GAVIN
Dust. Bright, intense clouds of the stuff. So thick Gavin swears he can taste the dry, airborne dirt on his tongue, even through his mask and the filtered oxygen being cycled through it. For a moment, all he can see is the dust, and all he can hear is the rhythmic sound of his tank cycling air into the mask, resonating dully and distantly in his ears. That, and a high-pitched ringing that doesn't seem to want to go away. If anything, it's getting louder, higher. All other sounds are muffled and low-frequency.
Gavin is on his side in the dirt. His side is throbbing, and so is his head. He's certain there's going to be a nasty bruise on his temple. He might have a concussion, which doesn't bode well. But there are more pressing concerns.
Gotta move. That Ruster's about to nail us to the fucking wall.
With a spike of adrenaline, like an ice pick to the brain, Gavin boosts himself with his arms, clambering to his feet.
He takes a quick inventory, feeling with his hands and detecting the weight of various items attached to him. Except for his sunglasses, which are nowhere to be found, his equipment appears to be intact, still. Lucky break, that.
He can barely make sense of what happened. What that Ruster is apparently capable of. Not that he can afford to fixate on that, right now.
No thinking. That's how freezing up happens. Let the body move. The mind will follow.
He moves toward the shapes in his vision. The shadows. They are the members of his crew. They're bandying together, helping each other get up and moving as they assess the damage.
After taking two steps, a thick, concentrated cloud of airborne dirt suddenly migrates full-on into Gavin's face.
He clamps his eyes shut. He has no choice. Even so, there's the acute sting of the thick, fine dust getting in under the lids.
Sounds are returning, as if in response to the brief lack of other sensory inputs. The yelling becomes distinct, almost understandable. It's Riley. He's already up and moving, as if he didn't just experience the sensory equivalent of a flashbang.
A new shape appears, gliding into view. Bright lights flash low to the ground, like little explosions fueling the newcomer's movement as they rush across the ground. And Gavin doesn't need to guess who—or what—it is.
Riley's exclamations are cut off as the Ruster slams into him. The Ruster stops on a dime, defying physics itself. Meanwhile, Riley is lifted off his feet and sent sprawling at high speed. He crashes into an escarpment of rock nearby, like a toy thrown against the wall. There's a wet crunch, and he falls, slumped, to the dirt.
At this point, the dust has finally cleared, with a few dissipating clouds still meandering at shin height. The Ruster stands in the midst of the group, hood up, head crooked a little, grey armor speckled and marked with dust, a protective mask covering his face. There's movement at its upper back, and a mechanical whirring as a slim, sharply rectangular sheath pivots sideways on its own, allowing for quicker access from the Ruster's right hand. Sure enough, it grips the white handle, draws it. The blade which comes out with the sword handle is only about the length of Gavin's own forearm, but then a new length of metal blade unfolds out from it, snapping into place, becoming a long, katana-like sword. A line of orange light glows along the blade's edge.
The crew begins firing immediately, despite the fact that most of them are positioned in a sort of half-circle, with Gavin standing opposite them on the other side of the Ruster.
The air erupts with the chatter of gunfire, muzzles flashing. But the Ruster is on the move again, with plates opening up at the back of its calves, as well as some places at its upper back. Bright yellow light fizzes out of those openings, distorting the air, giving the impression of intense force and heat, like miniature jet engines, which propel the Ruster forward and out of the way of the gunfire.
A volley of shots whizzes past Gavin at either side, of all them missing him, strangely enough. The crew keeps firing, even though the Ruster has moved on, as if on a delay, and Gavin is forced to throw himself to the ground, diminish himself in the line of fire. He yells out something nonsensible, really more of an exclamation than a word. Something along the lines of, "UUUCK!"
Before he can get to forming a coherent response, or give an order, the Ruster is already back, looping around a hill-like spire of rock.
At this point, as a group, they're keyed into what's happening. They can hear the quick, rhythmic crunch of the Ruster's boots navigating the gravelly terrain, looping around that bend. Gavin watches as they all turn their weapons in that direction and begin firing again.
Gavin is on one knee, halfway to his feet. The Ruster is already back, a grey blur, propelled by bright lines of energy from the thrusters. It arrives at the front of the column of firing crew members, and there's an orange flash as its blade swipes through the air. Through Karla.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
Or...next to Karla? The Ruster keeps moving, swerving around the Watch member, flicking with its blade as it moves along the length of the group. It's only as it reaches the edge of the group that a red line appears at the circumference of Karla's neck, and her head lolls forward, disconnected, falling away from her body. Severed tubes flail against the torsos of the Watch members as pressurized oxygen passes through from the tanks, no longer connected to their masks.
Gavin has only had a leak in his breathing gear a couple of times. It's painful, when the toxic air enters the body and lungs. It happens fast, and it's no joke. It'll shut you down in mere seconds.
The crew members, turning to get a bead on the Ruster, are affected immediately. Some try to cover the open vent in the mask with their gloves, while others attempt to press the disconnected ends of the tube back together with one hand—which is absurd really, you need time, repair tape, and a steady pair of hands to fix something like that, but the panic has set in, no one is thinking rationally. They just watched a woman get decapitated by a Ruster moving so fast their eyes could barely follow.
Without having made a conscious decision to do so, Gavin flicks the knob on the side of his rifle from three-round-burst to full-auto. He pulls back on the trigger and the rifle comes alive in his arms, recoil thrashing against his body like an enraged beast. The Ruster is still on the move, avoiding Gavin's gunfire, weaving between rises of rocky rubble. It disappears from view, descending over a bumpy horizon of rock. For a couple seconds after, Gavin keeps firing, bullets cutting pointless etchings in the rock. It takes a conscious effort to take his finger off the trigger. It's a waste of energy, a waste of resources. He should save the ammo.
As if it matters. As if bullets even matter-
But he cuts the thought off mid-train and pushes it away, descending back into mechanical process. He presses the mag release, letting it fall to the ground, and loads another from his ammo bag. Compared to the commotion from before, it is eerily and suddenly quiet in the vicinity. The loudest thing is Gavin's own rapid breathing, echoing back in the mask. Following that is the sound of his own heart, rattling in the confines of his skull.
All of the Watch members are down now, either dead or incapacitated by the toxic air. And the one's being slowly poisoned by the deadly atmosphere will die soon enough if they aren't transported back inside. But Gavin is frozen in place, still on one knee, rifle at the ready, tense, uncertain, waiting for...something. He scans every sightline from his position, veering slowly left to right, then back again, listening.
Then the Ruster is back, so fast it seems to almost shutter into existence just a dozen or so yards ahead of Gavin.
Gavin blinks once, staring, trying to decide if what he's looking at is even real, or just a manifestation of his own panic and adrenaline. But then his body takes over again, trigger finger squeezing.
Not 'squeeze', he thinks, distantly, dissociatively. 'Pull'.
"Tits and lemons are for squeezing, triggers are for pulling," Gavin's father used to say, old coot that he was.
He pulls the trigger. And the rifle rocks back and back against his shoulder and armpit in a rhythmic barrage, muzzle flashing, painting a chaotic spray, bits of rock and dirt flying up.
This time, the Ruster doesn't move to avoid the shots. It walks slowly and steadily toward Gavin. Bullets spark dramatically, ricocheting off of the Ruster's arms, shoulders, and chest.
It creeps ever closer, unyielding. But Gavin refuses to let off. To do so, to turn and run, is a violation of everything he stands for. It's not just that the deaths of both Riley and Karla that keep flickering in his mind's eye, enraging him; though that is also true. The main thing is that he's fucking Gavin. It's not over til he says it's over. Til he makes it over. He'll stop this Ruster, or he'll die trying. Anything else is a breach of the laws of the universe itself. Anything else is a perversion of Gavin's very identity, his reality. It is...unacceptable.
But now the Ruster is standing directly in front of him. It grabs the barrel of Gavin's rifle in one lightning-swift motion, yanking backward so hard the strap snaps. It brings the gun down over its knee, bending the barrel in just one quick hit. It tosses the rifle over its shoulder, peering down at Gavin through the slits in its mask.
It still holds the katana in its other hand. The glowing blade hums ominously. The Ruster holds it up, angling the edge toward Gavin, as if daring him to make another move.
And of course, there are other moves to make, aren't there? Gavin has a secondary—a pistol—still holstered at his thigh. A couple of grenades on his belt. A flashbang in his bag. A knife, holstered upside down across his chest. This isn't over, is it? Not quite. Not technically. But by this point, Gavin's adrenaline, his heightened state of fury, has begun to drop down, going the other way. The enormity of his foe, and the impotence of his own weapons and technology against it, has finally taken the wind out of his sail.
Whatever he does next against this Ruster, it will be the last thing he does. And that ultimate realization stays his hand. His mind is finally winning out. In this moment, the bravado has leaked away, and terror is king. He is on one knee before Goliath. The stone, loosed from its sling, has bounced harmlessly off its target, to no effect. God has forsaken Gavin, and perhaps all of mankind with it.
"Well?" The Ruster says, its voice harsh, distorted. "Do we have an understanding?"
Gavin's faculties have left him. He is trapped somewhere in the realm between extreme fear and extreme rage. He tries to speak. But his jaw doesn't want to move.
"I'll take your apparent subjugation as a 'yes'. You have two hours."
It turns to walk away, then stops. "It's Daimon, by the way. My name." Then, after a pause: "I suppose the pleasure is all mine."
Plates slide apart, opening ports in the Ruster's legs and back. Bars of hot, crackly light burst through the openings. The Ruster leans forward, then takes off at an accelerated run, disappearing in clouds of propelled dirt and dust.
A dread silence descends. A silence of Gavin's surroundings. A silence of his own mind.
As the dust particles descend, and his vision clears, a dozen new forms come into view, clambering down the rocky incline on the path from the door of the Cloister. Men and women, masks attached to their faces and oxygen tanks strapped to their backs. At their head is Shiloh, blonde hair bobbing as she heads at a near-jog down the slope. Here to intervene. Here to bring the fallen back to the Cloister. Here to witness this precursor to the end of man.