Ethusus - Warrior of Dust

One

Ethusus

Warrior of Dust

Brian Burton

Copyright © 2018 Brian Burton

All Rights Reserved.

It all began in a shady town called Timber Leaf, on south side of L.A.–one of the craziest place ever heard of. Some people even claimed L.A. to be the murder capital of the world. I'd been there a few times myself, but for some reason, I never really cared for the place. Not that anything bad ever happen to me there. I just never really felt comfortable there. It was as if there was something dark and sinister about the place. There were way too many people and too many unsolved murders, and with a track record like that, something bad was bound to happen at some point or another.

~~~~~

October 29th, 7:30P.M.

An old man sat on a rooftop in downtown Los Angeles, looking over the city, contemplating the action going on below, and observing the harsh nightlife– streets filled with prostitutes, gang bangers and drug dealers, all locked in a bloody, daily race for that almighty dollar. Being homeless with nothing else to occupy his time, the spectacle before him was nothing more than entertainment.

The man's name was Mr. Jingles. He went by the name because no matter how hard his life was, somehow, he always managed to keep a few coins in his pocket. Whenever he walked, he jingled, the rapid tinkling sounding like an old slot machine.

After more than five hours of sitting and drinking, the old man grew tired and weak, desperately needing to sleep. However, in this savage, run down place, going to sleep just anywhere could get you a one-way ticket, six feet under, and the old man knew it. He'd gained this small nugget of wisdom during his years on the streets.

He began fumbling about, grabbing his meager belongings, and began making his way back down the old business building, whose better days had passed centuries ago. His climb is slow and steady, and the transition feels like being tossed out of heaven and back down to hell.

Finally reaching what was once a sidewalk but was now covered with dirt, trash, and empty wine bottles. Mr. Jingles suddenly found himself surrounded by three thugs who looked to be out for blood. Now, the old man had surely been in his share of scrapes and had held his own well enough, but that was a long time ago.

One by one, the thugs began pulling out their shiny knives. Feeling his age and resigning himself to defeat, Mr. Jingles slowly lowered his head, preparing himself for the end that he knew was inevitable.

One of the men suddenly shouted, "Hey, what's in the bag, old man?"

Mr. Jingle's voice sounded tired when he responded, yet a little hope suddenly blossomed in his chest. "Please, I have no money, just a little change. Just take what you want, but I beg you, please don't hurt me."

One of the men grew impatient and moved forward with his knife raised. Mr. Jingles covered his face with his hands, preparing himself to be sliced to pieces when suddenly, the wind picked up, blowing harder, the violent gusts nearly sweeping all the thugs off their feet. Mr. Jingles however, remained untouched.

"Why?" he wondered to himself, peeking through his fingers. It was as if he was being protected by God or something. After a few minutes of the mysterious gale, the wind began to calm, leaving him stunned. Mr. Jingles slowly pulled his hands from his face, hoping the thugs would be gone by now. But just like an old western movie, there they stood.

One of them shouted, "Hey, you think a little bit of wind is gonna scare me, boy?" He started moving toward Mr. Jingles. Just as he got close enough to strike, there was a sudden high pitch sound in the distance. Fear shone in the eyes of the other two men.

"Hey, man, let's get out here!" one of them yelled. "This is getting a little too creepy."

Mr. Jingles could not understand what was happening, nor could he fathom why he was still standing. He shuddered, heaving a deep sigh of relief as the three thugs began to flee.

What was only seconds ago a mystery struck without warning.

Hundreds of rats suddenly came from nowhere. The abnormally-large rodents began ripping the three men to pieces, their blood-red eyes glowing as they ripped into human flesh. The agonizing screams and cries for help pierced the night air, blood pouring from the mangled flesh to the ground like water from a spigot.

The feeding frenzy went on for two long minutes, before the rats retreated like a lion having devoured its prey and moving on to find its next meal. There seemed to be nothing left of the men but a big pile of flesh that lay unresponsive, and a foul stench that could not be overlooked.

Shocked, Mr. Jingles stood speechless. The rodents then turned to him and he met their red-eyed stare with the sudden glowing red of his own, and it was as if they were now under his command. What was happening between him and the rats? Where had this sudden connection come from?

One by one, the rodents ran past him, leaving him untouched, and Mr. Jingles released the breath he'd been holding. He felt like he'd been held under water and had managed to come up for air before drowning. Recovering from the mysterious horror that had befallen him, and freeing himself from the trance, his eyes slowly returned to their normal shade of brown.

Mr. Jingles stood motionless for more than ten minutes, attempting to figure out what in the world had just happened, because up until that point, he had thought he'd seen it all. But in desperate and crazy times such as these, anything could happen.

Dusting himself off, he started on his way again when something occurred to him. He could walk without his cane. He stopped again, puzzled and confused, wondering how this could be. Ten years ago, Mr. Jingles was coming out of an alley when a taxicab struck him, the yellow vehicle slamming into his side and tossing him onto the curb. It was a hit-and-run, the driver not even pausing. He'd simply driven off, leaving the old man with a severely-broken leg. As time went on, Mr. Jingles' military background helped him to heal, but he was left with a permanent limp. Now Mr. Jingles stood in awe and tears ran down his face, his heart filled with joy. He shouted at the top of his lungs, "Thank you, God! Oh, thank you?"

Dropping to his knees, Mr. Jingles sobbed for more than five minutes, fatigue beginning to settle into his bones, his body suddenly feeling the need for rest. There was no time for that. Slowly rising from the humble praying position, he grabbed his duffel bag and started on his way once more, his eyes ever-watchful. He definitely did not want a repeat of what happened.