Joric breathes in deeply, the aroma of fresh coffee permeating the air, the mug warming his hands in the cool autumn evening. It’s 6 PM, the start of a 12 hour shift. The sound of rain falling on the roof of the guard tower lulls him into a serene calm. He leans back in the wooden chair. It's cross sections creak and complain. He loosens his belt, pulling a bit of stomach back that was pinched by the leather. "Gotta work on this" he thinks to himself. He leans back in the chair even more, brings the mug to his mouth, and takes a long noisy sip.
In his younger days, he would fantasize about seeing action, He would look out from the upper section of the watchtower and imagine an advancing army making its way to the county road that runs parallel to the town wall, the massive army stretching all the way back to the woods beyond, Now, he likes the quiet. In the tower, he can see the trees, river, and sometimes deer grazing. The world seems so much bigger. There is no view like this at his house. He decided long ago this tower would be his front porch and he would enjoy counting his days one sunset at a time
The day creeps along an hour and a half to 7:30. He knows because he is down to the last of his coffee. Keeping time during a night shift is difficult, so he measures shifts by cups. Ninety minutes to go from hot enough to cause a serious burn, to being too cold to be enjoyable. He is one cup down. seven to go.
He stands up, tightens his belt, and arches his back in a stiff stretch. He walks to the the outer wall and glances out. His eyes take a few seconds to adjust in the twilight, he can see a cart stopped along the county road and a young woman approaching the tower. She has her forearm in front of her face, shielding her from the rain, her hair and clothes drenched, The bottom of her dress is covered in mud.
He goes to the the fire and lights a torch. The tower has sconces on the outside wall. One torch means visitors may approach the gate. He would then check her in at the the lower level. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to bring her in immediately, but procedure exists for a reason.
He undoes the porthole opening on the lower level and sees a young woman, rain streaming down her hair and face, her eyes a pale blue, almost gray. Her white dress soaked through from the water, the fabric gripping onto her breasts, heaving with each breath, giving way to a hue of the skin underneath, her brown bodice preventing him from seeing anything more. He quickly adjusts his gaze back to her eyes.
She looks at him with an innocent, pleading face. “I am in need of your help. My cart is stuck and… it’s just a hole, but, with the mud, my horse is unable to move it.” Her voice breaks and her bottom lip begins to quiver. “I don’t know what to do. It is almost night fall and I’m afraid I still have a half day’s journey ahead.”
Joric weakens immediately, breaks procedure and opens the door. “Come in. There’s a chair by the fire. I’ll get something warm for you to drink.”
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“No, I can’t. I can’t leave my cart and horse out there in the rain. They are my livelihood. I won’t be able to survive if something were to happen to them.”
Joric hesitates, tries to say what he has to, not what he wants to say. “I’d love to help, but I… I can’t leave my post. If someone…” The girl starts to cry, breaking his resolve even more. He looks for the way to make it better. “Look, it will just take a minute, right? I’ll grab one of the old wooden shields for traction. We’ll make a ramp.”
They leave the tower. The rain feels refreshing to Joric’s skin, pleasant in a way. It’s nice to be out here, though admittedly, a lot of the good feeling comes from actually being able to help someone. “My name’s Joric, by the way”. He smiles toward her. “Lillian”, she replies.
Approaching the cart, Joric sees that the wheel is in a hole almost up to its axil. “Damn, you weren't kidding. This is quite the hole you found. Rain must have washed it away. Still, we maintain the roads pretty diligently. Don't want young girls getting stuck here at night." Joric kneels down, wedging the shield under the wheel as best as he can. "What you got in here anyways?"
"Cloth mainly. Some clothes, too. Which is good." She gestures to her wet dress by pulling on a bit of sleeve that’s plastered to her arm. "The tarp will mostly protect them. But leaving it out all night? I don't want to tempt fate. "
Joric stands up. "We can definitely get you to the inn for the night and stable your horse.” A hard wind blows, the leaves of the woods rustle, the trees bend and creak, some smaller branches snap.
Lillian crosses her arms in a shudder, looks over her shoulder, gazing toward the woods, a look of anxiety cast on her face. Joric notices and begins to turn around. She hurriedly grabs his shoulder, pulling his attention to her, and begs him. "Let's go quick. I've had enough of these noises. I"ll handle the horse. Can you give an extra push from the back?"
Joric nods in agreement. He helps her onto the cart and makes his way to the back. He places both hands on the cart, digs his feet into a stable spot, says ready, and pushes. He hears the reigns snap and feels the cart begin to move. It moves too fast, launching the cart out of the hole, and sending Joric face first into the mud. He jumps to his feet, wiping what mud he can from his eyes, and looks for the cart. It and the girl are racing to the gate. The breeze picks up slightly. The smell of rotten meat and refuse cuts through the air. Joric gags. His nose stings like it has never before, stinging all the way up behind his eyes.
He turns to see several hulks of rotted human remains approaching him. No, it can’t… his mind is screaming at him over and over, the undead, the undead are back. The walking corpses are in various states of decay. Some are showing bone, what flesh remains is shriveled and bound tight to the skeleton. Others are bloated, the flesh in shades of black, blue, yellow, and white. A patchwork design of death and decay marching toward him, pustules of flesh threatening to pop, maggots moving in and out of the putridness, rejoicing in their animated meal. He reaches for his sword, but they are already upon him, grabbing him, falling on him, the mass crashing to the ground. Blood and bile splatters on his face. The stench is overpowering, Joric vomits. The mass of undead pin him on his back, he starts to choke on his stomach contents. But it doesn't matter. The teeth and fingers of the monstrosities are already tearing into him, ripping him apart.