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. . . . . . . . . . "Crimson Knights: Chapter One"
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Jason Watts
. . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Darkness enveloped the city of Porter Bay; the sign for all of its
nocturnal creatures to come out and play. Preying on the weak and
defenseless, they stalked the streets, searching for those who couldn't or
wouldn't fight them back. These demons of the night were unable to quench
their thirst for violence and mayhem, like vampires feeding on precious
life-blood. Their reign of terror seized the city in a steely grasp.
Joseph Woods hurried along the crowded sidewalk, passing hookers and
drug pushers on every corner, selling perversion or poisons to anyone
looking for a "good time" or a way to leave this world behind. Joe knew it
would only get worse as time passed. As long as Porter Bay's finest and a
select few judges and attorneys kept their wallets fat with illegal funds,
their heads would continue to be turned and Porter Bay would sink into the
fiery depths of hell.
As a little boy, Joe knew this city as a booming metropolis with
commercial and industrial giants carving a path for bright and prosperous
future. People from all over the world migrated in, everyone wanting a
steaming hot piece of the pie. Instead, all they got was stale bread and
water. As the years passed, Porter Bay's bright future slowly diminished,
drugs and various other criminal elements beginning to spread like a
disease with no cure in sight.
Blaring horns, curses, and screams drifted on the warm moist air from
the traffic infested streets. The night was already settling in to be a
long one. Joe checked his watch.
7:35
He had to hurry. If he was late for work one more time, that prick
boss of his at the video store would have a shit fit. He could picture the
little fat fuck now: staring at his cheap two-dollar watch and tapping his
stubby little foot against the scratched tile floor.
Yeah, what a life: low-paying job and living in an apartment that was
one step away from being homeless. Things couldn't possibly get much worse.
Sure, he could be working at his foster father's dojo with his foster
brothers, but he wasn't. He left for a reason and he wasn't about to go
back.
Joe decided to worry about his failed life no more than possible.
The fates had already written him off. He was only twenty-three but knew he
would never change his ways and his loner spirit. His foster father,
Masaki Hashino, had relentlessly reminded him of that fact. Your life will
never have meaning if you let your wild spirit control your soul, he often
said.
To hell with my soul, Joe thought, What's my soul any good for.
"Joseph Woods."
The soft, almost inaudible voice pierced his thoughts. Through all
the noise that surrounded him a whisper, almost silent, muttering his name.
But where had it come from? Stepping out of the bustling pedestrian traffic
and entering a nearby alley, he stared at the passers-by, trying to pin a
face to the voice.
Nothing.
There were too many people.
It would be impossible to know which one had spoken to him. The
hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end, the muscles in his body tensing
up like a coiled spring.
"Joseph Woods, I see you."
The voice came from the dim light behind him and he spun to greet it.
There was no one there.
He moved into the alley, cautiously surveying the layout and trying
to pick out anything or anyone lurking in the shadows. Seemed like the only
threat that was being posed was the stench from the overfilled garbage cans.
A chill ran up Joe's spine. There was something there but it was beyond the
naked eye.
"Joseph Woods, Joseph Woods Joseph Woods."
It was a taunt. Someone was playing a game with him. Joe hated
games. This time, however, he was able to clarify the voice as a woman's
and he wasn't actually hearing her. Somehow the bitch was in his head. He
had to get her out of there and quick.
Joe inched deeper into the alley, expecting a bullet or cold steel to
slam into him at any given moment. This whole situation reeked of a set-up.
Who the fuck could it be.
That's right. Anybody that he had ever beat the hell out of.
What a comforting thought. There were at least two dozen people out
there wanting to even up the score.
"Joseph Woods, son of Jonah Woods. You are going to die."
His heart skipped a beat on that one. Joe's parents had been killed
twelve years before. The case had never been solved, the murderer never
found. The woman in his head had to be responsible for their deaths. And
now she was coming after him. Joe had no idea what to make of it... it was
all so screwy.
"Joseph, I'm waiting. Stop putting off what fate has already
foretold."
"Look, bitch," Joe shouted into the darkness. "I don't have time for
these sick little head games. So why don't you crawl out of whatever hole
you're hiding in and face me."
"In due time, Joseph. But for now you have no other choice but to
entertain me."
Being the floor show for some head case wasn't at the top of his "to
do" list. If the bitch wanted entertainment, there was theater down the
street.
"I don't know what kind of shit you are trying to pull but it ain't
gonna float. I'm nobody's puppet. You wanna kill me, then come and try.
Otherwise get the fuck out of my head."
"Now, now, Joseph. Impatience is a weakness."
Joe clenched and unclenched his fists, beads of sweat forming on his
forehead. He had to get her out of his head before she wacked his ass.
The sound of something being scraped against concrete caught his
attention. It was to his right, in the shadows. The scraping repeated this
time to the left of him.
She wasn't alone.
The odds were against him. How many were there, lurking in the
darkness waiting to strike? He had no way of knowing. And he hated it. A
loud screeching eminated from behind him and he quickly turned to greet the
attack. Dead, empty silence swept over him.
His assailants were on him before he could react. The blow that
landed on his jaw had power behind it, dizzing him a little. Another blow
to the chest sent him flailing backwards to the concrete.
Joe was on his feet in an instant, his black clad aggressor inches
away from him with two cold and souless eyes peering into him from beneath
the black hood that hid the man's face. He rubbed his jaw. It felt like
the bastard might of knocked a few teeth loose. "Okay, pal. You like
playin' rough? Bring it."
Not allowing his attacker a chance to move, Joe acted on impulse,
swiftly closing in with a driving a powerful kick to the man's abdomen, then
delivering an uppercut as the man reeled from the blow. He caught his
assailant just under the chin, dropping him to the concrete.
Another of the black clad assailants rushed from the shadows jabbing
a punch at Joe's face. Joe blocked the punch easily while striking the
man's throat with his free hand. Then with one lightning quick instant he
sent the hooded figure sailing to the ground with a roundhouse kick that
connected perfectly with the man's jaw.
"Anyone else? You're gonna have to do a hell of a lot better than
that."
A pair of python-like arms wrapped around his chest, lifting him off
the ground. The strength behind the massive limbs was incredible, almost
inhuman. Joe fought hard to break free but it was useless. The more he
struggled, the tighter the hold became. He just had to open his big mouth.
"Time to die, little man." The voice was deep and cold.
Joe could feel the steely grasp around his chest compressing; his
hold on conciousness slipping. The air was literally being squeezed from
his lungs and it hurt like hell. If he didn't do something soon he'd be
taking an unwanted ride down the river Styx.
The young warrior thrust his head backwards, smashing the behemoth's
nose, warm life blood flowing from the blow. The hold loosened a little and
Joe repeated the procedure until he was completely free of the big man's
grasp.
As his feet hit the ground he spun to face his opponent. The guy was
big. Real fucking big. Probably the biggest man Joe had ever seen. He
stood, trying to catch his breath and staring at the big man's bloodied
face. The two red hot coals that burned bright on either side of the
behemoth's pulverized nose locked on Joe, and the big man smiled.
He lurched at Joe, both arms outstretched, two meaty hands attempting
to have him in their grasp once more. The young warrior side-stepped and
snapped a kick to the behemoth's left knee and threw a round punch, landing
it hard against the side of the big man's head. But the big bastard was
faster than Joe had given him credit for. Before he could react, the
fucker's iron grip had him again and was clamping a meaty hand around Joe's
throat. Pain surged through his body as the big man slammed him against the
wall, knocking the breath from Joe's lungs.
Joe struggled to catch his breath, finding it difficult, the
behemoth's weight and strength overwhelming him. The decision was made in
an instant. He stopped fighting and stared into the brute's eyes, the big
man's warm, rank breath washing over him.
"Like I said before. Time to die," the big man said, deadpan.
This had gone on long enough. If Joe didn't react soon, his ass was
dead. That wasn't going to happen. He cupped his hands and slapped them
over the man's ears. The grip around his throat loosened and Joe felt his
feet touch the ground. The big man staggered backwards, grasping the side
of his head, the pain evident on his face.
He was big and dumb, and Joe was thankful for that. With a powerful
sidekick to the brute's head, he sent his stunned opponent to ground. The
big man showed no signs that he wanted to continue the confrontation.
"You did better than expected, Joseph. Your father would have been
proud, that is if he wasn't already dead. But don't forget me, I will be
back for you and your brothers. The time of the Crimson Awakening is upon
us, and you and your breatheren will see death before your destinies are at
full circle."
And she was gone.
Joe stood in the alleyway a few moments, trying to piece together
what had just happened. But his head was pounding like a bass drum and his
body ached. He needed time to rest, but not to heal. He had to warn his
foster brothers about what was going down. He just prayed he wouldn't be
too late.
. . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. anada 164 by Jason Watts (c)2000 anada e'zine .
. . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .