Ch. 6

The factory was once used by miners. They would go out into the mines and drill the black ore. Then, they would load up their supply onto their trucks and carry it back to the factory. In those days, the skies were clear and blue. The sun was shining strong, and the men were prosperous, working from morning to evening. And then at night, they would drink and fall asleep, looking up at the stars.

Nobody knew when it happened exactly, but supposedly, it was in the evening. They were just bringing in a large supply of black ore. They carried it inside like they have always done. Something went wrong. Maybe, a table broke, and the black ore struck the ground. Or maybe, one of the men cutting into it was using a defective tool that sparked a little too much. Either way, there was a spark, followed by a thunderous boom, and chased by a big, black cloud that may as well have been a sand storm. And that storm swallowed up all of the men, spitting them out dead, and part of the factory caved, covered in black ore. But the other half of the factory didn't follow. Instead, it supported itself on top of the debris and the dead, and after all this time, it was still standing, providing shelter for him and his men.

I don't know when the miners returned to this rock. It must have been a long time. The skies were black mirrors now, reflecting the black ore below. The air was thick. The rain was always falling, but like I said, it wasn't just rain. And the sun was snuffed out, and the stars were gone. The world was black, and even the fires refused to burn brightly. They just wanted to die, and in the end, their ash was poured over the dead, skeletal remains that nobody came back for and buried. But then we burned those bones too. Well, they did, and I didn't. Bad karma for them, which made things easier.

I was able to steal a small bottle of whiskey from the miners when they weren't looking. I already figured out that they were here illegally, mining the black ore for themselves. They were just waiting for the air to be safe to breathe, and it really wasn't. It rested heavy in your chest, and if you stayed too long, breathing the black ore in, it would slowly suffocate you. And who were they going to complain to over a stolen bottle of whiskey? Besides, they probably had more on their ship, and they didn't seem to care. With what they were drilling, they could have bought a million bottles of whiskey.

Seeing how toxic the rain and air were, I knew that the ground was too, but the soil didn't burn my skin. It was just cold like death, slipping through my fingers as if I were on a beach, and it was nothing but sand. And like a kid scooping up sand to make a castle, I placed it into the small bottle of whiskey, and then I shook the bottle. And the liquid turned black, and I hid the bottle on my body. There were times that I thought the bottle would break, and the glass would cut me, leaving me open to the poison. But despite the blows from Draon, the bottle never broke, and tonight was the night to offer it to the men. And their eyes grew wide as if I had brought them gold, and they quickly pushed me aside, grabbing the bottle, and downing its contents. The only one that didn't drink it was Draon, who said that he didn't feel well, and he curled up on the cement floor with his back turned toward us. I didn't want him to drink it, but it broke my heart, thinking of him starving to death. But he was not my brother, and I waited by the fires for the poison to kick in.

An hour passed. His men were dead. Draon also seemed lost to the world, but I never checked his pulse. And his back was still turned toward me. I looked at him for a very long time, and then I turned toward the twisted, metal stairs nearby. When he got sick, he forced himself up those stairs, and he must have known then that he would never come back down. And the room up there was no sanctuary. It was not even a prison. It was his tomb.

I opened the door to the large office upstairs. The lights overhead flickered. A large, metallic desk was turned over. Paper covered the floors. He had used his large, fur coat as a bed and his boots as a pillow, and he struggled to sit up on the hard floor, placing one shaking hand on a cracked wall for support. And he turned toward me, and I swear that he just smiled.

The small man crouched in front of me used to be a giant. A monstrous, brutal giant. His eyes used to be so large and shine with every splash of blood. His hands were like claws that would grip the necks of his enemies and snap them like twigs, but the man before me was no giant now. He was a dwarf compared to that monster, and sickness paled his skin. And poison coursed through his veins, making his body twitch and jolt, and his eyes were still big. But they didn't gleam from bloodshed. They shined with fear.

"I guess it's that time," he said, and his voice was unrecognizable as if he had swallowed a fistful of sandpaper. "Maverick was right," and he looked away.

"You should have let me die," I said.

I was standing before him now, and he continued to sit before me, drawing his knees up to his chin. If he was the man that he once was, he would be standing. He would be fighting, and he would probably kill me. But this man was not him, and killing him was like as an act of mercy. But there was no mercy here, no forgiveness, and the knife was in my hand, the knife that he used on her. And he recognized it.

"I thought I lost that," he said, looking at the knife, but never reaching for it. "When did you steal it from me?"

"When you weren't looking," I replied.

"And my men?"

"Dead."

"Draon?"

"Dead," I said again.

"You killed your own brother," he asked.

"Draon was not my brother, and no, I didn't kill him."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" He raised his neck up toward me, waiting for the blow. "Come on. I don't have all day," he snapped.

"Did you ever love me," and he held my gaze. "Did you ever love her," and he continued to hold my gaze. "Then, why keep me around? Why save my life?"

"Because you are my son," he finally answered, and a long pause followed. "Doesn't mean that I had to love you," and the knife flashed in the air, shining against the flickering lights.

"I never loved you either," and I watched him fall to the side. The blood dripped off the knife. A tear slipped down my cheek. "For you, Mom," I whispered as I stared down at his body.

The rain had stopped falling outside. I stepped over the dead men, and a cold breeze rested against my skin. It wasn't punishing me for what I had done. It comforted me, soothing my scars as I marched up the hill, knowing that the supply ships were on the other side. I was so lost in thought with the bloody knife still gripped in my hand that I never saw him sneak up behind me, and then he lunged toward me, striking me in the back. And we both fell down the hill.

Like a cat, Draon pounced on top of me, trying to wrap his hands around my neck. I thought he had grown weak. I thought he was starving, exhausted, but he was quite strong. And his hands squeezed, and I gasped. I used all my strength to punch him in the side of his head with the hand that wasn't holding the knife, and he nearly fell over. But then he regained his balance, grabbing the knife from my hand, and plunging it down into my stomach.

"You ruin everything," Draon said as he fell back a short distance. "All you had to do was die."

"All this because you wanted what he had," I gasped as blood poured from my mouth.

"I didn't want what he had," Draon said. "I wanted to be him. I wanted to be just like him, but I didn't need his men to do it. And I didn't need you around, and after you gasp your last breath, I'm going to march up that hill. And I'm going to be the one sneaking on board one of those supply ships, and I'm going to go somewhere, where the R.A.C. isn't. And I'm going to become just like him, but I'm going to be better, smarter, deadlier. And I won't have a son or daughter that will be my end."

As Draon droned on, I looked away. The wind continued to blow. It was as if the ground itself was moving, and the black ore was shining. And a shadow formed. At first, I thought it was a trick of light, but there was no light here. Just darkness. Darkness and blood, and I was ice cold. And the shadow rose up from the ground, and it looked right at me. Maybe, I deserved to go to hell, but the shadow descended upon Draon. And he screamed, turning pale, and falling over, and I knew that he was dead.

The shadow then turned toward me. Its hands formed, small and delicate, and they reached for the knife, pulling it from my stomach. The knife was dropped to the side, and then the hands moved up past its breasts, touching its heart. And blackness covered its fingertips, which slowly moved down toward my wound, plunging its hands deep inside of me, and I screamed. But I refused to pass out, and then I realized that the shadow was walking away.

"Please," I yelled after her. "Please, let him live."

"Why," her hollow voice drifted back toward me. "He'll try to kill you again."

"Just let the poor bastard live."

"On one condition," and she drew closer to me. "If he finds you again, you return him to me," and she covered my hands with hers. "Do you promise?"

"I do," I said, and I watched the shadow descend upon him again.

"It is done," and she disappeared.

I used the last of my strength to get back onto my feet, and then I raced up the hill. I don't remember much afterward. Just bits and pieces. Falling down the hill. Men finding me. Being dragged onto the ship. Blinding, bright lights. Then, darkness. Nothing but darkness.