The story so far:
He awoke, bitterly, to the piercing and searing beams of sunlight shooting in from the window. As useful as aluminum foil can be to block out the sun, not every inch must have been covered, and one corner had just enough space to bleed the afternoon's rays into the vigilante's eyes. This happened every day, and it always gave him the same start: irritability. As he could no longer fight the daytime, he conceded the battle, and fell out of his twin sized cot.
The movement was painful, giving him a violent tear on his already hardened skin. He observed the source of his pain, a wound. A bullet wound, no less.
"You've got to be **** kidding me."
He hated those lucky shots. It made him feel mortal, when it was his clear mission to make him appear the opposite. When was he shot last night? He thought to himself. In all of his adrenaline that engulfed every nerve in his body last night, he must not have noticed that lucky round that clipped his shoulder. That cocky, belligerant gunman managed to put one in his arm. That is, of course, before recieving two in the chest and one in the brain from his truly. Evan can remember the look on that bastard's face when he pulled off his mask, revealing his identity.
They were looking into the eyes of hate. If Evan had his way, they'd be looking into the glare of Satan himself. His modus operandi was to put absolute, overbearing terror into the ones he'd bring to justice. But was it justice? Is there justification in what he did? He thought about this a lot, lately. And when he did, he tried to shake it out as quick as the thought had come. He does not have room in his nightly endeavors for a conscience.
He picked the dried flakes of blood off his skin, then peeled away any dirt that could have made it's way in. It was tender, no doubt about it, but he welcomed the pain as much as he could. It was ironically relaxing to feel the pain of being human. The depersonalization to life that he came to feel when he wasn't jumping across rooftops, killing criminals, was sometimes haunting, questioning his very existence. What was his purpose? Was he sure this was it? He hated these questions, and hated philosophy for that matter. Philosophy won't bring his life back.
His purpose now was to make it to the bathroom. He hauled his sore bones and muscles out of the most uncomfortable resting place. He felt a chill against his naked body. Across the room, the window was left open from his return, and the winter breeze was welcoming itself into the poorly insulated townhouse. The carpet against his feet was far from warm as he made his way to close the window. He was never comfortable using the front door. If someone were to look for him, the front entrance was an obvious enough place to wait for his return. It wasn't the most creative alternative, but it sufficed.
The place was vacant. So much so, that it could very well collapse into itself like a vacuum. It's contents were only the stacks upon stacks of newspapers, large black trash bags filled with empty cans of pork n' beans and sardine remainders, and an abundance of mechanical parts and tools to accompany them. There was not one bit of furniture, save for the cot that held only a torn, thin mattress, a wool blanket, and a towel folded up to impersonate a pillow.
The bathroom, with it's one functioning light bulb, barely gave illumination to the vigilante as he inspected his wound for any possibility for infection. He wasn't thankful when he saw the subtle copper fragment that rested snuggly in the meat of his shoulder.
"Son of a bitch."
He knelt down under the sink where a half empty bottle of bourbon had been parked before. Next to it sat a black, unlabeled bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He picked up both, grunting at the painful cracks in his knees as he did so. Why did he feel so old? He was only thirty... three? Four? His birthday, he wasn't sure if it passed yet. He hasn't had the best sense of time since the event that made him what he is now. He wouldn't even know if it was winter, if he wasn't reminded by the blistering freeze that followed him day and night.
He took a large swallow of the bourbon, sending a singe of vitality into his corpse of a body. The burn in his chest, and the flare in his nostrils, were a better wake up treat than a warm meal, or coffee. He wasted no time in pouring the hydrogen peroxide into the bloody sore. The sting was real, but his disconnection from reality forbids him of showing any hint of discomfort. He left the bathroom and made his way to the closet.
There, he threw his better arm up to the top shelf, where a white, cardboard box sits in solitude. He pulls it down easy, using his legs to bring it and its contents down to the ground. Opening it, there lay the essentials for a first aid kit... and then some. His own clinic-in-a-box came complete with ace bandages, tube dressing, 2x4 and 4x8 gauze, alcohol wipes, vacutainers with butterfly needles, blood vials, tourniquets, an arm sling, back up supplies of neosporin, iodine, sterile water, two surgical scapels, a curgical clamp, cotton swabs, and even a miniature pharmacy, carrying two of the following: doxycycline, amoxycillin, vicodin, oxycontin, flexeril, xanax, and as much as fifty injection needles of insulin. The life of a crime fighter does not wait for a diabetic.
He obtained this box of goodies after a gunfight downtown. Some of the weapons dealers use their salesmen to seek out potential clients in a hoap to xoax them to their warehouse for shopping. He had spent three days following Donnie Spritzer, one of those salesman, and finally the day came when a potential client made his interest. Evan, however, was caught off guard when he discovered the buying site was in the basement of a pharmacy.
Owned by the Irish family, the pharmacy was, of course, a front for not only weapons barters, but also transactions involving cocaine and prostitution. Some of the customers were the city's own deputies and lawyers. Evan had seen other familiar faces from his past, which gave him excitement at the chance of putting some lead in the fiends. And after putting on his kabuki mask, and tossing a flash grenade in the middle of the crowd, he did. In a blaze of gunfire, he mowed down the criminals and the corrupt. He even saved some ammunition for a chance to commit battery on those deputies who were sworn to protect people. The brass knuckles under his fingerless gloves savagely beat them until their 21 grams had been spent.
When it was all over, and the bodies lay motionless, collecting their blood in a community pool on the pavement, an idea had sparked in his head. Finding an empty box in the back, he took everything he thought was necessary, right down to the cotton swabs.
The insulin, however, came from a connection he has about three towns west. An old friend from his past, the drug dealer who once got busted for intent to sell hash and speed, now steals various medicinal necessities for the impoverished. He's a regular pharmaceutical Robin Hood. Every other week, he always has three boxes of insulin injections waiting on the steps of an abondoned basement entryway, ready for Evan to retrieve. The arrangement was never altered, or ever more perfect.
He applied a topical antiseptic cream over the bullet wound, then applied the gauze and dressing after. Satisfied with his treatment, he found it easier to shrug it off until he could find the time to suture. But he couldn't now, or even tonight. Tonight, he had his objective, and that was to declare war on the thugs of the industrial sector.
They weren't organized like typical crime families, but what the industrial sector thugs lacked in structure, they made up in numbers. There was no barrier of ethnicity or religion, only a common mindset of crime and chaos. They were amateurs, however, and this fact was gold to Evan. After he makes work of the children and their guns, he could let the rumors intensify across the streets about the villain-killer known as Nightmare.
He grinned a sinister smile at the thought.
And he was sending that declaration tonight at their weekly rave, where hookers and dealers are invited to do their business with and for the sinful. This was going to be his breakthrough, the event where he transcends from a vigilante, taking out the occasional rapist or mugger, into a force to be reckoned with, a threat to evil. Into their own Grim Reaper.
He returned the box to it's home on the shelf, took a step back, then pulled open the hatch to the crawlspace of the foundation. On the plastic tarp ground lay two black duffel bags, each full of roughly four hundred and thirty thousand in mixed currency, and two large black carrying cases. He reached into the side bocket of one of the duffel bags, pulling out a thousand dollar wad of cash. He then pulled the two carrying cases up next to him. Inside was a gun enthusiasts wet dream.
When he wasn't a vigilante, or even a murderer... he couldn't deny what he was, he never felt comfortable with the idea of firearms. Sometimes, he ruminated about the change in person he's become. As he was getting thick into his thoughts, he could almost hear a whipser... indistinguishable for his ears. It snapped his focus back into the town home, scoping his surroundings. Did I just hear that? He thought. And that's when he noticed it, for the first time.
A black spider, glossy in body color, and the size of a quarter, crawled it's way out from under the crawlspace. Evan watched it, completely transfixed. It shifted it's thin, black legs one in front of the other, slowly, eerily. But upon reaching an inch from his knee, the spider stopped. As if frozen in time, the arachnid made no attempt to move any further.
Evan kept his eye on it as he opened the first case. Spending time trying to decide his weapon of choice, a moment passed before he settled on the glock, as always. But instead of taking the magnum, like last night, he felt more inclined to trade the holster space for more rounds, and bring the black, 12 guage shotgun to the party instead. He glanced at the ground, but the spider was gone. He was more interested in the bug than he figured he should have been. Why?
Not important, he thought to himself. He removed the shotgun, leaving the magnum, a couple of berreta's, a luger, various other nine millimeters, revolvers, a sniper rifle with digital and night-vision scope, and an assortment of flash, flame, concussive, and explosive grenades.
The other case contained his sharps, his treasures. Throwing knives, his butterflies, switchblades, and even a four foot katana, it was all his most cherished. He has yet to use the this last weapon, but was eager to draw blood with it, feeding his bloodlust. He hoped for a near opportunity to do so. He grabbed his three throwing knives, and two butterflies. A pleasureable chill embraced his naked body, but it was not from the winter wind outside, but the anticipation of one hell of a night.
He took his arsenal into the bedroom where he'd retrieve his garments from the floor, and the kabuki mask from a locked tin box under his cot. He opened. He stared, captivated at the face of his identity. Or... at least his new one. He almost thought again about his past, but shook it out, knowing the futile relevance it has. He instead thought about tonight, thought about the gunfire, the frightened faces upon seeing the glowing white kabuki mask, and the hopes of a high body count. He dressed.
He wasn't the only one thinking about it, as the black spider had followed him into the room. It sits, staring at Evan...