It all started with a scream. A scream I’ll never forget.

It echoed across the wide sunburnt plains, spooking the cows and lifting the hairs on the back of my neck. Stella, my faithful cattle dog, turned to face the danger, her hackles raised and her growl as fierce as that time she faced off against a dingo.

I’ll miss that station and the simple days I had there. We’d all rise with the sun, work our asses off in the ferocious heat and sit around the fire at night telling stories, eating and drinking whatever Mrs. Percott would bring us. She was a fine cook that woman. I’ll never forget her famous apple cobbler. That dish was mind-blowing. Seriously, I can’t praise it enough. The perfect mix of sweet and spicy with the most to-die-for crust on top. I’m drooling right now just thinking about it.

Okay, sorry. I’m bloody hungry if you can’t tell. Let’s get back to that scream. The one that changed it all. The one that ended my happy life of rewarding physical labor and the fine gourmet food of Mrs. Percott’s kitchen.

It came from the most unlikely of places. I mean, we were all on a station. You’d expect a scream from the cattle yards, or the machinery shed, but not from the dunny. Outhouse for you non-Aussie folks. That place is supposed to be a sanctuary. A place for self-reflection and some truly deep thinking. No bastard should be screaming like the hounds of hell are on their heels when they’re bare cheeks to seat.

Bruce did though. He screamed and for good reason. Because on that day, in the heart of February, when the sun beat down like molten hellfire, the Crocs came. Not your ordinary croc, you understand. These bad boys were humanoid and worst of all, they came from toilets all over the world.

Yes, you read that right. They came from the toilets. From the porcelain thrones of the high and mighty to the too-shallow hole dug too close to camp, they came.

No one was prepared for that. Especially Bruce.

Next time you’re pouring yourself a bourbon and coke, pour one out for Bruce. He didn’t make it. I won’t go into the details. It was a pretty horrible sight. The man was torn from asshole to… well. Let’s just say when I found him, he was half the man he’d been before.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Yeah, I’m not gonna lie. That one made me hurl something fierce. Moving on.

The world is different now, as you can imagine. I mean, even in a country full of people who are so used to nature trying to kill them, very few survived the toilet croc invasion. We weren’t ready. Talk about being caught with your pants down.

Anyway, when the Crocs came, so did the voice. When it spoke, I trembled in my boots.

“Welcome to the end,” it said in its high-pitched screech. “You have forty-eight hours to find a transfer zone. Any who do not make it to a transfer zone will enter the game. The battle for planet earth and all her resources has begun. Good luck.”

That was it. That was all it said. There was no other information. No explaining what the hell a transfer zone was. No explanation as to why the fuck croc-men were emerging from the toilets. Nothing.

Good luck is right. It’s all we had. And luck, well, she’s a fickle mistress. One who has never held me in much esteem.

I have a confession to make. One I’m not proud of, but one that probably kept me alive. When Bruce screamed, the voice spoke and the gigantic croc-man broke down the dunny walls, I ran. I ran so damn fast. I grabbed Stella by her scruff, and I bolted for the stables.

The cows were bellowing and scattering in every direction. Some of the other guys were frozen in place by the fear that fuelled my pumping legs, like a deer in headlights. I barely spared them a glance as I barrelled into the stables, one hand clamped over Stella’s muzzle to keep her quiet. I practically dove into the disgusting stack of hay and manure. Burying myself like a worm avoiding a bird.

That’s where I stayed, listening to the screams and the roars as I breathed in the stench all around me. Wayne. Gary. James. Thomas. They all went to meet Bruce at the pub in the sky for heavenly drinks.

Willy ran into the stables like I had, probably with the same idea as me. But the Croc got him in the doorway, tearing him limb for limb right in front of my eyes. The beast raised its long muzzle, sniffing at the air. I didn’t dare breathe. Stella shook in my arms. Then it turned and marched away, Its muscular tail smashing a hole in the door as it swung behind the creature.

I’m a coward. A bloody weakling who cowered in crap while my mates died.

This is my story. It ain’t no happy romance with a sweet-as-hell ending just around the corner. Nah, this is a tale of horror and gore, weird ass games come to life, and fucking toilet crocs with a taste for human flesh. Read on if you want to hear my story. If not, well, thanks for reading this far, and remember; always look before you drop those bare cheeks on your chosen throne.