Apocalyptic Daria: Twilight Friday - The Darkness Unleashed
Written by Brother Grimace
Based on Apocalyptic Daria, by Doggieboy
NOTE: Due to the nature of the subject matter, this work of fan fiction is rated TV-MA-DLSV. It contains scenes of graphic violence and sexual situations.
This fan fiction may not be appropriate for some readers.
The following events take place immediately after the events in Apocalyptic Daria: Twilight Friday, Part Three, when Colonel Armalin is informed of the cities destroyed in the limited nuclear exchange between the United States and China.
“Damn. It’s always just below the surface, isn’t it?”
Trent’s car didn’t slow as he went down Dega Street; a man with desperation in his eyes – and rifle in hand - tried to force him to stop
When the man pointed the rifle at the car, a single round from Trent’s .44 Magnum hit the man just above his left eye. The last sight Trent had of the man was him dropping to his knees, with part of his skull missing - and someone running out from a building to pick up the dead man’s weapon before they started to search through his pockets …
“Please be okay, Monique,” Trent thought aloud, as he lowered his right hand to the seat yet kept the handgun in a slightly-loosened grip. “Please be okay.”
Trent’s face went ashen as he saw the door of Monique’s apartment smashed open, with the sound of drunken laughter within.
A pair of mirth-filled voices spoke up; as they did, Trent pulled the hammer back on his handgun.
“Goth chicks fuck good, don’t they?”
“Hey, you know that skinny little chick that used to hang out with her – that blue-eyed chick from school, the one who ran track for about five minutes or so?”
Trent recognized the voices; it was two of the football players from Lawndale – punks who got away with a lot because they won, and no one wanted to mess things up (even if it meant their daughters weren’t safe).
“Yeah – Jane Lane! Let’s roll over to her house and see if artists are freaks like everybody says! Dude – she’s almost dead, get up off her!”
A third voice, youthful yet heavy from exertion, barked off an evil laugh. “Not yet! Like that old coffee commercial said, ‘she’s good to the last drop!”
Trent had heard enough. More than enough.
The two players that were standing to the side watching their friend rape Monique locked their eyes on Trent as he stepped into the room. Recognition appeared on their faces, then a twisted form of surprised joy as the pleasure they would get draped across their faces…
That joy metastasized into disbelief and even blanket confusion on the rapists’ faces, but neither had time to react before two explosions seemed to go off in the room; their eyes locked with Trent and tracked down to the .44 Magnum in his hand to see fire explode from the barrel.
Trent put two rounds from his hand-cannon into the junctions between both of the bastards’ legs.
The first one grunted; he managed to remain standing, but stumbled backwards and fell through the window. Caught by his pants as he hung from the third-floor apartment window, his legs torn by the broken window glass, the young punk gurgled out low, pitiful cries for help as his own blood began to drain down over him.
The second rapist shrieked as his penis and scrotum exploded; vomit spewed from his mouth as he looked down at his shattered genitals before he fell over and shuddered with pain, his face covered with tears as he grabbed for his destroyed manhood and tried to crawl away.
The third player – he couldn’t have been any older than Jane or Daria, Trent noted – was still on his knees, with Monique shuddering in pain, her face and body already disfigured with bruises, bloody and almost beyond recognition as the little punk was still penetrating her.
Trent lowered the barrel of his .44 at the boy. “Get. Up.”
Monique let out a barely-audible gasping as the rapist looked at the boy who lay on the floor less than two feet away, vomiting again as he began to pray to God for help, promising anything if He could make all of this not happen, to take away the pain…
The third rapist pulled himself from Monique. The sound of her whimper as he did so, like the sound of a mortally-injured animal, hoping for someone to come take the pain away or just end them as a kindness, sucked all possible feeling for the boy before him from Trent and into absolute darkness, an abyss which held no remorse or recognition of humanity whatsoever for him now, regardless of what was to come.
The boy rose; he started to pull his pants up when Trent pulled the hammer back on his weapon.
For a moment, the boy actually appeared as if he was trying to figure out something, anything to say in order to get out of this situation; his mouth worked, but nothing could come forth…
Three rounds struck him.
The first heavy slug struck directly above the point where his penis extended from his body. The second landed less than a centimeter higher and microseconds later; it was as if Trent had fired two rounds simultaneously.
The third .44 Magnum round struck one half-inch higher; even with the robotic aim and grip Trent exerted upon the weapon, the recoil still lifted the barrel and delivered it to devastating effect in the area he wished.
All three rounds passed straight through flesh and bone (Trent was less than one yard away when he fired the gun) to effectively sever the boy into two parts from the waist down; he dropped to the floor like a puppet with broken strings, already forgotten as Trent grabbed a blanket and wrapped Monique in it, gentle as she moaned with pain from every touch.
Humanity and a tone that pleaded for forgiveness filtered through the words Trent forced from his lips. “Monique, it’s me.”
Hope was a distant light in the young woman’s eyes as she opened them with effort. “Trent?”
“Yeah. I’ll take care of you…”
Monique died three minutes later.
Trent wrapped her body in blankets, and made certain to get her ID; pain almost split him in half and forced tears from him as he recalled her laughter; her constant reminder to always make sure that he had his ID on him, and frequent checks through her own pockets to ensure that she carried her own, as well.
He slid her driver’s license and her community college ID into the pocket of her black khakis that he carefully slid upon her; Trent dressed her, quickly, knowing how her bowels and bladder would release but still unwilling to allow her that loss of dignity, to remain unclothed, lain bare from the attack that took her life for all to see…
I couldn’t save her. This, I can do.
He cleared the spent shells from his gun and inserted fresh rounds; keeping the gun close at hand, he then began to work.
Trent wrapped Monique’s body in blankets. He went to the kitchen to get a couple of large garbage bags; once more, tears threatened to flow freely as he recalled her cleaning mania, and how it was a shame that she’d gotten into the habit of bringing a box of garbage bags over when she would visit, so she could force him out of bed and shame him into cleaning up things…
Four bags allowed him to wrap Monique thoroughly; two more blankets and he was finished with his task.
He stepped away from the body of his friend, and mechanically went through the pockets of the three rapists; he took their ID cards - and after a moment’s recollection of what Old Socrates mentioned percolated up in his mind, he took whatever cash they had, and took the very nice watch and ring of the rapist whose penis he shot off.
Old Socrates was an older gentleman from the commune he and Jane spent time on as kids. A Vietnam veteran whose time ‘in country’ had never really left him, it was he who taught the Lane siblings how to shoot, taught them other tricks on how to stay alive and get out of bad situations.
When the siblings left, the man gave Trent the .44 (which he’d shown a remarkable innate skill with) in case things happen. “My mother always said that it’s better to have and not need, than to need and not have,” he told Trent. “She had the old .45 wheelgun my grandfather brought back from WWI, and it runs in the family, I guess.”
“I like it,”Trent agreed. “Jane’s more of a long-gun type, though.”
“God help anyone on the receiving end if that one gets hold of an AK and bothers you or someone else she cares about,” Old Socrates agreed. “In your case, if things ever happen - that hand-cannon will make the bastards wish they never rose up on you.”
Once more, Trent looked around the filthy room, now foul with the scents of sex, blood, voided bladders & bowels, and the spent powder from the heavy loads Trent used in his gun.
If this is SHTF, like Old Socrates said - people might not take money for a while, if ever again - but they will trade for stuff. This is the least you bastards can do now… besides die slow.
Trent carried the makeshift burial shroud that held his friend down to his car, and gently placed it in the back seat. He was about to get into the driver’s seat when agony drew his attention away for a moment…
The mournful sound of the rapist hanging from the window caught his attention. He watched the young man shudder and try to lift himself up; as he fell back and low gasps of pain bubbled away from the young man, Trent got into his car, started the engine, and drove away.
_________________Because we know instinctively as a people that if we are to get through the darkness and back into the light we have to work together. And the truth is, there will always be darkness. And sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t the promised land. Sometimes it’s just New Jersey. But we do it anyway, together.
-Jon Stewart "We have a right to fight for our country - the same as every other American. We will not go away." -Col. A.J. Bullard (Terrence Howard), Red Tails"If we can't protect the Earth - you can be damn well sure we'll avenge it."
-Tony Stark/Iron Man (Robert Downey, Jr.), The Avengers"Sometimes you have to spontaneously break into song - right?" - Mack, from Teen Beach 2The PSI Corps is your friend. Trust The Corps.