This Is Our Last Song

Nine- Welcome to Mystery

A dark room. Fabric shifts and the floorboards whine as he shifts his wight from one foot to the other. The floor settles once more.

Silence.

A light flicks on down the hall, behind a door. Light leaks out through the cracks. He pulls his gun closer.

He waits.

The door opens. Someone steps out. The target.

They walk with a limp. Poor blood flow; a symptom of the radiation. They hold no guilt in their mind for what they've done. No remorse. He hates them for it.

He readies his gun. He waits.

Voices crackle through his earpiece softly. They chatter to each other, giving and recieving directions. None of them are for him. Not yet.

Shadows begin to move in the darkness on the other side of the open door. He would not have noticed had he not been waiting for it. They moved as one. Watching it from his post at the window made it look like a gelatinous monster that haunted his nightmares from time to time.

He turned away from them, watching the door on the floor below, waiting for the people to emerge.

Scuffling in the hall behind him. Muffled screams for help. He smiles. Everything is going according to plan. The person who was in the room shut the door quietly. The scuffling hasn't stopped. But no matter; no one here was going to intervene. No one anywhere was.

The hall behind him was quiet once more. He still didn't look back into its darkness.

A voice came over the earpiece again. His instructions were relayed to him. Set yourself up in the window. Keep watch and make sure no one interferes.

A group of people, hidden in thick black clothes, dragged a struggling man out into the small courtyard by his suit jacket. People were gathered to watch as he kicked and screamed. No one stepped forward to help him. No one wanted to. No one dared.

They shoved him down onto his knees in the middle of it. Someone stepped in front of him and kicked him in the stomach.

They addressed the rest of the people gathered there, never once looking down at their captive.

"Here, ladies and gentleman, is one of the last of an almost extinct race." Their voice echoed powerfully through the courtyard. "A purebred Politician. One of true malice and disdain for human life. The man who pulled the trigger that ended everything!"

This was being broadcasted over international radio waves. He'd helped to set it up himself. Made sure it all worked. Everyone was tuned in. He wanted them all to hear the screams of Satan himself.

He readied his gun.

He waited some more. Until the announcer on the ground was done speaking.

Three beeps came through the headset. He saw the three other snipers nod to each other and to him. He nodded back.

Shots rang out. Uniform time. One, Two, Three, then his own. They each buried themselves into the man. The devil creature without a soul.

None of the shots were instantly lethal. As per their instructions. They wanted to hear his screams. Everyone did.

And he screamed. Screamed until he tore his throat. Until there was no sound, just an open mouth and blood. More blood pooled on the ground around him.

Someone laughed. A few people joined. The sound was not joyful. But it was not fearful. It was off. There was something wrong with it. And he loved it.

He loved it.

He watched the man die. And relished it in a wicked way.

He smiled.

-----

"God, I don't know what's wrong with me. I never get sick." Alfred pressed his palm to his head and closed his eyes, trying to get past the wave of dizziness that overtook him. He laughed to himself a bit. "And now I'm talking to myself alone in a dark room. Maybe I've lost it after all." He was only joking, but he could feel truth behind his own words.

A cough wracked his body, the sound echoing in the emptiness of the dark room. "Go to the infirmary," someone whispered. He froze, not daring to breath. His eyes opened slowly, and he lifted his head just enough to see his surroundings.

There wasn't anyone there. "Hello?" he called hoarsely, as loudly as his inflamed throat would allow him. No response. His eyebrows furrowed in his confusion. How could he be hearing someone speak to him if there wasn't anyone there?

The carpet in the room made a sound as though someone was dragging their feet across it. He jerked away from it and further against the wall, covering his head with the blanket. Alfred quivered in fear, starting to chant quietly to himself.

"Go away go away go away go away..."

He felt something tug at the blanket protecting him, so he gripped onto it tighter and screwed his eyes shut. His efforts were in futility.

The thing pulled the cover off of him, then slowly caressed the side of his face with what felt like the back of its hand, moving up to push his glasses up his nose to their usual spot. But the only person who ever did that was...

"Mattie?" He opened his eyes, fixing them on the figure standing before him. His brother nodded, a soft smile on his face. "B-but Mattie..." he stuttered out. He reached a hand out, making contact with the other's body. It was solid. He was there, bent over Alfred's bed, touching him. Touching him. And he was just acting like this was a thing that always happened. That would never do for Alfred F Jones.

He practically lunged up from his crouched position, tackling his brother to the floor. They both hit the ground hard, but he paid it no mind. The important thing was that he wasn't alone anymore.

"Mattie! I'm so happy to see you!" He would have laughed his usual booming laugh, had it not been for his fragile voice. "But you were... I watched you die. How are you here?"

Matthew shook his head. He didn't say anything at first, just waiting for a few moments. "It doesn't matter. I'm here for you now. But I must go. Soon I'll come back. Until then, stay strong." He started fading again, violet eyes glowing.

"No! Mattie, Matthew, Canada! You're not leaving me again! Not now!" He grabbed at the front of the other's coat, trying to anchor him down as though that might stop him from leaving.

"Goodbye, Alfie," he whispered, fading out entirely and leaving the American sitting on his knees on the floor. Alfred blinked a few times, then looked down at his shaking hands still holding the coat. Just like before...

He woke up screaming again. He was splayed out on the floor, several things strewn about the room in places they shouldn't be. In his hands he held the old, torn, still-dirty coat of his late brother.

The room was cold on his fevered skin, and it smelled like something he hadn't seen in years: maple syrup.