Blood (Draft 1)

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The gentle touch of a cool breeze wafting over his face pulled Dick Baker from his dream of a scorching sun and blistering skin. He opened his eyes.

His body lay stretched across a narrow bridge, concrete chafing his skin. A peculiar, purple overcast blotted out any potential sunlight. A dull glow reflected by the violet clouds provided most of the illumination. Dick couldn't discern exactly where the light came from--it seemed ambient and sourceless. He picked up the pump-action 12-gauge, feeling anxious, and continued to survey his locale.

Beyond one end of the bridge, he saw what appeared to be a large fortress. The whole thing, curiously, was painted a deep blue. Soldiers in blue uniforms patrolled the grounds, the battlements, stood watch in the turrets--blue, blue, blue.

He turned to look in the other direction and perceived a city, similarly monochromatic, but red rather than blue. More importantly, he didn't see any armed personnel. He decided that was the safer option, and headed toward the red city.

Gentle winds caressed his skin, raising goosebumps on his arms as he walked. The air whistled around him. Despite the wind, something seemed dead about this place. Once freed from the concrete of the bridge, he strolled down a gravel path, and realized what gave him such an odd feeling: the grass.

It doesn't move. Doesn't sway in the breeze. What the hell kind of place is this?

The gravel road led him into the red city. He found the buildings nondescript, and mostly lonely: concrete boxes with simple doorways, many of them empty. He scouted for several minutes before he finally saw another person. She stopped in the middle of the street, eyes fixed on his, frozen in panic. Her flowing, red dress immediately commanded Richard's attention. But first, he needed to allay her fear.

"Look, I'm not here to hurt you. I don't even know where I am." He slowly lowered his shotgun to the ground. "See? My gun's down. I just need some answers."

"You're not blue," she uttered, her face exhibiting an expression of puzzlement.

"No. I'm not red, either, apparently." Indeed, his white t-shirt and denim jeans were far too tattered and filthy to be confused for a blue uniform.

"So who are you? One of the 'spectators'?" She backed away a few steps, preparing herself to run if the need arose.

"I don't know what that means, but I don't think I belong here. Come on, don't run away. Like I said, I'm not here to hurt anyone."

"Your mistake, then," a new voice intervened, a blue streak flying out of the shadows between two buildings. A blood-stained axe flashed at the corner of Richard's vision, before it all became a blur.

He saw blue, then red. There came a scream. The boom of a gunshot. The thud of a body. And someone started dragging him by his arms.

He couldn't really feel the pain--couldn't be sure where the axe got him. He felt pressure, and shivered with a sudden chill. His vision still cloudy, he managed to notice a brighter environment. No longer on the street, he gradually came to know the interior of one of the red city's houses.

And there she stood, in front of him, her face colored with concern rather than fear, now. "That was a nasty blow," she said. "Here." Her hand extended with a pulsing, red object he couldn't fully discern. But he took it instinctively--had she wanted to kill him, she'd have just left him on the street to bleed out, he figured.

So, when he touched the mysterious red device, his blood-obscured eyesight cleared up in an instant. He no longer felt dizzy or stunned. Or cold. In fact, his body rejuvenated with a burst of energy. He jumped to his feet, barely thinking about it. All told, it became a bit too much for him--he became light-headed and stumbled a few times.

"Careful!" she said, grabbing his arms to steady him. "Don't move too quickly. I can see you've never been healed before."

"N... not like that," he stuttered. "What was that?"

She showed him: a small, metal box, with a red plus sign on each side. It did not glow, now, but Dick could tell it was the same object he'd touched moments ago. He ran his fingers along the side of his head, feeling for an axe wound. Or blood. Anything.

"I'm... completely fine," he realized.

The woman nodded. "That's what the healing boxes do."

"That's really impressive. Thank you."

"Well, I couldn't just leave you to die out there. The streets are too dangerous to be wandering alone."

"But that's what you were doing, isn't it?"

She nodded. "I could only take my son and daughter with me. They are safer at home. I have to risk traveling by myself."

"So, what's the story here? Are you at war with those... blue folks, or whatever they are?"

"In a way. It's not as if we wanted that. But my entire life, they have invaded, attacked, and murdered us. Sometimes they come in small numbers, just to kill a few of us. And there are other times... other times, they come in force. They try to wipe us out."

"I see they haven't been successful so far."

"They might as well have been. There are only a few of us left. We only manage to survive because the city is so big. We can keep moving around. They have a hard time finding us."

"Did you shoot the guy that attacked me?"

"He'd have killed both of us. I had no choice."

"I'm not complaining! I appreciate it."

She nodded politely, and retrieved his shotgun from the corner. "Here."

He took it and gave it a once-over with his eyes. "You don't have your own weapons?"

"We used to. The Blue took them. There are places where weapons appear, from time to time. But the Blue guard them, now. We can never get any."

"Honestly, then, I'm surprised any of you are still alive. No weapons? No army? You're lucky you aren't dead."

She frowned. "The dead probably are the fortunate ones. My husband, my son..."

Richard felt a pang of guilt, himself. "Hey, I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. This is just all very new and strange."

"I've never seen anyone like you before. You're strong. Had that Blue not caught you by surprise, I'm sure you'd have killed him yourself."

"Damn right," he smirked. "I need to watch those shadows better."

"They're good at hiding and striking when you don't expect them."

"I've noticed. Is there nothing you can do to stop them?"

She shrugged. "There are stories."

Richard waved his hand in a circular motion, encouraging her to "go on."

"When I was a child, my father told me the Blue have a chamber in their fortress where they keep a flag. If someone could retrieve this flag and bring it back to our city, it would defeat the Blue for good. But it's just a silly, old story. I mean, a flag? It is absurd."

"From what I've seen of this place, nothing seems totally far-fetched. Has anyone ever tried?"

"Many have tried, out of desperation. They're all dead."

"Well, maybe you need an outsider to give it a shot."

She shook her head. "Please, don't waste your life on a foolish legend. You can help us. You're strong. You have a weapon."

"And I don't plan on sticking around here forever. There's gotta be a way out. And since I can't remember how I got here or where I came from, eliminating the immediate threat seems like the best option. Maybe I'll even get some answers out of those blue guys."

"They would sooner kill you than talk."

Richard pumped the shotgun. "I'll take my chances."

...

Richard left his journal with the woman, a keepsake of sorts. I didn't even ask her name. But, even if he died, at least someone would remember his attempt. No memory of my own... might as well become one for somebody else. This thought emboldened him as he departed the red city.

Shotgun strapped to his back by a bit of fabric, the Blue ignored Richard as he approached the bridge again. Richard, for his part, made note of the still river that passed below the bridge. The water was dark, murky--but something about it attracted him.

Going in the front door is probably not going to work. But any castle like this is going to have somewhere to dump all their waste water, right? A sewer. Where better to drain it than into the nearest river? Right under a bridge...

He dove into the water, directly for the other side. He opened his eyes, barely able to see more than a few inches ahead, and it got worse as he went deeper, and moved into the shadow of the bridge. He felt around with his hands, moving along the muddy bank, beneath the water. He came up every minute or so for air, plunging back down soon after, undeterred.

Then, he found it--a large opening in the mud, one big enough for a man to fit through. This is it.

He went back to the surface just one more time, and drew in a few deep breaths. He had no idea how long the passage would be, if there would be any opportunity to come up for air. He stood a good chance of simply drowning halfway to the fortress. But I have to try.

He forced his way into the narrow passage, his body rubbing against the uneven walls. He clawed through with his hands and feet, propelling himself along as quickly as he could, trying not to release any of the air trapped in his lungs. He could not discern how far he'd gone, but he sensed progress. He raised his head slightly to feel for air bubbles--precious pockets trapped above the water, to help him get a bit further. Two minutes in, and he had nothing.

He continued to claw down the passage, his lungs begging to be relieved their burden. His face became as red as that woman's hair, as bright as her dress. He pushed and dug and grasped and clawed. And then, his hands found an empty space above him. Quickly, he rushed for it, popping his head through. The water rolled off of his face, and he blew out his exhausted breath. His heart pounded against his eardrums, and he saw the grate high above him. Perfect! Rungs on either side provided grips for his hands and feet--a means to intrude.

His muscles aching from oxygen deprivation, he ignored them, climbing up the shaft. When he reached the grate, he pushed at it with one hand. It didn't budge. Damn. He yanked the shotgun from his back, and rammed it hard against the grate. Although it gave a loud clank, it didn't do much else.

Finally, he noticed the latches that held the grate shut. But they were on the other side. He worked a few fingers through the small holes of the metallic grid, trying to unlatch them. It took time, and he had to stop every time he heard footsteps approaching. No one ever looked down into the grate--why would they have expected anyone to come that way? Richard struggled to keep his balance on the small rungs, while simultaneously manipulating the latches with both hands.

Eventually, he had all four undone. His fingers remained sore from so much dextrous manipulation, but his momentary success drove him onward.

He saw no evidence of outside light in this place. Grimy walls, a slick floor. Some kind of basement. Dungeon. Thing. Passages twisted and turned around each other. A set of illuminated stairs led upward--he wasn't ready for that just yet, but he made note of the location.

Several turned corners later, he came to a long corridor. At the end, something glowed. Brightly. Undaunted, he approached. As he neared the lit chamber, his suspicions were confirmed: a blue flag, draped against a golden pole. This is too easy.

He stepped into the room and laid one hand upon the pole. Instantly, an alarm blared, echoed down the hallway, and no doubt reverberated through the entire fortress. Goddammit. It really was too easy.

He ripped the flag from the pole and stuffed it into a pocket, and proceeded to run like hell, back the way he came. He wasn't sure he'd be able to find the grate again. Indeed, as he scrambled through the lower level of the fortress, he came upon the staircase before anything else. A man in blue came rushing down, and halted when he saw Richard. Dick wasted no time, raised his shotgun, and pulled the trigger. Click!

There was supposed to be a "boom." Why was there no boom? ... Water. Think, Dick. It's waterlogged. Fuck! He took out his frustration on the surprised man, thwacking him across the face with the stock of the shotgun. He cried out and landed on the floor. Dick gave him a few swift kicks to the abdomen, until he was sure the bastard would be down for the count. Oddly, his body abruptly vanished, leaving only a spot of blood. Richard furrowed his brow, wondering what that meant, but decided he didn't have time to worry about it. So, up the stairs.

The confusion Dick caused by being neither Red nor Blue proved to be an advantage. The glowing flag in his pocket, however, was not. The Blue soldiers, seemingly surprised that anyone had managed to violate their stronghold at all, were doubly flabbergasted by the essential unfamiliarity of their unwelcome interloper. His enemies suddenly more inclined to ask questions first rather than shoot, Richard whacked them all with as much force as he could muster. But the alarm continued to blast his ears, and he knew there were more Blue forces than he'd yet seen.

Sure enough, as he neared the front gate of the stronghold, four men confronted him. Unwilling to fire at him for some reason, they instead lobbed small metal spheres. Before he had time to avoid them properly, they erupted, assaulting his senses. Orange gas spilled into the air, and Richard accidentally inhaled a considerable amount of it. Expecting to die any moment, he instead became confused and unbalanced. He stumbled toward the gate, his vision stretching and squeezing and flashing every color through his brain. Somehow, his hands found the lever that operated the gate, and he yanked it as hard as he could. It gave way, and so did the gate. It collapsed onto the ground, giving Richard a vector for escape. He took it.

Though he thought he was sprinting in a straight line, the gas had him zigzagging through the grounds in front of the fortress. The Blue men shot at him repeatedly, always seeming to just barely miss their mark. But two shots in rapid succession finally went true--one ripped through his shoulder; the other tore through his calf. He grunted, stumbled, fell forward, limp-running towards the bridge. His eyes clouding, vision fading fast, a red blur appeared ahead, standing on the bridge. He closed his eyes and pounded his feet toward it, ignoring the trail of blood he left behind, ignoring the pain. It passed into numbness. He crumbled mere feet from the bridge, falling into delicate hands. He wanted to see her, but vision failed him. He felt around with his hands, until he had hers. He found the box she was holding--he almost sensed the glow, the healing potential. It surged through him as he touched it. Wordlessly, she helped him back to his feet, gently pushing him forward. He grabbed her hand to bring her with him, finding his journal there. She released it abruptly, making a sound as though the wind had been stolen from her lungs. She only looked at him as she fell, her body dissolving into nothingness before it had even hit the ground.

Dick took that as his cue, running with renewed vigor, into the red city. He could hear the footsteps behind him, the Blue mass converging on the city, intent on stopping him. He headed for the central tower in the city--his goal, his obstacle. It looked about the same as all the other buildings, only much taller. Just as blocky and nondescript, but ever so tall. His feet agreed, inflamed by so many brutal impacts with hard ground, but he would not be stopped. Dozens of stairs, a dozen stories, a thousand gunshots ringing outside... and he stopped. The top of the tower peered out across the city. He paused, stunned by the vantage, so many homes--so empty. Abandoned. Monuments to the dead. He came back to his senses, hands reaching for the golden pole mounted in the center of the room, and tied the flag to it. It seemed to glow even brighter, so bright the light surrounded him, compelled him, absorbed him...

His face fell into the dirt, the sounds of warfare shocking him to awareness. On either side of him were men clad in Blue, firing automatic weapons from within the cover of a pillbox. They were shouting, but he couldn't make out the words--too much confusion, too much noise. A red streak catapulted along the outside of the bunker, flinging several spheres within. Not again, Dick thought as one landed right between his feet.

It exploded, knocked him back against the wall. Another burst next to him, sending his head against a case of ammunition. He clutched the sides of his skull, wracked with the pain of two consecutive concussive blasts, shouting to himself. "It was supposed to be over! It was supposed to be over!"

One last grenade granted his wish.