Stranger Times

Some Things You Don't Come Back From (Smackdown Entry 1.2)

His hands were covered in blood. Most of it wasn't his own.

He stepped over the broken wreck of some poor bastard who had just tried to kill him, carefully prodding the man in the chest with his shotgun.

Frank waited a few moments for a flinch. A breath. Any sort of excuse to squeeze the trigger and kill him again.

Frank shoved the barrel of his shotgun hard into what remained of the gangster's chest, before he straightened up, and carried on to the end of the room. His path wound around a pair of toppled couches, and a shag carpet soaked in blood so thick it could be molten crayon.

Frank smiled when he saw movement in front of the door. One of them, a gangly woman with her hair soaked and stuck to her head, saw him approach and tried to raise the gun in her hand off the ground.

"Suicide by cop isn't the worst way to go." Frank said, as the woman's hand trembled. The gun jittered along the floor, clanging softly against the carpet, but it didn't rise off the ground.

"Go fu..." The woman began, heaving air in a noisy gasp and air bubbles rose out of a small pool of red on her chest.

Frank kicked the gun out of her hand, pointed the gun towards her heart, and pulled the trigger.

The thunderous crack surprised Frank, and he fumbled the shotgun, lunging at it to keep the weapon from hitting the ground.

Frank's hands began to shake. He clutched at the rife and held his breath, trying to calm himself.

"What have I done?" Frank mattered to himself. "What the hell was I thinking?"

Frank took a slow, deep breath, and swore at whatever clown had told him a deep breath would help. Some part of his head, coldly analytical, told him he shouldn't expect to ever really calm down again.

Like he shouldn't expect to ever be a cop again. Some things you don't come back from.

Frank took the dead woman by the hand and dragged her away from the doorway. He then set his shoulder against the door, twisted the doorknob with his hands still on his shotgun, and shoved the door open.

A single, uncovered bulb blared harsh white light into a nearly empty room. The room stank of blood and urine, a noxious combination that hit Frank hard. The paint was peeling, the room had no windows, and only one occupant.

Frank couldn't tell the boy's age. His skin was unnaturally pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in a long time. The boy's cheeks were so thin that Frank could almost see the outline of the boy's teeth, and the skin around the eyes was little more than a dusting of flesh over the bones.

The boy was rail-thin, the shape of his joints were visible beneath what should have been healthy flesh. His arms and feet were wrapped in makeshift bandages, ripped pieces of what must have been an expensive shirt once.

The kid had a pair of goggles on, that wrapped around his head and connected to a power cord. The cord was plugged into the wall, frayed in a couple of places, and bandaged up with the same material his limbs were.

Frank couldn't help but stare at the goggles. Wider than the kid's eye sockets, they shone with an image of a bright, sunny day looking over the greenest field Frank had ever remembered seeing.

"Hey, kid," Frank said, as he approached.

He stopped in front of the boy and crouched down in front of him.

"There pm. Eastern standard time. Last portal out," the boy muttered.

Frank was struck by how vivid the scene looked on the boy's goggles. He could see a small bird slowly fly across one eye, then appear in the other.

"Quite the VR headset, kid," Frank said, slowly and calm, trying to keep the child reassured. "But you don't need it anymore. You'll be okay."

"Dave, 2:57, eastern standard time. Frank will stay. 4:46 pacific standard, Masters will attempt to hijack chronoglass link. Delay to allow final conversation," the child continued to mutter, ignoring Frank.

Frank reached for the goggles. "Listen kid, you're okay-"

When Frank reached for the goggles, he set his fingers on the screen for leverage, but his finger sank straight through the screen. Before he realized what had happened, his entire thumb had sunk into the screen.

"Holy-" Frank exclaimed, pulling his hand back. Somehow, despite the depth his thumb had sunk, he hadn't touched the kid at all.

"He's here. I have to go," the kid said. He then raised his arm, his hand shaking badly. When he reached the goggles he pushed them up onto his forehead, and looked up at Frank.

"Can I borrow your phone?" The boy asked.

Numbly, Frank handed the boy his phone. To his surprise, the boy immediately turned it on and typed-in Frank's own password. Before Frank could say anything, the boy had dialed a number and was holding the phone to his ear.

After a long pause, the boy said "Masters? The password is calamity. 2287 Wharf St. Trace this phone."

"Kid, what the hell was that?" Frank asked, as the boy hung up and offered Frank his phone back.

Frank took it, gritting his teeth from the pain of a wound he had forgotten. He took a few shallow breaths, and said "we can leave, kid, you're safe."

"Please step back, Frank," the boy said. "I'd rather you don't fall on me when you pass out."

Frank barely managed to mouth the beginning of a question before his world went black.

(Picture #2 was the chosen prompt)