The Wiper

Just read it.

Her pupils dilate as she scours the rat-infested streets. Her head of jet black hair sways in an invisible breeze, caressing her face and neck. She wears black on black, an iron scabbard laces her back. On she walks past empty houses and stray dogs. Searching.

The man mumbles to himself as he searches the dumpster for food. A tattered cloak adorns his back, worn leather boots on his feet. Bones jut out from beneath pale skin, eyes a blood-shot yellow. A gaunt and hollow face barely visible beneath long bangs of greasy blonde hair. Then suddenly his head jerks up, nose towards the sky. And he sniffs. At once he can smell her foul scent. She is but two blocks away and closing in fast. He spins and flees down an adjoining alleyway.

Her specially designed, custom made boots make no sound. She knows he’s there. So close. Close enough for her to completely crush him. But rush she does not, her figure disappearing into the dark abyss of a side street.

He cuts a corner sharply, skidding into yet another nameless alleyway, cloak aflutter. His leather boots slap against the ground like thunder, betraying him. He runs hard and fast, his chest heaving. Suddenly he hears a whimper. Instantly he is still, his senses alert, listening intently. Another, louder this time. Slowly he traces the sound back to its maker, revealing a small grubby child curled knees-to-chin in a dank and gungy corner. He glances back and forth between the child and the alleyway from which he came. He really doesn’t want to be here when she arrives. He quickly takes in the child: female, young, black dirt-stained hair and clear blue eyes. He swears quietly to himself and approaches.

He asks the normal questions: “Are you OK?”, “Are you lost?”, “Do you need any help?”. No reply. The child continues to avoid eye contact, staring at the cobbled ground beneath. That’s when he sees her leg. Her ankle is bent at a horrible angle, sporting a large angry purple lump. Shaking his head, he gently lifts her to her feet. She is unsteady, clutching his waist.
“Can you walk?” He inquires impatiently. She nods. He waits a few seconds for her to regain her balance before he pulls away and turns in the direction of the nearest hospital. He didn’t notice the girls eyes flash with a sudden venom. He didn’t see her withdraw a long sleek blade concealed within her coats. Didn’t notice how sure-footed she was as she strode determinedly after him. But when he finally did it was too late.

He feels the intensely cold metal slip smoothly into his back. His eyes widen and he inhales sharply. Time is still for a few moments before the girl yanks her dagger free. He stumbles forward, hand clutching the wound. He turns, breaths coming in laboured gasps. Eyes misty and confused, he swings wildly with all the accuracy of a heavily drunken man. His punch goes wide, missing the girl by miles. She watches, her eyes amused. But she soon grows tired of this nuisance. She advances, avoiding his swings with deadly efficiency. He panics, his aim even more astray. Dodging another blow, she ducks, rises again and using two hands, rams the blade deep into his chest. Instantly his hands surround hers and he tries to pull. But she is too strong.

His vision is blurry. The edges of his sight are darkening into nothingness. Then amidst the pain and dizziness, he notices the girl. She changes. Ever so slowly. First she begins to grow taller as if being stretched out by some invisible hand, her body filling out into that of a fully grown woman. Her small snub nose straightens out and elongates. Her cheekbones become more prominent. Then it appears directly below her left eye. A black triangle. The sign of the Wipers. A smirk lines her face, but does not reach her eyes, a cold piercing blue. He curses himself for letting his guard down. Then all he sees is black.

The now transformed Wiper savagely rips her dagger away, revealing a large bloody slit. The lifeless body slumps unceremoniously to the floor. The Wiper bends down and thoroughly cleans her bloodied weapon on the body's rags. Satisfied, she slides the cutlass back into its scabbard and leaves the scene.

The wind picks up as she walks briskly down an abandoned street towards a battered red phone booth. She steps inside and jabs in the report number, phone to her ear. The dial tone, then ringing. A voice.
“It’s Wiper #7. Species 42 is now extinct.”

Author's Note

Comments and feedback welcome :D
(Yes, I know I'm a noob so don't dis).

Reviews

[mjmccabe]

This story is really cool. The imagery is very well done, even with so little dialogue. I love the "wiper" idea, it's like a terminator with pure joy for its job of eliminating. I'm currently working on a post-apocalyptic novel so i appreciate the imagery tips from your dark world.

[Rossen]

You really know how to suck me in to this killer story, like this

"He asks the normal questions: “Are you OK?”, “Are you lost?”, “Do you need any help?”. No reply. The child continues to avoid eye contact, staring at the cobbled ground beneath. That’s when he sees her leg. Her ankle is bent at a horrible angle, sporting a large angry purple lump. Shaking his head, he gently lifts her to her feet. She is unsteady, clutching his waist.
“Can you walk?” He inquires impatiently. She nods. He waits a few seconds for her to regain her balance before he pulls away and turns in the direction of the nearest hospital. He didn’t notice the girls eyes flash with a sudden venom. He didn’t see her withdraw a long sleek cutlass concealed within her coats. Didn’t notice how sure-footed she was as she strode determinedly after him. But when he finally did it was too late.

Welcome to WC, you are a wonderful writer and I am glad your here.

Rossen 100/100