Jonathan Wicker Abhrams sat at the very edge of his leathery seat, watching the winds rise and fall and carve the desert anew with each fleeted breeze. He gazed way off into the horizon — way off into the tranquil sea of gold, with its gentle, rolling dunes; and its shifting, shuffling sands; and the many ruinous remnants of long bygone civilizations corroding, crumbling, wasting away, reduced to but grains in an ocean of sand. It was surreal, to say the least — to gaze for so long, so far, so hard, and to see nothing more than the blue skies above and the yellow grounds beneath and other such familiars of the desert wriggle, writhe, and scamper their way through one after another, trying so very desperately to live.

Trying so very desperately to brave their harsh, little world.

There was a spider, no bigger than his hand, with five bulging eyes, three spindly legs short, and bloody soaked fur all around, dragging itself slowly, steadily, towards the open humvee door. It stopped short of the Hunter’s boots, climbed the side of one wheel, made its way unto the rearview mirror, then simply sat there staring, as if waiting for permission to be let in — as if waiting for permission to be left alone.

To be left alive.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams nodded.

And wove a hand.

And muttered something along the lines of, “go right on ahead.”

And why he bothered with such whimsical things, he himself didn’t quite know.

Perhaps he was such a spider, once.

Perhaps he saw himself in it.

Perhaps he too had been at the mercy of the world — at the mercy of things beyond his understanding and control.

Scared.

Alone.

Hurt.

He remembered then—

The fire.

The brimstone.

The choking smell of burnt flesh and rotting corpses.

The screams of so many begging to be put out of their misery, echoing throughout the blackened winds and the weathered grounds.

The stone to his back.

The dirt to his front.

The blood on his face.

And the man beside, with two shots in his revolver and not a whole lot of time left.

And Death.

Especially Death.

Death everywhere, anywhere, all at once around.

The Hunter buried his face in both hands, groaning.

He could still remember the man beside him — the conversation they had right then and there.

He could still remember the last ever thing that man said.

He could still remember the revolver.

The two bullets left in it.

And then, all too quickly, the one bullet left in it.

“They’ll hurt you real bad.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams gritted his teeth.

“Like they hurt me.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams clenched his fists.

“Don’t let them take me again.”

And Jonathan Wicker Abhrams slammed those very same fists down on the dashboard hard.

“Please.”

Something squelched.

Something wet stuck to his hands.

The Hunter cracked an eye open.

There were bits of spindly legs and spider juice all over the dashboard.

On the windshield.

On his wrists and cuffs and such.

“Sorry.”

The Hunter was quivering hard.

Breathing hard.

Blinking hard.

The spider was not.

It was still as still could be.

“I’m. . . Sorry.”

***

Contrary to popular belief, Lieutenant Colonel Schneider was not a man who was quick to anger, nor was he any sort of particularly unreasonable man, hard to please, impossible to make happy, and thus the exemplar of a two decade military program designed to carve the weak, fear, and humanity from both mind and soul. He was not one to yell and shout and stomp about, berating, lashing, hitting and kicking, making absolutely certain those under his command looked to him and saw nothing more than a tyrannical overlord — an animal, perhaps — eternally devoted to twisting what was a simple, soldierly life into one of torturous servitude.

What he was, in fact, was a comfortable man.

A man who was comfortable with the turbulent, anarchic nature of life itself.

A man who was comfortable with his position as Director of Cerberus Penitentiary.

A man who was comfortable standing some 20 klicks out in the desert with two platoons of Sentrymen, one day of prep-time, no clue at all what was going on, and absolutely zero chance of reinforcements arriving any time soon.

But as he was quick to find out, reinforcements were indeed here, now.

And he was not expecting any.

He never called.

He never reported.

And yet they came, anyway.

Which was concerning.

Very.

“One minute thirty, sir,” First Lieutenant Collins said, unholstering his own revolver, wondering if there were six full in the chamber, deciding rather quickly that one wouldn’t make much difference, and then again deciding to sneak a peek anyways.

Indeed he was one short.

And then he wasn’t.

“Government, you think?”

“No,” Lieutenant Colonel Schneider peered through the binoculars — through the sand and dust, dunes, skies, and cracks in the earth — somehow making out the shape of three distinct black humvees rapidly approaching their position all too quickly, all too soon.

Their position, no one alive on this earth should know of.

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And yet they — whoever they were — did.

They knew.

Which was concerning.

Very.

“Government doesn’t know where we are.”

“You ever been wrong before, sir?”

“No.”

“You want to know what it feels like?”

“No.”

“You keen on finding out anyways?”

Lieutenant Colonel Schneider offered no such response, only a glance laced with emotions he was unfortunately all too familiar with — mild annoyance and general angst. There was a pause, then, an almost audible sigh.

A nod of the head.

A wave of the fingers.

He started down the sand-crusted rock path, revolver in hand, radio in hand.

Collins followed.

Petra followed.

The seven Sentrymen followed.

So did the vultures from way up above.

And the wind from way to his back.

***

They came to a halt, one after another, like a ravenous pack of wolves poised for ambush, ready to sink their fangs, their teeth, their claws and all — or in this case, their tires — into soft, squirming flesh. Lieutenant Colonel Schneider expected the roar of an engine, followed swiftly by the stirring of dust clouds, the grinding of sand, the shouting of men, the showering of bullets, and the inevitable silence that came with every battle.

What he was greeted with, however, was nowhere near as violent.

Nor as expected.

All at once now, every single door of every single humvee swung wide open, and out stepped Sentrymen — out stepped sixteen soldiers who looked very much so like Schneider’s, who walked and talked and carried their weapons exactly as his did, who had his particular uniform, his particular insignia, his gusto, his bravado, his demeanor.

They were his —

Except he recognized none of them.

And he most certainly didn’t recognize the Enforcer that stepped out last.

“Beautiful day, gents!”

The stone mask wasn’t smiling, this time.

It was grinning.

Wide and proud and from ear to ear.

Which meant this was a different one.

A different Enforcer.

And Lieutenant Colonel Schneider couldn’t exactly decide if that was for the better or for the worse.

And so he settled on the latter.

As he usually did.

“Who the fuck are you? ” He called out.

“Now, that — that is fortunately none of your concern, dear Schneider,” the Enforcer strutted forth with a certain swagger the already jaded Lieutenant Colonel wasn’t particularly fond of. He was also not particularly fond of the man’s voice. It was much unlike the rest of his colleague’s. It was strange, giddy, excited, with perhaps a tinged of deranged affliction where authority supposedly stood present.

“I suggest you stay where you are.”

The Enforcer did not, of course.

They were exceptionally arrogant.

Much to the lieutenant colonel’s dismay.

“Marvelous find boys, job well done — marvelous find, indeed. Never thought to unearth an ancient gothic beauty on this fine Saturday morning — on this exceptionally scalding Saturday morning, but alas, life is full of surprises, is it not, friends?”

Schneider stood his ground.

So did his men.

“Stop moving; final warning.”

“Admittedly, I couldn’t bring myself to believe when I first received the call — an entire castle, buried right under all this, this, this — this sand! Preposterous, wouldn’t you say? The very idea of it; I thought it a joke! And yet, here I am! Standing atop a slice of history in the middle of practically nowhere! Can you imagine? Can y—”

Bang!

The Enforcer stopped.

He looked to Schneider.

And then to the ground — to the smudge of metal embedded deep in the rocks beneath his feet.

And then to the smoke trailing from the lieutenant colonel’s revolver.

“That one’s a warning shot. The next goes through your teeth.”

Schneider’s Sentrymen raised their weapons.

So too did the Enforcer’s.

***

The masked man stood frozen, both hands shoved deep into coat pockets, one foot suspended still midstep above the hole in the ground, and head tilted at an angle Lieutenant Colonel Schneider would consider quite unnatural — and very much so reminiscent of a broken neck. Sand swept round and round his boots, rising and falling and sticking unto his soles, his laces, his trousers, coat tails, the barely conceivable holster smuggling a tiny, single shot pistol — everything from the knee down. It was a sea of gold, swirling, whirling, perpetually, eternally, all day, every day, come night, come day.

For the longest time, the Enforcer uttered not so much as a single word. He simply stared at the bullet hole with utmost intent, almost as if this was indeed the first bullet hole to come into existence, and he was indeed committing every single, minute detail to memory, and it was indeed quite the challenge.

And then he spoke.

Not at all jolly.

Not at all energetic, and erratic, and giddy as he first was.

“You've shot at me,” said the Enforcer in a tone one would reserve for stating the particularly, stupidly, obscenely obvious. “You've shot at — at me.”

He reared his head back, his back back, and then he let out a howl, low and loud and feral, like that of a lion's, or a tiger's, or in the opinion — and experience — of one lieutenant colonel, a winged fire drake reigning down hell from above.

“Magnificent, hah-hah! No one’s ever shot at me before! I commend your bravado, lieutenant colonel! You are one brave man; I can see now — Cerberus certainly is in good hands!”

The Enforcer tested the waters, took a gamble stepping forth.

There was no warning fire this time, nor was there an actual one, for that fact of the matter.

“Nevertheless, I have something special just for you,” he reached into his breast pockets; the lieutenant colonel flinched.

Gun, thought Schneider.

Gun, thought Collins.

Gun, thought the rest of the platoon.

A reason to go about blasting perhaps, thought Petra, though she barely managed to keep ahold of herself. Her finger was already twitching, and there crept a smile spreading from ear to ear she couldn’t quite fully contain. The metal collar wrapped around her neck beeped once — blinked red.

But alas, much to the disappointment of the dear Captain Petra, who was most definitely itching for a fight, who was most definitely quelling a much unsightly — and violent — urge brewing from deep within, and who was most definitely on the brink of committing a heinous deed, it was not, in fact, a gun.

What the Enforcer produced, however, was many times more terrible than any weapon.

It was a warrant, signed by a certain Supreme Court Judge Henry Lawder Allernmeir, stating that yes, indeed the Enforcer had every right to be on site, and yes, indeed he had come all the way from government, and yes, indeed the lieutenant colonel and all his men were to evict the premises immediately or face possible legal — and lethal — repercussions.

“Warrant — see? Paper. It’s official. Signed and everything,” whistled the Enforcer, waving a crumpled, folded, browned sheet before Schneider’s eyes — and gun. “You’re welcome to take a gander.”

And take a gander the lieutenant colonel did, still keeping the barrel of his revolver very much so before the Enforcer’s slit-eyed mask.

He squinted.

He looked.

He stared.

And stared some more.

And quite to his dismay, found zero errors in the warrant.

Everything from top to bottom, front to back, ink to heading and signature to print was flawless. It was, in essence, a rather perfect replica — or worse still, a legal, sanctioned, authorized warrant.

“Happy? Satisfied, are we?” the Enforcer extended a hand. “I can respect the paranoia and skepticism; no doubt it’s kept you alive this long, lieutenant colonel. But this tirade of yours has grown tiresome, and entertaining your myriad of questions has me weary.”

Schneider said nothing.

He refused the handshake.

“I think it’s time I take over, and time you order your men stand down — and yourself far, far away from here.”

The masked man resumed stepping once more, past the lieutenant colonel and past the gun.

His Sentrymen followed suit behind, whilst Schneider’s stood idly by with their weapons in hand, fingers still on triggers and safeties still flicked off. The crunching of sand beneath boots ate away at the silence.

“Enforcer.”

The masked man turned, tilted his head, waited.

His coat was blowing in the wind.

So was Schneider’s.

“What?”

“Execute.”

The Cerberus Sentrymen fired first.

They fired fast.

And they didn’t stop firing until there was nothing left to fire upon.

When all was quiet once more, and when all was still once more, the lieutenant colonel stepped forth, watching as the blood dripped and dropped and drained from each corpse, cascading into the sand and painting the yellowed grounds beneath a now distinct red. For better or for worse, it was the textbook definition of a massacre — a bloodbath — and it was a most unfortunately a most familiar sight.

Sixteen for zero.

No casualties.

No injured.

And sixteen dead Sentrymen.

Plus one Enforcer, of course.

Though the groaning was evidence enough against that last bit.

Seems the masked man was very lucky.

Or rather very unlucky.

Lieutenant Colonel Schneider walked on over, still holding onto his revolver, still holding onto the six bullets in each chamber — not one spent. He pressed a boot against the Enforcer’s side and rolled him on over unto his back.

“Do tell, now. Who exactly are you?”

The Enforcer answered in growls and moans. He clutched onto what little was left of his fingers, spilling an awful lot of red everywhere, anywhere, for he was a big, big man and he was keeping all that blood inside of himself. By the looks of it, the lieutenant colonel’s men had done a decent job extracting what considerable amount, or perhaps a tad bit too much, too quickly.

Now all that’s left to extract was a confession.

Information perhaps.

And he was certain the Enforcer wouldn’t object.

“Tell me, or I can make it hurt a lot more.”

“F-F-F. . .”

Lieutenant Colonel Schneider leaned in, noticed the glint of something small.

And metal.

And in the hand — the less deconstructed hand — of the groaning, moaning, squealing Enforcer.

And by the time he realized — saw the muzzle flash — the bullet was already sailing, digging deep.

It met its mark.

And suddenly, there were no more groans from the Enforcer.

Only manic, screeching, laughs.

“Fuckin’ g-gotcha!”