Seconds slowly tricked into minutes, each tick a tiny hammer blow against the quiet of the night. Overhead, the sky was a bruised purple, clouds bunched up like fists ready to throw down more rain. Every now and then, lightning flickered, showing Arthur the lonely stretch of land around him.
He'd found a spot a little ways back from the sand pit's edge—a broken chunk of what might've been a wall once. Good for leaning on, bad for offering real cover if things went south. Not that there was much cover out here anyway, except...
His gaze went back to it, the thing called a Bloater Apple. It wasn't on a proper tree, more like a twisted-up bush growing near the pit's edge. Just one fruit, fat and round, glowing faintly red in the dark. The way it pulsed reminded him of those glowing things he'd seen inside the Bloater Zombie back when he rode the wolf.
The thing was, Arthur had already learned the hard way about these Bloater Apples. That other one he'd tried to grab… there'd been one of those bloated bastards sleeping right under it. One touch and the ground had started shaking like it was angry.
This one was the same, he could just tell. He'd seen a disturbed patch of ground near the base of the bush. Something big was down there, taking a dirt nap.
Finally, the ground wasn't just trembling anymore—it was goddamn heaving. The patch of disturbed dirt by the Bloater Apple bush ripped open like something was clawing its way out from below. Arthur hunched lower behind the broken wall, not that it'd do much good against what was coming.
"Just the one, please," he muttered under his breath.
"Let me deal with this fat bastard before the rest of your undead party shows up."
But even as he said it, Arthur felt that familiar twist in his gut. The one that told him whenever things were going too smoothly, the other shoe was about to drop... hard. It was like the goddamn universe, or maybe that bastard god up there, was making sure Arthur earned every inch of his supposed redemption.
No time to dwell on it. The ground split fully now. Arthur didn't need to see to know that sickly yellow glow was about to rise up. He pulled the arrow back on the bowstring, aiming for the spot where he figured the bloated bastard's chest would be. The bow creaked—cheap, but serviceable.
"Come on, you overstuffed Thanksgiving turkey," Arthur breathed, the words a mix of nerves and grim humor.
"Let's see if you like sand pits as much as I'm hoping you do."
The ground ruptured with a final, wet heave. Arthur nearly choked on the stench that hit him—like something had crawled up and died inside a butcher shop, left out in the sun for a week. Even the rain hadn't washed away that foulness. But worse than the smell was the sound—a sucking, squelching noise as the Bloated Zombie pulled itself free of the dirt.
It was even bigger than the one he'd glimpsed during his wolf-ride. Skin stretched thin over its bulk, those damn glowing pustules pulsing under the surface. Arthur hadn't even noticed until now—the Bloater Apple bush wasn't growing near the thing, it was growing out of it. Right through the zombie's shoulder, the fruit now looking more like some grotesque tumor.
"Fuck, that's just wrong," Arthur muttered, even as he loosed the arrow. The string twanged, the sound too loud in the quiet night. But instead of the satisfying thunk he'd hoped for, the arrow veered off course, sailing wide and harmlessly into the darkness.
"Shit!" The curse left his lips before he could stop it. "Cheap-ass arrows, gotta love 'em."
It wasn't just that they were poorly made; light as feathers, they were at the mercy of every little breeze. And out here, near the sand pit, even the slightest change in air currents could screw up your aim.
The Bloated Zombie, oblivious for now, was pulling itself fully upright, swaying slightly. But Arthur didn't waste time cursing his luck. Another arrow was nocked, this one inspected more carefully. He took a breath, gauging the wind direction now, factoring in the almost weightless feel of the arrow as he adjusted his aim once more.
This time, he thought, this time you oversized pincushion, you're mine.
The second arrow sang through the air. This shot felt truer, and this time, there was no missing the meaty target. With a sickening splotch, the arrow plunged into the Bloated Zombie's distended belly, piercing one of the yellowish sacs pulsing beneath its skin.
A roar erupted—less a human sound, more a guttural bellow of pure, primal rage. But mixed in with it was something else… a high-pitched whine, like something vital had just been violated. Arthur didn't kid himself, that arrow wouldn't kill the thing, not even close. But it sure as hell pissed it off.
Yellowish, mucus-like goo oozed from the wound, the stench even more eye-watering now. The Bloater Zombie, its limbs flailing blindly, stumbled forward, drawn to the source of its pain – Arthur. Or, more precisely, the direction the arrow had come from.
Arthur's eyes darted between the approaching monster and the edge of the sand pit, barely visible in the moonlight. Twenty paces… maybe fifteen now. He'd deliberately positioned himself to use the terrain to his advantage, but everything rode on whether this lumbering, rotting sack of flesh followed the path he'd laid out for it.
But Mother Nature, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor. Just as the Bloated Zombie lumbered within spitting distance of the pit's edge, lightning cracked the sky. It illuminated the grotesque creature in a blinding flash, momentarily freezing the scene before plunging them back into an unsettling gloom.
The bolt didn't hit the zombie directly. It didn't need to. The force of the strike, the way the air itself seemed to crackle and shift, caught the Bloater Zombie sideways. Arthur swore he felt the ground vibrate beneath his own feet. With a sound like wet meat slapping against a wall, the zombie was hurled several feet, missing the sand pit completely.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Arthur roared, throwing his arms up in frustration. His carefully laid trap, his moment of tactical brilliance... all for naught, thanks to a random act of meteorological cruelty.
It didn't take long for the Bloated Zombie to right itself. And that's when Arthur's suspicions were confirmed – even with the stench of decay, the wind whipping around them, the thing was zeroing in on him. Those milky, unseeing eyes might not have functioned the way they did in life, but something else was guiding this rotting monster.
"So you can sense me, can you?" he muttered, backing away as the zombie, now on a direct course for him, picked up speed. The sand pit, now a cruel reminder of his failed strategy, was completely out of the equation.
"Time for plan B," he muttered. There was no plan B, but standing his ground meant getting up close and personal with a creature best described as a walking, rotting biohazard.
No, this was a game of cat and mouse now, with Arthur very much the smaller, less smelly rodent. He bolted, not towards the settlement, not yet, but parallel to the sand pit. His hope? To use his own movement as bait, to lure the Bloated Zombie back into the path of its doom.
Every heavy thud of the zombie's pursuit was a reminder—this was beyond reckless, it was flirting with suicide. He was a goddamn beacon, drawing this thing closer with every second, his own scent and the panic he couldn't quite keep down were a dinner bell in the dark.
If his luck went south really fast, he wouldn't just have one Bloater Zombie to deal with. Those goddamn wolf things traveled in packs, he'd seen enough of that during his little midnight joyride. And if a whole horde caught his scent…
Arthur pushed those thoughts down. Worrying about what might happen was a luxury for people with a lot more time and a lot fewer rotting things on their tail.
If Arthur's luck was a horse, it would've tripped over its own hooves and face-planted straight into a pile of manure. Because as if having a walking, rotting corpse hot on his heels wasn't enough, the symphony of the night decided to kick into high gear.
A long, drawn-out howl pierced the downpour, echoing across the barren landscape. It wasn't the mournful cry of a lonely canine; it was the chilling serenade of an undead hunter, a sound Arthur knew meant only one thing – those damn zombie wolves were awake and looking for a late-night snack.
"You've got to be shitting me!" he cursed, pushing himself harder. The rain, which had been a steady drizzle moments ago, decided now was the perfect time to unleash a torrential downpour. The ground, already loose sand in places, turned into a treacherous, slippery mess. One wrong step and he'd be eating dirt, with a side of zombie breath.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. Even in the dim light, the Bloater Zombie's bulk was unmistakable, and it was gaining on him. The damn thing was faster than it had any right to be, its huge arms pumping, those glowing pustules pulsing with a sickly light.
There was no way he could outrun this thing, not for long. And close-quarters combat with a Bloater Zombie? Yeah, no thanks. Arthur had seen firsthand what happened when those things got too close— they weren't called 'bloaters' for nothing. One wrong move, one misplaced step, and he'd be splattered across the landscape, his soul likely taking an express elevator straight to hell.
"Think, Arthur, think!" he growled, his mind racing. He had to end this quickly, had to make that sand pit a factor again somehow.