Breaching the Bastion: The Fall of Man., #1

By La Dark

Time is marked by the passage of the moon.

Sanity is measured by the beat of the heart.

There was no warning, just cold, heavy boots pounding across the hard tiled floor.

John was focused on his cards.  Finally a good hand, he had been dealt rubbish all afternoon.  Now something good had come his way and winning would brighten his weekend, but they were cards that he would never get to play.

The hand that fell on his shoulder was heavy with fate and marked the end of the winning streak he was yet to have.  No explanation, just the name of a person he barely knew.  He was taken to a place the military called the Bastion.  A fortified wall dumped in the middle of suburbia to segregate the clean from Bedlam.

As the reaper moon took charge of the suburban sky, millions of years of evolution were being wiped out.   Death didn't walk the streets, it galloped.  It didn't hide in the shadows; it unashamedly dressed the streets in carnage.  Looking into Bedlam from the wall was a vision of insanity and showed a dark future.

At the epicenter of the chaos was the only beacon of hope.  Babylon.  The five chosen for the mission are not a team.  Each member has their own agenda and can't be trusted.  John is alone and time is running out, for everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: La Dark
• Release date: Nov 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393305972

Book preview

Title

Published by LaDark

© Copyright 2017, LaDark-Arts and deGroot-Arts

All rights reserved.

Cover by deGroot-Arts

No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the copyright holder.

Table of Contents

The Caged Tiger

First Blood

Before Bedlam

Contact

Edge of Babylon

Babylon

No Way Out

Infected

The Infected

The Institute

The Final Count Down

Bonus Chapter - Beyond Bedlam

About - LaDark

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The Caged Tiger

The dirty light bleeds from the full cobalt moon into the grubby alleyway.

It is said that lunacy peaks under the moon’s influence, however, in this city of the damned; its face is the only thing with any light to give.

Decker’s head is bowed. A moment ago, he was unconscious, but now he is pretending, waiting. His eyes appear closed, but through slate colored pencil-thin slits he sees everything. He is playing.

The dead end alleyway is a place of darkness. In the shadows rest an assortment of piss soaked blankets and a collection of empty wine bottles of cut rate quality. The cracked brick walls are covered with repulsive cartoon faces with oversized eyes and genitals. They stare blindly from a great height, like a jury of lepers passing judgment. Empty cans of spray-paint are set out like bowling pins in the corner. They are the restless colors that taggers and street artists favor because they are both disturbing and cheap.

A decapitated rubbish bin has spilled its load on the footpath, leaving a deluge of human debauchery. Acquire, exploit and forsake. The breeze sorts the rubbish by weight, pushing paper that rustle along the road like fall’s leaves. Anything with substance gets left behind. This is a place where rubbish breeds, dead pets are dumped and illicit drugs are toyed with.

The front window of the butcher’s shop lies fractured on the road. Untouched meats lie in its own blood amongst the large shards of glass. Everywhere is the stink of death. From the rubbish bin, from the meat on the road, but the heaviest stench blows in from downtown. Death walks those streets now and hunts the living for fresh meat.

Decker takes all this in without saying a word. His razor sharp senses detect what the average civilian will miss. He tastes the vibrations in the air and smells the fear that lurks in the darkest of shadows. He is a soldier, a decorated war hero and a cold, calculating killer with powerful hands that can snap bones and cut off air. The army has taught him patience and given him a ruthless edge to see a job through too its bitter end.

He opens his eyes fully and examines the handcuffs that attach his wrist to the fence. The cuff is solid, but the fence looks weak. It is wire, the sort used to corral livestock or for crowd control. He gives his wrist a shake, causing the fence to rattle and then gives it a tug to test the strength of his bonds. The fence has a little give, not as much as he would like, but at least it is something for him to work with.

He touches the deep cut across his forehead and looks at the dry blood that has flaked onto his fingers. There is another deep laceration along his leg where he fell off the top of a truck. Neither of those injuries will slow him, he simply acknowledges their presence and sets the pain free. The fence is the real problem. If he can get free of it, then it will only be a matter of dispatching the sick soldier who is guarding him. A quick twist to break the neck or a short jab to stop the heart, either will do. Maybe the soldier deserves something a little slower, something to stretch the agony out.

My name is John Mallard and I am sick, very sick. I am that soldier.

Once upon a time, Decker was my commanding officer, now he is my enemy. Dirt covers his torn uniform and his boots are scuffed and worn. He appears to be beaten, but that is an illusion designed to make me careless. The handcuffs that secure him to the wire fence won’t stop him, but will slow him down enough to give me a chance. There is a revolver sitting on my knee, but it is useless, another prop in this game of death. Decker is looking at me as if seeing me for the first time, maybe it is just a new perspective. When you are standing on top of the Bastion, looking down, it is hard not to see the people beneath you in a certain way.

‘Are we in Bedlam?’ His tone is flat. Where else could we be? Only Bedlam stinks this bad. I nod my head, sending a bolt of pain through my neck. He processes the information with just the slightest of reactions. The muscles around his jaw loosen. The color in his eyes becomes a slightly cooler hue. The virus has heightened my perception. Maybe it is just my imagination seeing what I want to see, because, if there is nothing, then everything I have done is a waste.

‘You crazy son of a bitch.’ Direct and straight to the point. He spits blood onto the ground. ‘What do you want?’ He is staring at me, his face is expressionless, no bullshit. He doesn’t care about how I managed to get him in this position or why, that is all history. The only thing that matters is what it will take to fix the situation and get him to some form of safety.

‘Answers.’ I say, trying to put some strength into my voice. He chuckles and then says.

‘Shoot.’

My gaze drops to the revolver sitting on my lap.

‘The code to Babylon.’

‘I have no idea, and even if I did, that information is classified. Do you think I would assist a terrorist and traitor?’ He leans back against the fence; the moonlight catches that cocky grin. It is going to be a long night.

I vomit, letting my stomach reject whatever my last meal was. It was a long time ago. It looks like blood, but in the moonlight it is hard to tell. My head drops to my knees causing an intense pain. The sickness that decimated Bedlam now owns me. It steals my memories and corrupts my mind, turning everything evil.

Like lost ghosts, the hallucinations follow me. For the most part they are broken images, snatches of outlined shapes that dance before my eyes and disappear before I can focus on them. There is a movement to my left. Turning my head rewards me with more pain. Maud is beside me, her bleached white face reflects the moon’s glow. The noose is still around her neck and trails down over the wedding dress. One of the shoulder straps has broken revealing an industrial strength bra filled with tissues. Some fall out and flutter to the road. Her bright pink fluffy slippers are the only thing in color.

She holds the framed picture of her son Rikki and herself. The glass is shattered and half of Rikki’s face has been gouged away. Eaten comes to mind, but I am having trouble remembering. Her mouth moves, but what comes out is the constant chatter like a swarm of insects buzzing around inside my head. And then there are softly spoken words.

‘My son, do it for him.’ The words trail off and the ghost of Maud dissipates into the painted clown face on the brick wall. I’m alone with Decker again. Intense hunger rips me apart, chewing at my insides and making me delirious. I am dying. Screaming madness comes to me in waves, and then there is silence. In the trough, my mind becomes my own again and I can contemplate my future.

If Decker escapes, I will die.

If he gets hold of me, he will kill me.

If a rescue party comes, they will kill me.

If the moon makes it to the horizon before I have the answers I need, well, then I may as well be dead.

A rift of conversation cuts through the thoughts in my head. We’re doing them a favor, putting them out of their misery. They are talking about people I know, friends and family and now they are talking about me. After being lied to, shot at and left for dead, it is these words that make the most impact.

I force my head back and look at the full moon. It strains my neck and burns my eyes. In Bedlam, time is marked by the passage of the moon and sanity measured by the beat of the heart. I cannot hold out, but must. There is a dry weight in the back of my eyes dragging my eyelids down. Just rest them for a moment, I tell myself, knowing that it is a lie. The clouds thicken, covering the moon and its light.

Let the lunacy begin.

The wire fence rattles. Sounds are vibrant in the dark and harsh as breaking tiles. Rapid footfalls hammer the pavement shattering the silence. Through blurred vision, I perceive the shadow shooting towards me. I can smell him coming. Sweat and blood clings to the air. Then a stray shard of light catches Decker’s evil half grin. He is closer than he should be, covering the ground with deadly efficiency. Every muscle on his ripped body stands out rock solid under cling film tight flesh.

He hits the end of his tether without slowing. The handcuff on his wrist jerks tight and the wire fence stretches and unravels. His left hand shoots out, reaching across the no man’s land that separates him from me and freedom. His fingers splay, gaining a few precious inches. The muscles stand proud on his legs as he puts every bit of weight and remaining strength into this final assault. All the give in the wire fence runs dry and he comes to a juddering halt. The momentum hits the handcuffed wrist, breaking it with a deafening snap.

The sound of the wire fence unraveling drags me to the surface of consciousness. Decker’s wrist snaps and I am fully awake. It takes me a few moments to realize where I am. It is night. Graffiti faces spray-painted on the wall stare down at me. Everything moves slowly and every detail is crystal clear. A dog is barking. Distance softens the sound, turning it into a voice that is calling out my name. The clouds part and the moon floods the dark dirty alleyway in stark cobalt light.

I see Decker and jerk backwards. The revolver perched on my lap falls onto the footpath between us. We both see it. Decker is quicker, but I am closer and get to it first. I grab the gun, fumble and almost drop it. I can’t remember it being so heavy and it takes forever to lift and point at his heart, but that doesn’t scare him.

He reaches out, engulfing the gun with his free hand and immobilizing the trigger. He drags me into his reach before tearing the gun from my grip. Handcuffed and one handed, he tosses the gun into the air, giving it enough twist so that when it returns to his grip, the barrel points at my face. It is a circus trick, or something done with special effects from a movie. By napping, I have given him an advantage and have to scuttle back out of his reach.

‘Keys, now,’ his voice is full of hard authority that demands obedience. It rumbles down from the sky with threats of lightning bolts and brutal consequences. However, the sky now belongs to the moon. I look back at Decker. The revolver that is pointed at my head has grown to over a foot long and threatens to take my face off. He has the gun, but is still handcuffed to the fence. He is a superior officer, superior in every way. Who is the prisoner hangs in the balance.

Decker’s left hand is bent at an awkward angle from the broken wrist. It is still looped through the handcuffs, still attached to the fence. Slow fat blood droplets hang from a cut in his wrist a moment too long and then drop. They splatter, creating little red sores on the smooth concrete footpath. I feel repulsed, hungry and angry, all at the same time.

An irrational all encompassing hatred grows inside me and I am powerless to bargain with it. I need to bring it under control and the only thing that can quell the heat is to retreat into my memories. I close my eyes, blotting out Decker and the dirty alleyway. The sounds of his barking voice recede into the distance. I try to visualize Lauren’s face, but nothing will come. For a moment it is like she doesn’t exist, it is like a dream that has faded to nothing in the dawn’s light. Her face. The sounds of her voice. Suddenly she is there.

‘Are you alright?’ She asks. ‘I’m glad you came, John.’ I push the stale air from my lungs and pull in a new breath. The beast retreats to the shadows and I am in control again. I open my eyes. Lauren is gone. Decker is standing in her place. He is smiling because he thinks he has won. My gaze is drawn back to the revolver, now aimed at my knee.

The gun came from the same place as the handcuffs. Taken from a dead cop lying in a pool of his own blood three short blocks away from this dead end alleyway. The cop was a big man and a little overweight. In a bar fight, he was the kind of man you would want to be on your side, except, he didn’t look like the kind of guy who would get into a fight if there was another way. The name on the driver’s license was Peter O’Donnell. In the photo, he was a handsome man with determined but friendly features. Those features are now just stains on the pavement.

His wallet also held a picture of a young wife and three smiling children, two of them boys. I held the photograph longer than I should have, looking at the family of the dead policeman. I couldn’t help but imagine the future hurt they were going to feel. I wanted to screw the photo up and hated myself for thinking that way. Instead, I tucked the photo of his widow back into the dead policeman’s breast pocket.

The road where the cop lay was a graveyard, littered with battered and bullet riddled corpses. Two dozen tangled, distorted bodies of men, women and children reduced to shapes by the moonlight. Most of the bodies had been shot and a number of them had more than one bullet hole. It wasn’t Peter’s gun that killed them, that happened earlier. He just finished them off. Their faces were twisted with angry confused pain that only a bullet to the head could release.

In the normal world, Pete would have been a mass murderer, but this was not normal, his victims were already dead. He had spent his bullets bringing salvation to those beyond redemption. Two dozen everyday citizens who, through no fault of their own, had fallen from grace. Just before the ammunition ran dry, he turned the gun on himself. I took the gun and the cuffs. The revolver that had once been in Officer O’Donnell’s mouth is now pointed at my knee. Even empty, a gun can still have strong placebo powers.

‘Last chance.’ Decker says, looking down at me from a long way up. The words come out frosty in the bitterly cold night air. ‘Surrender the key and I will make it quick. Your father need never know.’ Obeying orders from a superior officer had