Prologue

  How can I blame us? We have seen darkness take over our lives. I am not saying there aren’t bad things in this world, but most of the time, we ignore the good around us. The goodness of people and the idea of hope seem to have disappeared from our minds. How can I blame us when we have seen darkness take over our lives, with people even cheering it on because they impersonate change? But in reality, it’s just a regress to dark times. Fighting these forces has been hard and exhausting, with many giving up. This has been a fight with so many rollercoaster moments of success, but people quickly regress back.

  I am tired. I have nowhere to go and feel like I have nothing left for me here. The air feels so cold as it hits my face. I think it’s colder since I stand on the bridge rail. I wish I could say that I am just here for the thrill of staring at the distance from the bridge to the water below. My fear was always holding me up. What if it hurts and I don’t die instantly? What if I live and have to face them? The alcohol helped dispel the fear, and I am ready. Ready to finally be done with it all…

  “So, taking the plunge into the unknown. How brave of you.” A voice from behind startled me, making me almost lose my balance—which I somehow still had despite being drunk. A woman approached my side, looking neither concerned nor judgmental. “What’s stopping you? I wonder,” she said as she reached into her dark blue jacket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

  “At the moment, you are,” I said, looking from her back to the water. As I prepared to take the plunge, she spoke with a cigarette in her mouth. “Would you let me tell you a secret? Since you’re dying and I can’t tell anyone but the dead.”

  The cold night wind hit my face again, and for some reason, I wanted to listen to this secret. She lit the cigarette with her silver lighter. As the flame rose, I saw her face. Her dark brown eyes had signs of exhaustion—bags beneath them accompanied by pale skin. If it weren’t for her makeup covering it, you’d think she was dead. Unsure how to proceed, I sat on the railing rather than just standing. She regarded me for a second, showing neither surprise nor emotion. She overlooked the view of the city before she spoke. What she told me made little sense, even if I had been sober. All I could make out was a phrase: “The Final Deal,” which she said in an ominous tone. After she spoke, there was a moment of silence; neither of us said anything until she started playing with the lighter.

  “It seems that you calmed down. Interesting—many would hurl themselves after hearing that,” she said as she slowly approached me. I hadn’t noticed how close she already was. She leaned into my face, examining me thoroughly.

  “Amazing. You look just like her… if she were a man,” she said as she leaned in and kissed me. Then she pulled back. “But you’re not. I want you to know that I’m sorry, but I can’t trust you.”

  She bit her wrist, and blood dripped from the wound. She then approached my mouth with her open wrist. I tried to move, but my body didn’t respond.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Just so you know, that kiss was more of a requirement than affection. The only way my paralytic works.” She forced her blood into my mouth. The warm blood’s taste was unpleasant until it became sweet—familiar.

  “Hope the taste makes the next part less painful,” she said as I felt her hand behind my back. Then came the push.

  The deal was done, and Zack felt relieved. He had dreaded the job his boss assigned him—not because he feared dying, but because he feared failing. His fear of failure was always what drove him, and what stopped him. Stopped him from committing, stopped him from finishing school, and stopped him from finding another job. Dealing, in his view, was much easier and quicker to make a living. Easier, since for him, he could make money quickly, and on the plus side, he didn’t really have a problem with the product.

  He learned that no amount of alcohol or drugs affected him in a good way. He only partook when necessary, but overall, he didn’t like to be held up by other forces. The problem with the business was that it always involved working with other people. If you did a good enough job, someone would notice—which could be good or bad.

  “Quickly, we don’t have all night,” Zack commanded, trying to hide his urgency.

  “What’s the big deal? We’re good; the cops won’t bother us here,” one of his men said.

  “They’re not who I’m worried about.” Zack double-checked the contents of the cases.

  “You don’t really believe those rumors, do you? Those guys were just idiots who lost the shipment,” said another man.

  “I knew those men, and they wouldn’t just lose a shipment. Someone is going after us, so keep your eyes open,” Zack said, looking at his crew—a group of ten men, enough to ensure a smooth delivery.

  As soon as they loaded the last case, the lights were cut off.

  “What the…” one of the men muttered as he spotted a figure not so far from the warehouse. In the blink of an eye, the figure was on him. His scream was the last thing they heard before the four lookouts were down.

  Zack quickly took out his Beretta, and his men followed suit.

  “Everyone to their cars—” Before Zack could finish, a loud pop interrupted him.

  One of the men checked where the sound came from.

  “Son of a bitch! Something popped the tire!” the man shouted. He saw something sticking out of the rubber. Before he could inspect further, loud pops came from the other tires. One by one, their cars were disabled.

  “If you leave the crates and go, there will be no problem,” a voice with a Texan accent called from the shadows.

  Zack and his gang looked around but found no one.

  “Come on out, you coward!” Zack yelled, scanning the darkness.

  “Why do you demean yourself with hypocrisy? Oh, Zack, don’t project,” the voice replied as a figure stepped into the light.

  A man with a long duster and a bandolier wrapped around his torso. A full cowboy get-up, with a blue bandana covering his mouth like one of those outlaws Zack had seen in Westerns. The cowboy’s piercing eyes stared Zack and his gang down. Zack could barely make out his eyes beneath the shadow of his worn hat. His two revolvers remained holstered—one on his hip, the other on the front of his waist.

  The tension in the air was palpable. Zack and his gang exchanged glances of disbelief.

  “Who are you supposed to be?” Zack asked, keeping his attention on the man.

  The cowboy kept his hand near his holsters. All the men felt tense. It was only a matter of time before someone made the first move.

  “A dead joke!” one of Zack’s men shouted before opening fire.

  Zack hesitated for a moment. Who was this man? Why did Zack feel like he was destined to lose?