Chapter One: Annabelle
She was beautiful. Her lips were round and a fleshy red, perfect natural lips that never needed a touch of make up to be distracting as her soft voice spoke. Her speech was intelligently articulated through white walled, perfectly straight teeth that seemed to shine into the world like a striations of sunlight breaking into the dawn. Her skin was pale and lightly freckled across a perfectly proportional nose that came to a rounded tip neither too short or too long. Her hair hung in waves of soft gold like silk to those who were blessed enough to touch it, and her eyes were hued with a verdant green ringed by a thin layer of bronze around her pupil. Her breasts were ample, requiring no tight shirt or blouse for her shape to be flattered and to draw eyes and slack jaws. Her shape at her seat was also plentiful and any man would be hard pressed to not stare as her hips swayed when she walked.
Her husband was a lucky man, knew it every time he lay eyes upon her, every subtle kiss or hard passionately placed one. In a world that would have otherwise seem bleak, his body lit up like heaven in sensuality every time she submitted to his dominant touch (that she craved) and made noisy love into the late, then more in the morning and afternoon. Love making was as abundant as oxygen between these two.
He always felt so isolated being on watch or patrol into the long winter darks. The stars or moon held no glimmer to her as he peered into a dim, Candle lit picture of her broad smile on a warm summer evening. She was capable of instilling a feeling of warmth through these winter solstice-like nights that no fire could.
Through breaths that formed in massive puffs fading into the air like apparitions, he kissed it gently and carefully, making sure no moisture hung on his lips to damage it. Cameras were a rare thing now, actual pictures made of more than flimsy printer paper were gems. "My Annabelle," he whispered softly. The sound echoed lightly across the concrete walls he stood within, hauntingly so.
He felt a rush of anxiety realizing how quiet it stood. So little sound lingered that the wax bubbling within the wall-hung candles was audible. He habitually always kept a grip on his Beretta sidearm inside his ample coat pocket, tensing his fingers up further in his slight fear,never knew when threats could pounce, an air duct that a Nightingale could slip through that wasn't properly sealed, a window that ruptured without anyone noticing.
Yet it had been a fort night since danger last spurred inside this town. So much had gone into clearing the area with the dream of being able to live opening in a house safely one day.
He slipped the picture of Annie back into the inner pocket of his old navy trench coat that was once his grand father's. He then walked along, with a light smile over his face and his hands inside his deep pockets for both warmth and to have his right hand near his sidearm, giving him a feeling of security in the lonesome, orange flickering dark.
This prison would have once been the envy of no one, walls to keep those away from freedom who were deemed unfit to have it, unfit to trek amongst the "civilized". And yet, now it was the only place where safety could be considered a mild possibility. It was built fifty seven miles north of Seattle in 2019 as the largest prison in history, forty stories of reinforced concrete, bullet proof glass and steel doors. It was built like a futuristic castle lined with shooting ports in the unlikely event of a mass escape. The Quadrilateral shape of the structure was nearly half a kilometer in any direction from the central courtyard that served as the community gathering square now. It had been retrofitted with generators, solar panels, wind mills. Fortified with new doors and heavier fencing to keep danger out rather than in.
Four hundred and ninety seven rested here. Every night, one hundred and seventy five of them watched just as Killian did now with a rifle or pistol and a pack of pills and drinks to keep them awake into the fridged winter evenings. People were selected at random by lottery every month to be on guard, and could only refuse if they had previously been on guard shift or in the case of unhealth that hindered them, in which case a new ticket was drawn. Only those (like Annie) who were in the medical core were exempt from being on watch as their skills were valuable during the day and so few nurses and doctors existed now.
He looked out the double panned, bullet resistant window over the tall, electrified fences with barbed wire rolled over the top like the pillow of a demon. Every now and again, a bird or small animal would find its way too close to the barrier and get caught in a fatal arc of lightning, popping and fizzling into a blackened skeleton that flaked away to the touch. Killian hated the things, but knew the need for them even after most of what they feared had been exterminated from the area by fire and gunfire alike. He wished some of the electricity could be diverted to a heater or two within the vast hall complexes so that they would remain at least above freezing.
He longed to be against the heat of Annie's naked, pale body that he hadn't had the luxury to sleep with through the night in nearly two weeks. Half way done after tonight he whispered quietly to himself as he often did.
Everything horrible that could have happened did in four years, not her. She was the one blessing he'd have never otherwise met. In a literal sense she owes her life to his actions. He was her savior when a bandit had captured her, tied her up inside a superstore.
It was by luck of the draw Killian had stumbled in for food to lay witness to the monstrous actions that almost beset her:
She was bound, arms behind her in an old, rusting chair that shouldn't have still been able to support weight logically, but it did. It did as she struggled, cried out as a burly, fully bearded man stripped down to black boxers placed a rubber gag over her mouth. Her jumbled together pleads turned into muffled, throatful shrieks the sickening man just smiled in amusement at. Two rows of shelves sat between Killian and the scene, he could have easily slipped out unseen, paced back to the dimly lit portal he came. But he didn't, he'd never have forgiven himself. He withdrew his switch blade, careful to pop it gently to make no noticeable sounds with the tip of his thumb and index. He cut his finger trying, only a little nick that stung slightly and drew a little blood; much better than being noticed he figured.
His step was always silent, his father (who was fully native American) had always said that it was the Indian in him showing. He rounded around the first shelf, hunched down and keeping his eyes on the man and a grip on his pocketed sidearm. A beam of light went over his hairy chest and over the woman's forehead, giving just enough light to let Killian see him slapping her, beating her at random as she yelped. "Yes, scream bitch!" the man yelled close to her face. Killian grew murderously angry at the man, killing such a vile creature would be easy as pie. Given he was un noticed. He wish he could have just shot him, but that would have drawn attention of hundred of yards around; who knows who else was around.
As he drew closer to the man, whom was sliding off the woman's skimp undergarments, Killian's heart raced. He was directly behind the beast, looking down the thin hallway and stepping over various food, tools and kitchen items to not make a sound. The woman's beautiful eyes met his in a glimmer of hope as she pleaded harder then before. "what bitch!? You scared, you..." Killian's hand went over the man's mouth an instant before the blade was plunged to the right of the first and second vertebrae. The man yelled in agony, muffled under Killian's palm that he bit into. Killian grunted in pain as the man was jerking and clenching slightly, tearing flesh out of his hand until Killian twisted the knife with a disgusting pop, blood oozing down the blade and onto his hands as the man slumped lifelessly to the floor knees first, all muscles giving out. Killian let go, he hit with a fleshy thump, skin against cool stone. Blood pooling instantly and a single breath leaving the man with a sickening hiss.
Killian looked at his left hand, teeth marks buried half an inch into his flesh as his own blood flowed from each individual tooth mark. It stung worse than anything he'd felt thus far, fire rushing up in waves across his palm and wrist combined with a dull throbbing going with his rushing heart.
Killian felt shocked, never had he killed a man in melee combat before, so much greater an emotional impact it was. But he did not hesitate, he drew his pistol and looked around, scanning down both ways of the narrow shelves they were between into the dim, gray light that soaked in from morning clouds. No one else around, not a soul stirred in the wary silence.
He stared at his hand a moment, thinking of getting bandages out of his back pack... It would have to wait. Another bandit could show any minute, this area had plenty of them with red bandana's tied across the left forearm, signaling a common interest to other bandits and death or rape to anyone else. This poor woman hadn't a clue like so many others.
He looked down to the woman, removing the gag while giving a hissing shush. "Now listen, I am here to help you. Follow me, you live. Don't, and it is probably not so likely. This town is invested with those scum. Okay?" She shook her head, tears streaking down her flustered face. She wore nothing but underwear, her black bra half way up and barely covering her breasts. Killian tried not to stare, realizing suddenly how attractive the woman was. He swung around behind the chair, cutting the ropes that held her in place. She rubbed her wrists that almost certainly hurt and gave a low sigh. She quickly hooked her bra back on, embarrassed with her dignity destroyed. She collected her dress as well, slipping it back over her legs and across her body clumsily. Then she looked back at Killian, as if asking "what next?" he aimed his pistol forward, gesturing his hand for her to follow, and they left the store into the cloudy daylight. Didn't seem like she had shoes... poor girl.
It seemed so long ago now. Though it was just as vivid now as he paced the fridged halls, thinking back on life past. His feet and eyes were feeling heavy, he needed a boost. Killian swung the black and red backpack he wore around and set it on the floor. Even keeling felt good to walking as he rummaged through the various contents of it. First aid supplies, extra magazines, flares, flashlight. Then he found what he sought: a dusty old Rock Star energy drink. Rust hung around the edges and around the seal, grit collected on his numbing hands that had been plunged into his pocket; he blew the dust that hovered in the air a moment off the top of the can. He snapped it opened, and the tab made a slight grinding sound down into the can, and he took a long drink of the elixir that almost felt as if it had been handed to him by an angel. The sour-sweet taste filled his senses, gave him a rush, brought his focus back into the world as he gulped it down quickly, finishing a full half of the can before taking a breath. Then he walked down the windowed hallway, glancing back to the hanging candles while keeping a newly sharpened eye upon the down below.
He could hear footsteps down the hallway as a figure emerged into the orange flickers. He turned the corner sluggishly, eating a granola bar and looking a tad bit drunk for being on patrol. His face was flushed red as Killian neared the far end of the hall, where it turned. He stumbled slightly and gave a broad smile to Killian's company, giving a slurred laugh as he leaned against the concrete wall. "Oh shit Kyle, how much have you drunk?" His face darkened, his eyebrow rose as he stood back up and straightened himself, trying to prove he wasn't so intoxicated. He crossed his arms, leaning forward. After he nearly lost balance, he brushed the sleeves of his leather jacket off while open mouth breaths filled with the scent of spirits drifted towards Killian.
"Only enough to get me through this fuckin' night. I can still aim a gun if I needed too," he pulled his pistol out, mimicking out the window firing the gun, and whispering pew pew under his breath. He froze a moment, as if lost in a drunken haze, then looked back at Killian: "see?"
"I see a man who should put his gun away before I get nervous," Kyle laughed and tried to holster the as it plummeted to the ground and clunked around like that heavy revolver it was. He nearly fell as he attempted to pick it up, grunting and catching himself with his hand. "Fuck!" he blared, murmuring other curses as he tried not to crash head first into the ground.
Killian walked over, lifting him from under the shoulders and smelling the acrid whiskey that drifted from his lips. His lips were cracked, probably from the chronic dehydration so common in alcoholics. It was unfortunately he had become this way, twenty four and unable to grow a beard or keep a woman. Killian felt pity as he stared into his hazel eyes and said nothing, wishing to help a good friend whom didn't want the assistance.
Kyle didn't even notice that Killian had slipped the gun from his hand, snaking it back into the holster himself. "Keep that gun in its holster, and go home. I'll tell Merck you ate something bad at dinner and started throwing up on watch," relief fell over Kyle's face.
"Tha...." his face became ill, Killian knew what was inevitable. He jumped out of the way as a jet of vomit shot across the room. Orange, red and filled with pasta bits and lumps of chicken. He heaved up more as Killian stepped back from him. Kyle fell to all fours, covering his hands and arms in vomit that splashed back up all over. Well, at least there is some truth to that the throwing up story now Killian thought, rubbing his eyebrow. "Oh shi-shit. I'm sorry man, I-I'm sorry. I'll clean this shit up,"
"No, don't worry about it. I'll get it. You go on home and try to keep the rest inside you. Just don't do it again,"
"Thanks," he simply said, stumbling back down the hall the way he had came. Killian could hear him as he tripped and almost crashed to the ground again, "Fuck!" he yelled, it reverberating into the stone halls, holding out in Killian's mind far longer than it should have. Poor guy, he's had it rough, he thought.
Kyle was a poor soul indeed, losing everything in gross detail and scarring him for life. He was twenty when shit hit the fan, watching as four "Nightingales" as they are called now, tear his wife and two year old daughter apart as they ran towards his SUV at midnight. Killian couldn't remember quite how he described it, but all Kyle could do--unarmed and terrified-- was drive away after staring in horror for a few moments. Killian had lost everyone he knew, but he had no lover at the time or children, and had never personally seen anyone he loved die before his eyes... everyone just kind of disappeared and Killian never saw them again.
He however, did remember his first encounter with one. He had invested in a pistol when he first saw on the news that a sickness was causing US citizens by the hundred of thousands to become cannibalistic and night dwelling. At twelve o'clock at night, a rustle echoed from his garage, knocking heavy objects over and growling lightly in a multi-voiced, demon like tone. He kept the shiny, brand new Beretta in his nightstand and instantly ran for it from cooking a late night snack. After finding a flashlight, he paced cautiously towards the locked door, his blood boiling and his breath fast in his chest. He was terrified. He turned the lock, and the creature silenced itself, the skin of its feet patting gently against the floor. Killian stepped back, wisps of air flowing through his voice box in terrified murmurs he couldn't control. He set down the flashlight, both hands on the gun poised towards the door, shaking viciously, he wondered if he could even hit the thing.
Killian made a move that probably saved his life:
He sprinted towards the door, suddenly ready to attack and kicked the door as hard as he could. The creature made a sardonic, multi-roared as the wood slammed into the creature with all its might and casted it onto its back. He fired three rounds, aiming for the chest and head. The creature convulsed on the ground and bled a blackish slug as an ear piercing screech welled up into the air. He couldn't quite see it in detail, but its red eyes almost seemed to glow in the faint light. He flipped the light switch to his left that flooded everything in a white, fluorescent glow. The thing was grotesque to say the least: Gray skin filled with dark purple and black bulging veins everywhere you looked. Bony arms with black claws from hands that would have seemed humanly if not enlarged twice over. Eyes that were a dark red, light arterial blood pumping from a neck wound. Long, yellow teeth sharpened to tip like dozens of spears ready to tear flesh. Black hair that settled in perfectly straight locks to the middle of its back. Pointed ears and a set of small holes where a nose used to rest. The legs were massively muscular, the arms elongated and the back hunched so the creature probably ran on all fours and pounced its prey.
Killian just sat there examining the lifeless beast, not realizing the imminent threat of an open garaged door, only noticing when a gust of cold autumn air burst through to interrupt his thought. He rushed towards it, leaping over the hood of his car and over smaller objects the creature had knocked down. He grabbed the fabric puller at the center and slammed the thing down, hoping that the latch was locked on the other side. How stupid was he to leave his door open during regular life? Let alone a world full of alien, vicious creature?.....
He snapped back into the reality of his patrol again, the sun now rising and shooting pinked jets of light into the scattered clouds, giving the banners to his arrival. It was always a pleasing sight to see it break through the clouds and over the cascade mountains, his patrol was over in less than an hour. He sighed deeply, looking over the small town around him as it grew into a dim-blue light...