Devils. Demons. Fiends. Monsters.
Not a clue where they came from, Though most think it's punishment.
There are two kinds.
Pure, nameless beasts: incomparable to any living creature, and scarcely seen. the orchestrators of our apocalypse. The main reason to stay inside at night is because that's when they wake up. Any witness to them comes back mad.
The second are aberrations. Their work.
Aberrations are the slow, deliberate corruption of life. Air turns poisonous, animals become rabid and grotesque. The beasts do their work while man sleeps, tainting more of the world with each passing day.
What stands before me now is an aberration. A horrifying fusion between man, and something else entirely.
A thousand thoughts race through my mind as I stand, frozen in place. What is it doing? Do I shoot it? Of course I should shoot it! But should I really? will it attack? Will I end up like that man on the ground? What part of this thing do I even shoot? Can I even kill it?
My instincts fight to take control as I spiral into shock at the sight in front of me. I manage to compose myself just enough to raise my gun with trembling hands. My finger wavers hesitantly over the trigger, a part of me doesn't want to kill it.
But how can that be? Why would I hesitate now?
I feel like I should lower my weapon.
No, I don't, why would I think that?
I feel like I should walk forward.
Something is wrong.
My thoughts clash violently, my body caught between instinct and something else. My chest tightens, my breathing shallow and rapid. The room feels smaller, the air heavier, pressing down on me like the walls are closing in.
With all the strength I can muster, I shut my eyes and squeeze the trigger.
The shotgun slams into my shoulder, knocking me back a step. Its deafening boom fills the room, drowning out everything else. My ears ring, piercing and unbroken. But just beneath the whine of ringing, I can hear a low, guttural groan, deep and resonant, akin to muffled screaming.
I force my eyes open.
Smoke rises from the barrel of my gun, A dark red fluid gushes out a hole I've just punched into the slick mound of flesh. The pulsing has grown faster, and with each beat more of the fluid sprays outward, splattering the walls, the floor, and me.
And then, the strangest thing begins to happen.
My eyes well up, warmth spills down my cheeks, and I begin to cry.
The tears come, and do not stop, as if they're not mine to control. My hands shake harder now, the shotgun slipping slightly as I struggle to hold it steady. A terrible sense of wrongness spreads through me, guilt and grief clouds my mind. Names and faces and words and memories come rushing back all at once. Crying and pleading and begging and screaming.
I let my gun dip, my grip loosen. And then, I grit my teeth, so hard I feel as though they may crack and shatter under the pressure.
I force my grip to tighten.
I force my hands to rise.
I force my fingers to squeeze.
the shotgun bucks once more, the recoil sharp and painful. My ears ring louder, whining so loud I cannot think. The intensity of its "scream" sends vibrations through my entire body.
But I do not stop yet. I force the lever open, smoke rising from the chamber as empty shells fly out. I force my hands to feed new shells into the empty gun.
I force my fingers to squeeze once.
The blast tears through the air, fire illuminates the room. The mound pulses erratically, a crimson fluid gushing out of every fresh hole I punch into its surface.
And still, I force myself to fire. Again. And again.
Each time the shotgun slams into my shoulder, barrel growing hotter with each pull of the trigger. Each pull of the trigger only amplifies my grief, tears flow harder and harder, but I do not stop.
I force. I force. I force.
Until at last, the mound is still.
And with it, my grief leaves too. Names and faces are softly whisked away. My breathing steadies, and with a sigh, the crushing weight is relieved from my heart.
Even the smell is gone.
The metallic tang that surrounded me for miles has vanished without a trace, leaving only the scent of gunpowder and rot. The disappearance of it sets off alarm bells in my head.
Shotgun shells litter the floor, smoke plumes out the end of the barrel. My breathing is shallow and ragged. My whole body tingles with adrenaline.
Slick fluid oozes out the many holes of the still mound. The man below has stopped moving. His body lies limp on the floor, bony jaw agape.
I take a step forward. Then another. Slowly, cautiously, I approach the remains.
Flesh hangs and stretches across the ruined surface of its skin. dozens of jagged holes litter its disgusting, fleshy exterior. The sight both disgusts and intrigues me. Its construction is an enigma, I can't make out whether the flesh beneath the surface is flesh at all. My stomach churns at the sight, but I can't tear my eyes away.
Tiny pores all over its ..."body". Slick flesh with veins that shine in the light. It's like a beating tumor. My mind races, trying to make sense of it, but the longer I stare, the worse the nausea grows.
I force myself to look away.
My gaze falls on the man lying at the base of the mound. He is still now, his jaw slack, his body limp. Clutched in his left hand is a pistol—a Browning Hi-Power, its dark frame covered in crimson.
I crouch slowly, the floor creaking under my weight. For a moment, I hesitate, staring at the gun in his hand. His fingers twitch faintly, his nerves burning out. I grimace, then gingerly pluck the weapon from his grasp, using two fingers to avoid the disgusting residue.
The gun is weighty, its handle slick and slippy with the mounds blood. I wipe it clean with a torn strip of the man's shirt. and shove it in my cargo pants. It might prove useful.
But the man himself…
My eyes are locked onto his body, or what's left of it. The sight twists my stomach, but there's a heaviness in my chest, too. Sadness. Disgust. Maybe even guilt. Whatever he endured, it's over now. At least he's at peace.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, the words barely audible.
Straightening, I turn toward the door. My steps are slow, my legs heavy. As I leave, I pull the door closed behind me, listening for the click of the latch. The soft sound echos through the quiet home with a hollow, yet comforting finality.
It's over. I let myself sink to the floor, and breathe.
But my ears still ring like all hell, and I'm tired, and I'm hungry, and I'm covered in filth. and I'm still scared. Scared of an unboarded window, or an unblocked door, or something that crawled into my pack without me knowing.
No way all those gunshots went unnoticed.
So despite my screaming stomach and trembling quads, I push myself back up, and get to work.
The first order of business is to block the broken door. Easy enough. I grab a chair from the living room, the legs screeching against the floor as I drag it into place. The handle wobbles when I press the chair back against it, but it'll hold.
I pause for a moment, pressing my ear against the wobbly, unlocked door, straining to catch the faintest sound from outside. But it's no use. The ringing in my ears drowns out everything else.
"Sure hope that's not permanent," I mutter under my breath. It probably is.
With a sigh, I turn toward the stairs. My flashlight shines up the stairway, its beam cutting through dust but failing to penetrate the darkness above. All I can see is the worn, dusty carpet underfoot and the wooden handrail that stretches upward into the void.
I take the steps slowly, each creak loud enough to set my teeth on edge. My shotgun stays trained on the darkness above, waiting for the moment something jumps out to kill me.
But nothing comes.
At the top of the stairs, my flashlight catches on a thickly boarded window to the right. Not a peep of light makes it through, but even looking at it brings unease. To the left, a dark hallway stretches into shadow, its walls barely visible in the dim light.
I stop and listen again, holding my breath.
...
Still. Can't. Hear. Shit.
My attempt at humor only brings more unease, The ringing in my ears means I don't know if anything's coming.
I really don't like that. But what can I do?
With a shaky breath, I ready my gun, tightening my grip until my knuckles ache. The hallway stretches before me, its darkness thick and unyielding. My flashlight wavers as I take my first step, slow and deliberate, into the dark.
On my left and right are two opposing doors. Beyond them, I can just make out another doorway to the left before the hallway disappears into darkness again.
I place a cautious hand on the first door to the left, fingers curling around the handle. It's cool to the touch. My breath catches as I twist it and push the door open.
The room is… normal.
An unmade bed sprawls across the center, its sheets tangled and half-hanging to the floor. Open cupboards reveal messy piles of clothes, the fabric spilling out like someone left in a hurry. The air is stagnant and stale, dust dances in the flashlight beam, settling thickly on every surface. The far window, thankfully, has been boarded up, the planks solid and secure.
Nothing moves. Nothing stands out.
The room is clear. I breathe a shaky sigh of relief, the tension in my chest loosening for just a moment.
Stepping back into the hallway, I face the next door. My pulse quickens again as I reach for the handle, the metal cool to the touch. With a twist, I open it.
A disheveled bathroom greets me.
The shower curtain drapes across the floor, ripped from its bindings. The sink is filled to the brim with stagnant water, its surface glinting faintly under my flashlight. A rough stench fills the air, the toilet is completely clogged.
I take a step back, swallowing hard. There's nothing here for me.
I click the door shut behind me, sealing the stench inside, before heading further down the hallway.
I make my way to the second door on the left, with cupboards opposite the small, white door. I go through the same process again. Fingers curl around cool metal, heart beating in its bony cage. I twist and press, swinging the door open.
My heart sinks.
It's a kid's room.
Sadness settles in my gut like a heavy stone as I step inside. The air is stale, but tinged with the scent of crayons and plastic. My boots sink into a soft, colorful playmat, the vibrant patterns dulled by a layer of dust. Toys lie scattered across the floor, A doll house to the left, an assortment of cars to the right.
Two single beds are tucked against the far wall, one pink, one blue. I frown at the sight.
The room feels frozen in time, as though someone had left in a hurry and never returned.
For a moment, I just stand there, taking it all in. I want to think these children are ok, but I know they aren't, I can't get myself to. I feel sick at the thought.
I need to get the hell out of this country.
I crouch and pick up a toy car, its chipped paint and tiny wheels coated in dust. For a second, I just hold it, the smooth plastic oddly warm in my hand. Then I set it gently back onto the floor, the gesture feeling empty even as I do it.
Straightening, I step back into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind me, the sound echoing faintly in the stillness. I stand for a moment, sobered and hollow, before I turn to the left, and head down to the end of the corridor.
A large white door stands at the end of the hall, its paint chipped and flaking. A round bronze handle gleams under my light, its surface smooth and dull with age. I reach out, wrapping my fingers around it. The metal feels indifferent, neither warm nor cold.
Twisting the handle, I push the door open.
The master bedroom greets me with silence. A white double bed takes up the right corner of the room. Blinds and boards have been stapled to the far windows, neither light nor air makes it through them.
The air is heavy, stale and cold, I doubt this room has seen fresh air in weeks. Still, the bed looks good enough, and the boards on the window are solid.
I breathe a deep sigh of relief, the house is clear.
With a heavy click, my pack slides off my aching shoulders, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Sweet relief.
The bed is wonderfully soft. Collapsing onto it feels like heaven after a day like this, my body sinking into the mattress, every muscle begging for rest. But I can't. Not yet.
I let myself linger for just a moment before forcing myself back up.
Securing the door takes no time. The handle comes with a built-in lock, and I shove a chair under it to be safe. A quick search of the room yields little of use beyond a clean pair of socks, but it eases my mind. No surprises here.
At last, I start to strip off my gear
First, the boots. They're caked with layers of muck, water trickling out as I tug them off with a wet squelch. My socks follow, just as soaked, clinging to my feet like a second skin. My toes ache as they finally breathe.
Next comes my waistbelt, the knife, canteen, and pouches clinking faintly as I set them aside. The cold, tattered brown jacket comes last, peeling away from my skin with a damp heaviness.
I'm too tired to even think about heading downstairs. Whatever scraps of food are left in my bag will have to do.
A heavy clunk in my pocket reminds me of something—the gun I picked up.
I pull it out and hold it in my hands. The metal is sticky, streaked with a drying residue that reeks of copper and rot. I grimace, turning it over in my fingers. Despite the filth, it fits surprisingly well in my hand, the weight balanced and familiar.
But the smell is awful, and if I don't clean it soon, the metal will probably start to rust.
I sigh. Another task to check off before I can sleep...
...
After hours of trudging through barren field and endless fog, I finally climb into bed, claiming my hard-won reward: rest. The mattress is soft, the sheets rough but better than the cold, wet ground.
My weapons lie within arm's reach, my shotgun on the floor beside me, my knife tucked under the pillow. No bullets for the pistol.
My ears still faintly ring as I close my eyes, but the sound seems further now.
I begin to think as sleep creeps over me
"...wonder how much longer I've got left..."
Darkness.