The gunshot exploded in Axl’s ears as it ricocheted off of the walls and echoed over the sick sound of blood splattering against concrete. There was gargling, gruesome and almost inhuman, and then the only sound he could hear was blood trickling down into a puddle. Axl’s heart was erratically pounding against his ribs, his entire body trembled, his face felt cold. The sound played over and over again in his head; he tried to force it out, clenching his eyes shut so tight he saw colors. His scalp was stinging, and he realized that he had been pulling on his own hair the entire time. He was too scared to stand up from his hiding place behind the tattered reclining chair, but he knew that staying the same place was going to get him killed—that is, if anyone was still alive out there. He couldn’t even begin to conceive what had happened, or why, but he knew that whatever it was, it went horribly wrong.
Gradually, Axl worked up the strength and courage to come out of his coil and finally see the damage that had been done. He lifted himself just enough for him to see over the back of the chair, his knees buckling as he did so. He was so close to the antiquated chair that the stale dust from off of it filled his lungs. It smelled like coffee, cigarettes and blood. The entire warehouse was a bloodbath. He couldn’t see much—the only lighting there was in the room was the glow of the city and the moonlight outside beaming in from the dingy windows on the second level—but he couldn’t spot a single person who still seemed to be breathing. Thugs that had seemed unstoppable earlier lay scattered across the dusty concrete, different limbs in different areas. Axl thought he could see one of the thugs’ arms in a puddle of blood next to another one of the thugs’ head, but he didn’t want to look, in fear that the head might be looking back. There was so much blood on the ground he’d have to hop from spot to spot to avoid it all. The thought of it made him sick.
In the middle of the swamp of corpses, severed limbs, and displaced entrails lay the bodies of Big Boss, Axl’s employer, and the unnamed man who had barged in only moments ago. Axl’s heart started pounding again, and he could feel the sweat forming on his brow. Big Boss had been murdered. That alone was something that could strike terror in the hearts of many, knowing that there was someone out there who was strong enough to take Big Boss down. He was no push over: his dark skin seemed to be on the verge of rupturing with muscle, and he always wore an intimidating scowl. He’d acquired a reputation of being the toughest hustler on the streets. He never lost a fight, and killed anyone who got in his way. But here he was now, so fucked up he was barely recognizable. His lower jaw was missing, as was his tongue, apparently cut clean off. The wound was smoking. From his lookout chair Axl couldn’t even begin to try and find where it could have flown off to, so he figured it would be best to take his mind off of it.
The killer, the man responsible for all this, may have been able to take down one of the most ferocious human beings on Earth, but he sure as hell didn’t live to tell the tale. His body was sprawled out at Big Boss’ feet, contorted into a shape that reminded Axl of a swastika. He had two strange metal contraptions wrapped around his arms, two small cylinders going down the length of his forearms. He wished that he had managed to get a good look at the killer’s face, just once, because now he certainly lacked one. There were pieces of skull and tufts of hair and mangled pieces of flesh—Axl shut his eyes again. It was absolutely disgusting. He’d seen dead bodies before, but never anything like this. Big Boss always carried around the same gun, but Axl had never seen him use it. Looking at the killer, his clean black and white hound-tooth vest stained black with blood, he was glad he hadn’t.
“W-w-w-,” Axl stuttered, “w-w-w-what the f-f-f…” He was so shocked he couldn’t even get on the same page with his own tongue. “W-w-w-what th-th-the f-f-fuck hap-p-pened…?” It was a stupid question, but he asked it more as assurance that he was still alive than as a way to seek an answer. He knew what happened. He just couldn’t believe it.
He took five or six cautious glances of his surroundings, to the left and the right and even behind him even though there was a wall there, before trying to balance himself on his wobbly knees and stand fully upright.
It took him a while to get there, but once he did, he felt a lot safer. Something was warm on his leg. He knew what it was before he even looked down. There was a dark spot on his worn blue jeans. He had pissed himself. He swallowed. Then he swallowed again, hard.
Axl needed to leave, and immediately. Someone might be waiting outside for the killer, or there could be more just like him on their way to finish off anyone who was left. Timidly, he tiptoed from behind the chair and carefully rested his feet on the areas of the floor that weren’t covered in blood. The body count was huge—there were at least ten men dead on the ground, some of the men all over the ground, and that wasn’t even counting Big Boss and the killer. The rest of the men must have managed to escape somehow. Lucky bastards. He took a few more precautious steps into the mess, using his skinny arms for balance. He was sweating so much that sweat had gone straight through his hoodie.
“Fuck.” This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
If indeed there was someone coming back, Axl would need a weapon. Who knew what that bastard’s reinforcements could be wielding? Some crazy, futuristic weapon straight from out of a science-fiction movie or a comic book. He didn’t see what the killer had used to massacre Big Boss and his entire force, but it glowed. It made light. Lots of light. Before every bloodcurdling scream was cut short, there was a flash of light. What was it….? No, none of that mattered. He just needed to get a weapon and get the fuck out of there as fast as he could. Some of the blood around him was trickling closer to his feet, so he hopped a little swifter, drawing closer to Big Boss’ mangled corpse. If only he could get his hands on that gun, that handcannon, he’d never have to worry about security ever again.
Axl’s legs were still trembling. It was getting harder and harder not to step in the blood. The little patches of dry concrete were getting progressively smaller and smaller. There was a smell, a nauseating stench that he had never smelled before, and he surmised that it was the smell of death. He could feel his stomach trying to push itself upward through his throat, but he covered his mouth and kept it down. It went down harshly, stinging his throat and leaving a terrible taste in his mouth.
But as he finally reached Big Boss, it forced itself up again so suddenly that it caught Axl off guard and he couldn’t catch it in time. He turned around and blew chunks into another puddle of blood. It met the floor with a loud and wet slap. He coughed so hard he thought his lungs were going to come up with his lunch.
Big Boss was completely mutilated. There was no avoiding stepping in the blood. Up close, Axl could see the extent of the damage. He could see all the way down Big Boss’s throat; what was left of his tongue dangled lazily off to the side. One of his molars had been cut clean in half, and its gooey inside was in plain sight. His eyes were wide open, still stuck in an expression of surprise, only his right eye was rolled straight up, almost into the back of his had, and the other stared endlessly at the dingy warehouse ceiling. His wound was still smoking, and the stench of the burning death found its way into one of Axl’s nostrils. He thought he was going to lose it again. He swallowed hard and pressed on, his stomach roaring and violently gurgling. Big boss was still holding the gun in his left hand, which was outstretched in the opposite direction. Axl just need to cautiously step over the body to get to it…
“What am I doing? What the fuck am I doing?” He hissed. He asked himself the same thing in his head.
Axl lifted his right foot and slowly crossed it over Big Boss’ body, blood dripping from his sneaker across the dead dealer’s torso. The stench was stronger than ever—smoke was twirling its way upward directly into his face. Axl held his breath, which he was already short on. He knelt over the body and leaned closer to the gun. Big Boss stared disapprovingly. To think that only moments ago he was going to be pummeled to death by this same man. Even after death, he had a way of making the kid want to piss his pants.
Again, anyway.
He felt something hot, something made of metal, and snatched it instinctively; staring contests with the dead wasn’t something he felt too comfortable with. Axl rose again, still looking into Big Boss’ eyes. He felt almost sympathetic towards the man, not because he was dead, but because of the way he had to die, and the circumstances. For such a respected, feared, intimidating man, it was a rather shameful way to die. But he did go out with a bang, Axl could attest to that. Such a bang his ears were still ringing. He held the gun in his hand, the hilt covered in blood. If someone were to walk through that door right at this moment, if he could land just one hit, he was sure that would be enough to put them down for good.
“Aaaaaugh!” A bloodcurdling scream of terror rang out and reverberated off the walls, making it sound like a ferocious roar. Axl flinched and about faced as fast as he could, but forgot that there was a body between his legs.
It all happened in slow motion.
He could feel himself beginning to lose balance, tipping over to his right into the pool of blood. He screamed in his head, Don’t fall! Don’t you fucking fall! But he knew he was going to. It was inevitable now. As the bloody floor rose closer to his face, Axl caught a good glimpse of who it was that made the noise that left him in the predicament he was in. It was one of Big Boss’ thugs; he must have come from behind one of the pillars in the shadowy area of the room. He was a large man, maybe about six-foot three, black, wearing a white tank top that was dotted with blood spatter. He looked absolutely terrified. He seemed to be crying.
But before Axl could notice anything else, the floor hit him hard in the face, making a huge splash as the blood collided with him. The blood splashed into his mouth and nose. It tasted like metal. His stomach wasn’t going to take it anymore. This was the limit. He couldn’t hold back any longer. There was no stopping it now. Axl let out a shrill, scratchy wail of disgust and terror as he righted himself, having to put his hands in more blood, which only made him want to scream even more. His cheek was cold and warm at the same time. It was such a grotesque sensation, and he couldn’t shake it off at all. He looked down at his hands, which were now dark red. The gun, still in his hand, was completely coated. He screamed louder. The thug that had startled him was nowhere to be seen, and Axl was going to fucking follow suit. He ran towards the warehouse doors as fast as he could slipping on people’s blood and tripping on intestines, screaming all the way. And his face felt really fucking weird.
“Fuck! Shit! Fuck! Sh-!F-! Shhhhhit! FUCK!” He cursed frantically. He felt as though the more he cursed the higher his chances were of going back in time to when the entire ordeal never happened. And his face! What the fuck was up with his face?
He lifted his empty hand up to his cheek and felt it. There was a cold, meaty lump where his cheek should have been, and his first thought was that his cheek had been shot off after all. But then he realized he would have noticed sooner, and stopped dead in his tracks. For the first time since he was a little kid, Axl prayed. He prayed that the meaty bit wasn’t what he thought it was.
He reached up to touch his face again, and peeled the cold flesh off.
Reluctantly, he looked down.
It was Big Boss’ tongue.
Axl opened his mouth to scream again, but instead another batch of vomit came up and rolled down his face onto his hoodie and the floor. He paid no regard to it though, he just kept running and screaming, bursting through the warehouse doors with such force they nearly swung off their creaky hinges.
He was screaming at the top of his lungs, running down the street covered in blood and vomit, and he was carrying a gun.
It was the beginning of an adventure.
Axl exploded through the door into his home, tears in his eyes and still shrieking, though his voice was starting to fail. It was a miracle that no one stopped him on the trip home, but it didn’t matter. He was home now. He pressed his back against the door as he slammed it shut behind him. Everything was so safe now. The air was safe, the house was safe, he was safe. It felt so good so began to laugh—or cry, he couldn’t tell—but it wasn’t important. He needed a shower.
He bolted to the bathroom as fast as he could. He still felt as if he were going to vomit again at anytime, even though there was nothing left to vomit. He needed a shower now. He wrenched on both of the shower knobs—fuck the temperature, so long as it was fucking water—and dove into the tub fully clothed and sat there letting the lukewarm water wash him clean of the entire night. Finally he felt as if he could stop screaming, and reluctantly, as if afraid of what could happen if he did, stopped.
The images were stuck in Axl’s mind; the killer’s demolished head, the face that Big Boss had left, men cut clean in half with their innards hanging out of them, switching limbs, the stench—his stomach spasmed, so he tried to take his mind off of it. What was the song? The song he was listening to on the way there…something to do with bells, something in French—suddenly a leg. An arm. A torso. A head. Why couldn’t regression be an instant thing? Axl took himself to
“Are you okay?” A voice asked. It rocketed Axl back into reality and nearly scared the life out of him, or whatever life he had left.
“FUCK!” He jumped and slid lower into the tub, but flailed around until he righted himself again. It was his best friend Johnny, standing in the bathroom doorway with a cup of soda from a fast food chain. “N-no, I’m not okay! Can’t you see I’m having a c-crisis, here?”
“Mmm,” Johnny furrowed his brow and looked down, as if being hit by a sudden revelation. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What happened?”
“Oh, God,” Axl moaned, “there was so much blood, and some dude—and then a dead guy licked me, and there was so much blood!” With every word water would fill his mouth. He spat it out, but it just filled up again. He could feel the tears building up again, but he choked them down.
“I’m sorry,” Johnny replied, his brow still furrowed. “D’you want a towel?”
“No, it’s fine, I’m just gonna f-fucking go to sleep soaking wet. J-Jesus, yes, I need a towel.” For a guy who always walked around in a white-collared shirt and tie, Johnny wasn’t too sharp. In fact, Johnny wasn’t sharp at all. Johnny was very dull. Axl stretched his arms forward and twisted the shower knobs until the water stopped flowing.
“Yeah, okay,” Johnny said. As he trotted down the hallway, he took a heavy slurp of his soda, which by the sound of it, was empty. Axl let his head fall forward on his knees.
“—So, I just ran all the way home,” Axl whined. He was sitting on their dodgy, sepia couch in the living room with a towel and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He had just finished describing everything that had taken place at the warehouse to Johnny, who lie in the middle of the living room floor with his hands folded across his black and red striped tie. Johnny looked virtually unphased by the story, but Johnny always looked apathetic. After knowing him his entire life, Axl had learned to tell what tiny gestures meant what emotions. Right now, Johnny was tonguing in the inside of his cheek, which meant that he was worried.
“It’s okay, though,” Axl added, “I didn’t get hurt at all, ironically, and I think I’ve finally chilled out a bit.” He had. He wasn’t thinking of any of the gruesome sights at the warehouse as often, and his stomach had finally settled. He was still completely drained, and his head and ears hurt like a bitch. Johnny raised himself to sitting with his legs crossed, propping himself backwards on his hands.
“So, who was that guy? The one who broke in?” Johnny asked, his eyes rolling from one part of the ceiling to the other. At the mention of the killer, Axl could feel himself getting light again, but coming back down. It was that one moment when the two of them stood face to face that Axl would have the hardest time forgetting. He had been frozen stiff at the time the killer broke in, his eyes shut tight and his arms raised, bracing himself for the painful death that could come at any moment. But it never did come. It was merely a husky growl that breathed in his ear.
Step aside, Buttercup.
So Axl did. He shot off to the nearest hiding spot, behind Big Boss’ throne. The voice haunted him, playing itself in an infinite loop in his head. It sounded as if the killer were standing right next him.
Step aside.
“I—I don’t know who he was,” said Axl quietly, “and I don’t think anyone else did, either.” Axl watched Johnny watching the ceiling. The fluorescent light overhead made it easy for Axl to see that Johnny’s eyes were red and that he had rings around his eyes so deep-set they were noticeable even despite his dark skin. He probably hadn’t slept in a long time. He looked at his watch—two forty-six.
Johnny went to work again in another three hours.
“C’mon, dude,” Axl said, “go get some sleep. You’ve got work in the morning.”
Johnny looked back at Axl as he stood up and stretched his arms toward the low, spackled ceiling. “And a war to fight,” he chimed.
“And a war to fight,” Axl rang back. Johnny slumped down the hallway, giving Axl a friendly wave without turning back to face him. Axl wished him a goodnight, and he was gone inside his bedroom.
The house wasn’t exactly luxurious; with only one bedroom, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and the living room, it was just barely passing for substandard. The white paint on the walls was beginning to crack and flake in places, and it was dotted with holes from nails from painting and things the previous owners had hung up. It had brown shag carpet that was stained with drinks and food, and those were only the stains that Johnny and Axl had created since they lived there. Who knew what the others were. The couch Axl sat on was a freebie, something someone had dumped in the desert. It had since become Axl’s bed since he moved in. There was a shabby-looking wooden desk off by the wall with a cheap desktop computer whirring away on top of it. The computer rarely worked, and it wasn’t surprising at the price Johnny bought it for. The kitchen was a kitchen; fridge, oven, sink.
Nothing about the house was particularly special or valuable, but it didn’t have to be. Johnny had been letting him stay there for years, and at that moment it couldn’t have been any more comfortable. Before that night Axl didn’t know that a person as violent, murderous, cold-hearted, and frightening could even exist. Certainly a team of people could take down Big Boss and his troop of oversized thugs, but a single man? But whatever. Just knowing that he had no more debts to pay off to his boss, no one else to answer to, and that he was far, far away from anyone who could hurt him made him feel more secure than he had ever been in his life, even when he had been living with his parents. Right now, meeting Johnny had to be the best thing he had ever done.
Axl rolled back onto the sofa, wrapping himself in the blanket. But just as his head was about to hit the cushion, his cell phone rang in a high pitched chirp out from the kitchen. The phone whirred as it vibrated on and off on the counter. Axl shoved the blanket off of him and stumbled around until he got to the kitchen. He always told Johnny that your phone rings when you least wanted it to. If only he were awake right now to see his undeniable proof. Axl picked up the phone and flipped it open. The number on the display was blocked. Who blocks their phone number these days? He pushed a little green button and held the phone to his face, curiously greeting the caller as he did so. The voice that responded to him was uncomfortably clinical, male, and a bit too awake for three in the morning.
“Good morning,” greeted the voice. “Axl Donovan, I presume?”
“No, Santa Claus,” Axl snapped. “Wrong number.”
“Clever,” the voice replied, half chuckling. “Well, I’m calling to inform you that on behalf of the U—“
This conversation didn’t sound like it was going anywhere Axl wanted to go at this time of the night—or morning. “It’s three in the morning,” he interrupted.
The voice merely cleared his throat lightly and continued speaking. “—On behalf of the United Assassins’ Association that you have are now a seventeenth ranked assassin—“
“I’m a what? Whose association?” Axl responded so rapidly, he bit his tongue as the words came out of his mouth.
The voice disregarded his astonishment, and continued smugly, as if the news was a reprimand for Axl’s rudeness. “I wish you the very best of luck and have a nice day.” Axl heard a tiny click, and then the conversation was over.
“Who the fuck was that?” He had put his thoughts into words without realizing it. The voice had called him what? An assassin? It had to be a wrong number. But he had said his name…
Axl Donovan, I presume?
Axl’s nerves were starting to flare up again. United Assassins’ Association…Assassins had their own organizations? He stood there holding the cell phone in his hand just waiting, waiting for the strange man to call back and tell him it was all a joke or that there was something he wasn’t understanding correctly. But after a good five minutes, there was no call, no clarification. That call was meant for him.
Axl crawled back under the blanket with everything still spinning and racing in his head, hoping that when he woke up, he’d be back in
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