(~ 5-6 Hours ago)

Earl cursed himself within his head for his careless actions which may have cost more than just his life. Damm grief, he hated it, that familiar company was a burden on his already aging mind. It had resulted in this situation: a useless girl, six hostiles, a rifle with no ammo, and a handgun with eight bullets in the magazine.

Quick thinking was never his forte, action always seemed to work best for him, but not this time. No, the girl would be at best injured and at worst killed if this came down to a fight. He remembered the other day, she’d probably faint or start bawling at the slightest sign of blood, others or her own.

Thinking it’d be best if she ran, he laid down his hand upon her shoulder as gently as he could in this situation. He whispered to her, “run”, and before he could even say, “when I say go”, she bolted. He was left high and dry just like he wanted it. But unlike how he wanted it, two from behind followed after her; it was because she had run before he could draw their aggression. He grunted disparagingly, nothing could be done with four still eyeing him.

Glaring at the three in front he strained his ears to listen to the final in the back. It charged, the snow the best indicator of its incoming assault. Shifting his torso, his hips seemed to groan as he fired back, hitting it in the head; it was a combination of luck and skill.

The noise from the gun rolled out into the streets, filling them with a loud crack. Unfortunately, neither aim nor sound deters team tactics and the three hunters in front of him were now charging. Turning back to how his body should face he promptly aimed and fired three times in quick succession, downing two before the final reached him at maximum velocity.

Like that deer he had tried hunting in his youth, it knocked him back; luckily the snow cushioned his fall. Above it bore down upon his body clawing away at his midsection while also biting at his jacket. The mouth tried to pierce the thick cotton armor and proved to be ineffective while the sharp claws punctured through into his skin. As it did so, it crept towards his head while tearing from its eyes.

Whatever it was doing though, he wouldn’t allow it. Grabbing it by the sides of its head he began twisting, the sinew of his arms thankful that he hadn’t given up the workout regime of his youth. With a grunt of exertion the neck snapped gruesomely, the familiar feeling conformation of the hunter’s defeat. It fell limply upon his chest, the upside down face staring up at him.

Too many times had he seen those eyes to be perturbed; no matter what, the dead always shone with a hollow light. Standing his old bones up he looked around, more were coming. Why were supressiors proving so fucking hard to find in this town? Cursing under his breath in a low grumble he fished out his preloaded backup magazine and stuck it into his waist belt.

Another two hunters appeared exiting from a nearby home, hounding down the origin of the sound. It had been a beacon for at least a few blocks, and would continue to be so. Crack, Bang, his bullets screamed as they exited the barrel, laying down a hole in the head of the closest and the shoulder of the furthest. Earl held no misconceptions about his abilities, nor about the situation, he ran after the girl. The hunter’s numbers had been ticking up recently, resources in a nearby town or city must have been depleted.

He could practically feel the eyes upon himself, like running out into a no man's land waiting to get shot. More were coming and he would not be able to deal with them all at once. So he pumped his legs in long strides, chewing through distance one would consider close to unbelievable for his age. He huffed as he ran following the three trails in the snow, while doing so he could only think, “What about the girl.”

Five shots rang out in quick succession from some distance before him, and it seemed as if the attention of the world shifted away from him. Wanting to grab his face at the idiocracy of what could only be the girl’s actions he debated his next choice as he continued to flee. For a good half a minute he argued in his mind the likelihood that she had, with no training, actually hit whichever target she was aiming for.

Shouting profanities in his head he concluded that it didn’t matter and instead he lifted his arm firing his handgun, begging for all of the hunters to come after him. And that they did, once more he was the one who was hunted. Barreling through the streets a group of three quickly arrived behind him; they were greeted with the final bullet of his clip.

For all his speed ground was lost and they would be soon upon him. Drawing his newly holstered magazine he let the empty one drop, not bothering to wait for it to plummet into the snow below before he reloaded. Sliding it in without even needing to check the positioning he finished with a click and fired, sending metal flying through the air towards the trio.

One was hit in the head, halting its shuffling charge; another was struck in the knee cap, leaving it to slowly shamble no longer able to catch up; and the final received the projectile in its chest, and although its speed remained it breathing grew heavy and labored. Earl turned back and continued to run as the suburbs grew alive.

He looked down and found he had lost the trail at some point, the girl would have to be on her own for now; may she still live. As he continued to unrest the pristine icy cover over the looser snow he realized that no matter how fast he could run the hunters would outpace him in the end.

For how could he, an old man, beat them? He chuckled and the gouges in his gut burned. His mind wandered for but a moment as he remembered taking his youngster’s kids out to the museum, how the curators had described ancient man; with tools in hand they would wait out their prey as stamina slowly drained like the blood from a shallow wound. He was the old water buffalo and if things continued, he would die.

Taking a right into a backyard he began his search for a certain haven as the rabble of hunters prepared themselves. It was not here, he jumped over the backyard fence scraping his cuts and further opening them. No, it was not here either; he barreled through into the next yard which was thankfully unenclosed. Still, it was not there.

His feet were growing heavy and he looked back, the view that greeted him lit a small wick of anxiety which he promptly smothered under the fingers of his mind. Ten hunters had entered the backyard from where he had, and they were now moving in formation. He could not stop, rushing to open the gate door which acted as a barrier to the fourth home he slid in.

Finally, luck shined upon him as he was greeted with two ominous doors beside the home’s base, a rarer sight when out of hurricane valley. Thrusting his hands into the door handles he pulled back harshly, the hinges squeaked in protest, having fallen into disrepair long before the change occured. Rushing down the first of the concrete stairs he looked back to close the doors and caught a glimpse as the first of the hunters cleared the closest fence.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Shuting them he looked around to take in his surroundings, it was pitch black. Breathing in both relief that the chase was over and in annoyance as to his lack of sight, he was greeted by the scent of the cold, old soil, and growing mold. In the darkness he dared not feel around; places such as these almost always resulted in rusted metal and the like.

Instead, he settled upon the top of the steps, sending chips of concrete off with a brush of his hand before doing so. Breathing in relief he sat and listened to the scraping of steel and nail, not even cringing at the rough sound. After resting like this for a moment he then slipped his hand into his bag, groping blindly before clenching around a metal cylinder.

With a click the flashlight turned on, illuminating the worn down interior of the basement. It was as he expected, earthy fluff lined sections of the walls and any metal within sight was tinged red or green. He coughed, the last inhale mixed with a large portion of the dust unsettled by the jostling from above.

He twisted and laid his back along the wall, the efforts growing ever frantic as it sounded that most of the hunters had joined together in the fight against steel. Earl just chuckled and went back to searching through his bag, light problem solved. Picking out a bottle of water and a fancy looking candy bar he had found in someone’s bedside table he settled in for the long haul.

As time ticked by the noise would go through rounds of intensity, from what sounded to be a single hand it would escalate to a fury of hisses and moving limbs only for it to, moments later, return to the sound of that single nail. As he let the chocolate melt in his mouth he savored it, the bitter sweet, a guilty pleasure he didn’t often allow himself. Half remained when he realized something and stopped to wrap it up.

Sitting for a moment as he cleared his mouth with the last swig of water and turned his attention to his chest. For the most part they had crusted over, dribbling only small amounts of blood when he moved. But one on the left side proved to be deeper, a thin but constant steam ran from it. Poking and prodding to access the extent of the damage he could only wince in pain, it was relatively deep.

Fishing around for the third time he pulled out hand sanitizer and another water bottle. Sterilizing his hands, he then grimaced as he took off the cap from the water, annoyed at the waste. Waterfalling it onto the wound he scrubbed using his hands and tried his best to remove dirt and the ilk while cursing in pain.

With it cleaned, he took a moment to gather himself; no man is immune to the ailments of the flesh. Jarringly, a loud thud resounded out from above and sent once firmly settled dust twinkling down like the dandruff off a well shaken head; they must have begun throwing themselves against the doors. Uncomfortably he shifted, replacing the coat over his cuts to keep them clean.

Turning out the lights so as to save battery he was once more greeted by the inky blackness of the large space. Exhale, the air shifted once more and he waited. Patience was the game and he was up for playing; It wasn’t hard to sit and take a breather after all.

When the silence above finally laid down to rest, Earl rose. With cracks and pops his legs extended and it felt to him as if pins and needles were all that remained beneath his waist, even his ass was in a state of utter rejection. Leaning over he remembered the time when, in his youth, this wouldn’t have been a problem; he cursed again. Lifting his hand from beside his tired old body he grasped the inside handles and pushed slowly in an attempt to mitigate the noise.

An evening sun glared at him with its harsh unforgiving light and he turned his head away, his eyes trying to rapidly shrink as he was left unknowing of his surroundings. He shut the door closed and turned on his flashlight to adapt to light once more and was left to ponder in the cellar.

Was there a point to go out now, wouldn’t it be better to wait for when more sun remained? Preservation entered his thoughts, conflict muddled his ability to act. Then he imagined her, still alive, huddled in fright as she attempted to survive the night. A defenseless youngin watching the night as it crept in to kill her; that small face full of fright as she clutched at the air as if it could save her. If he did not leave to find her that would haunt him for days to come, children’s faces always did.

With his eyes adjusted he exited once more, scurrying across the lawn like a rat in the cupboard fleeing from the broom. He had little choice but to retrace his steps, trailing after the sunken and distured snow of the backyards. Soon, he followed the streets in which he had trekked just hours before, creeping low to the ground in order to minimize his presence; aided in part by the white cotton coat which he currently had donned over his frame.

After some time, the sun creeping now below the horizon, he found an offshoot to a broken door; this is where she would have gone. With a hesitant step he felt the wood creak underfoot and inhaled through a clenched jaw; the air tasted odd and unnatural. Overturned furniture; scratched up floors; and of course, a broken door; the odds were grim.

Continuing deeper into the building he began to secure the first story, traversing the few rooms within. He saw the body, the deflated stomach, the slit neck, and the mess on the floor. This was a perversion of all that was good and right with the world. Before seeing this he’d thought, having lived the life he had, that his stomach was steel, but this proved even steel can bend. He heaved for a moment, then swallowed it back down. Where was the girl and where was the b-the whatever that might have come out?

With growing trepidation he crept up the stairs; would this be how it always went? Was he cursed? With a deep breath he searched the empty rooms, the messy office, and finally stood before the last unopened door. Placing his ear against the smooth wood he listened deeply, the gentle whooshing of air was all that could be heard.

Drawing his fully loaded pistol he turned the knob and nudged the door open. On well greased hinges it silently swung inwards to reveal the bed ladened with with a small figure. Even though he softly stepped towards the shape his approach did not go unnoticed; it shifted, looked at him, then began to scream.

The girl rose out of the bed cradling a now wailing shape within her bosom while she tried to run. Rushing forwards he gripped her shoulder before she could bolt past him through the doorway. In his old and gruff voice he told her strongly, “Stop, it's me.” Wide eyed the girl, Sammy, looked past him, warily watching incorporeal shadows drawn from the depths of her mind.

With a shuddering sob she seemed to lose all of her momentum and fell forwards into his gut, the bundle she held still shrieking out into the night. Grimacing at the pain he hugged her before looking down at the weight in her arms; a scrunched up face crying in tearless sorrow glared back at him.

He asked no questions, made no indication of disgust or repulsion, and instead swept the babe from the girl’s grasp. So enraptured by her own overflowing relief she did not notice this, only using her newly freed arms to tightly hug him, cuts and all. Holding the small body he let his memory move him, sliding underneath its head and supporting the child’s neck. With a gentle tone he hummed out a throaty and deep sound, swaying his body despite the discomfort and despite the clingling girl.

With this the state of unrest was quelled, the baby having fallen asleep and the girl drowsy on her feet. Putting her back into the bed she climbed underneath the ruffled covers, searching for the warmth that had dissipated. As she did so he looked outside, eyeing the darkness, awaiting the inevitable. He could rouse her quickly enough, but for now a calm atmosphere was needed so as to prevent the pinpointing of their location within the house.

Yet what he was certain of did not come to pass, only one hunter approached. From his position within the dark room he watched the moonlit figure stall in front of the home, sniff and shake its head, then turn away. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth he did not act, and instead waited till the deepest hour of the night.

Unbeknownst to him, his age, the quiet, and the events of the day had sapped the energy from his body. As he sat on watch, lulled into a sense of security by the hunter’s actions, his eyelids hung low like a willow’s branches. With his final conscious breath of the night they closed fully and he slumbered, head slouched against his shoulder and knees bent over the upholstery of the room’s chair. In the nation of dreams he ran from what had passed, for as threatening as the present may have been, his only true fear was what could not be undone.