Chapter 8
Surface
1
The chief heard his full name being called out, and he looked up, blinking as if he'd come right out of a dream. How he wished that were the case for these past few days, sitting in that cell with nothing better to do then to watch his hands shake. Somehow a little drop of Jake's blood had found its way under one of his fingernails and caked up, and it was unnaturally hard to scrub away.
And he's not even dead.
One of the guards had told him Jake was living off machines, but still alive. Perhaps if he'd struck him one last time he would have had some sort of… satisfaction, as he waited for his end, which wasn't too far away from where he was standing.
He had been cuffed, and placed upon a platform all the way up on level 10. Standard procedure was that you needed clearance to go anywhere above 25, but as it usually did during events like this, exceptions were made.
He had amassed quite a crowd, too. A hundred people, give or take, all gathered across the space before him, slightly lower down from his upraised position. It kind of reminded him of the ancient days, back when people were burned at the stake or hung from a noose, open for the public to come and watch. He would have gladly chosen either of those options then face this particular fate.
To his left, Mayor Blankley was consulting a clipboard, addressing the people. Again, he was reminded of those ancient days, where the people were so craved for entertainment, they would gladly watch someone be executed right in front of them. The Mayor went on, saying that he was severely disappointed in the chief's actions, and that no other punishment would fit the crime of attempted murder. He went on a bit about how the Bunker 'Holds humanity at its heart, and would not tolerate infection of its ideals'.
Little late for that, Blankley.
The Mayor then looked up from his clipboard, and asked if anyone present could vouch for the chief's possible chance at redemption.
There was a glimmer of hope in the chief's eyes as he scanned the crowd, and his gaze fell upon the woman he had saved from Blankley's goons. She stared right back; lips pursed in consideration. The silence seemed to stretch, and for a moment the chief really thought he might live to see tomorrow, his previous deeds finally rewarding him. But the hope within the chief's chest died when the woman chose to hold her peace. He wasn't really angry at her, not yet, just disappointed. Both in himself, and what his race had come to.
It was all formality, but the Mayor turned to him directly and asked if he pleaded guilty or not. For a long span of seconds he considered staying quiet as well, but a part of him would not accept going to his end without some dignity. He pleaded guilty.
"Under the Bunker's protection, every single one of us is a ray of hope for Solaris' future. Trying to murder one of your fellow human beings will not be tolerated. You are sentenced to Sweeping. You may not get another chance, so now is the time to speak your final words, if you have any."
The chief had none.
Blankley put his clipboard under his arm, and nodded to one of the guards. Said guard produced a weapon from his belt, ejected the magazine, and started to file away the bullets. The chief wasn't all that surprised to see the guard was one of those three he'd stopped from raping the woman all those weeks ago.
The Mayor turned the chief around, put an arm over his shoulder, and leaned in, so they could get some privacy before the gathered people, some of whom were beginning to shout obscenities. "I just gave you an opportunity to debunk me, boy. I'm surprised you didn't take it."
The chief said nothing.
"What you read on that computer…" Blankley sighed, as if in pain. "I just want you to know it really was the only way. The corporation is the lifeblood of mankind! Without it the whole Galaxy would be just like Solaris."
The chief looked up at the older man. "There's always another way. You just chose the easiest one."
"You may be right," Blankley relented. "But since it is unlikely the ones who actually gave the order are still alive, that might just make me the acting commander of our Solaris Division. I'm not responsible for all this, Maddox, but I will bear the burden all the same."
The way Blankley waved his hand as if he were talking about a bit of spilled milk, made the chief clench his hands beneath the cuffs.
"You want to kill me, don't you?" Blankley grinned, as if the idea was more stupid than it really was. "It's in the eyes, mostly. I really did have high hopes for you, I just wish it didn't have to come to this."
The guard came over, handed the pistol to the Mayor. He flipped it over in his hands, traced his thumb over the barrel. "But you were of some good use, I'll give you that. You were… unique, but I'll find another chief engineer in time. Or perhaps not. I'm really not long for this world, either."
The Mayor put the gun in the chief's hand. Blankley produced a golden, cylindrical object, holding up to the light like it was some mystical artefact. "I don't usually give Sweeper's weapons, but for all your hard work, consider it repayment. It only takes one bullet, and this one is for you. If you're smart, you'll close your eyes. Easier that way."
He handed him the bullet. If Maddox didn't know any better, he would have loaded the bullet and shot the Mayor then and there. But he had never held a gun before, and about ten rifles were aimed at him from every direction.
He was given one last item before he would leave this world and plunge into another. A polarised breathing mask, complete with four canisters of recyclable air. The cuffs were unlocked, and as he was strapping the rebreather over his face the chief said: "You only gave two canisters to the guy before me."
"Yes, well, as I said – it's a repayment. It hurts me to do this to you, truly, but examples must be set. And if you should complete your task, I give you my word those doors will open. I'll even personally welcome you back into the fold. Who knows, there may yet be a spot for you on our voyage from this planet."
Blankley had told that to every other man and woman he had sent Sweeping, word for word, all with that little smirk on his face. It was a sense of hope he gave, loud enough for the other people to hear. Just another way to make him look like the good guy in this sacrificial ritual.
"It's time." Blankley waved a hand. There was a droning sound of rusted machinery cranking to life so loud, it was almost enough to wash away the jeering of the chief's former 'neighbours. They were antsy, itching to see how long he'd last. Some had even placed bets.
The big wall they had the chief stood before, was decorated by pipes and pulleys forming a rectangular shape against the steel. Screaming metal accompanied a massive dislodging of the bottom portion of the airlock. It slid upwards, giving way into the adjacent space beyond.
The barrel of a gun bumped into his back, encouraging him to step inside. "What about the radiation?" the chief asked, voice muffled by the mask covering his face like a helmet.
The Mayor grinned. "According to our sensors, the air's cleaned up over the years, but I wouldn't risk taking that helmet off. You will be fine, as long as you don't take too long."
The chief didn't wait for the guards to push him in, he would show he had at least some courage to all these people watching. He stepped into the airlock, forcing himself not to look back as he heard the doors begin to seal behind him. He wouldn't give the Mayor the satisfaction of seeing how truly terrified he really was.
Lifting his hands, he pulled back the straps of the mask over his messy hair, made sure the clamps were tight and secure. The air inside the mask hissed for a split second as he screwed on one of the canisters. The rest he shoved into his pockets. "Remember!" Blankley called out. "There will be a place for you here should you succeed. I swear on it."
The airlock shut tight with a final whir of motors, and unknown to either of them, the chief would never look upon the interior of the Bunker again.
Red, blaring lights on the ceiling hissed to life as more machinery powered on. Cones of crimson illuminated the walls in soft pulses. Old, rusting components groaned as final checks were activated. He went to move to the other side of the chamber, and almost collapsed when halfway across the space, the entire platform began to rise.
A monotone alarm buzzed throughout the lift as he was thrust higher and higher. A terrible vision of the lift breaking under its own weight and crushing him came and went. But as much as he feared being buried alive, he would gladly choose that any day over facing what horrors waited for him in the dead world.
Ten minutes later the lift came to a halt, and one final drawn out tune of the alarm bells let him know he had arrived. The silence that came after was sharp enough to make his ears ring. He felt his ears pop and his stomach ache, as the opposing wall of the lift began to open up like a metal mouth.
Some sort of growl/cry sound escaped from his lips as rays of sunlight beamed into his eyes, adjusted to darkness for years, hitting his senses hard enough to make him fall onto his ass in pain. He supposed he was lucky to have that sort of reaction, as opposed to having his retinas explode like grapes.
It felt like he was shying away from the light for hours, but eventually when his eyes adjusted to the brightness, and he took his first look in years back into the world from before, it was not so much as what he saw, as what he thought he saw out there beyond the airlock, that made him scramble back on the metal floor and cower in the rear of the lift.
The last time he'd been out there, his adolescent life had been confusing, but pleasant at the same time. The last time he'd seen it, it was colourful, full of life and wonder.
And now? Now it was just… nothing. There was no colour, not to the sun or the sky or the ground. Every single surface looked like it had been burnt, torn apart, then burned again, and he wasn't even looking at the true surface world yet, just a section of an old trainyard with a ramp leading out of it a hundred meters away, where the glare was bright enough to leave sharp afterimages when he blinked.
This couldn't be the work of nukes or bombs. Weyland had sent down something far worse than normal, conventional weapons. Something that warped what it touched, turned everything into something you'd only see in nightmares.
Breathing heavily inside his mask, the chief worked up the courage to get to his feet. But just when he got to one knee, and went to rise up, he stopped. Not because his body wasn't able, but his mind just flat out refused to do it.
I can't go out there.
It was frightening, to be so scared you couldn't do something as simple as step forward. Fear on top of fear. The chief had been given a lonely, but sheltered upbringing that had been rather dull up towards the end. Then the Bunker had come, another shield against the horrors of the world. And now it was just him, nothing more to hide behind, and he'd never felt so naked, so exposed.
If you're smart, you'll close your eyes. Easier that way.
Maddox raised his pistol and bullet. He supposed this was what Blankley had warned him about. He gently slid back the barrel, and placed the bullet inside the exposed slot. A glance up at the floor just beyond the lift, told him he wouldn't be the first person sent Sweeping to blow his brains out moments after stepping out from the lift.
But no matter how much he toyed with the gun, he never quite managed to aim it upward. Funny, he had had no trouble trying to end Jake's life, had he? So why couldn't he just do it now?
Coward.
He thought it was likely there were cameras inside the lift somewhere. He could imagine it, Blankley and his people smirking as they watched their former chief cower in the corner like a rat afraid of light. He'd sacrificed a lot of things in his time in the Bunker. Was it really all for nothing if he couldn't face his end like a man? On his own two feet?
Behind the voice calling him a coward, a failure, and a manner of other more despicable things, something was telling him that he could do it. His sense of hope, what had been carrying him this far, was dying, but it was still there. He clung onto it, used it for strength.
With visible effort, he pushed himself off his knee. His blurred, glassy vision inside his mask fogged up as his breathing became rapid. He took one long, hesitant step outside of the lift, pistol raised limply in his inexperienced grip.
His first footfall onto the surface world, ended with a crunch of bones.
Looking down, he saw dozens upon dozens of skeletons sprawled out before him in awkward poses, arms that had once been clawing at the lift doors now chopped off at the wrists. His breath caught in his throat when he realised the pelvis he'd stepped on had once belonged to a child.
But not just any child. From its position against the lift door, he knew it had to have been the little girl he'd seen on that fateful day – the day he'd taken his place in the Bunker during the Fall. The skull seemed to grin up at him from the floor, as if saying looks like I got the easy way out, doesn't it?
Gritting his teeth. he continued forward, slowly, cringing each time a bone snapped beneath his boots. There seemed to be a method in all the remains that could be easily picked out. A whole bunch of them had been clawing at the lift doors, while some had turned and fled towards the trainyard, perhaps searching for another refuge they knew didn't exist. Some died in couples, skeletons embracing each other. Others died alone, as most usually did.
His boots met solid ground, and the crunching of remains ceased echoing across the stretches of the station. To his left a couple carriages had toppled off from the tracks, leaning onto the platform and cracking the concrete. Some of the screens hanging from the ceiling still flickered on for split seconds, displaying train arrival times and departures.
Two rows of pillars ran parallel along this platform, and he walked between them, eyes darting around inside his fogging mask. The trainyard went on forever to his right, where shadows obscured anything beyond the next four platforms. He imagined all sorts of nightmarish creatures lingering out there, hungry for his blood.
Aside from the blinding light, it was the silence that was starting to get to him. It was like even the slightest disturbance could set off the apocalypse all over again. He wondered if people were still alive up here, and if so, how they could stand it without going insane. Not wishing to break the white-noise of the quiet, he kept his steps silent as he moved to the light.
Foot-working around a crumbled support column, direct sunshine painted over his dusty work boots, then his jumpsuit, then his concealed face as his body felt the warmth of the sun for the first time in many years. But it wasn't the fact that he'd forgotten what it had felt like to be warm that startled him (although it certainly did on his exposed skin), but it was the fact that the warmth of the sun, wasn't really the right way to put it.
The sun, Solaris' star that was responsible for its namesake, was strangely cold. It was actually warmer in the trainyard shadows then out there, as strange as that was to admit.
The amount of overcast overhead alluded to the skies feeling closer, making him claustrophobic. Clouds clung against the highest Capitol rooftops, suppressing the sun's rays. Even with the overcast, and the mask, it was still too much on his eyes to look anywhere near the star for long. His head began to throb in pain as he took in his surroundings.
What few trees remained on the streets, were nothing more than twigs and splintered wood. What little life stone and concrete projected, had been drained away for an even more deathly appearance to the urbanised Capitol.
He spun on the spot, doing three-sixties as his eyes drank in the wreckage that stretched on in every direction. Houses had folded in on themselves, the roads were cracked, the cars and trucks rusted away into piles of scrap. There were more skeletons, too, as well as corpses with flesh still clinging onto the bones. Recently deceased. He hoped, no, wished, that this was all just some bad dream. That he wasn't really out here, but a few kilometres down below his feet, along with the rest of humanity.
How could humanity have done this?
How could he have put himself in this situation?
If not for the jarring fact he was certain he would be dead within the next few hours, and all this really would be just a memory very soon, he would have broken down then and there. He supposed it might have been culture shock, if that was what you called seeing the place you once lived in, reduced to rubble after spending five years underground. He felt his eyes grow wet with moisture, but forced them back before they could spill.
His focus slowly returned when his eyes fell on a strange machine to his left, jutting out from the ground like an alien pod compared to the backdrop. It reminded him of a post box, only with a chute big enough to fit a car door inside, and a holographic screen beside the lid of the chute.
0%, was all that was on the screen, along with the Weyland-Yutani logo right beneath. A camera orb poked out from the top of the machine; lens trained on him. He knew all too well who was watching on the other end.
Circling around it, his foot kicked against a squashed beer can. Huffing, he bent down and picked it up, then threw it inside the lid. He heard it clang against the sides of the chute a few times before it sank out of earshot, the world grew silent once more.
0% changed to 1%
Ninety-nine more to go, he thought, but he wasn't going to be so lucky. The ones sent out here before him would have scavenged the surrounding area clean. He would have to travel pretty far out. No wonder he'd been given extra canisters.
As if fate had had enough of him, the canister within his mask began to emit an unhealthy gurgling noise, like a hose not quite turned off properly. Already it was nearing depletion, and the odds of finding more were slim at best. He would have to move quickly, so he chose a direction and started walking.
What objects dotted the sidewalks from before, were stripped down bare from scavengers or other Sweepers. The Bunker manufactured all the basic needs to sustain a population – food, water, electricity – but the need for raw materials and parts was always in demand. Synthetics or other bots came and went from the surface to scavenge, but as Blankley said –a statement had to be made – and sometimes the undesirables of the Bunker were sent out instead to do the dirty work. No one who had gone out to Sweep ever returned.
But they had tried, judging by the lack of street posts, signs, or intact automobiles. Everything nearby the Bunker entrance had been looted, and he was walking for a long time down barren streets, bones being something of a common variable no matter which way he turned. He was glad he could only smell his own breath, and not the decay that was choking on everything he could see.
Flies buzzed around him as his body began to sweat. The little insects landed on his exposed arms, little legs scurrying across his skin, and he swatted at them without success. He was still garbed in his engineer overalls, a bit of Jake's blood here and there across the fabric.
Thin wisps of grey vapour plumed from the ground around him, as if the world was still on fire. Several small shops ran along the left side length of the street, and here he found some success in his task. An old sedan was parked up against the curb, the chassis all that remained of the old sports car. The bonnet was lying off to the side, almost camouflaged beneath a sheet of white dust.
He bent over and picked it up, wiping his metal clear as he looked it over. It would just barely fit into the chute, so it was better than nothing. Looking back the way he'd come, it would be quite a long haul if he kept coming and going to the entrance. He decided he would store anything he found around here, use it as a sort of scavenge-rally-point.
He picked through the ruins, slowly suffocating inside his tight rebreathing mask. In the few seconds it took to replace one oxygen canister with another, his throat had clamped up like a vice as the world became void of air. A tiny voice in his head tempted him into just letting asphyxiation take him, but why do that when he had been given a bullet with his proverbial name on it? It would be quicker, and much easier.
But he hadn't built up the courage to simply end it, not when there was that tiny chance that maybe, maybe he could preserve himself for a little while longer, and return to the (relative) safety of the Bunker, along with the rest of humanity.
If that's worth anything at this point.
He was just about to search down an alleyway, when he heard a cackling fit of laughter, followed by a horrible pained scream.
Whipping his head over his shoulder, his body froze up as his mind began to panic. It was hard enough accepting that people had actually survived out here this whole time, but to be this close? What were the odds?
He grumbled to himself at how careless he was being, looting out in the middle of the day, not even bothering to search the area for others, at least. He got up and leaned against a brick wall, looking down the street where the sounds had come from. He could hear something scraping across a rocky surface, followed by a few words he couldn't make sense of.
If it wasn't for the sounds of equipment being tossed around, he would have run back the other way, tail between his legs. But he couldn't just leave all the salvage he'd gathered so far, or let this opportunity to see the locals, maybe even meet them, slip by. He was almost naive enough to believe someone out here might actually be able to help him.
Why can't you just let things be? Jake's voice echoed in his thoughts as he brandished his gun and made for the next street over. Why can't you just let go?
"Why couldn't you have just stayed out of my way?" he asked right back, but the voice said nothing. It hadn't been a day topside and he was already going insane. That's just great.
Goosebumps ran up his skin as the laughter came again, and more grunts of effort, or maybe pain. It was two males, that much he was certain. He rounded one corner, then another. The voices were coming just over the next line of buildings. He climbed up the staircase of a run-down structure to get a better vantage point.
He peeked over a wrecked window frame, gun turned upward by his side. An open square stood before a grand, decaying building, with tattered flags and advertisement banners hanging from the rooftops. Park benches were overturned next to little gardens and dried up water fountains, the stonework cracked in web-like patterns. The big letters above the entrance were missing, all except the P, but the outline of the letters still remained, and he remembered this place. Crestfall Plaza.
There might have been some valuable loot left inside, if he knew where to look. There were thin shapes dangling from wires over some of the windows, but the plaza wasn't what had his attention, but who stood in its square. As he'd guessed there were two men, and both wore masks similar to his own. The taller one cackled as he backhanded the shorter one, before fetching something out of a basket by his foot.
It was hard to make out, but the chief could see silvery glitters from within the basket, and the hilt of a weapon sticking out of the lid. The basket itself sat inside a small wheelbarrow. The chief couldn't have asked for a more tempting target.
The tall one, probably the owner of the basket, fetched out a long piece of rope, and after grabbing the other man by the back of the collar, began to loop it around the man's hands, then his throat.
The chief frowned when the laughter came again, and movement off to the left caught his attention. A tall streetlamp with its lightbulb flickering, had some sort of object dangling from its top, swaying a little to the left and right. Likewise, down the other direction, another streetlamp was also decorated with a black shape hung by a wire, but he couldn't tell what it was at this distance.
As if performing the funniest act in the world, the basket-scavenger leaned back, swung the end of his rope a few times like he was about to lasso a wild horse, and threw it upward. The rope landed perfectly over another streetlamp the two men were standing directly underneath. Giving the shorter man another good whack to incapacitate him, the scavenger grabbed hold of the other end of the rope, and began to pull. The bounded man's toes left the street.
It was then it hit the chief. The other objects swinging from the other lamps, as well as sections of the plaza, were bodies. There were dozens of them, and this man was about to finish the decorations. The chief's expression was that of horror as he watched this man slowly take another victim, choking sounds beginning to get louder. He just couldn't watch something like this happen without doing something, though his cowardly half still gave him pause to reconsider.
After a few moments debating whether to retreat or advance, he took the latter option, and vaulted over the window, landing quietly on an outstretch of concrete. He shuffled off and placed his feet on the street. He had the gun, but the one bullet he would only use as a last resort to save his life, or to end it, but he was beginning to see the lines blur between those two options.
Besides, the scavenger's back was turned, and was pretty occupied with his latest display of cruelty. The chief thought he might just get lucky enough to get in close.
He was about three meters from the basket, when his foot knocked against a piece of rubble, and it bounced away loudly. The chief had just enough time to groan at his own clumsiness before the scavenger, spinning on a heel, let loose a screeching "AIEEEEEEEEEE!" -that made his ears thrum.
Both men stood stunned for a second, while the third person slowly gagged to death off to the side. The scavenger had two kitchen knives crossed over his chest in an X-shape, and brandished one of them swiftly. His knuckles and palms were covered in scabs and blisters.
The chief took no chances now. He raised the pistol up in an awkward hand, and pulled the trigger.
It didn't go all the way. His eyes flicked to the safety switch by his thumb, and he groaned.
"You've got to be shitting me-"
The knife flew through the air and crossed the space between the men, whistling loudly as it flipped grip over blade twice in its flight. The chief brought up his arm in pure reflex at the last moment, and he felt hot pain explode from his wrist. He looked up at his hand, and saw the glint of the end of the knife, sticking straight through his hand, his own blood dripping to the ground from its curved tip.
"AIEEEEEEEEEEEE!" the scavenger screeched again, and charged, arms out as if asking for a bear hug. His mind a rush with pain and panic, the chief spun the pistol in a reverse grip, paused, then slapped the scavenger with the butt of the gun.
What few scraps of hair still clung to the man's skull, was now accompanied by a visible indent from the smack. Now the "AIEEEEEEEEEE!" was edged with pain as the scavenger fell flat on his face before the chief. The man dangling from the rope made a horrible sound as his face turned purple. The chief almost gagged himself at the sight, but before he could react, his feet were swept out from beneath him. He tried to keep his grip on the gun, but he felt the weapon's weight slip from his fingers as he fell.
He landed on his side, against the arm with the knife sticking through it. There was a terrible squelching feeling as the knife embedded itself a little deeper, and the chief cried out in pain.
The scavenger was on top of him, his second kitchen knife raised up in both hands intended to find its way into the chief's chest. He brought his arms up and resisted, the two men grunting and growling as they tried to overpower the other. The tip of the knife slowly began to lower. The chief stared into the tiny reflection of himself in the scavenger's visor, his strength in his arms fading as the other man put all his weight into the struggle.
The chief raised his foot and planted his heel against the scavenger as hard as he could. The psychopath tumbled away – "AIEEEEE-GAH!" – and slammed down back-first onto the same rock the chief had knocked his foot against a few moments ago. The chief took a crucial second to search for the gun, but it had disappeared beneath all the surrounding rubble, and the only weapon literally at hand, was the knife sticking through his wrist. The scavenger writhed around like a worm as he got to his feet, blade swinging left to right in crazed arcs. The chief grit his teeth and held in a breath, before grabbing the hilt of the knife, and yanking.
Now whatever adrenaline that had been numbing his injury, fell away as his blood poured out in waves, bones clunking as he retracted the weapon. He screamed behind his mask, in pain as well as terror, as he brandished the knife, blood following its trace through the air as a stream of crimson.
The two men stood off from each other, pausing for breath. The chief took the first swing.
He caught the scavenger on the cheek, who was more shocked than pained by the act, touching a finger to his bloodied cheek. The chief didn't let the opportunity slip away. He swung again, this time at the scavenger's stomach with a cleaving motion. It opened up like a cut purse, pink stuff that could only be intestines peeking through the wound.
The scavenger grunted, and looked up at the encroaching chief with shaky eyes, though neither of them could see each other's faces. For the first time what came out of the man's mouth that day wasn't a screech, but a plead.
"Wait! PLEASE!"
The chief plunged the knife into his neck.
The scavenger's hands shot up, as if he were surrendering. He dropped his weapon and clutched at the other, trying in vain to pull it out. The chief stepped back, a horrified expression on his face as the man choked on his own blood, falling to his knees. The inside of the mask turned from black to red.
The chief clutched his wounded arm, leant his shaking body against the street pole as his mind took its time processing all that was happening. He would have stayed like that if he hadn't remembered there had been a third member among all this, and circled around the scavenger to help the choking man.
The chief thought he might have been dead, hanging half a meter from the ground for however long it had been, but he was still making sounds, horrific sounds, but that meant he was still alive, if only just. The chief quickly pulled out the weapon from the scavenger's basket he had seen earlier, and blinked when the length of the weapon was as long as his arm. The machete was in pretty good condition, polished blade and painted handle.
He moved over and, using his good arm, cut the man down. He fell to his knees and hacked, hands gripping against the pavement. Behind them, the scavenger's body thumped to the ground, twitched for a second, then went still.
The chief cursed as his arm flared when he tried to flex his fingers. He clutched it against his stomach and approached the would-be victim. "A-Are you alright, man?"
Anyone with a sense of rationality would have expected many responses. A new companion, a reward for his efforts, or even a word of thanks. Instead, all the chief got was a massive kick in the nuts.
All the air in his stomach came out in a cry of pain from his masked mouth. He lurched forward, and had just enough time to see a fist colliding with his mask before he was sent sprawling backwards onto his ass. He saw through squinting eyes the very man he had just saved, racing off down the street, something metal clutched in his hand.
He tried to call out, but found that his lungs could not take in any air, and he choked on his own spit, the edges of his vision darkening in suffocation. He clutched at his throat, only for his fingers, the nails black with dried blood, to be stopped by his mask. He felt around the space for his oxygen canister, but it was not there anymore.
Son of a bitch, he thought, eyes following the third man that bolted out of his decaying vision. He reached into his pocket, quickly fishing out a fresh canister. His eyes began to bulge as he fumbled to shove it in the correct way. The little nozzle slipped from the notch. He readjusted, then pressed it upward.
The mask hissed, and he could breathe once more.
The chief simply laid there, chest rising and falling as he took just a moment to rest his hot, sweating body. The clouds rolled on overhead, a blanket of oppressive greyness. His eyes rolled southward, and he thought he saw some discolouration out there, a darker encroaching mass. A storm, or maybe it was a cyclone. He wondered if the rain would be acidic.
He propped himself up on his elbows, saw his handiwork of the scavenger's body lying to his left, knife handle jutting out of the upturned neck. It hadn't been two days and he'd already attacked someone again, and now there was no doubt he'd finished the job.
But this time, he found himself disgusted to find that he wasn't so… bothered, by the mess before him, but that in turn, did bother him. Maybe it was because this time instead of a fellow engineer, it was a psychopath he'd stopped from acquiring another victim. A victim that had tried to suffocate the chief.
What has this place come to?
Grunting, he got to his feet and leaned over, examining the basket's contents. The scavenger certainly had lived up to his name the chief had given him. There were all sorts of trinkets inside. A few shotgun shells and rifle parts, but no signs of any weapons to use them for. A giant chrome tea kettle, complete with cooking pots and pans. There were even a few bits of cutlery as well, made from silver. He couldn't guess why the scavenger had decided to lug all that around with him. But all that would certainly fill his Sweeping quota, perhaps all the way to 100% with all the other junk he'd acquired.
There was also a scabbard with a strap attached, the same size as his newly acquired machete. He sheathed the machete and slung it over his back, plucked the knife from the scavenger's throat, put that in the basket, then began dressing his wrist with cloth, ripped from the dead scavenger's shirt.
He was no doctor, but any fool could tell being run through with some blade that had likely been used to kill dozens of people before, would infect you, and his wrist looked especially nasty. He could barely feel the tips of his fingers, and every heartbeat a fresh pulse of blood tricked down his forearm.
Got to move.
The sun was beginning to dim, more than it already was, of course. He moved over to the wheelbarrow, picked it up, winced as his arm flared, tried again, and this time he got it rolling. He moved back to the rally point where he'd put all his previous salvage, positive he didn't need to poke around the plaza for more. He didn't want to be here anymore, God knowing what sorts of horrible creatures came out at night. Plus there was still that man who had stolen his canister lurking about.
He gathered up a little less than half of his findings. Two or maybe three trips and he might just be able to complete his task. All within one day, but he didn't think the cost was worth it. He had thought what little humanity up here would have pulled together to try and get through the remains of Solaris. Not only had he ended a life, he hadn't even gotten so much as a thanks from the man he'd taken a stab to save.
His feet were dragging along the concrete as he wondered back towards the Bunker. He set the wheelbarrow down by the chute, glancing at the camera lens as he did. "Surprised?" he asked it, though he knew for a fact they wouldn't be able to hear him.
He was just about to start unpacking his salvage, when he stopped, overcome by a sudden moment of miserable clarity.
That question before, where he had asked what the world had come to? That was wrong. What he should have asked, was what has become of humanity?
All around him were the signs of what they'd done to this place. Solaris had been prosperous, innocent. The economy had been booming and the people were complacent. Then they had destroyed themselves. It wasn't just Weyland – although they had had a pretty big part in it – it was everyone. The Rebels were not excluded. They had spread panic and violence, all in the guise of a revolution. He'd said so himself that there was always another way.
Instead, humanity went down the path of violence, and destroyed itself, and all for what? A shitty Bunker filled with people who exiled their own. And those who hadn't gone underground for safety had been reduced to savages. But how could they not when they had to live in this?
The chief had helped keep the air clean, he had helped that woman, had tried to steer Jake away from his foolish pursuit, had wanted to expose the truth of Weyland and Blankley, had saved that man from the scavenger, and what had he gotten in return?
Pain. Cast out, left to fend for himself.
It was hopeless. All of it.
He really did believe Blankley when he said he would let the chief back in, should he be successful. But a question gave him pause. Could he really go back there? Back to living down there just waiting for the next day to come? Slink back into the shadows like nothing had ever happened. living a dull life that wasn't even worth living?
What was the point?
He was dead, dead even before the Fall. All his life there was a void inside him, an emptiness. It wasn't loneliness, not quite, it was more like the feeling of being incomplete. He wasn't really standing here; it didn't feel that way. It felt like a part of him was somewhere else entirely.
His eyes ever so slightly angled to the south without his input. He just didn't care anymore. He had gotten through six years of Fall life. And all that time had been building up to this very moment – the moment he just did not care anymore.
You were of some use, I'll give you that.
It was half-hearted praise, but probably the only praise the chief had ever been given. Sad but true. He pulled out his gun and played with it for a while, just standing there out in the open, a tiny breeze on his back.
The coast wasn't far, if memory served correctly. He'd only seen the ocean a couple of times from before, but he'd been impressed.
That, he decided, would be a good thing to see before he ate the bullet.
He tipped the wheelbarrow over, spilling all the salvage onto the street, the sound similar to a bag of cans rolling down a hill. He turned towards the camera above the chute, looked right into the lens while slowly bringing up his machete.
He slammed the hilt down on the Wey-Yu logo, breaking the screen. It sparked once before flicking off. He gave a two-fingered salute to the camera before breaking that as well.
Then, the Chief turned to the east, stuck his gun in his waistband, and went to find a quiet place to die.
2
It took the chief two days to reach the coast, the terrain being so much more malformed than before, it made the going much slower. The scavenger had a few spare canisters in his basket, so he didn't have to worry about running out of clean air for a while.
On the first day he had encountered a trio of people making camp in an old store building. He had kept his distance and watched for a while. They had set up a cooking spit and were roasting some sort of red meat. Most of their bodies were covered in strange blood-red tattoos from some alien language, each rune spiralling from one hand to the other. They wore nothing except for loincloths around their groins and chests. His suspicions were confirmed when one of them lifted up a slab of meat that looked all too similar to a foot.
Cannibals.
They did not wear rebreathing masks or helmets, but to say they were breathing wouldn't do it justice. Even as he put distance between him and the group, the chief could hear there raspy, phlegm-ridden breaths even when they were entire blocks away. So maybe the air was breathable in some capacity, but there could have been all manner of airborne diseases he wasn't going to risk contaminating himself with.
Unless I already have.
True, he had lifted the mask for a moment in order to eat. Seeing the spit, even if it was human flesh being roasted, made his stomach growl. He scrounged around as he trekked, but the Capitol was an urban wasteland, and he had to spend his first night on the surface world starving.
And lying in the pitch black was terrifying. There was no moon to light up the world, no light pollutions, and the world plunged into a horrible cloak of darkness that was so thick he couldn't even see his hands. He spent the night inside a ruined structure, with only a few sections of the walls and roof still intact. It was better than nothing, even if it was exposed. If he was killed during his sleep, he supposed that would be a quiet enough end he'd be content with.
But sleep never came. He tossed and turned, his face itchy, his wrist burning with pain. It was infected, no doubt about that, and the wrappings were soaked through with blood not even a minute after he replaced them with strips of his own shirt. The air temperature plummeted, and all he could do was curl up on the ground and wait until the sun began its skyward journey, cold and miserable.
He could feel bags form under his eyes as he sat there, wasting away. There was too much fear of what was out there, lurking in the darkness, to quiet his racing mind. Hours and hours later, the sun at last began to rise, and he got moving, no better off than when he had been the day before.
Sort of like the Bunker, isn't it? he thought, and laughed like a dying old man.
His throat was parched, his stomach eating itself. His searches began to get wrought with delirium, and he almost considered turning back to the Bunker. Almost. That was until he found himself a can of expired beef, tucked away in the back of a shop whose name escaped him. It looked as foul as dog food, but it would keep him going for the little while that remained.
To be safe, he buried himself in the underground storage room of the shop, a sealed refrigerator room he could move around in. Probably wasn't much cleaner than the air outside, but he didn't' have much choice, and nor did he care. He fought against all reason as he unsealed his mask and made ready to eat. He lifted the helmet up over his scalp, poured a portion of the beef down his throat, and sealed the mask in one swift movement. In those few seconds his face was exposed to the Fall's air, it was like a thousand insects were crawling over his cheeks and eyes.
His stomach complained up a storm, but he forced the beef to stay down. A lemony taste built up in his throat, but he resisted the urge to vomit, if only just. His thirst took a step back as well, but that wouldn't last long.
The second day he encountered no other soul, and the isolation began to mess with his head. He thought he heard growling from behind him, but every time he looked there was nothing there. His legs began to sweat under his long pants as he hiked up and over one incline after the other, the suburbs giving way to patches of forests, then back to stretches of concrete once more. All the trees were small, and malformed. It was like they were on the threshold of death, but just barely clinging on.
He could not sleep the second night either, and frustrations began to rise as he sat in the dark, examining his gun, pins and needles running up from his wound. He supposed it was silly to delay the inevitable, now that he'd accepted he wasn't going to live to see the sunset after today. But there was something holding him back, a little voice of reason behind all the others that were telling him to just give up, and let it end. What was scary was that little voice didn't even belong to him, but to someone he knew. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't quite place the owner.
He flicked the safety on and off, glancing up when he thought he heard rustling. He could hear waves crashing down on rocks somewhere nearby, and he'd spied the glint of the sea after the last rise in the earth. Tomorrow morning he would be down on the beach, he knew it. He would watch the sun rise up behind the veil of clouds, and light up the ocean, and that would be the last thing he would see. Six years in the Bunker, and two and a half days outside of it. They were measly numbers, but the chief was proud he'd come this far. He wasn't going to go into the void with regrets. Well, maybe just one…
But that was a long time ago. A different life, almost. Maybe he'd see her again on the other side. Maybe he wouldn't. Nothing in his life had gone right, so the latter was more than likely. He just felt so tired of it all. No one cared, and he supposed he didn't care, either. He'd tried his best, so wasn't that enough?
He thought his parents would be disgusted at this, wherever they were. He would be himself, if his kids were thinking like he was.
Kids, he thought. Imagine that.
He pulled back the barrel to look at the bullet, and found his eyelids growing heavier. Maybe he would actually get a good night's rest before he took his life, wouldn't that be such a stroke of fortune! He sat back against the tree trunk, and watched the clouds swirl overhead, trying and failing to morph them into the shapes of animals. It was the last thing he remembered doing before his eyes closed and pure exhaustion took him.
3
A soft breeze blew in from the side, placing a few strands of the chief's hair in his eyes. He raised up an arm to push it away, and blinked at how clean his hands were. No blood, no scars – like he'd just come out of a bath. His hair was also as soft as silk, not obstructed by a mask.
He was still sat before the tree, but the bark was brown, covered in patches of green moss. Turning his head up, he saw great thickets of leaves rustling high into the air, stretching on into the heavens. The woods were quiet, serene, the air occasionally filled with the sound of a bird or cricket. It was dark, but not enough that he couldn't see. The time just before rain began to fall.
"A dream, then."
He'd never had such a lucid dream, or even just a dream, in a very long time. It was almost vivid enough to mistake it for the waking world.
Soft grass caressed his legs and hands, green and healthy. A beetle zipped past his face and into the air, settling onto a branch and crawling along its crooked length. He felt the urge to stand slip from his mind, and he simply laid there, content as he breathed in the petrichor of the rainforest, letting the air out in contented sighs.
Then a ray of light painted itself across his shut eyelids, and he frowned at the interruption. The clouds had parted ahead of him, and the sun was rising just over the horizon. But there was something blocking out a portion of its aura. Some dark shape that was coming towards him. A few specks of rain began to drip through the canopy above, making light tapping sounds.
Maddox…
The shape was coming closer. He could make out a pair of dorsal spikes blocking out the aura of light, poking out from behind a slim torso
Maddox...
"What…?" He squinted, raising a hand to shade his face. He felt something probe at the back of his mind, a presence, shifting through his memories. He saw himself moving out of the Bunker lift again, stepping over the skeletons. He saw himself smashing Jake's head in with the crowbar. He saw himself slowly aiming his gun at his head.
Don't… the voice urged, echoing.
"Why?" he asked, hating how weak he sounded. "Why not? There's nothing left back there. Nothing."
The shape came closer, defining a curved head tilting to the side as it examined his prone body. He fought against its presence, blocking it out from poking around in his head. It pained them both, but he persisted.
Yes, there is.
"Who are you?"
The light was intensifying as the shape came close enough, that he could hear the thumps it made with each of its powerful legs. Its chest was ribbed with sinewy muscles, the hide warped in all manner of exotic shapes. A long, slender hand raised up before it plaintively.
You don't remember, either?
His eyes were drawn to a long tail, stretching out from behind the obsidian creature, swishing from side to side. It loomed over him, stopping just before his feet, but he didn't feel threatened in any way.
"… No," he said. "No, I remember you."
The legs bent, and the creature crouched down so their heads were level. He met its eyeless gaze, and felt his heart fluster when the lips pulled back in a soft smile.
Just hold on, my friend. As you always have.
"I…" Hesitantly, like the slightest disturbance would bring the world down around him, he raised a hand towards the creature. "I can't. It's too much."
The wind was picking up, swishing the grass and the leaves. The rain began to strengthen, and flashes of lightning left sharp after-images behind the creature.
I'm coming, Maddox. You have to hold on.
"You're…? I-I never felt you after that day. I thought you were dead."
I was. The creature moaned softly. But now I've found you.
The brightness began to make his eyes water, or maybe he was crying, either way, he found his hand trembling as he reached for her. But she began to pull away, her skin becoming transparent. "No, no wait! Don't go!"
I never left you. And you never left me.
"Amaya!"
He reached out for her, but his hand met nothing. The sunlight was too much, and he closed his eyes against its glare. When he opened them again, he was back in the waking world, arms up to grab someone who wasn't there.
He felt moisture on his cheeks, went to rub them, forgot about the mask, and let his arms fall.
"Was… Was that really you?"
The air soughed through the cracks in the trees, sounding like the screams of a thousand children.
4
Somehow, everything about the coast projected this air of misery. The way the waves frothed up around the base of the teeth-shaped rocks, how the sand was sharp even through his boots, how the sea itself looked like a massive pool of urine. It all amounted to an aura of plain wrongness, or maybe that was because the chief was looking through a set of eyes that had seen the world from before.
But biased or not, he felt no sense of liberation as he trudged down the hill towards the coastline. The view was grand, but not at all pleasant. If anything, the stretch of water was the last thing he wanted to see before he died, opposite of what he'd been thinking the day before.
There was a piece of his mind in full doubt, that the dream was not real, no matter how much it had felt like it was. But just say that Amaya really was out there? What would he do? What could he do but blunder about, waiting for sleep to come again?
She said that she was on the way.
But how did she know? Could he meet her halfway, perhaps? He felt so weak and useless, on top of all the doubts that Amaya's little visit had all just been his imagination.
Wiping his visor to clear away a smudge, he saw a few tents arranged down on the beach, surrounding a squat green structure. A radar dish jutted out of the top of the building, and the bulb on the end of the antennae was red, still powered on. His stomach grumbled a complaint as he set off towards it.
The only other major landmark he could see was a giant cliff face off to the left, hugging close to the beach. It stretched up impossibly high, and he thought he saw a giant starship engine protruding just over the lip of the cliff, dangling above the sea. Waves crashed violently against the rocks as the wind began to intensify. He thought he heard thunder in the distance.
He didn't react to the clusters of skeletons gathered around the perimeter tents apart from a few long glances, but he did make a disgusted sound when he spied a pair of vultures pecking at a corpse, recently deceased judging by the pooling blood. They flapped their wings at him as he approached, squawking.
He growled right back, flailing his machete around. The birds cried out and took flight, moving up high and out over the ocean. He frowned as he looked over the corpse, chew marks and tags of flesh ripped out of its guts and chest, the gender impossible to identify at this point. He wondered if those cannibals had done this, but then why had they left so much meat behind?
He didn't spend much time thinking about it, moving over to the tents and peeling back the tarps one by one, in hopes of finding some scraps. Just like the vultures. He couldn't recall why exactly they had been introduced to Solaris in the first place. Probably another screw up from someone high up in the societal food chain. Then again that was the least of their worries now, wasn't it?
His searches brought up a few packaged goods he snacked on as he went. There was even a bottle of water, though there was only enough inside for barely a sip. The central structure was made from sheets of metal, painted the standard military green colours, Solaris' flag scratched above the entrance. He gave the flag a long glance before heading inside.
All the windows and shutters were open, and he could tell by the way they were laid out they were firing positions, to be opened and closed at will. A weapon case and a whole pile of boxes were stacked off to one side, but after a quick check he found nothing of use inside.
The ancient red cross symbol was painted on a few trunks and cabinets strewn throughout the small building. He guessed this might have been an outpost constructed after the Fall, intent on being a refugee camp or hospital for the bits of society that remained. Judging by the amount of bullet casings lying around, he didn't think things went according to plan.
He moved up a set of stairs to the roof, and fiddled with the radar dish and its adjacent terminal for a while. Sure enough a message had been set to repeat from joint police and military forces, letting everyone know this camp's position, and that food and medical treatment were available to all survivors. There was also an SOS sent out across the local star system, but it was so weak that unless there was a ship literally right outside the atmosphere, it wouldn't reach anyone.
Not that anyone is coming.
What was there to come back to? Was he himself worth being rescued from this place? The chief had never seen himself as a violent man, but he couldn't stop thinking about finishing off Jake, or Blankley, or anyone else in the Bunker that had wronged him. He wanted to see how that woman he'd saved from Blankley's goons, suffer out here, see how she fared while he sat back and watched. He wanted that man he'd saved from the scavenger dangle from that stoplight, the chief never getting involved in the first place.
That same damn question came back again. This time with a twist.
What was the point of helping people, when there was not a single shred of benefit on his part?
That's the kind of thinking Weyland would do.
But there was some sick sense of simplicity in choosing the easier way, of murder and death, and he hated himself for how tempting it felt to go down that path.
There was a flash of white light, and he turned, seeing the faint after images of a lightning strike fade in the distance. He was just about to scroll through the data again when he heard a noise down below.
He crept down the stairs, one hand on the hilt of the machete. He peaked underneath the roof section, and saw something standing in the door frame to the structure.
Unlike the vultures, this creature wasn't an introduced species, but local. It resembled something like an earthen hyena, but with an additional tail poking out of its hindquarters. Its hide was a filthy bronze shade, interrupted by splotches of red and black. From its paws extended two sets of claws, one above the other, and they were wickedly sharp.
The Gooret usually kept away from the human settlements, but the Fall must have benefited the beasts, now that society had collapsed. It only came up to about his knee, but it was still the largest one he had ever seen. Instead of cowing before the human, the Gooret gave a low growl, and hunched to the ground, skinny belly rubbing against the dirt.
The chief brandished his machete with a singing of steel, took the last step off the staircase before staring down the little animal. The fangs were blunt, but the jaws were strong, and carried all manner of diseases, and he wasn't going to take any chances.
Its talons clicked against the floor as it stepped inside, black eyes veined with red strips regarding the intruding human. He chief made to strike when he caught movement to his left, and saw another Gooret climbing in through a window, landing on the floor with a soft bark. He pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the newest threat.
Another sound of talons scratching metal, and out of the corner of his eye, another Gooret came climbing in through a separate opening. Then another, and another. Soon he was surrounded on all sides by a pack of scavengers foaming at the mouths. He just barely heard the sound of a squawking vulture somewhere outside.
Gun in one hand and machete in the other, he tried to look in all direction of the compass, never keeping his back facing one direction for long. He fake-launched towards any of the Gooret that got too close, and was glad they backed off like scared puppies. Gooret were known to be cowardly, but not so much against prey of their own, particularly when they outnumbered their foe.
The interior was filled with the sounds of growling and snarling, and the chief caught glimpses of even more Gooret outside the walls. Dozens and dozens of them. His heart began to race as fear crept up his spine.
One of the Gooret, perhaps sensing this, leapt out of the encirclement and snapped against the back of his calf. The chief cursed and swung his machete, only for the blade to meet air as the creature zipped back into the safety of the pack. The chief levelled his gun but hesitated. The phrase too good to use came to mind as he displaced his finger from the trigger. The bullet inside was meant as a last resort, was meant for him.
Another Gooret took its chance, but this time the chief was ready. He swung with the butt of the gun leading, and smacked the creature right in the eye, hard enough to pop it right out from its socket. Moving with the momentum, the chief carried the machete through and embedded the blade in the Gooret's flank. The creature snarled and pulled itself away, a trail of orangey blood painting the floor as it retreated.
"Come on," the chief shouted. "Come on, you fucking things."
Two Gooret took the challenge, one from the front, one from the back. The one in front whimpered before the machete, barely avoiding the descending blade. The one behind latched itself onto his back, teeth chomping down against his shoulder. He felt blood trickle down his back. Reaching back, he yanked the creature by its ear, slammed it to the ground, and slit its throat all one quick movement. The Gooret wriggled one last time before it died.
The net of animals tightened around the chief. One of them lunged in and out in two seconds flat, carrying a piece of his pants in its chops. He felt the shapes of claws rending his shins as they began to get bolder, faster. In the wild, the Gooret took great amusement in toying with their prey, drawing out fights and tiring their target. Already he could see the ones he wounded were retreating, being replaced by fresh Gooret itching to fight.
One used the shoulders of another to gain some height and fling itself at the human, saliva trailing out behind it in thin streams. The chief ended its flight with a well-landed kick that sent it tumbling into the wall, where its neck broke on impact, killing it well before it crumpled to the ground. The kick left him exposed for a moment, and another nip in the arm found himself losing more blood.
Crying out, the chief launched forward and swiped from east to west, slicing two Gooret snouts and sending blood spritzing into the air. One launched up from one of the window sills, leading with its claws. He brought up his arm on instinct, and the ferocious animal sunk its teeth into his already wounded wrist.
If he had been in pain before, it was nothing compared to now. He pulled the Gooret off and ran it through, then chucked the corpse at one of its brethren. His visor was becoming more and more covered in alien blood, and his blind spots expanded as his vision was hampered. Another bite on the leg, another on his shoulder. Two of them latched on like leeches and buried their teeth in his flesh.
Stop.
He spun around and shook the creatures off. He cleaved one in half right through its skull as he stepped forward. Somewhere behind him, one of them chomped on the back of his knee, and he sunk to a crouch. He put the blade between its teeth and pried the creature off, cutting up inside its chops and tearing out its skull from the inside.
Another came at him. He swiped at it with the hilt of the machete, sending it down like a sack of flour. It squirmed against the metal, snot and blood leaking from between its teeth. He brought his boot down and crushed its head.
Make it stop.
One of them crawled up his leg and fell upon his face, claws raking at the mask, slobber mixing in with the blood on the glass. Sprawled on his side, the chief brought up his machete and skewered it, bringing the blade out through its spine, ripping it into two pieces he threw away with a growl.
He tried to get to his feet, only to be piled on by two more Gooret. He brought his boot down on one, sending it flying, but the other dodged his blade when he swung, and sank its teeth right into his chest. He screamed.
No more.
He brought up his pistol, but the barrel wasn't aimed at the nearest Gooret. He might end up as a pile of shit from these things, but at least he wouldn't be alive when they ate him.
But even then, he wouldn't get such a clean end. A set of jaws clamped around his rising arm and twisted, and the gun fell from his fingers. He killed the creature responsible as he searched the ground for the pistol, only to knock it aside accidentally, where it disappeared beneath dozens of paws.
Should have ended it while I had the chance.
He cut and cleaved, punched and kicked and ripped, but the Gooret just kept on coming. They backed him up into a corner, and he clutched his bloody machete with two quivering hands. The piles of creatures were high enough to be considered hills for the small creatures, climbing over them to get at the human.
He beheaded one that went for his leg, lashed out with a foot to knock aside another, pressing his back against the wall as his lungs cried out for air.
Strength drained from his legs. His blood was everywhere. His vision was filled with filthy fur as the entire pack set itself into motion against him. In his last few moments alive, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
I'm sorry, Amaya.
He'd failed her. He'd held on, just as she asked, but he felt himself going weak, saw his life flash before his eyes. All the stories said that happened right before death, and he was startled to find that was actually true.
He opened his eyes slowly. He was ready, as he ever would be.
… But the Gooret didn't advance. Some were even looking away from him, outside the windows.
"What are you fuck's waiting for?" the chief spat. "I'm ready. Come on!"
He lashed out, killed one, knocked aside another, felt a chunk of his hip be torn away as one of them circled around his defences and snapped its jaws. But something was happening to the pack. A pair of them were moving away, running outside where the rest of the pack was waiting.
The chief was exhausted, but as he killed, he noticed the number of Gooret inside was starting to dwindle. None were coming in to replace the others, and some were leaving, perhaps scared of the amount of fight he was putting up? He didn't know nor care as he slashed away at the disgusting creatures, covered from head to toe in blood and sweat.
Something banged against the wall from the outside, leaving a visible imprint of a Gooret in the steel. The chief didn't give it much thought, as he took comfort in the withering amount of the creatures, and pushed himself toto keep on fighting. It felt like he had been fighting for hours upon hours, until at last the building was only occupied by him, and two of the last Gooret.
With bleeding fingers, he tightened his grip and made to strike like some amateur samurai. He cut the forelegs off from one, where they spun like tomahawks to his left and right. It crawled away from him on its stumps, whimpering. The final Gooret was the same one that had started this whole mess, the largest he'd seen, with fangs as big as his fingers hanging out of its mouth like a sabre-tooth cat's. The chief and the creature made to lash out for one last skirmish, when a long black point entered through the back of the Gooret's skull and came out right between its eyes.
The shock on the chief's face matched that of the Gooret, as the life faded from its eyes, and the muscles in its legs relaxed. The chief traced the obsidian protrusion down a long segmented length, that whipped about to the left and chucked the Gooret off its pointed tip with a flick.
The chief watched the final Gooret curl up and die in the corner, before following the tail's length, up to the body of yet another creature standing in the doorway.
But this one was different, in more ways than just the physical.
Two double jointed hind legs fidgeted against the ground, supporting a pair of healthy thighs. The torso, rippling with muscle, had a set of arms curled about the stomach, the claws on each hand were short and sharp. Above that, a second pair of arms hung by the creature's sides, the shoulders rising and falling with each heaving breath it made. An eyeless face was paired with a maw filled with silver teeth, the lips peeled back in a feral snarl.
Topping the creature was a crest, almost oversized compared to the rest of the body, which was more than double his own height. The crest reminded him of a triceratops crown, with horns and blades sticking out along its edges. Ridges formed complex, alien patterns across its dark surface. A line of spaced fins ran along the centre of the crown, splitting off into two rows halfway down the length. The rest of the crown curled away and out of sight.
The Queen slipped halfway through the doorframe, oversized in comparison, but slinking in not in the least but hindered by her bulk. Growling, she stopped halfway through the movement, locked her gaze on the man inside.
The Queen raised the end of her tail, pointed it at the chief.
The chief bent down and retrieved his pistol, aimed it at the Queen.
For a long moment the two of them simply stood there, weapons once aimed at themselves, now aimed at each other. Then, ever so slightly, the chief's arm began to lower as the adrenaline of the fight subsided.
"I… It's you."
The Queen titled her head to one side, her large, shield-like blade poised over her shoulder twitching, like a scorpion about to strike.
There was a prod at the back of his mind, an old feeling he knew all too well, a bonfire rekindling. He sighed, and let it in as best he could.
The Queen took one hesitant step forward, three arms curling over her stomach. Her tail blade began to lower, her eyeless gaze never leaving the human. Then he heard something, a flinty voice as feminine as the creature in front of him. His chest tightened up as the creature towered over him, even though she was keeping her distance.
Maddox? he heard. … A dream.
He shook his head, coming closer. He rose his left hand. She rose her right. Her exoskeleton was soft but firm, a thin layer of perspiration swirling under his fingers as he caressed. The Queen traced one edge of the chief's mask, softly exploring as they stared at one another.
"No," he said. "It's not a dream."