Things Best Left Alone Part 1 [FPF]

Vomit. The hot acidic taste washed over my tongue as I woke up, my head in a pool of my own sick. The smell was awful, a disgusting, horrible smell that universally signalled one thing: something was up, and not just my dinner.
With much effort, I slappedi my left hand on whatever I was lying on and pushed my self upright, the right side of my face slick with the insides of my stomach. I leant on my left hand as I waited for my eyes to slowly adjust to being open. There was little light, from what I could tell, and there seemed to be walls all around, smooth, wet, black walls encasing me. Of the little light, it all came from a dim bulb hung from the ceiling.
I swung my legs of the cold metal bed I had been sleeping on, although it appeared to have an appearance more akin to an operating table, and placed my naked feet onto the cool, bare floor. As I grew accustomed to the gloom, I could pick out the different objects that littered the room. The ‘bed’-obviously – and a chest of drawers, a small shower that would release water straight onto the floor - a large circular drain nearby – and a large, full length mirror.
I padded over to the mirror. A small lamp was crudely bolted to the stop of the mirror, a small length of chord trailing from the on switch. With a quick yank of the string, a blindingly bright luminosity created a small cone of light in front of the mirror. I peered at the person in the mirror. It was a stranger. It was man, clearly evident from the lack of clothing that I was dressed in, that I had never seen before. But then a sudden realisation crept up my spine. Who was I?
I shuffled closer to the mirror to get a better look. The man in the mirror was worn, scars of all shapes crisscrossing his body, some coming dangerously close to certain extremities. Across his muscular chest was a great wound that tore across his skin. It was deep and, at one point, almost seemed to nick the skin of his heart. I tried to send a probing finger to the wound, to check if it still hurt, but I found I could not. I flexed my left hand. All the fingers worked. I flexed my right. Nothing! My eyes snapped to the right shoulder of the man in the mirror. It seemed that everything, even the bone of the arm into the socket of the shoulder, was missing and a mass of black metal was its replacement. It appeared to be a socket for something, hopefully another arm.
With the shock of the appendage deficiency over, my eyes began to ravel up to the face of this mystery man. My eyes did, however, take in the impressively muscular body that was hidden under the coating of battle wounds and scars. It was the body of a solider, not the body of someone who worked out to pass the time or for petty gain but the body of a man who fought against an enemy for a living.
The face of this man was a haunted one. A pair of old eyes, a maelstrom of a dark green and grey frozen in time, were heavily set into two dark pools. The left eye seemed different, like something was just a touch out of place. It was hard to set down as to what it was but it was there. Those eyes carried more damage than his body. This man had seen things happen on fields far away, battles far gone and still to come, that would only be recorded in the most confidential sections of history, to be secreted away from the masses of people and forgotten. He’d seen things so long ago, his first battle when he was only 17…

I leaped over the edge of the dockyard wall, the sharp drop quickening my already pumping heart. I landed with a roll on the cement ground and kept running, pushing my feet forward. Behind me, the footfalls of the Gentlemen Rouges sounded as their smart black spats left their home of the November City Dockyards. This was it – the gang wars had started. It was only a matter of time before the city was plunged into chaos and crime lords would rise to become our tyrannical rulers. Well, not if we won.

The building up to war had been long. What had started out as innocent children playing and ‘controlling’ the different districts of November City had long since spiralling out of control and had become a dangerous gang culture that ruled the life of November. We had once been the Trainyard Rats, a simple collection of friends, but had now been forced to evolve into the Greatcoats, defenders and protectors of the Trainyard.
I ran, with all my strength I ran. My black greatcoat billowed in the wind as the clack of spats raced towards me. My heavy boots easily coped with the round terrain, the gravel covered waste dump I was being chased through, but I doubted that my pursuers faired the same, their light spats unlikely to provide ample protection. I chanced a glance back at my shadows, their length coats violently waving as they ran, revealing a myriad of pinstripe suits. Trilbies and fedoras adorned their heads but gloved hands had to clamp them to their heads to save them from flying in the wind. Overall, they looked a might silly in their 20s’ gangster get up.
A bark of gun fire echoed through the debris field of the discarded ship parts, almost as if they had heard my mocking thoughts. Two gang members wielded Tommy Guns on ledge and rained lead down onto me. Well, that was the start then. The November Gangs were official at war. It was kind of nice, in a twisted, mixed up way, to know that it was my fault. But I wasn’t going to be the first casualty, no sir. Because I was a fought my way through fatigue and aching limbs, the burning building in my throat, I was leading the Gentlemen Rouges ever closer to the Train Tracks.
I pulled off my hat, a signal to my comrades, and three loud bangs punched through the chattering of the Thompson fire. Three of the closest of my pursuers fell, or more accurately – they were pushed, down onto their backs, large wounds in their chests and fountains of blood spurting into the air.
Several black Cadillac Fleetwoods hurtled around a corner and, in light of their new situation, a hail of gun fire from some more sophisticated weaponry hailed from the windows. But we had planned for this too. In the distance our escape approached - a heavily armoured Class 37 diesel locomotive.
“Here!” called one of my comrades, a nameless and faceless gang member hoping to help her leader. The Greatcoat tossed to me a rifle, an L1 A1, and a grabbed it with a sure hand. In total, there was 20 Greatcoats in cover in the large train shed that overlooked the refuse ground of the Dockyards. I took cover and began to fire, the recoil hitting my shoulder hard.
“Did you get it?” cried my friend over the bark and shout of gunfire.
“What?! You’d think I’d leave it behind?!” I shouted back. I dug into my pockets and produced a smart phone. The device flew through the air as I tossed it to my friend, who caught it easily in his large hands.
“Right, let’s get out of here then!”
The train began to slow as it approached, but not to stop as that would cost us valuable time. It was worn and the metal plating was dented by the small skirmishes we had had with the police. Though, our insignia – a shield with wings – and the engine’s name – Bad Wolf – was still visible.
We moved back towards the open carriage as suppressing fire from a machine gun covered us. Rouges began to flood the refuse ground and we were quickly out numbered. I jumped up onto the ledge of the carriage, narrowly missing a sniper round.
With everyone on board, I moved to the front of the carriage and onto the train engine. We had already begun to regain speed and begin our escape from the Rouges.
“Good job,” I said, patting the shoulder of the driver, a close friend of mine.
“Holy shit,” said my friend as he looked out the window of the train.
“What, what?!” I cried as I moved to the window. “Oh shite,” I cursed as I saw what was now approaching along the track towards us.
“It’s the Cadets!” shouted my friend as he turned to warn the Greatcoats in the carriage.
“Fuck! Who invited them?” I shouted as I forced my eyes to break away from the tank that was now rolling towards us. The Cadets was a union of the Army, Navy and Air Force Cadets of the City. Although how they had got their hands on a tank I’ll never know. “Reverse!” I ordered to the driver.
“Too late!” shouted the driver as a huge explosion and a cloud of smoke erupted from the barrel of the tank.
“Down!” I shouted.

What was that? Was that me? I looked in the mirror and the naked man looked back. He had a heavy black beard, although it was now heavily flecked with grey hairs. His hair, too, it seemed was losing its age. The long, black, flowing hair, reaching down past my shoulders, was tied back into a tight ponytail but I could still see streaks of grey.
I got bored of looking at my reflection and I wandered over to the large set of drawers in the corner. They were metal and looked rather odd, like they were not built to be functional or decorative. They had just been built. I slide open to reveal several items, all of which seemed to have some great importance. I ran my hand along a silver metal arm. This was mine…

Bullets smacked into the hull, making holes for the fuel to pour out. Someone was shouting to get it fixed but none of the engineers were left. The black liquid leaked out of the wounds onto the snowy ground and the vehicle roared like a dying animal. The overly affectionate driver soothed the tank, re-assuring her that she’d be alright. The gun thunder and belched a large round that punched its way through the building, killing those that had tried to hurt her. The driver patted the surface of the tank and smiled.
“Donnelly!” shouted the same voice from before, “Get that tank turned on the machine guns!”
“Yes, commander!” shouted back the tank driver in a thick Scottish accent, turning his attention to the large creatures that slowly marched towards them.
“Echo Squad, to me!” the commander bellowed down the radio.
I ran, Echo Squad following in my footsteps, ducking as I went, taking cover from the enemy’s bullets. Our blue/grey great coats billowed in the wind and snow tried to claim our vision by clouding around the visors of the gasmasks. Charlie, November and Whiskey squad held the line, ducking in and out of cover to take shots and the enemy, bursts of gunfire a constant sound now in the city of Hothinia, the one and only settlement on Sidonis Six. Tall spires reached up into the sky, seemingly touching the white expanse, the binary suns hidden behind cloud.
“Quickly now Echo!” said the commander, clapping her hands to spur that squad on. The commander was a tall and slim woman, shapely too. Not the kind of body you’d expect to see on a battle field, especially the 64th Parallel, the line that divided the city from the Space Corps forces and the enemy. But she also bore the scars of war, a deep wound traced its way down her neck and along the edges of the metal prosthetic that sealed the otherwise exposed flesh, regulating her breathing and allowing her to live.
“Echo Squad reporting in!” I said from behind a dirty gasmask, his voice muffled.
“Private, what happened to Sergeant Garkarian?” asked the commander, her tone level and hiding any worry.
“He’s dead, sir!” I shouted, pushing back my own sorrow at the loss of a good leader.
The commander sighed, we were loosing men fast. Nelson Company was out numbered and out gunned, surrounded and without backup. “Take that mask off soldier; the Vorka couldn’t use bio weapons even if they wanted to.”
I removed my mask, breathing in the cold, crisp air that hadn’t been processed through the filters. It tasted good for while before the stench of smoke and death replaced the clarity of the freezing air.
Suddenly, the radio in the far corner burst into life.
“Bravo Bravo Charlie, this is Captain Capaldi. The Doctor is coming; I repeat the Doctor is coming.”
“Get the squads ready! We’ll talk later,” the commander whirled around to run to the radio, “This is Bravo Bravo Charlie, get Yankee Squad back here Capaldi! We need that bomb detonated. If I have to drag your sorry ass through a war zone then I will!”
There was no response, just the hiss of static. She tapped her neck prosthetic and a look of worry flashed across her face.
Outside the bark of assault rifles sounded, with the occasional crack from the sniper rifles from afar. Donnelly’s tank boomed as it took out enemy machine gun positions. Screams of soldiers pierced the air as the Vorka charged in their crazed mobs at the line, cutting the men with simple blades and crushing their skulls and chests with heavy hammers.
“Hold the line!” I shouted, taking up position behind a wall that had been part of a small café, the posters for local events still on the metal, the edges flapping in the wind. The Vorka were attacking in huge waves, the gruesome creatures almost enveloping some of the positions, nearly taking out whole squads in one attack. The tank propelled another shell from its barrel and sent it hurtling to a large group of Vorka, leaving little more than a green stain on the snowy ground. A machine gun nest sprayed a building with fire, punching holes in the walls and killing any Vorka taking cover inside. Nelson Company seemed to be pushing them back and I chanced a peek out from my cover to assess the situation. The commander was trying to co-ordinate with the other squads, pulling them back to here. I squeezed the trigger of my weapon, a burst of three bullets leaping from the barrel and landing squarely in the chest of a Vorka, flipping the creature backwards and onto the ground. I ducked back behind my wall as a hail of bullets from angry Vorka showered my position, taking out a member of Echo Squad.
But a sinister hiss came from near my ear. My heart leapt as I spun round and found myself staring face to face with a Vorka, its crooked face broken by a cracked grin of yellowed fangs. The skin was scared, twisted and scaled. Its eyes were menacing yellow slits against red irises. Green blood oozed from a wound in its side, the viscous liquid dripping onto the floor. It carried two axes, each soaked in the red blood of my friends. Time seemed to slow as the creature brought its axe up, preparing a strike. I thudded the butt of my rifle into the chest of the Vorka, pushing it away. It collapsed in pain and surprise at the speed of which I had reacted. But it didn’t last long; I fired several bullets into the skull of the creature and killed it instantly. I looked at where the creature had come from: part of the line had collapsed and a whole in the perimeter had opened, allowing the Vorka to pour in.
“Private!” the commander cried as she swung her gun at a small Vorka, only 5 feet tall, and sending it flying across in the ground in a wave of green blood. You’ve got to arm the bomb Private! NOW PRIVATE!”
I watched as Vorka swamped her, hacking and cutting at her. She did not scream as she died but continued to fight even as the creatures clawed their way at her neck, tearing off her prosthetic. I made my break for the command tent, looking for the activation codes for the remote detonation of the bomb. But in the tent was a large, bloodied and scaled creature: the Doctor, creator and god-king to the Vorka. His visage was festooned with metal prosthetics but underneath he resembled a human being. One arm had been replaced by a large blade, its edge sharp and red.
“Looking for these?” laughed the Doctor, his voice deep and threatening. In his hand he held a datapad, presumably containing the activation codes for the remote. He slowly closed his fist and crushed the pad, destroying the codes. I went to ready my gun but I was too slow, the Doctor swung his blade into me. I felt my right arm drop to the floor in a fountain of blood, the green fabric of the tent now stained crimson. I collapsed onto the floor from shock, the deep laugh of the Doctor echoing in my thoughts as he slipped into unconsciousness.
It was dark when I woke; the Vorka had moved on or gone back to their lairs. With great effort, I crawled on my stomach, too exhausted to stand up. Slowly, I crawled outside, the snow still falling but now it was a slow and peaceful fall, a beautiful sight. On the bloody ground, many bodies lay. Some were Vorka but most were soldiers of Nelson Company. I dared not shout for help, scared that Vorka scavengers might be lurking about. The commander lay facing the sky, her greatcoat torn and bloodied. Her black armour had been violently ripped open and her throat featured a large red rupture. Her prosthetic lay nearby, the Vorka had discarded it as useless junk. I crawled towards it, reaching out his remaining hand to grab the small silver device. A small button protruded from the back, the commander’s final option for the detonation. I rolled over onto his back, feeling the snow fall onto my face. This was the end. I thumbed the button. A thunderous crack echoed in the still night air.
The Vorka hives deep under the city collapsed as supporting struts were destroyed from the bomb blast. Fire erupted from gas pipes and engulfed whole clans of Vorka. I lay with my eyes closed, waiting for the reaction to reach me. Buildings collapsed as the labs and sewers underneath buckled and gave way. Fire and smoke plumed from the ground and dulls thuds boomed across the city. But a warm air blew down over me, the snow flakes whipped up in a flurry. I opened my eyes but was blinded by the bright flash of the shuttle engines.
“There’s one!” shouted someone from the open shuttle, “Set us down Cortez!”
“Yes sir, Captain!”
The last thing I remembered before passing out again was Captain Capaldi’s weathered face staring down at me, shouting something but his words drowned by the explosions.