Deadman Sequence

Written by Lucas G. McIntire. This story is part of the ongoing Deadman Sequence—a serialized microfiction Sci-fi series.

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He woke up on the floor of a studio apartment, the scent of gunpowder lingering in the stale morning air. Pale morning light seeped through broken blinds and cast dull silver lines across the bodies around him. Three men. Motionless. Their hands rested near their weapons as if they had perished in mid-move.

Spent bullet casings scattered across the floor like shattered teeth. The silence bore heavily on his eardrums. No sirens. No voices. No recollection.

His mouth was dry, and his head felt heavy — like he’d been dragged up from the bottom of a deep pool. He pushed up onto one elbow and stared down at himself. His shirt was torn and riddled with holes — small ones, large ones — a pattern only bullets could create. But beneath, his skin was smooth and unbroken.

He brushed his hand over his chest. No wounds. No blood. No pain. He glanced at the men once more. Two lay face down, while one rested against the wall, eyes vacant and staring into the void—none of them looked familiar.

He pulled himself into a seated position, leaning his back against the couch. His breathing was shallow and uncertain. He wasn’t sure whether to feel terrified or relieved. After all, he was alive, while the others, whoever they were, were not.

He searched his pockets — no wallet, no phone. Only a crumpled note that said: “Don’t stay long.”

His ears then caught the distant wail of police sirens — faint, yet growing. They jolted through him like electricity, and he scrambled to his feet. He didn’t know why, but he was certain those sirens were meant for him.

He looked toward the window, which overlooked a narrow, trash-littered alley, with a rusted fire escape just outside. In the corner of the room, half-buried beneath a broken chair, he spotted a ragged hoodie. What appeared as instinct, he grabbed it, pulled it over his torn shirt, and shoved the note into the pocket.

He opened the window and stepped out. The early morning chill hit him quickly. However, his urge to disappear outweighed the brisk air. Without a moment’s pause, he hurried down the fire escape — fast, efficient, and quiet. His hands clutched the rails, and his feet instinctively found each rung like a practiced routine.

By the time he landed in the alley below, he was breathing hard — not from exertion, but from disbelief. He didn’t understand how he knew how to move like that. But his body did. And now wasn’t the time to question it.

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Thanks for stepping into the first scene of Deadman Sequence. Things are only going to get stranger from here.