Most Metal Love Story 2: Riders of Redemption

Updated on November 6, 2017
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I write creative writing pieces inspired by '80s action, gaming, and heavy metal—classic 'good vs evil' stories with twists.

"See you on the Other Side!"

So here I lie, a huge sacrificial knife over my head waiting to gut me like a fish; my left hand is ripped off and I can't feel my legs; that large abomination must have broken every bone in them when it stomped me that time. Crowds here and back on Earth are going wild, chanting for the executioner to make the move; regardless of the (very) unfavorable odds; I still held my right hand aloft with my middle finger rising like a church tower.

I knew I wasn't going to win many fights in my condition but something clicked inside me, whatever it was, it released much-needed adrenaline into my bloodstream. As the knife began lowering to my throat, I dodged to one side; causing the blade to get stuck in the altar. Fast as I could, I slugged the executioner what could have been his nasal bridge. He fell backward.

"Now what?!" my mind asked me as I rolled over and fell from the altar, "delaying the inevitable, you moron!"

Gathering whatever strength I had using fear and desperation as a catalyst, I managed to get up from the floor; finding out that my legs were just numb from impact; fractured but not broken. Slowly but surely, I started to run in a direction I randomly chose; going on pure gut feeling.

I wasn't thinking of escape, but finding a weapon; even a hellish broom handle would do just fine! It was dark, stank of death and products of rat life in this place; an unholy church where many met their ends; meaning that whatever weapons they brought must still be there or at least stored somewhere; one thing for sure if I make it out of here, some serious airstrikes have to be launched.

Suddenly, the atmosphere became more tense, as if the church was alive; the ugly, unholy icons hanging on the walls appeared to be looking at me; as if reading my thoughts and making their presence known. I felt that they are trying to communicate telepathically. That or I was going mad from the blood loss I suffered. My ears were filled with howls and screams of pain while my eyes saw inverted crosses and burning cities.

My groping and shambling in the dark turned to a mad sprint away from my current location in hopes of getting away from the noise that grew louder and louder. How did I grow from a brave gladiator ready to defend the honor of Pakistani women to a vulnerable cripple beaten by loud noise?!

That thought was cut short by a door I busted open during my sprint. Regaining consciousness, I came to my new love; an abandoned MG42 machinegun lying next to what appeared to be its deceased owner; a huge man wearing Vietnam War-era fatigues; appeared to have died from suicide as he held a Colt.45 1911 and had a 45. caliber hole in his temple.


Preparation Montage track

MG42

The Dead Trigger

Upon picking up the gun, it was slightly battle-damaged but the barrel was straight and the mechanisms worked. It brandished the words "DEAD TRIGGER" engraved into its' stock. It wasn't the MG42 of World War 2 times; this one was customised with drum magazines, made from a lighter material (fortunate for my condition) and re-worked to shoot 7.62mm ammo. I picked up the death machine after tying bullet belts onto my chest Rambo style, I also holstered the handgun as backup.

Carrying a heavy machine gun with one hand is not easy even with it tied to my shoulder, but the odds are semi-even now; However, I'm not going back to Earth, there's still unfinished business here. Cleansing this unholy cathedral and while I am here, surprise the hell out of the huge abomination that attacked me.

Backtracking my journey to the entrance, the entire demonic infestation decided to wake up and charge head-on. Meeting their end from the marvel of German engineering swarm by swarm. The ammo turned out to be HE (highly explosive) so it meant demon parts flying everywhere as the walls were painted splatter red and grey matter grey. The telepathic communication from whatever demonic deity was silenced by the Dead Trigger.

Adrenaline pumping madly, I let loose a snarl that a Viking berserk would be proud of as ghouls, former humans (possessed or undead) and reptilians vanished into red mist punctuated by eyes, brain pieces, and broken bones. Although they were demons and I was in their dominion, their numbers thinned out as I reached the entrance where I was beaten; the door was open (more like destroyed) and a familiar sound was heard outside; it sounded like a motorcycle engine; a powerful one.

A Welcome Back-up

"For a satanic church, its empty here." I heard an American accent outside, followed by a cocking of a lever-action rifle. I stopped and listened on; two more powerful bikes pulled up and more heavy footsteps began moving closer.

"HOLD IT!" I spun around and came face to face with a huge man in a leather jacket and ripped jeans; his M16 glared at me ready to let fly. We were in Hell after all. "Stand down, I'm human," I answered calmly, lowering the Dead Trigger; that didn't convince him. Luckily, another leather-bound warrior walked in, tapped his comrade on the shoulder and with a sarcastic smile ordered. "Stand down, its that defend Pakistani girls' honor guy we saw being executed!"

The M16 no longer pointed at me, both men approached closer, "Dude, you are a wreck!" taunted the M16 rifleman "Whatever kind of drugs you are on, share 'em!" I smiled and let him have the explanation I gave to all my friends on Earth; "Pakistani girls are my battle stimulant, sir." The warrior's expression switched to laughter.

"Listen to this guy!" He chuckled.

"You must have some testosterone to go to Hell unarmed!" the other warrior added.

Hanging the Dead Trigger on my shoulder, I looked at the men for possible signs of belonging to any organised forces; they didn't bear any. "So, who are you guys with?" I asked. "We are Riders of Redemption" the second warrior replied, pointing at a silver patch on his right sleeve; it was a crucifix. "God's chosen special forces behind enemy lines."

"I heard of you guys," I answered starstruck. "You destroyed that Satanic grooming gang in NYC and guarded a Christian masse in Karachi; it would be my honor to fight by your side!"

Both men, without further words, lead me outside to their bikes; heavily modded Harley Davidsons with mounted machine guns on the sides, a side-car on one of them and a heavy spiked shield on the front side of another. There were other riders outside, men in heavy armor, carrying MAC-10s, Uzis and Model 1887 lever action shotguns.

"Riders!" shouted one of my escorts, "Welcome our new brother; Brother RAZOR!"

Other riders raised their weapons and fists into the red, hellish sky, revving up their engines louder as if sending every demon here a message; "Run while you can!"



Freewheel Burning

Blood red hellscapes and smell of burning air flies by as I ride with my brothers; a squad of heavily armored bikers carrying brutal weaponry as classic heavy metal lifts the combat mood. I rode in a sidecar carrying the Dead Trigger, sitting right next to a bolted-on sound system pumping out "Freewheel Burning" By Judas Priest. Giving my MG42 a loving stroke, I scanned my angles as bikes with lighter armor sped ahead for recon. The Christian bikers acted professionally; we rode in a spearhead (Armored Spearhead) formation which concentrates as much firepower into a small front; good for overwhelming enemy defenses; we had pointmen to scout ahead (the bikers who sped ahead) and enough firepower to level a village.

Moments later, we found ourselves surrounded by winged demons, screeching and clawing at us. I let loose the fury of the Dead Trigger; bet they didn't even know what was hitting them! My attention was on the sky playing flak cannon while my brothers cleaned the way ahead.

The rider at the front had a battering ram bolted on his bike; he cleared the way for us as others shotgunned and rapid fired the resistance on the ground. I didn't even notice a demon climbing on my position until his blood splattered my face as the driver ventilated his cranium with his 1887.

"Hold fast, brothers!" shouted the lead rider/driver of the bike I rode shotgun on, "We are close to the Defiler!"

"Defiler?" I asked.

"An assault weapon of Hell to be used on the checkpoint that seals the gate." He replied, "Later to be used on Earth; populating it with hell's forces!"

Suddenly, it dawned on me that if I was truly going to do something useful, I thought of sacrificing myself to destroy this superweapon. "Do we have any explosives?" I asked checking my ammo.

"We have C4." the driver replied.

"The Defiler is mine" I offered, "I'll make a suicide vest from the C4; for the greater good." (My mind added...for Hira.)

The driver gave an encouraging, respectful nod and drove on, increasing speed.



Epilogue

"CHECKPOINT 1 TO HQ, WE GOT A SITUATION; EVACUATE....REPEAT EVACUATE! WE HAVE A LARGE FORCE APPROACHING US AND WE ARE OUTGUNNED! WE LOST AN ENTIRE DIVISION TO......FLYING BAT CREATURES!"

"Copy Checkpoint 1, hold position, a motorized division is on its way to provide support, we also sent a Hind gunship."

"HQ.....we have a small strike team inbound...looks like bikers; they are attacking the demons.....what is he doing........he's out of his mind.........THE LARGE SIEGE WEAPON IS DESTROYED...REPEAT ITS DESTROYED!"

© 2017 Jake Clawson

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