Demolitionist

Art by Christian Sarvela - 2022

The leather combat boots crossed the threshold from the dreary and storming outside to the lantern lit interior of the den. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Light reflected off of it before it drifted through the cracks in the floorboards and wood paneled walls. The sound of shuffling cards, rolling dice, and hearty laughter filled the rest of the space, replacing the pattering rain and rumbling thunder from outside.

The boots crossed the entry room, entering the space where business took place: the gambling parlor. Four men gathered around a small, cluttered table, smoking until their teeth and the whites of their eyes yellowed.

A mustached man smiled through the smoke as the young man in boots entered the room. The little hair he had left stuck to his head with sweat. His suit was patchy and wrinkled. The gold chain on his neck hung low over the piled up chips in front of him.

“Alaric!” he greeted the man in boots. “Glad you decided to stop by!”

“I’m here for the job, Bart,” Alaric said. “Not interested in gambling.”

“Eh, you’re just upset that your luck ain’t as good as mine!” Bart said. “Enjoy a drink with the boys for a bit! You look like you could use a break.”

“I need the money Bart,” Alaric said. “I need it now.”

Bart chuckled, “Your little superpowered intimidation might work on the streets, but it ain’t gonna work on me, kid. I know your heart’s too soft for killing. To me, you’re still that little boy… Nico.”

Alaric winced. The rest of the table sniggered.

“Just tell me where the job is.”

Bart shook his head.

“Another warehouse down by the eastern docks--need that space for a fuel generator. Not exactly being used properly at the moment. Should be easy with your skills,” Bart said. “I can pay you a thousand big ones.”

Alaric grunted, “My rent’s just gone up. I’ve gotten 3,000 easily for a job like this.”

“Times are changing, Nico,” Bart said. “It’s getting harder for me to make an honest living--aha!”

Bart revealed his hand to the rest of the table. The other men grumbled as they handed over cash and chips. They rolled a die, and another round began. Bart counted his earnings as cards and dice distributed around the table.

“Tell you what,” Bart said. “I’ve recently come into a bit of cash. I pay you a hundred upfront, I give you a thousand after.”

Alaric scowled, “two hundred.”

Bart smiled, “Don’t pull my leg too hard, now, eh?”

He handed Alaric the money.

“Make it quick. Minimal rubble.”

Alaric took the two hundreds and left the den, heading back into the thundering storm outside. He fumbled for a bit, trying to put the money in the pocket of his duster. He wrapped his scarf a bit tighter around his face and continued towards the eastern docks.

The storm only made the city streets look more miserable than they already were. Homeless huddled around trash bonfires, attempting to find any bit of solace from the relentless rainfall. The darkening clouds had already prompted most of the residential lights to stay on during the day, but Alaric noticed many of them began to flicker off as the later hours started to creep in.

Sounds of rushing water soon mixed in with the pounding rain, and Alaric stepped onto the riverside street leading up to the eastern docks. The power of the night time chill and storm induced cold was beginning to take hold. Alaric felt his hands numb. His coat and socks were soaked.

He stepped up towards the courtyard just in front of the warehouse. Its walls were made of scrap metal and wooden slats hastily hammered in haphazard patterns. A few crates and boxes laid around the loading areas accompanied by the piles of trash that seemed to creep into most areas of the city.

Alaric stepped up to the front of the warehouse, taking a moment to scan it up and down. Then, he lifted his hands and spread them apart, commanding the rusted metal to give way. There was a creak, a crack, and the door collapsed in on itself, buckling under the invisible force that Alaric seemed to command.

His combat boots stepped into the warehouse’s open space. With a flick of his fingers, he commanded the water to wash off his body, rippling it through the air and watching it hit the ground. He shivered, finally dry.

Alaric examined the structure he stood in, taking note of its supports, roof, and walls. With its mismatched makeup and materials, it should be easy to dismantle. He stepped past a few shelves stocked with crates. Each one appeared to be marked with a shipping number, location, and time of arrival. Most of the dates were marked two or three days away.

On the far side of the room sat a table and a few more crates, one of them left with its lid open. Alaric shifted the lid over, examining the contents within. Neatly arranged in rows and columns were a series of weapons: rifles, handguns, grenades, explosives, and ammo clips. Each one glinting and shining in the dim light.

Alaric approached the table, noticing a few shipping documents laid out. Next to it was a small ashtray, a smoking cigarette butt left sitting in the ashes.

Wait.

It was still smoking.

Alaric ducked behind the table as the gunshots unloaded in his direction. The papers flew into the air. The ashtray clattered onto the ground, scalding ashes spilling onto Alaric’s duster.

“We just love it when visitors stop on by,” a woman’s voice called from behind the rows of shelves.

Another voice chuckled, before another shushed it.

“Come on out…” the first voice called. “Me and my baby just want to have a chat with you. You lost?”

Alaric cleared his throat, “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” the voice laughed. “I want you to walk out of my warehouse!”

“Your warehouse?” Alaric asked.

“Yes! Are you deaf or something?” she said. “Leave! Before my baby makes you look like swiss cheese!”

“I’ve got a job to do here,” Alaric said. “And I was told this place was abandoned.”

“Well, does it seem abandoned now, shitface?” she replied. “Get lost! I might have patience, but my baby is starting to get anxious.”

“Damnit, Carrie, just call it your gun!” the chuckling voice piped in.

“Shut your face, Melvin! You sleep with an assault rifle!” Carrie yelled.

“For protection, Carrie!” Melvin replied. “Not for loving!”

Alaric crept over to one side of the table, opposite of the bickering voices.

“Well, I’ve come to love my baby, Melvin!” Carrie said. “He’s my cowboy in shining armor.”

“Ya mean knight?” the third voice asked.

“Shut your face, Clyde!”

Alaric lifted his hands, and pushed them forward. The table flipped onto its side, sliding into the rows of shelves.

“Damnit! Shoot the bastard!” Carrie screamed.

The shelves toppled over like dominos, crates and flimsy metal collapsing and crashing to the floor.

Carrie screamed, and the other two unloaded on Alaric as he dove behind another crate. Gunfire sprayed inches away from him. He caught sight of who he assumed to be Clyde, a tattooed, bald man in a tank top and cargo pants, and held up his hand to him. Clyde immediately froze, his face contorting into panic as he lost control of his body.

“He's enhanced!” Carrie shouted.

She fumbled with her gun, trying to recover from the shelf that had slammed her to the ground. Alaric held his hand up to him as well, watching as his muscles tensed and jaw tightened.

“Mevlin, ach--Shoot him!” she choked through her words.

Melvin, a scrawny and sweaty fellow, began backing away, gun at his side.

“I don’t wanna be crushed!” he shrieked.

“Dumbass! He’s only--ach--got two hands!” Carrie managed.

Alaric swung his hand around, sending Clyde into Melvin. The two goons collided into one another and Melvin’s gun misfired into the ceiling.

Alaric moved Carrie towards him, taking a closer look at her platinum blonde hair and eyelash extensions.

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you already, you enhanced freak,” she said. “This is our place! Ach--my name’s on the paperwork, dumbass.”

Alaric pushed her to the ground, just next to her two friends and knelt next to the papers scattered on the ground. Most of them were riddled with bullet holes or singed by cigarette ash, but the names seemed to check out. The papers were listed under Carrie Hayer. None of the shipments were outdated.

Bart had lied. The place wasn’t abandoned.

“Who do you work for?” Alaric said, not taking his eyes off the papers.

“Some sort of high-efficiency turbine company,” Carrie replied. “Too many hits on their hydro plants. We were using their old place to store the weapon’s shipment they’d ordered.”

“Bart’s generator…” Alaric whispered.

The pieces were starting to click together.

“Excuse me?” Carrie asked.

“Never mind,” Alaric continued looking over the papers.

“You know, I’ve only heard about people like you,” Carrie said. “No one knows where you’d come from. Government experiments? Corporate espionage tools? Cyborgs? I’ve always thought it was a bit of all three.”

Alaric was quiet. His jaw tensed.

Carrie continued, “I’ve always wanted to kill one, and lucky for me--”

Alaric turned around, “Wait!”

“--you’re standing next to a crate of C4.”

Carrie fired her baby.

Alaric caught just a glimpse of the bullet as it flew towards the crate just beside him. He held out his hand, hoping to intercept the bullet’s trajectory, but it was too quick.

The crate exploded.

A burst of heat, energy, and fire erupted against his back. Alaric instinctively raised his hands, desperately channeling all of his strength--all of his power--into protecting himself. He winced, the pain and heat blazing through his veins. His body tightened, his muscles burned, his eyes narrowed.

Then, he released it.

The heat, energy, and fire expanded around him, colliding with his surroundings. The walls burst into ash, the roof caved in, and the ramshackle warehouse began to implode in on itself. Windows shattered, crates disintegrated, supports evaporated.

The blazing heat turned into numb emptiness, and Alaric collapsed, unconscious.

What eventually awoke him was the thunder. The rain soaked his hair, each drop burning as it touched his body.

He opened his eyes, face in a pile of rubble and ash. He coughed, bringing himself to his feet. He stumbled, turned around, remaining unsure of his surroundings. He looked at his arms, his legs, his hands, searing burns running down his body. He could almost feel the rain sizzle against his skin.

What had he done?

“Carrie!” he screamed.

He ran into the heart of the wreckage, coughing once more as the smoke entered his lungs. Nothing seemed to have survived. Nothing remained but ash and rubble.

“Carrie! Melvin! Clyde!”

He dug through the unrecognizable ash, the rain pouring in around him, desperately, frantically trying to find any traces of life. They couldn’t be gone. They couldn’t. He couldn’t have done this. He couldn’t. He’d never. Never.

The search stopped after a few hours. Alaric fell to his knees. Guilt and pain wracked his entire body. The smoke still pierced into his lungs. He could barely breathe.

After another moment, the leather combat boots clawed their way back out of the demolished warehouse, trekking and stumbling back to the den he had entered just hours before.

The boots limped through the doorway, stomped into the parlor, and planted themselves firmly before the table. Alaric’s eyes blazed with anger, fixated on the despicable man sitting before him.

Bart smiled, “Good to see you, kid! Looks like the job gave you a bit more trouble than you’d thought, eh?”

The rest of the table chuckled.

Bart’s body bolted out of his seat, flew through the air, and his neck hit Alaric’s hand with an unprecedented force. Blood trickled down from the sides of Bart’s mouth, his eyes wide with panic.

“Ach--ok--I… I--might’ve--Alaric--please!”

“You lied,” Alaric growled.

“You--you’re still back--right? I’ve--ach--got the money… I--”

“You owe me a lot more than money.”

The gambling chips and dice began to hover off of the table. The other men remained frozen in their seats. Alaric let go of Bart’s neck, hovering him over the table, the chips and dice beginning to swirl around him like the raging storm clouds outside.

“Next time you take a gamble on me,” Alaric said, his voice barely piercing through the hammering rain outside, “you’ll end up buried in something much more fatal than debt.”

Alaric released Bart back into his seat. He hit the back of the chair, his head slamming into the wall. The stacks of chips and dice clattered to the ground. He snatched up Bart’s winnings and stuffed them into the pocket of his duster.

He left the men frozen in silence and exited into the unforgiving storm and city outside.

The demolitionist had completed his job.