Chapter 14: Champion

One day I feel I'm on top of the world

and the next it's falling in on me.

I can get back on,

I can get back on.

One day I feel I'm ahead of the wheel

and the next it's rolling over me.

I can get back on,

I can get back on. –Far Cry, Rush

My flashlight's beam shot out into the pitch-black room, illuminating the stairs, but leaving everything else in darkness. There was an aura about this place, an aura I can only describe as malice. Cautiously I stepped on the first stair, the creak of the wood the only sound in the hole house aside from my heartbeat.

Second stair, third stair, fourth stair – I continued one at a time until I reached the bottom. The bottom of the basement was solid concrete, and every time I took a step, a loud click resonated through the room. The aura just got stronger with every step forward.

Grabbing it in my left hand, I examined all around with the pocket flashlight, scanning for any irregularities. There was naught that was unusual; but from my position I could see Champion, laying on the table with its coffer full of shells. I no longer took it slow; I jogged to the gun and found it in mint condition, aside from some dust and grime on the barrel.

It was sleek, the carbon-blue steel shining like holy armour in some fantasy story; the wood glistened, smooth and with the image of benevolance, yet grim and with signs of time's decay; and the weight was light – a cruel, cold weapon of vicious death, so easily carried.

Time to see how strong you are, I thought as I opened the coffer of ammunition.

Empty.

The whole world halted for a minute. It must have looked ridiculous, a grown man with his jaw to the floor, arm suspended in the air above a dusty coffer, and with a duffel bag full of weapons (plus a pistol in his back pocket). I felt all the despair inside me swelling, rising, on the verge of eruption.

Don't do it.

I was shaking, my eyes tightly shut as I repressed the emotions.

No . . .

'NO!' I screamed, and fell to my knees, shaking furiously and pounding the ground with my fist. 'No! No! No! Damnit!'

The raw emotion began as hot fury and surged into cold wrath. I looked around, knowing he couldn't hear me but still daring to anyways.

'What . . . what do you want from me, you sick bastard?'

No answer. Not that I was expecting some voice to suddenly whisper 'pat your head and rub your tummy', but I thought maybe some piece of paper would suddenly get blown in front of me, or something subtle. But there was nothing.

I had to get it together, and I knew it. I stood quietly, regaining my composure and breathing deeply. Every moment lost, Emily nears death, if she hadn't arrived already. I had to book it. Not only because she was close to me, but because if she died, yours truly was next.

I inhaled and blinked, and then examined Champion. Four rounds per magazine, and that box of ammunition left me with a total of –

I calculated it in my head.

'Four times three is twelve, plus four is sixteen. Sixteen shells. Great.'

Don't worry. Now you got something that'll phase that Pyramid.

That thought right there set off a series of lightbulbs that lead to the conclusion: This rifle could blast that bastard back to the Hell he came from . . . worth it.

I had to try it out, though, as my gauging of the power may be wrong. It had a sling to go over the shoulder, and a small satchel to go on the waste, where I kept all the bullets; I felt absolutely awesome, as if I was, say, the Punisher, or the Terminator. That feeling was dashed as I discovered how dark it truly was in my house. I turned all the lights on, and decided to leave them on when I went through the hole again.

I also decided to drop some weaponry, because my muscles were exhausted, and only need kept me from throwing myself on the ground and sleeping. I dropped the pipe, the golf clubs, and some good. I then went into my bathroom and took a wiz. Doing so I managed to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror: it wasn't pretty. My hair was filthy, glistening with oil and small patches were flaky with dried blood. My facial hair was about a centemetre long, and I had a slight breakout on my forehead, and my face had small blood splatters – sweat beads were still present in various spaces.

My crimson work shirt concealed the blood from my countless foes, and only contained a few rips or weakened areas. My jeans were tattered and dirty, mainly from under the school. My boots had blood on them from kicking the lizards and such.

The shirt could stay, the boots too, but the jeans had to go and the hair had to be washed. I was about to jump in the shower when I remembered about Emily.

Get motivated, Dave, now. You can shower once you save Emily.

I took a piece of toilet paper and scraped it against my face, and threw the grey, damp paper in the trash. Taking a breath, I went to the laundry room and climbed in the hole.

– –

Coming out in the sporting goods shop, I ran through the entrance, and stood there, thinking about what to do.

If this is Ashfield . . . your house is here . . . maybe Emma's is here? Emma lives to the left, right, left . . . Rowl Street. Go!

I turned left and took off, sprinting as fast as I could. If she was in her house, I might have a chance of making it to her in time. I was closing in on Truman Street – and the road was gone. It was obliterated, completely destroyed. I could see clearly a street lamp on Rowl Street, and Truman Street was only obliterated on my side. Rowl Street was connected to Truman, but the left side was gone and the right side was not. I'd have to get to Truman Street's right side to get on Rowl.

I looked around frantically, desperate for some to reach her house. There was a large, dilapidated rectangular building, brown, that I thought I saw run onto the remainder of Truman Street. There was an iron door, worn and rusted, that led inside. I tried the knob – rusted shut. Scowling, I stepped back, and with a primal yell I charged it, bringing my foot up and ramming the door full speed. It ripped off its hinges and fell on the floor with a loud thud. Inside was a hallway, also decayed.

I heard the familiar moans of the weird, rust-coloured monsters that carried weapons. I decided now was the perfect time to try out my rifle; I aimed, and waited. After a few moments, the monstrosity shuffled up and screamed – it broke into a faster shuffle, and was in my sights.

Click.

I looked at the rifle in horror, my mind racing with possibilities as to why it didn't fire. Safety? No safety. Jammed? Then I noticed the problem and almost smacked myself.

Cock it.

I cocked the rifle forcefully and aimed once more at the beast's head; it seemed to perceive its impending doom, for it screamed and reared back to swing. I pulled the trigger.

And it most definitely fired.

The pin propelled the shell, and the shell shot through the barrel at the speed of sound, gaining momentum as it sailed through the dysphoric air, drilling through the monster's skull, scrambling its brains, shattering its skull as it exited, and continuing down a bloody path to who-knows-where. I was thrust back, barely keeping my footing as the rifle sailed backwards, along with my neck – I had enough sense to keep my face jammed against the gun so it wouldn't sail up and smack me. Smiling broadly, I cast a gaze to the thing. The beast was dead, more dead than Michael Jackson's career.

Fifteen shells.

I darted forward down the hallway and found another hole from Champion in the wooden door. It didn't open either, and it was stuck fast. So I did the one thing I could think to do: I got the hammer and split the door down the middle. Climbing through I found something I was expecting in my subconscious.

One of the Pyramids.

It was wielding a spear, and immediately started moving towards me in that slow yet powerful walk. Grinning widely, I lifted Champion to eye-level, aiming it at where I estimated his head to be. Cocking it, I fingered the trigger. The Red Pyramid stopped, and looked at me with (from what I could tell) horror.

'End of the line,' I smirked, and pulled the trigger. Through the cloud of smoke at the end of the barrel, I saw a gaping hole in the thing's helmet, and it was shrieking. I walked forward, cocking as I aimed it again.

Another blast I dealt, adjacent to the other hole. It shrieked again, and turned to flee. I laughed hysterically, and let it go. I only had thirteen shells now, but that was well worth it. One more shell in the gun before I had to reload.

There was a door straight ahead, which the Red Pyramid had gone through, and a door to my left, leading to Truman Street (I presumed). I ran to it and threw it open. I heard a high-pitched, womanly scream. Adrenaline coursing, I darted down Truman and turned down Rowl Street.