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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

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In my copyrighted NeoHuman (redacted: Neurosapien) Universe, someone has decided to fight for the innocents that are slaughtered everyday. Someone has decided that they will no longer stand by and be witness to senseless violence and cruelty against the most timid and undervalued beings of Earth. Someone has decided to reclaim the world and return it to the first natural owners.


The stench is overwhelming, burning my eyes, making them water. But tears do not roll down my cheeks and fall to a bloodstained concrete floor because of the odor alone. I can still feel the pain of those recently slaughtered. I smell what is left of their mangled bodies, and I know instantly what they endured: the confusion, torture, pain, and the slipping of futile hope. For a moment, I am ashamed for I am grateful I was not here when it all had begun; the screeches of agony and uncertainty, the disorder, it would have all been too much for me. Not being able to concentrate fully, I would have most likely fallen as well. I would have failed the task at hand. For those taken from their homes, stolen from their families, their grief and suffering is over and I cannot change that. But I can make sure their deaths are not in vain.
I almost choke on the thick and disgusting odor of blood and guts and lingering sea-salt. It is all over the round and plump man I have beneath me. That, and the urine which is pouring down his left leg as his pleads for mercy echo off stone and steel. For the last seven minutes he had hid, like a coward, behind some oil barrels stored in the corner of this construct built to bring pain and death. For seven minutes he had watched me as I killed every last one of his comrades. Not once did he make a sound. Not once did he try to help those he had called friend. And not once did I make him aware that I knew of his presence. I wanted to take my time with this one. He was a leader and he did the most damage. I bet he even smiled about it. Those that he had slain most likely died with the sound of laughter in the air.
My knee pushes down into his abdomen, causing him to cry out. He begs me to let him go free, and I want to ask if he would have shown the same mercy that he now requested, to one of those that he had so gallantly peeled with his blades. Could this fat recluse be so kind? If the slaughtered had pleaded, would this slob of a man, who enjoys butchering, cared or listened? It makes me wonder if a man like this is even capable of feeling sympathy. I peer down at his puffy red face and stare into his frightened eyes. No! This man made his purpose for existence one of butchery and scalping and stealing the life of others in order to gain coin. A man like that has no sympathy. Nor shall I.
His pleads gurgle from blood-filled spat as I force a talon into his chest. I grind and shove the talon until I hear his heart pop. His mouth opens wide and he attempts to speak with his last gasps of breath. Just like those he had slain, he dies wondering why. In the brief moment that he passes from life to the mysterious beyond I speculate he creates answers to try and comfort himself. I truly doubt that he understands that he is being punished for being a brutal savage that loved to slice and carve flesh.
I leave the waste of life on the cold concrete and rise, turning back to the closed door that separates me from the room where the killings had occurred. Part of me wishes to simply leave, but I always visit the killing-rooms; it helps keep me fueled for the greater mission. Slowly I slide the large metal door open, the whiff of decay slams against me. I want to cry out but I am strong and I grit my teeth. All over the floor were the heads of the dead, their misshaped bodies littering a conveyor belt that leads to the other side of the facility. There was no respect for these poor creatures, even in death.
My chest tightens and I want to kill the butchers all over again, but I cannot. I must move on to the next killing-room. I must keep going. I kill enough of these butchers and I know they will hesitate with their slayings. I know they will begin to question what they do. Their cruelty will never match my righteous fury or belligerence. They will change their ways and beliefs, or they will all die.

Two days into my vengeful pilgrimage north I make a detour to a barn that has been repurposed into a facility to abuse and exploit the innocents for entertainment. Obviously illegal, but a small town sheriff can be bought in America. Hell, during my travels in search of justice I have encountered even kings and queens who are bought so that their heads turn when the defenseless cry out. Humans are a sorry sort and I will continue to fight against the madness that seems to be so casual and acceptable.
One of my informants lead me down a trail that snaked its way around a rugged and abandon house, painted an ill green, before fading away into a thicket of woodland green and brown. Just before the trail merged with the forest line, a pebbled path broke away and led to the archaic barn once meant to safeguard hay and grain and animal feed. Quickly, yet stealthily, I make my way to the back of the repurposed barn which stands nearly as tall as the surrounding trees, a multitude of great oaks about four hundred years in age, forced to hide this abomination of cruelty. The sun is high in the sky and the building is quiet. I should wait until the owners arrive but morbid curiosity peeks and I know I must see this place redesigned for amusement and death. It almost seizes my heart. I slide through a small hole in the rotten wooden structure and dust welcomes me. It does not take long before I reach the arena where innocents are forced to entertain savages that find sport in the shedding of blood. The arena wall rises waist-high and within the barrier old blood stains the stone floor. I close my eyes and hear the ghostly echoes of the fallen, the innocents that had no chance to live the life meant for them. I make my way to the rear of the structure where a makeshift gate has been erected, obviously not part of the original structure blueprint plans. I slide open the original door that remains and am surprised that it works so effectively. Why would they need the metallic gate? Then I see the answer: a dozen amateur cages meant to imprison the broken-spirited innocents line the back wall of the barn. With the metallic gate latched and locked, while the original door is slid far-open, ghastly patrons could look upon the enslaved innocents without risk of attack. Rage grips my resolve and I know exactly how to deal with the owners. A twisted grin spreads over my face as I begin planning.
The night comes slowly but my anticipation for furious justice has kept me alert as I waited. I hear two cars pull up and several people get out after the headlights dim. I hear the distinct voices of five different men and a woman whose tone demands authoritative respect. These sloppily dressed men in overalls answer to a matriarch with straining white hair. They laugh about their plans for the next night in which they will put on a spectacular show of innocents trained to destroy one another. I notice that they have come without the innocents, which is perfect, I will not need to interfere, and I could sit back to enjoy the spectacle of justice which I have prepared. Their devious show of bloody sport for coin has been incessantly postponed. Tonight I will watch as these brutal entertainers are destroyed for their crimes. The six criminals make their way to the back of the barn where they believe they will only find empty cages ready for use. Instead, they will meet their end.
Hidden in the shadows of the rafters I follow as they enter the back room, triggering a device I had quickly fashioned to lock the barn up tight. It also simultaneously kills the lights, but I have no issue with seeing clearly in the dark. A bit prideful, I watch the criminals react to the slammed door and loss of electricity. But they have no time for challenging the surprise, as one of the men falls, swinging wildly at an assailant of teeth and wrath and hunger. They all scream as my trap is sprung: I recruited a pack of famished wolves to handle the problem of these boastful entertainers. Never have I been so grateful for being able to communicate with and control animals. I listen as the wolf pack are sated with the flesh of criminals that had gorged their pockets with so much precious and blameless blood. I listen as bones are cracked and human skin is torn from muscle. The shouts and pleas for help fall on uncaring ears. The wolves work fervently as if they too understand the need for vengeful law. After only ten minutes there is silence and the barn seems serene. I smile and drop to the ground. With great satisfaction I slide the door open allowing the wolves to retreat back to their woodland territory I had recruited them from. The smell of human blood fills the air and I breathe it in deeply. Justice is a sweet aroma.

It takes only three days more before I reach the broken shores of the morally corrupt Edge City as ocean waves beat against toxic sand. The city is so foul with depravity that it floats on the winds, thick, arduous, and smothering. Known worldwide for industrial waste and thievery the city is a bleak and repulsive scar upon American civilization. One would wonder at why the nation’s leader would not find a means to cleanse itself of such a travesty of “civilization” yet I already know that all have a price.
The skyline is pricked with lofty commercial buildings and neglected apartment complexes. The population crowds the streets daily, always something to steal or someone to exploit. They go about their so-called productive lives in a dull, un-favoring, and ironically debilitating manner. Repetition is the norm, overshadowing creativity, spontaneity, and compassion. The need to obtain financial stability results in long tiring hours of work and no sleep or rest, and provides the catalyst for countless failing relationships. The city seems to completely drain joy from every mortal soul that calls it home. The tainted air chokes any beauty the city could achieve and one must search long and hard to find a decent tree to find cover from the blistering sun. There are no squirrels scurrying about fence posts and power lines, no pigeons releasing their fecal matter as they perch on the edge of building ledges. I feel the presence of, nothingness. I scarcely find stray cats and dogs, slaves thrown to the streets when times are too difficult. There is no place for nature; the very land beneath the colossal structures is scarred with “progress” and mankind’s sentient expansion and domination. This coastal metropolitan creation is a concrete and steel manifestation of human greed, selfishness, and destructive creed for consumption. It makes me want to vomit.
I make my way from the shoreline, passing beneath a pier that has heavily equipped guards patrolling it. Why would such a facility need armed guards if they were not doing something ill? I make a mental note to return to this pier to kill the guards once my mission is complete. For now I must get inside. Once pass the pier I use the shadows to elude any security system in place, I elegantly climb the building, and slip in through a window roughly three stories from ground level. Obviously it is not expected that one could enter this way. Steam and death clogs the atmosphere inside. I traverse the steel walkway designed for maintenance personnel, hidden away within the rafters, until I find the stairs down. Downward into an unknown hell I go. It does not take long to find a large iron door that slides. Beyond it I know my destination awaits. With a loud metallic groan the door slides and I gasp.
I slowly trudge my way through the killing-room, swallowing shame, disgust, sympathy, and rage. I reach out to touch the carved body of a whale shark, but pull away at the last moment. I turn my head and see the remains of a great hawksbill sea turtle left on full display before a world that does not care. Its shell is in pieces as humans no doubt desired to form jewelry from it. The rest of the turtle must already be on the conveyor belt, making its way to a large pot where it shall become a culinary rarity poured into a bowl or cup for some wealthy dignitary. Pain overwhelms me and I back up, only to slip on the discarded head of a great tuna. As I fall to the blood-soaked floor my hands find other heads as my eyes gaze at a dozen more. The floor is littered with the remains of all kinds of sea-life: fish, turtle, crab, shrimp, a variety of octopi and lobster, and even shark and whale. There is no doubt that this factory is making a financial-killing with the coastal restaurants whom specialized in ocean-delights. Tears pour from my eyes and that’s when I hear the voices of the men who run this seafood factory. Their break must be over, a warning signal shrills removing doubt.
Rancid with cigarette smoke and beer, a group of butchers, bloodied aprons and all, return from their mess hall. All are laughing. Nine butchers. Nine criminals that torture and slaughter the innocents. Nine deaths that will not weigh on my conscience. I move swiftly and with purpose. Two fall in bloody death before any could scream out for help. My talons slashes throats, punctures lung, and severs limbs; all with grace and a speed only the gods could achieve. I jump into the air and arc my body forward, gliding over two of the butchers who swing wildly, hoping to find me as their mark. I extend my leg, sweeping their legs from beneath them, and before their body’s splat unto the cold and unforgiving concrete, I have already used my talons to end their days and butchers. The last of them run, shouting in different languages. They will not escape me.
I give chase, easily catching up. I pounce on one, my knees snapping their spine as we slam into the ground. One more to go. The last butcher reaches the communications room and sounds an alarm. I fire poison barbs at the criminal, shattering the glass, and she fall immediately as the fatal liquid surges through their bloodstream. I need not check the man’s vitals to know they were now in the forever sleep, I could see the skin changing to an unpresentable purple hue, splotched with red blisters. I jump to the wall and climb toward the shadowy safety of the rafters. All nine butchers dead, just like their innocent and wondrous victims. But my fun has only just begun.
From all directions, armed guards race to the communications room. The butcher had time to sound the initial warning, but had no chance to provide any helpful details. The guards know that something dangerous and horrible is happening, taking notice of the discolored corpse of an employee, maybe one of their friends. And it would be easy enough for them to find the other bodies, I left them where they fell. The same treatment the innocents received. None of the guards however, know what exactly is occurring or why. I listen as one radios for the police to be contacted. I watch as another guard touches the septic butcher, hoping to find a pulse. Maybe that is the friend. But by this time the butcher should be undoubtedly dead; the poison should have liquefied the organs and begun phase two. Almost on queue the guard screams, holding his pallid hand. The others turn to see what is wrong. A gaseous cloud begins emanating from the dead body. Those closest cough and choke and spit up blood. One of the guards displays a brief moment intelligence by shutting the door. A pointless action though, seeing how the glass had been shattered. Yet, a few of them take the moment to bolt. That’s what they think.
I descend on the fleeing guards, their pistols sliding across the ground as they yield to my mass. I slash at them, swiping away flashlights and batons. Desperate they swing at me, and I dodge every advance. I kick them in the gut, punch their faces, snaps their arms, and shatter kneecaps. I am swift and relentless, strong and supple. I am all the vengeance the innocent animals will get. They had been slain for their diverse hides, delectable taste, exotic shine, and rare value. And they had no chance of fighting back. Appalled, I fight for the butchered animals of the world, and in this moment as another guard takes their last breath, I am content. Maybe even happy. I almost lose myself to the rage and euphoria of it all. I am a spirit of righteous fury and I love every moment of what I do.
It takes no more than seven minutes to dispatch of all the guards in the factory. I have made better time, but for this place, a fishery on the outskirts of Edge City that participated in blatant illegality within the food distribution community, I notice that I took my time, purposely. Another butchery will shut down for a while. This will buy more time for the creatures of the oceans to escape the death-nets of mankind. With the poison I released dissipating and bodies laid out everywhere, I smile to myself for a job well done. The message will be clear: kill marine animal life and suffer the lethal consequence. I walk out the front door of the factory unchallenged and unnoticed, making my way to the pier. I did not forget the guards patrolling. They too will die for crimes against nature.

* * *

“Keep those damn news cameras behind the perimeter Jaxon!”
“Yes sir!”
Chief Royales shakes his head before going inside the fish processing factory known as Ocean Chomp. He looks around, his hand covering his mouth, “good God!”
Forensic Specialist Lorens steps up, introducing herself, “hello chief, I am doctor Hesnia Lorens, lead forensics. I am in –”
“I am in charge,” Chief Royales says, cutting Lorens off. “I am the chief of police in Edge City, and don’t you forget that Specialist Lorens. This is my crime scene and nothing is to be said to the public about what happened here.” Chief Royales sighs, taking in the scene, “but, exactly, what did happen?”
Bothered by the chief’s infamous rudeness and self-promoting title, Lorens replies, “obviously, people died. They were murdered.”
Lorens turns around and heads back toward the communications room. The chief follows, “a flip mouth huh? Maybe your superiors should be informed of your tart disposition?” he says.
Lorens exhales deeply, “I know you’re in charge, chief.” She does not see it, but she knows the chief is smiling. They walk past all the bodies leading back toward the communications room. “We think the second scuffle started here.”
“Yes, we think it started in the processing room.”
Lorens leads Royales to the room where fish are generally beheaded and flayed before being packaged and shipped. As they enter, Royales chokes up a bit. Lorens smirks before asking if all was okay. Royales only refers to the smell of fish which incidentally he has never cared for. He looks around a moment before excusing himself. Lorens follows him to the back of the factory before asking him what he thought. Royales says he thinks nothing, that he could not fathom who could have been so vicious and thorough with the slayings. “So many bodies; bodies everywhere!” he mutters.
“Both marine life, and human.” Lorens adds.
Royales spins around, spittle at the edges of his lips, “who cares for the damn fish, this is a fish factory, their bodies should be here.”
“Not all the fish bodies,” Lorens says. Royales returns a puzzling expression. Shaking her head, “did you not notice the dozen or more illegal species back there?”
“People are dead and you’re worried about illegal fishing.”
“Well, seeing how this crime scene has the same M.O. as about a dozen other crime scenes stretching from Meteor City Mexico up to here, all along the east coast, I think yes, the illegal fish are important. Someone is making a statement.”
It takes a moment for Royales to understand the implication, and when he does comprehend his bottled rage pops, “what the hell are you saying? All these people were slaughtered by some environmentalists?”
“Not sure chief, but it does appear to be a good starting point for suspects. Extreme radical environmentalists do exist. I mean, our city’s own Outlanders that have been attacking—”
“Stop right there Lorens. This will not be connected to those freaks from the Outlands. You get back to processing this crime scene, and let the detectives do the detective work.” Royales raises his eyebrows as if that was a way to cement his order. He gives Lorens no time to respond by heading back to the factory main entrance.
Lorens wants to say something but remains silent, returning to processing the crime scene. Before Royales reaches the entrance to give his official statement to the media he is stopped by a rookie detective by the name of Koridan, “chief,” he says, “conference call. It’s the mayor and governor.”
“What do they want?” Royales groans.
“They said they want to bring a specialist team in on this.”
“Oh hell!”

Submitted: September 01, 2022

© Copyright 2022 CENTAURI ADAMS. All rights reserved.

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