"Big Brother" - An Apocalyptic Mystery & Thriller

One

“Are you in there?”

The knocking continued in a rhythmical fashion, as if it was the knocking of a child eager to be let into a secret clubhouse. Echoes bellowed throughout my room, forcing me to glance up and meet the inadequacy of my living arrangements.

“What do you want,” I yelled out, rubbing the residue of sleep from my eyes.

“The Minister wants to see you. He’s asking about some assignment,” the knocking stopped.

“Fucking hell.”

I prepared myself for the insurmountable journey of shedding the cocoon-like linens that clung to me. It was a shame my walking alarm clock didn’t have a snooze button.

My eyelids still clung to each other as I sat up, hoping to prolong their restless sleep. The foldout frame of my bed creaked as I pivoted my legs onto the floor, and the perpetually burdened springs of the mattress reset through a relieving squeak.

The dormitory was dark on the account of Utopia disallowing the use of lights at night. Something about preventing unnecessary use of the electricity generators. As a result my room was left as nothing more than a glorified cave, but my eyes had adjusted to the dancing shadows on the cave walls.

“Hello?”

“Relax Johnson,” I grunted, “I’m coming.”

Johnson was the chief security officer of Utopia, the settlement I lived in. I use the term ‘security,’ very loosely though considering all he did was follow me around, and occasionally taser somebody. I don’t blame him though, at least for the tasering part. His wife left him, and a stun gun is surprisingly phallic.

“Wait,” I ordered as I stumbled around attempting to locate my work clothes.

The cold concrete floor, so chipped that it was liable to cut a bare foot, shocked the soles of my feet as if to remind me that I lived under the damn ground.

“Are you coming, or not Jayden?” I heard Johnson nag from the hallway.

“What do you think?” I retorted as I got dressed. “And by the way, it’s Doctor,” I concluded with the snap of my belt buckle.

I cleared off my desk, grabbed a piece of paper and began to quickly scribble down random mathmatical formulae. I was supposed to bring The Minister proof that I knew what his medical condition was, but in all honesty all I had was guesswork. Fortunately for me however, the old piece of shit wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between random mathematical equations and medical hypothesis, even if his vision wasn’t fucked.

I threw on my lab coat, opened the latched door, and grabbed my flask of moonshine on the way out making sure to tuck it away inside my breast pocket. What I was greeted with was Johnson’s less than impressed face.

“So how’s the missus?”

“Are you looking to get tasered Jayden?” he asked.

“It’s Doctor, and I’m pretty sure if you taser a seventeen year old, you’re never getting laid again,” I replied with a wink.

“You aren’t even a doctor,” he retorted.

“What does having three doctorates in organic chemistry, cybernetic engineering and medicinal biology make me?” I shot back.

He let out a deep disappointed groan. I took that as a sign of victory and began walking down the cement corridor, stuffing the papers into my lab coat’s pocket with a renewed vigor. The residential block was completely quiet, with the exception being the occasional flickering of light fixtures, and Johnson’s incessant humming. For each step I took another two or three echoes rung out, creating a symphonic soundtrack of underground military bunker ambiance. The only thing missing was the sounds of metal creaking, and the occasional baby crying.

“What did The Minister want you to do anyways?” Johnson asked as he began to speed walk in hopes of catching up with me.

“Stuff,” I replied, pretending to inspect my nails.

“What kind of stuff, Jayden?

I glanced up and gave him a dirty look without stopping.

“Doctor,” he corrected himself.

“The old man’s eyesight is warped. He wants me to present a diagnosis, as if him looking at a paper full of science he doesn’t understand, is going to make him feel better.” I sighed and stopped. Johnson followed me in doing so, crossed him arms and lifted his eyebrows to give me a questioning look.

“Johnson what happens if The Minister dies?” I asked seriously.

His eyes widened, and he began to mercilessly scratch his scruffy brown beard as if to distract himself from a painfully incriminating question.

“How very inconspicuous of you Jayden.”

“I’m not going to kill him you meat-headed varlet.”

“Var-?” he stuttered. “Why are you asking then?” he continued.

“I was just wondering. Obviously he’s not impervious to disease and death. What happens if he has a heart attack right now?”

“I’ve never thought of what’d happen. Maybe everyone goes crazy and leaves Utopia,” he shrugged.

“You’re an idiot Johnson,” I said over my shoulder as I began walking once more, “Nobody leaves Utopia.”

We finally reached the lab, and to my surprise The Minister was already there waiting for us. Men with a standard of being tardy, usually are tardy after all.

I peered through the glass walls of Utopia’s Lab, making sure nobody else was present, knowing very well that this was going to be a conversation of extreme confidentiality.

I idly followed Johnson into the room, as I pondered upon the complexity of secrecy. Considering the entire existence of Utopia was a secret, did that mean anything told in such secrecy denominated a state of double confidentiality?

My excessively philosophical musings were interrupted, as per usual, as Johnson greeted our ‘savior.’

“Sorry we’re late your Honor,” Johnson said to The Minister’s turned back.

The Minister villainously spun to face us, in a way that made me question if he had a tendency of tying innocent women to train tracks while twirling a handlebar mustache. All he was missing was the cane and tophat. We were greeted by a rather weak smile.

“Morning gentlemen,” he muttered.

The lights in the room were flickering ever so sinisterly, and the metallic shimmering of the lab’s equipment gave way to a twinkling sight. The lab looked like a prison, even moreso than the rest of Utopia did. A cliched white and monotonous tiled room, that buzzed alive with a variety of different glowing buttons, and bottled concoctions - the only things that held any color, in almost the entire settlement.

You’d think after spending thousands of hours in such an environment I’d get used to it, but I didn’t. Every surface looked like it had been wiped down by sanitizer at least a thousand times, while the air reeked of stale disinfectant.

The banality of the lab, however, provided a perfect backdrop for The Minister, who himself was a walking cliché.

He was an idiotic, yet proud, man. Seeping religious faith and a dictator like pride, he was big and spoke in an accent I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But today he looked weak, like a stray dog aware of it’s own mortality and impending doom. Like a soldier incapable of jumping on a live grenade due to selfish aspiration.

His gray balding hair seemed stringy, while his usually kept beard appeared rough and brittle to the touch. The bulletproof vest he wore, aside from serving no purpose considering firearms didn’t exist anymore, complimented his bulging mid section, acting as a contrast to his well dressed lower half. Leather loafers, and dress pants done up with from what I assumed to be a pre-war designer belt.

“Thank you Bryce. Do a few laps around The Market I’d like to talk to Jayden alone.”

Johnson nodded slowly as if he could also sense the abnormality.

He gave me a look and walked off without turning back.

“It’s Doctor,” I spoke with a hyperbolized jubilee, to signify I was joking. Though it was apparent to the both of us that I wasn’t bred of such naivety.

The Minister laughed in response, with an exceeding exaggeration. Touché you old fuck

“Of course it is,” he replied, with as little interest as humanly possible.

I cleared my throat, and began to speak.

“Your macula is slightly compromised due to damage to your retina.”

I stopped for a moment to verify if I was to continue, and used the opportunity of silence to place the sheet of scribbled formulae down on the desk in front of him.

The Minister flattened the sheet against the corner of the table, and begun to scan it’s contents. Judging by the fact that he placed it down, only seconds later, affirmed the notion that he had no fucking clue what was on it.

“Continue,” he nodded.

“Choroidal Neovascularization in the choriocapillaris, via Bruch's membrane is what’s causing this retinal damage. Basically there’s an excess of blood vessels growing behind your retina which is compromising your macular field’s range of vision.” I stopped and awkwardly looked down at my shoes, hoping to find untied laces.

The Minister remained motionless.

“Your eyesight is deteriorating asymmetrically,” I clarified.

“How do you know?”

I clenched my jaw to prevent any unnecessarily profane comments from slipping out. My mouth was like Pandora’s Box after all. When it rains it pours.

“Exudative macular degeneration is a relatively easy, and unique diagnosis. I just know.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped and looked up, while holding the cross that was draping down from his neck. I assumed this anxiety was the result of a religious man with blasphemous tendencies, and so I waited for his religious crisis to pass.

He looked at me, cleared his throat and began to massage his temple before continuing.

“How can you fix it?” he inquired ever so originally.

“I can diagnose to the extent of any competent scientist, but I’m not an ophthalmic surgeon,” I said in hopes of dispelling any expected liability on my part.

“How can you fix it,” he growled.

I sighed.

“Considering we lack the necessary pharmaceuticals for reducing the retinal detachment via regressing the blood vessel growth, your two options are laser coagulation or an entirely new cybernetic implant - a new eye.”

He began to laugh and cry all at once, which was an amazing feat in retrospect. With his eyes wide, his sinister cackling contorted the shape of his mouth to inhuman proportions, which made me inclined to think the man was raised by a bunch of Pythons. Did snakes even travel together?

I stood silently as I imagined the comical sight of The Minister slithering through tall grass with a horde of snakes.

His hysterical bellowing grew even louder as he saw the vacancy painted on my face. He continued in this state for at least five minutes, looking up at me every so often when in need for more fuel for his laughter. Then tears begun to run down his face, and these snapped me back to reality. The Minister’s reptile-like proclivities were becoming rather trite anyways.

I crossed my arms as our eyes met. His remained in a state of quantum uncertainty, dead and alive at the same time, while mine slid back and forth as if reading a book.

“Are you alright?” I asked, in an almost rhetorical tone.

A grin that reached from ear to ear grew on his face, and to my amazement his eyes grew even bigger.

“What do you need for the new eye?” he asked shifting his glance from me, as if he was confident he could present me with the necessary materials at any cost.

“Well I could make the implant but I’d need the components of a few old pacemakers, cochlear implants, an implantable insulin pump and a bunch of circuitry and wires - I’m sure I can get those from the Console Room,” I said casually, in attempt to convince him I wasn’t aware of his psychotic break.

The Minister got up from his throne, which was just my lab chair in reality, and began to make his way towards the table behind me.

“The difficult piece to acquire, however, would be a human eye of someone freshly deceased. No more than a day or two,” I added in whisper; hoping he wouldn’t hear me.

He propped himself up on the table, and flashed me a teethy, blithe smile “I’ll get you the components, but it’s your responsibility to get that eye.”

He handed me an envelope full of at least twenty Fives, my payment for completing the previous assignment, and ushered me out the door.

“You have three days.”

Before I could inquire about how I was supposed to procure a human eye, in an underground military shelter, he locked the door behind me and closed the blinds.

Two

The Market was running out of knick-knacks that I didn’t own yet. I had a problem, not blowing money, and as a result the majority of my time was spent wandering The Market, lowering my standards for purchase with every lap.

My mother once told me something along the lines of “if you’re going to do something, go all out,” and thus I blame her for my money squandering propensities.

My daily lap began by the cutting through cluster of Utopia’s scribes. The ‘authorized,’ dealers of the many drugs that the birth of New America bred.

The lemonade stand-like vendors that occupied The Market were bathed in a lopsided luminescence, arranged in a way that the most successful received better light exposure than the ones struggling to feed their families. An interesting dynamic.

As I mentally scolded myself for falling into the cliche of the over-complicating academic, I made my way over to Jesse’s Jangles. The homemade instruments that littered the stall’s tabletop always gave me great purchasing inspiration, as a first stop in my Market circuit.

I approached the stand and noticed the electric lamp, which indicated whether a vendor was open or not, was turned off. A curious situation considering Jesse Weiss worked the floor everyday.

I leaned over, and craned my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the massive crowds. Instead I noticed an Inker panhandling, and violently twitching. A brilliant sympathy ploy, for sure.

I quickly dismissed the thoughts of an Inker attacking Jesse, as the ones that hang around the Market were relatively docile, and instead walked in his direction looking for information.

“Hey. Do you have any idea where the owner of that stall is?” I yelled, over the tumultuous haggling of the Market’s patrons.

I pointed to Jesse’s stall.

The man’s skin was peeling, and unnaturally calcified bones were protruding through various points of his body. He was violently twitching, and scratching his humeral bone, which had seemingly festered until the skin peeled off. He looked more like a skeleton than he did a human being.

He glanced at me with one functioning, bloodshot, eye. The other seemingly sutured closed from infection, and the keloid regalia of which he donned. He’d be dead within a week or two. To survive a nuclear war, only to die a few years later due to poisons you voluntarily took, was definitely an anti-climactic ending.

I shook my head in disgust.

“Krok?” He coughed.

I opened the flap of my wallet, without saying a word, and pulled out a few Fives; leaving them in front of him.

I turned, and began to walk away.

As if The Market’s lively and busy environment had been muted by some cosmological video editor, I only heard the groans, and sharp scraping of the Inker’s bones on the cement floor, as he reached over for the bills I had dropped. If there was a God, he was definitely an expert at pulling the guilt trip.

He was a goner anyways, and perhaps being a drug addict was all that was left for him. The Fives I left him, would be able to get him enough Krok until he met the relieving embrace of death. That fate was definitely more appealing than dying in the year long withdrawal, that Krok promised.

“Jayden!”

I heard the recognizable beckoning in the distance, yet I continued walking. Johnson soon emerged from the bustling crowds with his trademarked, worry and parental stare.

“Where have you been? You didn’t sign out!” he yelled, with his hands on his knees, over his wheezing panting.

I raised a finger, to silence him.

The man surely would’ve died in that year of withdrawal. He was sickly. He couldn’t even keep his eyes - or eye to be more exact - open for more than a few seconds at a time. I’ve ever only seen two people survive the withdrawal, and both were supremely in shape prior to their addiction. Statistically he had a two percent chance of surviving, which meant an uncertain struggle for a year. A year riddled with surgeries, to amputate rotting flesh, potentially vomiting out his own intestines and not being able to sleep for weeks at a time. What I did was logically sound.

I lowered my hand.

“I had to deliberate on a previous decision. What do you want?” I said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“You realize not everything needs to be an internal argument right? Just do what feels right.”

“It’s simply not rational to dismiss potentially viable decision making just because it doesn’t feel right,” I retorted.

“Sure, yeah. You need to sign out when you leave the lab.”

“I don’t like signing out.”

He crossed his arms, and raised an eyebrow.

“More and more people are going missing. You’re still a kid, and you’re worth a lot to The Minister. Sounds like great motive for a kidnapper. Hell, if we weren’t friends I’d even kidnap you,” he said matter of factly.

“Friendship implies reciprocated amity,” I smiled.

“Let’s go smart ass,” he said, with a wry smile.

I shrugged off his leash-like grasp, and turned to him in whisper.

“Who went missing?”

“You know that crazy lady, what’s her name? Jesse. Apparently no one’s seen her for a while.”

Three

“C’mon tell me.”

Johnson was sitting on a backwards chair in my room, sipping from his flask of white lightning and tapping his foot relentlessly to the rhythm of some famous pre-war song. At least he could multi-task.

“No,” I replied.

“Let’s be honest. The Old Man looks like he’s about to croak, something’s wrong with him. And don’t tell me it’s just his eyesight,” he said as he took another sip.

I looked up at him from an equation I was trying to solve, and gave a stern look to indicate I wasn’t in the business of gossiping.

“I’ll find out eventually,” he insisted.

“With the importance of your job, I don’t doubt it,” I rolled my eyes.

He shrugged and took another gulp from his flask.

“Well you don’t gotta be mean about it,” he added.

I scratched my head, and set the pencil down carefully, despite my intent to smash it down in frustration.

“Stop playing that dumb game. Just use all the numbers,” Johnson said, with an equal amount of frustration.

“It’s not dumb.”

“What number aren’t you ‘allowed,’ to use this time?” Johnson asked, stretching his neck until nauseating pop made him lean back in satisfaction.

“Four,” I said proudly, “I’m not allowed to use four or any number deriving of four.”

I solved the remainder of the equation, and threw the crumpled sheet into the trash heap from across the room.

“Nice shot,” he said with a look so excited, and childish, that I thought he was about to ask me to play a game of hide and seek.

I stood up and sighed, looking around the room to find my own flask in hopes of quenching a thirst that the smell of Johnson’s moonshine aroused.

My dormitory was an absolute mess. Paper plates littered the ground and cigarette stubs, from when I was making a little bit more money, were stuck into random crevices of furniture and appliance. The plastic fold out bed had one of it’s hinges broken off, which left the entire damn thing awkwardly off balance and tilted from the congruency of the wall. Even the concrete floor looked grungier, and darker than usual. I sighed again.

“What did you want anyways,” I asked as I fell back onto my bed.

“Is it just me or are you a little grumpier than usual?” He chuckled, “did Mommy not feed you yet?”

“Very funny Johnson. Implying I still breast feed just to make a remark on my age. Which in reality isn’t that young, you’re just ancient.”

“That’s Dr. Old-Fuck to you Junior,” he smiled.

I rolled my eyes, and began to scour my room once again, remembering the quest for my moonshine flask.

“For the last time, I’m an intellectual Doctor. Not a monkey with a scalpel.”

Johnson got up and tucked his flask away. He began scanning the room as if he knew what I was looking for and could assist in finding it.

“Check on the third shelf of your medicine cabinet,” he spoke.

I shrugged and shook my head at the idea of him knowing where something of mine was, better than I did.

However upon opening the cabinet, out of a desperate thirst, I was greeted with the metallic shimmer of my flask.

“Lucky guess,” I said incoherently, preoccupied with chugging the noxious alcohol.

“Some of the boys over at security have been talking about being under-prepared, weapon-wise that is, if some sort of attack on Utopia happens.”

I looked up at Johnson with a renewed intrigue, and wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

“What’s that have to do with me?” I asked dubiously.

“Well, you’re a braniac right? I was hoping you could throw some sciencey parts together to make something so we don’t have to walk around with clubs like cavemen.”

“You do realize were we live right? We’re more than halfway to cavemen,” I joked as I twisted the lid back onto my flask.

There was an eerie silence, a moment of nothingness that I was unfamiliar in feeling when around Johnson. Usually he’d take any opportunity he could to laugh or make fun of my attempt at a joke.

I began to worry more and more as the silence dragged on.

“Why do you think we’re going to get attacked? Ninety percent of New America doesn’t even know we exist,” I finally whispered as if my room was bugged.

“That leaves ten percent,” he replied argumentatively, “plus with the disappearance of our stun-gun cache everybody is a little on-edge.”

I looked at him.

“I’m busy I can’t just skip work to play Cowboys and Indians. I only have a day left to finish that assignment for The Minister.”

Johnson gave me a genuinely disappointed look. He walked towards me, put his hand on my shoulder; looking me in the eyes.

“Jayden it’s not a joke. Do it for me man. Even if there’s only a one-percent chance any attack happens, wouldn’t it be better to be safe than sorry?”

With his freshly shaven face he looked younger than he was. The natural redness of his cheeks, in contrast to his pale white skin, made him look as if either he was cold or abnormally jolly. But if you knew Johnson, you’d know it was always the latter.

The wrinkles on his brow and forehead indicated a genuine distress, and worry. The last time I had seen Johnson like this was when his wife left him. He looked pure yet battle-scarred at the same time.

“So how about it? I’m not asking you to make us something really hi-tech, anything would do. Hell I’d even settle for a spud gun” he finally said, his eyes twinkling from the incandescence of the room’s flickering lights.

“Fine. But if The Minister comes down on me for skipping out on work, you’re taking the blame.”

Johnson smiled a familiar smile, in a way that if anybody else did I’d think they were using me. But it was Johnson, this was the only thing he’d ever asked me to do out of all the years I knew him.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way kid,” he smiled.

“Leave the keys to the auto shop on the desk, I'll leave whatever I come up with in there by morning” I said.

"Thanks," he smiled, as he placed the keys down.

Four

I was woken up by the sound of banging on my room door; which was becoming somewhat of the norm as of late.

“Jayden open the door now!”

“Johnson what did I say about calling me by name,” I sluggishly replied as I waddled to the door.

I undid the latch, and the door was thrown open before I could even finish yawning.

Johnson was panting, but before he could say anything Utopia’s intercom crackled and buzzed online.

“Attention citizens of Utopia this is a public service announcement. Freddy Weiss has gone missing and any individuals aware of his whereabouts or have information pertaining his potential whereabouts must contact The Minister immediately. This individual was last seen in the auto shop at approximately 8:52pm last night. Freddy’s description is as follows: five feet eleven inches in stature. Caucasian. Brown hair and brown eyes. Him or his body can be positively identified by a star tattoo located on the upper forearm region. Again, Freddy Weiss is missing and any individuals that can aid authorities in locating him will be handsomely rewarded by The Minister. That is all.”

I stared up at Johnson in disbelief, silent as if more information exculpating me was to follow and was simply forgotten at first.

“Jayden,” whispered Johnson.

I continued to remain silent, still waiting for the beep of the intercom systems to exonerate me. The residential block was silent, more silent than I could ever remember it being. I suppose I wasn’t going to be saved by the bell.

“Jayden what happened last night?”

I stared at Johnson incredulously, yet avoided his gaze. After doing him a favor he chose to repay me with absurd accusations of murder.

“You’re fucking dumb,” I spat.

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off before he could speak. I couldn’t allow him the satisfaction of defending such illogicality.

I stood up indignantly, and threw my favorite chair at the wall, only to hear it splintering seconds later.

“You ask me for a favor, and then you turn around and are the first one to accuse me of some random idiot’s disappearance. I literally spent three hours of my life taking apart fire extinguishers, so I could make pressurized air rifles for you! And you’re not even thankful! What a fucking waste.”

I turned away from him and slammed my hands down on a table, to prevent him from seeing the smirk on my face.

Despite incoherently shrieking, I wasn’t upset or angry. Instead I felt as if I was supposed to be angry in such a situation, that an innocent man would be angry. I, however, thought it was quite comical.

Johnson looked around to see if my ranting was drawing any attention, and then let himself in. He took a seat on the chair that was still backwards from his last visit closing the door behind him.

“I never accused you Jayden,” he said softly.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay and that you wouldn’t be implicated in this at all,” he continued.

He looked down, this time he was avoiding eye contact. He folded his arms and rested his head on them and spoke quickly.

“What’s your story when The Minister asks? He knows you were there last night, I told him when I left your room. I didn’t want you to get in trouble.”

“I’ll just tell him I didn’t do it,” I replied, turning back around and finding a seat beside him.

Johnson looked up to greet me, as if my sitting down beside him was some form of an apology.

“What if he doesn’t believe you? You’ll be executed if they even slightly think you’re to blame.”

“He needs me, he wouldn’t execute me,” I scoffed.

Johnson abruptly stood up, knocking the chair over and spilling the bottle of water that was precariously balancing on a nearby table.

“So being contained is any better? Getting a meal every two days, and being forced to work from a fucking closet? If that happens you’re gonna wish you were dead!” he yelled as he pointed at me.

His gaze trembled as it shifted to my desk. He turned white, his finger collapsing away from my face.

“What’s that?” He stuttered.

“What what?” I replied, in attempt to buy myself a few more seconds to think of an excuse.

I turned around, and craned my neck to see where his finger was pointing.

The rest of the room seemed darker than the cone of light which bathed the jar filled with ethanol and a floating brown eyeball. As if the world was giving me a big cosmic ‘fuck you.’

I remained noiseless, reaching for my moonshine on the desk behind. I definitely needed to be inebriated for this. But my reach was denied by Johnson, who wrapped his massive hand around my wrist only inches away from the flask. He grabbed me by the neck and forced my stare into his own.

“We’re going down to interrogation,” he coughed, as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Chaper Four

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

“I find it hard to believe they haven’t told you yet,” I replied with a smirk.

The interrogation room was completely dark except for a cone of light which dressed the table at which I sat. A hackneyed intimidation tactic.

“What’s your name,” he repeated.

I crossed my arms, and at the risk of being a cliché, I shook my head and remained silent. The man, however, did the exact opposite. Slouching back in his chair, he slid back until his eyes were almost level with the table. He then began tapping his feet, and continued to make unwavering eye contact as his face remained motionless.

He was massive, but not like a bodybuilder or a weightlifter. Instead he looked like a bear; tall and lean, with disturbingly comforting eyes. He was wearing a short sleeved tee shirt, and a tactical vest that was complimented by a dark green shemagh. Dark streaks and speckles of dirt painted his face, a contrast to his pale appearance, despite being heavily tanned. He definitely wasn’t from Utopia, but that meant that The Minister opened the gates to an outsider.

I remained motionless and speechless, due to an abnormal awe that his presence evoked. Both perturbing, and indifferent as he looked like somebody you could walk by without even noticing.

“So do you come here often?”

“What’s your name,” he replied, so quickly, that it bordered precognition.

“Jayden,” I replied, tired of playing the waiting game.

“I’m Ghost. Pleasure to meet you mate,” he replied, with an outreaching hand.

I glanced at his hand, an attempt to break our barrier so to speak, and dismissed it by looking in the opposite direction.

He postured up and placed his chin in his hands, as he continued to stare at me - tapping his feet ever so un-rhythmically. At least Johnson could keep a beat.

“Can you tell me your actual name?” I questioned back.

“I didn’t hear a please,” he replied.

I shook my head in disgust. Such a conceited and childish notion, to demand a ‘please,’ with a justified question.

“At least tell me how you got stuck with such an awful nickname.”

He gave me a stern look.

I rolled my eyes, and succumbed to my curiosity, “please?” I coughed, as if I had just ripped the words out of my throat.

Ghost leaned back, and crossed his legs, with such apathy that it appeared as if he had just told me to take a number, without having to say a word. To my surprise he spoke.

“When I was in the SAS, before World War Three of course, I was sent into a city that had been under the militant law of a faction of rebels. My job was to kill as many of the wankers as I could. My spotter got gutted, and publicly executed so you could say my conscience was on vacation by that point,” he spoke in a grisly tone, as he stood up.

His narrative which was otherwise void of any imagery and description, sent piercing chills of illustration down my spine. I shivered, avoiding eye contact with his invasive, once comforting eyes.

“For two weeks I lived in an abandoned apartment, overlooking the raped cityscape,” he circled around in a way which worried me. A way in which I thought maybe he was going to give me a live demonstration.

“I killed seventy-two in the first week,” his voice grew quiet, and he stopped moving and speaking.

Remaining motionless he continued, engulfed by the darkness, a looming shadow that spoke in trembling reverberations.

“They kept trying to clear the buildings I was in, but they never found me. It got to a point where the rebel army placed a three million dollar bounty on my head, and the word they used to describe me, “shebbah,” literally translates to ‘a ghost.’”

The room fell silent.

“I finished the rest of them off, kept the nickname, and let them keep the change,” he smiled.

He stood up and leaned over the table, inching his face closer to mine. I was scared, and I didn’t know why. I knew that I was being interrogated at the behest of The Minister, and that The Minister wouldn’t let him hurt me. On the account of The Minister needing a new eye, but I was still terrified of the man for some reason.

Our eyes made contact and a game of chicken ensued, in which I refused to submit the power I pretended I held by blinking or looking away.

He was old. Not as old as Johnson, but at least in his thirties judging from the stress marks and rigid stubble protruding from his visage. People in their twenties remember to shave, those in their thirties begin to realize how futile such efforts of grooming truly are.

His face was dirty, and what remained of a bloody hand print, he failed to wash off completely, clung to his neck as if his victim was literally strangling him from the grave. I shook my head and crossed my arms again, looking away from the gigantic shadow standing in front of me.

“Did you kill that lad?”

“Do you think I did?”

“If I had an opinion on that, I wouldn’t be asking you,” he replied coldly.

“So it’s my job to convince you that I didn’t?”

“I wouldn’t call it a job. You tell me the truth and you get to walk out of here.”

Ghost lit a cigarette, and tossed the used matchstick at my head.

“And if I don’t?”

I rubbed my nose to prevent him from seeing my eyes flirt with the cigarette he clenched between his teeth.

“Well, let’s just say telling stories isn’t the only thing I’m good at doing, in dark rooms,” he mumbled, still biting the cigarette.

“The Minister wouldn’t let you hurt me,” I said, attempting to both restore my grasp on the conversation, and convince myself of the fact.

“I don’t care what he’d let me do.”

His accent was thick and regular, unlike The Minister who seemed to forget his every few sentences.

“You don’t scare me.”

He chuckled and leaned forward, letting smoke leak through his nose towards me.

“It’s not wise to corner an animal,” he smirked, “no matter how harmless and unassuming they may be.”

He got up, and began humming to himself while he dug through his backpack. The still burning cigarette emitted a seductive haze that blew over his shoulder, only stopping inches from the clutches of my nose.

“What’s your handedness lad?” he coughed.

“Left.”

Before my brain could translate the significance of an otherwise innocuous question the man was leaning over the table. He pressed down on my right wrist, spreading my fingers, with an excruciatingly painful pressure point. He began to stab in between the spaces of my fingers, while staring, expressionlessly.

The humming continued, perfectly monotonous in both pace and rhythm, as did the swift dance of the blade’s taunting cusp over each of my fingers. Then the humming sped up, and in conjunction so did the knife’s cyclical journey across my hand.

Beads of sweat, that were previously not present, jumped from my brow. My body began to shake, and, instinctively, I attempted to jerk away from his grasp. It was useless. His powerful grip isolated my hand, and pinned it to the table. Making my chances of escape, feel more as if I were about to break my own wrist, by resisting, than actually rip free.

He remained expressionless.

The knife continued. Each jab further teased my reflexes to move my individual fingers; to submit to a amputating and bloody gore .

“Stop! I didn’t do it.”

With a final powerful lunge he sank the knife into the desk, only centimeters away from my forearm and the radial artery of which it contained.

The room began to spin, as I ducked my head to the side. Immediately an acidic, and acrid pulp sprung from my mouth. The vomit splashed onto the floor, ending it’s journey from my stomach to the ground, with a sickly splash.

He circled around the room, still humming, and sat down in his chair once again.

“What’s your name?”

I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, “Jayden.”

“Did you kill Freddy, Jayden?”

“No,” I snapped, still lightheaded.

“Why should I believe you?” He inquired further.

“I don’t know.”

I placed my head into my hands and closed my eyes. This could not possibly be happening. A stranger comes into Utopia, contracted by The Minister, to interrogate me and slice my fingers up into nothing more than a fillet. I lifted my hand up to wipe the glaze of sweat from my forehead, but my body was still quivering. It took a few minutes to control the trembling enough, to even wipe my forehead.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

“I got the eyeball from the morgue. Check, there should be a corpse in there with only one eye,” I continued.

The man stubbed his cigarette out on the table, and flicked it into the corner of the room. Without saying a word he knocked on the door, opened it and yelled at Johnson to check the morgue.

As he leaned out the door the hallway light allowed me to catch a glimpse of the patch on his shoulder. It was a TelPro patch. Their insignia was unmistakable, a snake wrapped around a sniper rifle with the words “Never seen, always heard,” plastered above.

I heard Johnson talk about them once or twice as if they were the devil incarnate. He told me that right after the war they executed all of their own operatives except special forces soldiers. “Imagine taking all of the pieces out of a chess set except for the Kings and Queens,” he said “what you’re left with is TelPro.”

Ghost turned back to me.

“I don’t like having my time wasted, for your information.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” I stuttered, realizing how dangerous the man I’d been toying with truly was.

About fifteen minutes passed, before Johnson came back, and knocked on the door.

I couldn’t hear what Johnson said but I did hear the man tell Johnson to fetch him his ‘boomstick.’

“That’s impossible. I’m telling you I didn’t kill him, I took it from the morgue!” I screamed.

“Listen lad. You’re young, so just know it’s nothing personal,” he recited, avoiding any eye contact.

I had to at least commend his bedside manner.

“I can run scientific tests to prove it’s not Freddy! Is there nothing I can do to convince you!” I screamed in a way that was more of an exclamation than a question.

“I’m not much for science, never understood it. For all I’d know you’d just feed me a bunch of rubbish,” he concluded.

Johnson actually entered the room this time, and was accompanied by a massive black bag which he lugged onto the table. Ghost began to unzip it before Johnson had even fully placed it down.

I was frantically scanning the room, trying to think of a way to convince them of my innocence, until a matte-black metallic finish caught my eye. I heard the contact of metal on metal, as Ghost produced what looked like a sniper rifle from the black bag.

I became mesmerized by the sight of mechanical death, and long forgot about what this sight meant for me.

“How did you get that,” I spoke, in awe.

“TelPro are the only ones with access to firearms in all of New America,” chimed Johnson, who immediately avoided eye contact with me as soon as I glanced over at him.

I snapped back to reality remembering how obediently Johnson had delivered, what might as well of been my head in a black bag.

Ghost’s finger snapped down and was accompanied by a click, and the cheerful commentary he provided.

“Safety off. Check,” he sung to himself, as if oblivious to either me or Johnson’s presence.

I felt heat, a sensation of concentrated energy on my forehead; the feeling of being watched by something other than man. Before I could say another word, the beaming red laser sight from Ghost’s rifle was drawn onto my head, with the glistening shimmer of Ghost’s eye peering through the firearm’s glass scope for additional company.

I couldn’t move. Tantalized by aspirations of life, I stood still as if I could somehow sway the rifle’s trajectory through some sort of gun-to-man empathy. Perhaps I thought I could convince Ghost I was innocent simply by accepting my fate, or perhaps I thought I could make Johnson feel so bad that he’d stop Ghost for me.

Fuck Johnson. After all we’d been through he was happy just letting me die.

“I wasn’t in the Auto Shop that night,” I yelped, closing my eyes to protect myself from both seeing the flash of the rifle’s muzzle, and Johnson’s scrutinizing and confounded stare.

“What the fuck are you talking about,” jumped Johnson.

Ghost flicked the safety back on his rifle, and tossed it around his back allowing it to dangle via the shoulder strap it was attached to. He crossed his arms, and smirked as if entirely entertained by something that was nothing more than trashy talk-show drama to him.

“You’re paranoid Johnson. We’re never going to get attacked,” I yelled.

“So you didn’t make any weapons?” he asked, completely mystified.

“No. The Minister was already up my ass about his fucking eye, I didn’t have the time,” I said, burying my face in my hands.

“There’s a reason nobody trusts you,” he screamed, after a moment. He took a deep breath and continued.

“You think you’re on top of the world,” he shook his head. “With your money, and doctorates and all of that other useless shit. You’re still a kid, and can’t be trusted with any responsibility!”

“ Boo-hoo. You’re useless Johnson. You put up this big front about being caring, and giving a shit, but I’ve never seen someone condemn a friend so quickly before,” I argued back as I pointed to the rifle.

Johnson looked as if he was ready to charge at me, but Ghost held him down, placing his hand on his shoulder.

“Your mate emptied my magazine before bringing me the rifle,” he spoke matter of factly, moving the rifle around in his hands to indicate to us that he could tell by the weight.

He stared at me for a moment, and paused.

“He took the ammo out of it,” he said, to clarify as if I didn’t understand.

Johnson turned to Ghost, with a face full of disbelief.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s still an idiot,” I spat, standing up.

“I’m going to tell the Old Man you’re innocent,” said Ghost as he zipped his rifle back up.

Johnson turned around and placed his hand on Ghost’s shoulder “just because he wasn’t at the Auto Shop doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”

Ghost turned around, and tossed Johnson’s hand aside “he didn’t do it.”

As Ghost turned the doorknob I heard a loud resounding roar, a blaring gunshot rang out. Immediately I was forced to my knees,writhing in pain. A sharp, piercing ache stung my ears. My senses were distorted, and my ears, especially, seemed ready to start bleeding.

The whining hum of the gunshot in my ears began to recede. I allowed my knees to fully buckle and give in, I fell to the ground voluntarily as it was easier to look up this way, than it would’ve been to remain standing and bend my already pounding head.

A rifle barrel was protruding through the open doorway, forcing Ghost to his knees.

A pool of slimy, red varnish painted the floor in front of him..

I saw his hands up, and a barrel of another rifle being pointed at his head.

“Home sweet home. It feels good to be back,” chuckled Freddy.

Five

“Where the fuck did you go?” Johnson muttered, in a tone both rhetorical and literal.

Me and Johnson were both on our knees, with our hands up. Ghost, however, was propped against the wall, muttering expletives and profanities under his breath. He was nursing the gunshot wound in his shoulder with a dirty rag.

“I didn’t know you swore!” Freddy chuckled as he paced the gap between me and Johnson. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, and bent down in front of me, wrapping his arms around.

“Hug time!”

I closed my eyes, and recited Johnson’s question.

“You never were very creative,” he said, as he released his grip, not satisfied with my question.

“I took a little field trip. Met up with some of my old buddies back near The Hub,” he chimed, patting a nearby guard on the head.

“Don’t go anywhere you guys, I’ll be right back!”

Freddy ushered out the handful of guards in the room, and closed the door behind him, shooting us a wink.

Before I could look over to Johnson, Ghost was already up and fiddling with the doorknob.

“Fucking wankers,” he mumbled, “the lock is a Spyder Allegro.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Johnson asked.

“It means it’d take a few hours to pick,” Ghost sighed, “without power tools we’re not getting through that.”

Ghost slid the lockpicks back into his boot, and scratched his head, remembering the pain of the gunshot. His shoulder looked like it ran a cycle through an industrial sized meat grinder. The mangled flesh was oozing blood, constantly bubbling, pouring down his torso and then re-filling with a fresh supply.

He turned to me, and grabbed me.

“Focus,” he urged. His eyes were piercing and fierce, a sight uncharacteristic to those freshly shot, at least in my experience. He shoved me aside, and helped Johnson to his feet.

“Do you lot have a weapon supply of any kind?”

Johnson shook his head solemnly, glanced at me, and then jerked his body in the other direction, “no.”

Ghost snapped in front of his face to resurrect some of his attention.

“Where did you throw the rounds you took from my rifle?”

“The kitchen’s disposal.”

Ghost sighed and sat down in a chair.

“Well lads, we seem to be slightly fucked.”

Johnson followed in sitting down, walking past me as if I weren’t there.

“What are we going to do?”

Ghost shrugged, and then grimaced.

“I’m a doctor. Do you want me to take a look at that?” I asked in attempt to reestablish my relevance.

“How thoughtful of you,” Ghost smirked, “but it’s a flesh wound. Missed the axillary artery.”

Suddenly gunshots rang out. The sharp echoing blasts, characterized by distant screams of pain, caught the attention of all three of us. Even Ghost, who had been intensely scanning the room for resources, had perked his ears up in anticipation of subsequent shots - like counting the seconds between thunder and lightning.

The shots continued for minutes, not seconds. When they began to falter and subside, they returned in random and spontaneous bursts.

The screaming at first was extremely audible, but as the shots continued to ring out all that was left was the dull, bass filled sound of crying in the distance. Like hearing a conversation in a different room.

The door flew open, and Freddy walked in with the face of a child on Christmas morning.

“Alright you first,” he motioned to the Scot with a point.

Ghost paid him no attention. He sat with his back to our captor, stone-faced and completely unchanging. His face concentrated, yet his eyes were closed.

Freddy reached forward and put his hand on Ghost’s shoulder. In the blink of an eye the Ghost grabbed Freddy’s wrist, spun him around as they were twirling in a ballroom, and tossed him over his shoulder - pinning him to the ground with his knee.

Freddy was still smiling, but his attempts to speak were thwarted by Ghost’s knee crushing his trachea.

Another gunshot rang out, followed by a subsequent ricochet. Ghost tumbled under the interrogation table, desperate to avoid another bullet. Again, footsteps echoed through the hall, and within seconds at least a dozen armed men were standing in the room. Some held us at gunpoint, while others helped Freddy to feet.

“You guys always impressed me. It’s a shame we didn’t end up working together,” Freddy smirked, “and I doubt I’m going to be able to convince McAffery to change his mind about me after I kill his son as well,” added Freddy, wiping the blood from his face.

The men began dragging us out of the room, and immediately the smell of death infested my nose. A combination of metal, blood, sweat and a secret ingredient of some sort. An odd configuration considering death doesn’t particularly identify with a specific smell.

The hallway, however, was empty. Apart from left over bullet holes in the walls, puddles and streaks of blood, you would’ve never been able to tell a massacre just took place.

We rounded a corner, near the hallway to the lab, and I noticed a body on the floor. As we passed it, I realized it was The Minister, and his eyes was gauged out. My stomach dropped, and a sense of heaviness invaded my psyche. In any other circumstance I would’ve found the circumstances all very comically poetic, but seeing the old man’s wiry hairy caked in dirt and blood reminded me that this was all very real.

And that fucking hallway light was still flickering.

Six

Freddy spun the cylinder of the revolver and slammed it shut, placing it down on the table between Johnson and I.

“Who wants to go first guys?” he cheered, clapping his hands.

“I’ll go first,” yelled Ghost, from behind us.

“How courageous of you,” Freddy said as he folded his arms, “unfortunately I don’t trust you with a gun.”

He began to pace with a furrowed brow, and an inquisitory finger placed upon his lips as if in deep contemplation.

I peered back to Ghost, hoping that he had a plan of some sort. Perhaps he’d give me some top-secret spy signal to indicate. Instead, however, I was greeted by the recognizable humming he seemed to have a grand affinity for.

“Useless,” I whispered under my breath.

“Alright Jayden you’re up first.”

“First for what?” I stuttered.

Freddy let out a giant bellowing laugh as he patted me on the head, “you’re a funny one I’ll give you that.”

I hesitated, my eyes flickering between Johnson and Ghost as if they’d have the solution to our predicament; neither paid me any attention.

“I’ll go first,” Johnson said.

I looked at him, my eyes begging his for attention, only to be met by a cold glance and dismissal.

“Coolio,” Freddy slid the revolver towards Johnson.

“Here’s the dealio. There’s one round in that piece, so you have a one-in-six chance of blowing your own brains out. I’m going to count to five, and you pull that trigger. If you don’t then those chances are going to go from one-out-of-six to six-out-of-six, because my boys here are gonna do the job for you.”

He pointed to his ‘boys,’ whom were armed to their teeth with firearms and blunt weapons of all kinds.

Johnson nodded.

I slammed my hands down on the table, “Johnson what the fuck are you doing!”

My sporadic outbreak rewarded me with a punch to the face by the guard standing by. I didn’t care.

“Johnson are you fucking stupid!”

He begun to raise the revolver to his head, flaring his nostrils and gritting his teeth. His breathing speeding up, just as the revolver’s ascent to his temple.

“One.”

He looked at me, then looked away.

“He wouldn’t do it,” I thought to myself.

“Two.”

His hands shook, as he swayed in his seat.

“It’s not possible,” I breathed.

My head began to pound.

“Three.”

“Fuck you!,” I screamed.

“Statistically there’s a one in six chance of shooting the correct chamber. However physics dictates that the spin of the cylinder, deposited the round into the bottom. He’ll fire an empty cyclinder,” I yelled at Ghost, desperate for an indirect audience.

“Four.”

He pulled the hammer back on the revolver, and closed his eyes.

“He’ll be fine,” I whispered, this time to myself.

“Five.”

A tear rolled down Johnson’s face. Mucus jumped from his nose due to the intense pressure his clenched jaw was creating, and he began to slowly pull the trigger.

The cylinder begun to turn as the firing mechanism was teased, and released. Constantly spinning halfway, and then resetting, just as Johnson’s own willpower teased and released.

Finally a loud bang filled the room in an instant. My ears now desensitized to the raw pervasiveness of indoor gunshots. The sound of Johnson’s body hitting the floor registered in my head before the gunshot did. Red mist was spewed into the air like a bloody Aurora Borealis, and was accompanied by a cloud of smoke that made the blood look more like fireworks than death. Obliterated flesh painted the walls. Residual traces of Johnson caked the top of his side of the table.

I sat motionless, hoping to hear any movement or indication Johnson was still alive. I reprimanded my body for making any noise, I didn’t breathe. I waited.

I heard nothing. I heard less than nothing, I heard an echo reverberating in a room, where an echo couldn’t scientifically be possible. I heard Ghost’s labored breaths, and I heard Freddy’s disgusting laugh.

I continued to sit motionlessly, until I felt a wet finger on my cheek.

Freddy’s face greeted me, and his laugh mocked me, while his finger painted my cheek with Johnson’s blood.

“I’m going to kill you,” were the only words I was capable of saying while the armed guards ensured Freddy could finish his masterpiece, by holding me at gunpoint. My body, now lead, sunk me further into the chair despite my longing to jump up and wring his neck.

“That’d be impressive, but not gonna happen!” he exclaimed, still laughing and twirling around.

Freddy turned towards Ghost, wiping his finger on a nearby guards shirt, and motioned for him to be sat down next.

“Alright I got a surprise for you buddy!” exclaimed Freddy.

The room’s door opened and a guard dropped Ghost’s rifle-bag onto the table.

He’s dead. Johnson is dead. The words displayed as piercing white text on a black background, as if that was the only thing that mattered. I couldn’t see anything but that fucking white text.

“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if you got shot by your own gun? So we’re going to have Jayden here pull the trigger on you this time!”

I sat still, and vacant.

He was the only one that gave a shit. He can’t be dead. What even defines death? Perhaps he’s transcended bodily existence. He’s in a better place. That doesn’t mean he’s dead. But that would posit the existence of a god. Maybe God is real, if that means Johnson is alive. It’s a miracle.

I rapped my head with a knuckle.

Logic that proved he wasn’t dead was trapped within my brain, yet I couldn’t summon it. It needed to come out.

I struck my temple once more.

Freddy looked at me and then back to Ghost, as if he expected us to share in his enthusiasm.

“Hello? Anyone in there?” He snapped in front of my face, barely outside of my biting range.

“You’re a wee little shite,” spat Ghost.

Freddy, still smiling, looked at him and then did a double take when he realized what he had said. His smile furled into a deep, aggressive scowl.

“What was that you old fuck?”

Ghost begun to get to his feet slowly, stopping only to give the guard behind him a dark look when he tried to throw a punch.

“I don’t think you fully understand this situation,” Freddy said, as the deprived smile returned to his face.

“You think three of you is enough?” Ghost hissed.

The two of them, were now were face to face, and to my surprise Freddy raised his hand to his “boys,” to ensure he didn’t need the backup.

Ghost towered over Freddy. His shoulder was still violently leaking, yet he didn’t seem to even notice.

“Can’t pull the trigger yourself?” Ghost smiled, “You know there’s different types of impotence. But hell, I don’t judge mate.”

“I can,” Freddy asserted as he reached for the bag without breaking eye contact. He was now fuming, the anger making his hands violently twitch.

Freddy pulled the rifle out of the bag, and held it to Ghost as if to gauge his reaction to an inevitable death. Ghost responded by grabbed the barrel, holding it to his own forehead.

“Don’t forget the safety,” he smiled.

Freddy’s face lit bright red as he fumbled around to switch off the safety.

He peered through the scope, and pulled the trigger, smiling a sinister smile.

A humiliating click filled the room, while the silence volatilized. Freddy’s smile melted into nothing more than a confounded leer.

Within a second Ghost grabbed the rifle, and spun it around knocking Freddy over with the butt-stock, and probably breaking his trigger finger in the process. He fished out a bullet from his vest and manually loaded it into the receiver, snapping it into action with the bolt.

Freddy begun to cry, a satisfyingly pleasurable whimper to my ears.

Ghost snapped towards the guards, holding the rifle with a sharp form.

The guards, who were also aiming their rifles, didn’t speak.

I took the opportunity and leaped onto Freddy, pummeling him with my fists.

“You fucker!” I screamed.

The contact of his face on my knuckles, produced a satisfying pleasure that permeated throughout my body. They do say revenge is sweet after all.

I continued to strike him, aggravating his pathetic squealing more and more.

“Jayden get off of him,” Ghost sternly spoke, as he lifted me off with one hand - ensuring his rifle’s aim never swayed with the other, “control yourself.”

“I have one round in here,” Ghost spoke, redirecting his attention to the grunts, “At this range a seven sixty two will take your head clean off.”

The guards looked at each other. I spat on Freddy and sat back against the wall.

“Whichever one of you I decide to shoot, will explode. Trust me when I say that’d give me enough time to slice the other one’s neck wide open.”

“Like a meaty flashbang,” Ghost smiled.

The guards, ambivalently began to lower their rifles, out of a terrifying aura that Ghost created. I knew that from first hand experience.

The second their rifles touched the ground, another piercing gunshot rang out, and a body dropped to the floor. A bloody explosion that covered the other guard in a fleshy pulp erupted, only stopping about half a minute later. The drops of blood and person slid down the walls. The guard that was still alive, covered his face, and picked up the rifle in a desperate dance. He spun around in the whirlwind of brain, before raising his rifle and pulling the trigger. Another semi-state click echoed, as the look on the guard’s face affirmed that the safety was still on.

Within a blink of an eye, Ghost lunged forward, drawing a knife holstered on his thigh, in one smooth motion. He sank the shimmering steel into the man’s carotid artery, and cupped a hand over his mouth. He whispered into his ear, and threw him onto the ground. A violet geyser of blood rushed out, and slowly subsided, reminding me of what I thought a lawn sprinkler would look like.

Ghost whispered something else under his breath, as he tied a rag around his shoulder.

“You good?” He shot me a sympathetic look.

I couldn’t seem to rationalize how Johnson could still be alive in a world without a God. Accepting the existence of God wasn’t something I was willing to do, even if it meant Johnson was still alive. I sat still.

“Mate?” Ghost repeated, setting his rifle down on the table.

“If you’re referring to my physical status, yes I seem to be unscathed,” I choked, holding the tears back. I couldn’t cry in front of someone like Ghost.

“Get up you fuck,” Ghost yelled, grabbing Freddy by the neck.

“Please man.”

The soppy dripping, that pitter-pattered against the cold concrete floor, brought me to attention. Realizing he had just urinated made Freddy cry harder, still shaking violently in a tantrum-like fugue.

Ghost threw him against the wall, and produced his knife. With surgical precison he slashed Freddy’s semitendinosus muscle, and drove him to the ground. He’d never walk again.

He collapsed, and seemed to be sob to the rhythm of the same pre-war song Johnson always hummed. With every attempt to stand he made, he was rewarded with a sickening slosh, that drove him back down into the cold concrete. The gash on his hamstring expanded in size as his skin tried to breath, provoking the wound into a further gape.

Ghost walked towards me. He handed me his knife, as well as a silenced handgun - after turning the safety off.

I looked at what remained of Johnson, and took both.

“I’ll be outside,” he said over his shoulder, as he walked towards the door.