Chapter 3: Tyler "Sunday" Sampson
O.C. Credits:
Tyler Sampson (a.k.a., Sunday), belongs to J8325 (on DeviantArt)
Well...shit.
...No...The word itself wasn't enough to describe how fucked up things were right now.
Tyler Sampson, well known as "Sunday" by those he'd dealt with in the past, was hastily packing up supplies for a daring escape. Things could not have possibly gotten worse for the 50-year-old.
Quickly closing a small suitcase, he went for the stash of weapons he kept in his closet. Sunday scanned the inside of the compartment rapidly and began pulling out a few items here and there. His two favorite weapons: an M1911, and an MP5Ksd would surely do for now...at least until he can find a new home far, far, away from here. Anything else he'd keep was a wallet filled with cash, a briefcase with a pair of clothes, a knife, and what he was wearing at the moment: A purple suit and hat along with a red buttoned shirt underneath and beige jeans.
Sunday began hearing sirens. They were distant, but they were getting closer by them minute. He hoped that he was hearing things, but that of course would just prove to be a result of denial.
Loading his guns and arming himself with a couple of spare ammunition clips, he immediately went for the fire-escape. Walking out of the front door wouldn't be an option, unless he wanted to get showered by bullets and look like a slice of Swiss cheese.
Vaulting over the window, he began going down the rusted red ladders. As he continued descending to ground-level, sure enough, the police were already at his front door.
"COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP! WE WILL USE DEADLY FORCE, IF NECESSARY!" An officer yelling into a megaphone could be heard.
Fuck.
Sunday began running to his car; a black Corvette that would hopefully be hidden beneath the darkness of the night. Jumping in, he started up his vehicle and sped off without hesitation.
Meanwhile, the officers at his front door had finally lost their patience. The leader of the squadron turned to his men.
"GET THAT DOOR OPEN! NOW!"
With a couple of powerful kicks into the barrier, the door gave way as officers charged in; pistols raised. It wasn't until after checking every square inch of the whole house that they realized the area was deserted.
"Nobody's here, sir!" one of the men told the leader.
Before the conversation could even continue however, a sudden sound of tires screeching with the rocky pavement could be heard. Another officer looked out of the window and saw Sunday.
"It's him! He's getting away!" the officer shouted.
"Well what the fuck are you all staring at me for!? GET TO YOUR CARS AND GET HIM!"
Following the higher-up's orders, they ran back to their vehicles; readying for a hot pursuit.
Sunday's only reaction to the yelling from the officers behind him was to drive faster. As expected, the sirens from the squad cars had begun growing gradually louder. Either way though; it didn't matter to him. He already knew where he was going.
Suddenly, gunfire rattled the air as bullets made impact with the back of the car. Sunday gripped the steering wheel tighter. If they wanted to fight, he'll certainly be more than willing to spill blood.
Holding his right hand on the wheel and pulling out his pistol from his left, Sunday turned around and retaliated. The first three rounds he shot had gone into one car; killing the driver and causing the car to swerve uncontrollably into a building. Unfortunately, there were still three more left; as this action caused the police to attack with much more brutal force.
Sunday quickly went back into the driver's seat as he realized his opposition wasn't holding back anymore. It wasn't until Sunday noticed he was losing fuel rapidly that something must be done before it was too late.
Jerking the steering wheel violently to the side, he started going off-road to a dense forest. Then, he slowed the car to a halt and ditched the driver's seat as he began going on foot.
After travelling a few feet, Sunday finally stopped where he was and hid behind a large tree. Perfect; he would ambush the fuckers before they could even realize what was going on.
Voices from the officers could be heard as soon as they left their cars to investigate the scene.
"He's not in the car!"
"Then he has to be around here somewhere! There's no way in Hell he could've gotten that far that fast! Find him and kill the motherfucker on sight; he already killed two of our boys!"
Hearing this, Sunday leaned his ear on the tree. Well, if they were going to actually try and kill him, then he might as well return the favor.
Closing his eyes, he let his auditory senses see for him instead. For somebody who had to be a master at stealth, this was practically second-nature to him.
Old, dead leaves scattered across the area being crushed by boots...
The heavy breathing of his enemies...
The sounds of their voices ringing down the forest...
Sunday opened his eyes.
Six.
There was six of them.
Six corpses to hit the floor by the next ten minutes.
Pulling out his knife, he readied for the first officer. The man was walking alone; slowly nearing Sunday's territory one step at a time.
"Jesus...it's so dark...I can't see shit." The officer muttered as he waved his flashlight around.
Sunday sat where he was; still as a rock. He could easily pounce and tear the bastard apart, but that would attract too much attention. Something preferably quieter would be more efficient at dispatching the battalion.
The officer turned around; ready to inform his group the area was clear. Sunday widened his eyes.
Now.
In one swift, professional movement, Sunday had the young man in a chokehold. Before the officer could even process what was going on, Sunday had jabbed his neck with his knife; destroying any and all hope for reinforcements to save him from his doom.
Once the deed was done, Sunday had silently removed his knife from his victim. He picked up the flashlight the policeman had dropped, turned it off, and kept it for himself. It would certainly serve some purpose when the time comes.
Sunday repeated this process when he figured another officer was coming in the same direction the last had gone through. Unfortunately for that man, he would only catch a 3-second glimpse at his partner's corpse before being knifed in the head.
That makes two.
This method of assault however, had finally failed him as he realized the disappearance of the two men had gone noticed. Once again, Sunday tried to listen in on the second conversation the group had.
"Hey...do you guys know where Jason and David went?" one of them told the remainder of his team.
"Holy shit...are you telling me they just vanished?"
"Well that's what I'm asking! I'm not liking the sound of this; maybe we should call for backup."
"Yeah...way ahead of ya there."
The sound of a walkie-talkie going off could be heard next.
"Requesting reinforcements at Windsborough Forest. Fugitive is armed and has shown lethal force; kill on-sight."
Packing away the small electronic, the officer nodded.
"Let's get going; this time in one group. If anything happens, shout as loud as you can for us to hear."
Sunday frowned. Fuck; things were going to get a bit harder from here on out. Maybe it would be best if he kept his unknown position to his advantage and just get the Hell out of there...
Deciding upon this thought quickly, Sunday slowly moved away from the flashlights that were drawing nearer and nearer to his location in a small crouch. However, it seemed as though fate had other plans for him; as he could only take two steps back until making a loud snap on a twig.
This sound was more than enough to alert the officers as to where Sunday was. Raising their firearms, they aimed at where the noise would've most likely had come from, and began firing blind.
In response, Sunday hid behind another one of the trees around him. God...the officers seemed really serious this time.
As they closed in, one of the men stumbled on where Sunday left the bodies. Seeing this, he almost puked.
"Holy fucking shit! The son of a bitch killed them!"
It didn't take a genius to figure out who he was referring to.
The lead officer went over to see the dead bodies. He clenched his teeth.
"Keep that man who did this alive, so I can watch him get hanged with my own eyes."
Sunday thought nothing of this. Murder was merely a hobby to him; and the feelings of negativity afterwards no longer pressed any guilt. But boy...this was a mess. Along with his initial crime, murdering four police officers would certainly promise him something even worse than life-imprisonment.
Eventually, Sunday realized that the show must go on, and things could not stay like this forever. After all, reinforcements were supposedly coming, so he'd have to speed things up.
Pulling out his MP5Ksd, he sighed.
Shit's going to get real now.
Without warning, Sunday charged; emptying half his clip into two officers. But before the third could even turn his head, he found the criminal holding the leader in a chokehold with the gun pointed at his head.
The officer raised his pistol; nervous as Hell. Seeing this, Sunday nudged the nozzle of his gun just a bit closer to the struggling policeman in his possession.
"Lower. Your. Weapon." Sunday said slowly and calmly to get his point across.
The officer still stared at Sunday with his firearm aimed at his head. The fact that he was sweating bullets while Sunday was seemingly cool about the whole situation didn't help one bit.
Seeing this act of disobedience, Sunday pressed more force onto the squad-leader's neck, causing him to gag. The officer hesitated at this.
"I swear to fucking God, I'm not going to tolerate any bullshit. If you don't do what I say right now, your little buddy over here is going to join that corpse party I set up on the ground, faster than you can shit yourself. So put it down. Now." Sunday ordered.
The officer bit his lip. At this rate, instead of the bullet loaded in Sunday's weapon, suffocation would claim his higher-up's life.
Realizing there was no other possible option, he slowly lowered his weapon until it touched the ground and raised his hands up for surrender. He prayed that whatever support the nearby police station had would come soon and save them from this nightmare.
"A-Alright man, I did what I told you." the officer stuttered.
Sunday nodded. "Good."
In a split-second, Sunday turned his weapon at the unarmed officer and fired. The lifeless body hit the floor and the sound of a bullet being fired echoed in the distance. It was practically over in a matter of seconds.
Sunday began to loosen his grip on the leader of the group when he figured that was all of them. After a few seconds of gagging and coughing, the man continued his efforts to break free.
"You...you monster! You piece of fucking filth! You killed them! You killed all of them!" he shouted.
Sunday kept his cold expression on him. "I'm quite aware of that."
This had left the commanding officer speechless. "Holy Hell...you really don't care do you? You just killed five people with families and you don't even give a damn! You're a fucking demon!"
For some reason, this line had made Sunday harden his stare just a bit more. This man had no idea...
Sunday sighed. "Believe me; this is nothing. I've put down more people to the cemetery than you can count. Your boys over here...they're just going to fill in a few more coffins."
Before he could even receive a response, Sunday shoved the officer forwards; stunning him momentarily. But this moment was more than enough time for Sunday to complete his deed.
"Don't take it personally. It's just business." Sunday ended the talk with, as he fired the last few bullets left in his clip into the man's back.
A sort of eerie, peaceful silence suddenly reigned the area. However, this was interrupted with more sirens blaring in the distance.
Seems like "backup" had just arrived.
With haste, Sunday quickly ran to his car and pulled out the briefcase he carried with his spare set of clothes. There was no way he could escape with his vehicle; it would take too much time readying the car for the road. Instead, he just carried his belongings and ran off through the other end of the forest.
As he was dashing off, he could hear the voices of the next group of officers behind him.
"Oh my God! The whole group's dead! The guy killed six of them!"
"Jesus...call an ambulance!"
"Get the monster before he gets away!"
Sunday didn't panic when he heard the last line from the shouting. The forest was too dense; there was no way in Hell they could find him without some kind of eye in the sky. And luckily for him, the police didn't seem to have planned out that far for some reason.
Sunday ran off as he held the hat on his head with his right hand and his briefcase in his left.
"Holy Hell...you really don't care do you? You just killed five people with families and you don't even give a damn! You're a fucking demon!"
The cold hard stare the killer wore had softened just a bit, as he ran alone in the cold, dark night.
...They would never understand.
The next few days were more settled than that incident. After switching his clothes and concealing his face from the majority of the public, nobody could even recognize the man who had an unbelievably high bounty over his head.
With the previous skills he had from stealing cars as a living, Sunday had managed to nab a vehicle in the parking-lot of a shopping mall. It wasn't anything fancy; just something fast, and could store A LOT of gas at once.
A manhunt had already begun for Sunday after a service had taken place to commemorate those he had recently killed. However, thanks to his cunning ability of sensing danger and such, the police force couldn't receive any clues as to where he was residing or even to where he was leaving. Eventually, the heat had died down gradually, but regardless of how long it would take, Sunday would seemingly remain as public enemy number one in the state of Maine.
More time passed as Sunday crossed the states. From his original home in Maine through New York, Ohio, and Kansas; Sunday was pretty much on a road trip from one end of the country to another. He kept his supplies nearby; daring to only leave his car during a bathroom break, for some food, or gas from a small store/gas station nearby him.
Eventually, this living on the edge had finally brought him to a steering halt, as he began reaching farther and farther westward. Refueling areas had become less frequent in his travels and strangely enough, the sky was starting to turn into a shade of blood-red with wanted posters of dozens of people other than himself; particularly ones with the name of some guy called: "Hank J. Wimbleton".
Sunday felt the car beginning to slow down. He looked at the needle which signified how much fuel he had left. Sure enough, he was practically running on empty.
"Ah shit..." he whispered to himself. If only he had brought more spare gallons in his trunk, then he wouldn't even be in this situation right now! Ah well...he supposed he could ask the locals for help.
Sunday pulled out a small map of the United States he was able to snag from a nearby convenience store. Looking around, he realized he just crossed the state line over Utah, as he marked that off with a red "X" with his red pen.
Looking up at a nearby sign, he soon figured out where he was.
"...Nevada?"
With one final push on the accelerator, the car gave in as Sunday pulled over to the edge of the sidewalk to park. Having no choice but to refuel, he went to the trunk of the car for, hopefully, some type of container with gas in it. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.
"Fuck." Sunday muttered under his breath.
Shutting the backside of the car back down, Sunday looked around his environment a bit more clearly. The city he stuck himself in…it looked like something from a black-and-white movie. Everywhere his eyes went, the neighborhood around him was pretty much an array of run-down, gray slums. The only piece of this whole scenery that seemed to shift away from this depressing landscape was the sky, but even that was only a deeper shade of menacing red.
Sunday scratched the back of his head. Was the whole state just like this? He had heard of rumors back in Maine about the crazy shit particularly going on here, but those were just…rumors, right? After all, the way the people described it…it sounded almost something that came straight out of a fantasy story!
Sunday decided to set these disturbing thoughts aside for later. Now was not the time to speculate upon gossip. He had to leave as soon as he could for the sake of escaping whatever search party was after his head, and…for the sake of just avoiding this undesirable place.
Seeing a nearby hotel, it seemed asking for some help there would be best, since there seemed to be no gas station for miles. Sighing he went in.
Little did he know, he was being watched.
"Excuse me?"
A man behind the register lowered the newspaper he indulged himself in to meet Sunday eye-to-eye.
"Uh-huh?" he replied with a bored look on his face.
"You mind telling me where the nearest gas station around these parts is?"
The man blinked in surprise. A gas station?
Folding his newspaper and crossing his arms with an almost-unamused look on his face, the man stared at Sunday dead-on.
"You're not from around here, are you?"
Sunday frowned. Now wasn't really the best time to change the subject in his opinion, but he supposed that he had to answer a few questions first before getting his own response.
"No." Sunday merely answered.
The man now twisted his lip. Great; another clueless tourist. Well, he could at least ask a few more questions to see who he's exactly dealing with.
"Where ya from?"
Although he really wished not to reveal so much information about himself in such desperate times, it seemed that he still had no other choice.
"York." He lied.
The man frowned. "Tch, New Yorker? I've seen plenty in my times, but nobody dressed like how you are. Hell, what exactly are ya trying to do anyways? Make a fashion statement?"
"Yeah. A fashion statement." Sunday continued to fib.
The next few seconds of silence were just spent in a heated stare. Then, the man broke it with a chuckle as he raised his newspaper back up to his face.
"You won't last a week…"
For some reason, this sentence irked Sunday off as he clenched his fists to restrain himself from committing yet another murder. "What the Hell is that supposed to mean?"
The man shrugged, almost unbothered by the negative change in Sunday's tone of voice. "You'll find out for yourself soon enough."
Sunday let out a small exhale of rage. He really shouldn't be upset right now to avoid wasting any time.
"Look, I don't give a fuck about what you think about me or where I fucking come from; I just want some goddamn answers. Where is the closest place I can refuel my car?" Sunday said a bit more demandingly.
The man shook his head. "I suggest you start thinking: 'where can I get a tow truck to pick me up' rather than that same question over and over again. Unless you want to walk forty miles off into the desert. And even I'm not sure that station exists anymore."
Now that was just unbelievable.
"What the Hell are you talking about? Forty miles for just a couple of gallons?" Sunday questioned in awe.
"See, that's how I can tell you're not from around here; anyone who'd been in Nevada for at least a month would already know most of those are out of order or just piles of smoldering ash. Nobody uses cars in this place anymore. Either go by foot or stay home and do nothing. Simple as that." the receptionist explained.
Sunday just bit his lip for a few minutes to avoid saying anything too smart to start an argument. He sighed.
"All right, fine. Where do I call for one of those tow trucks you've been talking 'bout?"
"Relax; I'll call one up for ya. He should be here in a few days."
"A few days!?"
"Man, if I just told ya there hasn't been a gas station here for miles on out, what the fuck makes ya think there would be someone with a goddamn tow truck right across the block?"
Sunday pressed his hand to his face. Jesus; what the Hell is wrong with this place!?
"Fine! Just get me someone that can pull me out of this mess."
Nodding, the man whipped out his cellphone; readying for a call. But before that, he looked back up to Sunday.
"…Well, ya came to a hotel, and ya gotta stay here for a few days until shit happens, so…."
Sunday sighed once again. "Just give me a goddamn room key…"
The receptionist turned behind him and pulled off a random room key for the new visitor. Handing him it, he began typing in numbers into his phone as Sunday went to his temporary home.
Suddenly, there was one last thing he remembered he had to add.
"Oh, and by the way..."
Sunday turned to him as the man faced to Sunday with a disturbingly serious look on his face.
"…if you have any weapons on ya, I suggest ya hold onto them real, real close. For your sake. Also, don't smoke. Not here, or anywhere else in this godforsaken place."
Sunday raised an eyebrow in suspicion. Was this guy fucking with him? Or was he threatening him for some odd reason? Well, either way, he'd be more than happy to kill a motherfucker who wanted to make things personal.
Shrugging, he turned back around. "If you say so."
The man stared as Sunday walked off. He went back on his phone and dialed the number. As it rang, he sighed to himself.
"…He won't last a week…"
Sunday walked into his room. It was on the third floor, and since the elevator in this place refused to run, he had no choice but to walk the stairs to his destination.
Immediately upon entering, the first thing he was met with was a putrid smell. It was faint, but he could still sense it in the air. Then, his eyes were next to analyze the situation. No wonder the whole goddamn place smelled so bad; the room was such in poor, shoddy quality, with stains covering the depressingly-dark red walls. It was almost as if a janitor had never came here to clean up from the previous guests since the day the hotel first opened.
Sunday frowned. "Hopefully this place has air fresheners…"
Looking around his compartment a bit more only to be disappointed by every corner, Sunday sighed. In his opinion, he had the feeling that being in his car would've been more luxurious than staying here. But assuming from the looks of the many undesirable people walking in the streets were giving him, it wasn't exactly the best idea if he was hoping for a blissful rest.
Finally, Sunday gave up on finding at least one good thing in his stay. After spotting a bed, he suddenly realized how tired he was, ever since he had begun his seemingly never-ending road trip across the country. In fact, he couldn't even remember when the last time he even slept was.
Not even bothering to inspect the sheets (since they were probably as dirty as him anyways, after not taking a shower for a week or so), he plopped himself on the mattress and drifted off to slumber.
Well, this was just one fan-fucking-tastic day…
Knock, knock.
Sunday turned to his side; away from the annoying sound.
Knock, knock.
He yawned, tightening his already-shut eyes just a bit more.
"Is he in there?" one voice could be heard saying outside.
"Positive. He hasn't left the inside of his room since yesterday." Another replied to the first.
Sunday groaned. Who the fuck were these people anyways? Were they one of those preachers that were going to try and bring him into Christianity?
Knock, knock!
Sunday practically leaped out of his bed in rage. It was still dark out, so he wanted to make this as quick as possible. For the sake of sleeping.
Opening the door, Sunday first spoke, before the men in front of him could begin.
"If you're from the local church; already Christian. Thanks."
And with that, he shut the door. Well, at least about halfway until one man's arm stopped him.
"Sir. That's not exactly what we're here for." The same man informed him as he reopened the door. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it up as he placed it into his mouth.
Sunday turned around and stopped in his tracks.
"Then what the Hell are you here for? Girl Scout cookies?"
"Do we look like a bunch of Girl Scouts to you?" the second in the group asked rhetorically.
Sunday rubbed his eyes to see who exactly he was dealing with. Sure enough, as his vision adjusted, he realized the trio of men before him were neither preachers nor scouts; they were wearing black suits with black shades that looked a lot like the character design of the Smithy Agent from the Matrix movies.
Sunday rolled his head around his neck; waking himself up slowly. "Apparently not."
Sighing, the first man in the group began. "Alright then. We'll start from the top. Hello there! You seem like you've just moved into the neighborhood! How was your stay so far?"
Sunday stared at the man expressionlessly. This must be some kind of routine. He supposed he could play along if that'll make them all go away faster.
"Shitty." Sunday merely answered.
"Great! We are glad you've already gotten acquainted to your surroundings!" the agent responded; almost as if he took Sunday's answer in a completely opposite meaning. "Now then, are you aware of certain fees tourists must pay when visiting our delightful state?"
Sunday raised an eyebrow. "Fees? Delightful state?"
The agent nodded. "In Nevada, there is a certain toll that must be paid monthly to live here. It is mandatory by law."
Before he would argue, he decided to push on a bit further. "What kind of fees are we exactly talking about?"
"Oh well, you know…there's the living fee, the fee for water, electricity, driving…"
"Wait," Sunday cutoff before he could continue. "I'm going to get taxed for driving?"
"That is correct sir. We do have to have the funding to support our bustling city after all, and these tolls paid by our citizens shall help."
Sunday crossed his arms. "That sounds like a load of bullshit. I've only been here for about a day, minus the fact that I was sleeping until you three came knocking on my door, and this is probably the most fucked up place I've gone to in a long time."
"Well sir, we apologize for your thoughts, but regardless, you must pay to live here no matter what you think about the quality."
Sunday twisted his lip. "How much…?"
The agent pulled out a calculator and began inputting numbers. Finally pressing the equal sign, he read it out load.
"Two-thousand, four hundred and thirty nine dollars."
For the first time in so long, this made Sunday's jaw drop. "A month!?"
"Yes sir. We thank you for your contribution."
Closing his mouth, Sunday recomposed himself. No way. This had to be some kind of bad prank or something. This was just ludicrous. Who the Hell would spend that much to live here?
Sunday frowned. "And if I refuse?"
The agents did not seemed surprised by this answer; almost as if they've gone through this multiple times before. "Well, as you can see, crime is a bit of an issue here. So, instead of paying this tax, we allow you to be recruited to our fighting force, the 'A.A.H.W.'. By doing so, you agree to work for our agency until the end of the War and until your dying breath."
"A.A.H.W.? War? Dying breath? Hold on; the Hell is really going on around-"
"That does not matter as of now. Please decide what form of payment you shall choose."
Sunday blinked. Holy shit; they were dead-serious.
"…What if I refuse both options?"
The agent's sarcastic smile broke for a split-second, then returned.
"…That, unfortunately, is not a choice."
The trio of men entered the room uninvited; forcing Sunday to move a few feet back. He could already tell what was going to come next if he wasn't willing to agree.
Then, a random thought had entered his head.
"…Can I ask a single question though…before anything?"
"Go ahead."
Sunday put his hands in his pockets; near his M1911.
"…How exactly did you know I was driving a car here?"
Immediately after this was said, the third agent, who was closest to the door of the room, closed and locked the entranceway.
"That information is irrelevant as of now. Now please; make a choice." The first egged on.
Sunday gripped the pistol hidden in his pants.
"…You were spying on me…weren't you?"
Without an answer, the agent in front of him chucked out a Bowie Knife in one swift movement. However, before he could even swing, Sunday had quickly taken out his weapon and fired at point-blank range into his head.
The momentum of the shot burst the agent's head as he was flung lifelessly to the door. His smoke fell to the floor uselessly as this happened.
In shock, the agent's two partners turned around to see their dead comrade. This however, proved to be a mistake, as Sunday fired two more bullets into the second's sides. This managed to eliminate him as well.
Once the third had turned and whipped out his Glock, Sunday rammed him into the wall with the side of his arm on his neck. This caused the agent to fire a round to the side in surprise, but that didn't matter to Sunday.
Holding the man in this position, Sunday aimed the nozzle on his right shoulder.
"Who the fuck sent you?"
The agent stared at him with a heated glare, as he gagged for air. Sunday twitched his left eye in irritation.
"I ain't got time for this…"
He fired his shot into the agent; causing him to yell in pain. However, his screams were blocked thanks to Sunday's method of trapping him.
Sunday then moved his weapon to the man's lower area.
"Next will be your balls if you don't speak up."
This was more than enough as the agent had begun sweating rapidly. Mustering the little bit of air he had left in his lungs, he spoke.
"Th…The Auditor…"
Although Sunday wasn't exactly sure who the fuck that was, since he was a bit cut off from politics, it was probably as good as it gets.
"Good. Your balls stay intact then." Sunday answered. Using the hilt of his gun, he knocked a pressure point on the man's neck; sending him into unconsciousness. It was funny; it was just after this burst of violence that Sunday finally realized the stains on the walls weren't from grime.
It was blood.
"Thank you gentlemen for your cooperation." He merely told the three inactive bodies as he exited.
Sunday placed the M1911 back into his left pocket. He had a feeling this wasn't the last time he'd meet the likes of them.
As he went downstairs, he met the receptionist again.
"I took your advice. It helped. Thanks." He said.
The man behind the counter smirked. "I see. But I suggest you run; their organization doesn't consist of just three members after all, and murder isn't forgivable by their standards."
A look of confusion washed over Sunday's face.
"How-?"
"The blood on your face. Get it off." The man advised. "…And get out of here."
Nodding, Sunday dashed out of the hotel. He suspected that if they were monitoring him, no doubt they would've seen him carrying a couple of things that could mean trouble. And that probably meant they would be ready to deploy reinforcements when necessary.
Just as he suspected, a bullet whizzed by him. Hiding behind a car, Sunday took out his pistol once more. The streets were now deserted; seemingly because of these Smithy-like agents that had completely flipped over his experience here.
After sighting his target in a nearby alleyway. Sunday jumped to his side and fired three shots; killing his foe instantly. It was another one of those A.A.H.W. assholes from before.
Flinching at the sound of yet another gunshot, Sunday took cover behind a different car. Pressing his ear to the car, he once again let his auditory senses roam free. After a few seconds of listening, he realized there were almost ten of them out hunting for him.
Was he going to have to fend them all off like this?
Standing up behind cover, he fired his seventh shot into one agent's head. That would pretty much raise his kill count of these bastards to five.
Going back down in time, he hastily reloaded his weapon. Unfortunately, he never suspected one of his enemies were charging at him with a knife. Before he could even slap the clip in and cock the gun, the agent was already leaping at him; ready to stab him before he could evade the attack.
Luckily, Sunday wasn't alone.
A string of bullets had impacted into the agent's back as he was still airborne, causing him to fly over Sunday and into the cement pavement. Sunday looked at the direction of where the gunfire had come. The man behind the action wasn't too hard to notice, given that he was firing an MP-40 using one hand and taking out agents behind him with a USP Match.
He took down about six more of them, and looked directly at Sunday.
"Come with me if you want to live." He said, Russian accent clearly audible.
Having pretty much nowhere else to go at the moment, Sunday decided to follow him as they ran down the blocks of the city. In almost every corner, there were five more agents trying to blast their heads off, but thankfully, the two of them were able to easily fend them off from both directions.
Finally reaching a dark alleyway that was able to hide them from sight, Sunday analyzed the person who had pulled him out of the battle more closely as he looked from the side of a brick wall for any more hostiles. He was clad in a black outfit which closely resembled a ninja's, minus the blue sports-like glasses that lit up in the dark.
Once the coast was clear, he turned to Sunday.
"Okay. We're safe. For now."
Saying nothing, Sunday just reloaded his weapons and set them on his body for later. Realizing that now was the best time to speak his mind to this stranger, Sunday spoke the first thing on his mind.
"Who are you?"
The man turned to Sunday, surprisingly calm amongst all the chaos. "They call me many different things around here. You will refer to me as 574 – nothing more, nothing less."
Sunday nodded slightly. Okay, at least he knew what to call him now.
"Alright then… 574. Can you explain to me what the fuck's going on around here?"
574 fitted a new magazine into his MP-40 and slapped one into his USP, then loaded a round into both chambers. "You are not from Nevada, da?"
Assuming "da" meant yes, Sunday nodded once more. "Yeah. From York."
"I see. Why come here though? Certainly, any place is better than this."
Sunday scratched the back of his head. "I'm just visiting. You know… tourist and all."
574 straightened up and turned to Sunday. His face turned stone-cold, and his accent matched the occasion.
"Don't bullshit me."
Sunday was taken aback. "Wha… what do you-"
"I assure you, I haven't come here to kill you. I want you to be honest with me, for the sake of my mission."
Sunday raised an eyebrow. "Mission?"
"Da. I cannot reveal all the details for now, but I will say this: you've gotten yourself in quite a messy situation, comrade. But back to the topic, be honest. Regardless of what you have done, you and I, we're in the same league. I kill, you kill. Simple as that."
Sunday stared at 574 for a few seconds. He had no idea who this person was, but he sure looked like he knew what he was doing. Plus, he was right either way. And something in his gut told him to trust this guy; at least he wasn't after his skull compared to everyone else…
Sunday sighed. "All right. You caught me red-handed. I'm from Maine. And I'm kinda here because I did something that's causing everyone there go crazy for my head…"
574 raised an eyebrow in interest. "And that is?"
Sunday took a few seconds in hesitation. However, he eventually went on with it, since he had already gotten this far.
"…I assassinated the mayor of Maine. And killed a couple of cops along the way too."
For the first time since he had met him, 574 chuckled. "That was you? You're Tyler Sampson?"
"Yep." Sunday confirmed the fact with a sigh.
574 let out a whistle in awe. "I stand corrected then, you're in a very messy situation."
"Yep…" Sunday repeated once more, this time a bit upset with the reminder that the police were still after him too. The person who had asked him to do the job was already caught, and God knows what they were doing to him now.
Then, 574 looked at him, eye to eye.
"…And that's probably the exact reason as to why I'm after you then, Mr. Sampson."
Sunday stood a bit more upright. "What for? Are you a spy or something?"
"Of some sorts." 574 agreed, "But certainly not from the police. Oh no; those guys can't do anything right nowadays thanks to The Auditor. I'm more of a… recruiter… for the organization against the one that's after you at this moment. The 'Anti-A.A.H.W.'"
Sunday took a deep inhale. Oh great, another group of people he'd have to worry about. But wait a minute… this guy seems to know a lot about these areas. Could it be possible he might be holding the answers he's looking for?
"… God, I'm so confused right now. Can you explain to me what the fuck is going on around here?" Sunday asked.
"As expected," 574 replied, "And…it's quite a long story. I'll give you the short version of it though, and I'll answer only a few of your questions. We don't have much time left, given that I was supposed to bring you to HQ ten minutes ago."
Sunday nodded. Okay, at least he was getting answers now.
"Go on." He told the Russian-sounding commando before him.
574 peaked once more by the side of the alleyway. After making sure things were still clear, he turned back around to begin the story.
"Well, Mr. Sampson-"
"Please," Sunday interrupted, "Call me Sunday."
"…Right…Sunday," 574 corrected. "You've just managed to get yourself right in the middle of an on-going war - a war between the A.A.H.W. and its Anti - that's us. This place is clearly beyond normal and yes, it's the A.A.H.W.'s fault. The little shits have built these things, Improbability Drives, which somehow have the power to alter space and motherfucking time themselves. Their leader, asshat by the name of 'The Auditor,' now has control over Earth's natural elements. You need an example, take a look at the sky. That's the Anti-A.A.H.W.'s goal - destroy these drives, destroy the A.A.H.W., and get everything to go back to normal."
Sunday looked up to the red horizon above him. Good, he'd learned more from just those few sentences than he did ever since he first came here. But he still wanted answers.
"Who the fuck were those guys then? The ones that look like Agent Smith from the Matrix movies?"
"Those are what the A.A.H.W. call '1337 Agents'. As of now, they're the most recent model of agents the A.A.H.W. has at its disposal. But we fear that in the near future, the A.A.H.W. will make more complex soldiers, and they'll be a pain in the ass to go against. However, as of now, 1337 Agents merely work as 'tax' collectors, defend the facilities that are prone to infiltration, and hunt down our agents, who are now considered criminals of society." 574 continued to explain.
Sunday looked to his side. Sure enough, he saw yet another wanted poster of that same person called "Hank". Who the fuck was this guy anyways?
Ripping off the piece of paper that was once attached to the wall, he showed it to 574. "And I'm assuming he's one of the criminals they're looking for. I've actually seen a lot of these about this same guy. Mind explaining to me who he is?"
574 looked closely at the poster and chuckled. "Ah yes… that's Hank J. Wimbleton. Once part of the Madness Combat Squadron with DJ Anderson, Eli, Hina, and the Walker brothers. Oh the memories I've shared with him… too nostalgic."
Sunday twisted his head a bit to the side. "Huh. So you do know this guy."
"Know him?" 574 asked, and then broke into maniacal laughter, which made Sunday quite a bit more nervous. As quickly as he'd begun, 574 stopped, and his face turned serious.
"I taught him."
Sunday said nothing to this. If Hank J. Wimbleton was as bad as he sounded, then… oh boy. His mentor was probably even worse.
Hearing no response, 574 decided to just get to the point. "Now then Sunday, it's time."
Sunday snapped out of his trance. "For what?"
"To make a choice, of course." 574 cleared up. "I'm giving you an offer of a lifetime here. You could join us, or survive on your wits and try to get out of here, alone. Even after that, I don't promise you're going to make it far, given the heat behind your tail."
Sunday crossed his arms. "Why should I trust you?"
574 stared at him, tilting his head slightly. "Let me ask you something. Who else do you have to trust, if not me?"
Sunday looked down at the ground. He wasn't sure about this. Sure, he was just happy this guy didn't attack him the first time they met. But he still needed to cover some things first.
"Well, I don't exactly have a home or anything other than a few hundred bucks in my pocket..."
"Living space and all your other daily necessities will be covered, I promise." 574 replied.
"… But my age, I'm pretty much fifty. Why would you want an old dog like me to work for you?"
"Oh please, don't make me laugh. We don't give half a fuck about how old you are. If you can fight and you're good at it, then you're in."
"And my status? I've just murdered a whole battalion of policemen, plus a politician. I'm pretty much a murderer…"
574 opened his arms and took two steps back with a smile, almost as if he was welcoming him.
"Welcome to the family, then!"
Sunday sighed. Jesus Christ; what the Hell was going on? A few hours ago, his main priority was to escape the police and get the fuck out of this place. But now, he'd have to still worry about the police and two more organizations that were after him.
Seeing a spark of doubt in the old man's eyes, 574 stopped his humorous slant on the whole situation. "Look. You don't have much of a choice here. Either you join us and we can actually give you somewhere to live while you help us take down these motherfuckers or you can leave right now and spend the rest of your life running away from the police. Take the leap of faith, will you? What are you going to lose compared to leaving?"
Sunday narrowed his eyes. Still…
Before his decision could go any further however, 574 pulled out the USP Match he'd used earlier and leveled it at him. Sunday couldn't even react when he pulled the trigger just by how fast the man was. But something was off…
…he was still alive.
Unless…
Sunday slowly turned around. His eyes widened.
A 1337 agent lay on the floor with blood pooling around his head, lifeless hands still gripping the shotgun with which he would have taken both their lives.
Placing away the pistol, 574 looked back at the streets from the alleyway. He glanced at Sunday with a dead-serious look.
"Someone would've heard that! We have to leave, NOW! I can't bring you into the Agency unless you've agreed to join us first! Make a decision before time runs out!" 574 ordered.
Sunday loosened himself up, ready to sprint. Oh God, this was going all too fast. Was he really going to give up the rest of his freedom for these guys? Or-
574 pulled out his MP-40 and let loose a volley, downing two more agent who had been closing in on them. There were a lot of them, and no doubt they'd be hard, if not impossible to shake off if they didn't get going.
"Sunday!"
Sunday clenched his fists, pulling out his own weapons.
Ah, fuck it. Wasn't like he had much of a choice to begin with anyways.
"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. Let's go!"
574 nodding in response, the two of them climbed a fence that blocked off a part of the alleyway. It would certainly buy them some time until the chase wore off.
As they dashed off in the darkness, Sunday remembered a small checklist in his head he would use, whenever he had to move and get accustomed to his new surroundings. It was three simple things, really.
One: Meet the locals…
Sunday couldn't help but smirk, as he remembered kicking the trio of agents' asses when they threw complete bullshit at him so early in the goddamn morning.
Check.
Two: Get a home…
Well, he kinda did have one…for a while. That counts, right?
Check.
And three…
...Get a job.
Sunday grinned. Something told him the rest of his living days were going to get fun.
Check.
FILE CODE: TYLER SAMPSON [89537-726]
ALIAS: SUNDAY
BLOOD TYPE: B+
STAND: [ANTI-AAHW, SENIOR AGENT]
Reviewers' Credits:
DodgeStreaker: Thanks! And to answer your question, not exactly. Enid is only telling their stories, in a sense for people to just remember and never forget them. They do make an appearance though in the last chapter, but I'm not telling anything more than that. ;)
Thanks for the review!
SirPolarBear: Hey, thanks Billy! It's really motivating you've reviewed this story too, so I'm glad to hear it! Stick around for the ride, 'cause it'll be good too! :D
The Dark Madness Dragon: Thanks again dude! And I have to agree with you there; the last chapter was a bit too short. I guess it was just missing that "Madness" feel for some reason. Hopefully though, I fixed that in this one.
Thanks bro. :)
Maximunex: Thanks man! I'm glad you liked it; your characters were awesome to work with! Keep on drawing Madness too dude; you're one Hell of an artist! ;)
P.S., It's alright; you must've used O.C. in a way that made the site think you were using a link. It's a stupid filter error, but yeah. I don't mind.
Extra O.C.'s:
Agent 574/Mikhail Nikitin: by Sacrom574 (yeah, I'm still here.)
[END OF CHAPTER 2: TYLER "SUNDAY" SAMPSON]
