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lukebygrace · 5 years

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Merc; Liam | The Peacekeeper

The middle aged man crouched behind the car, behind the engline block, a dull, faded blue Sudan, with aged tires and a creaking hull. Dirty brown, greasy curled locks fell from his hair and loosely down past his jaw line, a fuzzy set of thick stubble tickling the greasy hair as it went past. His jaw held tight, teeth locked against each other and barred.

His shoulder pressed tight up against the thin metal, the shoulder strap of his vest digging deep into his black overalls, strapping against the thick fabric, bulging out a small amount of ruffles, the vest held tight against his frame, fastened straight with velcro and straps, the jiggle of a spare mag clacking against the zipper. His hand held tight against the rifles pistol grip, the polymer grip digging against his calloused, pudgy hands.

His brow furrowed over his face, his breath dragging out of his lips loudly as his eyes looked across the scarred concrete road. He wasn’t meant for this. The pins and needles in his boot clad feet gave it away, the pain it took to squat for minutes, behind some low car to save his skin. He knew he shred tonnes of skin when he was younger. His arms pulled up his rifle, holding it with one hand to look at his bare right hand, clean and calloused. When he was younger, his hands would’ve been burnt by saw dust, scarred by belt sanders and hacked into by chisels, the work of a carpenter was never done, though now of all times, his hand never felt so unsteady, not even the rough seizure of a jack hammer could give him such a shaky feeling. He could feel his bones hold stiff, his skin drawn taught, but his muscles felt spasming. His grip was fine, though he could feel something deep in his cartilage, something that wasn’t right.

Far from the scene, he heard the bump of a cars suspension, squeaking as the car was hit. His eyes forced shut, clutching his rifle tight, the metal stock digging into his shoulder, barrel down against the asphalt. A series of ear shattering, loud gunshots exploded away, a quick burst, 7 of them in just a second, the sound echoing in his ears. A loud clatter as feet hit the pavement harshly, “WOOOO!...HOH MY-FUCK!” James yelled from where the sound was heard, a loud snickering laugh coming after, “HAHHAAAAA!” The laugh high and snappy, “ONE DOWN BOYS!” he yelled again, a smile audible on his lips.

He couldn’t do it as easy as James did it, could he?

He slowly pulled his eyes open, looking down towards the ground, and his feet lifted higher, his knee pulling away from the ground, his stature rising up from his slouch. Why hadn’t his damn enemy fired yet? He pulled his head up to look to where the sound came from, on the other side of the street, peeking over a concrete barrier where the road split, where James crouched behind another car, standing dead still next to his victim. Dressed head to toe in forested camo gear, a mandible like helmet and hell, even desert sand like gloves, submachine gun clutched in his dead hands, a small pool of sanguine blood drenching the asphalt beneath him, dying the fabric a deadly hollow red.

The shade he had seen before, red velvet seats in the back of a fancy car, back when he worked in his fathers shop. And before he knew it, Liam stood up, he stood right up like a deer in the headlights, he quickly spun his frame and position to look ahead of him, bolstering up his rifle and slamming his cheek to the stock, looking down the guns barrel to in front of him.

A barren road filled with emptied out cars, some car doors open, some not. Some had sped when the first shot rung, others got out and sprinted. Liam had only hoped they had insurance. In front of him, 15ish meters was another car, stopped dead straight, a vanilla grey rounded car, bigger than the one he crouched behind. No human dare stand up in the middle of their no mans land they had created.

His eyes darted across the empty space in front of him, searching for his assailant. Though through the tinted wind shield, and the back window, he could see just an inch of his silhouette, slouched behind the car, head swinging back and forth subtly, helmet held on tight. His barrel locked onto the sight, swaying left and right with each small movement his head gave, trying to find the centre mass of where this kids head was gonna be…

Before he stopped, and in the split second he had to think about what he was about to do, he paused, his body shook it's self rigid. That poor kid.

That poor, poor boy. He didn’t know any better. He din’t even know he could be seen through that damned window. Cmon boy. Look at me.

His shoulders fell loose.

Look at me. Come on boy. Just turn around.

He stared on more, and saw him, sitting, waiting, waiting for a chance to step out. Recovering maybe, was he shot before, did someone else shoot him while Liam sat back?

His breath grew ragged and grunt like, he let out a grunted sigh, his arms letting his gun fall down to his side, his left hand pulling back to his hip, grasping the curved pistol grip of his antique revolver, pulling it out of the holster, and raising it up, Liams posture shifted onto his side, arm held out high to point towards the kid, though to the side of him, to where he should be standing.

To where, if that kid would just damned get up, he’d have him.

He wasn’t gonna kill a kid like this, no. He couldn’t. Gimmie hell or high water, I ain’t gonna kill that kid til he gotdamn knows about it.

He stood there, yet the kid didn’t move. God damn boy looked like he was rockin himself to sleep.

Before Liam could think about it, his dry lips opened, “C’mon boy. Outcha get now.” He spoke, his voice warm like a fire, opening and accepting, though a starchy spark at the back of it, something of misunderstood, misguided anger.

The soldier didn’t move, stood behind that car, silhouette found still. The kid froze up, the gun barrel pointing out of the cover, and Liams eyes stared to it, just one flick of that thing and the tables would turn, but he didn’t dare think about it. He’d rather this kid drop dead having known about it, than making an unlucky mistake. His eyes snapped back to just in front of the car, trained on that empty gap to where his enemy would poke out from, arm held stiff out in front, his finger held trained on the trigger.

“I can’t be waitin around much longer. I ain’t gonna hurtcha.” His lips spoke once more, his eyes frowned and he looked down to the ground, his teeth gritted, his face cringing up as he shook his head just lightly. ‘Cmon Liam, don’t lie to this kid, not now.’

His lips opened once more, taking in a breath, before he saw on the other side of the street, another man, dressed similarily to the rest, stand up from the side of a dumpster. Liams eyes flicked to the sight, and his heart skipped a beat, he swear he could see the swing of that barrel to him. His eyes ripped wide open, and his body tensed up in a small jump, his arm flung off to the windscreen and took a shot, his mouth dropped agape as he yelled, his rifle clad hand flung up to cover over his head as he dropped flat onto the ground, slipping right back, fallin gthrough the air and clashing his lower back and rear right onto the asphalt.

The explosion of the gunshots clapped through the air, screaming into his ears as he laid flat, upper body curved up into the car, to save himself from any exposure.

Within the seconds there, as Liam laid on the floor, his hands moving down to push himself up off of the floor, with his ears ringing and his teeth loosely ground together, he heard that one sound he couldn’t forget.

The unmistakable sound he had heard all too often the past 3 days. The sound of the throat muscles unclenching, the sound of the jaw dropping, the sound of one last held breath being pushed up by keilo’s of armored vests, the sound of the tongue rolling back and twisting into the throat.

The absolutely disgusting gurgle of death.

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