Impailor

IMPAILOR

The sweat ran down Edgar’s face, he could feel them drawing closer. The barren concrete wall could not hide him forever. He heard the barking of the hounds sent to track down his scent, and the footsteps drew closer. He reached into his pocket for his cannon, for the past three years the colt 45 was the only one he could trust. He checked the clip, twenty-one potential saviors lined in a row sharp as an arrow. He didn’t want to fight but those pigs had already had a taste of his blood and they where all too eager for seconds. His head peered around the corner, while his finger hugged the trigger waiting for the opportunity to arise. His pupils scanned the landscape. He saw nothing but crumbling concrete barriers and the abandoned facilities surrounded by swamp and quagmire. Three years ago these buildings were minor military outposts belonging to the once proud military, that was until the Quetzalcoatl arrived.
No one knows where the Quetzalcoatl came from, but what everyone knows is that the Quetzalcoatl came without warning or mercy. These places were the first to go in the attack; thick beams fell from the sky vaporizing the landscape, promptly removing all defenses with ease. Without objection they moved right in and made themselves at home. Their legions marched into cities demanding conformity. Those who resisted fell under public executions. That was until it was discovered that this kind of martyrdom only fueled defiant hearts. Less often did they occur, but that didn’t stop the death toll from rising.
Within the first months the resistance grew tremendously in numbers, their wills fresh and determination uncrushed as they prepared to do what was needed to break the control of the Quetzalcoatl. The resistance was well organized with underground outposts, hidden routes that averted Quetzalcoatl blockades, communication links between cities, and weapons... lots of weapons. For those first six months the resistance believed themselves to be a pain in the Quetzalcoatl side launching strategic attacks on small base camps which usually met with success. With every victory the resistance won, the enemy’s weapons and munitions would be the prizes, little did they know that the weapons they where stock piling had tracking chips installed. The Quetzalcoatl had no intention of retrieving their weapons...
Toward the end of the first year when the native ammo ran low almost everyone in the resistance had a piece of Quetzalcoatl firepower. This just made it easier for the Quetzalcoatl to find where almost every resistance base was. Brutal exterminations squads where sent to wipe out the resistance accompanied by orbiting satellite guns. All the rifles and equipment that the resistance had acquired where no match for the Quetzalcoatl’s advanced weaponry. It appeared that the Quetzalcoatl was just getting rid of their obsolete equipment handing it down to their enemies. In a matter of weeks the Quetzalcoatl had undone the resistance. Those who survived the extermination fled to the wilderness. However, no matter where they went the Quetzalcoatl would just hunt them down, mostly for capture.
If you were captured, there were two ways the Quetzalcoatl would deal with you. Re-education camps where available. It was mostly reserved for youth that showed potential for defecting. For those over the age of twelve the Quetzalcoatl assumed their minds would not benefit from reeducation and put them to death. Not many make it out of the camps but those who do turn out to be great citizens. Just don’t ask them what the treatments are, they never tell. They tend to just stare off into space or their right eyebrow would twitch. That’s where the Quetzalcoatl would insert the V-chip in.
The more common punishment given to a defector is to be put to death as an impailor. First they blindfold you, then you are placed on a large hovering platform where you are escorted high above the impaling fields. Erected by the Quetzalcoatl, it is an endless field stretching on for miles and miles, dominated by towering spines many stories tall. Unblindfolded by guards, they are read excerpts from the Quetzalcoatl ancient texts in ritualistic fashion before being told to jump, with nowhere to go but down.
This was not the fate of Edgar. For the past two years Edgar had found his refuge in a chain of small abandoned military outpost in the swamp. Everyday travailing between them and never staying in one spot for too long. He experienced two rough years of hunting for food, evading Quetzalcoatl search teams, and being alone. The only thing keeping him going was his survival instinct.
Edgar made his way to the edge of the concrete wall. He drew in his breath before cautiously looking over the side again. His face met with that of the Quetzalcoatl hunting hounds. The large burly beast jumped on Edgar, throwing him to his back. The hound lunged at Edgar’s jugular but found its teeth wrapped around Edgar’s wrist. Edgar took his gun and began to pistol-whip the dog, right between the eyes. With five heavy blows the dog fell and went limp but jaws still locked around Edgar’s flesh. While Edgar tried to pry the mutt off his arm another came around the corner and leapt at Edgar. With the butt of his pistol Edgar swung at the dog’s face, smacking it aside with a yelp. The dog quickly recovers and grabs Edgar’s wrist holding the gun. "God damn mutt!” Edgar yelled.
Three soldiers turned, came around the wall from both sides and ran over to Edgar. Their muzzle rifles pointing at Edgar with accusations of mutiny. The soldiers identities were hidden behind thick gas masks and heavily armored suits. Their voices masked by sound distortion speakers, made them all sound the same. One of the soldiers stood over Edgar and introduced him to the butt of his rifle knocking Edgar cold.
Edgar opened his eyes, or at least he thought he opened his eyes. His vision was blanketed by pitch-black covers of darkness which seemed to encompass everything. "Am I dead?" he thought. "Is this it?" Edgar could feel himself in a lying position, he did not move for sometime figuring that if he was dead there would be not much sense in moving. While he lay there he came to the conclusion that being dead sucks. It’s not the fact that he died that bothered him, but the fact that he had done so much, to die for a cause and end up in some pitch-black void. After a while he became restless with boredom. "Alright, screw this I’m going to move around." To him this was a good idea because just lying there didn’t seem to accomplish anything. Edgar went to sit up. "Yeow!" Edgar rolled over in pain. His head throbbed itself into a new class of migraine.
Edgar had just come up with two conclusions: one, he was defiantly not dead, and two, he was inside of some kind of box. Finding out he was not dead came as a relief, but then he remembered what the Quetzalcoatl do their prisoners. He wondered if they were already moving him out to the impaling fields right now. "The least those bastards could have done was read me out my sentence" he thought. The top of the box slid open and blinding light poured in. Edgar brought his mangled wrist over his eyes to shield them from the flood of light. He could see a hand holding some kind of sharp object pointed at him. "Damn! There gonna gut me!" he thought. It came down fast, he felt a small prick sink in to his belly. He looked down to see a small syringe standing on his belly, then he looked up to see a large gas mask. "The council will see you now defector"
Edgar was pulled out of the box by two guards. They dragged Edgar away from the box belly up, holding both of his arms. Edgar looked at his feet; they looked hundreds of yards away from his head. "One hell of a sedative they whipped up... only the strongest for the last defector" he thought feeling flattered and inebriated. His head flapped over his back to see where he was going. He was approaching a large round room, rows of seats extending high off into the darkness of the endless roof. He was dragged center stage left, thrown on the floor to be made a spectacle of, "All eyes on me..." he whispered.
There was a large stand towering over all holding a large man with a vulture headdress. The vulture man began to speak in multiple convulsing tones simultaneously. "You have been charged with conspiracy, treason, grand larceny and burglary of military property, murder of multiple military officers...” The list went on and on, Edgar felt light years erupt into aeons as the endless sentencing seemed to pour out of the birdman’s mouth. The room began to spin and expand into geometric fractal tiles. Everything seemed to rush into him, before returning to the courtroom made of jelly. "...Your last words to the council, Impailor?" Edgar had lost his name... he had been branded with a fresh coat of shame. He was not the same man who was put in the box. He was transformed. He was unable to make peace between his words, his mouth was filled with thick drunken keys unable to close sentences. He spoke unable to contain the saliva dribbling from his porthole, "Your means of silencing me have backfired... I am not the same man who was put in the box... I am not the same man who has been running for the past three years... One day... I will return... to paint you all with death..."
The council began to laugh mockingly at the embalmed vagrant’s attempts to inspire fear. "Take him to he impaling fields! OH, YES! IT WILL BE TELEVISED!" yelled the vulture-man. "Head General Moffman, since it has been your job to track down every defector I want you present at the execution platform." This unmasked man was the head of the military and has overseen everything since the first attack. He looked like a hardened veteran with gray hair and un-scarred bravado. "It would be an honor,” said Moffman. Blindfolded, the man formally known as Edgar was escorted by two guards out of the courtroom. Moffman and a floating camera followed.
In the center of cities everywhere everyone watched from large screens, the platform housing the last defector. The platform was not at all plain. It had a guardrail lined with leather seats for the spectators, a small control panel in the front for the operator, and two unguarded railed areas on the sides, one to get on and the other to... get off. The Impailor, row boating in and out of consciousness unblindfolded, he could see the sky’s cauldron of sunset picks and oranges antagonized by huge black spines below beckoning for a vessel. A different man in a vulture headdress began to read from a thick black book. Moffman stood behind the Impailor in eagerness, waiting for the last word to be read. When the time came, the vulture man closed his book. "Now jump" Moffman said triumphantly. Edgar looked straight-ahead, knees shaking with adrenaline. "Jump!" yelled Moffman.
The pedestrians looked on in silence as they saw the last defector stare off in a trance like state. "That’s it, kick him off!" The one guard lifted his boot and sent it at Impailor’s back. Edgar turned around dodging the foot with pre-choreographed precision. The guard flew forward off the platform flailing his arms shrieking until he hit a spine. Skewered from exit to entrance choking on the spike and some gastric entrails. Everyone but Edgar gasped with horror. He turned his sites to the vulture man. Edgar grabbed him and tossed him hard into the operator of the platform. They both fell over the guardrail to their ironic deaths below. Moffman glared angry at Edgar, "NO WAY AM I GONNA LET YOU WALK AWAY FROM HERE ALIVE!" He screamed. Moffman charged at Edgar. Edgar with calm eyes welcomed the embrace as they both hurtled down toward the spikes locked around each other. The onlookers covered their eyes while others stared helplessly glued to what was happening.
Shank!
Edgar looked down at Moffman whose teeth where gritted and face twisted in pain. The spike pierced through Moffman’s back, out his chest resting gently against Edgar’s shirt. Edgar stood on the remains of Moffman, overlooking the graveyard of his brothers in arms. He faced the camera and pointed into the lens before turning to the platform motioning it down with his hand. When it was within range he hopped on board and drove it out of the view of the camera. He had escaped.
In the courtroom the vulture man squeezed a tight fist, spitting aside with disgust. "Paint us with death..." he muttered "...paint us with death..."

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A story I wrote for a creative writing class a year ago. seven pages double spaced