I am Human

Love


Wicked things walked the fog encrusted street scape that night. Their footsteps could be heard all throughout the city for it had become their domain, and what was once friendly and nonthreatening had turned within a matter of hours to become something most fearsome and beastly. Where the meek had once ruled, now the wicked and the wicked alone dominated. The air seemed toxic with emotions of fear, pain, and most of all hate, insane hate. A strong low thumping signaled the coming of the wicked ones, the approach of imininte doom. In the fog all that could be seen was the silhouette houses, that only a short while ago had been so full of life, and movement; but now that their occupants had abandoned them they only contained a disturbing stillness. As did the whole street, even though it teemed with emotion, for the moment however only stillness and a tense calm was projected, but now the wicked approached and their coming would mean the utter annihilation of the few things still comfortable, peaceful, and happy in that world. The beating grew in intensity, until it became unbearable, and it seemed that the wicked must be only feet away. Men who stood that night against the wicked, burned with fear, a fear which was soon to become a hate that would turn them from men into animals. Yet the source of that horrid beat did not yet dare rear its ugly face, the reached face of evil. As suddenly as the wicked had come they seemed to dissapear in the shrouded scape, when the anxious beating subsided. For only an instant the men thought they might be able to salvage what was left of their humanity from hellish night. That is exactly when they came, the first wave was not of the wicked but it was the most grotesque of their weapons. It was a wave of men that had turned into refugees, the men had been saturated in the blood of their fellow humans. The ground on which the tread would quickly turn into a river of blood as it drained out of their shoes and cloths onto the asphalt. In their eyes there was only the glazed look of fear, and into the air they emitted a stench which infuriated the men that stood against those wicked ones. As the refugees routed right through the column of brave men, they felt the ultimate betral, because their fellows would not stand with them, but would rather flee and let them meet their doom. Then came the second wave, another wave of refugees but a wave unlike the first in that the refugees were not of the whole type. They had been dismembered down to basic parts and pieces of what made up refugees, the wicked ones that were still out of sight hidden from the men by fog, carelessly discarded these parts onto the human column. Arms, half eaten legs, decapitated heads whose hair was bloody, whose eyes still stuck open vigilant of the wicked ones, whose tounges had flopped out of their mouths and waggled freely as the head rocketed through the fog diluted air. Anxiety grew as the human limbs began piling up around the brave men, like a flash flood of body parts, arms, legs, heads, and other various pieces of man rained down upon them such was the bombardment that the sky became blackened and all sight of star or moon was eclipsed by grotesque projectiles. Which rained down and washed away all things still human in the men, leaving them with only fear, but fear was their ultimate weapon. Finally, the much anticipated third wave of death approced, although it could be called the fourth wave for just in front of it a literal wave of blood overflowed and flooded the street turning it into a river. Just after the lesser wave however came the real terror, yet it seemed not as terrible as the first three horrors; still it was the only horror which offered real threat. For it was death, inevitable and seemingly unconquerable death, cruel, merciless, and unemotional. Like the embrace of steel into tender flesh, the sight of them... the wicked shocked every man, parallelizing him with fear, but not yet hate. That would soon change, for within any large group of humans there is always one human that is different, unstable and dangerous, still ingeniously different. For this one aberration, the fear of the wicked had been turned a long time ago, turned into insane, seductive, and ultimately unresistable hate. Otherwise known as bravery, that aberration would soon inspire the same primal and seductive emotion into every man turning him into a beast and a slave; a slave to hate. That aberration stepped forward as the death that was the wicked approced, it was then a match of the will's, because the wicked stopped in their forsaken tracks. Stopped by something much more devilish and uncontrollable then themselves, and if they were not mindless drones they would have known to run then. If the wicked had not been only row after row of blue lifeless unearthly being then they would have known better then to pursue their most unrighteous task. Which then would force that man who faced them to preform the same task onto them. There's was to kill, do nothing less then kill ever last man, and child, the total annihilation of humanity. Unknowingly they had already accomplished their task at that face off, for everything human in those men had been killed ruthlessly strangled by fear. Now they were not men but animals, and the alpha male stood affront his pack, he clutched the grip of an ax which was already stained with their forsaken blood. In that ax was craven a name that suited him well... Helmar Lorn. The letters seemed twisted and unwholesome, like they had been carved by a thing not of this world. Laced with crimson blood they glowed in the shrouded environment, and as he held up the ax, the livid glow of those letters was all that was clear admits the fog of war. The man was in an inebriated state, drunk off the burning hate which consumed him inside he was able to mutter only a few words for the other men. They seemed to be more like animal roars then human words, and only vaguely resembled an order which was “kill... them!” Like a lighting strike the ax fell and the animals charged with the force of a speeding train, with only death to stand in their way. The wicked then became not so wicked in the face of a greater evil, the evil of men reduced to primal animals, because in that state they were capable of anything. No matter the intelligence of Helmar lorn he did not for see that, he only saw the hunk of meat which was the wicked, and a way to quench his thirst for blood, death, carnage, and revenge. Just as he reached that hunk of meat it disappeared into a sea of blackness his goal forever lost in the chaos which was war, and no amount of blood and carnage would ever quench his thirst for revenge. He realized this as his eyes opened to another cursed dawn in what had become... The new world.

The New World

The wraths which existed in his mind, slowly disapperated as dawn broke. As did the thoughts that he dare not let see the light of day. Dreams of past carnage and blood slipped away like the night sky, and thoughts of survival arose with the rising sun. It was fitting Helmar thought that the sky should be blotted red with yet another crimson dawn, still its beauty was shocking and it sent shivers down his spine. The suns beauty alone however was not enough to warm the fridged climate, and the cold chilled Helmar to the very bone. It pierced through his lean flesh like a knife cleaving tender meat, leaving him with only his hate too keep him warm; his hate however, gave him the necessary warmth to thaw his over worked muscles. Willing his legs to move Helmar was able to stand, as his body was stretched out it received the full wrath of the lingering chill. He was almost struck back down into a cuddled position on the ground by the freezing cold. Instead he crossed his arms, and violently rubbed his hands against each other attempting to create some alternative source of heat that was not hate generated. After only a few moments his body had been thawed, slightly confused Helmar looked down at the spot where he had just spent the night sleeping. He was surprised at that he had fallen asleep on a patch of dirt, but didn't give it a second thought; only taking a second to dust the dirt off of himself. Helmar's nostrils suddenly flared upon smelling something very familiar, looking to the sky the prof of what that rancid smell was appeared in front of him. There in the distance he spotted several black smears, they scared what should have been a beautifully clear blue sky, but the world had changed and nothing was completely beautiful or pure anymore. This new world was, mad, insane, and unstable. Everywhere lurked the enemies of humanity, they were not just the wicked, but also an internal threat. Something that existed within everyman, the evidence of that threat smeared the sky and it was stained into crisp morning air. From that stain emitted the rancid smell of burning flesh, it turned Helmars stomach, giving him an impulse to vomit nonexistent food. What made him even more sickened was that he knew it was not the handy work of the wicked, instead that of man. Helmar knew it was one of the factions, and they were close, within 10 or 15 miles he guessed. The thought of a faction being so close provoked Helmar to start moving again. Even though his legs seemed to smolder on the inside he forced them into a steady jog, and even though his mind was numb from 2 days, and 2 nights of travel along the highway he endured. Striving towards something that was so distance and so impossibly out of reach that to most men the task would have defeated them before they had began. However Helmar was not most men, and a hate burned in him that motivated and drove him to the edge, to the very brink of death. Then forced him even further, into the insane abyss that had become his domain. That hate that burned him up inside, had not always been hate. At one time it had been an even more illogical and uncompromising emotion, at one time it was love; but that love had turned sour, and its warmth became a burning inside Helmar's chest. A burning that no longer comforted as it once had but now provoked him to do more sinister things. There must have been a time he thought that love and hate were two very radical things to him, but now they had become one of the same. It was because at one time he loved that now he hated, and then Helmar was stricken with sadness as he remembered his love. His mind drifted from away from the blood saturated reality into a dream world of sand and fog. As he remembered his love...
Below him was warm sand, it warmed Helmar's back and legs as he lay in it. Letting the sea like land mass that was the beach sand absorb him. Above him levitated a shroud, thick fog hung like a draped white lace cover, over him and his resting love. That is when he noticed the weight of his love on his chest. He became ecstatic and there was a great swelling in his heart, upon the realization of what lay atop him. For a second he thought of waking his love, but only for a second, because he lived to please his love, and to cause it any amount of unrest was to unbearable a thought. No matter it awoke as if on command. As she did, her radiance flooded over Helmar's mind and soul engulfing it in a glaze, an inebriated stupor. For he was awestruck at her beauty, her grace, the omnipotence of her very presence. That is what paralyzed him, putting him into his current state of inebriation. As she lifted her head off his chest and her eyes met his, his breath was stolen away from him. Helmar's fingers stroked her smooth gilded hair, the locks seemed to be water and they melted between his fingers as he brushed the long curls; tucking them neatly behind her patie ears. Continuing to savior her beauty Helmar glazed upon her effulgent lips, they were not goddy or boisterous; instead they were slim conservative in nature but still extremely attractive, they had a unique seductiveness unlike anything else he had ever seen before. No matter how godlike the beauty of her lips or hair or complexion might be her eyes were unparalleled by anything. Not the stars in the heavens or the dimoinds which rested deep in the earth knew the elegance of her eyes. It was almost as if her eyes were not eyes but exquisite sapphires, which he thought even god must envy. Lusted by men, envied by women, and loathed by gods her eyes were not perfect but rather so imperfect that they had a certain allure. Such an imperfectness, such a gorgeous blemish that was unmistakably human; and as Helmar glazed into those twin sapphires his love grew exponentially. As did the power of his grip on her waist, for he wished her to be closer but she could get no closer without becoming part of him. He was afraid that her body might break under such a tight grip for it was so patie and fragile, so he loosened the grip then let her lips meet his. And he remembered his love.
As night comes without a burning star, so came reality. His mind was pulled out of the inebriated trance which it had entered. For only a second it seemed he had forgotten hate, war, and his own vengeful ambitions. He truly had remembered what it was like to just love again, and he did not want to let it go. So badly he wanted to let go of his hate and hold on to his love, but he could not, still he struggled for a long while; and he wept, he cried to be so alone at that moment. To not have his love there as she had been for most of his life to support and comfort him. He longed for her, then remembered why she was gone. Then he remembered hate. He wondered if she knew, Helmar pondered whether or not his love in her far away location knew what he had become. If she could imagen, the beast which her capture had re awoken in him. The beast which she had been able to cage up many years ago within his mind, but now it was back and if she could have seen him he knew she would be ashamed. If she saw the things which he had done in the past two days without her, how far he had fallen into madness those long blood soaked nights, then maybe for the first time in her life she would know hate; for him, for his monster.
“I'm sorry Sophie, I am so sorry...”
It was a whisper, he said it as if it was something fragile and if it had been even said in a normal voice the worlds themselves would have shattered upon hitting the air into a million pieces. Then Helmar assured himself that hate was necessary in this new world. Still it did not seem justified. Yet it was necessary, he knew this as he felt a deep thumping in the distance.

The Face of Evil

To spite the drums of war, who's beats echoed all throughout the mountainous pass Helmar continued to move at a steady pace ignoring whatever warning that beating might offer. Instead he concentrated on the beauty that surrounded him, desperately trying to hold onto the serenity of the majestic hills that enclosed the hideous freeway on which he tread. The rolling hills seemed so bold and proud, they were so strong, so unyielding, nothing could break or bend their will. Not man, or the millions of years of nature which had sculpted them. To Helmar the awesome magnitude of their strength was beautiful, and as he jogged along besides such hills he couldn't help but feel insignificant in comparison. Like an ant that tread along side the foot of a god. Helmar thought that if he was to climb up that blessed foot, and stand at its peak then look down upon this forsaken bay he would have for that second experienced what it was like to be in heaven. With that knowledge he turned away from the escape which that momentary freedom from his own hell might offer, he did what a weaker man in his possession would not have done. He did not run, instead he continued forward into the very bowels of hell, to confront the devil, so that he may only look into the eyes of his love for but another blessed second before falling at the hand of evil. And if he could accomplish such a task, it would be worth an infinity in the depths of, the hell into which he was descending. The constant beating of the wicked reminded him of his surroundings, it wasn't the rhythmic relentless beating that began driving Helmar insane, rather it was the fact that this beating was always growing in furosity and volume. Telling him just how close the wicked were. That beating that knelling in the distance soon became so familiar to Helmar that he thought if it had gone away maybe the silence would began to disturb, him instead. So he continued to jog towards the pounding, until finally the pounding was at an all time high. It reached a screaming apex, and the drums of war blasted in Helmar's ears. A small distance ahead of him, Helmar could see that part of the wall that separated the freeway from the city scape had been blown out. Derbies of concrete had been scattered across the road way, and out of the breached wall emitted such a sound. Such a sound that Helmar was almost swept away by its volume, it was a tune that had been beat out by the wicked's drums upon the slaughter of a billion humans, a sound that hearkened the end of days. It announced an unimaginably hideous thing, something that evoked the very worst of human emotions. The very air seemed to flee from the opening that lay before Helmar and rush out of the breach, creating a mighty wind on which hung the sent of stale death. It was the smell of them, of the wicked. He had known that it was them a while ago however, he had felt the tension in the air, it was like a static energy that made his hair stand on end. And he had anticipated it, he looked forward to it, some part of him did anyway. Mostly this idea of looking forward to the slaughter of another being sickened him; but when he looked out upon the mob that was the wicked he was inspired with a rage, for now he let it swell. For now he simply observed. The wicked were weak things, they were short patie beings weighing only about 60 pounds each, and standing at four feet they might seem an inferior enemy to the much larger and stronger humans. However they attacked in such numbers, so that they could swarm over and devour any resistance; and devour they did, the consumption of human flesh was how the wicked received their substance. To do this they were armed with a gruesome set of canines, and Helmar could often smell a wicked mob because of the ungodly stench which their mouths emitted. Their mouths who's lips and checks were red with fresh blood, and their teeth were stained black the color of dried blood. In fact the whole frontal ranks of these wicked had been painted with human blood. The ranks in the back retained their natural color, a light blue hue. Their skin was always wet with a sort of sticky presperation, yet the wicked couldn't know that they were perspiring because they had no eyes, no nose, and no ears. Where there should have been eyes there was a black plastic visor, and where there should have been a nose there was only a small bump in the facial structure. Helmar theorized that behind the visor was an array of scopes, which was how the wicked drones saw or at least relayed visual information back to their master. Therefor it was the master that interested Helmar, for he had never seen one before, they had always been protected by an contingent of heavy infantry. The heavy infantry at all time surrounded their commander, never letting him even see the battlefield which he fought on. These heavy infantry soldiers were much larger then the grunt forces, they stood about 9 feet tall maybe taller if they ever fully stood up; in stead they were quadrupedal looking much like a mountain gorilla in how they walked and stood, but more like a wicked in the other features. Which included a full set of carnivorous teeth, and unlike the grunts a set of eyes, this lead Helmar to believe that they unlike the grunts were actually cognitive. This made them dangerous but also venerable, venerable to the force of intimidation, and fear. What was so dangerous about the wicked grunt is that they felt no fear, no sense of self awareness that caused them to be anxious at the thought of their own demise. If they even thought at all was another matter, they would not hesitate to throw themselves onto the bayonet or the barrel of a gun if it would advance the collective another inch. Throw themselves into bullets and steel blades they did, for they prepared to advance up a dirt mound into just such a fury to attack a small group of humans. The human held dirt mound, around which the ground had been scorched bare, then it had been painted. The wicked had watered the field with the blood of their enemies, then they had littered it with the limbs of their enemies. And at their ranks were lead by a large idol staked upon their ghastly crimson stained Idol which the grunts carried on a tall shaft were the heads of 7 men. 7 decapitated impaled human heads in total, the 7 spikes which impaled the heads were attached to the sides of a formation of three hexagons. The whole ghastly symbol of the wicked was topped off with ten horns attached in a ring around the hexagon formation all of it bathed in blood. As the wicked formation approached those valiant defenders, those brave few whom resisted a weak cowardly many, the heavy infantry began flinging human remains at the men. Arms, legs, some heads all of them fresh, some were full human bodies which had been filleted and emptied of all organs. The humans had erected concrete barriers around the top of their mound to make it somewhat fortified, they ducted behind them for cover as they were bombarded by the masses of disembodied limbs. Soon limbs began to gather up in the center of the mini fort. A river of blood flowed out from this mound of human arms, legs, and heads. Blood gushed out of the cracks in the human fortifications, it began cascading down the mound, feeding into the larger crimson lake below. Finally when the resistors had been saturated in blood the bombardment ceased, and the attack commenced. The wicked grunts in unison lowered their signal handed weapons, which were silver spier shaped pistols. They began firing upon the fortification, an array of bright illuminated balls spewed out of the wicked ranks striking the human walls. It was then that the men returned fire, Helmar was shocked to only see four men rise up from behind the blockades. Even more shocking was the un-yielding resistance that only four men offered up. In the last two forsaken days and even more damned nights Helmar had encountered many men which he was not proud to call his fellow humans, but these men he could be proud of. From that distance Helmar could see that three of the men fired assault rifles into the wicked mass, the third wielded an automatic weapon. However valiant their defense might be Helmar doubted it would last long, soon they would run out of ammunition, and that might be their doom. He had seen it so many times before, the problem was never the availability of weapons to fight the wicked, it was what powered the weapons. Bullets, incendiaries, and human muscle would all be exhausted, before the flow of the wicked forces were. Helmar estimated there to be around 700 grunts, at most the fighters had 400 rounds of ammunition. Even if every bullet landed a different kill there was another 300 grunts and 10 heavy infantry troopers. Their cause was just, but to spite this it was almost hopeless... almost Helmar thought. The few men were able to put out such a volume of bullets as to hold the wicked formations at bay. In those moments before their ammunition ran out the men were the slaughters, they ruthlessly distributed death to the wicked, causing a dike that consisted of dead grunts to pile up at the foot of the mound. Watching the conflict from a distance, Helmar felt like he should be doing something to help the men, anything; but there was nothing he could do. There was one thing he thought, but that was a terrible thing. No he could not help them, he had forsaken them. Helmar understood what he had done as the last rifle blast sounded, and there was silence. They had run out of bullets, now the men ducked back down behind the barriers and waited for the wicked's distanced assault to end. Waited for them to initiate a charge, and charge they did. The gun's of the wicked quieted, and the drums of the wicked thundered. They scaled the mound constructed of their own dead, they marched up the sides of the human fort. Then just as they were about to pass over the concrete barricade, the men again sprang into action. They fought back against the mob, their weapons were not just the crude implements which they would use to disembowel and decapitate, their true weapon was the will. The will to survive. Or so he thought, for not everything was as it seemed. As Helmar watched the wicked mob swarm over, and into the human fortifications like an angry mass of locus devouring a stem of wheat. He noticed something, it seemed that a part of the large pile of human limbs was moving. It only took him a moment to make it out as another human. Quickly Helmar retrieved a set of binoculars from his backpack, and set the sights upon the mountain of human limbs in the center of the fort. There atop the mountain he sighted a women, more of a girl really. She looked about 19, and she struggled with four wicked grunts whom grasped her arms trying to pull her down. Despertly she fought them even being able to throw one of them off of her, it landed in the mob which had swarmed the fort. Unfortunately she was a smaller women, and lacked the strength to resist, so the additional two wicked over took her. She screamed, a scream that was all to familiar to Helmar, as was the expression which she wore. It was a call, a call for protection, for help; and as she screamed, one of the four men engaged in hand to hand combat became alerted towards her parallel. Ruthlessly he waded into the swarm that separated him from the woman, the look on his face was also familiar to Helmar. Suddenly the situation became way to familiar for Helmar, he looked on with a pity for that poor man below. For his expression was one of love, love driving him through the ranks of the wicked, love that once blessed him with a sort of mindless blizz, but now damned him to constantly worry about losing that love. Helmar had love once, and he had lost it much how that kid down there was about to lose his...