Death Is A Necessity

"Helen!" I yelled as she fell off the truck. I heard her body hit the concrete with a sickening thud.

"What the f**k was that?" I turned around. The one nicknamed Death was glaring at the second one, who stood frozen, still holding the smoking gun.

"I... I thought..." the second stammered.

"Give me your gun," Death snapped.

"W-What?" the second replied, confused.

"Give me your gun." Without waiting, Death snatched it from him.

Me and the boy stood at the truck's exit, unsure of our next move.

"I'm sorry," the second one pleaded.

"Join them," Death said coldly, pointing the gun at his head.

The second hesitated, then slowly climbed down.

"Well? Are you both waiting for an invitation?" Death growled.

We quickly joined the second one on the floor. I looked down and saw Helen’s body. I was pretty sure I was stepping in her blood.

We stood in the dark, silent, until Death shut the truck doors behind him.

Without thinking, I lunged at the second one. My cross caught him clean and sent him stumbling back. I followed up with a left hook before he could recover.

He pulled a dagger, now ready to fight. He charged, blade in hand—but before he got to me, the boy landed a sidekick to his head, staggering him.

Realizing he was outmatched, the second took a few steps back. I didn’t care for fairness—I charged again. He slashed wildly, and I skidded to a stop to avoid the blade. But he came forward, aiming to connect.

The boy intercepted with another sidekick, harder than the last. The second hit the ground but quickly rolled to his feet. The moment he stood up—

His head burst open.

He fell face-first into the dirt.

"Get down!" I shouted.

We dropped instantly, expecting more shots. But everything went quiet.

"What the s**t..." the boy muttered.

We stayed low, crawling toward another van, trying to find the shooter.

The road ahead was open. In front of us, an abandoned warehouse loomed. A few other vans were parked nearby.

"Boss?" the boy said, pointing at one van. Blood dripped from its side.

We crept over. Inside—dead bodies. But their guns were still intact.

I reached in, grabbed the Glock off the driver, and passed it to the boy. He checked the magazine and gave a silent nod.

I reached for the AK strapped to the driver's chest—

"Don’t..." the man croaked.

I froze. The boy aimed, ready to shoot.

We had no idea he was still alive. Half his face was gone.

"It... can see us..." he whispered.

He reached slowly to his side and pulled out a revolver, holding it out to me.

"...protect yourself."

The windshield shattered into glittering shards. We ducked and scrambled from the van.

I heard his scream—and then silence.

"Stay down," a voice whispered.

I recognized it immediately. "P, is that you?"

"Yeah," he replied.

"Where the f**k is the rest?"

"We lost Thorne. Tried jumping our guards—he took a bullet."

"F**k. And Biggie?"

"He’s around. He jumped before s**t went sideways... Keep moving. Don’t stay still too long."

He vanished into the night.

We moved vehicle to vehicle, following his advice.

"Good," P whispered again, suddenly behind us. His white hair glinted even in the dark. "Keep doing that. Every thirty seconds, move. That’s how I’ve lasted."

"What the f**k is going on?" I asked.

"Who's shooting at us?" the boy added.

P tilted his head, confused. "Shooting?"

"You saw the windshield explode—"

"What kind of gun does that?" P interrupted, eyes sharp.

I looked at him, my throat dry. “So what the f**k are we dealing with then?”

P scanned the darkness, crouched low. “I don’t know yet. But I know it’s not a gun.”

The boy whispered, “Then what’s killing everyone?”

P's jaw tightened. “Something smart. Something that doesn’t need bullets.”

We heard a noise—metal clinking, soft but close. We all froze. I raised the revolver, trying to slow my breathing.

“Footsteps.” the boy whispered.

We moved, low and quick, to the next van. As we rounded the side, a voice startled us.

“You f**kers took long enough,” Biggie muttered from behind an open car door, his gun raised until he recognized us.

“Biggie?” I exhaled.

“Yeah. I’ve been ducking low ever since that scream. What the hell’s going on?”

“We don’t know,” P said. “But it’s not over. One of them—something—is still out here.”

“Where’s Thorne?” Biggie asked, glancing between us.

“Gone,” P said.

Biggie cursed under his breath and kicked the side of the van.

The boy asked, “Did you see anything? Anyone?”

Biggie nodded slowly. “There was...a sound. Not movement. Just this pressure. Like something pushing into your skull. You ever feel that? Like someone’s staring straight into your memories?”

“Nothing makes sense tonight,” P muttered. “We need to flush it out before it gets to us first.”

“How?” the boy asked.

“Split up,” P said.

“No f**king way,” I cut in. “That’s how people die.”

“People are already dying,” he shot back. “It can’t hit all of us at once if we circle it.”

Biggie sighed. “We fan out, but stay within shout range. First one to see anything yell. We keep moving every 30 seconds, no breaks.”

“Make noise,” I added. “It can’t sneak up on one of us if we keep distracting it.”

“Right,” P said, loading a fresh mag into his sidearm. “Let’s go ghost hunting.”

We spread out, slow and quiet, checking each van, each dark corner. No sign of the kid or the guard or anyone really. But the pressure... the weight in our heads... it was growing.

Then I heard a whispers. Faint, like radio static. Not voices in the air. Voices in my head.

I stopped cold.

“Did anyone else hear that?” I asked.

“Yeah,” the boy answered. “It said... something about guilt.”

Biggie’s voice came through low, “I didn’t hear s**t. But I just spotted someone—far end, crouched behind a crate.”

P’s voice: “Moving.”

We all converged on the position, guns raised.

But there was nothing. Just an empty spot.

“He was right f**king here,” Biggie insisted.

Then the whisper returned, louder, sharper.

“He’s lying. He’ll betray you. He always does.”

“Shut up!” the boy shouted at no one, gripping his head.

“Hey!” I grabbed his arm. “You okay?”

“I’m fine!” he snapped.

“Just—just get it out of my head!”

That’s when the van next to us shook violently. We all jumped back, aiming.

Something was inside.

We surrounded the back doors. I raised the revolver. “On three.”

“One... two...”

“Wait!” Biggie shouted. “It’s a trap!”

Too late. The doors swung open—

Nothing inside.

P gasped and staggered back, clutching his temple.

“P!” I shouted.

Blood poured from his nose. He hit the ground without a sound.

Biggie turned, eyes wide. “It’s behind us!”

I spun around—

There he was. The kid. Standing on top of a van, eyes glowing blue, chest rising and falling like he’d just finished a sprint. His expression wasn’t rage, wasn’t smug.

It was focus.

I raised the revolver, but the kid vanished—blinked out of sight like a bad memory.

Biggie screamed, dropping to his knees, clutching his head. I ducked behind the van and tried to steady my breathing. My heart thundered in my ears, but even over that I could feel it—him—reaching into my mind.

“You’ll never stop it. Not what’s already in you.”

I shook it off and moved—fast, quiet—keeping to cover. Then I saw him again. He’d reappeared behind a half-crushed bus, crouched low.

He hadn’t seen me.

I crept closer, revolver tight in my grip.

And then—I stopped.

He turned slightly, giving me a clear look at his face.

He was just a kid.

Couldn’t have been older than thirteen. Pale skin, ribs showing through his chest. There was a scar running down his temple, stitched wrong, like someone had cut into his head on purpose.

He looked scared.

Lost.

Not a monster. Just a child weaponized by someone else’s cruelty.

My finger hovered on the trigger.

For a second... just a second... I hesitated.

He turned fully toward me.

His eyes locked onto mine—those eerie, glowing eyes—and I felt it again, that unbearable pressure, that whisper tearing through my skull like claws.

“You’ll do it. Just like always. That’s who you are.”

Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

And I didn’t want to.

But I thought of P.

Of Helen.

Of what would happen if I didn’t end it now.

I aimed.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

His head snapped back, and he dropped.

No scream. Just silence.

The air felt lighter. The pressure in my head vanished like smoke in the wind.

The woman, the guard, ran from the shadows, collapsed.

“He just wanted to be free,” she whispered through her tears.

I didn’t say a word.

Biggie groaned behind me, stirring, alive. But P... P was gone.

I walked over, knelt beside him. Closed his eyes with two fingers.

He deserved better.

They all did.