the same with you and with many other children. He was special, you see; he was alone, and he had every reason to hate the world. And we will raise him from the ground and use that hate. He will become one of our soldiers; he always was an amazing archer, even when he was too poor to be able to afford a meal. He will join us. He will finally have the company he so craves. The question is though, what about you, Christophe? Will you become one of us?"
It was a lot to take in. His mind was trained to handle dangerous situations though, and he thought quickly.
The thing in front of him was obviously not of his world.
It wanted him to fight with—for—it.
It wanted to destroy Earth.
It had an army.
It was raising the dead to make a larger one.
The person it was about to bring back to life was apparently very dangerous.
He had died to help their God-forsaken town, just like . . .
Just like he himself had.
He nodded; he knew what he had to do.
"Very well."
...
He was still running when he heard it—a scream. Again, he came to a sudden halt; the image of broken, dead Kevin Stoley was still in his mind, had never left his mind the whole time he had been running, but as he turned his head in the direction the scream had came from, his mind blanked.
There, in the front of her yard, was Bebe Stevens. Her house was on fire, but that wasn't what the girl had been screaming about, and it wasn't what Butters was gaping at; an alien had Bebe by the hair and was slamming her head against a car door. With every slam came a 'crack', and if he wasn't still sick from Kevin, wasn't getting sicker from seeing Bebe, that would have done it. Along with the cracks were groans until—Butters couldn't take it anymore; he doubled over and threw up into one of the Stevens' bushes.
Tired of her groans, the monster had used its claws to rip her tongue from her mouth.
Wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand after he finished, he grabbed the nearest rock and, without thinking about the consequences, tossed it at the grey beast. He missed, but it caught the thing's attention, and as it turned to face him, never letting go of Bebe, he made eye-contact with it; his mind flashed back to the last one he had seen.
"Y-you leave her alone, you big bully!"
The alien, its mouth bloody, its teeth showing, smirked at him. He began to shake; it had sharp teeth.
He was backing up slowly, realizing all too late that Bebe would bleed to death from her injury before she could be saved, when she gurgled, trying to say something—"Run!" His gaze moved from the thing in front of him that could very well kill him to the girl that had never liked him, the girl that he had tried to save, the girl that was now telling him to save himself—and he did. He swallowed, apologized for leaving her alone to die, and ran.
The thing lost interest in him and went back to beating his victim's head against the car she had tried to escape in.
...
His skin was no longer numb by the time the creature was kneeling by Pirrup's grave, chanting something and rubbing its fingers against the tomb. He was used to the cold despite being in Hell for years, so he didn't say anything; he simply watched until it got done, until there was a body materialized in front of him.
Pip.
Shit.
Shit!
He had never learned the boy's real name, always calling him the name Damien had; they were friends, after all. When was the last time he had seen Pip? Had talked to him?
About an hour before he had woken up on Earth.
Shit.
Pip had been visiting his parents while Damien was telling him about something; gun control, which had been Christophe's contribute to the conversation, and. . . what was it? Damien had been telling him about—about souls vanishing lately. It made sense now, and later he would try praying to his friend to give him a heads up, but for now? Now he needed to get Pip somewhere safe.
The boy looked healthy enough, though his lips were blue from the cold. His body seemed to be in one piece, which brought up another point—their bodies were much older than the ones they had died in. The alien had made them the age they would have been if they hadn't died.
Good. It'll come in handy.
His hand was still on his shovel; he loosened it from its carrier as the beast continued with what it was doing. It had been the plan all along to attack the thing when it was distracted, waiting until he found out more information about what it was doing, but now that he had someone else to protect, he knew he should do so sooner rather than later. It was when a glowing light appeared around Pip's head, which the alien was holding, that he hesitated.
"What are you doing to him?"
The thing didn't seem phased with his shock, nor did it question his anger. It finished the incantation, chanting even when Christophe grabbed it, until it was done; it pulled away from both boys, proud with its work; it gazed down at its newest prize.
"The same thing I did to you; returning memories, making him able to understand my language."
It was when Pip's eyes cracked open that Christophe did it; without waiting for the British boy to even sit up, he slammed his shovel down on top of the alien's head. It was knocked back, the blow making it dizzy, and Christophe took the opportunity to grab Pip's hand and pull him up.
"Chris—"
He didn't have time for answers.
"Come on!"
They ran.
...
Butters was exhausted by the time he reached the cemetery. He had taken more detours than he could count to avoid those things, had ran more than he could ever remember running in his whole life, and he feared that by the time he reached Eric's house, it would be too late.
The image of Bebe came to mind, and he pushed himself to run faster.
It was then, as he was passing the cemetery, that he heard it—footsteps, and they were coming closer. He couldn't stop to make sure it wasn't another survivor though; he didn't see how there could be any survivors left and he was in too much of a hurry. Luckily for him though, the footsteps grew quieter as he ran; they weren't following him.
If he had moved a few steps slower, he could have met up with Pip and Christophe.
...
"I don't think I can run anymore."
"You have to. Stop being such a pussy."
"But, Chris—"
"No buts. If you start with the buts, I will kick yours."
"My lungs—"
"Will not explode."
"It feels like—"
"They're on fire? That's what surviving feels like."
"I can't take—"
"Yes you can! You can take every bit of it! Because I can't carry you, it'll slow us down too much!"
He couldn't leave him either. If he did, Damien would be angry enough to send him to Heaven, and he didn't want to be around God. This didn't occur to him though. He had a sense of duty to Pip. They were friends; they were both willing to die for the other. He wasn't going to let that happen though. Neither one of them were going to die, not again, not for anybody that didn't deserve it at least, and sure as hell not because of a pathetic alien.
"But—"
"What did I tell you about buts? Fine though!"
Still holding onto his friend's hand—Pip would have fallen far behind him otherwise—he pulled the boy behind a building so they could rest. He stayed on watch while Pip doubled over, trying to get as much air into his lungs as possible.
Some soldier he would have been.
It caused something to click though; he had been wondering why they couldn't just make an army instead of raising one, and now it made sense—because they couldn't. They could bring people back to life, but they could only make them how they would have been if they had never died; Pip wasn't a super-soldier, he lost his breath too easily. They could make changes—they could cause the body to grow older—but they couldn't make anything out of thin air.
Pip finally stood up properly, his hand leaning against the side of the building for support. His lips were almost back to their usual color, but his cheeks were flushed; he was cold. He had warm enough clothes on to not catch a cold though, so Christophe didn't make a note of it on his mental check-list of problems.
"I wonder where we are. South Park, obviously, but where at? I do hope we haven't gotten lost."
Christophe knew where they were, of course; he had been careful about keeping track of where they were running to. Someone had to, and Pip could be a bit of an airhead at times.
"Oh, silly me, I know! We're at—"
His sentence was cut off by Christophe's hand, cool to the touch, covering his mouth. The blonde was showing his airhead side; he was shouting when they were supposed to be hiding.
"Be quiet. You do not want us to get caught, do you?"
Pip shook his head and after a small moment Christophe dropped his hand. The boy had a soft mouth, but it wasn't the time to think about such matters.
"Good. Now—"
It wasn't a hand that stopped Christophe from finishing his sentence but a sound; footsteps. They were coming from above—from the roof of the building they were leaning against. Thinking quickly, he covered Pip's mouth with his hand again and pointed up. He was glad he did so; he knew his friend would gasp, not thinking not to do so, and the sound could have alerted whatever was above them of their presence.
After a few minutes passed the footsteps began to walk away. After several more slipped away, he dropped his hand once more, and Pip relaxed the tiniest bit. They were safe. Only for the moment, but they were safe.
"Come on. We need to keep moving."
...
On the verge of a break down of both body and soul, Butters finally made it to the Cartman household—and after begging the boys to come look outside, they finally did.
He had warned his friends. If he died that very day, he would be happy with that being his last good deed.
...
After much running, they finally made it; he found the boys who had hired him before. Luckily for him, Pip knew where they lived; he didn't know how long he would have lasted looking for the house on his own. He was sure they would know something though; they had, after all, been in the middle of the trouble going on the last time he had been South Park, and he had heard rumors of the crazy shit they got up to from Pip.
If they didn't know what was going on, he had a feeling that they all would be fucked.
It didn't take much effort breaking into the house; being a mercenary came with a certain set of skills, and lock-picking was one of them. It didn't take long to figure out where they were hiding at either.
"But, Christophe, how do we get them to trust us?"
Ah, there would be the hard part.
