The Lifeless Light: A Tale from Dema

Chapter Fourteen: The Morning Sun

The set of strong arms threw me on the ground in anger—thankfully in a spot away from the immediate chaos, without glass lying about. I quickly flipped over to face them, uncharacteristically enraged and ready to fight ... as if I actually knew how. Without even acknowledging their face, I jumped up and swung my fist with an emotional mixture of anger and sorrow.

It was quickly caught. I jabbed my knee into their hip as I heard them commanding me to stop. The voice was familiar enough to cut through the fog of adrenaline that coursed through my veins.

He shoved me away and I stumbled back to the ground. Joshua and his black beanie looked down upon me, out of breath and somewhat perturbed by my petulance. He wasn't armed at the moment, nor did he look like he wanted to strike me—so I assumed it was safe to yell at him.

"You could have helped him!" my voice cracked.

"I can't now," he said far too calmly. "Don't you understand?"

"He's injured!"

"He's sick! That's not Tyler anymore, Clancy! You have to avoid him at all costs, please."

I shook my head, "And why are you suddenly helping me again?"

He knelt down to my level, "Because it was his last request. He wanted me to protect you."

I paused, "What do you mean 'his last'?"

Joshua's eyes tiredly looked on at the war raging near the city limits. The moving figures had thinned in number.

"This battle," his tone descended, "I thought we could contain the curse, but it's only making it worse. The Bishops are turning. We're all turning, just at different paces."

In a calmer tone, I replied, "If you want to help me, order the Banditos to destroy every gravestone." I pointed to the air above us where the ash danced and glowed.

He squinted at the brightness, but quickly understood—stricken with awe at the answer we searched for. Something clicked in his mind, like cogs turning after years of dormancy. He then looked at me again, differently this time, as if we had known each other for years.

Indeed, we had.

Joshua reached over his shoulder and pulled out a stainless-steel bat from a carrier strapped to his back. It was just like mine, except of a better material and wrapped in knotted wire. Together we raced across the necropolis, obliterating the remaining markers. He spoke to other banditos along the way, until both sides were crushing neon tubes—yet it didn't last for long.

Within a half hour, my lungs ached from running. My arms felt weak. With every minute that passed, I felt more tired and sluggish. There was only a couple dozen graves left, yet no matter how hard I pushed, I felt like I couldn't make it to the end.

Looking around at the field for a moment, I could see Joshua felt ill as well. Then I spotted two banditos fighting each other. They punched and kicked until one of them was unconscious on the ground. Unremorseful anger shown on the victor's face. At first, I thought it was a separate dispute, until I saw the civilians sparring each other as well.

I was so wrapped up in releasing the ashes that I didn't realize how the complexion of the battle changed. Neither side was aiding our efforts anymore but were wholly consumed in blind violence. For the remaining warriors, there were no sides anymore—just victims.

Vialism was thriving, and I felt every ounce of its mockery. While we released the essence of the fallen, it wasn't enough to match those lost on the field.

The Banditos were horribly wrong, just like Tyler mentioned. Everyone in this land formed one body of people, polarized by corruption. Yet even with the rebellion's good intentions, demonizing the other faction only brought about the downfall of them all. Attacking Dema in its broken state was as if they attacked themselves—with only skeleton bones remaining. I felt their hopeful warmth fade from my body.