The night the Rhymer went whack

24

Straffe had never allowed violins into the compound. He said its blissful sound would let his guard down. Someday maybe, but that day never came.

And that silence reflected the world five stories above her. Dashet was dead along with most of the others at the compound; the dogs were poisoned and The Sound Factory set ablaze. Everyone had heard the initial explosion, but accustomed to happiness, contentment and comfort, most decided to stay put thinking that it wasn’t serious. Some figured it out and escaped, but those that didn’t were soon raped, butchered and most likely eaten. They suffered horribly as their assailants, filled with years of jealousy, exacted their revenge as they were able to penetrate the impenetrable.

The last haven of refuge merging with the world that they knew. “Welcome home,” was inscribed in blood and excrement on the entrance gate. It was a bloodbath. Since The Great War, humans had adapted to their fate; the debauchery and murderous ways were a design of survival, but their core makeup was a desire for peace and happiness. They knew that within that compound of musical and artistic bliss was the way of life they craved.

For years that craving turned to resentment and anger, which now boiled over with blood running in the streets. Killers struck with a carnal vengeance fueled with hatred summoned from a depth even they didn’t know existed. Even killing each other if one of their own showed any mercy. Deep hatred was their motivation enacted with a strategic planning, poisoning the dogs, perfect timing and of course an inside man—Reshod.

The initial onslaught was executed with precision, but as soon as they sniffed blood, chaos ensued. They fed from starvation, literally and figuratively. Each bite of flesh nourished their bodies and souls, resenting who they had become but nurturing who they needed to be for survival.

Dashet had also heard the commotion, it startled him while he was giving lessons to a new resident. He was strumming his guitar as the first explosion shook the compound. Bombs exploding nearby wasn’t new, they happened frequently, but this one seemed louder and much closer than usual, raising a few eyebrows as some residents gasped. “Wait here,” Dashet reassured as he set down his instrument and ventured outside.

Barking always welcomed him when he stepped outdoors along with wagging tails and licks, but this time he heard yelping and that further sparked his attention. Then another explosion followed by smoke came from near the gates. Immediately he began sprinting toward the activity though his thoughts dashed toward Sharissa, concerned, but he quickly remembered Straffe was tending to her as she was coming down from a cold, so he refocused toward his initial alarm. Now hearing gunshots and screams, he feared the worst.

He ran faster, now accompanied by some canine companions who were trained for this very moment. Turning a corner, he was surprised by an intruder with blood dripping from his mouth. Dashet glanced down at the half-eaten forearm he had in one hand and the raised gun in the other. The intruder pointed, halting Dashet in his tracks as he stopped and raised his hands. Then another appeared then another. Soon, more than ten outsiders surrounded him.

The dogs barked and growled, menacingly, about to attack, but each one was shot dead until all barking ceased. Now eerily quiet, Dashet squinted his eyes and looked skyward, locking in on how beautiful the sky was. A deep blue, clouds bright white molded in the shapes of pianos, violins, tubas. He thought of the singing, the paintings, the art and of course, Sharissa.

“That’s the guy that always sings on the corner,” interrupted his mental euphoria.

“Yea, I think it is. It looks like him,” rang out in agreement.

Coming back down to Earth, Dashet looked into the crowd, recalling the faces of a few who smiled and sang and enjoyed his music.

“Where’s your guitar,” one assailant questioned.

“Back in the building,” Dashet relayed as he pointed toward whence he came from. But not all of the intruders knew his music. Joyfulness and clapping was over and in the past; happiness wasn’t this purpose.

A shot rang out, snapping everyone back into the present and felling Dashet, continuing the onslaught. He laid bloody, brains gushing from the head wound as they beat him, tore off his clothes and dehumanized his remains. The man who gave them music and smiles had reverted to being an insider, an oppressor to their existence. The mind seeks understanding so they feasted on the carnage. Survival.

***

Hustling along, crawling on their hands and knees, they’d been on the move for what seemed like an hour. “Where’s Dashet?” Sharissa kept inquiring, but silence was always the answer. And with the explosions growing more faint, her fears morphed into worries. “What’s happening,” she questioned.

“We’ve been attacked and we must get to safety,” was the hurried response Straffe gave. His only words as they trekked forward and further away into the unknown future.