Sin Eater

Mike grasped the stanchion with a sweaty palm as the bus puttered from stop to stop.

For the past thirty minutes.

For as long as it took.

He stared at the man sitting at the front of the bus. A Red amongst a sea of Yellows and Oranges.

Don’t see many Reds. Maybe three or four I can remember.

And each time before, Mike had gone to great lengths to avoid them.

But today was different.

Mike reached into his pocket. Ran his fingers over a cracked, cheap pocketknife. A trinket that had belonged to a father he never met.

The bus began to slow. Again.

But this time, the man up front, the Red, shifted in his seat. As if preparing to stand.

Mike squeezed the folded knife his pocket. Held on for dear life as if the inexpensive knife were a wriggling fish threatening to jump from his grasp.

The bus stopped. The door wheezed open.

The Red rose from his seat. Joined the cluster of people getting off the bus.

Mike released his grip on the stanchion.

Followed the flow of commuters towards the door, carefully keeping his distance from the Red.

Out into the cacophonous bustle of downtown.

As the bus puttered towards the horizon, Mike stood on the sidewalk and surveyed his surroundings.

Empty storefronts with boarded windows. Rusted, burned out cars abandoned at the curb.

And so many people.

Yelling, impatient, angry people scurried past. Mike, a teenager from the suburbs, felt like a foreigner in a strange land.

Might as well be Mars, he thought to himself.

Then he remembered what circumstances had necessitated the bus ride.

Mike scanned back and forth.

Reacquired the Red.

Walking towards a warehouse with a worn brick façade and no signs.

Mike pulled the knife out of his pocket.

Opened the creaky, rusted blade.

Picked up his pace, closing the distance between him and the Red.

The Red stopped at a steel door with flaking paint of an indeterminate color. He reached out to knock on the door but stopped abruptly.

Spun around suddenly.

Just as Mike lunged forward.

Eyes wild.

The blade thrusted towards its intended target.

The Red reached into his jacket just as the blade buried into his shoulder.

He grunted in pain.

But his composure returned quickly.

Much quicker than Mike had expected.

The Red swung a backhand slap, smacking Mike in the jaw. The blow sent the inexperienced young man sprawling.

The Red glared at Mike as he pulled the knife from his shoulder.

“Who the fuck are you?” the red growled as he carelessly tossed the knife at Mike’s feet.

Mike returned the glare with a red-hot hatred that only grew hotter when the Red laughed.

“OK, tough guy. Stay quiet,” the Red said with a chuckle as he reached into his jacket once again.

Mike started to rise. Eyes locked on the Red.

“A piece of advice, tough guy. Stabbing a guy in the shoulder is only gonna piss him off. Aim for the neck. Or the heart.”

Mike found his feet. Held his glare as he watched as the Red pulled a pistol from his jacket.

“Not that there will be a next time,” the Red sneered.

The Red raised the gun.

With nothing left to lose, Mike lunged forward desperately.

Grabbed for the gun.

The two men grappled.

Struggled.

Back and forth.

The barrel of the pistol swinging wildly.

Deliberating which side to take.

Bang!

The pistol fell to the ground with a clank.

Mike stepped back.

Eyes wide with disbelief.

The Red stepped back as well.

Eyes wide with disbelief.

His bloodstained hands wrapped around his throat, desperately trying to stanch the rivulets of blood trickling between his fingers.

Down his throat.

All over his shirt.

The Red fell backwards, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Mike watched as the man took his last breath.

Then everything changed.

A mind-rending headache ripped through Mike’s gray matter, forcing the young man’s eyes closed.

So tightly that tears began to form.

Then, at the point Mike fully expected his brain to explode, the images started.

Flashes…

Of…

Violence.

Mike struggled to make sense of the terrifying kaleidoscope of horrors.

He opened his eyes. Just to make sure he hadn’t been teleported to Hell.

The world was… on fire!

Mike dropped to his knees. Ready to succumb.

Then the fire dissipated. As if it had never been there.

Mike looked at the Red.

Who was… not red.

Mike stood slowly. Heard the steel door creaking open.

With unfamiliar quickness, Mike grabbed the pistol from the ground, stepped back from the door and braced for the new arrivals.

The door opened. Two Reds burst forth.

BANG! BANG!

Two headshots.

Two more used-to-be reds.

An extra strength headache.

A new set of flashes.

A smattering of indistinguishable yet distinct images of violence wrapped in fire.

But more.

A dozen women, faces dirty, clothes torn, huddled together in a cage.

And something else.

A three-dimensional wireframe sketch. Edges iridescent. Glowing. Pulsating. Rotating.

A floor plan?

Mike ejected the clip from the pistol. Counted rounds. Slammed the clip home. Chambered a round.

Before his mind could consider his unearned expertise with firearms, instinct propelled him through the door and up the stairs with the quick but quiet steps of a panther.

As he approached the top of the stairs, Mike…

Stop!

A voice, not his, hollered from deep within the darkened recesses of his mind.

And his body listened.

Just in time to avoid running headlong into a barrage of automatic gunfire.

Mike dropped down.

Clung to the wall.

Waited.

Now!

A break in the barrage as the unseen assailants reloaded.

Mike raced into the room. Tipped over a large wooden table. Took a quick peek.

Three more Reds.

Get down!

A fresh fury of bullets ripped through the overturned table, throwing splintered wood fragments this way and that. His position was quickly becoming untenable.

Move!

Mike peeked around the left side. Two of the Reds were flanking him. One from each side. The third stood in the middle, waiting for the interloper to poke his head out.

Move or die!

Mike leaned out and fired three shots at the red on the left.

A grunt.

A thud.

Then another barrage from the guy in the middle.

Mike ducked back behind the table. The headache started but…

Footsteps! On the right!

Mike swung his pistol to the right. Fired three times. Walked the rounds up. Chest. Throat. Nose.

Two Reds down.

And no more bullets, Mike despaired silently as he looked down at the empty chamber.

Footsteps approached cautiously.

Mike bit his lip, fighting back the headache.

“Who the fuck are you?” the lone remaining Red yelled.

Mike popped up from behind the table. Fired the empty pistol overhand like a tomahawk at the Red. Struck him between his eyebrows.

The cursing red staggered backwards. Struggled to raise his assault rifle.

Now!

Mike vaulted the table. Sprinted towards the Red.

Leapt.

Unleashed a Superman punch, driving his fist down, ripping through the tendons and bones connecting jaw with face.

The Red hit the ground.

Dropped his rifle.

Looked up at Mike with bewilderment.

Mike picked up the rifle.

Fired a single round.

The twitching, mutilated man went still.

And the headache would be delayed no longer.

Brought Mike to his knees.

Then the flashes.

A room on fire.

This room?

Mike opened his eyes.

The room still burned brightly but his eyes offered more clarity than his mind.

He could see an angry man hiding behind a desk with a shotgun.

In an office.

Behind a wall.

Mike waved his hand in front of his face.

The room on fire was no hallucination.

In the office, the man stalked towards the door. With a shotgun in hand.

Mike pointed the rifle at the door just as the man, another Red but burning much, much brighter than any of the others, emerged from the office.

Their eyes met.

Mike pulled the trigger.

Click.

The angry man took the opportunity to aim his shotgun at Mike. Laughed at the young man’s misfortune.

Mike tossed the jammed rifle to the side.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Mike reached into his pocket.

“Easy!” the angry man shouted.

Mike slowly removed his hand from his pocket.

A photo.

Mike looked at the photo. Then he showed it to the angry man.

The angry man considered the photo for a moment. Then recognition brought a smile.

“A tasty treat. Who was she to you?”

Was.

Not is.

Mike rolled his shoulders. Stretched his neck. The picture dropped from his hand.

“OK asshole. Enough playtime. You should have never come here,” the angry man snarled.

Bang!

The shotgun erupted. A slug headed right for Mike’s chest.

Or rather, where Mike’s chest had been.

With preternatural quickness, Mike had dodged left, narrowly avoiding the projectile.

BANG!

BANG!

Two more thunderous blasts from the shotgun. Mike darted left. Dodged right. And with each move, he drew closer to the angry man.

Startled by the young man’s athleticism, the angry man began firing frantically.

BANG!

Duck.

BANG!

Dodge.

The distance between reduced to an arm’s length, Mike grabbed the fore-end of the shotgun. Then he drove the shotgun upward, putting the barrel of the shotgun on a collision course with the befuddled Red’s forehead.

Then the darkness came for the angry man.

And none of it mattered anymore.

At least not to the angry man.

The headache hit hard. Like one of the shotgun slugs had burrowed a soda can sized hole into his forehead.

But the flashes that followed had Mike longing for the headache's return.

The ephemeral flickers of images morphed into an all too clear montage of murder, torture and...

The women!

Mike looked around the room. Surveyed the carnage. Hoping to find a clue.

And he did.

Burned into the floor.

A trail of white-hot tongues of fire leading to a door at the far end of the room.

Mike dropped the shotgun and walked towards the door.