The door smashed inwards under the blow from the Grylack, its massive paw splintering the wooden door and surrounding frame. The Grylack moved forward to enter the building but could not. Thankfully, the building was brick and not wooden like many in the area. It roared at the building, swiping out again with its huge form at the brickwork where the door had stood. John felt the vibration of the impact through the floor of the building. He was in Kyle's old room, pulling on his boots, cursing as he stumbled; his boots were still damp despite being by the fire.
As soon as the Grylack had finished consuming the dead bodies at the front of the compound, it had started towards the building. Making John utterly aware that it knew someone was inside. His heart was thumping in his chest, and blood was coursing through his veins, sheer terror filling every inch of his substantial frame. John was no coward and would stand toe to toe against any man, but not this horror. This was not a fight he wanted or could even fathom winning. The metal pipe he had picked up when he entered the compound would be equivalent to fighting it with a toothpick.
He finished pulling his boot on and turned, grabbing his backpack off the bed. As he did, one of his precious nectar bottles fell from the unlatched top, falling to the floor, shattering. "Fuck" he screamed as he moved to the door, throwing the door open and staring at the entrance.
It was only twenty-five feet from him, and as he appeared in the bedroom doorway, the massive head of the Grylack again pushed into the door. All John could see was the huge muzzle, sniffing nose, and deep, dark eyes. The Grylack roared, opening its jaws. Throwing globules of spittle across the room, the sound was deafening. It was like looking into the pit of hell itself, seeing deep into its mouth with yellowed and sharp teeth showing the signs of the meal it had just eaten. John could see torn material fragments trapped over one of its teeth.
John froze, petrified to the spot, for what seemed like an age before he managed to get some semblance of composure.
"The truck, I have to get to the truck," he said.
There was no way he could outrun a Grylack for their massive form. They were agile and much faster than Risen. Their enormous size made their standard pace equivalent to a jogging man. He did not want to imagine its speed when running.
He had witnessed the devastation that Grylack could cause from a township when he was a raider. They had been planning to hit a compound where a small township had been based and discovered a Grylack had beaten them to it when they arrived. It had destroyed everything and left nothing unturned. They never knew how many of that township survived as no one had remained there after fleeing the area.
An attack was exceedingly rare, though, as they usually stayed away from settlements, preferring to be in the remote regions of the north where the Elbou were found in larger numbers, only ever venturing further south as the winters came following their migration. John had heard stories that the creatures they had originally developed from used to hibernate through the winter months, but Grylack did not. They were permanent fixtures to the new order of the world.
The fierce Wild One again swung at the brickwork blocking his way, bricks coming loose and dragged away by its massive claws. The wall would not hold up much longer. John had to go now before he would be trapped. He sprinted across the room, heading for the kitchen area and straight out onto the back porch, not daring to look back as the Grylack roared again. Now, seeing its prey, it appeared to enter a more frenzied state and began to smash at the entryway, each strike tearing more bricks away.
The rear yard was clear with just a few parts of torn remains that lay by the extinguished pyre that the Grylack had left. The Wild One had already been here. "Shit." John cried. John heard the footsteps and roar as the beast charged into the building, smashing through the remaining bricks that had been stopping its way. The internal walls of the building were crumbling, and only plaster and thin wood stood in its path. It took moments to smash through the interior of the building, destroying anything in its way. Its massive form again came up against the rear porch wall, where it slammed to a halt. Roaring again at the terrified fleeing form of John, who was in the process of exiting the yard where the fence had been pushed over.
He staggered and stumbled across the slick ground of the yard, slipping on a muddy patch and nearly losing his balance. He felt his knee strain, maintaining his footing, and his display flashed with a warning; he knew that if he survived the ordeal, it would bloody hurt.
The only thing on John's side was that it was a Wild One. Wild Ones were not renowned for their intelligence, and John moved around the side of the building towards the front where he had parked the truck. He could hear the Grylack still inside, trying to break through its new obstacle. Every time it roared, it was as if the foundations of the building shook. The truck was parked approximately sixty feet away, not far from the front entrance, and John had no choice but to go for it. He did not stop moving, darting towards the vehicle.
He reached the driver’s side, pulled the door open, threw his backpack inside, and threw himself into the driver’s seat. The seat was soaked in the continuing rain, having pooled on it through the missing windscreen. His bottoms once again immediately as wet as they had been before. It was still raining, and John quickly wiped at his eyes as he fumbled with the key for the ignition. His hands were shaking so violently with fear and adrenaline that he struggled to find the hole, "Come on!" he shouted at himself.
Eventually, the key slid into the ignition, and he immediately turned it. The truck growled, and the engine kicked over but did not fire initially. "Fuck, come on!" John exclaimed. He again turned the key. The engine kicked in this time, a slim sign of fortune, as he immediately moved the stick into drive.
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The sound of the engine being fired aroused the Grylack attention, and it turned its hulking form inside the building, moving towards the sound. "Come on," John shouted as the vehicle slowly moved. Trucks were not designed to accelerate quickly. As it picked up speed, John saw the head of the Grylack appear in the front opening where the door had been.
Another deafening roar escaped its massive maw, starting in his direction. The compound entrance was maybe 150 feet away, and John headed straight for the gap the Grylack had created when it had smashed the bus out of its way. If the Grylack had intelligence, it would have broken through the stockade, which, compared to the bus, was made from wooden stakes. Luckily for John, this had created a gap he hoped the truck would fit through. As he neared it, he realised how tight this would be. Accelerating as fast as he could, he steered to the opening. The truck ground against the bus as John forced it between the stockade and bus frame, squealing as metal-on-metal ground against each other in protest.
The Grylack gave chase, John seeing its form in the rear-view mirror as he drove back towards the highway. Though dawn had broken, the skies were still dark, full of mean-looking clouds; the rain-soaked road and puddles that had formed hid the true nature of its surface. John hit a pothole, throwing the truck sideways. He gripped the wheel with sheer might, fighting to keep the truck going straight. The lumbering beast was also having difficulty splashing over the uneven surface. John watched as it stumbled, catching its front leg in the same hole the truck had hit. It bellowed as its momentum and loss of balance caused it to slam into the ground chin-first.
It roared in anger, standing back up before again giving chase. John kept going, not slowing as he turned immediately onto the main road heading back towards the I20; as he turned, he fleetingly lost sight of the Grylack before its monstrous form again appeared at the junction. John was slowly gaining ground, and as he wove between the obstacles the ground presented, the gap continued to grow. The Grylack was still following, but as he began to pull away from it, its pace visibly dropped, eventually stopping in the centre of the road, bellowing after the retreating vehicle.
John did not stop. He maintained as fast a speed as he could back to the I20. On reaching the I20, he immediately turned right, heading back towards the return route to the factory. As his panic and fear subsided with every mile he put between himself and the Grylack, he began to slow down. He had been pushing the truck hard, and after the battering it had received, he needed to ensure it would not suddenly pack up on him. If it did, he would have a considerable walk back, which would take him an age, and with the weather, Wild Ones, and lack of food in the remote areas, he would be lucky to survive.
As he continued his journey, he sat contemplating what he had been through since coming on this fool’s errand. Searching for raiders and a supposed stand-alone fuel depot in the middle of the wastelands of historic America was a stupid and insane task. He did not even know why he had agreed to it apart from the pure greed factor of the stacks that could be made if it were true, and they had taken control of a depot. 'This is probably one of the stupidest trips I have ever taken,' he thought.
In his days as a raider, he had some close calls, but the trips to such remote areas had never been completed without many of them. Thinking back about his raiding days brought a smile as he wiped the water from his face as he drove.
John had been born into a raiding group, his father taking one of the slaves as a sex companion whom he had regularly raped and abused. The woman eventually fell pregnant and gave birth to John. All John knew from his early years were the sights and sounds of being in a raiding group. The debauchery and violence that he had been brought up in had made him the man he is today. He took pleasure from torture, beatings, and slaves. The only downside being the factory job did not allow rape. To John, it was natural that a raider would get what they wanted when they wanted, and only the strongest and meanest of them survived. If you were weak-minded or hearted, you did not belong to a raiding group; the internal squabbles and fights alone would have put the fear of God into many. He had witnessed the murder of many a raider over the years by other raiders and the murder and torture that had been performed against townships they had raided.
His first-ever raid had provided him with his love for the pure evilness of torture. The group had attacked a medium-sized township of about 200 people. In the early hours, they had struck that horrible time of day when those who had been on the watch were tired, and the main township was not up and awake. It had always been the prime time for a strike. Several of the townships had tried to put up a fight, and after the initial attack, those who had dared strike out at the raiders were brought to show before the remainder.
His favourite torture technique he had witnessed that first raid was that of a woman who had scratched one of the raiders. A pitiful attempt at defiance which had led to her impending death. They had dragged her in front of the remaining township men, women, and children alike and tied her down on a table with her head and limbs strapped to it so she could not move. His father had been the primary torturer, and it was not surprising that John had followed along the same deviant lines as he had matured. The poor woman was used as an example of being mutilated, and her womanly features were scared by the pure evil that ran through his father’s veins. This had been his christening, which had flowered into the love and pleasure he still retained. He had witnessed many horrific and traumatising scenes, and anyone being brought up would be lucky to escape without some form of psychological scarring. Psychology was not a profession, though; no one even considered the underlying damage the various techniques left on the human psyche.
Beatings were commonplace and regular, along with rape, mutilation was rarer but happened, and there had been various beheadings and throat slitting over the years he had been a member of the group. The group had been named the Ravenous and had the worst reputation out of all the raiding groups that operated around the country at the time. Their reputation for being ruthless murderers and violence exceeded other groups to a degree that they were even feared by some within the raiding community. Raiders did fight each other, and conflict between groups had always been ongoing. If a group fell into bad blood with the Ravenous, they knew that whatever would happen would involve heavy losses from both sides. Some disputing groups had even folded or moved away into further regions to stay away or get away from the group. The collapse of the Ravenous when it did occur had brought a more balanced approach by many groups. Although still violent and murderous, they could easily have been called civilised.
John continued to reminisce over the good times his display suddenly triggered,
Your driving skills have increased to level 4.
'At least one good thing has come out of this shit show', he thought as he continued his journey back to the factory, hoping that there was nothing else that would stop his return.