Bavel (21) I curl forward, most of me top-heavy and trapped underneath the dead body that somehow makes the drop twice as fast, and twice as slow at the same time. Both of my hands automatically extend in front of me to brace for the fall, while thoughts spear through my head that I can’t be waterproof enough to survive a plunge into ocean water. Shade swallows me, moving past and wrapping itself over waves ahead; the massive boat leans down, screaming, almost faster than my fall, but not nearly enough. My ears twitch inward, the rusty grinding vibrating the inside of my head, and the corpse seems to hold me in its arms, comforting me straight to my death. I close my eyes— I try to— I feel the near tangible weight in my hands of the ocean, how much force and pressure trapped in itself like steam swelling a flimsy pipe, and yet how fluid, how slippery and silky it’s making itself, resisting the power that pushes from my hands to move, move, MOVE OUT OF THE WAY— The water roars at me, a dent plunging into the sand and clawing over itself away from the shadow of the boat, sizzling loudly as I plod into the ground, and the body cannons on top of me. My screen flickers black for a second and the water rushes back in, but I strain my hand out desperately, and it stutters back. The boat rushes down at me, and I thrust my other hand at it, pain pounding through my arm at how heavy it is in the air. It pushes its entire weight at me, but I can’t let it— not now, not NOW. The water fights its way in closer, and my head sparks trying to focus in nearly every direction at once. A scream scratches its way out of my speaker, and I swear a piece of my wood cracks from the sheer force of keeping everything suspended away from me. The body on top of me twitches, just barely lifting into the air. My screen flashes on and off erratically, and I grimace through the pain as I force my own weight up onto my feet, force myself straight, force myself to look for the coast and the safety of the hot, dry sand. I lift my head with a heavy creak, and that is when I spot the boy. Scuffs of sand stream out behind the boy as he runs to the coast, wrists bleeding from the rope still around his wrists and sweat steaming burnt skin and dripping over his sharp, dark eyes. The ocean should be beautiful— a fat, wide, heavy blanket gently blown by the wind. But the sun stings the air, soured with salt and wheezing breath and a full grown genocidal man hunting for blood. The boy begins to make for the boats, but suspects well enough to keep away from the strange dust cloud growing from the first on the row. The whole line of boats had started to fall just moments after he fell off the camel, but they’ve slowed to a stop— the last boat refuses to crash, and the sight unnerves the boy as he spies the small speedboat at the end of the dock on his far left. Father took him fishing, just once, when their village still had a tiny boat, and a people to sail it. He isn’t sure what kind of boat it is, but he runs toward it as if he knows how he could use it. A screaming camel nearly runs him over, and the boy trips up pushing himself back as it thrashes over him, throwing a steaming corpse off its back. He brings his hands to his nose, squeezing his eyes shut before the image of burning flesh settles in his mind. What? What’s going on? How-- Another camel rides past him, its rider clutching their side in pain and their steed wheezing blood, barely managing to keep running. More people, more riders, even the robotic creatures all run from the stirring cloud, a cloud that seems to wail out to him. He pushes up from the ground and keeps running, avoiding everyone as he makes it onto the pier. The old wood makes creaking plunk sounds as he sprints to the speedboat, and reaches out for the edge-- His collar catches on his throat, choking him, and for a moment he thinks the Bavel has caught him, keeping him from escape, but he feels the sweat of a hand pull him back, the sickly, gasping breath of a man who snatches the boy’s arm, crushing it as he’s turned to face the Loakan’s leader. “Let me go!!” Khalil screams, battering at the man’s fist that only keeps hardening, almost snapping his arm. “AAAHHH!!” “You’re… not… getting AWAY!” The man shouts, pulling him closer. Strings of hair from his ponytail gleam with sweat, and his panting reeks of death. “You’re going to get that Bavel, or I’m going to kill you, right now!” “I don’t CARE!” The boy shouts back. “All your people are dying and you’re letting them--!” He glances behind the man, seeing dark shapes just barely peek from the cloud of sand. “Y-you’re going to let your people die??” “My ‘people’ wouldn’t be dying if not for you and your lousy, annoying Bavel! Do you know what that thing has done? What those things are??” His inflection sparks desperately. “Parasites will kill everything alive. Once it has a scent it will never stop… it won’t stop until we’re all dead. Except for the fact that Bavels don’t have blood scents to smell!” He grabs the boy’s neck, choking him. “The boat… the boat…” Khalil breathes, grasping at the man to make him stop. “The boat is barely big enough to fit three people. It’s probably dead, and there’s nothing we can--” He pushes the boy forward suddenly, letting him go and jumping back as a camel with a hooded figure bullets between them, and the figure lands, pulling a gun on the man before he can pull out his own. “Leave the kid alone, Jonathan,” the figure says. The Loakan leader sniffs, coughs, and wheezes a laugh. “I can’t believe it. Lia, you made it…. all the way out here,” he scoffs, wasting no time moving toward her. “How didn’t I recognize you…?” “Maybe because you were too busy dancing on my boss’ corpse,” she says coldly. The man chuckles. “Some boss to let his secretary down the path of murder.” “Some friend to try and kill the people he loved.” He slips a knife out from his belt, taking another step forward. What hint of playfulness and familiarity the man allowed himself to feel dissolves. “You don’t want to be spreading lies, Lia. It could get you killed.” She replies with equal chill. “Is that what you’ve told yourself all these years?” “This isn’t your business. Just give me the boy.” “I’m not going to do that.” “Why do you care? He isn’t yours. He isn’t anyone’s. He deserves to die for what he’s done.” “He’s a child. What could he have done?” “He brought that Bavel here. He’s been dragging that thing behind him--” “You think that was his choice? The Bavel wants to kill him because it’s defective. The destruction of the West has nothing to do with him.” She pauses, and her lip stretches to the side in disgust. “Are you jealous? Of a Bavel?” “Shut up.” He takes another step, lifting his knife. “You shut up right now.” “You’re jealous that a Bavel killed all the people you were keen on killing? You’re jealous that a Bavel has done more in about a year than you and your whole group has done in fifteen? You’re jealous of a Bavel that’s like you in almost every way?” He starts forward, but she cocks her pistol, the barrel almost touching his forehead. Her face is red, fiery, angry. “Use your HEAD, Jonathan! Your men are dying, camels running, your group is ripping apart and all you can worry about right now is that boy? One Bavel? You are going to get yourself killed, and it’s going to be your fault, out of your selfish ambitions.” Her face twists in painful rage. Tears drip down her face. “I knew you as a boy. I watched you grow whenever I could come by Myrna’s. I cared about you. And I watched as you turned your own family down-- You-- ” The gun shakes in her hand. “What happened to you?” He stares at her, breathing heavily. She seems to see right through his visor because he flinches, the knife slacking in his hand. He shivers, bringing his free hand to his face, and draws back, letting the words sink in. “I…” His mouth is dry, and he glances at the cloud that looks about to overcome them. At the remaining people escaping the spitting screeches and claws of the creatures pursuing them. At the knife in his hand. The boy stands behind Lia and begins to take a step further away out of some primal fear. There’s a hatred that emanates from the man, a rage that permeates in a strange, tense, boiling heat. The man watches his fingers slowly return to its grip around the hilt, and he looks back up at Lia, his expression invisible, but his tone a deadly drip. “I grew up.” And he swipes his arm upward, snapping Lia’s armed hand from its aim as she pulls the trigger, and he strikes inward-- And stops before the edge of the knife punctures the boy’s chest. The boy has his hands out side to side, his head turned and eyes closed in wait of the pain. He whimpers, teeth bared, and the man’s eyes are wide, following the edge of the blade to the rib it’s touching. “Wha--” Jonathan breathes. Lia whips her hand down, cocking the gun again and shooting the man in the thigh before he can think again. The pain burrows a millisecond after the bullet, and the man falls back on his side, screaming. The knife klinks to the sand as he clutches his leg and the blood soaks his gloves and the sand underneath it.