Malik and Awan plunged four flights of steps to the ground. Clouds of dust and debris filled the air. They coughed harshly as the choking dust infiltrated their lungs.
An entire crowd of citizens from the apartment were stuck in the traffic of the evacuation. Names were cried out, yet none of them sounded like actual names; rather, they sounded like labels.
Some of the labels rang a bell in his recollection.
"Charadah! . . . Sheker!"
A deep frown carved into his face as he tried scanning the faces of each person in the vicinity, yet couldn't locate them.
Families were huddled together on the bottom floor, praying with each other in their funeral-like apparel from where they stood.
They seemed to have recited a certain proverb from a religious text.
"Lord Zaleth, oh Lord Zaleth, please help us . . . cast your blackest blade on this accursed conflict."
Malik gulped as his pocket rattled. Quickly grasping it, he forcefully halted the distraction. Still, he could feel the cut on his palm, spilling small droplets of blood.
Pouring red rain bled inside the building, staining the floor with a grotesque, slick layer of red. Malik could feel heavy breaths down the back of his neck from the frantic evacuators. Even their heartbeats were nearly as loud as their gasps.
The two men found themselves at the brink of the aperture of the building. A canopy jutted out of the apartment complex, preventing the red rain from soaking Malik and Awan. They stood outside as they watched multiple injured tribesmembers put on stretchers, with some having blankets over them.
They all had the same formation as the evacuators in all the other apartment complexes. The town's faces were sunken and hollow. The look on their faces had aged a minimum of ten years, even the children.
However, Malik noticed something that brought a burning chill to his realization. From one of the blanketed stretchers, an arm lay loose, swinging like the pendulum of a clock.
It moved far too fluidly, and there was no articulation or life behind it. On top of that, it appeared to be melting off the socket. The arm hung too low, nearly grazing the floor.
Liquid droplets fell that were the color of skin. Yet, they didn't fall like any other liquid. They had the consistency of human flesh, and they wouldn't seep into the ground. They just lay there as if they were part of the ground.
Malik withstood the need to gag as his mind thought of the worst. The air was heavy, and it felt like something was imminent, waiting to strike.
A slight fizzing sound quietly flooded the air. It sounded like it was being released from a container, waiting to pop.
Then, a hoarse voice arose, louder than the rest.
"Bandanas! Bandanas! Come get them!"
The man wore a half-veil covering his mouth and nose, but Malik recognized the burnt voice and the tongue that uttered those words.
He walked up to him.
"Lech'ov, is that you?"
The man bowed his head. He brought his arm out, wrapped in different bandanas, all in different shades of grey.
"Yes, Malik. I'm here. Have one, Seeker."
Malik took one and decided not to comment on the label.
I've been called that multiple times by now, and none have ever felt pleasant, nor have the events after led to anything pleasant.
Awan took one too and quickly wrapped it around his face.
Malik copied his motions and tightly sealed the mask around his head, ignoring the earlier encounter.
Lech'ov handed many masks to the confused citizens and always bowed before handing them one.
The fizzing quickly began to intensify.
Malik smiled. Then a question crept into his mind. Turning to Awan, he asked, "Awan, do you think we'll make it out of this?"
The fizzing was at its breaking point.
Awan widened his eyes as though the question were in a foreign language.
Before he could answer, a deafening eruption overflowed the town's eardrums. Entire trees, along with their roots, crashed, spearing into the town's ground as the red rain cried louder.
The scattering leaves drifted in the winds rapidly, forming V-shaped formations like a flock of seagulls piercing through the crimson hurricane.
A dizziness painted Malik's vision as it spun his world into a whirlpool. He couldn't stop the long needles from driving deep into his brain, and he nearly lost his balance.
Clenching his jaw as the cries and prayers of the people slowly returned, he palmed his ears and saw blood pour in a stream.
His legs wobbled, and he barely maintained his strength by holding onto the wall behind him.
Turning around, Awan appeared to be fine. His ears weren't bleeding, and his hands were sealed over them.
Malik tapped him.
"Awan! The explosion stopped."
Awan uncovered his ears.
"What's next? What can we do?" he spoke with a hint of uncertainty.
For multiple seconds, they blankly stared at each other as Malik searched for an answer.
Families cried, repeating the religious mantra once more.
"C-cast your darkest blade . . . a-and shelter us!"
The rattle occurred once more, unforgiving. It was practically scorning Malik.
He snapped out of it.
"Leave me alone . . ."
Meanwhile, the medics pulling in the stretchers toppled over and were coated in the bloody rain. The strong winds blew off the blanket and revealed the mangled corpses.
This time, the thoughts came into fruition. Malik's heart skipped a beat.
There was no abdomen. The hair was long and silver, and the skin was hanging off the bone. There was no blood left, as it had dried out on the blanket. It was indiscernible as to whether the body was a man or a woman, but what was certain was that their expression was one filled with anguish.
Malik swallowed the incoming vomit burning his throat.
In that moment, the corpse and the medics were being pelted with rain. It was like each droplet was a hail of frozen blood.
As he watched, the rattle from his pocket spoke.
"You never wanted to save them. Save yourself."
. . . I don't care . . .
Instinctively, Malik ran toward the helpless medics, unable to find the strength to avoid the pellets.
Awan tried to stop him, but to no avail. Instead, he looked around and said to Lech'ov,
"Make sure everybody stays inside here. If any third parties sound like they're coming, lead the way."
The Selichan tribesman nodded and huddled the evacuators inside.
Malik passed by the tub in which he faced the thought of drowning, overflowing with the scarlet rain. There was no black water anymore. He paid it no mind and only charged forward.
Reaching them, he shielded their bodies. His back was pummeled with sharp hail, but he held it together. Awan followed soon after and protected another injured medic, but he made visceral expressions as the hail dug into his back.
Together, they pulled the two medics into the shelter below the canopy of the adjacent apartment complex. Turning around, they looked at the corpse in disdain.
Awan wiped a tear from his eye.
"That was somebody's child."
His wet hands tremored on the ground, his eyes spiraling all over, a sensitive look in his eye as tears flowed on the brink of his raw eyelids.
Malik didn't say anything. He covered the body with a blanket and dragged it under the roof.
His hands shook, gazing at the creases on his palm, grimacing behind his mask at the boneless, decaying body. Not once could he fathom such a horrid death being placed upon someone.
The skin that hung loose was raw, and it reminded him of Zayne's injury.
Awan gritted his teeth. A golden light escaped his mouth, but it was dim.
"We were from separate tribes, but we all came here for the same reason."
He went down on his knees, forgetting the pain of the red pellets striking him.
Abruptly, he struck the ground, pummeling it, screaming,
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Why?"
Awan regressed to forming a tantrum on the ground, but none would comment on his outburst.
Nobody came up to check on him, as they let him mourn.
Awan gave out a mirthless laugh, one unfitting for the Prince of Marah.
"All this . . . for what?"
Malik listened, but he didn't engage, so as not to make him fall further.
It was a quiet moment in the storm, and all he did was merely observe. Though the rattle tried to catch his attention, he mistook it for Awan's weak voice.
A minute passed, then another, and Awan still didn't move.
The pellets persisted, and the leaves gracefully glided in the sky, casting small shadows from above. The trees were still lodged into the ground, and some even managed to stab into the apartment's balconies.
Malik looked up to where Awan's estate would be, and he stared in disdain. An entire tree was stuck right beside the apartment, as if it were carefully placed. It didn't strike directly into the apartment, but rather right beside it.
It kept piling on, and Malik lost his balance. He couldn't kneel as the pellets continued to hit him, and he landed on his back. Closing his eyes, he hoped he would be able to gain even a second's rest for this moment.
For the first time since I could remember, I slept for about an hour. Can I just get another minute? Please?
A wave of lethargy consumed Malik on the ground.
He closed his eyes, hoping it would pass by.
. . .
"Help! My son! Somebody help!"
The dreadful voice of a timid woman arose, but none went to see the scene.
Instantly, Malik's eyes opened, and his body jolted up. He landed on his feet and searched for the sound.
Oddly enough, he noticed that no member of the Selichan tribe bat an eye toward the voice.
Walking up to one of the men within the shelter, who was giving out masks like Lech'ov was, Malik inquired,
"Why aren't you guys going out to help that woman?"
"We do not recognize the name of whom holds the voice. Thus, we cannot compromise the chances of our people's lives for only one," the mask vendor replied coldly.
Only? Do you hear yourself? That's a human life you're talking about! Is somebody worth nothing to you just because they're a stranger?
The rattle in Malik's pocket spoke again. It cut his thigh, making sure he heard.
"They think for themselves. Their people come first."
Malik didn't argue whatsoever, ignoring the man and the blade.
Something was missing. He couldn't hear Awan's soft cries anymore.
Turning around, Malik's heart twisted as he stepped back.
Awan was missing.
Startled, he began mumbling his name repeatedly.
Darting his eyes towards the entrance, Malik peered at Awan scurrying towards the sound of the timid woman's voice.
"Awan!" He called out, quickly following behind him, sprinting full force. His body was tired, but he couldn't let himself fall to exhaustion.
Don't do this again. Don't disappear from me. Not now!
Malik sprinted faster than the rain. He couldn't even feel the rain smiting him anymore. Narrowly reaching the entrance, he reached his hand out for whatever reason.
His hand was clenched, imagining he was holding the blade.
One second, he saw Awan's figure chasing the voice.
The next second, Malik found himself on the ground.
He didn't remember how he ended up here, he just did.
He couldn't get up, though he tried.
He thought about just laying there and rotting into the ground.
His pocket was heavier than usual.
Then, it spoke.
"Be respectful, and listen. I was speaking." The bayonet said.
Malik didn't have the energy to resist, nor ignore him.
It added, "It's his decision to run. Not yours."
. . .
Blood boiled. Malik's veins popped bright grey.
His muscles were constricted, each fiber was deactivated after the blade's words. Even blinking, and the flaring of the nostrils.
Why can't I move?
The bayonet replied, "It was your restless body's decision. Not mine, nor yours."
It waited for a second before adding, "People are born tired, you walk the day to rest the night. You cannot love yourself more than rest, as that is not love, that is loath."
An asphyxiating ache overwhelmed him as his lungs had no room to properly fill up. His body began to dilute its oxygen intake, and the lightheaded visions soon took over.
He didn't see his crew anymore, nor the island. Only that instead of his body feeling compressed by some internal force, it was a precise squeeze that replicated that of tight threads. If he would try to break free, the threads would only gnaw at his flesh in retaliation.
It was more restrictive than the railings he held on that ship. It was quieter than the waves of the sea he would remember by heart.
Helpless was the only word that snuck into his constricting mind as his thoughts contorted to nothing.
A crown-shaped blur was above him, one he never asked for, but one that his body demands to break through for. A pale palm cockily held it, hanging it off its pinky. Slowly, his fingers began to twitch as they regained strength.
His exhaustion subsided. One arm broke free. The muscles and tendons nearly broke through the skin and ruptured.
He howled with a closed mouth as his arm clawed the ground, dirt collecting underneath his fingernails, yet he persisted. After a while, his other arm broke free, the tissue clawing underneath, and finally—
He forced open the muscles of his jaw to roar, "Be quiet! Who are you to speak on my decision?"
Sighing, his voice became raspy, as his throat burned.
The bayonet didn't mock his words, but Malik could visualize the condescending tone within its utter silence.
A searing anguish overloaded his nervous system. His skin tone became monochrome by the minute. The heat of his body dwindled to nearly freeze the blood in his veins. He struggled to breathe as he stood on his two feet.
A ringing in his ear hummed an unpleasant melody in his eardrums as his neck fought to balance his head. Within it, a certain click resounded in disapproval.
He dug his nails into his palm to stay awake. More blood poured out of the earlier wound sliced into his hand.
His knees wobbled; at any moment they would collapse and break off the joint.
He breathed, calming. He stretched his ligaments, preparing. He lifted one foot, weighty.
Dragging it forward, it met the dark ground. His soles weren't massaged, they were stabbed.
Each blade of grass pierced a nerve. His body couldn't react as it stood there for a moment.
Then, his body felt it, but his mind couldn't register. Instinctively, a step back, then another, and he fell, flat.
The blades of grass punctured his spine. His face remained neutral, thoughtless. With blank eyes, he drifted, breathing leisurely.
He lay there, not being able to process a word that entered his mind.
One minute, then another. Awan's silhouette was long gone. All that was left was the grieving night his eyes couldn't decipher.
He rested. His body cried for it.
Then, "Unfortunately, volition could only take you one step forward, and now it takes you two backward."
"You are one. One consciousness, one body, one spirit. Breaking such boundaries are nothing but fantasy."
The bayonet's dissatisfied voice didn't come from his pocket anymore. It came from above.
If it had a body, it would shake its head at the sight of him.
Minutes converted to hours. Hours converted to minutes. The pain even converted to numbness.
A slight rattle escaped Malik's vocal cords. An exhaust of air let out, like smoke.
The tribes behind him remained weeping, but the sound drowned out in his ears. Perhaps there had been another explosion.
Regardless, he couldn't discern where he was.
. . .
One second he envisioned the fragmented island, and then the next second came a fragmented ocean, encompassing him. The ambience of the ocean was all that came of his surroundings.
In his surreal hallucination, dark figures stood above him. Their pure hearts were laid out on their chest. They grabbed Malik's arm, both of them.
They were two, one masculine, one feminine. It was quite a sight to behold, but Malik remained in his dream-like state. He recalled it being named a "Driftfall", but even that wouldn't explain the near blackout he was experiencing.
His eyes were stuck in their position, and he couldn't see the figures' faces. A slight warmth entered from the feminine figure, and a slight freeze entered from the masculine figure.
Their words attempted to reach Malik, but they became nothing but noise submerged in the endless ocean he floated atop of.
As he thought of the noise, the voice slowly registered in his flooded eardrums.
It was still unintelligible, but the tone of both voices couldn't be mistaken.
He muttered, "Father? M-Mother? Is that you?"
Then, the unintelligible voice sounded positive, in agreement with what Malik had just uttered in this vision.
Suddenly, his head rose from the water. The ocean disappeared, the blue sky darkened with each second. The world he was in was unmasking itself like peeling off a band-aid to reveal the wound.
His eyes adjusted to the environment; the weight of the forest daunted his returning conscious. Blinking rapidly, he scanned his surroundings. He hadn't moved whatsoever.
The red rain persisted, quieter. Blurs of white fell from the sky. The color of the trees and greenery were robbed by the darkness of night. The soil was wet, and awfully cold on his back.
He could count the bruises on his body from the downpour of endless red pellets, and the drowsiness that made his head difficult to balance on his neck. The blood that leaked from his nail-dug palms continued, and the heaviness of his eyelids forced him to squint.
However, he turned and still felt the cold and warm grasp of two hands on his arms.
Turning to the cold side, the masculine voice said, "Malik, now's not the time to be out cold, dude."
Their grins rose.
Malik stared into the deep blue eyes, and the stubbled facial hair coupled with the robust facial structure, and recognized him even with a mask over his mouth.
It was Zayne. He grabbed Malik with his injured hand, unfazed.
Despite his grasp, another kind of warmth replaced the frigid sensation.
Turning to the other, warmer side, "I'm so glad we found you, I don't know what I would've done."
His heart raced with the warmth of the voice.
An uncertain feeling entered his stomach as he made deep eye contact with her dark eyes, and soft, feminine face with a cloth over her lips. This time, his eyes couldn't look away.
Kaya's warm hold on his arm made his heart beat faster.
In the distance, screams traveled the air, and smoke fogged the night sky.
Staring outward, Malik couldn't help but wonder.
Awan. The crew. Cyrus. The people of this island. I wonder what will become of it all.
I can't make any more false promises. There's no time for that.
. . .
Malik simply smiled. An endearing, yet raspy laugh echoed from his shrill voice.
Zayne and Kaya raised an eyebrow; he hadn't spoken a word yet.
However, the rattle in his pocket silenced itself. It only watched.