Chapter 1: Alone In The Darkness
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Shedlesky recognized every corpse he walked past.
A 20-year-old college student lay buried beneath what remained of an apartment complex, an ocean of red seeping from the rubble. A mother of two sat charred and unmoving in the burning wreck of a car, still aflame after all these years. An office worker just shy of retirement had been impaled on a spike that towered over Shedlesky in height, one of many. Each time he passed by, they would rise from the dead and follow behind him as a crowd of zombies, never attacking, never speaking, but only watching. The many apologies he gave to them had no effect.
Shedlesky walked through the ruined city, more corpses joining him as he did. The crowd was now a small army, 118 people trailing behind him. 118 lives that had been cut short by his actions. The destruction only became worse the further Shedlesky went, with spikes protruding from every surface and entire buildings and streets being coated in a crimson energy made up of ones and zeroes. Eventually he saw his destination in the distance, and then he was there: standing on the lawn of the Doe household.
The modest house was the only untouched part of the city, the picture of the ideal home: white picket fence, a porch that had been built by hand, a small collection of pink roses that had been planted in the front. It would have been perfect… if not for the dead man slumped on the porch.
John Doe sat motionless in one of the two chairs on the porch, his eyes closed and a sword—Shedlesky’s sword—stabbed through his chest. This wasn’t the feral, corrupted beast that he had become on that day; he was simply a man with a kindly face and glasses, wearing the same outfit he had on that day. There was no blood, no wound, not even a hole. One could easily mistake him for being asleep. Jane Doe sat in the chair next to her husband, holding his hand and looking content. She looked at Shedlesky, and for a moment he thought this dream might go differently, that she might forgive him. Then her face contorted in anger, and he felt silly for ever thinking so.
“You did this,” she said, and the hatred in her eyes was enough to make him flinch.
“I know,” Shedlesky said, but no sound came out.
“You killed him.” Tears began to roll down Jane’s face.
“I’m sorry.” Shedlesky took a step forwards, to comfort her, to make things right, to do anything. The second he moved, the hundreds of corpses grabbed him from behind, their cold, impossibly strong hands holding his arms back.
“ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS LISTEN!” Jane screamed, and her voice was loud enough to send cracks spider-webbing across the ground. “It should have been you,” she added quietly, and Shedlesky could only nod sadly in response.
A clawed hand burst from the crack, long and razor-sharp, its surface black and rocklike. A second hand joined it, and John Doe pulled himself out of the ground. This wasn’t the man on the ground, but the monster he had become that day, larger than life and towering above the bound Shedlesky. The black corruption had spread throughout his body like a parasite, turning his veins black and coating part of his arms and chest. Part of his face was also marred, and his right eye glowed red with malice.
Shedlesky lowered his gaze, unable to look at what John had become for any longer. He said nothing; words couldn’t change what had already happened. For a moment, the beast only looked down at him, and his gaze was almost worse than any injury he could inflict upon Shedlesky. Finally, in what felt like an act of mercy, John lifted Shedlesky up with one hand and thrust his claws through his chest with the other. The pain only lasted a few moments before giving way to sweet, sweet nothingness.
Chapter 2: All Washed Out
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Shedlesky woke up with his heart pounding, drenched in sweat from terror rather than heat. His breathing was ragged, visions of the corpses, the house, the monster appearing every time he closed his eyes. He frantically grabbed his chest and was relieved to find that there were no wounds there. For several long moments, Shedlesky simply lay in bed, begging the dream to leave his mind, to no avail.
After a few minutes, Shedlesky found himself calm enough to sit up and untangle himself from his silk sheets. The fear had subsided, but the guilt remained like always. The good dreams—the ones of his wife, his friends, of his life before everything went to hell—were becoming rarer, and the ones where his mind chose to torture him with his past actions seemed like a regular occurrence now. He glanced over at the other side of the bed and saw that BrightEyes was gone, and conflicting feelings went through him: relief that his wife wasn’t there to see him like this, and disappointment that she wasn’t there to comfort him.
Like the rest of his house, Shedlesky’s bedroom was irritatingly perfect. It featured a queen-sized bed, floor to ceiling curtains, and shelves that proudly displayed a multitude of sword fighting trophies from both Shedlesky and BrightEyes; a remnant of a years long rivalry that ended when Shedlesky gave up sword fighting.
Shedlesky got up from the bed and shuffled towards the bathroom, where he splashed his face with cold water, as if he could wash away the memories. The man in the mirror was a far cry from who he had once been, the tired eyes and unkempt beard nothing like the confident, good-looking man that BrightEyes had fallen in love with. Once his hands stopped shaking, Shedlesky was able to shave his face and tame the wild curls on his head, and although he couldn’t erase the dark circles under his eyes, he nevertheless thought his wife would appreciate it when she came back.
Once that was done, Shedlesky got himself dressed and went downstairs. BrightEyes had been gone on a business trip for a few days now, and although the house was in an acceptable state, it certainly wouldn’t hurt if she came back to see it spick and span. He started vacuuming in the living room, under the couch and loveseat. The swords displayed on the mantle needed polishing, and he found it amusing how little they resembled the real things. They might fool someone else, but Shedlesky knew that the real Firebrand was always warm to the touch, that Darkheart practically sucked in all the light around it, that the Illumina was so bright it was almost painful to look at. Their power simply couldn’t be faked or replicated.
Shedlesky found himself going down memory lane while dusting off the pictures. Most showed younger versions of him and BrightEyes, holding swords or trophies or just each other, the spark of newfound love still burning bright. Others were of his old coworkers, Matt and Doom and Builderman, grinning with the exuberance of young men who thought they could change the world. How long had it been since he checked on any of them? Doom had long since gone rogue, but Matt and Builderman were only a drive or phone call away. Shedlesky resolved to do so after BrightEyes came back.
Someone knocked on the door.