Ghost

A short dark sci-fi

The city streets are dark and desolate; up above he can see the spot lights peer out into the night sky like waning arms reaching for the stars. He can hear himself breath through his gas mask. His grey poncho hugs him and drags through the wind like a beloved succubus with her arms around her lover. His hood warms his head. His rifle, heavy and cumbersome, clutched tightly in his grasp.

The time has come. The pain must stop. He dashes out of an ally and into the exposed street. A blinding light obscures the peripheral vision to his right. He hears the humming noise of the over ship as he zips by its spot light like a feral animal. Only the glimpse of a black jagged outline bathed in light can be seen .

He gets to the other side of the street and slams up against the inner ally wall with his back. The cold surface resonates up his spine. The light flashes past him and its twilight reflects off the lenses of his gas mask. The light shrinks smaller and turns into the shape of a triangle as its beam begin to shrink to its source. It hovers by without the slightest clue: the over ship. Spinning blades attached to either side of a black, egg shaped hull. Through the transparency of the copter blades, the  mechanic vainy body can be seen vomiting its white light all over the street's surface.  

 

The inner district is crawling with police forces and night crawlers. He makes his way to the opposite end of the alley and peaks out of the opening. He catches the glimpse of a formation of men wearing all black garments and ski masks; pouring out of the precinct and cramming into the back of a black van. For every night crawler he can count, the number will be equal to men, women, and children who will be snatched away in the middle of the night without the slightest clue as to why.

He turns his head forward. He sees steel rebars protruding out from the opposite end of the ally wall. Each stacked one on top of another in the formation of a ladder.

He slings his gun behind his back and dashes froth. His gloved hands meet the cold steel and he lifts his knee up to climb.

With every step higher, the view of the world behind him is unveiled. The buildings with their cold black walls and their crimson corners, tower into the night sky like colossal pillars. Spot lights nestled on the rooftops of these massive structures dance from left to right like restless spirits. Huge, black over ships pepper the night sky as their spotlights search for any stragglers breaking curfew.

He reaches the top platform that is bleeding with warm ventilation steam. The position is perfect. It overlooks the precinct.

He jumps up off the floor and into a squatting position. He places his hands on his knees and observes his target. The precinct looks like a giant pine coneconstructed of steel, concrete, and glass. At the very top sits a room surrounded by glass on all sides, and flooded with light from the inside. It sits at the top like a crown. Inside, people at their desks, hard at work, filling out pillars of paper work. At the center of the formation of desks is the head master, overlooking his laboring spawns.  His hands behind his back, both palms clutching a baton to demonstrate his authority.

Watching form outside, he peals his rifle off his back and kneels down. He brings the butt stock up to his cheek and stares through the scope of his weapon. The crimson tint of his lens transforms the sight of the world into red. Numbers and calculations appear in yellow giving accurate information on air, length and adjustment.

He stares into the scope for a minute, the symbol of authority turns away from the window with his back exposed. He revels his folded hands as they clutch firmly to his baton.

He brings his cross hair up until it paints the back of the man’s head.

He stares for a bit. His eyes squint, his palms grow sweaty. His index finger begins to give pressure to the trigger. His heart beats faster and faster, and the adrenalin and fear grasp hold of his body tightly. His mouth becomes so dry, so dry that he can’t even comprehend how dry it is; yet moist fog still escapes his breath.

He tenses his finger. He pulls the trigger.

He is Ghost...