One of Us - Chapter One

Title: One of Us

Rough Draft

Chapter One

The air here was thin.

Perhaps that was what bothered Malcolm most as he sat staring out over the trees on the edge of the cliff. The mountain air was thin and hazy. A gust of it felt like a brisk nip on his neck. Nothing like the thick stuff in the city. He felt as though if he breathed too deeply he would suck it all in and be left with nothing.

In the distance, the real mountains awaited him if he so wished to venture there. Snow caps with their stark whiteness. He could feel their chill from here. Maybe that was why the air was so thin. The real mountains towered over him as he towered over the forests below him.

Sighing, he stood and wrapped his thin jacket around him. A light breeze filtered up the cliffside, brushing his sandy-colored bangs away from his face like a thin, ghostly hand tickling his forehead.

He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his dark blue jean pants and turned, walking down the winding path that would lead him back toward more flat ground even though everything here seemed to be mostly hills and cliffs. The sky above him was nothing but an endless gray, it seemed, like the cliffs around him. A never-ending sea of the lack of color as though the sun didn't bother to reach this area. What little grass did grow this far up looked either dead and yellow, or just a sickly green.

A wooden house came into view. It was small and homey, not very large at all, only one-story. Two windows were in the front with a door in the middle, a porch on the front with three steps leading up to it. Malcolm approached it and walked up the steps, pushing open the door.

"I'm back," he announced, toeing off his shoes in the entry way.

"Good," a gruff voice said from somewhere within the house. "Get unpacking. Supper will be done soon."

Malcolm sighed and shouldered off his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack next to the door as he moved down the narrow hallway. Upon entering the living room, he grabbed a box labeled 'Malcolm's Stuff' and disappeared from the room, back into the hallway where he pushed open a door, balancing a box as he twisted a brass knob.

This was to be his new room. He'd chosen it earlier but hadn't bothered to unpack, wanting to explore the area instead. That had been hours ago, though. Now it was time to unpack because they would be here for a while. At least, he thought so. Maybe a part of him even hoped so.

He put the heavy box down on the single bed in the room, releasing a puff of air as he did so. Allowing his gaze to wander around the room, he found himself looking out the only window he had. It showed him a view of the cliff he'd just been on moments ago. In the distance stood the real mountains that towered over over everything else.

The sun was setting behind the mountains, casting a multitude of colors across the sky, ranging from orange and red at its core to purple and blue the further away it got.

It was getting late.

Malcolm opened his box and pulled out the first item on top; his pillow. It was flat, overly used, but the only one he had. He dropped it onto the bed. Next came his covers. He put them on the bed also. Beneath it were his clothes. He didn't have much, mostly shirts, but it was enough. He left them in there for now. He could always fill out his closet tomorrow, he decided. He didn't dig further; he had what he needed for tonight, just his sleep things.

"Malcolm," the gruff voice called to him, "supper's done!"

He turned and left his room, entering the kitchen.

The scent of cheeseburgers slammed into him. They were quick and easy to fix so they had them often. Malcolm didn't mind. He sat at the kitchen table.

Decatur was a short man built like a bear, or at least that was what came to mind when Malcolm looked at him. His blonde hair was short-cropped, military style, and he seemed to always be wearing a scowl. A lot of people thought he was Malcolm's father, but he wasn't.

Decatur sat down at the table and began eating instantly. "Are you done unpacking?" he asked after a few bites.

"No," Malcolm said simply, because he wasn't.

Decatur's stony gray eyes narrowed at him, little slits that felt like they were sizing him up. For a moment, nothing was said and then Decatur's broad shoulders shrugged and the man went back to eating, not saying another word on the matter.

Malcolm released a breath and continued eating, returning his blue-eyed gaze toward his food.

Afterward, when they were done eating, Decatur left the room, stating that it was Malcolm's night to do dishes. Malcolm sighed and stood to do them without complaint. It was his turn. They both tried to do things around the house, wherever they were staying since they moved a lot. In the city it had been easier since they'd been living in a small apartment and had mostly gotten takeout food or used paper plates, but still.

'I miss the city,' Malcolm thought to himself with a sigh. He didn't have any friends to miss or really anyone to miss, but he missed the city. He missed the thick air and the noise. It was too quiet here and the air was too thin.

There was a loud thud from another room--the living room, maybe?--and Malcolm froze, his heart skipping a beat as his hands stopped moving in the soapy water.

"Decatur?" he asked thickly. His tongue felt overly dry in his mouth, rough like sandpaper.

"Stay there," was his growled response, and he heard the front door open and close sharply. Then there was silence.

That loud, deafening silence.

Malcolm pulled his hands out of the water and spun, exiting the kitchen quickly. Eyes narrowed into calculating slits, he looked around the living room. Nothing looked out of place but Decatur was nowhere to be seen.

He moved toward the window to peer out. Squinting, he could just make out Decatur's broad shape in the distance as the moon in the night sky shone down on him. No, wait, that wasn't right.

There were two figures. And they were fighting.

Hand-to-hand combat. Decatur was good at that.

Malcolm threw the door open, his heart tight in his chest, because he'd thought they were safe here. That was why they were here in the first place, right? They'd come here to get away from the city. And before that, they'd moved to the city to get away from those before. It was a never-ending cycle, this running.

"Decatur!" Malcolm shouted when the man was shoved to the ground. The other person towered over him, a foot on Decatur's chest. The sharp flash of a blade caught Malcolm's eye. Adrenaline raced through his veins. "No!"

In a flash, he disappeared from where he was standing and reappeared next to the man, knocking into him. His heart was racing and his vision was blurred slightly but he didn't care. He grabbed the man's arm and tossed him to the ground, kicking him in the side while Decatur rolled to his feet with a growl. The other person still had the knife. With a slash, pain echoed sharply up Malcolm's leg.

And he went down with a grunt, fingers wrapping around his shin where he'd been sliced. Blood slipped through his fingers, staining them with the sticky liquid.

"Decatur!" he warned when the man got to his feet.

Decatur growled and pulled out his own knife. Malcolm hadn't even noticed it attached to his belt but he shouldn't have been surprised; Decatur was always prepared.

The man slashed at Decatur but the broad man dodged and swung an arm at the attacker, catching him off guard. Down the man went and Decatur followed after him with his knife. The blade rammed through the man's neck and with a gurgle, a life was ended.

Malcolm stared as the life left the man's eyes. He gripped his shin all the more, not caring that it only caused more pain to spike up his leg. 'He's dead,' he thought to himself.

He'd seen death before--many times. And this man had attacked them first. But...it just never got any easier.

"Decatur," he murmured.

"It had to be done," Decatur said, glaring at him. "He's one of them."