Day 64: The Aftermath, Part 1
Vince rode back through the desolate streets, his motorcycle cutting through the eerie morning quiet. The city was still and lifeless, save for the occasional gust of wind that stirred the dust and debris. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of the previous night, where the roars of engines and the screams of creatures had echoed through the industrial district. Vince had been eager to see the aftermath of his handiwork, to witness the destruction he had set in motion.
As he approached the warehouse, Vince felt a mix of anticipation and unease. The plan had been simple: create chaos, lure the creatures, and let them tear the place apart. It was a crude strategy, but it was effective. He'd expected to come back to a scene of utter carnage, a message to anyone who thought they could defy the Black Fangs.
But as Vince slowed his bike near the entrance, something felt off.
The warehouse stood as it had the night before, its steel walls battered and dented but still intact. The heavy doors hung awkwardly on their hinges, slightly ajar, as if they had been pried open and hastily shut again. Vince dismounted, his boots crunching against the shattered glass and rubble scattered across the ground. The place was quiet, too quiet, and though he tried to shake it off, the feeling of unease lingered.
"Get a grip," he muttered to himself, pushing the thoughts aside. He was here to scavenge whatever was left. If Luke and his group hadn't made it, then it was time to take what they'd refused to give.
Vince pulled the door open with a loud creak, the heavy metal protesting under his grip. As he stepped inside, his nose was assaulted by the stench of blood and decay. He wrinkled his nose, pushing forward as he surveyed the interior.
The warehouse was a mess. Shelves and crates were scattered everywhere, many of them broken and splintered from the chaos of the night before. Vince stepped over a shattered wooden crate, kicking aside a few dented cans that had rolled free. Most of the supplies were gone, but he could see the remains of what had once been a decent stockpile.
"Looks like they didn't get away with much," Vince said, scanning the scene. There were scattered cans of food—some intact, some crushed beneath the debris. Shelves were overturned, and several large storage bins had been smashed open, their contents spilled across the floor.
He moved deeper into the warehouse, his eyes tracing the signs of struggle. There were long streaks of blood across the concrete floor, as if something had been dragged. The dark stains were splattered haphazardly, leading toward the back of the warehouse. Vince's grip tightened on the handle of his knife as he followed the trail, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.
The further he walked, the more destruction he saw. More broken shelves, overturned crates, and twisted metal beams littered the ground. It was clear that the creatures had done their job—at least partially. But what stood out most was the sheer amount of blood. It painted the walls, the floors—thick, dark pools that told of a brutal, desperate fight.
Vince's unease deepened as he rounded a corner and saw the massive body of one of the giants sprawled across the floor.
The creature's enormous form lay crumpled and still, its leathery skin torn and bruised. The giant's head was caved in, the skull shattered as if it had been bludgeoned repeatedly with something heavy. The beam it had wielded as a weapon was still clutched in its hand, its surface slick with blood—both human and its own. Vince stared at the scene, his eyes narrowing in confusion.
"What the hell happened here?"
He had seen these giants in action before. They were slow but devastating, capable of crushing anything in their path with raw, unrestrained power. But this one… it hadn't just been killed. It had been beaten, brutally, as if someone—or something—had fought back with everything they had.
Vince circled the body, his boots squelching in the thick puddles of blood. He crouched down, examining the giant's injuries more closely. Deep cuts and gashes ran along its arms and torso, and the head wounds were severe—blunt force trauma, repeated strikes. But there were other marks too—smaller wounds, like those from knives or sharp implements.
"This wasn't just the creatures," Vince muttered, his brow furrowing. "They fought back."
The realization sent a chill down his spine, one he tried to brush off. It was possible that Luke's group had managed to kill the giant before being overwhelmed, but it didn't add up. The damage to the creature's skull was too deliberate, too focused. It looked more like a calculated execution than a frantic battle.
Vince stood up, scanning the area for any other signs of life. There was blood—so much blood—but no bodies. No sign of Luke, Cass, or the others. It was as if they had vanished, leaving only the destruction behind.
He moved through the debris, kicking aside a broken crate as he stepped deeper into the warehouse. The sense of unease gnawed at him, but he pushed it down. He was here to scavenge, to take what was left. The Black Fangs were always looking for supplies, and even if this haul was smaller than expected, it would still serve.
But the more he looked, the more unsettling the scene became. Vince found more broken crates, but some of the cans inside were still intact, scattered haphazardly on the ground as if dropped in haste. He bent down, picking up a dented can of beans, his reflection distorted in the blood-smeared metal. It was a small find, but something was better than nothing.
As he continued to search, Vince's eyes kept drifting back to the giant's body. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that he was missing something crucial. The scene was chaotic, but it was also strangely deliberate. It was as if someone had gone to great lengths to destroy not just the supplies, but any trace of what had happened here.
Vince ran his fingers along the edge of a broken shelf, noting the deep gouges carved into the wood. His mind flashed back to the explosion, to the creatures riled up and charging the warehouse. He had expected destruction, but this… this felt different. Almost planned.
"Where are you?" Vince muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He couldn't help but feel like he was being watched, like the walls themselves were holding onto secrets he couldn't see. But he shook off the feeling, chalking it up to nerves. It was just an empty warehouse, and he was alone. The group was either dead or gone, and the creatures had done their job.
Still, something about the scene didn't sit right with him.
Vince made his way toward the back of the warehouse, where the bloodstains were thickest. He could see more signs of a struggle—broken beams, splintered wood, and shattered glass. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the floor was sticky underfoot.
He stopped beside a large pool of blood, his eyes drawn to a single, deep set of footprints leading away from the mess. They were smeared, uneven, as if whoever had left them was struggling to stay upright.
Vince stared at the prints, his mind racing. He didn't like it. He didn't like any of it. This wasn't the clean, easy victory he'd planned. It was messy, chaotic, and filled with too many unknowns.
But he brushed off the unease, forcing himself to focus. The Black Fangs had won, and that was what mattered. They had sent their message, and if anyone was left alive, they'd be too scared to try anything again.
Vince stood up straight, wiping his hands on his pants as he turned back toward the entrance. He had seen enough. He'd take what he could and get out. There was no point in lingering, no point in worrying about the details. The job was done.
But as he walked away, the feeling of being watched lingered, a constant, nagging presence that followed him out of the warehouse and into the cold, silent morning.
It was probably nothing.