Never Just One

Dust puffed up from the ground, turning my black boots an awkward shade of brown as I walked across the hot desert of Zone 2. My goal was the makeshift camp I’d set up in Zone 4… but I still had a way to go, and the sun would probably set before I got close, and that would open me up to a bunch of attacks from the Draculoids I knew were somewhere around here, watching me.

My gray jeans were stained and dirty from all the days I’d been on the run – I was stupid to not bring more than four sets of clothes – and the black shirt I wore under my blue vest soaked up too much sun. I was dying.

I brushed a few locks of my bright blue hair out of my blue-green eyes and sighed.

That’s when I heard the rustle in the scrubby bush.

My hand went to the waistband of my jeans, where my silver ray gun was tucked neatly. Drawing it out, I turned slowly and stared at the bush for a moment before I noticed the tuft of black hair that was indicative of a Drac’s mask.

Raising my gun slowly, I pulled the trigger. The Draculoid tumbled to the ground, dead.

But there were more. There was never just one.

“Shit,” I mumbled as beams shot past me from all directions. There were at least six others, and I had no backup. I fired rapidly and spun in all directions, taking a bunch of haphazard shots.

“Watch where you fire that thing!” an unfamiliar voice shouted, and a red beam – not a Draculoid’s gun, that’s for sure – sped past my head and hit the closest BL/ind operative square in the chest.

I didn’t dare turn to check to see who was aiding me, but three other colors joined our two different rays and soon enough, the other five Dracs found themselves on the ground, dead. I looked at them with great distaste. “Bastards. Pity; they might’ve been nice people. It’s those damn meds.”

“Who are you, anyways? We haven’t seen you around before.” It was that same voice from earlier, from the red gun’s owner. I finally turned to face my aids – four men. The one with the smoking red gun in his hand – the one who asked – had blonde hair that turned brown at the roots and on the sides. He wore a yellow and black zebra print-esque t-shirt, a red leather jacket, and black skinny jeans. His eyes were squinting as he faced the sun, and his face looked rugged, tough, but soft at the same time – as if he had a gentle side that was peeking through.

Next to him was a man with very curly shoulder-length dark hair. He wore a black shirt, a black leather jacket, and black baggy jeans. His gun was blue. He was whispering something to a man wearing an army green vest over a black shirt with yellow sleeves and black jeans held up by a tan belt. He had a very young face, but the eyes were fiery.

The last one was wearing a blue jacket with red and white accents, and he had very faded denim skinny jeans on. His hair was chin-length and bright reddish-pink.

“The name’s Cellophane Diamond.” Still sort of breathless, I stepped over the dead Drac’s body and looked behind them – there was a dusty old Trans Am that they must’ve arrived in. I slipped my gun back into the waistband of my pants. “Been runnin’ from BL/ind for a while now. You are?”

“I’m Party Poison,” the redhead said, stepping out in front of the group, “and these are the Killjoys – Fun Ghoul,” the fiery-eyed one nodded, “Jet Star,” the curly-haired one gave me a little half-wave, “and Kobra Kid.” The one with the red gun – the one who came to my rescue first, jerked his head upwards. “We’re running from BL/ind, too. Trying to take them out, actually.”

“Room for one more in that Trans Am of yours?”

He nodded. “C’mon, Diamond. Hop in.”