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By: Ben (Hrm...this is weird, it has the beginnings of a story that should be novel-length. It cuts off sharply. And it's curt through certain points, which is supposed to show how crazy this guy is. Well, enjoy...if you can.) Life is not lived, it�s rolled. Ping! A high- pitched whizzing sound ended abruptly. No pain, it ricocheted, but missed. Its stout, metal form lay silent on some stone tile not too far away. Confident, cocky, arrogant�Bang�dead. Arrogance doesn�t get you anything but dead with a surprised look on your face. I flipped out an empty shell to roll next to the lifeless carcass. He was a young, blond man of average build, look of ultimate pain plastered eternally on his face. Was is the accurate word, I thought with contempt. A pity to use a shotgun shell on such an imbecile. I looked into my ammo pouch and muttered some curse I didn�t hear. It was more reaction. Wasting my second to last shotgun shell. I turned back to the limp body and flipped the cartridge into the gun. Few more mistakes like that and I�d be on the receiving end. Mistakes are failures on a lesser scale. Too many mistakes build up to a failure. Too many is never a lot in life. I crept onward. They would be hunting my crew and I by now. A muffled shot confirmed it. I don�t know who cried out in pain, I didn�t care. It was a suicide mission anyway. Life is rolled, not lived. Six- faces, some high, some low. Sometimes you look on the highest, sometimes you look on the lowest. Chances are the same for either, it all depends. I leapt behind a stairwell as I heard heavy boots making it rattle. I checked my weapon. Sleek, double- barreled, its shine made wicked, tainted by its purpose. Ah, they were close, I tensed my muscles, ready to strike. They came down the steps, scanning what was in front of them, no idea what lurked behind. The skinnier of the two cried out as he spotted his fallen comrade. The cat pounced, knocking one senseless with a jab to the head, filling the other with the steel pellets my weapon spewed in a loud explosion. I swung the weapon roughly, striking the unconscious one into a deep, eternal sleep. I tossed away my emptied weapon. To think, I used to be one of them, the mindless drones. That was before I met Vincent, before the revelations, before I knew what pain could be. Ever since I had been a kid, I always looked up at my proud, strong father with adoration. A decorated General, he commanded respect from any persons in his mighty presence. A demonic coward, the worst kind. Forgetting any sort of formal education, I enlisted as soon as possible and quickly rose to Lieutenant. For as long as I could remember, the UniStates had been in control of just about every country on Earth. What they couldn�t buy, they destroyed and stole. UniStates was a joining of the greatest empires of the world that was quickly tainted by greed and corruption. The members of the united empire became a menace, terrorizing all while fighting amongst themselves. Soon enough, empires began backing out of the melee, seeing that it was heading towards a war that would tear the world apart. Their secession didn�t change that. The still great power of UniStates decimated the other empires until they surrendered and were assimilated into the dark mass. I followed those demons loyally. I followed orders like a machine, I destroyed my will and conscience. I followed, like a zombie, to the very gates of Hell. I was assigned a rather small group of soldiers to weed out rebels from a jungle near the former Viet Nam. A weapon. They were testing a weapon. They needed well- trained men to truly test it. Well- trained dogs that followed orders mindlessly. All my friends, all my comrades, everyone, slaughtered by a robot built to hunt and kill with flawless stealth. I fell along with my comrades, fell, bloodied, into the mud. Vincent found me. Vincent was psychotic. A good old-fashioned serial killer who escaped after his prison was destroyed in a war. Their mistake. You never knew your life until you risked it, he had always said. Twenty years ago, he had been a courier with about a hundred pen pals. Learning twenty different languages was easy when you were a maniac, he had said. Every return trip he made to the United States left murder in its wake. He single- handedly made the idea of pen pals seem like a bad one. Eventually, he was forced to go back to countries he had already killed in instead of varying the countries of his victims for the sake of safety, either that or change his psychotic ways. The former is always easier. He was sentenced to life in a prison in France, where he had finally been caught. At the age of fifty, he was able to escape and traveled across a few countries. His only regret was that he had to resort to common methods of killing for a vehicle or food during that time. He took shelter in the former Viet Nam, knowing that his murder there was long since forgotten. On a trip through the woods, he had happened upon a few bodies. It didn�t phase him in the slightest and he continued his stroll, whistling joyously. That�s when he found me, still breathing in short, painful gasps. It was a day after the betrayal. I would never forget that day. No sort of pain could match that. Pain at my father�s knowledge and disregard of the sacrifice, pain at my living body that bled to death. Vincent was a talented healer, a fact we would later laugh at. Laughing with a serial killer is a truly unique experience. Though mentally ill, he was a genius in every sense of the word. He told me that the recruitment office for the army was the path to the slaughterhouse. The modern army was only for testing of replacements and the occasional rebel massacre. My father�s shadow in all the pictures I had of him became darker, becoming part of his dark blue suit with its glittering metals of cowardice. He had researched the hidden weapon testing and had heard of the most recent. Chemical warfare had always been a favorite for those hard- to- reach rebel organizations, but it had never been on such a grand scale as what Vincent told me. A large group of new recruits had been sent to a remote island off the coast of China. A small spray of a new gas quickly filled the island, slaughtering so many in a matter of seconds. The United States part of the UniStates kept this weapon a secret and began building a shield to block the effects, intending to wipe out all the other nations and reign supreme. Suicide had never sounded so useful. Vincent had rounded up trained rebels and others with various mental disorders, all as brilliant as their master. My crew, he had said. The genius behind it all had been suffering from a fatal tumor all this time. He lost energy and spent hours upon hours on what would later be his deathbed. As he smiled and left my world, he whispered the words �Snake eyes.� Life is not lived, it�s rolled. I tossed away the small rifle I had snatched from one of the dead that lay in my path. I never knew mental illness was contagious. It wasn�t the well- trained dog of a soldier that blasted away life after life, wasn�t the starry- eyed little boy that gazed up at his father, wasn�t the me that once held a conscience, it was Vincent. Vincent kicked down the door with my foot and let fly to two more pistol shots. Vincent robbed two more of their lives and continued walking. They should really teach scientists to fight, I thought as I knocked an oriental man that pleaded for his life through teary eyes with the butt of my smoking gun. The missile was bathed in a pool of shadow. Death wreathed it and its purpose, bony hands clawing at its cold metal form. Six- four- three- five- two. Light sliced through the shadows as a hatch above opened. Clang! The magnetized metal of the bomb clanged against the thick missile. Life isn�t lived, it�s rolled. The bomb beeped gently. The table was rigged. I looked up toward my final sky. Snake eyes. <~~Back to Stories |