Chester and the 24-hour Lottery

One step.

Vanyla took ONE step to the right, taking the round intended for Chester’s heart.

He stood in complete shock and disbelief when the top of her dark-haired head exploded, filling his mouth with blood, getting into his eyes and the sharp stinging pieces of bone piercing his skin barely registered as all hell broke loose.

Chester watched her body fall as if in slow motion to the ground before a primitive, all-consuming rage overtook him. His blood-soaked stare laser-focused on Gary Spell who looked just as shocked as everyone else.

Vanyla died to save HIM, her short stature the perfect height to take the bullet.

How many times had he gazed down at her, peering into those mischievous green eyes thinking she was the tiniest hellcat he’d ever known? Tears of fury cleared the crimson from his vision as he lunged for the governor. Both forgetting they held weapons, Spell broke into a dead run and he followed with a roar that came deep within his heartbroken soul.

Officers flooded through the gaping hole left from the totaled truck, but Racket quickly pulled it together after witnessing Vanyla die and the four of them fought the men as Chester raced through the streets, tackling Spell to the pavement. A fire raged nearby and people ran in panicked confusion but he took no notice, pounding his fists into Spell’s face and torso, screaming as his mind snapped.

“You killed her! You killed her!” Chester floated outside his body, raining blows as citizens warred around them.

Spell’s jaw cracked under his assault, breaking his hand. He rolled away when Chester jerked back in agony then landed a kick to his middle, cracking a rib, “I should have ended you when I had the chance! You killed that genetic monstrosity when deciding to play hero!”

The man punched Chester on the side his skull and he absorbed the pain, reaching for the son of a bitch once more, wrapping his legs around the mans’ hips, hands latching onto the assholes’ thin neck, squeezing until Spell’s eyes bulged from their sockets.

“Death is too easy for you!” He seethed, spritzing blood on them both while looking into Spell’s red-veined orbs, feeling devastatingly broken, “I’m glad it’s me who destroys you! Look at me! Look at me and know who ends your pathetic regulated existence! Die, you fucking murderer!”

Spell’s kicks became weaker, his fingernails scratching desperately on Chester’s arms fell away then he stopped moving altogether but still Chester throttled, crying, spouting venom at the monster who held Ozark in a state of untold fear and panic all for nothing.

“Chester?”

A familiar voice cut through the blackness of his wrath and he gradually came out of his rage-filled fugue realizing both of his thumbs remained deeply embedded in Spells’ eye-sockets. Gore coated his body and whoever had said his name, gently pulled him off of Spell’s carcass.

“Chester, what did you do?”

He blinked as the world spun, “Garth?”

The hulking man frowned worriedly down to where he sat in fresh blood and broken bones, “What did you do?” he repeated, shaking his head, “Can you stand?”

Chester didn’t want to move. Everything inside felt shattered beyond repair. He had murdered Gary Spell with his bare hands, but it wasn’t enough. His hearing and focus slowly returned to the pandemonium surrounding them.

“They have to stop!” he roared, watching a woman with a knife attack another, “Spell is dead! No more bloodshed!”

“You need medical attention,” Garth reached down to steady him when he stood, “Stay down.”

Chester cradled his swollen hand against his chest, ignoring Garth to grab the nearest person running by. It was a middle-aged lady who looked at Chester like she was seeing a ghost.

“Spell is dead! No more bloodshed!” he shouted into her stricken face, “Can’t you see? Look!” he kicked Spell’s disfigured body at his feet, “Spell is dead, no more bloodshed!”

The woman anxiously glanced down and back up crying, “S-spell is dead! Spell… is dead! No more bloodshed!”

Chester limped back to the house while the victorious chant of Gary Spell’s death echoed throughout Neighborhood Allard. Garth followed, keeping silent but watchful in case Chester collapsed.

Lacy, Deven, Henry, and Racket stood over the body of Van casting sorrowful looks he couldn’t stomach. He fell to his knees ignoring the pain as he sobbed without restraint. She was really gone. His sympathetic green-eyed Construct Babe was dead because of him.

Henry went to cover her with a blanket he found but Chester snarled, “Don’t fucking touch her! Leave her alone!”

He backed away, “Sure. Sorry… but we can’t stay here. The neighborhood is on fire and Emily Allard is in one of the factories.”

Chester wiped a hand over his face, shuddering as dried blood and bone fragments from Van’s skull fell from his skin, “I know. Please, we have to take her with us. I won’t go without her Lacy.”

She nodded, taking the blanket from Henry, “I’ll transport her to Crane. It’s over. You need help. Saldivar is here with his soldiers and he can clean up this mess.”

Chester stood, tearing his eyes away from Van with a hole forming inside of his soul like the one in her once pretty face, “No. I want that bitch to feel what I feel. I’m going to find her and tear her head from her fucking body.”

Garth reached into his vest then handed Chester two white pills, “Better take these until you can see a doctor. I’m with you.”

“Me too,” Racket firmly stated, “Someone reported she’s under heavy guard. As soon as news of Spell’s death reaches them, perhaps they’ll abandon her and we’ll be able to grab the duplicitous whore.”

Chester swallowed the tablets, experiencing the usual rush of bliss and psychical repair while his psyche remained shattered. He checked the gun still strapped to his chest with his uninjured hand and without responding to the others’ willingness to keep fighting, strode out into the street where mayhem ruled except in unified triumph. His gazed bounced off citizens chanting Spell was dead, walking deeper into the neighborhood until reaching the factory Saldivar and his men were preparing to storm.

Saldivar took one look at Chester’s blood-soaked form saying in a kind voice while keeping his distance, “Vanyla will not have died in vain. The people are safe because of her sacrifice.”

Chester pointed his gun at the leader who had abandoned them and made Van think they were on their own and needed to take it to the limit. If Saldivar had joined them half an hour ago, she might be alive. He pulled the trigger and the spray of bullets cut the man down. Someone tackled him from behind and he laughed when his head smashed into the hard pavement and blackness threatened to overtake him.

“Fuck!” Garth shouted in his ear after taking him out, “Don’t just stand there, disarm him!”

Chester coughed up blood when roughly rolled over and the weapon ripped from his hands. He stared up at the blackening sky, following a dark trail of smoke until somebody hauled him up from the ground and carried him to a running vehicle.

“It will be okay,” Deven sniffed beside him, “I’ll get you patched up. We won.”

“They’re in! Come on!” he heard Henry yell, “He’ll be fine once the shock has worn off.”

Never, he vowed, Nothing will ever be fine again.

“Take care of him,” Racket muttered, “We’ll meet back in Crane.”

Chester groaned in protest, blood bubbling from his lips, wanting to continue to murder traitorous council members but the truck sped off and he gave into the darkness that was his only escape from the life he now had to endure without Van.