The Devil and The Deep Blue Sea

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And out of the ground we were taken for the dust we are,
And to the dust we shall return
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1. Movement

Heat rises, and batters the desert into an uneasy, restless submission. He can almost smell the acidity which lingers in the stale air, a stench so vile and strong it’s near tangible; he feels if he reached a hand out, it could skim his fingers. The wasteland before him lays bare, but after years of travel he recognizes how disturbed the landscape is, edgy and unsettled and breathless. Anticipatory. Like it’s waiting for something.

It sets him on edge as well, has him adjusting the scopes on his gun, fiddling with his gloves. Finding nuances to pick at solicitously.

It’s not long before someone notices.

Sharpy edges over to him, careful to keep formation. Jon knows what he’ll say before his mouth opens.

“Doing okay?” From behind his mask, Jon can make out the distinct lines of concern on his brow. Like most of the men he commands, Sharpy wears a fully-plated helmet at all times.

At this point, for Jon, it’s an unnecessary caution.

“Fine.” He replies, stiffly. To anyone but Sharpy—who knows him closer than he’d ever be comfortable admitting—his terseness would only fall under the continuous rigid state of his personality, however to this the alternate only narrows his eyes.

“Something the matter?” He asks rather leadingly.

Jon shrugs. “Nothing concrete.” He scans the visible horizon: the toxic emptiness of the vast sky, the decaying dirt and stone, the visible heat which wafts upwards from the rock that felt like nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. Just the cold sun and the earth. “It’s just…”

He wonders how to phrase it to Sharpy, a man who has spent the better part of his life within the city walls, where the sky sometimes looks real, and the air sometimes doesn’t hurt. How to describe his connection with the decrepit earth that understands him as much as he does it, how the endless silence might seem obligatory in a place full of nothing, but how Jon can hear it crying loudly, overwhelmingly, lighting each and every nerve of his on fire. Something is wrong here, it seems to say, something is amiss.

“Something’s not right.” He decides upon. “It’s too quiet.”

Sharpy takes a look around as well. More than anything he looks skeptical—Jon supposes it’d sound nonsensical to one who hasn’t spent as much time out here in the wastes as he. But time has long ingrained within him trust in his instincts, however farfetched and incomprehensible they are. Jon wonders what he sees, from behind his mask.

Whatever it is, it’s not the same view as Jon’s. “Well,” He replies eventually, after a long and unsuccessful sweep of the perimeter, “If something comes up, I’ll be sure to see it.”

He is the scout, after all. Jon admits he’s quite good at what he does, has the eyes of an eagle and the ears of an owl. But he is neither an eagle nor an owl.

The Blackhawks march into the horizon, and Jon idles in the back, caught up in attempting to categorize the unease he feels, pace so slow Seabs’ tank ambles by him. He hops onto the side, lurches to gain balance with the mechanical gait, and takes a seat beside Shaw. The rookie leans back against the turret ring, sniper poised against one shoulder.

“See something?” He asks immediately, as Jon settles beside him. His eyes don’t stray from his scopes.

“No.” Jon answers, squinting into the distance. It stretches onwards until he can’t tell the difference between the sky and the earth, both mottled into an indefinite color. Like this, it seems as if the deadzone stretched on forever.

Shaw’s eyes wander from his lens. He chances a brief, reproachful look at Jon that he probably thinks Jon can’t see before quickly returning to his scouting. It’s not as if Jon doesn’t know his team’s opinion on him. Though he hasn’t been their commander for very long, he has a reputation which supersedes him and innumerable idiosyncrasies he’s aware most find alarming. Most, he knows, hold him in high regard. Or hold his valor, at any rate. People who spend any significant amount of time in his presence either come to accept his personal shortcomings or quietly object; either way, his command is never questioned, and Jon rarely cares about what people think of him in general, let alone personally.

Shaw, he thinks though, does neither. Mostly, the rookie has a constant look of reverent alarm whenever Jon speaks to him directly. Jon doesn’t mind. Shaw is a good soldier and an even better shot, whatever his opinions are on his Captain they clearly don’t affect his focus.

Brief movement far out catches his eye, but before he can get a close look Sharpy shouts, “On your six!” And Shaw picks it off. Jon turns in time to watch a mangled figure collapse into the dirt.

“Target down.” Shaw replies into his comm. “Threat neutralized—

“Keep your sights on it.” Jon cuts him off. And then, into his communicator. “Everyone, eyes on six o’clock.”

Jon can feel Shaw’s curious eyes on him, though he doesn’t take his eyes off the horizon. “There’s never only one.” He says by way of explanation.

True to form, more figures move out from behind a far outcropping of rocks. At this distance, their mutilated figures look like dark lumps. Jon doesn’t hesitate; draws his M16 and fires rapidly, shots joltingly loud in the unnerving quiet of the wastes.

He watches as they fall into the dust, then narrows his eyes.

Wordlessly he drops back onto the ground, crouching, pulling off a glove to press his bare hand into the dirt.

Jon closes his eyes, relaxes his fingers. Silence rings in his ears. He thinks on what’s missing; the sounds of the ravens and the crows, the skittering of tiny creatures—the life, however sparse it may be out here, there is always some form of life. It’s glaringly missing.

And there’s only one thing on this decrepit earth that causes that.

He stands back up, pulls his gloves on and speaks evenly into the communicator.

“It’s an ambush.”

Shaw sits up abruptly, curses flow wildly from his earpiece.

“Keep formation,” He calls over the din. “Stay by the tanks. Leddy, Oduya, I want you on turrets. Duncs, Seabs, you two ready?”

“Affirmative.” He gets from both drivers.

Sharpy climbs onto the top of Duncs’ tank, raising his sniper. Shaw does the same for Seabs’.

He waits, on guard, moving to stand front with Hossa and Saad. The silence is overwhelming. Beneath him, the faint tremors have grown until he can feel them through his boots. By now, the rest of the team can hear them too.

When they come, the ground to their left collapses inwards in an eruption of dust. The clout envelops the entire convoy in one fell swoop, a blanket of darkness stripping him of vision just as the first of them crawl out of the ground. There is a terrifying moment before his mask switches to heat vision, where the silence has given way to the guttural sounds of the undead, and even through his mask the vile, repugnant smell of decaying flesh hits his nose.

In those brief seconds all he can hear is the slopping flesh and rattling bones, feels a familiar terror seize him as he blinks into nothingness—but then his vision lights up once more, and he shakes the fear away and dives into the fray.

-

It’s not the first nor the last time Jon’s been caught off guard; but he’s disappointed in himself regardless. He spent two years with the Fighting Sioux, traversing the wasteland that the Earth has become. He’s learned how to read the deadlands, to listen to the dust. That it took him so long is somewhat distressing. Fortunately unlike the Sioux the Blackhawks come armed with heavy artillery and a handful of T-90’s, and a mob of Risen isn’t likely to slow them down.

He supposes the event wasn’t an entire loss; leaving such an outnumbered fight with no casualties is always an accomplishment.

The convoy’s stopped for repairs—at some point during the fight Duncs’ conveyor belt got screwed up from a stray Risen getting into the gears and the party’s stopped to allow Hossa to check on the mechanics. Though they’ve already been attacked, Jon still feels on edge.

It’s the openness, he reasons. The Sioux kept to the safety and protection of the rocks and cliffs, moving swiftly and efficiently through the wastes by keeping close to cover. There’s no cover out here in the emptiness and it sets him on edge, makes him want to command the squadron to keep to the bluffs.

Jon shakes his head; he’s not recon anymore.

He leans back onto the side of Duncs’ T-90, staring east as if he could see through the haze. Somewhere out there is a group of refugees waiting for rescue, and at this rate they won’t make it to them by sundown. He’ll have to make the call to continue through the night or head back at sunset soon, and just the thought makes a headache clamor to the forefront of his brow.

“You did good.” Sharpy hops up next to him.

And, when Jon says nothing, “No one could have predicted it—that you gave us any heads up at all is pretty incredible.”

Jon frowns. “I knew… something wasn’t right and I didn’t check—

“You did what you could.” Sharpy cuts him off. “You kept your head, kept your men alive.”

He nods.

Sharpy turns to him seriously. “You’re a good captain.”

“I…” Jon blinks. Sometimes he forgets his own age, how much older the men he commands are than him. Since he was made captain of the Blackhawks it’s been an effort to keep afloat, struggling his way through the responsibilities, all the difficult decisions that now rest solely on him. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted the affirmation until now. “Thank you.” He says, finally.

“Fuck Hoss, take a little longer, eh?” Duncs shouts, throwing open the hatch and hopping onto the lid.

Hossa looks up from his work with grave annoyance. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d only watched where you’re going—

“The fucker came on to me!” Duncs protests. “It’s not like I could turn out of the way!”

Sharpy snorts, looking like he has a few choice words to say to that. Whether it’s true or not, Jon is content to see his team in good spirits, all alive and well.

Stalberg ambles over to where Hossa crouches in front of the wheels, Hayes not too far behind. He makes a face as he peers down for a better look. “Oh, jesus. How’d all that get in there?”

“If only I knew.” Hossa grouses in reply. He sticks a hazmat-suit covered arm into the tracking and shovels out a handful of carnage. Stally really makes a face at that.

Hayes comes up to peer over Stalberg’s shoulder. Unlike Viktor, who appears to be in the midst of working his lunch out of his stomach, Haysey mostly looks interested. “What is that?” And then, with more relish than necessary, “Good God, is it smoking?”

“Don’t touch it.” Jon snaps in warning.

The rookie recoils, withdrawing his hand but still looking on curiously. “Is that really what they look like from the inside?”

“After they’ve been ground up by a tank, yes.” Hossa replies acerbically.

“It’s burning.” Hayes points out, somewhat needlessly.

“It’s corrosive.” Hossa motions to the hazmat suit he donned. “Don’t touch it—even with your gloves on.”

Hayes blinks at that, surprised. Jon studies him, and not for the first time has to remind himself that there are rookies on this team who’ve never strayed too far from Chicago’s walls. That there are people under his command that have never spent years out here with only a radio to remind them that home still exists, somewhere.

“Clean up’ll come by soon enough and raze them all.” Hossa explains. ‘But, for now, just try not to touch any of them, alright?”

“Sure.” Hayes nods agreeably. And then, excitedly, “But, what’ll happen if someone does?”

If there was ever a time Jon knew so little about the Risen—or even had as much of a drop of fascination with them as Hayes did—he can’t remember it. Can’t remember a time when he didn’t know the answer that Hossa is so clearly attempting to tactfully avoid. When he didn’t know how the human flesh erodes slowly, flaying out like peels, how it eats away until even the bones are gone.

When he didn’t know why the world was covered in dust.

“How much longer for the repairs?” He asks, mercifully saving Hoss from having to answer.

Hossa pats the metal flank. “As long as Duncs doesn’t run over anything else, we’re good to go.” The man shoots an exasperated look towards the tank driver as he stands. Duncs only shrugs.

“Then let’s keep going.” Jon pushes off the side, commanding into his comm, “Hawks, moving out.”

With a clap to his shoulder Sharpy jumps up to take point. Hossa peels off his hazmat suit, and Stalberg tugs Hayes away.

The convoy continues.

Jon looks up, studies the bleak sun. High noon.

He frowns.

Though the sun is nothing more than a benign, lifeless presence in the sky, the Risen rarely move during daytime. As the party continues down the road, Jon thinks, not for the first time, that something is wrong. Was the ambush only the beginning? What could have made them attack like that? Generally Jon likes to forget that Risen were once human—that they still do, technically, share the same DNA—but while the human-like creatures outside of the walls of civilization resemble rabid animals rather than sentient creatures, they still retain some amount of intelligence, though Jon has never kept one around long enough for conversation.

He looks back down to the earth once more, tries to remember the teachings he’s learned from his years in the desert. TJ used to say he spent too much time looking at the dirt—but TJ also couldn’t track for shit.

Something must have spurred them into action, Jon thinks as they march on. A horde like that only moves out of necessity.

Hunger, perhaps. But the Risen would have heard the tanks, felt the tremors of a large group. They strike travelers and stragglers—they’d keep far away from a troop like the Hawks.

Jon doesn’t have much time to think on it; Shaw bellows out, “Four o’clock!” and the convoy halts in its track, all eyes trained into the direction.

Jon squints into his scopes—A heat mirage obscures the ground from serious inspection, but even from the distance Jon can make out the distinct jut of an upturned vehicle, blurred movement around it.

Though it’s hard to see, Jon gathers all he needs from the jerky, inhuman motion.

“Risen.” He intones, resignedly.

Sharpy whistles low. “Those people are long gone.” He sighs. “We’ll have to report to command—the envoy from Edmonton is unsalvageable.”

“We’re not going to check for bodies?” Hayes balks. “What if someone’s still alive out there?”

“It’d be impossible to tell.” Oduya points out. “Heat vision can’t tell the difference between the Risen and humans. And that’s a lot of Risen. A group like that would be a feast for them.”

That’s not entirely true. Jon doesn’t remark upon it, however, only switches onto his own heat vision, taking an alternate look at the scene before him. While Oduya’s mostly correct, Risen generally have a higher body temperature—helps them adapt to the cold of the wastes—but this far it’s a low bet that Jon would be able to see anything—

Jon blinks.

There’s movement.

There is a figure, lying at the bottom of the sky, slumped into the dust with a heart beat that blooms with color. And, by some miracle, the Risen are entirely ignoring it.

His mouth opens, and he drops the scopes to see it with his own eyes. He’s not hallucinating. It’s not a mechanical malfunction. Even from this distance he can make out the indistinct smudge of a human, tossed out from the upturned remains of the envoy, half buried in dust.

“Hold on,” He shouts to Sharpy, taking off.

“Hey—“ Sharpy yelps, and then, warningly. “Jon! What the fuck are you—

But Jon’s gone, racing out into the open, unprotected desert. The Risen notice him, of course, but they’re content with their lion’s share for now, unwilling to take on a fully armed, fully healthy human when there’s plenty already for the taking. He turns away from the sight of them; it’s no use, anyway, those humans are long dead.

Jon focuses on the figure some ways away—the breath catches fast in the top of his throat.

It’s… it’s just a boy.

He can’t be any older than Jon, with a head of winter-wheat curls. Jon ducks down into the dirt, hovering over the boy’s prone form. The cacophony in his ear grows unbearable; all his teammates shouting all at once; get the fuck back here, what the fuck is he doing, is he crazy? He’s going to be killed—Jon doesn’t hear any of them. He presses his bare hand to the boy’s neck, feeling for the heartbeat he’d seen with his own eyes. It’s there, but faint.

There’s the sound of his team, and the anarchy of the Risen, but it’s all submerged into silence when he catches sight of the boy’s mask—

It’s broken.

Jon sits, stunned. The red light at the base of his chin, the red light where there’s supposed to be green, flashes unerringly at Jon. He presses his fingers up onto his neck again, feels around for it and—there, it’s still there.

His hearts still beating.

His mask is broken, he’s no less than ten feet away from a horde of hungry Risen and his mask is broken, he should be dead, he should have died from the toxic air, his mask is broken and he should be dead but he’s not.

And then he opens his eyes.

Notes

***All the artwork for this story is mine, but feel free to use it ;)