Cradle of Ruin: One Man Army by Jesse Dedman |
A line of faded gray lifted from the amber tip as the cigarette burned while cradled in a plastic ashtray. As a collection of soft, light particles, the smoke couldn’t resist the manipulating hand of the circulating current produced by a battery operated fan; it was one of the few methods in trying to reduce the smoldering humidity. An acidic tinge meshed with the odor of burnt rubber and exposed garbage, but the scent of tobacco and opened bottles provided a decent distraction. Outside these crumbling walls, beyond the scorched remains of this once lively establishment, the city cries out in torment. Fires burn through the night while survivors fight for the warmth, found rations, and anything else deemed valuable. Like starved coyotes, the spare few that survived the toxic cleanse have turned on one another, some willing to maim their own ken for few days’ worth of spoiled food. As soft, light a particles our perspectives couldn’t resist the plummet into total savagery. I sat alone, waiting for something, perhaps nothing. I arched my back over the table, cupping my head between folded arms. The taste of lukewarm rum was persistent on my tongue. The electric buzzing of the fan provided a gentle, hypnotic sound track. While my reality continues to flush downward, my dreams provide only mockery and distain. The image of my wife and kids often surface as if exhumed from a watery tomb. The beauty no longer recognized coupled with disfigurement, but the message and meaning remains. I failed to acknowledge their needs, failing even harder when it came to sacrificing my career. I served behind the badge as if I was the walking representation of trust, justice, and honor. Now, those things may not exist, and just like my family, they may never come back. The door closed, even though I didn’t hear it open. A stunning dame with long black hair walked in as if she still retain a bit of class in this shitfest. She smiled at me, but the stress she brought in, the trouble that followed her quickly changed that into a frown. Scanning her posture--looking beyond the curves, and the worried eyes—I could tell she wanted reveal the ghost that shadowed her. “What brings you here,” I asked, voice soft and low. “We’ve got ourselves into a little problem,” she said, regretting the words as she timidly advanced closer to the table. “Not all the girls made it out of there.” “Is that right,” I asked, with a glass of whiskey raised. I stared at her with leveled eyes. “I saved you all once before, and now you’re asking for me to repeat the deed.” I chugged the beverage. The warmth increased the burn as it slid down my throat. “How did you find me?” “Is that so,” I said, refusing to give in to the blunt truth. “Either way, Chivo’s place is going to be intense right now. I would recommend that we wait this one out.” Sylvia cocked her head to the side as she leaned forward for a glimpse into her cleavage. “What happened to the Detective Michaels I’ve heard so much about? I thought he was a man different from any other, a man that sought out justice no matter what the stakes.” “I really should refuse your request, but I’m a fool and it’s too late to change.” I grabbed a bottle of amaretto, twisted off the cap, and poured myself another glass. “I’m a sucker for a pretty face.” I took a sip and offered Sylvia a swig from the bottle. “Do you mind if I wait here,” she said, as she took the bottle from me. “You expect me to do this alone?” I pulled out cigarette and placed it between my lips. The fire reflected in her troubled eyes, and I could tell she wanted a drag. “If I get all the work, I would expect some reward.” “You, a man of the law, expect me to service you?” “A man of the law is still a man, isn’t he? I don’t need you to do anything for me,” I said, as I handed her the cigarette. I stopped a falling tear, allowing a dab of moisture to dry against my gritty thumb. “Doll, this mission could kill me.” She didn’t say another word, and whimpered quietly. Strong willed, Sylvia reacted to her tears the way most men do, but her evasive mannerisms failed to hide her flushed face, puffy eyes, and streaked cheeks. I rose from the table, loaded my hand-gun and left through the side passage. Splintered wood framed by columns of concrete guided my path out to a street boarded by glassed dirt. The middle of the road exposed me for all of the curious, hungry savages to see. Like a desired treat used as bait, I maneuvered through several blocks with a gun raised and ready. I climbed over heaps of junk, avoiding suspicious areas, while listening for any approach. Nearing Chivo’s neck of the woods, I pocketed the gun and squeezed through an opened window of a ruined office. Glass crunched under my boots as I slowly ventured closer to the only door in the room. The handle was melted, the paint crusted, and the structure completed undermined. The door refused to budge as it was held in place by a crooked foundation and a suffocating grip between the walls. The last thing I needed was to draw attention onto myself, so I took a safer route by retreating out from the small office area and ducking between a wreckage of sheet metal. After examining the area for several minutes, I detected an exploit in Chivo’s patrols: A simple side entrance without any noticeable guards to speak of. Passing behind a routine patrol, I placed my back against the steel hull of the facility and carefully approached the orifice. Stepping closer, I could hear the sounds of laughter, shuffling cards, and bottles being tossed. I withdrew my gun, paused for moment, and pulled the door open. With sights raised, I warily stepped into a hall bordered with scattered car parts and boxes. The sudden quiet brought the awareness of my own breathing, of my own pounding heart as I risked going further. It also teased with the occasional shuffle of footsteps, and as I pressed against a grated wall for cover, I could hear them taunting me. Why would they only suspect me? Crawling behind barrels for cover, I sought out for an advantage point. A wide circular table held various brands of beer, most of which empty, and a stack of chard food. Bottle caps, poker chips, along with various brands of breath mints decked the face of the stained furnishing. But, most importantly, Jackson, a captain among Chivo’s goons, sat with a few others. From their expressions I could tell they wanted to continue the game, but my intrusion caused too much of a distraction. Jackson hid his fear well, looking at his cards as if things were cool, but the others were not so lucky. I rose to the occasion with gun aimed directly at Jackson’s face. “You mind if I join this party?” “Mother Fucker,” uttered Jackson, staring at me as if trying to shake off his disbelief. “You’ve some balls, you know that?” “You apparently expected me,” I said, glancing at my peripherals. “I like the attention.” Jackson extended his hand, stopping another from making a stupid decision. “How about we give him a hand,” he said, looking at me from an angle. ‘After all, this will be his last game.” Shuffling sounded from behind, and everything went dark. The churn of a generator eased me into my senses, but Jackson’s shadow brought me out from the haze. Dark haired, pale skinned, and too scrawny for his own britches, I didn’t expect his punches to be so painful. The first one pressed into my teeth, squeezing blood out from the gums like some juice filled candy. The second smacked against my face, hitting my jaw at an angle that only increased the blow, as my teeth tore into the inner flesh of my mouth. “Michaels, you’re a piece of work, you know that?” Jackson smacked his fist against his palm. “I would expect more from you,” I said, tasting wet blood. “I mean, I only waltzed into your place, freed your slaves, and rescued McKenston’s niece right under your nose.” “You don’t have to remind me, you little shit,” he said, as he back up towards the door. “If it was up to me, I would drop your ass with now.” “Why can’t you,” I asked, teasing him with a bloody smile. “Because Chivo wants me alive doesn’t he.” “He wants to know why you killed McKenston,” he said. “Why don’t you go back to punching me in the face, that I could tolerate,” I said. The memory of the assassination played soured my mood. I would’ve tolerated any other question, but the feeling of false accusation boiled within my core. “I’m gonna do a lot more than that,” said Jackson, taunting me with another teasing punch. He went behind me and sliced through the rope. I rubbed my wrists and went to question when Jackson shoved me out from the chair and into a metal shelf. The dark haired goon didn’t hesitate and dove inward with busted knuckles for revenge. Blunt force to my face created a pounding sensation followed by warm, running stream of crimson. Down as an easy target, I fetched for something, anything that I could grab and use; thus, knocking Jackson in the head with a tire-iron. The bastard went out like a light. I opened the door and struck a blur of a face as it approached with a vengeful smirk. Without a fight, the man collapsed and I stood above him. I tossed the tool and retrieved my gun out from the man’s hand. My options were low, even lower than before. It would only be a matter of time before Chivo’s gang becomes aware of my escape; much more, it would only be a matter of seconds for them to dispatch of me if someone were to raise an alarm. Backing out was out of the question, I shed blood for Sylvia so far, I might as well make it mean something. Besides, Chivo’s intent with smuggling women, and children at that, angered me, and I wasn’t about to let that anger go to waste. I took the worst of options, praying that my luck would change, and waited for the next patrol. I pressed my back against a garage door and listened as the steps grew louder. I could hear him whispering to himself, complaining about his shift. Flesh-tone appeared before me, and I snapped into action, throwing the goon into the garage door. “Where are the girls,” I asked, not expecting an answer. His mumbling out done by the sudden drop of his weapon. I pressed my gun against his skull, muffled his mouth with my hand, and repeated the line. Panic undermined his ability to form words, that I expected, but to babble with statements of ignorance really irked me. I fired a round into his foot. Like a lame fortune teller contraption at a carnival, I put in some metal and received an almost instantaneous reaction; however, unlike a lame arcade, this goon actually provided something substantial. Not only did he lead me to the shed, he also released the combination lock, which revealed a sickening jackpot. Several pre-teen girls stuffed into a cramped space with only hardwood to sleep on and a bucket to shit in. Their eyes shone like marbles plastered into cakes of dirt, while matted hair formed into rope-like tangles. I knocked out the helpful Chivo soldier and gave the girls a long look. “You girls better jet,” I said, noticing the sounds of an approach. “Get out of here and don’t stop running.” The girls were locked down by fear with an opportunity for escape staring them in the face. Emotion becomes the toughest of chains, so I communicated the only way they understood, fear. I shot a few rounds into the air, startling the little girls, and with startled nerves came obedience. They ran straight, and didn’t stop so as long as I watched them. I did my part, yet again. But that was all I could do. There wasn’t any way I could shield them personally from all the madness they would surely encounter in the cradle of ruin. The only thing I could offer was a brief distraction from capture. As long as I could occupy Chivo’s goons, I would act as their shield. If I planned on preventing the gang from separating in to search parties, I would have to storm in with the power of many. I slid through an unguarded orifice and cut off the approach with burst of wild gunfire as I jumped behind cover. Sheets of metal formed my corner, providing only one way to get to me. A de-assembled car along with a heap of parts barricaded any bold approach, while shielding me from their constant gunfire. I loaded a new clip and held there focus with blind fire. “Michaels,” shouted Jackson, as he huddled behind barrels. “Give it up. You can’t shoot at us forever.” “An army against one, that’s hardly fair,” I said, taunting with three-round burst. “When it comes to a sly motherfucker like you, anything is fair.” Jackson’s words were followed by a thunderous choir of gunfire. A guy in cameo held a rattling AK-47 as he pressed on my position. The bullets whirled past, puncturing through the soft parts of my cover, while barely missing me. I huddled in a corner while searching for an opportunity through a bullet hole. The sight of Jackson reloading caught my attention, and I poked out long enough to deliver a few shots, but the sudden rush of a shotgun wielding grunt bore the brunt of a fatal shot. I knelt behind a sheet of thick metal, while the man crashed backwards onto a pile of rotten wood. His cries would’ve satisfied, but they dominated the firefight, bringing the more important sounds down to that of a whisper. “Don’t rush him,” snapped Jackson. I heard the distinct slid of an unloaded magazine. “He’ll be out of ammo sooner or later.” I stuck my hand out from cover and punched through the barrels. A man hunched high behind an orifice blindly fired at my direction, and I returned the favor before retreating. “That bastard got me,” cried the man, as he clinched his bleeding arm. He fired a few more rounds, but his lazy arm was of little concern. The newcomer with an assault rifle, however, required almost all of my attention. A bald headed man dressed in dark gray ran in from the bay doors with intent to group up with the goon in cameo. His bursts were wild, his grip too relaxed, and I brought him down with a shot to his shoulder. “The girls are gone!” echoed through the facility, and I knew that my plan would need to become much more intense if I was to buy them more time. I loaded another clip, took a breath before climbing over the hood of a car. An easy target I suddenly became and I felt the jets of wind fly past me. The sound of punctured metal acted as the drum solo to a moment of careless sacrifice. Not even I would dare call the act one of bravery, but glorious it surely was. My barrel smoked as I managed to flank four different locations before setting for a direct shot at Jackson. I took the shot, but an intense force knocked my shoulder back. I gripped the wound, seethed from the pain, and rolled off underneath a frame of a car. Blood gushed from the wound, spilling slick red onto my hand as I struggled to retain the grip of my own gun. Down to my last three wounds, I fire two at the assault rifle wielding duo, but no dice. They rained constant busts of lead at my location. The vibrations of a running engine entertained my senses, but it was the sound of a mounted machine gun that alerted my nerves. I fooled myself to think I could take on an army armed to the teeth with all sorts of weaponry. Stupid it was of me to risk my neck for Sylvia, a woman that couldn’t find satisfaction in a partial loss. Outside the facility, tires grind through mud and ruined pavement as jeeps circle about. The little girls have not a chance in hell for escape now, and everything I’ve done was for nothing. Justice, honor, and the importance of respecting one’s word burned before my eyes as I watched from my pinned position a terrible fate unfolding. Led by two incredibly skillful marksmen, the silhouette of a tall, slender figure emerged out from the blinding light. Her walk spoke of a type of power only obtainable by control, while her one, uncovered eye stayed completely level and unexpressive. Platinum blond banes of her flapper-girl hair covered a whole side of her face. She approached as her men dispatched the lot of Chivo’s men. As she got closer, something of a distant memory became more persistent. I could remember the face, but the name failed to cross my mind. Her heels stopped before me. “What about this one,” whispered the soldier. “Hold your fire,” she said, as she examined me. “We could use that one.” Trapped like a cornered rat, I raised my gun and fired my last round. To be continued… |