Hopeless Heart

Beautiful, brown, blood-clotted hair clung tightly to the silver, weather-rusted clasps of the locket. A heart. Such a peculiar thing to be in the shape of in this day in age. The jewelry piece sprung upwards as it was snagged away, breaking a single fragile loop in the, once magnificent, silver chain. The battered heart fell limp in the rough, leather-gloved hand of the stout man, as he combed his imagination, pondering its origin.

A heart. What a vital little internal organ it was. Though matched in the common crimson color, they weren’t what they appeared to be inside a real human being. The past few months had been a reality check on that front. Sadly, almost everyone knew what shape and color all contents of the body looked like now, as well as how to strike out against them. A fever had ripped through cities and countries, striking low-income and impoverished neighborhoods first. Many speculated on the cause of the disease behind it all, although very few knew the real, sinister story. An accidental bioweapon launch. Feuding between countries had always been a common occurrence in the world, but once an unchecked power with the ability and motive to put an end to a means came into play, there were few left to squabble.

Fewer still were left to live in their cozy, safe, lavish lifestyles as disease tore through almost each and every being left standing. These lush lives only allowed their users time to complain a bit more than the others before, they too, were swept away into the great beyond. Yes, the Reactive Vengeance Disease, or the Vengeance as many had taken to calling it, never really had a full name. It was simply known by what it was, a reactive vengeance to an ill-conceived insult by another country. No one was left alive to tell who had even fired the bioweapons, let alone to study it and give it a chemical compound makeup.

Those that were left in the disease stricken wasteland hardly led comfortable lives. As the cities and governments broke down so too did the civility of almost all people. If you had something that someone else wanted, then what’s another victim of the cruel, destroyed world? Sure, there were some people that banded together, trying to right the wrongs of the shaken and flipped Earth, but they were few in numbers when compared to the loners who struck it on their own, willing to do anything to provide a slightly better existence for themselves. Individuality was a key to survival in this rough wasteland, because there is strength in numbers, but only until they stab each other in the back for a crumb of bread.

Things were slightly more civil in and around the third year, as the disease had diminished the population to the point that infections were scarce and transmission was not as feared. However, once the bullets that protected these “safe zones” ran out, all hell let loose. The isolated populations that had scrounged for so long now saw opportunity, and bull-rushed. While most anyone can learn to shoot a target at range, not many people had the heart to stab, slash, or bash a face when they could read the emotions within their eyes.

Yes, the world was a dystopia which left many hopeless to ever see any type of happiness within their lives, yet some pushed. Some pushed for lavishness, some pushed for kindness, others still pushed to bring new life into the godless wasteland. These lights in the dark, dark existence of man were well known among the communities in which they served; however, this also led to them being known to many a skilled life-taker, some of which would even put prices on the hopefuls' heads to keep morale low in the townships that thrived. These headhunters were disciplined, elite, and had no remorse for whom they killed, because, after all, they too were trying to survive.

A strong, hearty grimace came over the face of the large, worn man as he watched the pendulum swing from his hand. The story behind this locket had obviously been lost to time, he finally decided, looking away from it and averting his eyes back to the woman lying on the ground. The body’s chest still heaved for oxygen, but the limbs were limp. His piercing green eyes beckoned to her, telling her to stop fighting the inevitable. She was dead, dying, and he had killed her. Wanting nothing more than to desperately, frantically tell her to give up, he stood, stiff, watching her perish. The pool of crimson was too large, her wounds too severe. Having done as much as he was sent to do, he still yet continued staring. It hurt, he was sure that, in this moment, he hurt worse than her, yet she was still pushing. Pushing, just as she had for a better, less cruel world for future generations to flourish and thrive. This was the precise reason that he was hired to kill the woman. To snuff out a hope.

Suddenly the breathing stopped, the hope was all but gone now. Another pointless and tragic exit from the world, yet another completed contract on the mercenary’s road to survival. The treated leather gently brushed over her fine eyelashes, dragging with it the puffy, pained eyelids. Bright blue eyes quickly shined no more, as the cracks of a worn man’s bones echoed on the street, standing. Remorse was something that he had only learned with his old age, and while it wasn’t a good survival instinct to have, he felt it was one of the few things that kept him close to human. Looking to the dark, hazy purple sky, a single tear rolled down the wrinkled, rough cheek. The tear was clear, and through it the tan and sunburn of his face was visible, magnified. Gloves quickly rose to wipe away the weakness which rode his cheek, before settling on the scars that made him so recognizable. Burns, chemical in nature, and evil in look adorned the entire right side of his aged face. A time not so long ago, where if he had shown this kind of remorse, he would’ve been nothing but ashes.

Brown boot prints in the dusty, gusting sands were not something that were easily tracked. The mercenary knew this. In fact, he used it to the advantage of his trade. Despite the fact that everyone knew that mercs weren’t entirely responsible for the heinous acts that they committed, there were plenty of people that wanted him dead. A rough-rider, or at least formerly, was what he was known as. They were a group of mercenaries consisting of trackers, hunters, enforcers, and a leader. While not the leader of this small pack of delinquents, he was the second in command. An enforcer that was legendary within the dystopia, he was a very well respected, or rather feared, merc by all bands of enemies or acquaintances. A small hint of sadness teased his brain as he wandered the desert, making his way to collect on the contract of the Hoper.

A large, steel door loomed over the wastes as the mercenary arrived at his destination. The structure itself was very well hidden within the outskirts of the desert, worked into the same silhouettes as the nearby trees. As the vegetation had taken back its land from the human race, the borders were still unclear within the biomes. The large, beautiful trees leaned against and intertwined with the small shelter. The rough gloves knocked at the entrance, the thud of the worn knuckles echoing out within the structure, like booms from distant explosions.

A small clank, followed by another series of bangs on the door. This was the password that the contact had agreed upon, in order to keep utmost secrecy and safety. The sound of a lock popping off a chain was followed by the sliding of the metal grate in the sight hole. A pair of extreme, bagged, bloodshot eyes peered out into the near darkness of the desert/forested night. The door popped open, revealing a short, tired-looking man in a lab coat. The merc was taken aback by the sight, as he had never seen this contact, and he was quite different from the usual suspects. The lab coat adorned man waved the veteran mercenary inside the small shack, closing the door tightly, and locking it behind him with a metallic thud.

“Did you get it?” the scientist, or doctor, as the merc couldn’t tell, asked, nervously, licking his lips. The hired killer dangled the beautiful silver locket from his hand, a trophy of his most recent kill, but sadly one he wouldn’t be able to keep. The doctor smiled at the heart-shaped pendulum he now saw in front of his weary eyes. Quickly, he snatched the locket and held it up to the single, candle lit, light in this abode. A stunningly cruel smile crept across the doctor’s face as he studied the ruby encrusted locket. The silver of the jewelry shone bright in the light, so much so that it caused the old mercenary to wince and turn away.

As the light flickered in the structure, the two men stood, silently ignoring each other. The merc tapped his heavy, leather boot clad feet, waiting on his payment. The doctor then let out a loud sigh, turning, obviously annoyed by the impatience of his guest. A façade was something that this particular doctor knew all too well, as he put on his fake, people pleasing grin. He was well aware of what the veteran man wanted, but had hoped for a bit more tact from his new colleague. Although this was of no concern, as his payment was just waiting in the nearby desk drawer, all the doctor needed to do was retrieve it for him.

The lab coat clad figure slowly and pleasantly made his way to the desk, combing through his hip pocket before finding his silver key, and thumbing the key into the lock of the oak drawer. Out of the corner of his eye he witnessed the merc become slightly giddy, no doubt waiting on the rewards from his newly completed contract. Yes, murder and retrieval was not an easy gig to work, especially when the target was the recently elected leader of the Hoper community. Exactly three weeks into office as leader, she had received the locket as the sign of her new appointment, a tradition passed through the Hoper community since less than a year after the Vengeance surfaced. Then another week of wearing the new-found trophy before she was brutally beaten to death by nothing more than a mercenary. This made the doctor grin, a dark, evil grin through yellow teeth.

The old Rough Rider watched as the doctor reached his hand into the deep desk, riffling through as he fumbled for the pay. As the hand began to emerge from the desk the merc smirked, proud of himself, until he suddenly made out the silhouette of a weapon. The wrinkled, grizzled smile melted rapidly as he realized that his reward was nothing more than the tying up of a loose end. Before he could get out of the way, a bullet fired from an old revolver ripped through his upper torso, sending shots of pain cascading up his body. He instantly met the hard, wooden floor, wincing, before looking up through his blurry, bloody vision. As his eyes began to fade to black, the only thing he saw was the doctor holding the swinging pendulum that was, the hopeless heart.