Boulevard's coat would be a lot more efficient if there wasn't a giant slash down the back. He even questioned if it would be worth going to the trouble to find. But as his soaked socks fell into the snow with each step, he realized there are only sloppy seconds to spare.
From an old battleground came this long coat tailed, green jacket filled with patches. The insulation was puffy and very warm once. Now, it was ripped and stained with a soot-like substance.
Where Boulevard had found the jacket, the grass was singed, and the ground was ravaged by craters, small and large. A once expansive field that would have herds of cows taking in the welcomed sun was now only defined by the smoky skies, a desolate valley, and that sizzling feeling on the skin that Boulevard hated but knew so well.
At the warzone's peak, surrounded by broken swords and jammed firearms, was the abandoned coat filled with ash and regret. Boulevard didn't know who it belonged to, but it looked discarded like a doll gathering dust in the far reaches of a child's closet. He felt the need to wear it, like he was doing a service filling in the empty space arms and a torso once inhabited.
Now that the cold has come in full force overnight, what a better time to wear this old coat than now. Even if it's really all for show. Boulevard never felt the need to leave the yacht when the cold front bombarded the land in years past. He would stack up supplies from scavenging and hibernate like a bear, writing and thinking about whatever popped into his mind with the comfort of a space heater. The clothes he had stashed away, being a flannel shirt, sweatpants, socks, and the jacket were now useful because he was facing the blizzard's breath head on to get to some withered cabins.
"Have you ever been in a snowball fight, Boulevard?" Wynter asked. He knew what both of those things were individually, but how one can be used in conjunction with the other didn't make sense. A battle using snow? Knowing Wynter, he bets there's some kind of advantage to this.
"What does that brawl entail? Snow doesn't hurt." He spoke. She extended a sigh like a mother ready to teach her child a lesson.
"You've got a lot to learn, bro. Let's get settled at the cabin first, then we'll talk." Boulevard gave a thumbs up. He would like to learn something new and interesting. It's been a long while since that's happened.
Wynter was set for the frosty weather. She had a beanie with a puff ball top, a parka with fake leopard skin around the back of her neck, some thick cargo pants, and that blanket she carried around everywhere now being used as a scarf of sorts.
For the time that she loitered in Boulevard's living room and helped with tasks and lessons, Wynter had that blanket on her person. May it be intertwined with her fingers or engulfing her small body, it was there. She even gave it the name Iggy.
"What was the inspiration for giving your blanket an alias?" Boulevard inquired. She pulled down the scarf that warmed the bottom half of her face to speak to him.
"He looks like an igloo with all his blue lines and white squares, and that reminded me of the pictures I saw of the arctic. You think we can make an igloo out here? Wait, you think we could go to the arctic one day!?" Wynter asked.
Again, she misunderstood Boulevard's question. He was planning on pushing for an answer, but it wasn't that important. The front of Wynter's shoes kicked the mushy snow, making miniature bumps along the outlines of the hiking trail the two followed. Boulevard didn't wish for the temperature to get any lower, but if that possibly happened with Wynter in tow, it was impossible to not be eventful. "Making an igloo would be something many a man can't say they've done." Boulevard thought.
During this past week, facts were gathered, and opinions rapidly changed. Boulevard didn't look at Wynter with any discontent anymore. He wouldn't call them friends yet, because how can such opposite mindsets be that close? It didn't make much logical sense. Logicality kept Boulevard alive for these past four years, so that was his new primary mindset. It wasn't all he thought of though – because if he only made decisions with his head – Wynter would be long gone by now. She probably had a whole new outlook on life the hermit would have never conjured up. Being opposites isn't a bad thing. A traveling acquaintance was Boulevard's title for her, but deeper feelings were that she was a welcome change.
Looking through the gaps of multiple frothy, snow covered leaves, the cabins were in sight. In a circle, wooden homes of varying quality faced a white filled fire pit surrounded by benches. Twenty years of neglect made Boulevard know that the housing wouldn't be what Wynter was expecting from all her brochures, but what they saw was unexpected.
Seven of the cabins were stripped to the bone. They were like cars disassembled for scrap; the dark wooden planks that made up each of the one room residences were nowhere to be found. All that remained were the log supports that were placed deep into the ground so the houses could survive extreme snowstorms.
Boulevard shrugged off this observation due to it not causing any immediate alarm. Good firewood is a must and the furniture that can be dismantled for any number of uses made him think about destroying a cabin himself. A twitch: a very subtle jolt in his brain was alerting him that the last, rightmost cabin was only half demolished. He was ready to investigate but he heard a whimper behind him. He turned around to see Wynter on the ground, the snow near her foot a tint of red.
Boulevard went over to see what had caused her to get a small, dime sized cut on her Achilles, when she said, "I'm fine. I just scraped my ankle on the side of the fire pit. It's nothing, seriously." In an instant, Wynter tried to bounce up like everything was normal, but she stumbled under her weight and began to fall. Boulevard was fast in his reactions and his right arm followed her, catching the jacket while he still stood up straight. The fake fur of the heavy coat she found in the park station when she first arrived was starting to tear, Wynter teetering on her tippy toes.
"Woah. It's like I'm flying." Wynter was ready to spread her wings when Boulevard pulled her up in one jolt and let the force of gravity and balancing do the rest.
"Let's giddy up and get inside. I have a bad feeling about this area ." Boulevard said, his eyes scanning the tree line. Wynter followed his steady pace, hobbling a little to the front door of the only cabin not smashed by a tree or previously lit aflame.
"Yeah. We need to bundle up. It's starting to get pretty chilly, huh?" She spoke. This last cabin was solid. It had chips in its framework and Boulevard could sense the dust before he opened the door, but it was sturdy enough for them to stay the night. Boulevard stared at the handle made of metal, thinking, when he felt two hands on his back pushing him forwards.
"C'mon, you big lug. It's too cold out here to be admiring the architecture." Wynter quipped. Before he could be whisked away into the wooden house, Boulevard tried to catch a glimpse of where she had fallen down. All he saw was some bloodied ground, the degraded stone circle, and some kind of black and red plank under the pile of snow inside the fire pit.
As expected, Wynter had a coughing fit when she flung open the door. The harsh wind from outside entered from behind, moving the layers of dust to the back of the room, like it was welcoming the two to come inside.
The cabin wasn't a luxury like the yacht. Boulevard assumed it was supposed to be luxurious in its comfortable aesthetic. A king-sized bed was up against the west wall, black blankets laced with golden flower shaped outlines covering it. The mattress was what he would take first; the bedding he slept on at home needed some improvement. It may take a whole day, but Boulevard and his sidekick could take the whole bed back to the boat. Or was he Wynter's right hand?
An old rectangular rug on the ground had two premium leather chairs atop it facing a big fireplace. No wood was in the reserve pile, so finishing what someone started outside with the cabins would be necessary to get some fuel and start a fire.
"A mountaintop wonderland experience isn't complete without a baby inferno to make the place feel comfy. I really hate to ask, but can you go and find some wood?" Wynter asked, unpacking her backpack and taking out Iggy. Boulevard ripped out an axe lodged in the wall and felt its textures. The hilt had splinters and the head was dull, but sharp enough. Boulevard was looking at the gap the axe had made in the cabin's foundation. There wasn't any kind of pedestal for the weapon to rest on, so it being shoved in the wall isn't suspicious? Boulevard reminded himself that it's been twenty years since anyone will take anyplace with four walls and a roof as a home. The axe was most likely someone else's from years prior.
"That's the plan, man." Boulevard lightheartedly joshed, slightly opening the door and inching his way out to preserve what heat was left in the cabin. Wynter giggled subtly and waved with exaggerated swings, saying, "Bye!" as the recluse left to go and find some fuel for the both of them.
Picking off the sharp splinters of wood on the hilt of the weapon, Boulevard jumped up the broken steps of the ninth cabin. He was shocked the whole house hadn't toppled over from the gargantuan oak that's fallen onto the roof. It was caught by the supports in the walls and is a natural covering for the hole it wrought. Boulevard opened the door.
This cabin was the same as all the others at first glance. The similar bedding, rug, and fireplace gave off its melancholy but homey feel. Boulevard's nerves heightened after a while, as he realized there were some differences in this place, comparing it to the abode he was staying in.
Every part of the bed was ruffled, hobbled together like a lazy teenager "made" his bed to appease mom. The rug was torn, and the normal two chairs were one short. These seats are identical to the one Boulevard has in his captain's quarters, but his wasn't from this cabin. That one had a label with the number three underneath the cushion. He made his way to the fireplace and was pleased to see it had chopped wood next to it. There was also a gas pipe used to set the firewood ablaze, going at a light hiss in a diminuendo.
Questions arose and began to scream at Boulevard when the color of the wood in the smoky nook was the same as what he saw in the fire pit. Black and charred. Recently burnt.
"Can you believe that this dump still has gas to spare? After that tree fell, the house almost came with it. But the gas? The tank is half crushed! Surprised it hasn't exploded yet. That'd be fun." Said a man. It was someone unfamiliar to these lands. While Boulevard's axe waited dormant in his palm, a swing didn't follow. Some people can be very dangerous, so it's best to treat them as such. Maybe this person was nothing to even be worried about.
"Maybe." Boulevard said. He didn't turn around out of fear of disturbing the jittery, creaky toned man. The hermit didn't speak like normal so he could be perceived as a blank slate; nothing to care about. Just a man. Just a nobody.
"I get you're a blast at parties? I can feel the keg chugging animal radiating off of you. Turn around and let me get a good look." Boulevard obliged, but he didn't like what he saw. The one-eyed man looked testy. A rickety, open fingered gloved hand held a large gun. His hair was thin revealing a blotchy scalp. His short beard had thick bristles and his forehead was broad and pasty like the rest of him. A cigarette was placed in between the gap of his front teeth, his nose was pointy but mousy, and his left eye was brown. That was the only eye.
His right socket was made up of oozing tissue, with a clear, unidentifiable liquid resting on the surface of the tattered skin, slightly dripping. It was strictly and tightly contorted, showing it had been that way for years. The man's wound wouldn't be a problem, but his scar is.
Starting at the left side of his forehead, curving through that missing chunk of face, and ending at his left jawline, the mark made a "C" shape. No normal scuffle gave him that scar. It was impossible for the random events of the world to do it either. No, that defiled, creased skin was self-etched.
The girl. The one Boulevard had encountered right as he found Unmei National Park. The one who wanted to plunge a knife in his heart. She had a C as well. But it was small and on her forehead, burned in like a branded cow.
The questions he had would most likely go without answers, but one thing was very prevalent. Boulevard needed to resolve this situation as efficiently and effectively as possible.
He needed a plan. He knew Wynter was tucking herself into her blanket, awaiting his arrival. Leaving the traveler waiting was something Boulevard didn't wish to do.
"What do you want?" Boulevard demanded. If he could, he would've thrown his hands over his mouth. Never had he ever talked that way to a stranger with a gun to his dome. That sudden aggression surprised Boulevard more than the man.
"Wow. I don't think you understand the severity of the situation. I have a gun and you don't. An apology is in order!" The man exclaimed, pointing his finger in the air like he came to an epiphany. Boulevard couldn't chop wood with a bullet in the brain, so he did what the man asked.
"My apologies. I'm just a little on edge at the current moment. I don't like the cold." The man titled his head like an owl, evaluating.
"Hey, I get it. You can always make yourself warmer, though! Allow me." His gun moved over and a bullet grazed Boulevard's sweatpants and hit the gas pipe. Nothing happened. "Oops. Forgot I turned that off when I saw you arrive." The man chuckled. Boulevard's biggest point of concern was that the bullet only made a "tick" sound. That suppressor looked so natural in conjunction with the rest of the man's weapon. Boulevard would need to escape alone.
"It's best to develop a bond. For unstable persons such as these, remember what the interrogation squads did back in the day." Boulevard repeated to himself in his mind twice in between rising breaths. "What's your name? My name is Boulevard." The man started to walk to the fireplace, rising from the second chair in the southwest corner of the cabin. His hand was at the perfect elevation for a struggle, a fight for the gun. But no common signs of aggression came from the captor, so Boulevard will play along. The man sat down on the remaining leather chair next to the fireplace and turned his head to meet Boulevard's baby blue eyes.
"Axil. Name's Axil." He motioned Boulevard to sit on the rug with a flash and turn of his deagle. This rug was over the hill. It was sewn decades ago before any thought of the apocalypse was in anyone's minds. Where Boulevard was seated was rough, because the hoarse wind from the roof's hole was blowing on his location, keeping him constantly on edge.
What's next? This scuffle has been turned into a questioning. It can't be an interrogation, but Boulevard needs answers. Answers on if he needs to leave Unmei National Park. Who is this man and are there others? Is his home not safe anymore? He also needed to warn Wynter.
"What brings you to the cabins? Did you do the handiwork outside?" Boulevard asked. Axil careened his neck too far back, showing his crusty, stretched skin for far too long, like he was flash frozen. After seconds of waiting, he slowly turned around.
"Yeah. I needed supplies to build things. Mostly wagons. We're hilariously low on wagons." Axil joshed with a wave of the hand. Wagons. We're. Axil's not alone. Are Boulevard and Wynter just seconds away from an ambush? The only way to find out was to ask.
"Do you have a community?" Axil laughed similar to a hysterical hyena.
"No, no. Nothing like that at all - nowhere near it. I have a group of sorts. One big family! We've been big in the news lately. The Mark of the Chosen should be context clues enough." His bandaged pointer finger moved across his scar slowly and methodically, like he had done it many times before. It was almost like he was caressing his work. Boulevard knew most of the outside, war-ridden world. Did he recognize this man? His thought process was interrupted by a question of Axil's.
"What made you want to venture into the forest? Surely not just for these run-down houses. You a traveler or a scavenger?" Boulevard would answer as he normally would.
"I'm nobody. Just a man in a world full of none." Axil raised his scruffy eyebrow and he leaned over, looking east to where the other cabins would be. His hunchback position looked uncomfortable.
"Really? That's boring. If that's the case, then how come a nothing went into cabin number five with a companion?" He followed up his remark with a "Hmmm?", like he had caught Boulevard in a lie. And he had.
"Don't go over there. There's nothing for you there." Boulevard tried to maintain his monotone, but cracks like a slowly splitting ice lake were spreading out over his speech patterns. When he said "there", his voice faltered.
Axil didn't follow up or make any movements. He just sat there. Boulevard raised his head and said, "What did you do before all this started?" The captor facepalmed while reeling back with a big "ugh!"
"Dude. Read the room. Why are you still sitting there?" It was obvious to Boulevard why he didn't lunge at him or try to escape, but in Axil's eye, he was very foolish. As Boulevard tried to come up with a solution to leave the cabin as quickly as possible, the deagle rose up to between Boulevard's eyes. "I'm going to kill you, man."
Boulevard's joints stiffened and his eyes squinted when those words filled the room with tension. He didn't understand why; if this man had really wanted to kill him, why hadn't he done it already? "Why are you talking to me?" Boulevard questioned.
Axil raised his fist, and with each point he spoke, a finger followed. "I grazed past you with an alluring weapon. I looked away from you. I even stuck my fucking neck out, chaffed skin ready to be torn into!" He side eyed Boulevard, who was still looking at him with an uncharacteristic lack of understanding. Axil's left hand fumbled around in his hair and squeezed. "Homie. Attack me. That's all I ask. I don't want to be a murderer. Just self-defense, I guess. Don't make the Conversion hard on my psyche."
At that moment – at that word – it all made sense. The tapes from the war gave Boulevard all he needed. The leaders of the communities mentioned one group and how they "Converted their troops." These leaders mentioned one man. One vile man. The "Rat Man." The leader of the Progenitors of the Dead.
There was bound to be a battle. Even when bloodshed was on the horizon, Boulevard saw in Axil the same thing as when he first got to know Wynter. A curiosity.
"Why didn't you just kill me when I walked through the door?" Boulevard asked. The sights of the deagle were still on him, but Axil was interested in the man in his presence as well.
"You never get to talk to a guy nowadays. It's either blood or begging, no in between! You weren't really a joy to joke with, but whatever."
"Then why are you still talking?" Boulevard bellowed. Axil moved his neck back and raised his eyelid for a moment. He was surprised at this stone-cold tone, completely contradicting the oblivious man he first held a gun to.
"You're more than what you let on. No one is "just some guy" in this world. Maybe before, but not anymore. Like me. That cubicle was so grueling. Now look upon me, fellow damned soul! I'm a true leader. A shepherd for mother nature's newest creation. Our punishment. What's a better vessel to rip the scourge of the world to shreds than our own corpses! And I am her servant, Boulevard. I wanted to see who you were. What kind of primal survivor you were after twenty years of raw, unadulterated hell! The possibilities are endless. And the man I stumbled upon was one right dumbass. I mean, did you honestly think you could talk your way out of death with me?" Boulevard hesitantly nodded, hoping not to detonate this time bomb early.
"On what planet did you believe that? Look at me. Look at me and know what you know."
Boulevard looked up and saw what he knew he'd see. The bug eye, the chapped lips, the Mark of the Chosen; he also remembered everything the two had said to each other over these past few hour long minutes. And one thing was for certain. As those words reverberated around his mind and writhed in his bloodstream, Boulevard knew that Axil was a horrible person. He knew that from the moment he began to speak and show himself when not a thing was known, even if it was but a crack in his crust. The recluses' emotions told him more than anything ever could.
Boulevard always tossed those feelings aside. They would just complicate things and make him make stupid, rash decisions that could get others or himself killed. But this tough love of sorts from Axil gave him a new perspective. He did know one thing. One undeniable truth. That this person wasn't human.
That bandaged finger curving around a trigger in front of Boulevard made his brain turn off. There was no time to think about what to think about. It's either all action or none at all. Boulevard dashed at Axil, dropping the axe to give his body a maximum burst of speed. Considering Axil's twig body, Boulevard thought he could wrestle him into defeat. Another bullet shot out of the barrel and Boulevard could feel the air resistance from the shot graze his cheek. Such a close call made the hermit lose his composure for but a moment, making the two collide and fall onto the old rug with Boulevard on top. He caught a hold of himself and began holding down the bony wrists of the assailant. Axil lightly chuckled, saying, "Man. You couldn't even do what I asked. Now, when I pierce your heart, I'll feel like a real asshole."
"That's because you've been one!" Boulevard yelled, pressing down on the leader's grip, making his fingers weaken and the gun leave his hand. The advantage was with Boulevard, leading his giant hands to wrap around Axil's scrawny neck, pressing down hard to leech even more strength from the assailant's body.
The Rat Man said hoarsely, "You don't fight hand to hand very much, do you? You scuffle like a Junecub." Boulevard's eyes widened. How did he know? Had he... been to Boulevard's former home?
Axil's arm shot up towards the fireplace and he grabbed an iron poker. The broad side slammed against Boulevard's temple, making him recoil and fall off of Axil. Like he was ready to plunge a sword into a stone, Axil raised his spear up and rammed it down above Boulevard's heart. Inches away from piercing the skin, those large hands were able to catch the carved point. As the poker rose, Axil lowered, using his body weight to counteract that raw strength fighting for life. Even with all of Boulevard's efforts, he was losing the struggle. The sharp tip was going ever closer to his chest.
Behind the fight, a door slammed open. Attention off the battle for both contenders lead to vision on a girl, quivering in place like a sputtering out motor engine. There stood Wynter – Iggy in hand – looking at what was transpiring before her. Her eyes were in tunnel vision of what she was witnessing, but she didn't really see anything at all. Her legs were numb, and she was lightheaded.
"Wynter! The axe!" Boulevard exclaimed. But no aid came his way. She tried to do something, but nothing happened. Boulevard's teeth clenched and his face started to heat up. He needed to think or die. Blood rushed to his head and every muscle that resides in him began to tense up and scream out in pain. His targeted heart shouted the loudest. About the pain of what was to come.
Using the last of his power, Boulevard shifted his body to the right. And he let go. The fire poker got shoved into his shoulder. Boulevard howled from the pain with a deep war cry. His shoulder burned like wildfire. He could hear an audible gasp and tremble behind him, but he paid that no mind. He needed to focus on his plan. The last resort.
Boulevard's left hand gripped the flappy skin of Axil's neck, and he pulled it towards him. Boulevard's head raised. The scabby texture of Axil's neck left a sour sensation on Boulevard's teeth, but the attack was over before it started. Axil's Adam's apple was fully encompassed by canines, and Boulevard bit down. The skin tore open like threads in a napkin being pulled apart. A waterfall of crimson washed over Boulevard's lips and went down his throat, making him gag at the taste and his actions. He kept forcing his teeth to meet, trying his hardest to ignore the gurgling and struggling of his attacker, who could only watch helplessly at the sapphire eyes that stared deep into his soul, telling Axil from their look, "This hurts me more than it hurts you."
With one more clamp down and a kick from Boulevard's right leg, the segment of raw flesh was removed from its host, and both men fell over limp. Boulevard had no energy to move. The strands of muscle that touched the back of his throat made him throw up in his mouth and choke. The blood from the body in front of him creeped over to Boulevard, touching his shaking toes. Axil's eye was visible. It was full of anger. It sneered at Boulevard with a force that terrified him. The blood that surrounded Boulevard's feet seemed to still have life in it, doing everything in its power to cover him and suffocate him. Through Axil's fluff of being a travelling charlatan, Boulevard knew that what he did was for the best. Some true scum of the earth was purged, never to return. But it doesn't matter. Boulevard did something horribly inhuman.
When this new mental scar — adding to the hundreds he has already — ripped into Boulevard's psyche, he felt something. This feeling, this freezing of the core rendered him immobile, sentencing Boulevard to lay and acknowledge everything that had just happened before him. Salty, clear liquid dripped down onto the puddle of blood on the floor.