His hair was the color of teak, his eyes were the darkest shade of blue without being green. The skin on his body was pale, like paper. His cheeks, gaunt, but his face seeming to have a full quality to it. Johnny Fitch was walking about the streets. A cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He wore an English style suit, going down until just past his buttocks. He kept the suit open and the tie was loosely tied. He had his collar up, though, and his hat, a fedora, was pulled low over his dark blue eyes. At first glance, you'd see someone who looked like they just popped out of a mafia movie. He had a pair of sunglasses in his pockets, just under his jacket was a gun belt with a 9mm pistol safely locked away.
Johnny Fitch had long since been alive, old enough to have fought in WWII. He's seen the horrors at Auschwitz, he's seen what men can do to each other and he's even done it himself. Johnny looked young though, and he was young. He'd fought, kicked, spit, all back in the 40's. He'd lived through the fifties while his friends aged but he stayed the same. No, he's not a vampire. No, he's not a demon, he was just the best Con man out there.
The world was spinning, and Johnny was in the center of it. His eyes kept forward even with all the spinning visions around him. He saw men with cell phones, moving pictures, he saw people taking pictures with each other, and a black man as president. He saw the first rocket take off into space and the moon landing shortly after. He watched all of this behind his dark blue eyes, he watched all of this as emotionlessly as a man could. The world was spinning still, going beyond modern day times and into the future. Guns replaced by lasers, terrorists destroying entire cities with nuclear explosives, the middle east being nuked by all world powers and then... And then everything else was gone. The world was nothing but dust, the people were even less than that. The buildings all fell down one by one, monuments that had stood the test of time now fell to their knees in the wake of nature's vengeance. The world was moving on, and the world was emptying. For a moment, the world stopped. Even stopped spinning, but that wasn't all it had. The plants and animals thrived, taking up their homes in the remains of the human homes. Of the Old People homes.
Johnny watched these visions spin on by with a face like stone. His heart had sunk long before the visions began and he barely even paid attention to them. He felt like he'd just walked through a tunnel with millions of etchings writ into it, he'd seen it all but he hadn't paid attention. He watched the secrets of live unfold before him with nary a glance in their direction. The world had moved on right before his eyes, and all thanks to the man sitting in the table in front of him.
The year was 1943, the war was nearly over and Johnny heard the allies were winning. He wore his basic gear, olive green fatigues, brown belt tied around his waist with pouches on all sides for ammunition, a holster for his pistol, which was in the center of the slate steel table in front of him.
The man in front of him had hair that resembled the table, grey, flat. He had a blackened mustache though and Johnny couldn't judge whether it was gun smoke or just genetics. He spoke with a rough German accent, speaking in what little English he knew.
"You see," he said, "Johnny... Fitch, I'm villing to save your life if you vould simply submit to us. We can do zis rather... forcefully if ve wanted to. Now, zee choice is yours."
Johnny sat with his hands clasped. Before answering, he asked for a cigarette, which the Dr. was happy enough to give him. The Dr. lit it with his lighter, and watched Johnny blow smoke circles into the air. After several minutes, the cigarette was down to just the butt, Johnny smashed it against the slate table and said: "I'll do it."
So here he stood, once more in the tunnel, with the Dr. in the room behind the same slate table that they had met in. He had tubes covering him from top to toe, some were skinny while others were as thick as tank cannons. He watched as each tube sent some unrecognized fluid into his body, it was golden. He felt an exploding pain in his bones, but kept his eyes forward onto the tunnel. Each second something new happened, something old died. The world was spinning again, the Dr. sent a drug into his body to help him with the nausea.
Johnny briefly remembered fighting on the beaches of Normandy, he remembered all the bullets whooshing past his head, the screams of those unlucky enough to get hit. People shouting orders, seeming to challenge the sound of the German MG42s that rained death upon them. Johnny hid behind a metal tank trap, which looked like two giant x's put mixed together. He leaned against it, breathing heavily. He looked back at the shore, saw men being decimated by hails of bullets. Some lost limbs, some lost their heads, others just fell down and seemed to fall into a coma. Johnny shouldered his rifle and took aim, looking back to the huge grey structures ahead of him that housed the MG42s. He fired once, twice, thrice, all eight shots landed into the building but he wasn't sure he hit anything. The spring shot his spent clip into the air, he loaded another, and began firing again. Nearly all the bullets buried themselves into the buildings except for one. His last bullet buried itself into the head of the lead gunner. He fell over the edge of the building, his arms flailing and legs kicking until he landed in the dirt.
Johnny smiled, and pulled himself forward, running halfway toward the dune in front of him. He stopped, dropped, and crawled the rest of the way. He heard a sergeant scream his name, over and over. Johnny, John-ny!
The spinning was over, he was brought back from the beaches and into the sterile room. The tubes were ripped free, tearing bits of his skin with it. The scientists weren't merciful, they seemed to hate his guts purely for being an American.
The Dr. greeted him, told him the test was a success. Johnny was told to put his old clothes on, he was being allowed to leave. So he did. He put on his military fatigues alone in a cell. As he was leaving the building, he saw two guards come from the sides of the metal gate before him, each armed with a sub-machine gun. They stopped, dropped to their knees, and opened fire.
His reflexes were faster than he remembered, as the bullets whipped themselves toward him, he rolled behind an army truck. The bullets hit the building behind him, and soon enough they were planting themselves into the truck too.
"What the ********?!" He shouted, "I'm supposed to leave assholes!" For being in a German camp so long, he hadn't learned a lick of German. The bullets stopped, he heard them reloading, and he decided now was the time to move.
He dashed out of cover and toward a guard tower. At the top of the tower was an MG42, similar to the ones fired at him on the beach of Normandy. He scrambled up the tower, bullets flying past him, one scraping his shoulder. When he reached the top he gripped the gun by it's handle and tore it free from the mount it had been placed on. He pointed it toward the German soldiers down below, and fired.
Their bodies were torn to shreds, their forms, unrecognizable. He watched them flail and fall, still shaking as the gun fired continuously into their un moving forms. The gun ran out of ammunition, it was smoking, hot. He tossed the gun out of the Tower.
To be continued:
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