Final Call for Mercy

56

There was blood on my hands.

It coated my skin like a satin glove and peppered my face like colored freckles. It was thick and warm. I rubbed my fingers through my palm and scrunched my nose at its stickiness. There was no one to wipe it on because, while my hands were a deep, ruby red, that same color adorned everyone else in the room. Not a single spotless space.

You—we can't! We just came back from all this...carnage! And you expect us to go back out for more? We're tired, we're hungry and we need rest. No more.

I looked down at the floor. The blood seeped into the crevices of the wooden planks, absorbing into everything that gave it way. It puddled around my boots, sticking to my soles as I made my way around the crimson pool.

Bodies littered the floor like they've been doing as of late. The sight was far from welcome, but had somehow turned into normal. Staring at the still-bleeding bodies of the people we killed and those of us who died, I can't bring myself to even bat an eye. I just hear the blood pumping in my ears and see red. Everywhere.

You see, darling, in this life you're either the butcher or the cattle. I love being butcher and I sure as hell won't mind making you deadstock. You in or out? Permanently.

They tried to stand up to me. I gave them a place to stay while we protected ourselves. I gave my people's life for this cause. All I asked for was cooperation and even then, they didn't want to give.

So I made them. In or out. Do or die. People don't get to choose to defy me anymore. I won't allow it. I am the only choice. Unless they count a bullet to the head as number two. Because it's utter shit.

So when half the room stood up to me, demanding why I'm sending them out to die, I let them know my change of heart. They don't get to walk away. They get to never walk again. Or breathe, for that matter.

I proved that point when seven still tried to come for me. Demanding, accusing, insulting. Click, clack, bang. My gun had seven less bullets and the room had more oxygen to spare. The others realized very quickly their new lack of choice. In half an hour I had three dozen men getting into jets and preparing for a brand new fight.

They can hate me. I don't give a shit.

Now, seeing a good half of those who had stood up to me with terror in their eyes, demanding me to fulfill my end of the bargain and keep them safe, I see they were kind of right. They did get sent here to die. Not purposefully, of course. Then again, it probably doesn't mean much to them. They got that bullet-to-head thing going on either way.

But we won and every enemy in this fucking wooden box is soaking up these floors with their blood. And shit, too. It stinks in here.

I holster my gun back, having to grip it extra hard to keep it from slipping. And now my holster is wet. Great.

The deeper into the cabin I go, the more the pile of bodies grows. Some are still breathing and moaning, so I take care of them as I inspect for any loose lambs. And when I'm done and all counted sixty five of theirs are deader than dead, I head back.

The sweet smell of metal and sweat that blood emits sweeps over me as I cross through the cabin once more. It weighs on my clothes and skin, beginning to dry and creating a giant scab all over me.

Onr of my men, also coated in blood from head to toe—blood from the previous battle and new blood from right now—opens the door to the basement as I approach.

The wooden stairs creak under my feet, warning those inside of my return. All the murmuring ceases as I reach the bottom of the steps and every pair of eyes is on me.