Upheaval

Part 1

Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 10th February, 2016.

The air hung heavy with bone-chilling cold as a fine drizzle pattered against the oversized windowpane of Allon’s attic. The cold, biting wind carried whispers of anticipation for a night of streaming. The chat buzzed with familiar chaos. ‘Punctuality’s his mortal enemy, right? Place your bets for another five minutes! #LateAgainButWorthIt,’ and “#LateAgain, You take your time, guy, if he ain’t here in the next 5, we riot and so forth.’

Amid playful jabs, the Allonites, a community of thirty thousand plus, eagerly anticipated a long overdue giveaway—five brand new Voyager II PCs with both the Starforge Systems branded Platelight and Planetary Platelight panels.

He sank into the cool mesh of his Mihardi chair, its ergonomic curves accommodating his tired frame. The 34-inch mass-curved monitor loomed ahead, a portal to virtual worlds atop a DIY FlexiSpot-like desk that held most of the tools of his digital domain.

“Alright, let’s see!” he muttered, testing the microphone with a practiced cough. Lights blinked green, camera, check, everything good... except... a wet black nose nudged his hand insistently.

“What? Oh, right.” With a chuckle, he dug into a weathered cardboard box at his feet, the sweet scent of Scotch Finger tickling his nose. “You are never wrong, honored sir,” he declared, tossing a chewy square to Harry. The Border collie snatched it mid-air, tail wagging with glee.

He shuffled across the room, his bare feet padding softly on a brown, worn rug. Reaching the corner to the left where an adjustable wooden table held his vintage stereo, its walnut surface scuffed with years of use, he pressed play. Instantly, the room filled with the warm, smooth sounds of the Ink Spots crooning “We Three.” Just as swiftly, a smile tickled his lips as he leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, letting the nostalgic melody wash over him. “We Three,” he tapped his foot.

“Water, I need some water,” he mumbled more to himself than to Harry, who’d been glued to the window the entire time.

Humming along to the melody, he rose to fetch the glass only to freeze mid-stride. Harry, suddenly possessed by an unseen urgency, abandoned his window vigil and trotted purposefully towards the door.

“Oh, abandoning the post, are we...” the words died in his throat as Harry, in a dramatic about-face, spun and bolted back to the window. He stood with his back pressed against the wall, ears pinned flat, eyes glued to the bare glass pane.

A tremor of unease slithered down Boyd’s spine. The humming ceased, replaced by the hollow thump of his suddenly amplified heartbeat. His bare feet, accustomed to the worn grooves of the ancient rug, moved with agonizing slowness towards a floating shelf nestled just a few feet to the right of the window.

Inches from the cool wood of the gray shelf, the hiss of a blowgun cut through the silence, jolting him six feet back with a growl of frustration. “Damn it! So that’s how it’s gonna be?!”

Adrenaline rising, he dove for the table, sprawling across its worn surface just as a volley of darts rained down. A dozen silent projectiles hammered into the monitor, transforming the once vibrant screen into a spiderweb of cracks. “Alright, OK!” he muttered as sparks flickered and pixels danced in a macabre ballet.

For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the persistent patters and shards of glass tinkling down.

“You ruined a perfectly neat giveaway, mate, so not cool!” he yelled, scouring the window with narrowed eyes. “Oh, man, my window!”

No taller than a diminutive oak, a cloaked figure eased the window ajar, opened it all the way, and breezed into the room. With his gaze on Boyd, he laid the blowgun on the table and drew a flail from a scabbard strapped to his back.

Harry began panting, shallow breaths that puffed in and out like bellows. The visitor, cloaked in shadows and unruffled by the dog’s attention, took a single, measured step back.

“Harry! You alright boy!?” Boyd called to the dog, his voice surprisingly even as he rose from his crouch, debris sifting down his back. His eyes, though, were pools of molten steel, never straying from the intruder for a second. It wasn’t until his second call, a low murmur beneath the surface, that Harry reluctantly eased, his gaze flitting between the two figures like a pendulum.

“Let me look at you,” he stooped over, the corner of his eye still on the cloaked figure. “Look at that, not a mark on you.” He smiled, petting the pup’s head. “Alright,” he rose with a sigh and turned to the figure. “Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing at the door.

The figure remained unreadable, a monolith of shadow and silence. Only the lory-like mask glinted in the dim light, its polished beak seeming to hold a hidden glint of a predator’s hunger.

“Rude,” Boyd muttered, the word rasping against his tongue with a shrug, half defiance, half resignation. “Come on, Harry,” he said, his voice still measured. He gingerly took a few steps back and opened the door, “go on.”

Harry hesitated, a tremor of confusion shaking his rugged frame. Again, his gaze darted between the two, fear warring with loyalty in his soulful eyes. Finally, with a low whine, he scurried past Boyd, his shadow swallowed by the dimly lit corridor. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, the brass latch clicking with a finality that echoed in the silence.

Boyd sighed, arms akimbo, his gaze sweeping the room like a disappointed auctioneer. “You know,” he rumbled, voice dropping to a somber octave as he fiddled with the vintage record player, its languid timbre mocking his mood, “you ruined a perfectly neat evening, you did.” He wiggled his finger. “Alright, C’est ce que c’est.” His voice snapped like a whip as he abandoned the vintage, replacing melancholic charm with steely resolve. “I don’t suppose you came alone, did...”

Before he could finish, the hooded figure rocketed across the room, a blur of fabric and fury. Their flail, like a seething serpent with a copper heart, whipped through the air, aimed straight for his head. Boyd swerved in a flicker of movement and rolled, reaching for the shelf. Striking it with his bare fist, the wood splintered, and from the pieces fell a brass-like cylinder rod barely an inch long, gleaming in the dim light.

“Here’s a proposition, guy,” he called out upon grasping the rod. “Tell me who sent you and I might just forget about the whole mess.”

The intruder stood at ease, tilted their head, eyes glinting like obsidian chips through the hood fixated on the rod. Rain, a hesitant drizzle moments ago, now hammered against the window, transforming the world outside into a grey blur.

“Dialogue over violence, eh?” Boyd chuckled, a wry twist on his lips. “They don’t call it the age of reason for...” His smile faltered as a sudden flurry of darts pelted through the window, a rain of needle-tipped rain. Two found their mark, sinking with a dull thud into his left shoulder blade.

Cussing like a sailor caught in a squall, he dove for the window corner, flattening himself against the wall. Only then, through gritted teeth and muttered curses, did he notice the darts’ unintended bounty. They’d firmly pinned the figure, sprawled like a grotesque marionette, to the door behind him.

Gingerly extracting the darts, their barbs leaving angry red trails, Boyd stared at the tableau. “Well,” he drawled, a wry chuckle bubbling up despite the throbbing pain, “no honor among... pawns, is there?”

His gaze narrowed, meeting the figure’s through the pinned cloth. “I really,” he murmured, a dangerous glint in his eyes, “really liked that stereo.”

He sighed, flexing his left hand and wiggling the fingers. “Perfect, just perfect,” he muttered, sarcasm lacing his words. Eyes darting between the shattered window and the door, he paused. A glint on the floor snagged his gaze - the blowgun, half-concealed by debris. A humorless smile twisted his lips. “Will do,” he murmured, the words barely audible over the drumming rain.

With the rod tucked under his arm and the gun clenched between gritted teeth, he picked a few darts from the floor, their weight reassuringly familiar. He then silently crawled towards the door, eyes flickering between the pinned figure and the rain-streaked windowpane. Reaching a strategic position beside the body, he leaned against the wall, knuckles already bloodied as he loaded the blowgun with practiced efficiency.

Minutes stretched, but only the mournful shadows of wind-whipped trees danced on the floor, cast by the occasional flash of lightning. “They really don’t care about you, mate,” he said, his voice a rough caress against the stillness as he turned to the figure.

He shot another glance at the window, setting the rod and gun aside before rising in a single fluid motion. “I don’t know if you’re all there or not,” he began, approaching the body. “But it gives me no pleasure to do this... not one ounce.” He pulled the body from the doorframe, dragged it across the floor with his right hand, and propped it against the window.

Ten more minutes crawled by, but there was no sound, no incident. “Well, that’s that.” He gently laid the body down on the floor. “Your mates won’t be joining us, I guess.”

Rain lashed against the attic window, each drop splattering with an angry hiss that punctuated the silence. Beneath it, a puddle grew, mirroring the storm’s growing chaos. Boyd dragged a chair with a groan, its old legs protesting against the littered floorboards. He plopped down, sighing a gust that stirred the dust motes dancing in the dim light. His eyes flitted around the cluttered room, landing on the growing puddle with another sigh.

A good chunk of time melted away, swallowed by the storm’s roar and Boyd’s thoughts. Only when Harry began whining with mild barks did he snap back to reality. “Right with you, good sir,” Boyd mumbled, his voice flat as the puddle’s surface. He heaved himself up, collected the rod propped against the wall, and opened the door.

“Time to go, bud,” he called into the gloom of the house. He hurried to the bedroom, stuffing essentials into a worn backpack – the rod, two bars of Snickers, a pair of brown, leather gloves, a pair of worn, trusty, antique blue goggles, and a compass. “Go get your treats,” he tossed over his shoulder as Harry launched himself onto the bed, tail thumping.

Moments later, Harry returned, a soggy box of Scotch Finger clutched in his teeth. Already halfway into a black shirt and faded blue jeans, Boyd shook his head. “Nah, mate, that’s ruined. We’ll grab some fresh ones on the way.” Harry jumped back onto the bed, sprawling and waiting.

Packing done, he retrieved a rain-stained jacket from a creaking closet, an umbrella propped precariously behind the door. Backpack, rain jacket, and umbrella – he launched them onto the living room couch with a grunt. Returning to the attic, he pulled back the dusty sheet draped over a figure slumped in the corner.

Pale limbs emerged, the skin like milk under the grimy light. The same went for the smooth head devoid of hair, almost childlike in its vulnerability. Boyd gently lowered the body onto the chair, pulling it closer to the wobbly table. With a sigh, he shut the window as tightly as he could against the howling wind.

“Harry, let’s go, bud!” he called, already rushing towards the living room. A curse ripped from his throat as he realized he’d forgotten something. Back in the bedroom, he fumbled with the chest of drawers on the right side, counting out eight hundred dollars in fifties. Hesitantly, he ventured into the garage, returning with two ominous red jugs sloshing with gasoline.

He poured the fuel carefully, a grim ritual in each room – kitchen, living room, the two bedrooms, and the attic. “Alright, bud,” he said, pulling on the coat and flicking his lighter against the living room curtains. Flames sprang up, a hungry orange maw devouring the fabric. “Time to go!”

Some minutes past midnight found him clambering up Thunder Butte with the vigor of a vengeful spirit, the wind whipping his face as icy needles of rain persistently stung his eyes. All the while, Harry matched his pace, his fur plastered to his body by the relentless downpour.

“Almost there, bud!” Boyd shouted, his breath ragged but his eyes sharp with determination. He’d uttered that phrase at least four times now, each accompanied by a frantic scan of the horizon for any unwelcome shadows. This time, however, the summit rose proudly ahead, a mere two dozen feet away.

“See?” he panted, tossing the bag onto the rocky ground. His gaze swept the landscape, stretching as far as the eye could see. Satisfied, he pulled out the compass, donned the goggles, and tilted his head towards the northeast. Finding nothing, he repeated the process in the southeast, the indigo lenses filtering the world into an alien landscape. Yet, the eerie emptiness remained.

“Well,” he sighed, turning to Harry and shoving the compass back into the bag. “Looks like we’re the first.”

He located a soft patch of earth and, with Harry watching from a nearby rock, began digging a pit. The earth yielded reluctantly, each shovelful accompanied by the rhythmic patter of rain as Harry’s ears twitched with every thud. When the pit reached a foot’s depth, Boyd stopped, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I think that’ll do.”

Retrieving the shimmering rod, he placed it in the pit and stepped back. Harry, drew further back, whined softly, and retreated behind a boulder.

Boyd donned the goggles once more, his eyes scanning the two directions. Nothing. Then, with a resolute nod, he pressed his thumb on the rod’s smooth surface. A high-pitched whine erupted, piercing the night and causing Harry to flinch. Boyd held his breath, his grip tightening on the rod as the whine escalated into a shriek, the air vibrating with its intensity.

Harry barked a few times and Boyd took a few steps back adjusting his goggles. Suddenly, the rod erupted in a vibrant indigo beam, shooting straight into the sky like a defiant spear. The earth around the pit pulsed with an unearthly reddish glow, the scent of ozone filling the air. The rain seemed to dance in the beam’s light, each drop refracting into a miniature kaleidoscope.

Boyd took another step back, “Now, we wait,” he whispered before joining Harry behind the rock.