Shadowed Angel

The cold wind blew over the barren land, making veils of golden sand shower over its changing surface like some kind of heavenly rain of riches under the mid day sun. Rays touching the shifting sands were enough to sizzle the flesh off any bones and with this fact; nothing lived over its deathly gaze.

At least, not everyday as a rather young man in his teens walked through the desert letting the grains of sand snake around his red bare feet. With hair as black as the deepest pit of a moonless night and eyes as deep as any abyss, he walked on. His skin seemed extremely tanned from over exposure to the baking temperatures he was under. It was as if all moisture had abandoned him with his lips like a dried river bed and his body not able to produce the much needed sweat. His military like clothing was tattered turning the short sleeved shirt and trouser into just a sleeveless shirt and shorts which almost look faded. Occasionally, he would stagger but keep on his feet, never wishing to fall and allow his body to dream of rest and peace. This place was not his home. This sand was not his element. This need for water was not his weakness. And the hunger for release from the torment of the burning sun was only the wish for death, so he continued. Truthfully, he didn’t know where he was going but kept on moving, at least that was the only way he knew he was alive since he couldn’t count on his labored breathing. With a final step, he stopped, letting his blurry eye sight scan a far spot in front of him. Though he knew he was totally exhausted, thirsty and hungry, he could easily tell what he was looking at.

A camp, and this was no mirage. It was made of three tents with three military cars, for that he was sure. Slipping his hands into his pocket, he felt the steel of the revolver in his pocket. It was a six shooter with six bullets which meant six people. Three tents of the size they were meant an average of nine people, he was sure. And probably, they were armed. The only option he had left was stealth. So, releasing the gun in his pocket, he dashed across the sand. He had to make as less sound as possible or risk being noticed. So with as much stealth as he could master, he moved closer and closer until he stopped all of a sudden and threw himself down, hoping not to be noticed by a man who stepped out of a tent with an AK47 strapped over his left shoulder. The man was in military uniform and had a water bottle in his right hand making the teen want to bite his tongue to prevent himself from running straight up to the man. After a few more seconds, the stranger walked up and sat on the hood of one of the cars as he gulped down the water. Seeing his chance, the teen begun to creep slowly down the dune he was on. In approximately one minute he’d be in…he stopped. Something was wrong, he thought as he looked down at the camp and froze as the man on the car hood seemed to look in his exact direction. That’s when the boy noticed, in his rush, he had not considered that he was on the slope and out of the slight shadow on the side of the dune and that meant his crawl line was behind him…his position had been given. He winced as the man shouted; giving the signal that he was seen. With regret, the teen stood up and dashed towards the camp as fast as he could. He looked to the camp and felt his heart stop when the others came out and pointed their guns in his general direction. With adrenaline pumping dryly into his aching body, he dashed faster straight for the camp not caring about the “phit phit” sounds erupting all around him as bullets met sand. Hesitation meant probable death as retreat meant certain death. So with his eyes scanning, he spotted his destination, some crates stacked together to give him perfect cover. He dashed towards them until he was brought crashing as a bullet hit his shoulder as one hit his thigh…this was bad, very bad. A second to make a decision, he forced himself up and dashed forward, not listening to the creams of pain coming from his wounds. Within seconds, he crashed into the crates, using them as cover and clenched hit teeth together from the pain his thigh and shoulder gave him. He took out the revolver and took a deep breath to cloud out the pain and sound of bullets out of his mind. He waited and when the bullets stopped for a second, he knew why. They needed to reload. So swiftly, he dashed from his safety and spun the gun around; releasing a series of bursts which accurately found six chests leaving them blood red. Two more opponents who seem to hesitate. In a burst of speed, he run straight at the men and before one could move, his gun was knocked from his hands and within milliseconds, he was struck in the neck and allowed to fall trying hard to breath. The other was quite easy. The teen kicked the guns out of his hand and grabbed it before striking it over his head. The man fell, but it wasn’t over. The teen raised the gun again, ready to add another blow to the mans head for blood.
“ENOUGH”. The teen paused and dropped the gun, his breath hot and strained out of his dry throat.
“You’ve done well, John. A good work done.”, the dry hoarse voice said again but with a bit of pride in its tone. Its owner, a rather tired looking old man in white shirt and shorts made his way out of one of the camps, his eyes beady with old age. His gray hair was also evidence of his wisdom. The teen, now identified as John turned to face his master and teacher with the pain in his shoulder and thigh still screaming for relief. He watched as the six he’d shot down begun getting up and rubbed the red pain off their chest.
“You are the best I’ve created…now for your final test.”, the old man said as he stabbed his walking stick on the sandy ground. Instantly, two more men came from the tent holding a person who had a cloth over his or her head between them. The person was brought and thrown before John.
“It’s time for you to take an innocent life and gain your own ghost to haunt you.”, the old man whispered and turned, walking away. Ripping the cloth off, the person gasped. It was a girl, apparently not older than he was. She looked extremely terrified with eyes pleading to be spared. To kill her would be a crime to any heavenly being around. Looking at her, the girl seemed to cower away, speaking in a language John didn’t understand…and he didn’t care. He took a step towards her.
“Please…please”, the girl almost screamed causing John to stop. With fear and tears streaming down her cheeks, she had begged him…forced herself to say something in a language foreign to her but understandable to him. He knew what she wanted, hope for him to have mercy upon her. She was wrong. John descended upon her and laid his hands upon her neck and squeezed. No matter how hard she thrashed, she couldn’t do anything until the light in her eyes dimmed out, pushing John to squeeze harder. This memory would stay with him forever. The light going out of the girl’s eyes would haunt his dreams forever. Her ghost would torment him, keeping him sharp and always on the edge. At least now he could say he had joined the shadow. He was now a member of the shadows. He was one.