Page 64 of Dead By Dusk

“Aw, look at you getting a good hit in,” I coo, and I can’t help but find myself amused at the flush that covers his ruddy face as his grip on his weapon tightens. For the first time, I see the fear in Mr. Delgado’s eyes just beyond where this man stands, and watch as he backs away into his office. He’s shutting and locking the door behind him as one last safety measure, leaving his last line of defense to fend for himself. I don’t mind, though. Not when I would like to take my time picking his body apart as he so callously did to Ronan.

“Let’s get on with this, shall we? I have better things to do than stare at you all day,” he says, words dripping disgust as he takes me in.

“If your plans involve dying, then I would like to agree.”

An annoyed grunts leaves his throat as he lunges his body at me and my axe meets the metal of his machete—his weapon slides off my rounded axe, his body pushing forward as it follows the momentum. I use his momentary imbalance to send my axe cutting the length of his back. From shoulder to waist, his skin is torn open, and an excruciating yell fills the large, empty space we occupy. His legs give out from beneath him, as his confident facade crumbles.

“Get up and fight,” I demand as I slowly stalk toward his cowering body. His retreating form stops before I watch his arm try to push his body up. When he finally makes his way to his feet, he’s fuming as he studies me. “Don’t look at me like that, now,” I tsk. “I at least had the decency to leave your strong side unharmed,” I add with a snicker. He listens, unamused before swinging at me once again, but his movements are choppy and predictable now that he’s injured. With almost no effort, I ensure with each missed mark on his part, another wound is inflicted upon him.

“This is boring me,” I state when the whole left side of his body is battered and covered in wounds that bleed so much, I can no longer see where they are. Through it all, I left his right side completely unharmed, adding unnecessary comments—fueling his rage further while keeping the sorry excuse of a man on his feet and fighting. But the win feels too easy now, and I myself am losing enough blood that exhaustion has begun weighing on me as well.

“I would say this has been fun, but you have been about as disappointing as a stale bread sandwich.” An exasperated huff of disagreement weakly makes its way to my ears, but before hecan argue anything, I deftly throw the bloody hatchet, burrowing it deep within his stomach. He sinks to his knees, mouth gaping wide open while metal clatters loudly on the ground before he throws me the same look as the last man.

A plea for mercy. One that will go unanswered.

He will receive no quick relief from the pain I’m sure wreaks havoc upon his body.

“Only a coward inflicts pain on someone who can do nothing to defend himself,” I start, speaking over his gurgled and laborious breaths before kicking him down on the mutilated side of his body, eliciting another cry of agony. “You will feel every bit of pain possible until you die.” Then, I’m stepping away from his body, red blood coating the ground around him, mixing with those he had fought alongside.

His groans continue in waves. Inevitability pulled each one forward as another died on his lips. It’s then that Adonis enters the room. He had created a makeshift wrap around his shoulder and arm, helping keep the damaged limb in place. His gaze travels over the scene that I have created. A painting of pain, despair, mercy, and grief.

“Take Ronan to the medical room,” I call out, and his gaze snaps to me. But he doesn’t look like he understands what I’m requesting of him. He looks down right appalled that I even suggested such a thing.

“Si—” he starts, but I cut a murderous glare in his direction and he falls silent.

“Take him. Start preparing pain meds, antibiotics, anything that can be used to disinfect his wounds. Both of you need it. Don’t fight me on this.” He stands still, a debate playing out in his mind over what he should or shouldn’t do. Whatever argument he had for staying, dies on his lips though as he cuts a glance at Ronan.

“Give him hell,” he says, his deep voice holding its own command, but the look we share—one of dark intensity—speaks volumes. Everything that we could say but refuse to.

“Keep him alive for me, will you?” I request, and he dips his head, eyes full of sincerity before he turns away from me.

His large muscled legs make the trek to the center of the room where Ronan still lies unconscious before dipping his chin at me. A small, sure gesture that comforts me as I turn back to the locked door. Subconsciously, my hand drifts back to the throbbing cut above my hip and the blood that stains my skin when I pull away. I search the room for anything that could be used as a makeshift bandage, ultimately cutting a strip of fabric from one of the dead men’s shirts. I tie the fabric around my waist, tightly knotting it and wincing at the new pressure.

I grab the dropped axe before stalking back to the final man. Surprised as I may have been, he is still breathing. His skin is a sickly pale color, and as I grip the handle of my secondary weapon still lodged in his stomach, I let him lay unaware that I am even here. Then, I rip the rounded blade out and relish in the sharp intake of breath he takes as the blood begins flowing freely—faster and unrestrained.

“Oh, Robert,” I call out, loud and playfully as I approach the door. “I have a bone to pick with you.” My foot slams into the newly painted wood of his office door. The lock breaks beneath my force, and the door opens.

He sits behind his polished wooden desk. Papers litter the entire surface, save for where his desktop and mouse sit. There are no family photos that line the walls, no drawings or letters like the ones I’d kept in the room of mine and Ronan’s apartment. There is nothing indicating he had ever been anything other than alone.

He clicks and slides the barrel forward as he points a gun at me, but he’s shaking too much for a steady shot. His chances ofhitting me—even at a distance this short—is slim and he knows it.

“Now now, there’s no need for that. I just want to talk. I know how much you love hearing the sound of your own voice,” I say as I approach him with my hands up in a surrender we both know doesn’t mean shit while my fingers still loosely grip my weapons.

He doesn’t have a retort for me. No smart remarks or volatile thoughts to send my way. He doesn’t have to have any, I suppose. He knows what his fate has become.

“I thought that if I took everything away from you that you would finally stop fighting,” he shakily admits, a thoughtless chuckle immediately following. Beads of sweat fall down his forehead as he fumbles for the next thing to say. “I thought I figured it out.”

“You were never very good at the whole thinking thing,” I say, closing the distance with another step, and he monitors the movement. His eyes take notice of every step that I take before frantically looking around the room as if there’s someone else here that might still save him.

“You’re going to kill me,” he says and I laugh humorlessly.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I say, removing another foot of distance, immediately marked by the monster in front of me. “Maybe your brain isn’t completely fucking useless after all…but I will be doing much more than just killing you.”

Time seems to slow as the aim of his weapon changes. No longer at me, but at himself. Just before he can pull the trigger, I react, sending my axe soaring through the air, completely severing his hand from his body. His screams surround me, deafening cries that almost make me wonder if I’m the same as him. Just a bloodthirsty monster, who gets off on the suffering of others.

But the man who was tortured within an inch of his life would disagree. The disbelief that would mar the delicate features of a dreamer would convince me I could never be such a thing. The woman who risked her life to warn me knowing what it would cost, would be ashamed to know I thought myself the same as him when she had given everything for me to end this all. Every single one of them knew, and I let that thought carry me through as time speeds up, and I do to him what he had tried to do to us—had done to so many others.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” he questions, his voice strained as I begin to wrap his severed limb before he has the chance to bleed out. His face scrunches as I tighten a discarded jacket around the butchered area. A smirk lifts my face at the sign of his discomfort.

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