12. Rogol
Time stopped after the schoolgirl’s death. The Centaur chicks doubted; the European guy calculated his options. I thought of the blade the boy brought; what manner of power did it possess? I sensed the dark gentleman shared the same contemplation.
But we only had one second of pause. Rogol attacked. It charged directly at the white man like a speeding bulldozer. We were all caught unawares; and that was when I first saw a demonstration of the European’s craft. Calmly he bowed, and disappeared. He reappeared, teleported behind the Beast. The illuminating suit he wore fluttered in the hot wind.
Rogol was in top gear. It rushed on, more earth shattering than a buffalo stampede. Next in line were the two gals. Brunette fired a psychic bullet. It hit Rogol with minimal impact, merely an ant bite of pain in the brain. The animal brushed her aside. Luckily she was quick enough to divert a force field to break her fall. She was scratched, but unharmed.
Bleached Blue wasn’t that fortunate. She prepared to unleash her firepower; but Rogol was quicker. For a mass its size, I was surprised by its speed. It braked suddenly; throwing Bleached Blue off balance. Immediately, it took a lungful of air and breathed fire like a fucking dragon. I was impressed. Bleached Blue wasn’t. She was fried to crisp. Her metal parts melted and fused with charred flesh. I thought the final product looked quite arty. A modern, avant-garde centrepiece proud of Hell, fused to soil, molten and cooled, her frigid figure perpetually dumbfounded by an abandoned son of Anak’s prowess.
Then it came for me, and I felt like I was going to pee in my pants. I wasn’t at all ready, unlike the rest (and look at their bad fate), and I dared not think what would be my outcome. My strategy was to scavenge, not be smacked in the thick of battle. I could not decide on my mode of defence, and I wanted to scream before my life was rudely snatched away; but my ego came to the rescue. By divine intervention, so to speak, I darted on impulse, and rolled, first to escape the pound of its fist, then the stamp of its feet.
Rogol turned; but instead of facing o’ dear me, its flaring nostrils met a stunned whitey who was trying to creep up for a mystical thwack. The European had hoped to take the Beast down by surprise from behind while it was busy erasing me from the face of this virtual ambit. But my tumbling actions spoilt everything for him. From the corner I could see his lips form, “Shit,” under the shades. He accepted his end calmly by whatever methods Rogol may have planned up its sleeve; but praise be to my skidding efforts, I lost control of my motions while evading the colossal creature, and knocked the Westerner off his stoic stance and to the side, just as fire flared once more from the mouth of the Beast to the spot his intended victim was first rooted.
The impact knocked his shades off, and I saw Pacific blue irises. But immediately, it was on him again. I expected a “thanks,” but I guess the urgency of the moment provided no exchange of words, as danger still lurked.
We were disorientated; but out of thin air, Rogol roared. It was a cry of anger and ache. For the first time it hurt. High in the sky, the mysterious dark man fired a thunderbolt at the monster’s back. I was amazed at his talents. The streaks of energy seem to appear from his opened palm. He threw caution to the wind, sweeping down low, constantly bombarding Rogol with calculated accuracy.
This gave me time to check out the knife. It still glowed green, though weaker now. My AI guide provided information. It was an artefact created by Leper and the Gunk, developers of the game. The source of its potency was from its innate connection with Hell; and depending on the vigour of the wielder, it could possibly kill the Beast.
I, however, was not about to use something so precious so early, especially as I’d not discovered its full potential, and how it reacted to me. I belted and hid it, then ran closer to the battlefield. The East-European eyed me; perhaps in jealousy I got to the jewel studded dagger first.
The other man was impressive. I think he was the only one who could match Rogol’s strength. The European and I ended up sharing a seat on a boulder, enjoying the carnage. I bet we were both scheming how to steal the head after that third fella had done the job. He unexpectedly popped an apple; I took it. We both stared, munching on our fruit, an unspoken alliance.
I was yet waiting for the thanks that never came. Not even till today.