Lars enjoyed being a guard in the town since his arrival. He loved being active around the township and was regularly on patrols around the local area outside. He worked closely with one of the oldest guard members, a man known as Pops. He had been a guard member longer than Captain Reece and knew he had been with them for over forty years. Pops was a miserable old fart, and Lars loved him. He was always bitching and moaning about everything in his colourful way.
"This fucking weather." Pops moaned as the pair of them walked on their patrol route. Today, they patrolled the main streets leading into the township outside the stockade. The rain was hammering down today, and they both walked with their heavy-set cloaks wrapped around their shoulders and hoods up, protecting their faces from the almost horizontal rain.
"Why do we always end up with the shit jobs. Fucking sick and tired of this crap." Pops grumbled.
Lars just chuckled as he walked along beside him.
The weather had turned over the past few days, and a storm had been brewing; they had slowly watched it cross the lake before reaching the town. Most of the roads had been turned into rivers with the amount of rain that had fallen, the water cascading down them, and looking at the skies, he knew it would not be letting up anytime soon.
They had been out on patrol for a couple of hours now and had a route that would take them another couple of hours to finish before they would return to the warmth and dry of the guard house. Lars loved the freedom and ability to be out walking; he carried a shotgun with him, having preferred the weapon over a rifle, which many guards carried. Pops slung a rifle over his shoulder, not holding it ready, stomping heavily through the wet streets.
"Be nice if you answered back on occasion. Always feel like I am talking to myself," Pops said.
Lars chuckled again. Pops moaned constantly, and strangely, the amount he did complain was endearing. He liked the job, or Lars was sure he would not have done it for as long as he had been. Pops also knew everyone or anyone of any standing in the township. Lars had learned so much about the individuals and families that lived in the surrounding area due to Pops, who had a story about them all.
They turned up the next street, taking them towards an area where a couple of families lived. It was situated near an old college campus, and although nearly all the buildings were piles of rubble having given into nature, a few had stood up to the challenges of time better. Lars knew the two families down here to share pleasantries with when he saw them.
"I hope Ben is in. I need a coffee and to get out of this rain for a bit; my bones are aching," Pops complained.
Pop's bones constantly ached, his legs hurt his back or head, or he had a cold or a fever. There was always something wrong with him, and the day that Pops did not moan would be the day he died. They walked up the drive towards where Ben and his family lived. They had been living at Talisia for over twenty years, and he and his wife Bev ran a small craft stall in the township where they made baskets or other run-of-the-mill items. They had two teenage kids, a young boy and a girl, and Lars knew that the girl would soon reach her coming of age. Bev had been talking about it the last time they had been around and that they would surprise her with a party to celebrate.
"Ben, you in there? I hope you have some coffee on to warm these old bones." Pops called as they approached.
There was no reply. The only sound was the bouncing rain.
"Ben, Bev. You, there," he called again. Still waiting for a reply.
"For fucks sake, I really wanted a fucking coffee." Pops griped, turning and stomping back down the path.
"Let's go and see Ghea, see if she is at least in," he said.
Lars could see the light from inside the property and put his hand on Pop's shoulder, making him stop.
"What?"
Lars pointed to the light inside the house. He signed at Pops with one hand, not that Pops had a clue what he was saying; even over the few months they had been working together, Pops had not a clue about anything that Lars signed, but he still did it naturally.
Lars continued up the drive and towards the porch area, seeing that the front door was ajar. Instinctively, he raised his shotgun to a ready position and slowly pushed the door open with the barrel of the weapon. His eyes were scanning the interior, but there was nothing obvious visible.
"What is your fucking problem? Most people do not lock their doors." Pops again complained, having turned and walked up to the porch area.
The smell hit him before he saw anything inside. He knew the smell, and there was a lingering smell of dampness. Lars ignored Pops and stepped into the building. The home was like many in the area, two-storeys with large open rooms. The light had been coming from what Lars knew was the lounge area from his previous visits. They had stopped off regularly for coffee on their patrols. He stepped into the lounge, swinging the shotgun barrel around as he scanned the interior. The small oil lamp that had cast the light outside was sitting on a table with a half-finished basket that Bev must have been weaving recently, but there was no sign of anyone. He continued in and through to the back where the kitchen was; the room was dark, and the drapes were still closed. They did not own a generator, so the only light cast was from the oil burners flickering flame from within the lounge. His eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, but it was empty, and nothing looked out of place.
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Lars turned, walking back into the lounge, and grabbed the oil burner with one hand still holding the shotgun ready, the oil lamp swinging freely beneath the gun barrel as he moved, causing the light to swing up and down the crudely decorated interior walls. Pops remained on the porch out of the rain as Lars walked back through and turned to go upstairs. "Come on, Lars, let’s go and see Ghea; I need a coffee, for fucks sake."
Lars ignored Pops and started up the stairs. As he reached halfway, he glimpsed the body of someone prone lying across the landing area and into one of the bedrooms. The smell was getting stronger, and as he neared the top, the oil burner cast its weak glow onto Bev's remains. She was wearing clothes she usually wore, but the rear of her top was soaked in blood. Lars took a decisive step onto the landing and quickly scanned the area. His footsteps sounded like hammers to him as he cautiously and quietly walked up the wooden staircase. The smell had been that of blood; it was a smell he recognised so well, having witnessed enough horrendous sights in his past. What many did not know, though, is that in those final stages of death, people could lose control of their bodily functions and the smell of faeces and urine mixed in.
Lars stepped towards Bev's remains, swinging his shotgun to bear into the room she was halfway into. The sight before him made his stomach churn; if he remembered correctly, the young girl Wanda was lying on the bed. She had been such a pretty young girl, and her face was now unrecognisable where it had been struck by a blunt object caving in her features. She looked as though she had tried to fight off whoever had attacked them, and items were strewn across the floor where she had thrown them at whoever the attacker was. Her clothes were soaked in blood, and Lars stepped into the room entirely, feeling his boot step into a pool of liquid by Bev's body. He knew he had just stepped into blood.
He grimaced and stepped over to the bed. Whatever had attacked Wanda had not just killed her, and looking at her small, framed body, Lars could see what looked like claw and teeth marks on her exposed abdomen. Lars’s head was reeling now; they were aware of the Geblex and the rumours, but he had not seen them, and even though there had been rumours of attacks, nothing had been discovered until now to support the claims.
He had to check the other rooms; he turned and stepped back onto the landing. There were three other rooms on the floor. He went to the doorway of the next room and again pushed the door open with the barrel of his gun. The room was pitch black inside, and he lifted the oil lamp to cast its glow into the room. It looked empty, so he moved quickly to the next. This looked like the main bedroom where Bev and Ben must sleep. The blankets from the bed were strewn on the floor, and the signs of a struggle had taken place; he could see a lot of blood on the surrounding furnishings but no signs of a body. He wondered if it was Bev's blood and that she had tried to get to Wanda in her last final stages before death had taken her.
He left the room, the stench of blood and death permeating his nostrils now, and it was a horrid smell, although one he had become accustomed to. He moved to the last room, which must be the bathroom. He slowly pushed at the door with the barrel. The door creaked open, and as it did, he heard movement before he saw it. The croaking sound the creatures made as they threw themselves towards the intruder.
Lars's reflexes kicked in, and he pulled the shotgun's trigger. The blast and boom inside the enclosed space caused him to lose his vision and deafen him temporarily. The stark flash showed him the rounded face of the Wild One and its sharp, pointed teeth as it had dived towards him. A second one had also been moving at him and had been caught with the blast, the two bodies being thrown backwards into the room, showering both himself and the bathroom with the foul-smelling contents of their bodies. As Lars stood, unable to see properly, he felt the strike without seeing it; whatever had hit him dug deeply into his side, and he grunted and pulled back from the blow.
His vision slowly returning, he looked to see a third monster who had run at him with a crude spear, the head of which was now stuck deeply into Lars's side. The shotgun was a single shot and not pump action, never mind trying to use it inside a building because its length was not ideal. Instead of trying to reload, he used it as a club, lashing out at the form in front of him. The barrel caught it in its shoulder as Lars tried to maintain his balance and composure from being hit. The creature let out a loud, deep croak, tearing the spear out of Lars as it stepped backwards. It then went to strike him again.
Lars’s vision had returned enough for him to see the next attack, and he reflexively moved the gun barrel to parry the blow aimed at his chest. The creature was about five feet tall, much smaller than Lars, who was well over six feet, and he snarled as he stepped into the room. He dropped the shotgun, and his oil burner instinct took over as he pulled his blades from his belt. The monster again tried to strike him, but the room was not large, and it was struggling to move the weapon now that Lars had stepped into the room, reducing the available space. It swung the tip at him, trying to strike his face. Lars again parried the blow with the blade of one of his knives and then stepped in swiftly striking. His blades met little resistance as the creature appeared to be naked, and they sunk deeply into its soft flesh. He tore them out and struck repeatedly in quick, successive, and well-trained strikes, puncturing the torso of the creature. The croaking wails leaving its mouth reminded Lars of the giant Toarogs he used to shoot with a sling as a young boy.
The creature’s large bulbous eyes glazed over, and it fell to the floor at his feet. He panted only slightly from the exertion, although the pain in his side throbbed where the spearhead had penetrated easily through his jacket and top. The foul, putrid stench from the dead creatures that filled his nostrils replaced any previous smell within the house. He picked the oil burner up again and cast the glow around the room, walking to the draped window and pulling it open. The rain beat on the window's surface but cast more light into the room. The room now resembled a slaughterhouse; the remains of the three creatures spread across its interior, but it was not that which drew Lars’s gaze but the two other bodies in the room. Both were headless, and they had been in the process of being cut up and eaten—visible bite marks on the bodies where chunks of flesh had been torn off.
Even Lars struggled to keep the bile down, recognising the headless forms of Ben and his younger son Ollie. The fight had taken seconds in the scheme of things, although Lars always thought time seemed to extend when in combat, and Pops was only just entering the front door.
"What the fuck is going on?" he screamed, now holding his rifle at the ready.
Lars walked from the bathroom, now covered in the putrid stench of the dead, and went to the top of the stairs. Pop's eyes were wide open in shock at the sight of the man who stood there. He was a giant covered in blood and the remains of the creatures.
"Fucking hell," Pops said.
Lars placed his hand on his side, having sheathed his knives and now only carrying the oil burner, leaving the shotgun on the floor in the bathroom. He could feel the blood flowing through his fingers; his display had triggered and flashed red. He had ignored the notifications when fighting and quickly scanned for the one where he received damage.
You have been hit with a critical strike, and your abdominal cavity has been punctured, causing damage to your pancreas, kidney, and intestines. If you do not receive healing, you are likely to die.
His character display flashed a deep red across the left side of his abdomen where the tip had penetrated from the spear. He took a step supporting himself on the bannister of the stairs when the world spun, and he toppled forward. The last word he heard was Pops shouting "Fuck." as he lost consciousness, tumbling down the stairs.