The Marksman

By bellaepko All Rights Reserved ©

Scifi / Action

Chapter 1

It was in the way he walked, the way his shoulders were rolled back and the neatly cut hair that bounced with every step. It was the air of authority, his polished shoes and shining insignia that distinguished him from the other officers.

In the midst of a battle, his eyes never left his singular target. A young man stood quivering, cornered by the officers with stun guns pointed in his direction. When the authoritative man approached, the young man helplessly whimpered and cried.

The man raised his arm, perpendicular to the young man’s forehead. In his hand was a handgun with its safety flicked off.

“Please!” The young man plead, his eyes filled with tears and beseeching for mercy, “I didn’t do anything!”. But the other man never moved, his eyes still strictly focused on the target before him.

“Please…” The younger man said quietly now, the firing bullets in the background beginning to dim into silence.

The Officers around the two began to shift in impatience, their arms tired from holding their stun-guns at the ready but the man with the gun did not cease the silent and one-sided standoff.

Now the bullets in the background had died, and the footsteps of recceeding officers all uniformly stomped to the transport bus.

“Please!” The young man cried again, quietly and his voice cracking. Tears rolled down his dirty face.

An Officer, fresh from battle, his uniform sprayed with blood- jogged up to the group, “The area is clear sir, although the body count does not match that of the estimated”.

“By how much?” The man with the gun asks, his voice eerily deep and accented. The officer took a breath, “Two hundred sir”.

The man’s eyes never left the whimpering boy, “Arrest him, find out where the rest of them are”.

In a sweep of relief and anguished cries of the younger boy, the other officers cuff and escort the now suspect, out of the battered building.

Clipping his gun’s safety back and putting it into its holster, the polished boots moved in the opposite direction.

The carnage around him did not falter his expression, nor his emotions. Trained to alienate himself from what he feels and what he knows to be good from what is needed and essential; Mark Dante was a master, killing machine.

He felt no remorse as he stepped over a thin man’s body, he eyed the walls dotted with bullet trails from which dust and drywall still fell.

The hanging aura of death and his reapers filled every hallway, every room and every corner; but the whole lot still seemed alive.

Reaching the end of the wreckage in a hallway, Dante spun on his heels and walked brusquely out of the ruins, leaving behind the bodies of those who once knew him.

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