As the sun was about to settle down, a boy's voice echoed through the neighborhood.
''Newspapers! Newspapers! Selling newspapers for only half a Kred!''
With no customers left, the boy packed up; unwilling to stay after dark.
He felt delighted as he walked across the dirt, rejoicing the one and a half Kreds he had received. Only being a few hundred steps away from his house, he arrived before sunset with much time to spare, newspapers in tow.
Entering his abode, he greeted his father and mother, who were respectively sitting on the living room couch, by jumping on them. Malnourished, the boy was light enough not to be a problem.
''Hey there Nixon.'' His father reproached calmly.
Not wanting to drag this out, his mother, with a stern face asked ''How much did you get us?''
With a smile, Nixon happily showed them the money he had in his pockets ''I got us one Kred and a half!''
A split second later, his dad snatched the money out of his hand and then stared at his son. ''Now you only owe us 1932 Kreds, keep up the good work.''
Nodding, Nixon then slipped off the sofa. The stairs creaked as he slowly made his way to his room.
"Home sweet home!" He exclaimed happily as he lunged onto his bed.
Sitting on his mattress, about to fall asleep, Nixon remembered a crucial part of his day. Both of his legs wobbled with strain as he finally set himself on the unglazed window. The sunset was blooming upon the land, and Nixon almost missed it. He reminisced on how he had been taken off the streets when the sunset was in full view.
The little boy had resolved to never complain about his home. He had even plastered photos of him and his family on the walls throughout the years.
Closing his eyes on the stool, Nixon relaxed as he was bathed in the radiance of the sun who was, for some reason, hotter than usual at this hour. Unmoving, Nixon rested as he began to sweat, his eyes watering in the process. He unwillingly opened them and looked through the sill—not thinking much.
Dozens of slashed bodies were littered along the road, and many of the houses burned along in the wind.
Sweat flowed down his face and neck. His eyes lingered on their bodies. Like his legs, his whole body shook violently.
How could this have happened? Wasn't he selling newspapers on those very streets? Who could have done this?
Silently, he poked his head out of the frame. Many he saw were dead, yet some moved. Nixon expected some good news after calling out to them; however, his expectations were broken. They all had their necks gouged out.
Nixon was proud that he'd survived these hard times without anybody, at least not until he found his new family—but he cried right there. The trail of mass murder ended at his doorstep; Nixon wasn't dumb, he knew how to expect the worst, but he'd never expected it to come so quickly.
His instincts became suffocating as he heard noises coming from downstairs. Nixon's eyes twitched in anticipation when he heard his parents running upstairs. Had he been stronger, Nixon would've been charging at the intruder, yet he was the opposite. Bravery, strength or power? Those were but foreign concepts. It was for this reason he decided to hide. To hide in his closet.
It didn't take much time for his parents to enter his room. Through a small peep hole, Nixon saw his dad hold a rusty pistol while his mom held a bat. Both were sweating bullets as they tried to barricade themselves.
"Hurry! Lock the door!" His mom's voice quivered as she tried ordering his father.
Having nothing to lose, he complied. At this point, loud steps could be heard on the other side; they carried weight and anger.
Nixon closed his eyes.
"Leave! I have a weapon!" His father was the next to speak. He held his wife tightly as they both tried placating each other.
Through the chaos, the strange man, who was behind the door now, stopped and spoke for the first time.
"Open the door and I'll make it quick."
They didn't dare open the door.
For a split second, all was quiet. His authority permeated their house, yet he hadn't dared open the door. Was he going to leave? They couldn't be more wrong.
He kicked open the door.
Splinters hurled all over—some even hitting the closet door at tremendous speeds.
Nixon was unharmed, but the same couldn't be said for his parents, who were sprawled on the ground. The blow had tossed away their weapons.
Nixon's father got on his knees and begged on the intruder's feet.
Holding the man's shoes with his hands, he began to beg feverishly.
"Take the house—my so—"
Steel cried out.
Dad's throat opened; blood sheeted the floor.
Mom's scream was silenced with a toss. The knife hissed as it landed between her eyes.
His mom's head lay on the floor, staring at Nixon—her last sight. The man was making his way to the apeture.
Tears drummed on the floor. His blurry vision couldn't comprehend reality.
The assassin stood there for a while before returning to the door. Even with all his heavy armor, his footsteps were nearly impossible to hear. Coming closer to the boy's mother, Nixon heard him retrieve his knife. He couldn't bear to watch the rest. It didn't take long for him to leave, his footsteps barely noticeable.
Gunpowder and copper coated the air. He had to leave.
Kneeling beside his father, Nixon took hold of his hands, still warm and twitching, from clutching his throat, and held them tightly. At this point, he shed his last tear; his last flicker of emotion. He never dared approach the crack in the closet, so he didn't know how he looked. But he knew that if he survived, the man's death was assured.
The rusted pistol lay near the window—the same window where they'd watched sunsets paint the slums in fleeting gold; the same window the vulture had been watching his work.
His vision tightened as he let go of his father's hands.
He crawled to his mom.
Nixon couldn't even recognize her.
His fists clenched.
The pistol was next.
He held the worn grip as he looked upon the land. Fires ran high; houses toppled. Fires danced through his pupils. He raised the pistol, aiming at the hallway.
Click.
The safety was on.
He lowered it.
He looked at the closet—his haven. Two paths, one adventure.
He knew he couldn't; life wouldn't let him. He folded into the closet, knees to chest. The door would protect him. Right?
_*_*_
Running in the opposite direction of the crowd, Falco watched as mercenaries threw incendiary grenades at the buildings. Escaping from their homes, entire families were shot down as they used their heavy weaponry.
He ran as fast as his two legs carried him, smoke entering his lungs as he gasped for air.
He ducked into looted stores as he ran. If he was surrounded, Falco ran through alleyways and backdoors. He made sure to hide his tracks and kept moving towards home. His mind churned as he thought of Mia. Was she safe? Had anything happened to her? Falco didn't know, all he could do was hope.
Exhausted, he crouched beneath a broken window and listened.
The street had many hunters marching along its path. Most were already heading towards somewhere else, but one perked up and decided to investigate the remaining buildings.
One by one, that sole hunter checked the desolate stores for any lingering "rodents".
His heavy gear shifted around as he peered through the broken glass. Falco's heart rate increased exponentially. Right before he reached Falco's hiding place, just a few steps away, his radio lit up.
The man's voice was gritty.
"Hurry up! We can't just linger around here!"
The lone hunter didn't dare delay his response.
"Yes sir! Sorry sir!"
He left as quickly as he arrived.
The street was now desolate—perfect for Falco's plans.
He stuck close to rubble; moving forward when the coast was clear. Men and women alike were scouring the territory, their vehicle dwarfing some of the surrounding buildings as it rolled over them.
There were no protectors around.
Every path was blocked. Not one street wasn't occupied by at least one iron-clad warrior. He was scared; petrified even. Falco had never seen a slaughter of this magnitude before. Hundreds of people were dying, and no one was doing anything about it.
Falco took deep, burning breaths as he thought of a plan. Minutes passed by as he kept thinking, yet nothing came to mind. The fires were increasing, and he had little time before he was found.
Almost at his limit, he found something; something incredibly dangerous. Far away in the distance stood a surviving neighborhood; its buildings practically unscathed compared to what was happening everywhere else. It seemed as if the mercenaries hadn't arrived there yet. Normally, death would await him if he were to travel on the road without protection, but in front approached one of their vehicles.
On top of the vehicle, the cries of a machine gun operator could barely be heard over the deafening roar of the engine and the sporadic bursts of bombardments he made. Switching between the ground and sky, the huge, mounted weapon shook the moving fortress.
From a distance, he shouted furiously at the world.
"Where are all the people! I was promised fun! Not this bullshit!"
Scared out of his wits, Falco crouched even lower than before, hoping he wasn't seen. He was surprised when the shooting passed over him, instead landing somewhere further away. The screams and cries of people could be heard as he closed his eyes. Opening them again, he saw some of the stragglers deciding to run, showing themselves in the process. It was this split-second decision that sealed their fate, needing but a moment to extinguish it.
Almost vomiting, he glimpsed as the unfortunates were being turned into minced meat. Their last mark on the world—a lingering red mist.
The shelling ceased. Falco watched as the monstrous vehicle, now only a dozen meters, was plowing through the scattered remnants of the buildings it had destroyed, their skeletons being an omen of death to any unfortunate who had to traverse these parts. It rode on four huge, interconnected wheels. This gave Falco an opportunity. Its undercarriage was subsequently high enough for him to crouch under and pass unnoticed, at least until he made it to the building. With the distraction on the road, he would be able to hide without being seen.
As the car drove towards him, he prepared himself. The gunfire started once more, and the vehicle was now only a few meters away. Falco took advantage of the commotion as he peaked his head out, watching out for any unforeseen individuals.
Not noticing anybody, he needn't but a second to leap out of his hiding place.
On his legs and arms, Falco tried to crawl at the same speed as the car. His hands were burning as he tried to dig into the dirt. Looking around, he took notice of the state of the car. The underbelly of the vehicle reeked of blood and dust; its mechanical parts were rusted into oblivion.
The situation was dire. Debris stuck under the wheels of the vehicle flew towards Falco at alarming speeds. Grease and blood from the roof of the vehicle dropped on him as he covered his face with his mitts. His skin burned as he touched the magma like metal.
He felt miserable, his skin burned, his lungs were full of smoke, and his ears rang. Outside, the noise of crumbling buildings could be recognized; the screams had ceased and now, the machine gunner could be heard screaming uncomprehensible gibberish.
Falco stuck his head out from the undercarriage. All sounds but the engines had ceased. Not a soul was in sight. Around him lay rest numerous buildings and rubble. Bones were protruding from the ruins and blood colored the walls. A lake of blood had been shed here, and he wouldn't forget. He had to get back home, even if it killed him.
As he kept looking around, he recognized the neighborhood he had once dreamt of. Unscathed buildings rolled past him as he kept crawling. This was his ticket home; his way out. Coming on level ground, he fixed his gaze on a house; its entrance was wide open, and all seemed secure. The metal beast was moving beside the building he sought. His chances of escape were growing steadily as he got ready. Yet, it also meant that the stakes were much higher without any diversions.
The boy willed himself for another roll, one incredibly more difficult and dangerous, as he crept closer to the entrance. With nothing distracting the gunner now, Falco would be much easier to spot and shoot down. In a few moments, Falco would be leaving the blood and grease infested undercarriage—his only line of defense.
As he raised his right arm to wipe some sweat away, he noticed his trembling; his whole body was infected, and he couldn't stop. All the feelings he was suppressing like pain, anger, heat and anxiousness were burrowed through him like a needle. He didn't have much time left; he only had a few seconds left, and here he was, wasting them by cowardice.
Quickly, he went through his pocket looking for his knife. He was going to stab himself to clear his mind, but he instead held the golden necklace he bought for Mia. His head cleared and his mind stopped buzzing. The world narrowed to a single goal.
He vigorously put back the necklace and rolled towards the entrance of the 2-story building—its entrance wide open. Immediately after crossing it, Falco leapt sideways to hide himself. He wheezed as he relaxed himself on the wall. The air of the building was a mighty contrast to the burning inferno; thus, he made sure to nourish his desire for clean, cold air.
His whole body ached as it pleaded to rest, but Falco had other plans. His home was right around the corner, and his goal was close. He couldn't stop here, in this lifeless building full of dust and broken furniture.
Now gotten up and walking again; he peered at his surroundings with greater detail. He didn't have much time to wander around these parts, but he hoped on finding something useful. Having been in a paramount situation full of danger and death, Falco felt the need to eat or drink something. However, after a few moments of analyzing, his hopes had been crushed. The house had long been ransacked.
Disappointed, he went towards the stairway. The house reeked of dust and the rooms ponged of death. He heard nothing, not a sound. The stairs creaked as he walked to the upper floor. Falco expected an attack, but it never came. Opening the first door, he instead found 2 bodies.
Falco's breath hitched as he entered the room. Blood streaked the walls in frantic arcs—someone had fought like a cornered animal. Ripped pictures of a happy family were littered along the floor and fragments of bone were scattered across the walls. Perched over a dead woman, Falco thought of who could have done this.
The hunters?
This was much more violent than them.
His eyes lingered on the dead woman's skull, then it went down to her neck and then to her arm. Contemplating, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. No one was close by; the blood had yet to dry—it was still wet, and the body hadn't cooled down either. He felt exhilarated, having escaped certain death and being closer to home, he had to be careful. One wrong move and his world would blackout.
Step by step, he made sure not to be too loud. Looking around the room and seeing no sign of danger, Falco decided to look at the man's corpse more attentively.
The man's throat was a ruin of torn flesh. His hands, frozen in a clawed grip, seemed to beg for a mercy that never came. From his face to his torso, his whole body reeked of blood—not just his own.
Changing views, he looked at his face. He realized that the man was around his mid 40's— a rarity in these parts. Sadly, he couldn't discern more than that.
Clearly this man fought someone in close combat.
Strangely enough, he didn't have a shirt. His pants were also ripped—almost torn apart.
Falco second guessed himself as he got up and kept inspecting the whole room. He started with the moldy mattress then he went to the window.
Bloody prints were spread across its stool and casing. The view was nothing short of horrific. Behind him stood a dead family and ahead lay the burning houses of his town.
At the window, Falco turned around and stared at the woman's body again; a different perspective.
She was still a bloodied mess, but this time, Falco noticed her eyes. She was staring at the closet. As if she longed for something.
He then brought more attention to the floor.
Fresh footsteps to the closet!
Falco raised his head—and froze. A whimper. Faint, but unmistakable. It came from the closet. His hand trembled as he took a defensive stance and approached the door, but before he could, a loud shout full of anger and fury befell the room.