Arthur Langdon hadn't experienced fear.

Sure, he had gotten worried over things- whether the oven was left on at home, for example- be hadn't felt that raw, primal fear so deeply ingrained in all of

us.

But looking down the barrel of that shotgun, however, Arthur had finally discovered what it meant to be afraid. Fear for one's life, the most basic one, was what had him shaking and shivering right now.

After all, when does such a successful man like Arthur go so heavily wrong that they're tied up, with their head firmly pressed against that muddy moor soil that he had grown accustomed to after all these years?

He simply did not know. He couldn't know even if he wanted to- alarm belle ringing in every gland and cortex in his brain. Fight or flight. Fear of the Unknown. And the most pressing en/of all, trying not to get shot.

It would take a miracle for that to happen, what with the big angry nomad standing over him. The kind of big fellow that had presumably been so since the dawn of hie y existence- perpetually musclebound- his hulking frame backlit by the full moon. Arthur failed to note the almost morbid beauty of this., only the Mossberg 500 the bandit held in his hands.

The one that was pointed at him, no less.

"Now, I'm giving ya one more chance... where's yer company vault, rich boy?" A harsh accent- could have been Scottish, Texan or even Australian- Arthur didn't know, or care right now. He strung some sort of reply together, trying his best

to not choke or fumble with them.

"For Christ's sake told you, there is no company vault!"

A pause, as the big guy pumped his shotgun for what felt like the millionth time. "That ain't what I heard. One of your guys told me that yer hiding all that tech of yours under the ground somewhere."

"The guy probably just wants me dead. I'm not hoarding my supplies- and if I was, what would I be doing in the middle of the countryside without them?"

"...guess I didn't think that through much."

"Evidently."

"Don't gimne attitude, mister."

"Like you haven't spent the last hour calling me names and pointing that gun at my head?"

"That's different."

"How is it different- actually, I'll give you that. It's worse than anything I've 3 done so far."

"I was just trying to get something outta ya."

 Funny that- Arthur felt more annoyed than scared now, even if he was still tied up and at the fellow's mercy, he'd make him feel sorry for it.

"Something that doesn't exist."

"I know that now."

"I know for a fact that former employee doesn't exist either."

"Yes he does- I's here, ain't I?"

"I don't even know you!"

"I was a janitor-"

"Sure you were. I bet you just wanted to get back at the greedy capitalist CEO' for being more successful than you've ever been, you freak. Am I right, huh? That's right, you've shut up because you know I have a point-"

A loud bang, then silence. The big fellow- an Alco. janitor by the name of. Roland- blew smoke from the barrel of his shotgun. He knew there was no company vault. He just wanted to keep his former boss talking. He only wished that he had used better ammo, not the shells people use for hunting small game and all that. Whatever. It was fine. Arthur's face was still ripped eight ways from Tuesday. Skin tearing off like a paper in the wind, barely staying on there, exposing the red and hints of hard white underneath. Eyes only half closed, the bottom lids missing. What Roland didn't notice was those eyes.

Darting back, forth, this way and that. Arthur dared not scream, let alone breathe. He didn't have the luxury too, even if he wanted to. He couldn't feel his nose in that inferno of pain that was his face at the moment. Or his mouth. It felt like it was being kept open with some sort of coil, like the ones used to keep cars above ground in garages. He could hear, though. The thump of Roland's boots against that muddy moor soil. The whisper of the wind. The caws of crows, looking for their next meal.

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Sooner or later time has fled from Arthur, every second feels like an hour, but so frighteningly short the instant it has elapsed- he is alone with what scant thoughts he can gather and observe.

One of them being a euphemism for such an activity, filing paperwork in a burning office. It felt appropriate, especially with how his face was feeling. On fire didn't do justice to it- ablaze neither. An inferno sounded better. More poetic. As did the crow currently trying to peck at him. Edgar Allen Poe would have been proud, that such was certain.

Arthur rolled around, trying to mind his face while he was at it. After a bit of a shifting about, he was sat up, as the crow hopped back a couple of paces, not liking the fact that her dinner was seemingly alive and kicking.

All that remained now was to untie his bounds, and hopefully find someone who could quite literally fix his face. It was very wishful thinking, but it was better than contemplating the worst-case scenario, a slow death at the hands of starvation, or perhaps a slightly swifter one by bloodloss.

It was very annoying to try to find his knife when his wrists were bound together. He had to cram one of two hands into his suit pocket and feel around for what could have been his knife. Instead, he found a lighter, his pistol, and a stick of chewing gum from god knows when. time

Arthur thought all was lost, until he remembered that he had his knife strapped t his boot. Lovely. Now he had to get the knife, strapped to his bound-together leg with his bound-together hands.

This won't be much of a struggle, Arthur thought.

That changed after the seventh minute of unclipping the damned thing from its sheath. By the eighth, Arthur felt like he had experienced all six stages of grief in what could have been a new seventh one but actually the first all over again. By the twelfth, he had finally got over the issue, instead now trying to cut the bounds on his wrist without cutting himself in the process.

It was long, painful- torture, even.

By the time Arthur could stand up, the sun was beginning to rise.

Walking in mud is already an annoying enough business, but to Arthur it now felt even more so. It was drawn out, for one.

That idyllic scenery was rubbish as well, if there had been any his company had spared before the outbreak. It was all bleak mud, tree stumps, and small factory buildings, for what seemed like miles around.

He couldn't help but remember first pitching the idea of setting up shop in the moors, telling the shareholders, who came armed with their climate change nonsense that had been making the rounds recently. Even more rubbish, as far as he was concerned.

Even as he walked into another one of those electrical sheds, in all its sooty and grimy glory, he still maintained it. The climate's changing, so we don't have to, he remembered saying.

And change it. The winters were colder, hastier and longer now. Arthur certainly felt it, as he huddled closer to a warm water pipe.

That walk and left him knackered, really, really tired. Before he could hit in this case the pipe, He made sure to tie the shed's sole door closed, with his belt, the door handle, and a pipe on the wall, still decently sturdy if rusty.

He couldn't risk having some bandit thinking he's Robin hood showing up when he was sleeping. Or a blighter, for that matter. Anything that would try to shoot his face. what's left of it, at least.