The tips of my toes probed the floorboards before slowly lowering my weight on it. Even so, the shallow creak still sounded far too loud to my ears.

  No more than three steps away from me, the orc sleeping on its side shifted to its back and resumed its loud snoring.

  I waited out the long moments, then resumed my advance.

  Even barefoot and without my lumberjack shirt on, my attempt to be completely silent had been an abject failure. The flooring was too old and there was no foot light enough to prevent all noise.

  So it had been a very time consuming and patience-straining effort to advance towards the orcs while keeping the element of surprise, matching my motions with their snores, masking the noise with the creatures' own sounds, taking minute long stops whenever either monster shifted or moved in their sleep.

  It was aggravating.

  Books always wrote rogues and assassins like these dark elites that moved like shadows and struck from the dark, but they never made mention just how tedious the act of snaking was. Or how the tension would build up throughout the process, goading you into sloppiness, demanding that you just start the fight already.

  I took the final three steps and stood over the prone orc.

  The stench hit me like a physical blow—sweat, blood, and the unmistakable stench of rot, thick and oppressive, clung to the air. The corpulent beast lay on its back, utterly oblivious to my presence. One massive arm—more like a swollen tree trunk than anything human—hanging loosely across its bloated stomach, swelling in the rhythm of its heavy breathing. Its barrel chest heaved with the slow, uneven rise and fall of sleep, like some disgusting, overfed animal.

  Every inch of it was wrong. Too much, too thick, too much a parody of life in a way that made my skin crawl.

  From afar I could tell they were large, but only now, close enough that the rotting meat on its breath was a nearly overwhelming haze, was I able to appreciate just how much of an understatement that had been.

  The orc wasn’t just large, it was massive, to the extent that a sumo wrestler would have seemed downright petite by comparison. Easily eight feet tall, with a shoulder-span far too wide to compare to a human’s, bearing the kind of leathery, blubbery fat one would expect of a walrus. Moreover, there was undoubtedly muscle beneath those rolls of fat. Its arms held the kind of grotesquely over-swollen mounds you’d see on a steroid abuser, the legs were twin pillars of girth almost as thick as a grown man’s waist and its tusked pig-head sat on a neck so thick it was barely discernible where it ended and the shoulders began.

  Abhorrent and malformed, like aberrant mockeries of humanity.

  Where goblins bore the look of spindly, malnourished corpse-scavengers, diminutive and mossy rot coloured skin wrapped tight over jagged bone, the orcs stood bloated with an enormity like elephantiasis, copper-hued flesh sagging over over-developed muscle, like avatars of gluttony and excess.

  “Is of no matter. Can’t back away now. Not even if I wanted to” I thought and balanced my makeshift flail, pendulating it back and forth.

  No more time to think. That would just breed hesitation.

  This was the hand I had been dealt by life and circumstance, and bitching about it would be pointless.

  Once more, it was time to do or die.

  And, as long as I could kill one with a surprise attack, the chance to “die” was going to be considerably reduced.

  Without even so much as an exhale, I turned the motion of the “flail” into a spin, putting all my strength and weight into as hard an overhead I could muster. Whether it was the sound of the weight falling or some animalistic sixth sense, the orc’s eyes snapped open, small black and piggish, twin points of animal cunning mixed in with human intellect.

  Just in time to witness 60 kg of weight pulverize its face.

  A thunk followed by a disgustingly wet crack, and the world descended into a cacophony of noise.

  The orc, face caved into a red ruin, pig snout pulped into an amorphous mass of meat and cartilaginous splinters, eyes crushed in their sockets and skull split down the middle, brought it’s meaty hands to it’s head and grabbed at the mangled mess, screaming out in a ear-splitting blend of human and pig cries.

  For all that damage, for all that weight that had slammed into its face, for all that the force had been enough to crater the floorboards underneath its skull, the damned thing was still alive.

  A bellowing roar and motion from my left was more than enough to tell me that the other orc was already in motion. No time to rethink or wonder whether I should leave the wounded one and hope an almost crushed skull would be enough to keep it on the ground.

  No time to hesitate. No time to be indecisive.

  All this went through my mind as I windmilled the improvised flail once more, roaring out with the strike, equal parts despair and spite driving the blow. It smashed into the prone orc’s hands, shattering bone and crushing flesh. The cracking sound was much wetter this time around, and something red and pulpy burst from its skull.

  The fact that it’s scream had cut short was enough for me to fling myself back in a backpedal, avoiding the other orc’s spiked cudgel by a hair’s breadth.

  As big and thick as a man’s leg, dotted with spikes made of rusted metal, the weapon may have been primitive, but in the monster’s meaty hand it was no less lethal.

  With a speed that almost took me off guard, the eight foot mass of muscle and fat charged at me, cudgel raised for a shattering strike. I turned my back pedal into a pivot and lashed out with my improvised flail. The two weapons collided with one another and the disks were flung out, the cudgel’s rusted metal teeth ripping through fabric like wet tissue paper. Still, it was enough to stop the cudgel in its tracks, unbalancing the orc and giving me enough time to jump back and gain some ground.

  I let the empty sheets go and drew both dagger and hatchet from my belt, trying not to think about how pitifully small and inadequate they looked compared to my opponent.

  The brief interaction had confirmed my assumption. In matters of sheer strength, the orc had the upper hand, despite my vampiric body. Fighting it head on would be signing my death warrant.

  The orc’s pig-like maw snapped open, and it roared—a guttural, primal sound that sprayed green flecks of spit across the air, those yellowed tusks gleaming like daggers. It charged, swinging its massive weapon with a speed that defied its bulk, as if the thing weighed no more than a twig.

  I flung myself aside, the vampiric strength and speed coursing through me propelling me faster than I’d expected. The monster’s swing passed me by, the sheer force of its momentum carrying it two steps beyond before it ground to a halt and wheeled back around, fury burning in beady, black eyes. Sickly yellow froth foamed at the edges of its blood-smeared lips, mouth curling in a grotesque sneer of rage.

  Again, it lunged.

  Again, I evaded.

  Always to the side. Always just out of its reach. I moved clumsily, like an amateur, but fast, enhanced anatomy more than making up for inexperience. And each time it missed, I felt the sharp thrill of my own control, my senses honed to a razor’s edge, giving more and more surety to my movements, making the time I would delay my evasions shorter, creating more openings for myself to exploit.

  The orc was stronger, no question, but its size and strength were as much a burden as they were an advantage. It was slow. Cumbersome. Each swing was a great, telegraphed arc—windmilling, brutish, wild, and clumsy. It couldn’t turn on a dime, mass and weight dragging it down, leaving it overextended and off-balance with each strike.

  I didn’t need to overpower it. I just needed to outlast it.

  It came at me again and again, a mass of bellowing, growling rage, all mindless brutality and animal savagery. I danced away from its attacks, lunging and tumbling distances that would have made a triathlon contender balk with envy.

  More than anything, I had one advantage that mattered above all else.

  Stamina.

  My infinite, unrelenting stamina.

  Each time it charged and swung that massive weapon at nothing but air, it drained more of its precious energy. The weight of its own body, the effort of pursuing me with every heavy, frustrated step, was taking its toll. Meanwhile, I was untouched —no fatigue, no slowing down. I moved with the ease of a predator, barely breaking a sweat while the orc struggled to keep up.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  And with every withering blow I was evading, I was sharpening. With a speed equally beautiful and terrifying. What had started as desperate rolls and clumsy tumbling had now become ducking, bobbing and weaving between blows and grasping hands.

  Seconds stretched into minutes, and I could hear the monster’s breath growing ragged, each wheeze like a death rattle in its chest. Its heart thudded erratically, a frantic staccato that echoed in my ears. The orc’s eyes, bloodshot and swollen in their sockets, were wide with rage and exasperation. With a guttural roar, it slammed its cudgel into the floorboards, the strike ringing out with a sharp, frustrated bray.

  It was wasting energy in its blind fury, expending its strength like a beast cornered, lashing out in animalistic rage.

  And that was its mistake. Energy it couldn’t afford to lose.

  The opening came and I saw it.

  I saw it in the way the monster reared its arm back, putting all that prodigious weight into the attack, back arched and core taut with the effort. A monumental swipe, an arcing swing made with enough force and speed to take my head clean off my shoulders. But the orc’s exhaustion and berserker rage made the attack clumsy and telegraphed. The wind-up had been too slow.

  I leaned back, backpedalling a half-step and the swipe passed harmlessly in front of me, the cudgel’s iron teeth cutting through air a palm-width’s distance from my chest.

  The orc fumbled forward, pulled by the momentum and inertia of its own attack, and I struck, turning my sway-back into a jab and thrusting the spear-dagger into the monster’s ribs. It wasn’t a fatal cut. Not nearly enough to end the fight. But it had been deep enough to be felt.

  First blood had been spilled.

  And I had been the one to claim it.

  The orc bellowed and jumped back, a meaty arm clapped to the side of its torso. Blood dribbled languidly from between fingers and its snout curled in a berserk snarl. In response to the orc’s frustration, something shifted within me. It was as much instinct as it was something foreign, something other.

  I didn’t grin. No, that wasn’t it.

  I bared my teeth. The way a predator might, or something more primal. The grimace that twisted my face wasn’t a smile—it was a challenge, a silent promise. A warning.

  The kind of expression that says, I’ve got you now.

  Before I could even wonder where the alien instinct had come from, the orc bellowed and surged in like an enraged mammoth. But there was no dodging this time, no need for it. Despite my inexperience in hand to hand combat, I could see now.

  The way its legs were buckling under its weight. The way those large muscles twitched and spasmed with effort as it reared its cudgel back, far overextending itself to strike as wide an arc as it could, making the same mistake all over again.

  It wasn’t just exhausted, it was also expecting me to dodge back. It was trying to make the arc as wide as possible, to catch my sway.

  And, in doing just the opposite, I took the monster completely by surprise.

  I took one step back making it look as if I was about to fling myself out of the way once more, only to reverse my retreat into a forward lunge, my body low to the ground, coiled like a spring.

  The orc snarled in surprise and swung it’s monumental blow. But my shift had been too sudden and its windup too large. The cudgel cut the air above me and my spear-dagger embedded itself in the monster’s hip.

  This time the wound was deep. I’d put my back and shoulder into the thrust, and the monster’s own charge had done the rest.

  I turned my lunge into a roll, letting momentum carry the distance between us, getting my feet under me and turning around to witness the orc scream and paw at the dagger trying to fish it out.

  It grabbed at it and pulled, only to stare at the hilt now laying in its oversized paw of a hand. Spearing through all that blubber and muscle had been too much for the rusted blade and the orc’s frantic attempt to pull it out had splintered it, leaving almost the entire blade buried in its thigh.

  I didn’t let the monster recover, charging and slashing with my hatchet. Rusted iron bit into the hardwood of its cudgel as the orc blocked the attack, and I jumped back out of range of a backhand riposte.

  Raw, animal rage made it try to surge after me but it toppled, roar turned into a pained shriek, as soon as it put weight on the wounded leg, the blade embedded inside ripping through flesh and muscle.

  A chance.

  An opening.

  I surged in again, lashing out with an overhead, trying to strike it while prone. This time, the cudgel wasn’t swift enough to intercept my hatchet and the blade bit deep into the orc’s knuckles.

  In one smooth motion I drew the weapon out and jumped back, blood and three severed fingers staining the hardwood floor.

  The monster was limping back, trying to switch the cudgel from right to left, wheezing breath catching in its lungs. I followed and circled around, making sure that the distance between us would not shorten. This was the way.

  It was exhausted, mobility shot, all that had to happen now was for me to play it safe. Strike in and out, keep out of reach and bleed it until it couldn’t fight back.

  This…

  All of it…

  It all felt so right. The thrum of adrenaline in my temples. The shiver of electricity on my spine. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow here. Only the next move. The next moment.

  Only the present.

  And that throat, filled with ruby red. Mine and mine alone.

  I brought the hatchet to my lips and licked the blood off, bearing my elongated canines at the monster.

  “Prey” , a voice that was at once my own and far too guttural to be human escaped my lips and I crouched low, ready to surge in and carve another piece.

  “BOOM!!!”

  The thunderous pop of a discharging gun shattered the tension and the back of the orc’s head burst in a welter of blood and gore. It toppled forward, cudgel clattering to the floor, hands clutching at the hole, trying to keep its brain from leaking out.

  “BOOM! BOOM!! BOOM!!!”

  Three more pops in quick succession, each punctuated by a burst of blood in the orc’s face and raised arms.

  “Just die you fat fuck” an all too familiar voice shouted, a deep basso, dripping with arrogance and contempt. And, just like a poison, it burned through all the passion and excitement for this fight, replacing it with a hollow cold that gripped my spine and would not let go.

  To it’s credit the orc was still standing, that monumentally thick skull having tanked most of the bullets. But it was hurt and borderline blinded by pain. Too blind to notice the tall, lanky figure in jeans and a yellow T-Shirt make a run for it and level a sawed-off to it’s snout.

  A massive BOOM! and the orc’s face disappeared in a shower of torn meat. It held its feet for a few moments more and finally fell, sprawled on its back with a massive thunk.

  “‘Dreas, didja see that?” The shotgun wielder turned towards the hallway, a savage grin on his face.

  “Hell yea. Blew up like a pinata.” Andreas Henderson chuckled, a smoking .45 Desert Eagle in his grip and a sneer plastered onto his face.

  I mentally cussed. The day had just gotten infinitely worse.