Chapter 1: -1- “Cheating Death”

The year is 2052, and the world is in peril. Climate change from rapid industrialization has caused catastrophic destruction, wreaking havoc on multiple countries and causing them to weaken economically and militarily. The advancement of technology was too quick, and as such, the world has been sapped of her resources. Multiple smaller countries have already begun to wage wars as the European Union dissolved and all squabbled over the remaining scraps. 

Through it all, the planet's superpowers have remained quiet, taking on vows of neutrality as they watched their neighbors tear each other apart like rabid dogs. But, despite their neutrality, the wastefulness and overconsumption of humanity would catch up to even the most powerful of empires. So now, even they squabble amongst each other for what remains of the dying Earth. 

The planet is now being held hostage by the very people who have killed it. The ever-looming threat of nuclear war is around the corner, and meanwhile, all the innocents go about their lives as if nothing is wrong. 

But ignorance will not be bliss. Not this time. 

Some have woken up from their vanity and are not ready to face the music that plays over the horizon. 

Government propaganda is failing; no one is being fooled by the false promises of peace. War seemed inevitable; it was only a matter of who fired the first shot. 

Our story will follow not an ordinary teenager or some kind of super genius. No, it will pursue one Deacon Geist, a history major currently residing in California. 

His journey will not be easy. 

It will be carved out.

From the trenches.

And from the mud.

 

——————

 

Fate was always a cruel and enigmatic mistress. Such could never be more accurate than now. 

It was supposed to be another quiet day in San Francisco, at least as quiet as one of California's most famous cities could be. But instead, Deacon was milling about in the local coffee shop near his University, catching up on lecture notes for the upcoming midterms. He wasn't worried about failing; history is his passion, after all. But still, remaining vigilant and prepared is always a no-brainer. 

In the background, the news reports that tensions between the major superpowers of the world were growing terser with every passing day. So much so that a portion of the Navy's pacific fleet is docking near the city and along the surrounding waters. It was a troubling and uncertain time indeed. Deacon's family implored him to drop out and move deeper within the US to be safe. They even offered to pay for tuition at a new school so he wouldn't lose a dime.

But he insisted on staying, having a sort of illusioned assurance at the Navy being close by. Moreover, California was a military state full of bases and forts; it would be foolish to attack it head-on. Furthermore, the intricacies of war have always fascinated him, even today. Hence, his major is history, and he reads the Art of War for the twentieth time. 

Rubbing his eyes and checking the time, Deacon sees that it is still early in the morning. With classes not starting until the afternoon, he decides to go for a ride on his motorcycle. That way, he could start the day off right with the wind in his hair. Finishing his coffee and packing his things, he throws on his helmet and cruises down the streets atop his steel beast. No matter what time of day, riding Midnight always gives him a good boost of energy and a surge of confidence. Within minutes, he rides onto the ever noteworthy Golden Gate Bridge, keeping to the bike lanes. Traffic wasn't unusual in the morning, the rush hour being the prime reason for so much congestion. Yet something didn't feel right to him. 

Overhead, he heard the cracking booms of jet engines. Looking up, he watches as a single high-powered jet breaks the skyline and flies more profoundly into the Bay towards Oakland. People started to get out of their cars, and passersby on the walk lanes already had their phones out to try and catch a glimpse of the event. A few seconds pass, and a white light suddenly engulfs the Bay Area as an ear-shattering boom follows in its wake. 

The boom's full force sends Deacon off his bike and over the railings, others being tossed off the bridge with him. He can barely process the support cables snapping on the bridge and the screams of others who fell alongside him. Scorching heat overtakes his body and causes searing burns. Then, however, they are replaced by the cold embrace of the water below as he sinks into its depths. The respite did not last long, though, as the blast's shockwave rocked the body of water, sending him back against the waves. 

Something strikes him in the side, sharp pain filling his body while he continues to drift away into the water. Deacon's vision grows blurry as he stares at the water's surface. His life was beginning to slip away as debris, cars, and people fell into the water from the pressure wave of the nuclear explosion. The college student's body was too shaken and in pain from the blast to move, watching as his oxygen bubbles grew less frequently. Finally accepting the end and saying his goodbyes, he closes his eyes.

Yet death did not claim him; nothing around did. He opens his eyes, looking around to see where he is and why he's still alive. The ocean was no longer heated and rippled, not a person or piece of debris within sight. Not even the *surface was visible anymore.

The tattoos on his arms were visible as they lay outstretched in front of him. He couldn't recall when he got them nor why. Deacon's family certainly disapproved, and you couldn't explain why you got them. Then, to his surprise, they start glowing a dark red, and he watches as they light up. Warmth begins to envelop his arms as a force tugs him upwards. It felt like something had attached itself to the forearms, like cables. There were two of these sensations on either side, pulling with such force that Deacon didn't know if his shoulders were about to be yanked from their sockets. 

Deacon's hearing, marred by the rush of fluid in his ears, grows clear as he is suddenly yanked out of the water and onto the surface. Falling forward, he lands on his side with a splash of water, feeling the solid ground beneath him again. The familiar clicks of firearms are accompanied by footsteps sloshing the water around him. Then, getting onto his hands and knees, a wave of nausea hits him since his body is still full of water. 

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He coughs and gags, expelling the contents of his stomach onto the puddle below. Deacon can hear his heartthrob in his ears, and even with his eyes closed, the world felt like it was spinning. Panic fills his body as he falls back onto the water, and all goes quiet. 

When Deacon came to, he felt himself lying on his back against dry grass. Or at least it felt like it, as his clothes were still wet and clung to his body. Slowly, he opens his eyes, the light stinging his vision as his hand instinctively covers it. When his vision adjusts and centers, he sits up to look around him. What he sees, though, makes him almost jump out of his skin. 

Surrounding the college student is four men…no, skeletons wielding firearms and wearing military uniforms. The odd parts were that not only were these skeletons turned back from him, but their clothing and weapons were from the First World War. This has to be a *dream; there is no way this is real! But, his senses told him otherwise. He could feel the moisture of his clothing, the smell of fresh air, and the dull headache that lay at the back of his mind. There is no other possible explanation except that what he is experiencing is *real.

He spots writhing black tendrils from the skeleton's waists and trailing off in his periphery. Searching for the other end, he is again in disbelief as they end inside his arms at his tattoos. Then, with an electric hiss, each cable breaks away from a skeleton, slowly receding inside Deacon's arms. It was a strange feeling, as he feels their weight slipping back in but quickly disappearing as soon as they cross the skin. 

An arm slips under his armpit, then another carefully lifts him to his feet. Turning around, he sees that it was the skeletons who were behind that helped him up. Deacon's legs feel made of lead, his stance shaky and uneasy. The skeleton to his left allows him to brace against it while the one to the right resumes its guard. Then, he remembers the piece of debris that slashed him in the side. Looking down at his torso, he was relieved and perplexed at seeing no wound on his side, only his hoodie and shirt torn. 

With his injuries (or lack thereof) accounted for, he looks to his guards. Then, raising his arm, he points his hand forward, not expecting them to follow his command. Instead, the two at the front take the point, while the one helping him moves his arm around its shoulders, and the last watches their back. Watching 'soldiers' dressed in WW1 kit employing modern infantry tactics was an odd sight. Not that Deacon was complaining; it gave him confidence and safety in knowing these beings that guard him are tactically knowledgeable. 

Continuing to move forward, he eventually regains his bearings and attempts to walk without assistance. His feet are still slightly shaky, but he'll manage. The wet slaps of his clothing, though, bug him. His feet were going to chafe in his shoes; he needed to find a place to dry off. Looking at his 'men,' he wishes that he was wearing what they were. Then, as if the said wish was coming true, his clothing began to burn away into glowing cinders, instantly replaced by new clothes just as the old ones disintegrated. 

Instead of his university hoodie, jeans and sneakers, he was dressed in the Doughboy field uniform! Complete with field kit, campaign hat, and the famous leggings worn in the trenches. This is undoubtedly becoming a captivating turn of events. But wait, if he could make clothing…what about weapons? Like, a gun?

Staring at the palm of his hand, he focuses on trying to call upon a weapon for himself. From underneath his clothes, he feels his tattoos beginning to activate once more. A warmth courses through him as a Colt 1911 pistol materializes in his hand's palm. Much like his clothing, the gun forms as if from cinders, as it took shape in his hand. It was a marvel to behold, the cool metal and textured grip a comforting feeling.

He looks it over, even ejecting the magazine to find it loaded. This legendary handgun; was created by Colt to replace the .38 service revolvers for the US Army due to insufficient firepower during the Philippine Insurrection. Its stopping power and reliability were why, even a century and a half since its birth, it was still in service to many militaries. Looking up at his soldiers, he noted their own weapons. The two leading skeletons are armed with Krag-Jorgensen rifles, while the ones at his back are armed with Trenchguns. Both guns were used by the US military during that era, albeit the Krag was slowly washed out by the 1903 Springfield. Still, they were solid weapons for them to carry. 

Now armed and with his squad, Deacon continues to walk out of the bank he was in onto a plain stretch of paved road. It stretched in only two directions, with woodland surrounding Deacon and the skeletons. The sky was strangely cloudy, but he could see the sun through cracks in the clouds. No, wait, suns. His eyes weren't deceiving him… there were three stars in the sky. Three suns? How is the world not scorched by such light? The questions only pile on as he continues to walk. 

As he walks further, he hears a distant commotion up ahead. He could see smoke and orange flames off in the distance. Crap, someone could be in trouble! 

"Shit. Get moving. Do not fire unless we are directly attacked." Deacon orders his squad, watching as the shotgunners are the ones to take point while the riflemen follow behind. Then, looking down at his 1911, he sighs and holsters it. Concentrating, Deacon focuses as the warmth returns, trying to summon a new weapon. This time though, a bit more energy is taken from him as he materializes an M1918 Browning Automatic Rifle. A powerful gun chambered in .30-06 Springfield; its stopping power complemented its recoil. He would need this power to defend himself if there was danger ahead. 

Deacon follows behind the skeletons as they approach the site with a bigger gun and a bit less energy, likely due to calling upon his weapons. It wasn't a pretty scene; dead horses filled with arrows were at the front of a destroyed and burning carriage. Dead bodies wearing metal armor and decorated tabards also lined the floor, along with the corpses of some bandits. 

"Spread out. Look for anything useful." Deacon orders, but once the skeletons begin to move, a trio of men comes around the carriage carrying chests and luggage. But upon seeing him, they dropped their loot and drew weapons. 

"A necromancer out here?! Thought we were nowhere near the Deadlands?!" One of them exclaims with a grip on his sword. 

"We aren't, but that don't matter, kill 'em!" Weapons raised, they all charge towards Deacon. He was going to stop them, but his skeletons made the first move. The two shotgunners, acting on his orders, opened fire and shot at two of their attackers. The buckshot tore into the men, sending their bodies flying back from the impact.

The last one, grazed by the shotshell and in shock at watching his friends be killed so quickly, tries to get up to escape. He doesn't get far, though, as one of the riflemen runs him through with a bayonet, pinning him to the ground. It wasn't enough to kill him, though, as he flails and screams in agony. Wordlessly and with eerily human movements, the skeleton stabs him repeatedly until, finally, his moans are silenced by death. 

It was a gruesome sight, watching the skeletons cut these men down with such efficiency. Deacon was also not ready to witness such things, which was odd since he felt confident with his weapons. What was he thinking, that killing people would be a cakewalk? Moreover, the way his skeletons moved like they were still humans caught his attention. He was used to seeing them animate sluggishly and with little emotion in their step, yet they move like they are *alive!

No, that isn't him. He isn't a killer, but it was him or them. It was sound reasoning, but it didn't ease the guilt he felt at indirectly taking lives. Plus, they called him a necromancer, didn't they? Was that the power granted to him by his tattoos, necromancy? If so, why could he also change his clothing and summon weapons? What was the extent of these abilities?

The questions only pile on further. 

Snapping from his state of mind, he looks at the skeletons as they loot the bodies of the bandits, pocketing valuables. Among them, he saw coins, watches, bits, and baubles. Another thing he would have to get used to; claiming the spoils of war. A gunshot rang out from the nearby forest, all of the skeletons aiming their guns towards the treeline. 

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Deacon pulls back the charging handle on his BAR. His squad moves towards the trees with a forward motion with his palm.

Whatever this situation he found himself in, he would survive it at any cost.

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