The Bleeder

By

Jesse C. Dedman

  It was a few minutes past midnight when the commotion subtly uprooted the diseased calm that lingered in the ally way. The back doors of the van flew wide open, but the pocket of darkness offered a great cover that the brake lights contested, glowing with a hue that seeped into the darkness, revealing a glimmer of movement. A body, or something that resembled one, was thrown out to tumble along the rough pavement. The heap splashed into a puddle of water and stayed without the slightest twitch. Just like that, the van was gone, driving off into a distance unseen by the huddled homeless.

     Curiosity lured a few, which later grew into a modest crowd. They observed and discussed the strange form of the man’s condition. His arms and body were swollen with bulging muscles, and metallic etchings throughout his skin invoked a wave of questions. They pointed at his face, explaining the oddity of his mask, which was a modified wielding mask. There was a metallic cube of extreme weight that illuminated with flashing dials, which connected to his body by a series of tubes and hoses.

     Being starved for most of their time, the homeless crowd was only as humble as their basic needs. They tried as hard as they could to pillage from the helpless manifest. Swooping as if they were vultures over a rotten corpse, attacking the pockets of his jeans only to fine lint. It was only the strange bulk of metal that was profitable, but it wouldn’t come undone. They beat the connections with bats, and the failure led to a bigger consumption of desire. One of them was wise enough to use his knife, but the sharp edge of his blade was dulling to the surface.

     His arms moved, flopping in the puddle, but nothing significant. The mere fact that he was becoming aware scared off most of the people; the three that remained were the most rugged, disgusting, and unclean of the bunch. They were the alphas of their ken, or perhaps just the most desperate. They watched him move and grew with eagerness; their victim was weak, shaking to keep his own weight. Caught in a desperate cycle, the desolate fiend struggled to even kneel.

     The boldest one acted first, placing his gritty, contaminated palm upon the surface of the cube. He brushed against the surface, feeling the cold untouched metal, while toying with a clever idea. A series of chords detached from the sides of the device and lunged at the man. One by one, three different lines snapped into his body with a force he couldn’t contest. His cry and torment was not given a reply he hoped for. His brethren ran off, but their attempt was without success. The remaining lines expanded into the distance, piercing through their chests.

     A web of chords drained them of their blood and other valuable fluids at a rate that their body couldn’t adjust to, a strong piercing pain, followed by a searing vacuum gave allowance to a creeping coldness. The dials on the device flourished with an assortment of lights, while the entity attached suddenly had the strength he needed. He rose from the ground, carrying the device in his hand, which he clipped to the narrow bars that ran along his back. The being took notice of his surroundings and couldn’t help but feel the overwhelming sensation of being lost, alone, and without any help. He could see the damage done to him, but not feel the pain.

     He took the overcoat from the bold one and used it to cover his shirtless torso. The fabric loomed over the device, rendering him as a muscular hunchback. He walked throughout the narrow pathways as if to find something, while studying the sudden change in place. The shadows were thick, but his eyes were keen to resolving that. He saw with illumination, everything beamed at the seams with a slight golden tint, but it started to fade as his eyes have endured the torment of electrical shocks and chemical injections all too much.

     The smell of tobacco redirected him to another narrow passage, where a slender young woman stood with cigarette in hand. She wasn’t aware of his presence and that offered a moment of invitation. He approached with an opened hand with its machinery infused fingers and lunged for her frail neck. She screamed but was silenced by a sudden slam to the wall. A gash was indented into her skull, which bled out onto the crusty pavement.

He knelt over her and opened the visor of his mask. His pale skin was riddled with crust lines and scars. The eyes were of a more enriched story; strained from the constant injections, the whites of his eyes were of that of a waterlogged, blood-soaked sack, and drooped with intense saturation. With careful fingers, he released himself of sight, and began to take hers. His fingers were tipped with a silver piece that housed many uses. They adjusted to what his body needed in order to complete the exchange of eyes.

It was shortly after this procedure that he heard the low rumble. It was a subtle bass that pounded from a source unclear. He searched for it, following the noise. It grew in texture, expanding into a chorus of speeches and mid-topic rants. It was difficult for the lab designed creature to follow, but what he found were basement doors that had seen better days, bared with an iron piece, chained by a web of iron and padlocks, all of which were destroyed in contest against his strength.

He bled from the tips of his fingers at an invariable rate until the last drop. He didn’t faint, nor did he suffer. It was this exploitation that was seen as a miracle by those around him. This ability blessed him with continuous tribute, placing him as an idol before their praised lord. They tested him, searching for flaws in ability, but all the questions were answered with a notion that their faith was honest. The men and women in this chamber serve a god not to alien from common beliefs, one that rules with intolerance and justifies punishment, pain and torment, by any means, Nzulmbi.

The third day of their trials delivered onto them a fatality that bolstered the creature’s reputation. It was during a ceremonial chant. The head of the Covent praised the work of other members, discussed foul showcases of violence, while reading a passage from an ancient tome. He spoke in Latin about a deity that rules with righteousness, blessing those that should be blessed, those willing to make great sacrifices. The speech was what made his accidental death something of a novelty by the group. They watched as the creature drained the head priest until his flesh turned cold.

With natural reason diluted by actual practice, the Covent was quick in their efforts. They appointed a new head priest and developed a network of trusties that would allow them to offer sacrifices to their newfound idol. The first victim was a meek little man that seemed too scared to either resist or run away. The others were snatched from a status that made it almost impossible to trace. Compared to the previous, they faced more elaborate chanting and festivities, while standing in his shadow. The moldy basement became more alive after each additional victim, until the day she was offered.

A little girl, not much older than ten was delivered in front of the idol. He sat on a handcrafted stone throne, a tribute from one of the more talented individuals, with an unshakable calm, the same he expressed with the others. The network of cables launched out from his backside, but they didn’t strike into her flesh. Instead, he studied her more carefully and saw in her a gentle innocence; she was young, fresh with life, and blessed with a clean slate, something different from the others.

“The sacrifice must be made, as it claims it so in the tome of the ancient king. Don Laviall was an honest man willing to make our lord happy no matter what the means. The death of this young girl will bring his eyes onto us and enlighten us with a type of kindness never seen before. Wealth will rain down onto us from the heavens once we know how valuable our lives are in comparison to the lord,” said the Priest.

“She is so little. She has no life yet to take, seizing a beginning,” said the masked creature.

“But you, as the bleeder, must surely understand. You did after all come to us and give insight.”

The light within him had been contested before, but the memory of it was faint. Searching for it, digging through a dark hole, scratching at any photographic image. He breathed slightly and never felt his lungs expanding. He thought with an active mind, a mind that has been conditioned and void of deep wondering. He was a shell of a man, but inside was something animated by carefully designed mechanisms. It was partly because of these machines that he lived in this numb state. Even when he bled, it poured out of his body without the slightest awareness.

The image of the girl, her flush cheeks and blond hair, freed him from the nothing he was so accustomed too. It was for this feeling that he moved to defend her against a group that had housed him for months. He felt nothing in response to the thought of fighting them, only slight confusion, as he never registered anything they have ever said.

“I have to think, does your messiah really profit from her loss?”

“He profits from our existence, but we don’t exist without his blessing. This is for us to begin a new cleansing.”

“You exist right now, you feel it don’t you. You feel it when you breathe, when you move. The one that doesn’t exist is I. I don’t exist and neither does this lord that you speak of.”
“The Bleeder might have misspoke, he wouldn’t denounce his creator, not with full intent. Perhaps we were wrong about the level of your servitude. You are less of what you seem, the Bleeder is thus a shadow of another idol. We will find that such idol, and we will create a better platter for it. Right now, we have this dear child to offer to Nzulmbi and that must be done. To not, will bring this Covent down to a low unimaginable.”

“No one will hurt this child, no one will even touch this child. A group of men like you stand before me, with a mind much more diluted than mine. That bothers me and makes me feel something I have long forgotten about. The absence of emotion had left me stale, but that has been revoked. I dare you all to challenge me, but I dare you even more to challenge each other. This lunacy has gone far enough,” said the Bleeder.

     “You are part of what you just labeled as lunacy. You are a totem of worship. Your body is not by design from the god we neglect, but by the god we worship. You are him. You will feast.”

     “If God created me, then he owes me an explanation.”
    
     “We are the messengers of that. You must know it to be true, you found us.”

     The Bleeder paused and his hesitation grew as he thought about that notion. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt aware, or even felt at home with anything. His mind was diluted into a despairing loss and was of no use other than to further dissolve any stable radiant. He moved from his place and felt an instant gain of pressure and had to use the arm of the stone chair to keep his place.

     “You see, you are weak without her blood. You body needs to be revived so that it can flourish at full strength. Your ability to live is because of the way he crafted you. You steal blood, gain nutrients and bleed out the rest. You are what you hate. Do not let this girl be the end of you.”

     The chords launched from his back, piercing through the air at rate faster than before. The metallic lead of the cable stabbed through the priest’s neck, causing him to gasp for air.
     “…This isn’t his will…,” were his last words before the clamp readjusted so that it could absorb the blood. The other cables launched out, attacking random people in the thick crowd. The rest were speechless and not sure what to make of it. The head of their command, of their view, was cut off and now they bled for their idol.

     “This isn’t his will, then he is a traitor and must be punished,” said a bearded man.

     The bleeder regained his strength and swallowed the frail girl into his arms. He bolted for the door, while offering his thick skin and muscles as protection against the rain of attacks. The rioting crowd was of no contest to his will; he reached the door and left with his web of cables springing back into place. The sporadic movement of the cables caused further injury onto the people, slicing through the skin of many.

     The fallen idol slammed through the door shattering it into a thousand splinters and kept on running. He ran through a network of passages, running past several sleeping homeless, junkies, and social misfits. He was in a place much worse than before, even though it was more open. It was a forgotten part of the city; a place that once had a great view of the river bend. Now it contained only a collection of scattered cars, buses, and other junk that acted as housing for the people that lived there. They were the type that considered a morning injection of heroin to be a good way to start the day, a type that wouldn’t care at all for his intrusion.

     Using the overlapping shadows of the place as a cover, the Bleeder began to pace much slower and wandered without any direction. The escape had dissolved to an expanding calm, he stooped behind a brick wall releasing the girl from his grasp. He examined her and sighed to the strange feeling. Her eyes moved, twitching to a disturbance known only to her. She squirmed for a moment, startled for a second that went by slower than how it started.

     “Home, I want to go home,” she cried while crawling out of his arms. “Where am I?”

     “You want to go home. Home, that is where you should be, where is it, your home.”

     “What happened to you? You look weird, eew gross, is your hand bleeding?”

     “Yes, it bleeds, and what happened to me is the reason of my being. That is the only thing I can make out of this misery.”

     “Why are you so sad?”

     “Is this sadness? I don’t know. I saved you from those people. Do you remember the people that brought you before me?”

     “I thought that was just a dream. Does that mean I get to go home now.”

     “Yes, but where is it.”
    
     “I don’t know, not here anyway. We should leave this area. Head for a much wider street.”

     “I will try.”

     A group of people gathered at the opening of the ally, and the sound they made brought onto them his attention. He poised his dark image before them, empty of fear. The cultists made their taunts, but the empty reply drove them impatient. They charged at him, leaving him with only seconds to think. He glanced at the girl and spotted a latter. He offered her cover and rough persuasion as she climbed to the rooftops. The rushing mob swarmed him like ants on a spider, weak and pathetic, but the surge of their numbers was a greater advantage than first thought. He spun his fists, pounding for release, but they stayed with their fight. He grasped a kneecap and smashed it with his fist, causing the pile of bodies to cave.

     He fled from the scene, but turned around to find a man with shotgun in hand. The barrel was pointing directly at his chest, and the man didn’t hesitate any longer. The shot was fired and the bullets punctured through his chest creating a cavity that exposed the fumes of his inner workings; a musky green essence seeped out, causing the man to churn with a repulsed stomach.

     The Bleeder climbed the ladder with difficulty at first, but he proved to be too strong for the others to hang on. Upon reaching the top he lunged for the face of a follower and smashed it against the brick wall. The body fell unto the others, freeing the ladder from their efforts. The little girl was at the edge of the building seemingly amazed by the sight of the busy city.

     “You are okay, but only if we hurry?”

     “My home is over there,” she said while pointing at a collection of rundown apartments. The Bleeder glance at the sight and became one with the objective. He pulled the girl closer to him, further staining her white dress. She was more repulsed by his roughness than his skunk-like stench.

     “I will take you there.”
    
     “What about those people? Aren’t they trying to kill you?”
    
     “I believe so, but their intent shouldn’t last too long. I am stronger than they are and will succeed.”

     “You might want to see a doctor, I never seen green smoke come out from a person’s chest before,” said the girl.

     “I can’t say I haven’t and I doubt a doctor would be able to do much. I’m a monster, after all.”

     “Yeah, you are, aren’t you? But than that makes you my monster, I don’t mind.”

     “I see that you don’t,” he took her into his arms and jumped across to the other roof. He ran over the rooftops with the speed of a bull and was nothing close to being acrobatic. The pavement would crack to his landing, any glass surface would shatter to the vibration of his stomping, and the ledges crumbled easily to his presence. The air was the only thing he didn’t harm as his coat flapped on every jump. The girl screamed with fear at first, but that soon changed to excitement.

     He crashed onto the roof of an apartment and shattered it, causing a great commotion as the residents were rudely wakened. He ignored the shouting and continued towards the girl’s direction. He navigated the grounds of the place, stomping over grass, bushes, and flowers until he reached a fence that was instantly taken down. She was amazed by his strength and laughed at him for his seer determination. He didn’t respond, as he didn’t know what to say. He stopped suddenly at her door and gave no indication of being out of breath. He set her down and turned his back.

     “Wait, where are you going? You should meet my father, he should thank you.”

     “If he is like you than yes,” he said.

     “He is, he taught me much about the world and trained me to be smarter than most.” She opened the door and ran into the small apartment. For a place that was centered in a rat’s nest it was actually well kept, taken into high regard in appearance and smell. The Bleeder had difficulty walking in, but once he did he found the girl rejected by her own father.

     “You are not to be here. How did you get here?”

     “Daddy, I was saved by this man here, I think some bad people were going to do some awful things to me.”

     “That awful thing was what they needed to do, what we needed to do. You are my only daughter and to offer someone like you with your importance is a sacrifice I am willing to make. Humanity needs to be redeemed.”

     “So, you let them take her. You just give her up for a belief?”

     “What are you supposed to be?”

     “They worshiped me, I think. The people you gave her to…”

     “Dad, I don’t get it, what is going on,” asked the girl.

     “Abigail, this is the thing that was to take your life. Salvation is close… all he has to do is strike.”

     “That is not happening. I might be lost and some sadistic manifest, but I am not some tool. You as her father failed, and the only salvation is in your death,” yelled the Bleeder. He lunged for the father and raised him by the neck.

     “Wait, he is my dad, my family.”

     “Do you have a mother?”

     “No, she died when I was born.”

     “Hmp… Her death was my awakening,” said the father.

     He squeezed his hand just enough to give a stern warning. The girl cried a trembling wave of tears, “You monster.”

     The Bleeder closed his grasp, teetering with a cold delivery of death, but she stopped him. She wiped her tears and looked too clever for her age, “He wants to die, don’t give it to him. Instead take me to my aunts and I will explain what happened.”

     “She’ll never believe you and I will win in court. You are my property,” said the father.
    
“What about the cult,” asked the Bleeder.

     “We do not exist, nor do we give detail of anything we do.”

     “Then your death will free her”

     “My will locks her into another, there is no way to stop what must be done.”

     “Then he will die too. I made my decision, and I will protect her, as she is just a girl.”

     “Then Nzulmbi will take you back and he isn’t passive like the others, he will find you and set you back.”

     “I’m a creation of something human, that I believe to be true and it is your cult I have to thank for that.” He squeezed the throat with full might, snapping it into a flatten mesh of flesh, bone, and blood. He dropped the body to watch it fall and noticed the girl’s repulsive reaction.

     He left her there with a promise that he would keep watch. She didn’t want her only sense of security to be far and away, but her cries were of no use. As much as he wanted to protect her, there was a growing curiosity of his creation, a longing for a sense of purpose. A monster such as him shouldn’t be real, but that is a moot point when considering what man can do so long as there is desire and drive to do it.

 

The Bleeder II

Crimson Trail

By Jesse Dedman

            Engulfed in a never-ending whirl of incredible numbness, his thoughts were carried into a depth much deeper than any human could ever imagine. In more ways than one, he was already dead and found comfort in this emotional isolation, where not even his loathsome, blood soaked tears, could be felt. Even from the number of foul deeds, and the time that each consumed, he was not any closer to the reason for this torment, and he wanted salvation, redemption, but above all else, release from the metallic instruments that gave him life.

     He lumbered in the shadows, but when light of blue and red hues invaded his solitude, he was quick to panic. It wasn’t so much that he felt wrong; no, that would be too human for him; it was the element of fear, fear of what he didn’t understand. Fortunately for this monstrosity, it was his fear that saved him from the discovery of the ever-curious law enforcement.

     Only seconds were given from the moment the light made the slightest touch into the interior before they busted down the door. It was unusual protocol, but from the reports that been gathered this was not a time for bureaucratic hindrances. The young recruit went in first, carried by the feeling that he had something to prove, while an older man wearing a long coat followed.

     “Police,” shouted the young man, “come out very slowly so that we may see you.” His fingers were tightly bound to both the flashlight and the handgun. He was tense, which was evident from his weary sense of aim.

     “Steven,” said the older gentleman, “You might want to consider using the lights when available.” With a flip of a switch light poured out from the kitchen with such radiance that it had no problem wrestling the wavering shadows. It was what the light revealed that triggered the sudden silence, in which not even the captain made so much as a sigh. What was once a family of three had been brutally slain and left out to drown in a pool of blood; There was not an inch spared among the carpeted floor, and the counter and stools dripped as if the blood had rained from the heavens.

     “Ugh, what the fuck happened here,” asked Steven.

     The Captain didn’t answer, which gave a moment for another officer to speak his mind, and even though what was shared sounded more like it was taken directly from urban legend; it didn’t prevent him from enjoying a really good drag from a cigarette.

     “This wasn’t no gang banger operation, someone really wanted this family to bleed. And these wounds, they don’t look like anything I have ever seen on the field…. You don’t think it was him, do you?”

     “Let me guess,” said the Captain, “The wound is deep, with a ring of exposed tissue, massive swelling, and then a strange imprint. The type of mark that a hawk’s talon would make.” 

     “Something like that, yes,” said Steven.

     “Check the eyes.” A wave of smoke lingered from the Captain’s mouth as he spoke. “I bet you anything, and I mean anything, that they are gone. And not just gone, I mean ripped out clean.”

     “Captain… I don’t know what to say. You couldn’t have seen this before. I mean, there is no way that he could be real,” said Steven. The fear in his eyes were not strange to the Captain, not when it came to that subject, but he allowed his silent puff to bear the message he did not want to say.

     “If that is true, then all this blood is useless,” muttered Steven.

     “No, not hardly,” said the Captain, right before grinding his boot into the chard cigarette. “You aren’t very good. Sort of green, perhaps you might want to reconsider your position. I want you to help with the investigation, but on a more behind the scenes approach.” The Captain was about to walk right pass Steven, but he paused when shoulder length apart, “I hope you like these conditions, because I can guarantee they will get worse.”

     The Captain walked away, leaving Steven to mutter under his breath all sorts of loathsome statements. It was a lesson, and he didn’t even try to fake even an ounce of pity. The officers dispersed throughout the room like normal, but a few saw what just happened, and such sight without knowing the important details was a recipe for silent, corruptible whispering.

     The team had spread out in units of two, searching the place for anything that could be remotely useful, while the Captain took a steady stroll through the backdoor. A cool breeze brushed through his hair. It was calming, peaceful and the shuffling leaves of the surrounding plants produced a tranquil choir. The smoke of a fresh-lit cigarette brushed against his skin, engulfing the nostrils with a scent that he found enjoyable. He glanced around, while walking along the sidewalk, pondering about the recent brutal murder and the others before it.

     His thoughts ran deep and without direction. It just didn’t make any sense to even remotely believe in the rumors. It was plausible that the infectious nature of the absorbing crime scene had become something greater, but never something un-human. To believe full heartedly that some monster had all of a sudden started to ravage the bowels of the city. It was out of reluctance and disbelief that he handled the case the way he had, there wasn’t much he could do about the staggering body count because the dead couldn’t speak. And because this case was so speculative, no one, no matter what, was willing to take the assignment.

     He thought about the phone calls he received from upset mothers and angry fathers, but they were just another element of his career, a sound track that he had to adjust to. Being so disconnected didn’t make him a monster; in fact, it bothered him that the body count continued to pile on his watch, but his willingness to give in to such futile emotions was absent.

     During his moment of solitude, it became apparent that the bushes that bordered his path were disturbed, with leaves tainted with blood.  The Captain knelt to get a better view, and studied the specimen with great detail. The smell of blood circulated heavy in the air, wet as the morning dew. Following the flow of red, He radioed for the others upon sight of a trail that disappeared into the distant blackness of the alley.

     He didn’t wait for them, because if there was one flaw he didn’t possess on his watch it was idleness. Besides, he had enough with chasing shadows. If he could finally see for himself what the darkness wouldn’t allow him to see, then perhaps his full attention would be earned; furthermore, uplifting his comatose state of being where he longed for some sort of excitement.

     He walked into the alleyway, entering a cavernous creation of man, brought to existence by a combination of metal, brick, and wood. The blackness crept along the wall like tar, sinuously gleaming to the ambience of the scattered windows, but it wasn’t enough to prevent what came so natural. The emptiness engulfed him, placing him on the opposite side of the light, where the badge was seen with hysteria.

     It seemed like nothing could faze him, not the stench of open garbage, not the hopeless sight of the homeless that staggered against the walls, not even the sound of a woman’s struggle. It was all mere distraction and meant nothing in comparison to what he was searching for. When the turns began to number, his power of presence began to dwindle further, and the progression seemed too long, as his eyes had long since adapted to the darkness, where even his humanity seemed infringed, but finally he found something that stood out amongst the rest.

     The details were draped in shadow, but the glowing radiance rendered his height a towering sight, and the Captain felt not the slightest sting of panic, but because the very thing he chased defied all logic; he couldn’t prevent himself from being flabbergasted.

     “It is you, isn’t it,” said the Captain. He spoke with a slow burning cigarette hanging off of his lip. “You realize how much pain you have caused?”

     Silence was his response and it wasn’t something the Captain was willing to tolerate, “My whole department thinks of you as a monster, as a being that will kill endlessly. But, here I am before you and you do nothing but stand there like a bleeding idiot.”

     He moved out from the veil of darkness and exposed what the Captain didn’t imagine to be possible, that the height was not a magic trick produced by light. The man he hunted was indeed a monster like the rumors that infested his department, but none of them touched the surface. A mask of metal, touched with rust, and smeared with blood covered his face, while a narrow visor acted as a portal to the unknown. A long, thick, trench coat, stained with blood and filth covered his build, which was big and cumbersome. The coat was opened and exposed a crude reconstruction of a torso, in which, flesh, metal, and machine were intertwined to grant structure to such a horror. And the hands, they were the source of the blood trail, for they poured out in droplets, as if his body couldn’t retain what was crucial for life.

     The Captain raised his gun, but was thrown off by the Bleeder’s passive response, in which the creature gently pushed the Captain aside and continued on his path. Nevertheless, the slug of his .45 was launched from the barrel, but it had no noticeable impact.

     “What, did you not feel that,” roared the Captain, “I hope you wouldn’t, I couldn’t imagine a living person capable of doing what you have done. I have seen some horrors, but nothing, nothing like you.”

     The Bleeder paused. He could hear and he could think, but it was right that he didn’t notice the gunshot, as he lived a life wrapped in a sense of numbness so powerful that it blinded him from the very thought of feeling. When he walked, it felt like tiny ticks picking at his legs, when he breathed he felt the pressure of his lungs, but never anything more.

     “So I got your attention now. I would hope so, because consider this your last night out.” The Captain gave another command on his radio. “I hope you don’t mind the spot light, because it’s your show tonight.” Bright rays of light poured into the dark narrow abyss, causing the Bleeder to squirm with irritation; his eyes could never readjust, not after the chemical and electrical stress they have been put through. The mask he wore was a crude and intelligent design that injected bio-chemicals and hormones, while sending jolts to increase neuron activity, so that vision could be increased by a substantial degree with an added ability of night-vision.

     A wire with the end of a clamp and syringe burst through the coat, further tearing the fabric, exposing a rather large mechanical cube that clung to his backside. With reaction as quick as lightning, the broad side of the wire bashed against the Captain’s face, just before the Bleeder made his escape. The Captain felt the bruise, but his thoughts about the end game were too demanding to give into the pain, willingly.

It didn’t take long for his team to gather at the scene, they answered his call with such clarity and loyalty that it made the possibility of rumors and gossip imaginary, but even when he was there talking to them, some of them were not without distraction, thinking of things that contradicted the Captain’s agenda.

     “What’s going on Captain,” asked the lieutenant, “You found something.”

     “You boys better be ready for a hunt, because I think we found our monster,” said the Captain. He raised his firearm to wipe off the nozzle with a small cloth to show emphasis to action. “I don’t have time to explain, but if we spread out I’m sure you can find him. He’s a big son-of-a-bitch. A lumbering clumsy tower of rot.”

The Captain began targeting random officers in groups of two and designating the direction in which to pursue. His intent was not to follow blindly, but instead to surround the perimeter and perhaps trap the monster again. He was sure he wasn’t going to let him go and with so much feeling pouring into his void of devotion, he was sure not to think light of the horror stories. He thought about them, and even though the rumors were dramatic, the Captain was more curious than he was fearful.

The policemen did as ordered without question. The teams of two spread out into the bowels of darkness with precision and acute awareness; their shield was the in the Captain’s expression, it reeked with coldness. Only the Lieutenant was brave enough to pause upon selection, but the Captain wasn’t concerned with his deliberate walk towards him.

“You can’t be serious,” He said. “You can’t be serious that you found him. Shouldn’t we get a larger team for this?”

“Do you really think this monster will wait around for us?”

“You have a point.” The lieutenant cocked his head to the side with an air of arrogance. “You might want to learn a thing or two about waiting.”

“I suggest you go with your buddy.”

“I don’t need no babysitter, not one selected by you,” snapped the lieutenant. He walked away but paused with a bite he couldn’t resist, “That was awfully cold what you did to Steven. You know it’ll come around don’t you?” He didn’t wait for a response, but was patient enough to catch a savored reaction before parting ways.

They searched for minutes that dragged into hours, placing the scattered groups even further out than what was practical. They were scoping the congested, narrow, and entwining alleyways of one of the filthiest regions in the city. Territory where the law rarely surface, and if they did it wasn’t for long and nothing close to honoring the badge; for the small few that visited this place during the day, where details could be remembered, even they found difficulty navigating as everything was buried beneath a mask of a thick looming fog.

     The Lieutenant found the isolation to be comforting in his moment of glory, and he ran down with such determination that it startled the slumbering homeless. With his gun held firmly with arm extended, he frequently had to use it to place fear into the fiends that dared to test him; however, the few grew in numbers and the power of the gun became like that of a child’s toy. He had to search for a way to escape the enclosing hands and in desperation he climbed the bordering fence.

     He made an escape, but not without losing his cool, and when he set sight on their effort he couldn’t spare another second. The ragged homeless followed him, knowing that they could engulf him into their nothingness. He turned to run, but was shocked by the spectacle before him. It was the Bleeder, posed as if he was ready to attack. The monster’s hand motioned for the lieutenant to go down, just before several chords whipped out from his backside. They swayed with moves like that of a snake, striking at the swarm, making it impossible for them to climb without harm.

     The Lieutenant might as well have not seen the chords do what they were intended for, and even though nothing more of a minor injury was inflicted upon him, the man did what he thought was right. He opened fire and watched as the monster he had been chasing for months continued without much concern.

     He fired round after round, and even though it was clear that it wasn’t working, he was not convinced. The frustration grew into anger, which made him more confrontational than what was safe.

     “I don’t know what the fuck you are,” roared the Lieutenant. “I don’t believe in ghosts, I think nothing of monsters, and something like you should not be in front of me right now. What the fuck are you?”

     The chords retracted, but not for mercy. Instead the Bleeder took the policeman by the neck and used height as a weapon. “You cowardly ran away from them, but stand to me with such boldness,” growled the Bleeder.

     “Put me down right now. I’m serious, you better place me on the ground right now; otherwise things will get much worse.”

     “You people act in such odd ways. But it doesn’t matter.” The Bleeder hurled the human against the wall, leaving him to flail in the dumpster. The Bleeder discarded the lieutenant’s threats. He left with thoughts swirling like that of a thick fog layering over a bog, but the repeating sound of gunfire lasted long enough to win his attention. The officer was just as shocked and was still in his hindered state.

     The sound continued in the distance and was followed by more and more out bursts, and while that was distracting enough, it was the wave of people that approached from the fence that demanded immediate attention. The mob of the poor, hungry, junkies, and desperate moved with such uncoordinated formation and with such closeness to one another that it made distinction impossible, except for the one in the middle. He walked with a surge of confidence in his step, and projected a grin that seemed ironic to his unspoken intent and the curious triangular mark singed into his forehead.

     “You been on the move for some time now,” said the bald man. “It has been difficult tracking you, but now that we have established ourselves with those you prey on, I think things will be so much easier now.”

     “Why do you bother me,” growled the Bleeder.

     “A just creator would never bestow a traitor such as you,” barked the approaching human. “You came to us and we gave you what you needed, what any man would long for. Respect in obedience, respect in worship and respect that you were to have your sacrifice delivered to you.”

     “The origin of your thoughts seems awfully deceitful,” said the Bleeder. He shrugged off the nuisance and turned away, finding reason impossible. “Can’t you just leave me be.”

     “All we want is to be given what we were promised,” he said. The bald man removed a handgun from his long coat and, without hesitation in his aim, fired at the lieutenant. The attack was nothing but a taunt and the police officer made sure as hell to stay focused. “We want you and only you. All these people mean nothing if we fail to earn your presence. Think back to the moments of praise we gave you. The throne we built for you. You can have it back, all of it. No one could ever hurt you.”

     “You think of me as a God and yet bargain with me as if I’m not. Your reason lacks understanding, and you would be better off leaving.”

     “I will show you what we are willing to do for you. Please, understand our ways and that we are frail, unlike you. Take notice of our gift to you.” The bald man fired a round into the air and the giant blob of people behind him dispersed like a den of encaged lions released after intense captivity. The Lieutenant tried to warn them and bring sense into disorder, but it had escalated past the point of bloodless peace, and thus gunfire sliced through the chaotic screams, but like blood-crazed zombies fear was non-existent.

     Though he was physically incapable of feeling anything, and conflicted with a mind that was plagued with a vast emptiness that outweighed anything human misery could withstand. He felt pulled to the scene, much like how he was before with the little girl in the white dress. His thoughts produced no response and left his actions undirected, but with such monstrous reputation, he found his instinctual guide to be uniquely different, as if he was guided by an invisible hand that had chose a fate that deviated from the norm.

     The lieutenant was saved with only minimal damage suffered, and even though he found disgrace in the hand that rescued him, he was later relieved; the fiends were very resourceful and were about to use a variety of weapons. The Bleeder spared not a second in hesitation, and utilized his tentacle-like chords to impale his worshiper in six different directions, and with the needle-end of each embedded into flesh, the Bleeder grew hungry. Like a morality deprived contraption built for the sake of killing and staying alive, he made short work of the other daring junkies. Those that remained scurried into the darkness like wounded animals.

     “You don’t play around do you,” asked the Lieutenant, but it was a rhetorical question. “You know we can’t just let you go.”

     The burst of a .45 shattered their focus; the Lieutenant stared blankly into the nothingness with dread washing over him. He radioed for backup, while the monster that saved him charged towards the scene. Although the Bleeder was hulky in design and spent most of his time lumbering around, his body bore the potential to do more and the oddity of such flux could find clarity if one were able to capture and cut through his disgusting shell; furthermore, opening a cryptic paradox that would both benefit medical science and further damn it to hell.

     The sound that pulled him closer went silent for too long to be much of use, but he followed the trails of blood and the whispering shadows that lingered throughout; the scattered few that would rather laugh in madness than flee the scene. By luck he found the building where they held the Captain, but by skill he shattered the metal door and made a bold entrance into a place that wasn’t welcoming. Fear was rightfully placed into the hearts of even the most hard-boiled, and drug crazed fiends, but for those that chose to stand in place, they merely volunteered to have their blood painted on the walls. 

     After his vicious rampage, the ground was littered with piles of dead, which were arranged in such oddly place arrangements, left with expressions that cried with unimaginable pain. The bleeder had gone as far as he would have to. A faint luminescence feathered through the dark abyss of the chamber, but it was clear that it was the Captain who was hung in the center by two giant hooks. He wasn’t dead, the kicking and swearing was evident of that, but he was in pain bruises, cuts, and gashes peeked out from beneath the ravaged clothing. He was talking to another person, a tall skinny man with a posture that made him seem very sure of himself. The cocky individual wasn’t listening, not enough to care, but he was looking directly at the Bleeder with eyes like that of an attention-starved child.

     “You, finally arrived,” he said. “When they said you would be here I couldn’t imagine a more wasteful place for someone like you. Here, here you are, this odd and question provoking creation. We cannot let our guardian wander the alleyways of this piss-poor, bankrupt town. We have higher hopes then that, and I know you do not need this.”

     “I do not believe in your cause,” said the Bleeder.

     “So you doubt me and my fellow believers? That seems very strange coming from someone who was held to the highest level of fame possible. You were worshiped in a way most people would risk death for. Why doubt what we are handing you?”

     The construct of terror, with blood dripping hands, drew closer to his faithful follower, while a mirrored pane offered a tilted reflection, “What am I… a horror to all I see, and I feel… this mocking shroud of doubt is so intoxicating like heavy liquor, and the more I drink from its corrupted pool, the more… clear it is to me that something isn’t right.”

     “Of course, because you have no direction. A guardian without anyone to guard is lost, but not you. We are obedient to you; we just ask to not abandon us.”

     “Just because I do not guard you, doesn’t make me any less a guardian, if that is what I really am.”

     “What, that little girl?”

     “Yes, much like the little girl.”

     The Captain remembered handling a case that involved a slain parent. The father was long dead by the time his team arrived, but the girl sat while fascinated by a book. Her inhuman disconnection from the murder, much less the sight of a dead body, stayed with him, eating at his initial perspective of innocence.

     “She was an offering,” snapped the follower.

     “And so is this time I am giving you now,” the Bleeder reached for the man, but he quickly evaded and intended on striking back; a small blade sliced across the monster’s arm, leaving behind a thin trail of blood, exposing a bit of the tissue mesh that layered over various mechanical components. The arrogant speaker learned firsthand how deceptive the Bleeder’s size was when a series of chords pierced into his neck, tearing the flesh, ripping the head from the body with such speed and roughness that part of the spine went with it.

     “You could have been a bit more humane, couldn’t you,” asked the Captain. 

     “It would be best to never follow me again, perhaps you should spend time dealing with what you can understand.” The Bleeder was quick to step out from the waving aura, allowing the shadows to blanket over his form, masking him as one with the scene, making him impossible to detect with a human eye. Without any sight of the monster the Captain was determined to front the odds, because the end for his case was just in front of him, at least the moment of clarity, but it vanished before anything remote of proof could be obtained. He gazed into the shadows forcing his mind to find images where none were present, straining for clarity only produced the opposite.

     The remaining members of his team gathered around him with the utmost professionalism; they scoped the surroundings with attention at full focus; with precise beams of light, they dissected the empty shadows, cutting into the darkest of pockets. Their caution was above what was typical for the situation, and led them to believe all was clear, but in the end they left the area with nothing more than gossip and professional opinion.

The Bleeder III

Big Brother.

By Jesse C. Dedman

    
     The elegant properties of Chapel Terrace were the few remaining places that resembled what it was like to be truly wealthy and privileged in the glooming of times. The owners and hosts of such lavish homes treated themselves like kings, and utilized walls with carefully engineered architecture so that those on the other side would be so enthralled that they would drool a river so wide it could quench the ever-thirsty lands of the middle-east, while, at the same time, keeping the very possibility of entering like that of a distant dream. 

     The less fortunate functioned in a manner that was assumed. They frequently walked by in waves with mesmerized gazes and shattered hopes. The image of such luxury branded deep into their minds, scorching into the tender flesh of their hearts, killing the remaining elements of what makes a human stand out from the other beasts that share this world. While these people live with diminishing reason and questionable uncivilized behavior, it was him that was the most fortunate.

     Though he felt not a thing, not even in the slightest, he stood close to the only thing he cared about. Even though his body was ravaged by scorn, stitched flesh and re-engineered muscled molded to conform with electrochemical injections fed from the contraption that somehow thrived within, he was driven by a feeling that was for the longest time alien to him.

It was a form of empathy, and when he thought about it long enough he found that it was an emotion that resonated with something similar; furthermore, he found comfort in that finally he could feel something, despite that the very act of thinking, long pondering, and deep insight was like trying to find solid ground in a fog blanketed bog on a night so dark that not even the moon dared to show. Logic and complete understanding has long been lost and these moments of isolation have provided little answers. Thus, the only person he has ever received any sort of understanding from was the little girl.

There was a bright glow about the room that descended from the evenly placed ornamental lights. The wavering beams coated the surroundings with a touch of golden hues, making the pale complexion of the little girl not so apparent. She sat on top of the bed with legs crossed with her attention completely ensnared by a rather large novel. She tapped at the pages while motioning her head in a melodic fashion, and though there was a plate of glass between her and the Bleeder, a lovely hum sounded through. It was a beautiful score that complimented the light that shone in her eyes, despite the invasive nagging that grew louder and louder each passing second.

The knocking was a warning that gave only a moment notice as the door easily folded to the curiosity of another woman.

“Abigail, are you still awake,” asked the older woman. She was eagerly waiting for an answer, while her small movements caused her dark, delicate banes to bob. She glanced at the sliding glass door, which led to the balcony, and found something that provoked her. Without asking for permission, the woman marched closer towards the window giving the view a careful observation.

“Well, now you know I’m still up,” said Abigail. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing out of the ordinary,” said the woman. Her voice was distant and empty of emotion. “I think it is best that you go to bed now.”

“No thank you. I would rather finish what I’m reading.”

“Silly girl, you have all day tomorrow to finish, besides you really ought to spend your time doing what girls are suppose to do.”

“And what might that be,” asked Abigail. She closed the book, leaving only her index finger to mark the spot.

“What other little girls do. I don’t know, but being social would be a start.”

“I don’t care for them.”

“I hope you didn’t mean that full heartedly, it is normal for you to feel distant as you come from a family line that is rather different. Different enough to earn disgrace.”

“Mary… I thank you very much for taking me in, but you can stop with the frequent reminder,” Abigail spoke while restraining uncertain feelings about her father.

“It is true that your father was a lunatic, and I think it is best for you to grow from the situation.”

“I… I appreciate what you mean… but, it can’t be that easy.”

“It is not your fault that he died, you know that don’t you? It was his delusional fantasies that brought his death. He mingled with the wrong people, with freaks that I care to never encounter again.”

“Mary, this isn’t helping, please go.”

“I’m sorry, but this is something you must realize. And you must realize it soon before you waste your life away shedding needless tears.”

“God, can’t you just let me be for one night? I’m tired of these frequent talks.”

“Fine, I will take my leave, but you will socialize with the others first thing tomorrow morning.”

Aunt Mary took her leave, but was sure to follow her advice with a glaring eye so that the seriousness of her opinion would not be overlooked. When the door was closed, it gave moment for Abigail to think too deeply into her private affairs, and it brought out a reaction that seemed ideal for an attention-hungry adolescent. Her arms swung wildly, sending the pile of books into disarray, causing a few to smash into the fragile decorations, slamming against the wall, plowing against other obstacles. When the tears became too much to overpower through anger, she covered her eyes with her tiny hands.

The Bleeder heard her cries and was too curious and attentive to hide himself any longer. He shuffled out from the camouflage of night, and watched her carefully with a confusing awe. It should have been obvious to her, and even though his presence had become clearer, she was too enthralled with her torment to care. Furthermore, the feeling of being entrapped into a never releasing, never satisfied, hand of misery caused him to move closer to the glass, so close that his bloody hand smeared against the pane.

The sight of blood triggered a fear that was sure to send a scream, but her lungs found it difficult to produce such a noise from all of the crying. Instead, she choked on the thought and swallowed a gulp of salty tears, while her vision began to clear to the memory. It did not give her an instant relief from her grief, but his sight offered something that was equal to what the presence of a familiar would produce. Her once trembling body had calmed down with a heart rate that began to normalize; at last, her big brother had come to save her.

She flew to the door and began to pull it open, but she glanced at her bedroom door with a slight gesture of doubt expressed upon her brow. The slightest indication of movement on the other side was normally hard to detect, and she knew full well to not believe for an instant that she could cover-up the thing that only she could find comfort in. Ignorance and intelligence worked together forming a will that overstepped the boundaries of her logic. With mind and body in tune with one another, the fluid slide of the glass panel was done without disturbing so much as an insect.

She stood in the doorway, shivering to the cool breeze, folding her arms while making the most of the thin clothing that swallowed her. Her eyes were joyous of his sight, and though there was blood and signs of something monstrous, she frowned only because of a shadowing thought.

“Why do you run away,” she asked.

“I mean you no harm, but I believe people may think the worse of me.”

“You don’t seem so bad.” She glanced at the blood, but her innocence acted as a shield, keeping her mind from falling victim to the shockwave of fear. She failed to fully comprehend the level of danger that anyone else might have felt. “But, you do worry me… When you leave I do not know if you will ever return.”

“Nothing could ever stop me from protecting you.”

“Why then, must you leave all the time?”

The Bleeder hesitated, while the tips of his fingers bled the remaining ounces of plasma. There wasn’t a moment that he could recall where he felt something like this, and it wasn’t the emptiness that was beginning to seep out from his core; it was the social involvement with the girl that invoked the slightest human touch from his damned condition. “I don’t know for sure. I don’t know what is real, but I know that most fear me. Most people run away, though some may chase me with a passion that begs to question.”

“Don’t worry about them,” she said. She closed the sliding door behind her and wrapped her arms around the bulk of his arm. She felt the rough surface of the coat. The grunge of the streets coated a sick layer of darkness bound with a scent that was most foul, and even though she carried an admiration no one else was willing to give, she was not immune to her own senses. “You stink.”

“What are you doing?”

“I want to go with you, like the first time, take me to the rooftops. I want to see the city from the heights.” She tugged on him like a nagging child, and he was not one to oppose such an idea. The consequences were not important; the impact of the missing child was not in the faintest glance a concern; the sight of him in the open was just another moment to the Bleeder, so he waited patiently while she climbed onto his back.

“So, where do you want to go exactly,” asked the Bleeder.

“I don’t care, anywhere but here…”

The girl found the breaks in the coat vulnerable to her scampering crawl as she reached for the mound. The Bleeder took her away from the unexceptional effort and placed her gently upon the cubical metallic instrument that clung to his backside, which hid beneath the frayed coat. With such a position, she had little to worry about, as her arms could easily stretch around his neck. Her tiny fingers found something addictive with the irregular scarred, stitched, and rough surface of his flesh, and she tapped in silence, finding it hard to cease with the picking.

With his companion secure, the Bleeder made his efforts as swift as possible; running up the steep sides of the colossal structures that acted as homes, stomping with feet that pounded the surface like sledge hammers, shattering the shingles into particles, smashing the wood into splinters, cracking the stone plating, and engraving stress marks that would surely cause the roof to crumble upon the faintest touch of a feather; thus, the home owners and those nearby watched with horror and quickly ran to authorities, but the hulky giant of flesh and steel cared not for the distractions, and the girl was overtaken with excitement and offered no voice of concern.

The two found themselves washed in the light of a crescent moon while they ran across the flat rooftops. The night sky admired their test of freedom and gave them sight to the clearest of nights, with stars doting in the millions, shivering the darkness with an luminous that radiated upon the Bleeder’s mask, while basking the child with a glow that respected her youthful spirit.

An air of hesitance rose for a mere moment, but it was enough to calm his aggressive reach to the highest roof, but the pause festered into a body of corruption that contaminated further, striving him to meet the threshold of some instinctual goal. Instead, the lost soul, with his shattered temple of flesh and isolation of pain but not of suffering, took a hold of the nearest structure, and struggled with a sudden loss of energy. It was a spell he had felt before, a type that came in spurts with no end, determined to grow longer and longer on every intermittent arrival. It was a sensation that his insensitive nerves were not ignorant of, and it allowed the recognition of fatigue, as his mind knew subconsciously that there was something he had to do very soon.

“Why are you stopping,” asked the girl.

The shell of decay stooped to a low he found tolerable for only a moment. The teeth of several chords exposed themselves as they grazed across the girl’s thigh with a touch of softness that he somehow controlled. He became instantly aware of the trouble he just exposed onto his only friend and reacted with compassion in his movement, placing her far away from him as possible.

“I—I will return for you,” he stated. There was a struggle in his voice that resembled the paradox he was dealing with. The Bleeder did not take a second glance for her safety and only assumed that the worst would be for him to wait a moment longer. He stepped in a direction he took by chance; a direction that was to leave the girl behind in salvation, while, at the same time, bringing him much closer to a balcony that was a few feet below.

The window was screened by a yellowish tint, a type of biasness that was natural to the light that the family used. They conversed with one another; the man, tall, in his thirties, was sitting on the couch while the wife walked in with a tray of treats; the kid watched what was on the television with hand reaching for the screen. The adults were as unknowing as the child when he, the Bleeder, appeared, and whereas the child never shed so much as a tear, the parents were in a moment of panic and reacted based on a glimmer of thought. It didn’t matter, as they struggled to the bitter end. Two cables impaled the woman with a third leeching into her bloodstream. She suffered with a cry that was as motivational as the drums of war; however, the man, the protector of the household, was limited in reason, and was quick to learn how pointless the stashed firearm really was.

When the Bleeder was finished, the driving, invoking sensation ceased, with only the familiar nothingness to return with its endless void. Though he absorbed a gallon of blood, the rest of the crimson fluid had been sprayed upon the interior, running across the wooden surfaces, collecting in the crevasses, filling in the aesthetic pours of the drywall, and staining into the fabric of the furniture.

“Oh my,” ventured the faintest whisper. “Blood is everywhere. Why would you ever do something like this?”

“I told you to stay,” he said without even the desire to glance at the source. He knew who it was. “I didn’t want you to see this. I think…. I think this is why… people perceive me as they do.”

Abigail stepped over a lump of shredded flesh, it was the remains of the woman, reconstructed by the horrific act of being ripped a part by a dozen of chords, to be torn like that of a piñata on a eight year-old’s birthday. She missed a step and didn’t notice until a touch of moisture soaked through her white shoes; like red wine on a white cloth, it stained with a color that drawn the focus upon mere glance. She reacted with disgust, but not of the blood so much as the fact that her newly acquired shoes have been ruined.

“You aren’t going to run,” said the Bleeder.

“I don’t hate you,” she muttered while distracted by the scene. “You certainly made a mess of things in here. Other people may not care for this so much.”

An empty space took over the Bleeder’s perception, rendering his comment to deaf ears, as it was muttered too low to possibly pass though the metallic mask.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” said Abigail. “This is bad, really bad. You are the monster they speak of on the news. You can’t just do something like this. How did this even happen?”

“What is the loss?”

“This is a family and they are all dead, all because of you. You can’t just kill people like that.”

“I killed the man who raised you.”

“That was different, he was an evil man,” she said.

“There was no other choice. There is never a choice for them when its time to collect what I constantly lose.” The Bleeder raised his hands and parted the disfigured fingers. A thin stream of blood flowed from the miniature grated tips, which appeared like that of fingerprints embraced by a metallic band.

 

“I think you should take me home,” she said. “I might need to rethink some things.”

“You think of me like they do, don’t you?”

“You are the monster they speak of, that much I know.”

Isolation wasn’t new to him, and while the blood poured through him without much more than a stream of pressure, the thought of further departure came with a conflicting sting. But as it was something mental and nothing more than a mirage of mind over matter, there was only one helpful thing he could do and that was to grant her this command. The Bleeder reached for the girl and assisted her back to the spot. She was quiet, for the most part; the only sound was that of her breathing and the uncomfortable incoherent noise regarding the stains that marked her outfit.

Together, they traversed closer to the house in silence. The smell of burnt cinder intruded into the otherwise normal aroma, enticing the girl, bringing forth her curiosity and with it a question that directed him to the sight. An orange waving heat peaked over the rooftops in vibrant rays.    

“I don’t want you to hate me,” said the Bleeder.

Abigail returned nothing audible, but she did squeeze on his neck a little tighter, hoping that it would order him to stop.

“Is there something that I could change?”

“Stop killing people,” she said faintly.

“That would be impossible, I need their blood, and it is difficult to withhold when there are people around.”

“There are better ways to do it. There is an abundance of evil men the world could do without.”

“Who is good? Who is evil? These are things that don’t appear on the surface of anybody. How do I know?”

“People like my father,” she said, with a slight touch of anger in her voice.

“I see. Then I will do that for you,” said the Bleeder. “That fire is coming from your home. Hold on tight.”

The Bleeder lumbered down the steep rooftops with the momentum of a freight train, colliding into stone fixtures without any notice or concern. Abigail found the frantic collision of things to excite her, the noise, the falling fragments, and the sheer power that her big brother-like monster exercised. They were suddenly airborne and she couldn’t resist screaming from the rush adrenaline, which mixed her emotions of fright with the desire of fun, channeling into an empowering, nerve rattling experience.

Without warning, Abigail found herself recoiled from her spot. However, her fingers were quicker than her mind and they clung tighter, her nails dug into his flesh. A loud and dominating pool of sounds that expressed a strain that had no equal to her, and it didn’t occur to her what it could have been until the Bleeder dropped through the roof into a room engulfed in a dim orange tint, while a staggering number of shattered boards collapsed around them.

When the dust settled, it became clear that the fires were not caused by nature, but rather a group of individuals dressed in dark clothes wielding blunt instruments. A few of them were walking around with torches, setting the corners ablaze.

“Look at what we have here, both the girl and the guardian,” declared one of the men.

Sensing a threat the Bleeder was about to release his vice, but a contradicting thought ran through his mind. “Would you consider these people evil?” 

“They are burning my Aunt’s home, yes, they are evil,” said Abigail. 

With further comments, the Bleeder released a series of chords that tore through the air with a speed that might as well be compared to light, for none of the individuals saw it coming and didn’t even have the time to react to the abrupt impact. The teeth of the chords crushed into their skulls, blasting through the other side. Blood dripped from the chunks of brain matter that clung to the horrific instruments.

“That didn’t take anytime at all,” she announced. “You really don’t know right and wrong, good and evil, do you?”

“There were moments that left me thinking, but nothing close to that sort of concept.”

A woman’s crying was heard from the other room, along with the shuffling and reckless behavior of other fiends. Abigail pointed in the direction with the utmost concern and her only element of salvation responded without questioning. The increasing heat, the licks of fire, didn’t bother the colossal mound of decay and metal. Instead, he pushed further finding a way through the obstructions. The time he took finding openings amongst the shattered walls and stacked furniture was drawing a close on the girl’s air. Her coughing caused his focus to narrow, making him near berserk, taking actions that could cause this structure to become their grave.

After colliding through the furniture, shattering through the wooden walls, demolishing the structural beams, which caused the house to sound in a creaking pain, they were finally before the violent mass. The aunt was hog tied to a board with her clothes ravaged, chard, and almost completely undone. A man stood next to her, wielding a long blade in one hand and a thick book in the other. A dark, ritualistic garment swallowed his form, and he stood on a platform composed of random junk, raising him to a higher status compared to the gathering of people around him.

The Bleeder’s entrance broke the sermon, as all eyes were focused in their direction, even the one that was about to take his turn with the Aunt.

“You have come back to us? How odd, we devised a plan to get you to return to us. You have the girl with you as well. This must really be the moment we have been waiting for.”

“This is awful, I can’t stand to watch,” cried Abigail. “These people, what is wrong with them, why must they be so evil. Kill them, kill them all!”   

The ritual leader laughed hysterically and posed himself as if he was the source of unequaled knowledge, “Foolish girl, you are the one of evil. Keeping us from returning to our roots, from reaching the moment when our God will grant us peace. You have corrupted the gift he has given us and you must die, by his hands.”

“What are you waiting for? Kill them all, otherwise they will continue to talk.”

“He won’t kill us, we are the ones that housed him, we are the ones that taught him, and we are his family and one day he will recognize.”

The deity they speak of, the guardian they sought for with violence, had fallen before and never again has he thought long on the idea of rejoining, and even though he took it upon himself to kill every single cultist by hand, the ritual leader still rambled about what was to happen as if he was drunk from the mere idea. The crowd that had surrounded him dwindled one-by-one, with some meeting their demise through the use of crushed bones, shattered skulls, and ripped limbs. Their guardian was driven by the tears of the little girl to slay the fiends in the most vial way, without any mercy, without any remorse, with only the thought of making her happy, and establishing a harmony between life and her.

Still the intensity of the gore, let alone the growing silence, had no affect on the cultist elder. He continued to speak in ways that would pry on logic of those that consider themselves sane. Even when it was only himself, the Bleeder, the little girl, and the Aunt, he rambled with only his facial expression vulnerable to change.

“Have you thought about it,” said the cult elder. “Have you found it in yourself the reason, the truth.”

“Don’t stop, kill him, kill him!” cried Abigail.

“Why do you keep bothering me? Why can’t you just leave me alone? I want nothing to do with you and your ideals.”

“Lunacy, you were raised by us, you were sent to us by our lord.”

“You are wrong and so are your beliefs,” declared the Bleeder. Those were the last words the cult elder would ever hear. A violent force sent his head colliding into the stone floor, followed by the weight and momentum of a stomping foot. The silence of speech was a blessing, even if the sound of fire had reached an alarming level, and even if the Aunt continued to sob through a gagging device.

Abigail shuffled off of the Bleeder and ran towards her Aunt. Her hands grabbed at the rope, trying to loosen up the ends, trying to pry some sort of slack, but there wasn’t any success. Though tired and stricken with limited air, she utilized the cult elder’s knife and sliced through the rope. With free hands, the Aunt relieved her mouth of the gag device and stumbled away from the post. She found the sight of the Bleeder disgusting, but it wasn’t important to waste precious time dwelling on that at the moment.

The Aunt grabbed the little girl’s hand and ran to the demolished doorway, while the Bleeder followed with keen observance. The rest of the house seemed empty of anyone else, but he wasn’t about to let his guard down, and when the moment came for him to assist he did. A crumbled mess of wood and stone obstructed the way outside, but the Bleeder used his never weary strength to grant allowance to a path. Abigail was thankful and so was the Aunt, although she was more modest and housed an uncomfortable expression.   

The three of them ran down the grassy yard, heading towards the street in the search of safety. The Aunt was pulling the girl with her in a seemingly natural reaction to the complicated image of a looming horror. Abigail didn’t put up much a fight as she was eager to leave the burning disaster, but she did glance over her shoulder to notice that he was slowing down. It was when he started running in another direction that it dawned on her that the light of red and blue began to light up the scene.

Even though the authorities arrived, even though they brought a presence that came with it a sense of security, there wasn’t a single element around her that seemed built to last in comparison to her protector. She wanted to leave for him, but found it difficult to escape the scene, and when she tried to answer as to why it only caused the officers to denounce the idea of monsters, but that was merely a front, as the lieutenant was well aware of the nightmare that existed out there, for he had seen it himself.

The Aunt and Abigail were briefed of what was going to happen and offered stay at the department for a moment of peace, which they took without much decision. While the authorities offered them what was normal procedure, and followed it with normal barrage of confidence there was a lingering doubt. Abigail secretly wished that the one they referred to as the nightmare would continue to be on the lookout. To her perspective, he was the only one that stood a chance to the evils that surround her, but the idea that she might have scorn him with her logic of reason was on the rise.