Fire was raining from the sky. Purple clouds whirled and churned across the setting sun, whipping the atmosphere into a frenzy. Twin tornadoes touched down, swirling dust into the air. Trees were ripped from the ground. The air shattered the earth, dust and debris pulled away from centuries old fields. The only thing that remained stationary in this apocalyptic vortex was the dirt road. This may very well be how the world will look in its final, trembling moments, with nature consuming itself and rendering everything to dust and ash.
This did not phase the Pyro.
He'd walked down this road several times before. It was to his grandmother's house, or to a school he'd long since left. There would always be forty miles to go. His feet never ached. He would not grow weary. It was a nightly march to some random destination, and he took it in stride. Funny, though. He didn't remember going to sleep. This was his dream, without a doubt. He was used to it.
As he walked through the chaos, unharmed by the tempest at work, he came across two small figures standing on the side of the road. One was a woman with white hair, another with black. They spoke without facing each other, eyes perpetually fixed on the road, lips and jaws flapping. The Pyro had no idea what their conversation was about. The tornadoes were doing well to drown them out. Even then, he wouldn't have understood much. Everyone else always sounded warbled to him through his mask. He could have stopped and read their lips, but it wasn't his place. It was just a couple of farmhands, anyway. Probably more concerned with where their barns had flown to.
The Pyro continued his march, coming over a hill. That was when he stopped in his tracks.
Now he remembered why he could never get beyond the last forty miles in his journey. It would always be sitting in the lane. To most, it looked harmless. It was a small, fluffy, yellow avian with round, black eyes and a smooth orange beak. A precious little duckling. For whatever reason, it always decided to roost in the center of the road. It was not concerned with where its mother went, nor if any vehicles were to come along. The storm didn't harm it, sailing over it without disturbing as much as a feather. It was as eternal and stationary as a mountain.
The duckling craned its head towards the Pyro. He winced, knowing what was coming next. Its eyes widened, fixed on the man in the rubber suit. That orange beak slowly opened, tipping that adorable little head back. Instead of a smooth interior, the Pyro was presented with rows of daggered, shark-like teeth. The duckling tipped its head back almost one-hundred and eighty degrees, its skull upside down and touching the back of its neck.
It unleashed a deafening roar.
It was the seventeenth dove that the Heavy had buried in that cold, unforgiving ground.
The villagers watched his labor in fright. They had their reasons for fearing him and his family. His father's explosive temper and massive size kept the town on edge. His mother and sisters were homely, shrewd, quick to grind offenders into dust. They were all healthy as oxen, never slowing nor succumbing to disease. When the villager's doves started dying, they all looked to the Heavy's family with envy and disdain, knowing that they would not be harmed by the same illness.
The devil did not want the souls of those he'd already secured. He only wanted the innocent.
The Heavy had loved this dove, with its charming pigtails and sweet smile. He should have brought her more bread, even if it meant risking a savage beating. The poor little thing never stood a chance in the sharp, merciless winter. He looked up for a moment, observing the crowd gathering around him. They watched him with pity and disgust, as if he were vicariously infected by dealing with the dead birds.
Two women were observing him with particular interest. The older of the two—the one with hair like fresh snow—leaned towards the shorter woman. "Do not see it as a tragedy. They will not be in any more pain."
The Heavy sighed. The old woman was right. At least these doves would be spared from another harsh winter. He plucked the next dove out of the heap. It was graying, spectacled. It didn't look like it was hurt or sick in any way. Why would it be dead now? He rubbed his hands over its frozen breast, sorrow still lingering at the edges of his heart. Oh, well. No more pain for this little fellow.
He placed the dove back on the ground, retrieving his shovel once more. After this one, he would have nine more to bury before he could go home for supper.
Damned hooligans. They couldn't leave a dying city in peace.
The Soldier stood in the gray rain, observing the tattered remains of the street with a dull, empty sorrow. Glass was reduced to little scattered triangles strewn amongst newspapers and filth. The gun store had been emptied, nothing left in its shelves. Jewelers and bakeries were gutted as well, their vandals split between old desires and current struggles. A shattered statue lay on the ground, President Lincoln's head separated from the rest of his body. The Soldier picked his head up, settling it into the antique shop where it had sat for days before this atrocity, judging the felonies occurring around it with silent horror. He gave the president a quiet salute, then continued his slow skulking.
Television sets flickered to life as he passed by. The tiny ones and those in color had been stolen, leaving hulking cabinet sets in various states. All of the screens, regardless of their functionality, were turned to the same channel. There were two women debating in the set, both dressed in tweed blazers and skirts. Just some rerun of a public access show, kicked on by some station locked in an eternal loop with no controllers to change the programming.
The elder was leading their discussion, leaning towards her guest. "Consider my proposal. They will never be lonely here. They will always have each other."
The Soldier shook his head, strolling past the empty street. How wrong that woman was. If she was here to see this chaos, she'd know otherwise. What had reduced this beloved city to rubble? Was it the Germans? The Japanese? The Russians? Probably not the Italians or the French. He wandered past an intersection, crossing into a park. He cupped a hand under his chin, trying to think of more ways this place could have fallen. The earth was scorched, popcorn and hotdogs rotting in their vendors' carts. It had to have been a war. But who did this?
It was when he reached a hill overlooking the lower portions of the park that the Soldier had his answer. The reason for the destruction was as impossible as an American city being shattered by war.
Sitting in the low fields were silver cylinders and hemispheres. They were impossibly smooth, not riveted or welded together. It was as if they had sprung up from the ground just the way they were. The silver objects sat on spindly legs, circular feet spreading their mass across the grass. They stood as tall as homes, knocking trees aside as easily as toothpicks. They chased the remaining survivors around the park, snatching the slowest up and crushing them like bugs. Their corpses were arranged in neat stacks beside the more stationary of the machines, laid out in pyramids. All civilians. All of them.
A lesser man would have sat down, resigned to his fate. Perhaps even taken his own life to spare himself from the mutilation awaiting him. The Soldier seethed. He snatched the nearest item he could find—an old, worn-out shovel. This was suicidal, but so be it. He could be terrified when he was dead.
No damned space aliens were going to kill Americans on his watch.
It was the best coffee the Spy had drank in a long time. Not bitter, but not overly sweetened. Not too hot, not too cold. That saucy little waitress had swirled a heart in the creamer. The morning sun was warm on his shoulders, the café's patrons soft and friendly with their words. Yet, even nestled in the wicker chair and surrounded by dozens, the Spy felt as though someone was waiting to snatch him up.
He shook away his jitters, drinking another sip of coffee. Closing his eyes, he listened to the chattering around him. One woman's voice broke through the crowd, its timid quality different from the other genial words floating about. "What about the rest of their lives, though? Shouldn't they have a right to do as they please?"
"They can do whatever they would like here," an older woman responded. "Think of it as their retirement."
The Spy turned around looking for where that conversation was coming from. There were dozens of old women and young ladies around him. It was hard to tell which two were having that conversation. His eyes drifted beyond them, crossing the street and watching those in the park. There were sweethearts strolling down the sidewalks, rectangular shopping bags in tow. Children laughed and tumbled, their parents watching them.
No. Wait a moment. The Spy blinked, looking at the figures furthest from the café. They lifted their heads towards him. Something was off. They had gray skin, subtle indentations in their faces. Those figures were dressed in formal suits, black with a white dress shirt and a broad tie. They smiled a little too widely, stood a little too tall. He shook his head, not sure what he was seeing. Was his coffee Irish?
"Excusez-moi," the Spy called for his waitress. "I believe zhere may be somezhing—"
The café was empty. Silent. The Spy stood up, looking for anyone. The entire patio was emptied. He turned backwards, staring once more at the park. The sidewalks were void of people, the laughing children silenced and spirited away. Those gray men were the only remaining people. They stood in the middle of the road, watching the Spy with the same fascination as they had observed those young children. He blinked once more, then drew a sharp breath. Now they were in the café, bland and featureless save for those huge smiles. No eyes. No nose. No ears. No soul.
Did they ever have long, slender fingers, though. Perfect for going straight through his ribcage.
The steer's lowing stirred the Medic out of his slumber.
He patted its hide, burying his head deeper into its belly. He'd never met such a tame beast before. The cattle had been frightened when he had broken into the barn, but this steer hadn't batted an eyelash. He could have killed the Teutonic man if he desired. Perhaps it just enjoyed the warmth, even in the sweltering barn. He'd certainly done the Medic a favor, even if it was only a temporary reprieve.
It had been foolish for the Medic to try and escape in this blizzard. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to destroy his car. It seemed like a good way to fake his death, at least for the time being. Even if it bought him a couple of days on foot, it was worth every mark he'd lost in that blaze. How many weeks of work had it taken to get that vehicle? Five marks a week you must put aside. Hmph. How that line had fueled his work.
He couldn't let them see what he'd discovered. Never.
The Medic shifted his legs. His toes itched and burned. He'd developed a light case of frostbite on his journey. His latest invention had kept them from blackening and cracking off altogether, but he needed to rest if he was ever going to make it to the border with all of his toes still functional. That gel was a miracle. A panacea to modern medicine. He ran a hand over his face, cherry-red and chapped from the rough winds. This would be nothing compared to the pain his superiors would inflict on him if they caught him. If they used his research to patch him back up, it could be eternal. Unending. The eagle would forever peck at his liver.
The steer lifted its head, turning towards the front of the barn. There was soft mumbling at the entrance. The Medic scrunched himself up, not certain what he would see if he looked over the steer's back. No. He had to be prepared to run. He raised his eyes, watching the lit figures in the dark storm. Two were farmers, a middle-aged man and his wife. Four more stood with them, cloaked in long, dark overcoats and woolen scarves.
His heart sank.
One of the four looked into the Medic's eyes. It was another old woman. She tapped the second of the four on their shoulder, drawing the attention of a dark-haired lady to the figure cowering behind the steer. The two men with the old and young women turned as well. They smiled, teeth drawing in a lupine sneer. The Medic's knees locked, frozen through with icy dread.
The crone smiled, her warm gesture as threatening as a Luger. "I will take care of them."
The water went cold. Damn thing always went out at the wrong time. The water heater struggled to keep up in the morning, when most of the men went to shower. He pounded the tiled walls, but then sighed. There was no use arguing with a machine, not if he was just going to end up blowing it up. He shut the water off, wrapping a terrycloth towel around his waist. A makeshift kilt.
The Demoman stumbled his way to the mirror. The Spy had his balaclava rolled up, the mask still shielding everything above his nose. It was rare that the Frenchman ever shaved. He only did that when female visitors were coming onto the base. The Soldier was to his right, buzzing his scalp short. He made a threatening gesture towards the Demoman's moppy hair, but he let the Scotsman keep it. Tavish blew him a raspberry, then set to work about fixing himself up for the day. He tilted his chin up, observing fresh stubble. No, that wouldn't do. All he wanted was his sheared, friendly muttonchops.
As he lathered his face and rinsed his razor, a strange conversation floated through the locker room. The voices were too high pitched for a typical man's tone. He glanced in the mirror but saw nothing. Still, the talking continued. "Consider their losses. Anything taken from them can be regained. Restored."
The Demoman huffed. What a bottle of snake oil. He drew his razor, shaving away a fine layer of hair. Flipping the water back on, he noticed a trail of blood in the sink. Must have cut himself. As he turned his head up, something fell in the porcelain tub. He didn't have to look down to see what it was. There was a gouge out of his face. His chin was gone, leaving bleeding, severed muscle and white jawbone in the path of the cut.
Impossible. Impossible! He hadn't cut that deeply! He dropped his jaw, backing away from the sink. Then that fell off, too. His jaw hit the floor with a clatter, blood splattering across wet tile. The Demoman shrieked, horrified at his flailing tongue and exposed throat. Nobody turned to look at him, going about their daily routines as if nothing were happening.
Every joint oozed away from the Demoman's body, cartilage liquefying. The tubes inside his head melted, rendering the world into a mumbling, echoing mess. Nerves gave final sputters of electrical activity and sparked out. As his body continued to slough away, a weird numbness overtook him. There was no way to feel pain anymore. In a way, it made the rest of his rotting peaceful. His lungs collapsed on themselves, his heart squashed flat by his ribcage falling to pieces. All it did was make him light-headed, giddy.
The last thing he lost before his consciousness burned out was his vision, his field of view shrinking to a circle no larger than a pin's head.
"They will go on living their lives. It will all be normal for them."
The Scout jolted, nearly jumping off of the couch. Ah, geez. He must have drifted off for a couple of seconds. How he could have done that, he didn't know. All of his older brothers were bickering, fighting over something dumb and inconsequential. His teammates were there, too. They had fallen asleep as well. What were they all doing in his mom's house? And why couldn't those jerk faces keep awake for whatever the hell was going on?
He wasn't sure what to make of the ongoing event. It looked like a party. Not a birthday party or a graduation party, though. No cake, no balloons. There were some gifts on the coffee table, but they were still wrapped up. The Scout flipped open a gift tag on one of them. There was no name on the inside, no way to identify either the giver or the recipient. It was shaped like a patched sock, the colors soft and pastel. He scratched his head. What was this about?
"Honey? What are you looking at?"
The Scout smiled. That was his mom's voice. He turned to see her. "Ah, just wondering what dhis is—holy crap!"
His mom was huge. Not in, she was fifty feet tall or that she weighed two tons huge. More like her stomach was about to explode. Sure, he'd seen photos of his mom when she was pregnant with his brothers and him, but he was the youngest. He'd never seen her like this in the flesh. This was unexpected, even with his mother's well-known promiscuity. He cocked his head to the side, his jaw hanging open. Good God, what was she giving birth to? An elephant?
"Do not be rude to your mozher."
The Scout's frayed nerves burnt into ash. The enemy Spy was here? That dirty, rotten, good-for-nothing bastard! The treacherous Frenchman had his arms wrapped around his mother, hands reaching from behind to come together just below the bulge in his mother's dress. His skin crawled. Was that thing getting larger? He couldn't believe it was a part of his mother. It moved with a mind of its own. Not in a cute, active baby sort of way, either. More like a squirming sphere of fish bait. To think that French slime ball had done this to his mom!
His mother smiled, reaching a hand to caress the enemy Spy's cheek. "It's nice to have one big family again. Don't you think, honey?"
"No way I'm callen' dhat stabben' psycho my dad!" The Scout spat.
His words didn't faze the enemy Spy in the slightest. An evil smile crept across his face. "You do not have to. Your sisters will."
The Scout's skin crawled as he stared at his mother, betrayed and terrified by her union with his enemy. There was no way that those things in his mother's body were human. The strain on her body looked awful, her face tinged with the slightest amount of pain. The spawn within her kept writhing, almost if it was reaching out to find its brother. Their brother.
His mother beckoned for him, about to burst from her burden. "Come here. The babies are kicking."
Nobody knew what a bad morning was like until they had to start it from inside of a water buffalo. If the stench didn't flush a person straight out, the grotesque memory of gutting the beast would. What was this, now? His fifth time? The Sniper groaned. He would have to start packing a tent when he was away from his van.
He sat upright, knocking his head into a lung. Good. He wasn't slimy enough. The Sniper pawed the gunk away from his face, then rested his hands at his sides. Wait. That didn't seem right. While he could tuck his long body into a buffalo, he certainly couldn't sit up in it. Or stand up. Or walk.
The Sniper stood up, careful to avoid a thudding heart above his head. It was gargantuan, like a mutant bovine's organs. Flesh grew around him, smaller organs beginning to sprout like pumpkins. What was this? If he was inside of a living creature, he had to be causing it a lot of pain. Not to mention the fact that he couldn't be just poking around in guts without being crushed or suffocated. What was he inside of?
"If you want them so badly, then talk to the Administrator. She'll stop you."
That voice. That had to be Miss Pauling! The Sniper wove through the collection of organs, trying to find a way out. There had to be at least two exits. He'd prefer to go out the top one, but at this rate, any path would do. The cavity ended where he had woken up, no esophagus to climb out of. The back was a no-go either. No digestion tract? This couldn't be an animal! Hell, it couldn't even be alive! Yet, it responded to his movements, writhing in small shudders at each step he took.
A lower, gentle voice laughed at Miss Pauling's suggestion. "Helen will understand. She is such a good girl."
The Sniper's skin crawled. Anyone that could call that callous shrew a good girl must make Lucifer himself envious. He sighed, the lungs above him exhaling at the same time. How weird. He stopped for a moment, watching the organs move around him. Its heart was beating in time with his, its breath coming and going as the same tempo.
There was a knocking sound, the force of the blows rattling something like glass or plastic. The Sniper turned his head to the right. It was coming from beyond that lung. He ducked underneath of it, searching for what made that sound. Light was streaming in through the flesh of this beast, bright pink and full of blood vessels. A shadow stood just outside of it, pounding away at the rattling door. Wait. A door? The Sniper balked, the realization nearly knocking him over.
He was inside his living, breathing van.
"Wake up! Dagnabbit, I know ya can hear me!"
It wasn't enough. The Engineer's heart sank as the Sniper's eyes closed again. The Australian had been the only one that even responded to his pleas. His teammates continued sleeping on, suspended in green, bubbling goo, masks affixed over their mouths. Genuine people jars. The Texan's fingers curled as he stepped back. He didn't know what to do.
He'd tried everything. The computers keeping the machines operational were impossible to understand, bearing keyboards with symbols that couldn't be from any human language. There was no way to rip it apart, no way to pull the cord. He'd even tried punching through the glass with his metal fist, only to find that his blows hadn't even left a scratch. What he wouldn't do for one of the Spy's sappers. Instead, he was reduced to watching his friends slumber, hair and clothing floating in the heavy gunk.
"If you think you need to watch over them, then you could stay with me."
The Engineer turned to watch two scientists stroll past him. The older of the two had her hair pulled into a bun, the younger with two buns kept lower on her neck. The elder was the one directing their conversation. She smiled, her teeth stained. "You are so good with them, too. You could have the best part of your lives together, safe and sound here. You do not want them to be harmed, do you?"
The young—No, that was Miss Pauling! She shrunk away from the older woman, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "I don't. I won't. But this is—"
"It is not a prison. It is not an experiment." The elder turned to face the Engineer. She smiled, looking straight through him as if he were a ghost. "It is the closest thing to heaven on earth."
The Engineer snapped. He spat back at the old woman. "Let 'em go! Don't do this to them!"
Both of the women passed by. Miss Pauling kept looking around, as if she was missing something the old woman had seen. It was like she couldn't see him. The Engineer reached out, trying to get her attention. She wasn't buying the crone's argument, but she was hesitant to snap back. If she couldn't see this, then he had to bring it to her attention. His fingers stopped inches from touching her shoulder, as if she was surrounded by a box. He tried once more but crashed his hands against something solid again. Now he tried for the old woman, pounding away at the invisible barrier separating him from the women. It did no good, rebuffing his blows.
They left him to wallow with his silent company, all shells of their former selves. This was not a problem he could fix, and it was driving him mad.
Miss Pauling stood up. She tossed her chair aside, knocking the table and spilling her tea. It didn't matter how beautiful the world was in this place. The sizes, colors, and sweet aromas from the rose garden weren't enough to lure her in. The tea was touched with bitterness. The sky emanated a surreal shade of blue, the manor vibrant and red in the bright sunlight. It may have been the most gorgeous place she had ever seen. The fact remained that none of it was real. All of it was that old woman's attempt to steal her life, her future, her possibilities.
Not to mention that of the nine men outside playing cricket. Yes, they looked happy, clean in their white polo shirts. None of them were following the rules too well, horsing around when the opportunity presented themselves. Perhaps they didn't have to kill again, slog through heat and rain and whatever nonsense the Administrator could think up. That had to be something they would give up on their own. This was not something Miss Pauling nor the old lady could make them surrender.
"I refuse," Miss Pauling told the crone.
Her host gave her a bemused look. "Whatever do you mean?"
Miss Pauling's words were hot on her tongue. "I don't care what you could give them. I don't care if they are happy now. Frankly, I don't see why you want them. More importantly, I don't give a damn."
"You would take away my joy?" The old woman acted as if Miss Pauling had driven a dagger into her chest.
"I don't see how keeping them in this place for the rest of their lives would help you improve yours. You are a ghost. Your time was up long ago." Miss Pauling shoved her chair in place, preparing to go gather the men. "Move on. Go to hell. It doesn't matter to me. Just let us go."
The old woman hissed. "Why do you think you came here tonight? Do you think Helen ordered you here?"
Miss Pauling stopped, turning back to face the crone. "But I thought—In the study, wasn't that—"
"Your assignment? The letters? Those monsters? Do you think they were really the work of your employer?" The white-haired woman's speech picked up, accelerating with glee. "What do you believe happened to the men before this team? What of the assistant before you? With machines to keep them alive indefinitely, do you think they would have died? Just quit? Moved away?" She lowered her head, sneering. "If Helen cares at all about her men, why does she not mention those that came before this crew?"
The questions were angry, their implications loony. Miss Pauling found herself stammering, pressing her back against a rose bush. "You didn't—"
"It's already done, dearie. I will have them again. I will control the Mann's war, even in the afterlife. It will end under my watch." The crone snatched a blossom off the bush, crushing the bloom in her hand. "You will all burn up and die, and that Lazarus machine will restore you once more. When that burns up, then I will lure another repairman and harvest the next crop. I will draw every last toy soldier here."
Miss Pauling snarled at the ghost. "If you're so obsessed with this war, then why don't you let us fight one last time? You against us? Unless you think you'll lose, of course." She steeled her nerves, a grin forming on her face. "Only cowards kill men in their sleep."
"Now I know why Helen hired you." The old woman smiled back. "Let us have one last match."
Author's Note
Wow, that was a big one! You've done enough reading, so I'll keep my AN short. Hopefully, it read quickly for you. I've actually had two of these dreams before. The last honest-to-God nightmare I had involved an apartment fire and a fireman beaning a dead crocodile at me. No kidding. It then turned into sand, and I woke up sitting upright.
We're almost done. Holding up okay? Did this meet your expectations?