Friday, November 20th, 9 AM.
The Friday morning light filtered through the large attic windows, but to Alex, that day's sun felt different, infused with a glorious sense of foreboding. He stood on the top floor of one of the oldest buildings in the northwest district, far from the central hustle, commanding a view of the sprawling landscape.
He held a sophisticated pair of binoculars, brass and leather, a piece that would look better at the Vienna Opera House than in a construction zone. Through them, Alex watched the workers in the yard. They had been there since last Saturday, carrying out orders that must have seemed utterly demented to them.
A water tank. A purification system. Inter-building connections.
But what most exhilarated Alex, what made that mysterious smile slowly spread across his face, was the wall. A tall, reinforced wall, topped by a heavy gate. A perfect perimeter.
The workers moved with the irritating slowness of those who only understand the concept of overtime. But Alex watched them with a mix of arrogance and playful amusement. They, mere pawns, saw an eccentric remodeling job. He, the artist, saw the fortress that would save him and his "Family."
Poor bastards, Alex thought, feeling the delicious shiver of power.
He knew those people's fate. He knew that before the weekend was out, that wall would be their only salvation. And the thrill of knowing the future, of having power over it, filled his soul, or what was left of it. He wasn't just prepared; he was building his own destiny.
In the background, music flooded the dwelling. It was Verdi's Otello, resonating with dramatic force, filling every corner. Right at that instant, the baritone was intoning the somber notes of "Credo in un Dio crudel" (I believe in a cruel God), Iago's declaration of faith in a universe ruled by evil.
Alex hummed the lyrics softly, feeling the melody was the perfect soundtrack for the scene unfolding within the room, which was just as fascinating as the one below.
In the center of the room, on a costly Persian rug, lay Georgie.
His companions, Pete and Dim, took turns striking him. Georgie was one of his oldest friends, and Alex knew that, at the start of the session, Pete and Dim had been reluctant, that annoying human "morality" getting in the way. But that had passed. Now, the reluctance had been replaced by a dark gleam in their eyes: they were enjoying it.
The blood spurting from Georgie's mouth had already stained the rug's fibers. The dry sound of leather shoes hitting Georgie's flesh resonated with a wicked rhythm, forming a brutal counterpoint to the classical music.
Alex lowered the binoculars, losing interest in the workers. A loud, sharp whine from Georgie captured his attention. Deducting the obvious, he frowned with a farcical expression of disapproval.
"Pete... Pete... Pete," Alex said in a scolding tone, making a theatrical pout, but with a smile still gracing his face. "What have I told you about attacking your insecurities that way?"
He slid across the room like a perverse dancer, approaching the group, while Georgie moaned and squeezed his crotch, trying to calm the pain.
"Remember, darling, we are gentlemen. And a gentleman, even one who enjoys a little bit of corrective affection, would never sink so low as to attack another person's manhood... It's vulgar. It cheapens us."
Alex knelt beside Georgie. He looked directly into his eyes with a viciousness that the smile never managed to conceal.
"It's not true, Georgie," he said, giving his friend's bloody face light, rhythmic pats.
His hand was smeared with warm blood, but Alex showed no distaste. On the contrary, the sensation of Georgie's blood on his fingers was mesmerizing. It was physical proof of the moment's intensity, another pigment on the canvas of his life.
He was about to extend his arm to deliver a fierce blow himself, a coup de grâce that would bring an artistic end to the choreography, when a sharp knocking echoed at the attic's main door.
Damn interruption.
Alex stopped immediately. Pete and Dim froze, their feet suspended inches above Georgie's body. Georgie, in a pathetic reflex, closed his eyes, awaiting the strike that never came.
Alex stood up, smoothed his expensive jacket with precise movements, and approached the door, dancing to the rhythm of an operatic crescendo. Upon opening it, he was met by a hulk.
Bronson. A very large, muscular man with a seriousness that Alex found almost boring. He was a recent member, drawn into Alex's "Family" by reputation.
"Bronson, my dear!" Alex greeted him with excessive joviality. "Are you joining the party? Pete and Dim are right at the climax of their routine."
Alex gestured toward the frozen scene of violence in the center of the living room.
Bronson shook his head, his face remaining stony, though Alex noticed a slight irritation at his leader's playful tone. But more importantly: Alex saw something else. A quick flash, a spark in Bronson's eyes that ignited at the sight of Georgie's blood and battered body. It was fascination, it was hunger. This man loved violence, and to Alex, that was the true beauty of his new family.
"No, boss. The contractor is on his way," Bronson said, his voice deep and flat. Then, with palpable discomfort, he stepped away from the threshold and into the room, but kept his distance from Pete and Dim's circle. Alex smiled. Instinct was urging him to join the beating, and he was resisting with effort.
Interesting.
A few minutes later, as Otello continued to roar from the speakers, a man in his forties, dressed in cheap work clothes and with a sweaty forehead, approached the open door. It was the contractor, Mr. Merchants.
He peered in, and his face paled at the sight of blood on the rug and the two men frozen over a third. The fear was instantaneous. He took a couple of steps back.
"A new guest!" Alex exclaimed, approaching him with his eternal enigmatic smile. "Mr. Merchants! What brings you here? I hope it's good news. The gate? The wall? Tell me the art is ready!"
Mr. Merchants' fear intensified as Alex got closer. He tried to speak, stammering an explanation, but Pete and Dim discreetly resumed, just a few low blows to remind Georgie that they weren't finished.
Alex raised his distinctive cane, a thin accessory with a silver handle, and with an elegant movement, brandished it, stopping the man without touching him.
"Mr. Merchants!" Alex said, his voice now taking on a tone of dramatic offense. "One does not interrupt an opera like Otello, least of all at this part!"
Alex began to dance slowly around the room, using the cane as a silent partner. The music reached Desdemona's moving aria, "Salce, salce" (Willow, Willow), a song of pain and resignation that contrasted beautifully with the torture scene. Mr. Merchants trembled, not daring to move, hypnotized by the mix of violence and ballet.
Just as the opera reached its final, heartbreaking note in that section, Alex spun around with unnatural speed. He used the cane not as support, but as a percussive weapon. He struck Georgie with brutal force on the side of his head.
CRACK!
The sound was definitive. Georgie went unconscious, his body slack. Pete and Dim stopped, satisfied with the finale.
Alex smiled, the ecstasy of the moment illuminating his face. He lowered the cane with reverence.
"Whoa... That is art," he said, looking at the terrified contractor.
The echo of the blow that knocked Georgie out dissipated, replaced by Mr. Merchants' ragged gasp. The contractor was not a man of war or excess, and the scene had broken him. His lips moved, trying to formulate a coherent sentence, but he only managed to let out gibberish.
Alex approached him, his smile still on his face, but with a condescending calm. He deactivated the opera; the climax was over, and silence was now more dramatic.
"Please, Mr. Merchants," Alex said, in a soft, almost paternalistic tone, casually wiping drops of blood from his cane with a silk handkerchief. "There's no need for such drama. Gentlemen maintain etiquette, even during moments of... corrective love."
He patted the trembling man on the shoulder.
"Our dear Georgie, my friend, my brother... allowed himself to be seduced by the vulgar thought of betrayal. He planned to abandon The Family. And to ensure he understands that The Family is everything, that it is the only truth in this decaying universe, he has been given this small token of unconditional love. It's just a lesson in loyalty, do you understand?"
Pete, who had discreetly rested his foot, laughed with a dry cough.
"Yeah, Mr. Merchants! Treason is ugly!" he commented, with disturbing, youthful enthusiasm.
Dim, in his rough voice, joined the chorus:
"The Family is forever. Georgie will understand when he wakes up. It's... for his own good."
Alex waved his hand, indicating that the ethics lesson was over. The Drugos were straying from the script.
"Enough, my little philosophers!" Alex said. "Merchants, the music, the art... all this has made me digress. Tell me, is the canvas finished? Is my fortress ready for the grand spectacle?"
Merchants swallowed, his terror battling his desire to placate these dangerous lunatics.
"Yes... yes, Alex. Mr. Alex," he stammered, recovering professional composure. "The requirements are complete. The perimeter wall, the tank, the purifier, and the rest of the things... all according to specifications. It's... a crazy job, but it's done."
Merchants, with that typical human greed that Alex both despised and utilized, saw an opportunity.
"And if you need to furnish, or buy internal supplies... I can handle that. I have contacts, even now..."
Alex let out a short, clean, and utterly psychotic burst of laughter.
"Buy? Furnish, you say?" He pointed out the window at the sky, covered in a nascent shroud of smoke. "No, no, no, my dear Merchants. For that, we have the chaos."
Merchants grimaced in confusion. He attributed Alex's words to his "extroverted nature," failing to grasp that Alex was speaking of massive, methodical looting.
"The law, Merchants, is the curtain. And the curtain is burning."
Alex returned his attention to him with the poise of a host.
"But back to what matters. The work is done. And if everything is ready, you and your staff may withdraw. You are no longer necessary."
The contractor's face lit up with the hope of escaping that place. The ecstasy of freedom should have been absolute, but it wasn't. A deep fear lingered.
Alex, who never missed a micro-expression, noticed the man's look. It was the look of someone who remembers an unpaid debt.
"Oh, how forgetful of me," Alex said with a comical staging, lightly tapping his forehead with the handle of his cane. "I forgot the final conditions of the contract, the gentleman's agreement."
Merchants stiffened, expecting the worst.
"My brothers who were protecting your wife and daughter will leave immediately. The guard will be lifted, and you can return home to them. After all, that was part of the deal. And as the gentleman I am, I always keep my word."
Visible relief flooded Merchants' face. His family was safe.
"Of course, Alex, thank you very much. That was the only thing I was worried about..."
"However," Alex interrupted him, his smile turning genuinely dangerous. "I believe you and your family will be safer with us. In this fortress. I can assure you... It is the only ark that will float in the coming storm."
Merchants, attempting to mask the terror the offer of staying with "The Family" caused him, politely refused.
"That's... that's very kind, Alex, but I think we need to go home. Just a couple of days' rest. You know."
Alex shrugged elegantly.
"As you wish, Merchants. Freedom of choice is the only truth."
Alex dismissed him with a flick of his cane, but before the man could cross the threshold, his voice, now a cold whisper, stopped him.
"Remember, Mr. Merchants," he gave him one last, friendly reminder that froze his blood. "Your salvation, the survival of your family, is in the head of your enemies. Do not forget it."
The contractor left the room without looking back, his steps quick and erratic.
Alex turned to Georgie, who lay on the floor like a rag doll. Pete, Dim, and Bronson watched him, awaiting new orders.
"Take Georgie away," Alex commanded, pacing around the unconscious body. "He will be the first resident of our new playroom."
The three Drugos looked at each other in confusion, but nodded. The term playroom did not fit the functionality of the fortress, but they dared not ask.
Alex noticed their lack of understanding. But it didn't matter.
"Georgie has been degraded from gentleman. His spot in the main group will be filled by Bronson," he announced, looking at the giant, who nodded with little emotion but did not object due to Alex's serious tone. "You are our new brother-in-arms, Bronson... Welcome."
Alex returned to the window, not to look at the workers, but toward the city 'darkening' on the horizon. The previous joy was replaced by a methodical seriousness that contrasted abruptly.
"We must prepare. Take Georgie to the basement, secure him well."
He looked at the rest of his followers, then at his empty hands.
"We need to prepare for the shopping spree tonight and tomorrow. It will be quite entertaining! Although I would have liked to have my weapons. But my other self," he said, referring to Alex, the man who had bought his weapons through Ron, "seemed to need them more than I did. We will buy others more suitable to the environment soon enough."
He thumped his chest.
"It is decided! We will go out this afternoon to acquire arms. Let it be the first part of the game... Inform the rest of The Family. The night is ours."
12 hours later, 9 PM.
Alex walked down the center of a side street, flanked by Pete, Dim, Bronson, and several junior members of the 'Family.' The night air was dense, heavy with the smell of smoke, burnt gasoline, and something else—something putrid and metallic that Alex found curiously revitalizing.
Around them, the disorder was almost choreographed. Abandoned cars, many with doors flung open dramatically. Stores with shattered windows, glass scattered like lost jewels. And, occasionally, figures moving with grotesque sluggishness. The "Growlers" and the "people" attacking others in the alleys seemed to appear more frequently.
But what truly mesmerized Alex was the sky.
The city's usual light pollution had been overtaken by a new kind of illumination. Large, lead-colored plumes of smoke rose from the center, stained an intense orange by the fires. Flashing lights of buildings in chaos. And high above, the elusive lights of military helicopters.
"It's not beautiful," Alex commented, ecstatic, stopping in the middle of the street, spinning his cane gracefully. The sky was a dark, turbulent canvas. "It's almost as divine as The Starry Night. Van Gogh couldn't have dreamed it better."
Pete and Dim stopped, gazing at the scene with the same ecstasy, but without fully understanding, though Bronson merely watched the buildings, assessing threats.
"If only the Growlers didn't clash so badly," Alex continued, his expression slightly annoyed.
He pointed to a nearby zombie that, with slow and violent movements, was attacking a person about twenty meters from the group.
"Please, silence that fellow! I don't want noise."
Several of the junior Drugos, eager to prove their worth, rushed over. They began kicking the zombie with senseless brutality.
Alex struck his cane against the pavement in frustration and called their attention with a sharp clap.
"No, no, no! Listen!" Alex shouted, pointing to his own head with the cane. "I told you that to silence these types, you must hit them in the head! It is the focal point, the center of their pathetic existence!"
"We're sorry, boss," they said in unison, and one of them, a skinny young man, pulled out a sword they had 'taken' from an antique shop. With a clumsy motion, he stabbed the zombie's head, and it collapsed.
"Much better," Alex said, returning to appreciate the sky.
He continued his walk, leading his men toward some gun shops he knew. He pointed out the locations, and the others went in to "shop." Alex had imposed his gentleman's rule for these early hours: if people were sheltering inside, the stores were avoided. The "spectators" had to have a brief moment of peace to observe how the new art unfolded. Although the pact was only valid for 24 hours... after that, they would go from spectators to actors.
Alex moved ahead of the rest, his solitary figure advancing down the empty street. And it was then that a lone zombie, drawn by the distant sound of engines or the smell of gunpowder, approached him.
A normal person would have been scared. A brave police officer would have drawn his weapon. Not Alex.
He simply stopped there, still, watching and analyzing the being that approached.
To him, that creature was a blot. A coarse gray color in a painting of a violent and colorful landscape. It was simple, yes, but essential. A grotesque element that served to show depth and magnify the true work of art that was the collapse of civilization.
The zombie shuffled closer.
Alex stepped forward and, with his cane, began to strike precise points on the zombie's body, as if he were a posture instructor. A light tap on the shoulder, another behind the knee, another on the elbow. The strikes were full of unexpected grace. The zombie staggered, its unnatural movement becoming even more ridiculous.
Finally, after a few stylish taps, the zombie fell at Alex's feet, as if by magic. Alex stepped on its chest, his expression darkening.
In a fit of aesthetic rage, Alex used the tip of the cane. With extraordinary precision, the sharp metal tip pierced its eye, ending its pitiful and insignificant life.
Alex crouched down. He wiped the cerebral residue onto the zombie's ragged clothes, with a gesture of profound disgust.
"I still hate the color gray," he murmured, looking back up at the sky, ready to continue his game.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
I hope you're all doing well, and that you weren't upset about the delay. Hahaha
Here we have our first real villain, and I mean truly evil.
For those who may have forgotten, he already appeared in previous chapters (chapter 39). He was Ron's contact, the one Alex (the protagonist) bought weapons from (November 13th).
From that moment on, even before the virus's latency awakened (November 15th), he already seemed to know something was coming.
By the way, for those who don't know, he's inspired by the protagonist of A Clockwork Orange, but with obvious changes, and a slight personality shift.
BY THE WAY, I'M STILL WAITING TO KNOW IF YOU WANT TO SEE RICK.
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Read my other novels
#Vinland Kingdom: Race Against Time (Chapter 125)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 13) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]