This is an English assignment that was originally intended to be the first chapter of a book. This book itself is on hiatus and its possible it won't become a book. For the time now, it's going to be a short story. Please review!

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The Diablerie

The sky lit up as lightning flashed, like an Olympic athlete running across the dark abyss. David glanced up, wondering if lightning storms occurred in other dimensions. It was the 16th Dimension – his home dimension. Oh, how he hated this dimension, filled with so much hatred! The republic was twisted: their King Thompson spent the nation’s money on himself. They would, at times, hang anyone suspected of “witchcraft” in the middle of the city for all to see. Certain holidays, like Halloween or St. Patrick’s Day, were banned. Citizens must be Christian – no exceptions.

The 17-year-old wondered mildly what would happen if people found out exactly who he was. He smirked with amusement, knowing a panic would erupt.

If the world found out that beings known as the Evolution existed, they would go mad. They would call them “instruments of Satan.” They would burn and hang them. They would accuse their own kind of “witchcraft.”

He scratched his bald head as he sat on the edge of the building’s rooftop. The burned mark of a cross was visible on the back of his neck – it was his symbol of his commitment to the Diablerie, his “gang” if you would call them.

They weren’t like other gangs, however. While gangs would sell dope on the street, battle others for their right to own neighborhoods, and kill others for no reason, they actually helped others. They saved the religion fanatics from what people would call their worst nightmares. They were the only ones who can kill those “demons.” Why? They’re the Evolution: humans who evolved with extraordinary powers. About one-third of the human population was the Evolution. They risked their lives protecting the ordinary humans. Why exactly they were protecting those fanatics? He wasn’t too sure.

Maybe he should just jump off the building. David immediately shook the thought away. If he did that, his mates would resurrect him, beat him to near death, and make him live until he was 100. David chuckled at the thought.

Who cares if his old man drank alcohol and takes a swing at him whenever he was weird? Who cares if his mum was dead?

All he needed was his friends. His friends were the reason he was still alive. They saved him God knows how many times. All he needed was them.

Beep! Beep!

David reached into his pocket and took out his gitzMo, Diego. The small, electronic bug stared at him. “Answer it, please Diego,” David said.

The bug opened its mouth wide and a hologram appeared. It was a hologram of a small, eight-year-old girl with long hair, framing her heart-shaped face quite nicely. She was sucking on a tootsie pop and stared at him. David immediately recognized her as Alice, one of his mates, also apart of the Diablerie.

“Dave,” she said, “there’s another Attila attack, three miles south of your position. Get there quickly; we’re waiting for you.” She disappeared.

Diego closed its mouth and stared curiously at David. David grabbed the bug and stuffed it in his pocket. “Another one, eh?”

The Attila were the nightmares he and the Diablerie were protecting the twisted world from. Another Wound appeared, the portal in which they enter from. The Attila were not of their dimension – they were from another dimension. They entered through Wounds, atmosphere-torn portals between the two dimensions. None of them knew which dimension they came from; they all dared not to enter the Wound to the other side, which was probably filled with Attila.

“Three miles south of my position,” the dark-skinned adolescent murmured. He glanced down below and saw a large rock in a park nearby: the park was empty, but there were a couple of cars in the street. It was unusual, even for advanced era of 2677, for a rock to be floating in mid-air. He must do it carefully.

David stretched his hand out and carefully, with his willpower, lifted the rock. The rock slowly rose out of the park and quickly flew over the street and lowered next to David. He walked toward it and climbed on top, sitting on it. The rock rose up and flew out of the building.

He rose higher in the air, making sure everyone below would only see him as a bird and not as an “alien,” which they were all deathly scared of as well as demons. The rock carried him quickly through the city. He saw glimpses of the city hall, the city church, houses on stilts, and wide fields.

Then, he saw them. The Attila were scattered over one field. They were twisted, werewolf-like “humans,” wild and uncontrolled. They were all grey-skinned with black eyes and bald heads. Some were missing limbs; others had half of their heads ripped off. Long, sharp fangs stuck out from their mouths like a crocodile’s teeth. All were naked: some were females, most were males. Every once and a while, an Attila “kid” ran around, wild and bloodthirsty.

David saw one particular Attila, who suddenly turned to one of his brothers and ripped his right arm off. That was why they called the monsters the Attila, after Attila the Hun who ripped the limbs off his victims.

He hovered a few yards above the ground. He “gathered” rocks from the ground and struck them through the heads of the Attila. They screamed and withered on the ground. With his will, sand rose from the field and wrapped itself tightly around a few Attila; the sand broke their ribs and the bones pierced their “hearts,” immediately killing them.

David was about to kill another Attila when dark blood wounded around the monster’s neck and broke it. The Attila fell to the ground, dead. He glanced at the girl standing there, with the blood returning to her and hovered about her.

A 15-year-old albino stood there, staring at the Attila with mild interest. She was small and scrawny, like a small white bunny. But she was no way, personality wise, like a bunny. Ophelia was a sadistic, mentally disturbed orphan. Her parents were killed by the Attila when she was eight-years-old. Everybody was certain that if the Attila didn’t exist, Ophelia would’ve turned to the world and cut everybody up with her blood. Her blood was her weapon; all she had to do was create a small wound on her body and she could control her blood. She could strangle or cut up the Attila. Most of the time, she enjoyed cutting them up, seeing their yellow blood.

An Attila ran to her, about to rip her apart, when orange sparks caught onto him and electrocuted him to death. Another adolescent appeared, cracking his knuckles, grinning happily.

Jorge was around David’s age. He was half-Mexican, half-Caucasian, and all rebel. He had two eyebrow piercings, one nose piercing, and two ear piercings. His black hair was spiked up in the back and he wore round, specially designed goggles. Jorge was cool and had quite a record with the police for shoplifting TVs and gitzMos. Orange sparks flew from his hands and electrocuted another Attila.

Ophelia glared at Jorge. “I could’ve killed it myself.”

“Then why didn’t you, Bunny?” he grinned. Despite Ophelia not being innocent at all, Jorge still called her Bunny for her white hair and pink eyes.

“Hey, pay attention!” Bryon yelled at them. He was the oldest of the gang, 24, and often yelled at everybody. He had a muscular build, blonde hair, and icy blue eyes; he’s sometimes insensitive to others’ feelings.

A few feet away from him was Jean (pronounced like Sheen), who had a mysterious bluish-grey mist around herself. An Attila ran toward her, but its grey skin became bluish and his eyes bulged out. He fell over, death by poison. Jeannette was “poisonous” and had a feisty tongue. She could make anybody feel like a piece of crap and often seduced older men. She had long, light brown hair and green eyes.

Jean glanced at David. “’Bout time you showed up,” she grunted.

David dropped down to the ground besides her and glanced around. “Where are Bret and Mitchell?”

“They’re with Alice at the exit of this football field. They’re all making sure none of these monsters get out.”

Another Attila was about to strike David when blood danced around him and ripped him apart. David turned to Ophelia. “Thanks.”

She nodded and turned to a couple of them at her right. She easily ripped them apart as well. Flexing his hand, David summoned rocks and strike them through the heads of the monsters. He was getting better at killing them. He wasn’t the best killer; Bryon was. David wrapped another blanket of sand around a dozen Attila and broke their ribs again. He then glanced at Bryon.

Bryon picked up an Attila and broke her spine. She screamed an otherworldly scream and tried to rip his arm off, but she stopped moving and limped in Bryon’s hands. Bryon threw her away, as if throwing away a piece of trash. Another Attila ran at him, too quick for Bryon to catch. Instead, the man turned his light-colored skin into a metallic grey. The Attila tried to rip his arm off, but was unable to. It usually was with steel. He then grabbed that Attila and broke his spine as well.

Twenty minutes later, they’ve cleared the field of the Attila. Corpses lay across the football field and Jorge sighed at the mess. “Now, we have to clean up,” he groaned.

They always have to do that once they’ve killed them. They couldn’t just leave them here and wait for a human to come and see the monsters. Though, David always wondered what would happen if they did.

Ophelia ignored Jorge and sat down on the yellow, blood-drenched grass. She held her head between the knees and breathed in and out of her mouth slowly. Jean sat down next to her and studied her, eyes narrowed. “Did you lose a lot of blood again?”

“Not a lot,” Ophelia moaned slightly. “But enough to make my head spin.”

Since Ophelia uses her own blood as a weapon, she loses about three cups of blood per Attila fight. Usually, that doesn’t affect her too much: just a few headaches. But if its over four cups, Ophelia could get seriously ill. In addition to her small stature, she also has small blood cells, so they’re slow at multiplying. If she loses more than four cups of blood, it could take days of sleep for her blood to multiply, which leaves her vulnerable. The irony of the situation was that Ophelia’s greatest strength was also her greatest weakness.

Jean stroked her hair, in an attempt to make it better: Ophelia most likely lost about four cups of blood. There were a lot of Attila that night. Jean turned to the guys. “Clean up.”

“What about you?” Jorge asked, narrowing his eyes at the 16-year-old.

“I’m taking care of Ophelia.”

Jorge snorted. “Lamest excuse in the book: Ophelia can take care of herself.”

Bryon hit Jorge’s head softly. “Forget it; let’s just clean up. Besides, everybody else will be here to help in a couple of minutes.”

Jorge sighed. “Fine,” he grumbled. He turned to a few Attila lying together and dragged them by their feet to the center of the field. Everybody else began dragging the corpses to the center.

A few minutes later, the rest of the gang arrived. Henrietta, or as they called her Henri, ran to Ophelia. She pressed her head against her forehead. “You’re fine,” the blonde said. “Just a little dizzy, am I correct?” Ophelia nodded. Henri was the doctor of the group. She could patch up wounds by magic in less than five seconds. Henri turned to the slash on Ophelia inner arm, which had strike a vein. She carefully placed a hand over it. A few seconds later, she removed it and the wound was gone. “There: better,” she said, stroking Ophelia’s hair. Henri was like the gang’s mum; she put everybody else before her and took care of the orphans of the group, like Ophelia.

“Crap,” a sloppily-dressed man said, glancing around the field. “There must’ve been about a hundred here. How did they get here that quickly? I thought Alec patched up the Wound quickly.”

“Apparently not,” a dark-haired adolescent said, dragging another corpse to the center. “I thought I patched it up quickly as well. Mitchell, stop standing there and help already.”

The man grinned sheepishly. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and nudged a fair-haired man. “Hey, Bret, light this for me, would ya?”

Bret sighed and nodded. “Fine.” He snapped his fingers, producing fire on his bare skin, and held it to Mitchell’s cigarette.

Mitchell Lara took a long drag. The hobo was the addict of the group. He spent money on large bottles of beers and packs of cigarettes. Bryon often said it would be the death of him. Mitchell would usually laugh at that, saying his death would be cause by his poor eye sight. With Mitchell being poor and homeless, he can’t afford to get glasses so he often bumped into things. It was a good thing he didn’t often battle the Attila. Even though he was a slob that drank and smoke, nobody hated Mitchell. He had some sort of atmosphere about him that made everybody adore him, even if he did some stupid mistake. It was hard to hate Mitchell.

Bret Thomas was the opposite of Mitchell. He had perfect eye sight, lived comfortably in a small home, and was always dressed nicely as if going to meetings. Bret was an intern in a technology company. He had dark blue eyes and a broad chin with high cheekbones. Like the rest of society, Bret was a Christian, but not so devoted to God that he would burn or hang innocent people. He had an open mind on that subject. He was a friendly, optimistic person who kept everybody’s spirits up.

Alec Delacroix was in his late teens and the most composed one of the gang. Ruthless killings of miscellaneous individuals didn’t disturb him one bit. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and fair skin that can easily tan. Alec also suffers from insomnia from time to time for some unfathomable reason. Why would he stay up, stressing so late, if nothing bothered him? It was something nobody in the group could explain, not even his sister. Despite his lack of sympathy toward innocent people’s deaths, Alec was generally a good person. He was honest, loyal, trustworthy – things that lack in men nowadays. He usually “patches” up the Wounds and erases the memories of any witnesses.

Once everybody gathered up all the corpses in several different piles, Bret went to each pile and lit them on fire. Then, he and the rest of the gang sat with Ophelia and Jean to watch the light “show,” watching the flames lick the bodies gluttonously.

“How pretty,” Ophelia murmured, lifting her head from Jean’s lap.

The gang sat in silence. Then, a scream sounded through the field, destroying the peaceful atmosphere. Alec jumped to his feet immediately and turned his head toward south of the field. “Alice!” He began to run in that direction.

Before anybody else can do anything, David jumped onto the rock he was on before and flew in Alec’s direction. He made it there almost immediately.

Alec stood a few feet away with Alice in his arms, who stared at the Attila creeping toward them. Alec narrowed his eyes at the monster, mostly likely mentally cursing himself for his lack of powers to defend himself and his sister.

David moved himself to the side of the rock, hanging sideways, almost about to fall. Before he did, David pushed the rock with both of his feet toward the direction of the Attila. The rock speeded and hit the leftover Attila, crushing his skull upon impact. The Attila cried out and became motionless.

The dark-skinned boy groaned and rubbed his head, which was banged against the ground. Alice walked out of the safety of her brother’s arms and peered at David’s face. Without saying anything, she stroked his head. Suddenly, David felt at peace at once, even though his head was throbbing, where a large knot began to appear.

That was Alice’s “special little gift”: she could control anyone’s emotions. She could make them feel tranquil and content or panicked and fearful. The eight-year-old was wily and stoic, not as her brother however. Every once and a while, she would lose her cool and show her “true” self: uncontrollable, sadistic, and aggressive. She held her other hand to her mouth and coughed loudly. That was another thing: Alice could get sick easily and often coughs, sneezes, or receives fevers. Alec thinks it’s because of her asthma, though it may be something deeper than that.

A few minutes later, the rest of the gang showed. “What happened,” Bret asked, and glanced at the corpse of the Attila.

“There was one still left alive,” Alec sighed, scratching his head. “It’s fine now, though.”

Henri walked over to David and examined his head. “You’ve got a big bruise, Dave,” she said. David was mildly aware of her healing the bruise. He was in some sort of paradise. It was a fog, but it was a happy, nice fog. It was as if he was high and in that delusional state where he can’t tell right from wrong, day from night, good from evil.

“Alice,” David said. “Can you please stop it? I feel like my old man.”

The kid nodded and the fog disappeared. David sighed in relief. Mitchell took one long, final drag from his cigarette and tossed it at the Attila. A few seconds later, the Attila caught on fire and burned quickly. After the fire subsided, Mitchell turned to Bret; he wrapped his arms around Bret’s neck and stared at him with passionate, burning eyes. “Bret, you should know now that I love you and will always, more than the rest of these children. And I will be there for you even when the whole world isn’t and not even death will tear us apart!”

Bret sighed. “Yes, Mitchell, you can stay at my place tonight.”

“Yay!” Mitchell hugged the man harder. “You wouldn’t regret this! I’ll make you pancakes tomorrow morning!”

Everybody watched the scene with amusement. “That reminds me,” Bryon said suddenly.

Jorge groaned. “Not this again!”

Bryon narrowed his eyes at the boy. “It’s a school night: all of you kids supposed to be at bed by now.”

“This sucks,” Jorge grumbled. “We’ve faced ‘demons,’ nearly died countless times, and still have to go to school.”

David went to his rock and climbed on top; he turned back to the gang. “Got to run: I need to make sure my old man doesn’t hurt himself.”

Everybody nodded and watched him hover out of the field. Mitchell waved and said, “See ya later, Dave!”

A couple of minutes later, David arrived at the apartment building and “parked” his rock right by it, near the parking lot. He soon entered his apartment and went immediately to the fridge: he was hungry. He drank milk straight from the carton and shoved some ice cream sandwiches into his mouth.

“David,” a loud groan sounded from behind him.

David turned to see his old man walking toward him. The 40-something-year-old man had not shaven or took a shower for the past week, either in an attempt to save water or too lazy to. His father had short brown hair that frizzed about his scalp. His dark eyes were swirling around, unable to focus on his son. He wore only a gray undershirt and white boxers.

“David,” the man groaned again.

How pathetic, David thought sadly. That poor, poor man… There was a time when David was younger, that his father was full of life, prancing about his wife and making her laugh at his silliness. There was a time when his father absolutely adored his son, never wanting to hit him. There was a time when his father had never even heard of alcohol.

Look at what alcohol had done to him…

“Where have you been?” the man said, wrapping his arms around his son. “You’d missed dinner. Marcella had cooked Spanish rice with chicken, your favorite.”

Pops was trapped in another memory, thinking that Mum was still alive. David bit his lip, trying not to break down crying right there. He wished his pops wasn’t so pathetic. He wished his pops was sober. He wished his pops didn’t keep reminding him of his lost mum.

“Come on, Davie,” Pops went on. “It’s time to take a shower, and then go to bed. Remember, you have the book report due tomorrow. You don’t want to flunk the 5th grade.” David didn’t have the heart to tell his pops that he was in 12th grade. “Then, we could celebrate your A by going to the movies. You would like that, right? We could watch that new sci-fi flick that came out. The one with explosives and the aliens. The one you begged Marcella and me to take you to. If you get an A, we could go to the movies.”

“Yeah, Dad,” David said. “I’ll take a shower right now. I’m sorry I missed dinner. I’ll make sure I get an A.”

Pops stopped and stared at his son. Then, his lost expression twisted into anger. “BUT YOU DIDN’T GET AN A!” he roared. “YOU GOT A B! A B! NO SON OF MINE GETS A B. HE ONLY GETS A’S!”

Before David could reply, Pops slapped him across the mouth. David stumbled backwards from the impact, holding his cheek. He bit his lip, hoping no tears would appear. That usually just gets his pops angrier.

“I’m sorry!”
“SORRY DOESN’T CUT IT!” he screamed. Suddenly, Pops stopped, returning to his lost expression. “But we went to the movies anyway since you really wanted to go,” he mumbled, turning around and walking away.

David sighed with relief. A slap, that’s all. No furniture being thrown. No bruises. No concerned neighbors knocking on the door. Just one slap.

David took a quick shower and slipped under the covers of his bed. He closed his eyes, asking God why He took away his mum from them. Asking God why this dimension was so messed up.