CHAPTER 32

OCTOBER 25TH, 12:31 A.M.

--BOONE--

The cold air rushed past him. His body strained. His heart beat out of his chest. Boone flew at high speeds, pushing himself harder and faster than he’s ever gone before. His body was reaching its limit. He pushed beyond that.

“Please, please,” he repeated to himself. Blood streamed out of his nose. His gums bled from his own teeth burying into the soft flesh, his jaw clenched shut. Acreage passed underneath him as he traveled overhead at supersonic speeds. Boone had lost track of where he was at. All he knew was that he was going east, and that he had to be close to Chicago by now.

Boone heaved, flexing his core, trying to fly as fast as he could, then fly faster than that. The veins in his neck swelled. His head throbbed. His heart threatened to give out. At any second, he could drop out of the sky and plummet back to Earth. If the impact didn’t kill him, the heart attack would.

Boone finally saw it. Lake Michigan. Chicago was on the south end. He made it. He began his descent, divebombing towards the city. His speed increased even more. The wind whipped by so violently that his skin was stretched back across his face.

The destruction became apparent. The city was on fire. Buildings were looted and destroyed. Some had toppled over. The bright streaks of bullets zipped through the streets. He wasn’t concerned about any of that. All that mattered was Miriam.

Boone closed in on the neighborhood, just outside the Friendly Confines. The community was in ruins, just as the inner city was. From what he could see, their house was still standing. More than what many others could say.

He landed in the front yard, forming a crater on impact. Dirt catapulted in the air, splattering across the house and out into the street. The tree he recently planted was ripped from the ground. The house looked in bad shape. Windows were broken. Bullet holes riddled the façade. It had been broken in.

Boone sprinted to the front door. Wide open. The inside was torn to shreds. The power was out. Furniture was flipped over. Items were missing, others were destroyed. Just like everything else, it didn’t matter. He bolted into the master bedroom, skidding to halt as the bed came into view.

There she was. Eyes closed. Skin pale. The EKG screen was dark. Boone stood frozen. He looked for a while, praying that the sight would change. That her chest would begin to rise and fall. But it never did. It was obvious. She was gone. She had been for some time now, before the chaos ever started.

Boone pushed his knuckles into his forehead. His throat clenched up. His eyes teared up. He couldn’t look at her any longer. He couldn’t bear the sight. Yet, he couldn’t look away. His wife was gone. No amount of staring was going to fix it.

He tried to speak. Maybe if he called her name, she would answer. He tried to move. Maybe if he touched her skin, she would feel it.

He overcame his inaction and crept forward. Details came into focus. Boone rejected them. That wasn’t what he wanted to see.

Standing at her bedside, he looked down at his wife. Her pale skin, red hair, dull lips. She looked normal. As normal as she could be in his condition. Nothing was wrong with her. There was no blood. No one hurt her. Why isn’t she there? He saw her. She was right there. Why is she not there?

Miriam was dead. No more running from it. The day finally arrived.

“Fuck…” he muttered shakily. Boone began pacing back and forth, finally tearing his eyes away from her.

“FUCK!”

Boone screamed at the top of his lungs, thrashing about, throwing cabinets and wrecking decorations. He repeatedly cursed, destroying what hadn’t already been in his home. It was worthless to him. Now just a reminder of a life he once had. It would be better off as rubble.

His rampage led him to the living room. He threw the couch through the sliding glass door into the backyard. His fists shred through the walls. Tables were taken down. Pots were shattered. Nothing could satisfy him.

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Boone collapsed, resting his elbows on his knees, hanging his head low between them. His rage turned to sorrow as he wept uncontrollably.

Not like this. He knew this day would come. He still wasn’t ready for it. He never let himself think about it; always pushing it out of his mind, focusing on the bright side of things. He never gave himself the chance to come to terms with it. Now it’s too late.

But not like this. Not how they last met. His final memory of her was horrific. Losing his composure and saying hurtful things that he didn’t mean. He thinks he didn’t mean it, but maybe he did and he’s lying to himself. He told himself repeatedly that it was nonsense spurred out in a fit of anger. It did nothing to ease his conscience. The devil on his shoulder was whispering in his ear. Boone hated himself for letting his memory be tainted with that night. How could he do that to her? Regardless of her illness, he couldn’t believe the things he said to her. She passed away with bitterness towards him. He couldn’t go on like this. Life had no purpose if it wasn’t with her.

Boone rose to his feet. In the kitchen, hidden in a locked cabinet, he retrieved a gun. His hand trembled as he held it. The cold metal felt like poison on his skin. His teeth barred. His eyes were swollen, staining his cheeks with his tears.

The barrel met his head. It pressured his temple, like a presence lurking over him. At the same time, his skin was hardened, taut with energy. Would the bullet even penetrate his skin? Would this be enough? Was this what he really wanted?

Suddenly, death became difficult to grasp. The finality of it wasn’t understandable. Not about him, but for Miriam. He could never speak to her again. Why couldn’t he? His life has Miriam in it. How does she just… go away? Why can’t he shake her on the shoulder and wake her up? How is she there, laying on the bed in the next room over, but not in there? He wanted to speak to her again. He wanted to say I love you one more time. But he couldn’t. And Boone couldn’t come to terms with that.

He can’t let her memory be torn down by his foolishness. He will fix this. He will make it up to her. Honor her. Correct the mistakes he couldn’t fix while she was still around. Her soul was restless, marred by the malice he inflicted on her. And only he could fix it. Only when her soul was truly at ease, and he had truly redeemed himself would he be happy. That was his purpose.

Boone threw the gun away, leaning on the countertop, letting his tears fall away as his head drooped. He took a deep breath as he determined his next actions. He had to give her a proper burial. Find somewhere that wasn’t destroyed or in the process of. And then what? Return to the team? Was that his purpose? Would that put her soul to rest?

Commotion echoed in the home. A squad of stomping feet entered through the front door. Raiders saw his impact in the yard, returning to the home with renewed evidence of life to inflict their will on. They quickly found Boone in the kitchen, mistakenly identifying him as easy prey. For indoctrination or murder was yet to be determined.

“Look at this weirdo with the tattoos,” one antagonized him.

“Hey, weir-“

A hand through the raider’s chest stopped his taunting. He looked down in shock; Boone’s fist fully implanted through his chest and exited out his back. It all happened faster than he could react. The rest of the raiders were horrified. Their mouths hung agape, helplessly looking on at their leader impaled by what they once looked down upon as their next victim. They had no idea what awaited them. Their life now served merely as a vessel for Boone to expel his rage.

Boone thrusted his arm deeper until his elbow was in the raider’s esophagus. He punched downwards; his arm shredding through the man’s body until the raider fell to the ground mutilated. Blood caked his entire arm, dripping onto the floor.

The raiders tried to flee in terror. Their fates were sealed. One by one, Boone ripped them to shreds, brutally dismembering each one with his bare hands. He took his time, making them feel their death. Punishment for invading his and Miriams sanctuary. He only accelerated to prevent their escape, discarding their legs when they tried to run. When they tried to crawl, he discarded their arms. When they tried to scream, he discarded their throats. When they continued to live, so arrogantly, even after so brazenly defiling the resting place of his love, he discarded with their life.

Boone was layered in blood from the evisceration. The whole house was sprayed red. Dismembered corpses littered the home. One remained, dragging himself with one arm, still desperately searching for an escape. Boone stopped him by pressing his foot into the raiders back. He groaned in pain, huffing and spitting blood, now accepting his fate.

“Fuck you, you freak,” his spurted out through bloody breaths.

He was pulled up by his head. His body rested on what was left of his legs. Boones tattoos shimmered. He felt his power coursing through him. He felt unstoppable.

The man’s head separated from his neck, the skin and muscles shearing apart as Boone pulled. His body fell to the floor. Blood poured from his head. Boone reunited it with the rest of him, dropping it onto his back before leisurely sitting down on the blood-stained ground. Boone from last week would have been horrified at the sight of this. Now he felt nothing. Was this what he was supposed to do? Was this his purpose. Did they deserve this?

They did this to themselves. The audacity to disturb Miriam. Her soul doesn’t need any more disgrace to come to it. In the newfound silence, Boone felt the fleeting sense of accomplishment swell. He has started down his new path and has achieved victory in his first test. He defended his wife and their home. He made an example of those who would dare stand in his way.

He made the conclusion. This was what he was supposed to do. This was his purpose. Whatever it takes to right the wrongs. Heal Miriams broken spirit and send her to eternal rest. What was displayed before him was just the beginning. One small step in redemption. Boone has a lot of work on his hands.