Chapter Five: All of The Blood

Blood drooled from wounds like spit from gaping mouths.

Each drop stretched down the sides of clothing and armour sticking to the grass. It painted the brown strands a dark red. The bodies were outlined as red snow angels, only they would not stand back up to admire their art.

There were cries for help. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore them. The more I told myself that they were killers, the more the voice of reason died down.  It’s being struck by the bad driver versus showing up to the crash scene. There are no enemies in death unless the other man tries to drag you down first.

The players would respawn. When the burning in their chests and the screams of their hearts died down to a whisper. I remembered that feeling all too well.

Once had been too many times.

When the Imp spoke about rules, respawning sounded perfect. I didn’t imagine it like this, though. You didn’t just lose the few things you had collected. You lost the little safety that you cultivated amongst the chaos. Even in Hell, living, breathing people were much more valuable than guns.

Lark had learned that at the price of his power.

I pushed up onto my side, checking the place where my calve stung. A wound leaked through my trousers. I had taken two bullets in the right leg, and a graze on my left. The left hurt and the right would fester if I didn’t close the wound.

Each movement made me wince. Pain lanced up the leg. I kept it straight and applied pressure to the wound.

Poppy moved from body to body, searching for weapons and items. She managed to pocket some scraps of a map, two handguns, and a grey knife before the bodies and items disappeared.

The fact that items only went away with your corpse, meant dying to allies was different from dying to an enemy. While an enemy received all items, allies had to loot the bodies. If you were smart, you’d finish yourself off given the chance.

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Poppy stood over Lark, staring down at the Demi’s chest.

There were a dozen holes in his torso. Any normal man would have been dead in minutes. And by the look of things, the bullets had shredded right through, opening wounds on his back as well. Lark breathed in and out with shallow gasps. Each breath caused more blood to spill from the holes.

He turned toward me. I gasped.

“Old Hell,” Lark whispered. “The Throne.”

I shook my head. “I-I don’t want to be part of this.”

And I didn’t. This battle they fought between each other was madness. Hell’s occupants schemed and drew the enemy to carry out their dirty work. Heaven would have an easy time winning the war. They would find their God, while we bickered amongst ourselves.

“You won’t survive.” Lark opened his hand. “Take it.”

The black cube rested on the center of his palm, covered in blood.

He killed two dozen men in the blink of an eye. Power like that would tempt anyone into doing whatever they wanted. When a life was worth as little as a cube in your palm, you could never realize its true value.

Despite the way this game was played, our understanding of the world and thoughts as people hadn’t changed. Men could still choose whether to be as twisted as my stepfather. And even if you didn’t make the choice, you could still become affected like the twelve-year-old who changed until the bad stuff became normal.

I wouldn’t murder for the sake of power. Maybe because I didn’t know if I really had that much killing inside of me. I’d like to think it was so I didn’t become another cog in this wheel of destruction.

“I don’t want it,” I said.

Lark sucked in. “You want to end this? This madness?”

I couldn’t look at him. Because that’s exactly what I wanted.

“I can feel it in you,” he said. “You’re like the old angels.”

I stared at the cube. “There’s blood on that weapon.”

“Then do something about it.”

He coughed and blood dotted the metal of his visor. The Demi would die in seconds.

The cube rolled down his palm and onto the grass.

I didn’t want it, but I knew I had to take it. Doing nothing wouldn’t change anything. Even if it only meant bearing the burden for now.

The blood on the cube stuck to my fingers. It shuddered in my hand, and the black and grey surface morphed until the cube became a grey tinted crystal. A small black ball hovered inside of it.

Lark stared up at the sky. “Beautiful . . .”

His armour sizzled and he disappeared into nothing.

Poppy watched, her lips pursed. She cradled the handguns, a knife, a knapsack, a ripped piece of fabric, and the pieces of map in her arms.

“They’re gone now,” she said, kneeling by my side.

I didn’t ask how she knew for sure. Because the blood on the knife told me all I needed to know.