Gabriel's Sacrifice (The Scrapman Trilogy Book 2) (8 page)

If Mohammad could take back the roof, he could cover the intruders’ only exit. He could take back the entire plant at the bottleneck above the mezzanine. He climbed the first rungs, gaining vantage point at roof level. Below the ducting he saw four pairs of feet at various distances. He had to be quick; but he knew this roof better than they did.

They were in his jungle.

He leapt from the hatch, closing it behind him, and targeted the first. Mohammad sent the man spinning with a shot to the head. The rifle was louder than he liked, instantly earning him the attention of the other three.

Off guard, the next fumbled momentarily with his weapon–the very second that cost him his life.

But the other two would be more of a challenge. Already they’d taken cover; but Mohammad was on the move, yards away from where his previous shots were fired. He rounded a roof blower, discovering one of them behind the ducting. Single shot; and he went on.

Bullets then carved the air in his direction, ricocheting off metals as Mohammad fell to his side.

“Beetlejuice, what’s going on up there?!” The radio blared to life. “Beetlejuice!”

Beetlejuice is bleeding out on the nest right now. Leave a message.

Mohammad caught the final man in the ankle as he flopped over, receiving an additional two in the chest.

“Beetlejuice!”

Mohammad rose, pressing down the receiver. “Your men are dead.”

A brief silence hung thereafter. “Who is this?”

Mohammad thought for a moment, then responded. “The rifleman.”

“Rifleman?” the voice on the other end chuckled. “Well, I’m the hunter … and I assure you, Rifleman, the pleasure is all mine.”

T
hey shot Lumyn!

Raydea had to watch in horror as they sent her flailing off the piping. She looked down at her–Lumyn’s limbs twisted and mangled, bits of her hair caught on sharpened angles.

Raydea discovered her hand clasped over her mouth, her tears coming to gather atop it–all she could do to keep from screaming.

The dark pale-one removed a knife, readying to slice off Lumyn’s right hand, when there was gunfire on the roof. The three pale-ones stopped, looking at one another, before they all vacated in a hurry.

“Mohamyd,” Raydea whispered. But she couldn’t leave without a weapon. She was lucky just to make it to the boiler room.

Where did you hide the weapons, Lumyn?

But the secret died with her, one that could ultimately bring Raydea and Mohamyd to join her in death as well.

Then Raydea heard more gunfire. It was so crisp, so clear, just above her. Looking up, she found a four-bladed object suspended in a void. The space was just large enough for her to fit, if she could reach. It would require a jump. Hopefully she’d land gracefully, were she to miss.

Raydea threw herself upward, catching one of the blades, and lifted herself up and into the void. A rounded door swung slightly above her and she pushed it open, finding the bright sky beyond. It stung her eyes as she climbed over and let the door fall shut behind her.

Raydea was now within an enclosed box on the roof, the day finding its way in through a metal grate on the top. She was well concealed there.

More shots fired–and then she heard Mohamyd’s voice in the distance. She pressed her palms to the grate and pushed; but it did nothing to allow her exit. She pushed again, harder–still nothing. She could feel the tremors of footsteps as someone approached, the shadow of their face as they eclipsed the sky.

“Rayd…!” Her name seemed to catch in his throat as Mohamyd appeared above her. “Raydea.” He fell upon the metal void. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, new tears forming at the sight of him.

“Look away, Radia,” he said, shooting the heads off the four bolts keeping her locked in the blower housing.

She began to push it open when he put his weight on it.

“No, Radia,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll come back for you.” He paused for a moment to look over his shoulder, toward the mezzanine the hunter would be coming through. “But if I don’t, Radia … you wait here and you leave tonight.”

With tears welling in her eyes, she nodded in understanding.

“Good.” Mohammad felt his own emotions beginning to stir, the tightening of his throat around his tongue as he spoke that last word. But now wasn’t the time to worry about goodbyes. He’d probably killed half their men already. Now surely more were coming, coming to meet the rifleman atop his roof.

He swapped his magazine for a full one, waiting for the rest to come through the mezzanine on his hunt.

But the white door never moved.

They must be waiting him out on the inside.

And then there was pain–intense pain–like a shard of glass through his midsection. Mohammad tried to cry out, but a hand came quick to choke it back. He was thrown violently, the knife removed from his side, as his rifle came loose from his grip. He landed, clutching his wound, his hands becoming moist with blood.

“The rifleman, I presume?” A man asked, standing over him. It was the same voice from the radio, the man who referred to himself as the hunter–the one who stood on the hybrid grave a week before. He brought his boot hard into Mohammad’s stomach, sending him to wrench forward, the taste of blood on his lips. “You killed five of my men, Rifleman.” He came to kneel beside him. “That’s eight men I’ve lost on your property.”

Mohammad coughed violently, the sensation of blood beginning to trickle from the corner of his mouth.

“Now where is the woman, Rifleman?” The hunter tangled his fist in Mohammad’s hair as another man came to stand beside him. And from the floor Mohammad could feel the footsteps of others coming.

“There is no woman,” Mohammad mumbled. “You already killed the hybrid.”

“Don’t lie to me, Rifleman!” he said, extending a finger to Mohammad’s nose. “I’m not talking about the hybrid. I’m talking about the girl who killed three of my men.”

“There … is no woman,” Mohammad repeated, receiving the hunter’s fist to the jaw.

“You almost had me there, Rifleman,” the hunter said, shaking the pain from his knuckles. “Thank God for Beetlejuice; his blood ran all the way to the floor. Even in death he served me well.” The hunter pressed his boot to the side of Mohammad’s face. “Nice little hideout you got here, Rifleman. Now I’m gonna ask you one last time. Where … is … the … woman?”

“There … is no wom…” Mohammad’s words were cut short by a man’s sudden shrieking, prompting the hunter to remove the boot he had pressed to his face. The screams were coming from a large black man, trying to free himself from something wrapped around his torso.

It was Radia.

She was shrieking, too, between the mouth-fulls of flesh being ripped from the man’s neck and shoulder.

“Holy Christ!” the hunter shouted, the others raising their weapons.

The man, bulky as he was, was unable to get a grip on Radia to pull her off. “Shoot her!” he was screaming. “Shoot her!”

But then she was gone, jumping free from the large man as she took cover behind a run of ducting. They opened fire as she moved, losing her behind the immensity of metallic cover.

“Hold your fire!” the hunter shouted. “Hold your fucking fire!”

The three men obliged, lowering their weapons.

The hunter knelt again, patting Mohammad on the shoulder. “This one is all mine.”

The hunter followed his prey as she wove the industrial setting, droplets of blood being left in her wake. The hunter, at first, believed them to be from Jackson, dripping off her lips as she’d had her teeth within his skin; but he’d come to find this was not the case.

The hybrid was injured. And she was slowing down.

The traces of blood were becoming more abundant, the bare patches between scrap becoming larger as she propelled herself forward with increased difficulty. She was practically crawling. The hunter lowered his weapon, walking casually, slightly disappointed that his men wounded her so soon.

“Pitty,” he said, finding her beneath the shade of ducting. Her eyes were closed, but her chest moved with signs of strained respiration. “I suppose you are the very last.” He raised his weapon. “Time to end your suffering.”

“Ty … tired,” the hybrid spoke.

He lowered the gun. “What?”

“Tired,” she repeated, licking the blood along her lips. “So … tired.”

The hunter squinted. “You can talk?”

She opened her eyes to look at him, and he her in return, from her sopping midsection to the shoes on her feet.

“It was you,” he realized. “You killed those three.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “You hunted us … and I … hunted you.” The hybrid closed her eyes again.

This one, this one was an anomaly, now capable of speech–had become more human than any other he’d come across. She was the epitome of everything he worked so hard to avoid. The hunter would not come to see them be recognized as equal, would never witness the abomination that would be their offspring. There would be no more masquerade, he’d seen to it. She was the last, the final nail in the hybrid coffin.

“Farewell, Hybrid.” He lifted his weapon once more, finger firm against the trigger. “My regards to your race.”

Minutes had passed, and still Mohammad heard not a single gunshot. The other men loomed over him, looking off into the direction of the hunter, while the large man cursed extensively on account of Radia’s feasting on his neck. He was holding an article of clothing to it, the gleam of blood traveling down his arm.

She got away
, Mohammad was telling himself.
She escaped.

“This is quite irregular, Boys.” The hunter came to break the silence. “But the hybrid’s got something it wishes to say.”

To his horror, Mohammad found Radia flung over the hunter’s shoulder upon his return. He knelt to place her on the floor beside him.

“Radia.”

Her eyes were closed, face bare, almost peaceful.

“Radia,” Mohammad said again, her name catching in his throat; but even beneath his tears, he could make out the beauty of her green eyes as she opened them.

“I’m … sorry,” she said, lifting her hand to rest on his cheek. “I couldn’t … just watch you die.”

“Radia.”

“Thank you,” she smiled. “Without you … I wouldn’t have known … ”

“Raydea.” Mohamyd was calling to her; but everything seemed so distant now. She was saying something as well, but there was a word she didn’t know. Everything began to escape her, slipping through the confines of an exhausted mind.

“Thank you,” she heard herself say again.

But sleep was coming–a deep sleep, one she couldn’t resist any longer. And in it she found those rolling, distant hills, the warmth of the sun as it fell upon her face.

With her fingers between blades of softest grass, she was already there–safe and happy, with Mohamyd right beside her.

M
ohammad watched as she slipped away, her hand still upon his face.

“Radia,” he tried to say, but not a sound escaped him.

“Touching,” the hunter mumbled, the word hollow and insincere as it fell from his lips. He then motioned to the large, black man, still clutching the gaping wound on his neck. “You can dispose of her now.”

Mohammad grabbed at her as the hunter kicked him hard in the face; and upon his vision’s return, he witnessed Radia being flung over the large man’s shoulders, a puddle of her blood still beside him. The man turned, carried Radia to the building’s edge, hoisted her up, and threw her off. The sound of her impact reached Mohammad just a moment later, the smashing of wooden pallets.

The hunter nudged Mohammad with the end of his rifle. “Any last words, Rifleman?”

Mohammad shook his head, blood flowing down from his nose. “She was innocent,” he spat. “They all were innocent … They were the product of whatever we made them to be.” He looked up and locked eyes with the hunter. “She became a hunter because you made her a hunter … and if this is the world we’re making, I’m glad to be rid of it.”

And with that, the hunter nudged him one last time … and pulled the trigger.

Beneath the holding of his breath and the wrenching of his eyes, Mohammad wondered if he was already dead. But there was nothing—just the empty click of a misfire.

“Lucky bastard,” someone huffed behind him.

Mohammad opened his eyes again, the hunter placing the butt of his rifle down as he knelt before him, lifting his chin.

“You must have an angel watching over you, Rifleman,” he said. “And who am I to interfere with the divine?”

He dropped Mohammad’s face back to the floor. “You seem to be a man of sentiment, and I respect that.” He rose and took a few steps away, turning to face the dreary horizon. “Throw him over.”

The three men surrounding Mohammad grabbed at his limbs and lifted him from the roof’s surface; and despite his struggles, the building’s edge began to approach at a painfully steady pace.

“You can meet your hybrid in Hell.”

Then he was weightless, the ground beneath coming quick to shatter his body–nothing he could do. Even the option of prayer escaped him, for no miracle had ever come of it. Death was the only truth, real and concrete, eager to claim a life of regret, Radia’s remains lingering there to welcome him.

And then there was nothing, simple blackness, although Mohammad did have the consciousness to regard it as such.

Is this death?

The stillness formed itself into a gentle breeze as Mohammad opened his eyes, discovering a beach beneath a gray and stormy sky. Coconut trees swayed in the distance, as the crackle of thunder brought forth a new gust of wind. Mohammad stood, feeling the sand between his toes, and the tide as it came to dampen his clothes.

He turned to find a figure awaiting him there. It stood patient, allowing Mohammad the time to behold it properly.

“I am dead,” Mohammad stated aloud, for how else could he be witnessing this?

But the figure, smiling softly, disagreed. “Not quite yet, Mohammad.”

It was his brother, Shorab, presenting himself at the age of twelve, the time in their lives that Mohammad reflected upon the most, the time that brought him the fondest of memories.