I write classic "good vs evil" creative writing pieces with smart twists inspired by vintage action cinema, gaming, and heavy metal.
Days of Revenge by Ramallah
It's just them and me. All that exists now is my war. Whatever that could be considered happy and bright was long since in the past with most of it already forgotten. Gone is the laughter and happiness of coming home after an honest day's work; there's no home to come back to. "Honest" work showed its true colors too and sacked the few honest people that were there. Myself included. All for saying no to inebriated conformity. Modern life slowly began to lean in favor of the new age lifestyle of chemicals, intoxicating plants, poisons, and endless dopamine hits.
After the 2 of us got fired, things went from bad to worse; not only did I lose my apartment but minutes later, my comrade-in-misfortune called me and barely fighting through his tears, told me to come over: it was a slaughterhouse in his place. As he sat in pools of his family's blood, he retold me of the previous night where a group of junkies broke into his house and butchered his wife and 2 infant children after knocking the man out while he was still outside. Insult to injury, the criminals also took anything that can be sold; even an outdated, obsolete landline phone. The man was poor and risked a life of homelessness now. The least I could do is pay for his ride to the neighboring city where his relatives lived. As I did; my cellphone, laptop, and a 1999 Range Rover HSE car whose loan I just paid off - all sold in the name of help. I won't be needing any of those anymore.
Now, I walk the rainy, grey streets of a district that achieved a horrible reputation of sleaze, crime, murders, and even unholy rituals. The police, when they were forced to, just skimmed over this area where only one cruiser sped by for formality's sake. That was useful for me since my appearance begs for police attention. My steel-toed Soviet army surplus boots, tailor-made for the worst places our planet could offer, crushed anything on the dirty, cracked pavement with every step.
Olive drab fatigues barely visible under the heavy raincoat that also, concealed my last salvation; a German Sturmgewehr 44/STG44. The old gun was the only thing that felt light to me; the last defender of order, discipline, and sobriety in the incoming tide of an ugly, decadent future that held nothing sacred. I'm outnumbered but my message would be crystal clear with 7.92x33mm bullets flying at 550-600RPM.
Drugs are expensive and lethal but, provided something that akin to a tyrannical dictator, the modern world seized and gave back to us only on its own terms; happiness. At least something that served as an adequate substitute to modern people. Drugs also became a tool of control and those that rejected it; can't be controlled and therefore, got removed and cast out. Ironically, drugs are made in places like this; forgotten, abandoned, and full of society's worst.
"Hey, coat!" a heavily accented thug called me as I walked by, ignoring him and his buddy. "Private property!"
This guy resembled a shaved gorilla, while he was bigger than me, he did calm down when he noticed that I wasn't scared of him.
"Oh, Suleiman sent me; he said to put that in there," I replied nonchalantly looking down at my hands; they didn't notice the gun yet.
"Suleiman wh..." the thug didn't finish as I drove the gun into his face and in quick succession, the Sturmgewehr's barrel speared him into the solar plexus; sending my assailant down on the dirty, rain-soaked ground into a fetal position. Wasting no time, the German storm swallowed his slow partner. Justifying the gun's true, translated name; Storm Rifle.
"Aman was that thunder or gunshots?!" my previous victim's chest hissed. Pressing the gun's barrel into his neck, I ripped the radio off of him and replied, "Aman isn't here; he's a bit dead." The final gunshot into him was an exclamation point to my message. Now they are walking on their ears and awaiting my attack.
In better days, this place was a drydock but now, it's where drugs get produced and handled after a shipment comes in - a double operation because their demand grows almost daily. The building I'm about to purge has a flimsy-looking door that no doubt, has a few nervous thugs behind it; let's see if Aman is bulletproof. As I finished the thought, I picked up his body and in a Fireman's carry, I moved him to the door and standing up the body, gripping the Stg44 with my free hand; I turned Aman into a human battering ram.
The nervous thugs wasted no time and pumped their fallen comrade full of hot lead. Spraying and praying would just waste ammo therefore, I ditched the bullet-ridden corpse and took cover behind a pillar.
"It's Aman, dude!"
"We killed him, Idris would skin us!!!"
My peripheral vision caught 5 nervous thugs armed with standard-issue bad guy guns; TEC9 and MAC10 submachine guns with one thug sporting a sawn-off Mossberg 835 pump-action shotgun. They were too focused on what's in front so they probably didn't notice my dive into cover. Waiting till their ammo ran dry, switching my rifle to semi-auto; I put down 2 thugs mid-reload with center-mass shots.
Full-auto, the storm continued with the rest of them stopping the onslaught with their bodies. Their reflexes and destroyed cognitive functions were their undoings. I wore no body armor; just steel sheets under my clothes; lashed to my torso tightly therefore, I don't count on it stopping anything other than a pocket knife. Obviously, I was outnumbered with a crescendo of running footsteps, ratcheting charging handles, and muffled yells making a solid case for that but, I have nothing to go back to; the only way is forward.
It's almost like my gun has gained sentience with the barrel instantly snapping to a trio of defending thugs; didn't even get a chance to try as my trigger finger fast-tracked their ride to hell. "Puto!" a machete went for my head as the Sturmgewehr's receiver stopped it as it was time for a mag-rotation. Spinning the gun, I drove its sight into Mr. Puto's eye, following up with a frontal kick to widen the gap. Next, the gun's muzzle impaled him with the buttstock to the back crippling him. I gotta be careful since the spring of the '44 is within the stock; I'm risking disarming myself.
New mag finally in, adrenaline further throwing me into the fight; hordes of trigger-happies fell like bags of manure. However, my world was now slowing down, and moving grew harder and harder. I wasn't gonna let it stop me; fighting through millions of stitches in my sides and chest pain, I kept the pressure on. Suddenly, my gun grew too heavy to hold, the enemy stopped falling, instead of gunshots; all I heard was empty clicking. Body isn't responding anymore, giving in to the overpowering weakness, I fell on my knees. Gathering what remained of my strength and gripping the German rifle; I used it as a crutch and dragged myself outside; at least the exit wasn't too far. Bullets whizzing past me, I stood on my knees as the cold rain washed away what remained of me; a crusade destined for doom.
Nothing Remains by Flawed Element
© 2021 Jake Clawson