Chapter 8

  It was supposed to be the middle of a perfect day. Sun should be up there, but everything went dark, apart from Rifts lingering in shattered lines and hues of colorful lights. William couldn't see them well; he was surrounded by the safety of some buildings, so how could he? Well, they might not last forever, similar to some taller buildings that already disappeared into fog.

  Screams, thuds, and tremors escaped many corners, following every echo of cursed rhythm. Darks were everywhere, flying, stomping, eating, feasting, and looking like shadows, giants, or creatures born out of imaginary paintings. They weren't fantasy, for everyone knew where to dream and when to bleed.

  His mother couldn't settle on safety, and nor could he. William snuggled himself into his corner even more, pulling his hands over his head and ears before closing his eyes. It helped against the surrounding noises, yet one buzzing kept going.

  He learned to ignore it; it was meant to end at some point, or so his mother expressed multiple times, though he probably couldn't even remember most of her words anyway. His corner was wet and sticky, but it was his corner. A safety net.

  Amidst many screams and clutter of noises, a group of people hurried around the corner, glancing at the tight alleyway without Dark Fog, blood, or Darks. Finally some safety, they thought.

  William didn't notice them thanks to his unadulterated fixation on the ground and fear over the loss of his mother's hand. He didn't want to hear anything or anyone besides his parents or hold onto it again. It wasn't his choice, unmistakable to that little glowing treasure inside his hand which kept throbbing, screaming at him, and something buzzing kept pestering it.

  He tried to clutch the noise like his hands, pushing his hands at his head. Nothing was helping.

  The people who arrived reached inside the alleyway, looking tired and horrified. Some of them had bloody holes in their chests, others had rough slashes seeping out blood through their clothes. They made some quick bandages out of old shirts, as most of their wounds weren't life-threatening.

  They knew they were. Darks loved blood. Their games were hunts and killing shouldn't be outright perfect. Bloody scent was like a clamorous noise in the middle of the night, affecting Darks in numerous ways.

  “I fucking knew those Walkers wouldn't do shit! All those promises and no acts.” one of them cursed.

  “Fuck you! This is a bloody Incursion, Mark!” another remarked, obviously knowing that hope was costly. “This much... This lot. There is no going back from this shit. This camp is done for and not because of lacking Walkers. Darks… No…. It is futile.”

  Mark scoffed at this old man, looked behind, and noticed a bloody path behind his panic. He overlooked his leg wound and felt dreadful. “Fucking hell. No... No!”

  After all that running, what was around this place and these corners was no hope. This camp might accommodate thousands of people, but perhaps there were many more Darks around them right now than some fleeting dropping bodies.

  A shriek skipped their voices, hearts, and steps. Everyone turned, watching how a head appeared behind the corner, followed by steps arriving from the shadows. Some Dark sniffed them out, straight up saw them, or hunted them.

  They didn't know which was most likely. It didn't really matter if it was coming.

  “A Shrieker?!”

  “Fucking Hell! Splitting up wasn’t so bad eh?!”

  Some panicked, and others began fleeing, knowing that this was a time when survival was subjective to greediness, or straight-up wickedness.

  Few remained to fight, while some accepted their fear with numbers since what was coming might be possible to stop here and not somewhere else.

  Shriekers were simple Darks. Walking on two, they resembled a human in most cases. It was no wonder. Shrieker used to be a human. Corrupted, eaten by, or fed Dark Fog, and changed via Corruption, a lot of things could become monstrous in this new era.

  White eyes flashed, looking blind yet unconventional. A simple pair was not rare in its obnoxiously bigger head, while its convulsing and bizarre skin left the impression that it had been decaying for years.

  Shriekers had no potent Dark Aspects, a power generated and ranked within their specializations. Such latency was subject to

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  Corruption, luck, eating, or the blessing of their instincts or high Darks. This one was merely at Rank 1 or 2 at best, so it was considered weak, although it was still nothing normal like any Dark.

  Its skin was parched, limbs long and skinny, and it moved erratically as if its motor skills were shittier than its sight. And that head? Its head was bulging, making eyes crazy, and its mouth... oh, that mouth. It was wide open and full of little spikes and teeth that cluttered in little small noises and growls as if it was radio going rampant or breaking off in howls.

  It constantly clicked its teeth, and it found its prey. Turning its head to the corridor, Shrieker attacked the group, running on two rather poorly, so it changed to run on four. It was no human. Its appearance was broken, holes were for ears, and protruding bones exposed some flesh and skin, but nowhere near Zombi.

  As the name suggested, it unleashed high-pitched noises. They hurt the brain and ears, striking human senses and limiting movement and thinking. This debuff could get fairly overpowering, but it wouldn't last forever.

  They had a couple of seconds.

  “Ahh!”

  “No!”

  The group panicked and tried to escape from the other direction. There were no such places, which rendered their safety useless. Holding hands over their ears helped very little as well.

  Shrieker pounced at the first prey, grasping a woman’s head, and shrieking to her clutched ears. Something in her head exploded, eyes popped off, and wails turned to huffs. Then, a loud bang echoed and her brain turned to mush. Coincidently, Shrieker's head exploded over the corpse of a dead woman, falling limp like a shot dog, dead.

  “You have a fucking gun!?” Someone from the group said to a shaking man holding a revolver and bleeding from one uncovered ear. His other hand held a shaking weapon; it was a miracle he was even accurate. It was pleasing for some, but late.

  And a terrible noise.

  “L-last...” a shaking man holding the revolver whimpered.

  “What? Can't hear you!”

  “Last bullet.”

  “Oh, god... Oh...”

  No other Shrieker came to them. Something else came over to a new feasting.

  Now, the last bullet would no longer adapt to its different safety net, but killing a Shrieker was better quicker than forcing pipe to its neck or mouth.

  Cluttering noises revealed Crawlers, a variant of the many human-based low-rank Darks. They were quick, savage, and looked like beasts rather than humans. Their heads were small, mouths little gaping holes, and exposed chests revealed their ribs that were like tendrils of limbs that supported their bodies, presenting gore and their torso to the ground or viewers when they would ''stand up''.

  Open mouths had a long tongue like a whip, and eyes were small bloody dots. Some even had several scars, gushing out dark liquid where it remained. Its open chests were full of bizarre gore and most of its fuel was kept there.

  Their proper limbs were either impractical, missing, or fused with the darker body with veins and accumulated dread. Some of them could walk on two, but most crawled around thanks to their rib-like limbs. Shriekers had weak bodies, so when they failed, Crawlers were quicker and better at direct combat.

  Three Crawlers in total arrived, and the group chose to fight. They had some knives, metallic bats, and other weapons. No guns, which was a shame. They would be handy, but panic and noise changed their mind.

  Crawlers came like hunters, pouncing and cluttering their ribs against the ground, either pouncing at people like spiders or flashing their ribs like weapons. Most people in this group got hurt, but they fought and tried to hit Crawlers in their chests, striking where it hurt.

  The original dozens of members became less than ten in less than a minute. It gave a grim reality check. Crawlers were dead, shrieking weakly, wincing, looking bloody like wounded animals, and leaving sizzling dark matter that was deteriorating their flesh.

  Mark hauled a big stick into the brain, turning it to squeeze the last living shit out of the last Crawler. “This is fucking sick... Yuck...” he spat and looked around, noticing many deaths. Most who survived were experienced and their wounds were mild. No Darks came next, so they didn't run to the streets and rather found some safety in this corridor that was away from the eyes. It was a tight space where they could escape and find temporary hope if they were careful, but... was that even possible?

  Now with blood...

  And dead Darks and people?

  They thought they should run, but the Federation shouldn't miss out on this camp too much. They will come and save it. No matter the Incursion, letting this place become rotting hell was pointless since people would lose trust in them. Alas, they still chose to hide because Incursions were time-based disasters. It could stop, no matter how every beat echoed and how minutes turned into eternity.

  They had no idea how far they were, but they knew Darks would never be patient.

  “We should have taken those bunkers,” one of the survivors said.

  “Bullshit. Those are packed with perfect targets. Now... be silent, don't breathe much, and keep your eyes open.”

  Stumbling to each other, they hid behind some rubble and trashcans, which were bigger than them, making it convenient.

  Unbeknown to their ideas, their spot led to a surprising sight that none of them expected. A boy was opposite them, hiding on the other side and clinching into a small corner. His eyes were open, looking down, and his hands protected his ears. He snuggled there, a small distance away from them.

  There was something else about him than his unexpected presence. It was obvious to their eyes at first sight. Within his right forearm, there was a crimson colorful gem radiating soft red light and jerking itch. It was a very special item.

  Boy's bloodied and tattered shirt and trousers made him rather pathetic, but those people were nothing better. At least this boy wasn't injured; the blood wasn't obviously his, albeit that point wasn't apparent. At least under their eyes, it didn't even matter.

  William had yet to notice this group of people as he ignored buzzing noises. He was in no state for some deaths, struggle, or mental care; he wanted to see nobody else besides his parents.

  Silence. He wanted such a silence, he would sleep the worse point off. Then, the nightmares would cease to exist, become low, and the warm sun would emerge again. Or a hand? A warm hand to clinch into didn't sound half that bad either.

  One man from the group pointed to him, frowning and realizing who this boy was.

  “L-look! That is a fucking Walker!”