A Hunting Wanderer

There are only a few things that really piss me the hell off. Most of them, if I’m entirely honest, are results of overreactions. One that certainly isn’t is these idiots who decided the littlest apocalypse is an excuse to act like goddamn savages. Meandering about the land, murdering everyone they come across, and stealing all the corpses’ stuff. That’s not how we’re supposed to act towards strangers. Towards anyone.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not like one of them folks who think people need to live in a safe, protected, bureaucratic community to be civilized. All people need to do is not act like idiots and savages. Me, I’ve spent time in several of the enclaves around the continent. I’ve tried to settle down. I can. I just don’t want to. I chose the life of a Wanderer long ago. Before the end of the world happened. I knew, the moment I stepped into this world, I could never go back. I’m not like Alice or Isaac. Settling down was never a possibility. Not quite as bad as Jean, at least my passing of time was almost always the same as the world’s, but still I wander. My fate was always moving in this direction. The rise and fall of the dead and old gods just sped the process up.

Which brings us to these idiots who ruin the good name of us travelers with their savagery. I stand atop an old building in what used to be Saint Louis, staring down at a makeshift camp. Judging by the smell, I think this particular group is just a bunch of normies. Also, cannibals, if I remember the smell of cooking human flesh right. So, they aren’t who I’m looking for. That doesn’t matter. The world would still be better without them. And that, at least, I could handle.

Pulling out my wicked, obsidian dagger, I kneel down on the rooftop. Slowly, I cut a slit across my forehead, long, but not deep. Using two fingers on each hand, I spread the blood from the center of the cut, across my forehead, down my temples, around my eyes, until the blood is just touching (but not on) my nose. I begin the chant, and the voice takes hold, echoing silently through my mind. I watch myself, kneeling and chanting. But that’s not important right now. I only can maintain control over this spirit for so long, before it starts to influence me. And in that time, I need to scout out the camp.

With a mental breath I soar down towards the camp. A dark breath of unnatural chill is all these normies’ll notice. I remember the lessons that were ingrained in my mind. Numbers, positions, armaments. Check for anything unexpected or dangerous. Stop the chant the moment you’re ready to act. Rushing through the outside of the camp first, I count seven savages. Most are around the fire that they’re cooking what appears to be chunks of meat over. Not one of the larger groups, then. That’s good. They do appear to have guns. Nothing special, though. Nothing unexpected outside, either.

Next comes the four tents. Pushing into the first, it appears to be a dormitory. One sleeping savage. Eight total. No weapons apparent. Sliding under the tent wall into the second, it seems to be a throne room kind of place. Complete with obnoxiously large chair and equally obnoxiously sized map of the continent. Empty, though. I slide out and move across the camp to the other pair of tents. The first one I enter is another dormitory. This one has two sleeping people and one other, playing with some kind of cards. Eleven. Still handleable. I enter the last tent and immediately recognize why Jean always warned me to keep an eye for the unexpected. It appears to be some kind of makeshift torture room. There is one enemy, dressed like the throne room is decorated. Likely in charge. Twelve. Not the problem, though. The problem is that, on the table, is a person I recognize. Jim brought this one from Europe for the war against the Gods. That’s not a good sign. I swarm over him, to give the monster some warning before my attack, then I stop the chant.

It takes some effort. I took too long, thinking about the monster here. The spirit got a slight foothold in my mind, and didn’t want to give that up. I return to my body and shove the spirit out. I’m not a slave to my tools. I am in control of me. Opening my eyes, I sigh and stand. Welp, I muse, time to kill a bunch of idiots. Dapping some blood onto my obsidian blade, I hop down from the roof, onto what remains of the fire escape, and slide landing to landing until I make it to the ground. As I walk, my suit shifts, becoming all black except for a red tie. Perhaps they’ll think I’m some sort of devil. If I’m honest, after what we did in New Orleans, after what happened, I’m not positive that I’m not one. But I have a purpose, for now. And that is enough.

I approach the camp. The two people at the entrance point their pistols at me. “Who’s that?” one shouts at me.

With a flick of my hand, my obsidian dagger becomes a billowing sword of fire. I stare at the barricade and mutter some words. I can feel the blood on my face glowing hot. Their barricades, despite being mostly scrap metal, burst into flame as well. I can smell their fear as they fire. The stress causing their hands to shake means my suit doesn’t even have to do its job. They miss with every shot. Empty their clips into the air. I pass through the gate. One throws his gun at me. I cut both of these savages down with ease.

As I enter the camp proper, I am faced with a firing squad of people, holding guns entirely wrong. These fools don’t even have proper firearm training. “Stop there or die,” the cook says, standing near the center of the line.

Spinning the dagger around in my hand to a reverse grip, I reply simply, “No, you.” Then, I stab the flame into the ground before me, down to the dagger’s tip. The earth between my dagger and the cooking fire begins to crack. Flames burst up from the ground, scorching and surprising the enemy. Cutting my palm on my obsidian dagger, I slam my hand into the ground as I chant for help. A rumbling moves from my hand towards them, then the flaming concrete itself swallows the line, pulling them against their wills into darkness below.

Grabbing one of the discarded guns, I walk into the dorm with three people. “Who are you? The cardplayer asks as he fires. Smarter than his companions, only some. The bullets get swallowed by my suit. Next time I wander her way, I really must thank the woman who gave Jim these. Three shots later, the tent is empty. As I leave, the person from the other dorm is out. She looks surprised at me. I use that pause in her reaction to shoot her as well. Before I enter the last tent, with the boss who is clearly prepared for me, I check the clip. Still have plenty. Good. I stand beside the entrance, breathe slowly, in and out, then enter.

There’s a hole in the back of the tent. Coward, not violent. I head over to the flap. He’s long gone. Can’t even see him. I drop the gun and return to the woman stretched out over the torture device. The monster. “Hi, Alex,” I say as I undo the straps.

“Dick,” she replies, “He left the moment the guns went off. Now, flame off, I don’t want to get burned because you’re careless.”

I look down, and remember my dagger. “Right,” I say and closing my eyes, the fire recedes back inside the obsidian blade. “Sorry about that. How’d this happen?” I finish untying her.

“It was daytime. I was in the back of a van and hadn’t eaten in a while. When they found out I could heal lost flesh, they kept me. Don’t know why.”

“You don’t recognize the smell? That’s cause they were eating you,” I explain.

“Ugh,” she reacts instinctively, “Why?”

I shrug and smirk. “Well, they’re cannibals, I’m guessing they thought you’re human.”

“I was,” she counters, then says, “Any of them left alive? I’m hungry.”

I gesture towards the hole in the tent. She looks at me, grumpily. I realize my face is covered in blood. That reminds me, maybe some of the crispy, suffocating ones are still alive. “One second,” I say as she stretches. I cut my palm over the previous cut, and press it to the ground. A rippling comes out from my hand, through the earth to the camp and then returns. The body of the cook pushes itself through the concrete. “This one might still be alive,” I say.

Alex checks the middle-aged woman’s pulse. “You’re lucky,” she says, seconds before she goes to town on the lady’s jugular.

I slide my obsidian dagger back into its holster. I really need to wash my face. There were buckets of water out near the fire. “I’ll be right back,” I say to the feeding monster as I head outside. Taking a bucket into one of the dorms, I soak some sheets and wash my face. Then, tearing a pair of strips of cloth from a different sheet, I wrap my forehead and hand. I really don’t like bleeding openly in normal circumstances, and even less when bloodsuckers are about. They tend to get hungrier around open wounds. I make sure the bandages are tight, to keep the blood in as much as possible. Confident in my bandages, I return to the torture-room tent.

Alex is relaxing on a table, mostly blood free. The cook is almost completely desiccated. “Wow,” I say with a smile, “When you said you were hungry, I didn’t believe you. Did they just never feed you?”

Alex rolls her eyes at me. “It’s not like I advertise what I am,” she says, “That’s like, Nikki’s fourth rule.” Then she shook her head at me. “Where are the rest of you? They’re more fun.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “For all I know, dead. Except Jean. I’m not sure he can die.”

“After New Orleans, you deserve it,” she spits at me, then immediately backpedals, “Not that, I mean, I understand why you did what you did. It’s just, I had more faith in our army. How’d you end up surviving, anyways?”

I stare her down. Even if I trusted her, I don’t talk about that. My choices are my own to bear. “How did you?” I reply.

She laughs. “I see. Fine. Where are you heading next?” she continues to press.

“I’m hunting down the survivors,” I say, “I would say you could come with, but you’d only slow me down.”

“I don’t think these idiots are cultists,” she offers.

I sit down. “I heard a rumor of raiders leaving human-amalgam corpse piles in their wake. Tracked them here. Turns out, they’re just picky cannibals.”

“Fair enough.” Then, she moves from the table to the ground with me. “So, what’s next?”

I shrug. “On the way here, I heard about a safe haven in Black Hills, surrounded by the dead walking. Figure I’ll check that out next.”

Alex lays down on the ground. “Mind keeping me company until night, at least?” she asks.

I look down at her and smile. “No way in hell,” I say standing up.

As I walk out of the tent, she shouts after me, “This is why I think you’re a dick!” The truth is, I honestly wouldn’t’ve minded staying, except for one little thing. I can’t afford the risk. Too much of a chance she could figure out what’s happened to me. What I’ve become. How I actually survived the explosion. Or, more accurately, that I didn’t. Not really.