The Ghost and the Darkness Volume 2 (The Fallocaust Series) (4 page)

When it passed I stayed laying for quite a long time, staying as still as I could for fear that the migraine would come back.

I whimpered and put my hand on my head. I rubbed it and flinched as my fingers brushed over the gash in the back of my head. My blood had dried and the gash was now fused with my wool hat. I’d never take that hat off now; I was probably going to die with it.

Eventually I carried on. My head hung low and my hopes of finding civilization starting to fade with the winter sun. Not even the dog was around to keep me company; he had taken off to go find a town... or a new owner. Whatever one came first I guess.

That night I was a bit more comfortable, and proud at how far I had managed to walk even with my migraine attacks. I found shelter in the back of a semi and was even treated to a couple of wooden pallets which I broke up for firewood.

Slowly I stripped off my clothes and warmed them by the fire, when I had nothing on me but a blanket I took a chunk of thigh I had been storing in the knapsack and roasted it over the flames until it was dripping grease. Enjoying my more comfortable night I sang a few songs to myself, though that was more from loneliness than just wanting to express my contentment.

Well, buddy, you know your name is Jade; you have that going for you...
I knew I would remember the rest of it eventually; it seemed to be tickling the very tips of my brain. But I had gotten bashed on the head rather hard so I understood if my brain was taking its time getting the gears running again.

I hope the asshole who bashed my head was dead. One of those faceless, limbless corpses I had harvested for meat and warm clothes.

That night I was hit with another migraine, one that once again had me clenching and hitting myself on the head to try and kick it. The intense, blinding pressure that seemed to be centered behind my eyes. Like a rabid beast running rampant inside of my brain, bashing itself against my skull like it was a battering ram . It was such a horrendous pain I felt like gouging my own eyes out just so I could relieve some of the pressure.

That morning the dog still hadn’t returned. I gathered up my stuff, all alone, and carried on down the snowy, lonesome road; only my whistling breaking up the sedated silence around me.

I coughed and felt a scratching behind my throat. I rubbed my chest and pulled up a hoody that was on one of the jackets I was wearing. I drew the draw strings up tight enough that I was now breathing through the cloth.

Because... my lungs were shit.
My brow furrowed as I remembered this small nugget of information about myself.
Yeah, my lungs were shit... I used to get pneumonia every winter; last winter was especially bad.

Last winter... I was here last winter, in the greywastes. I remember being on a four-wheeler and being so cold I thought I was going to die. My clothes were soaked and I was shivering.

Perhaps every winter I get dropped off here and that’s why I’m sick.

I coughed again and trudged through the snow, a layer of crispy ice coating the top of the snow like a shell. My boots crunched every time I stepped down like I was breaking through a crust of bread.

At least it hadn’t snowed more.

As evening approached I hit my biggest jackpot yet. An abandoned shack! I didn’t have the energy or the drive to do it but deep down inside I was jumping up and down with excitement. I wasn’t sure what kind of shack it was; there were only mountains and the occasional old logging road. I think it might’ve been a ranger station or something. Well, whatever it was for I didn’t really care. The peaked roof was still up and there was an intact window that was good enough for me.

Just as I was getting the boards off of the shack I felt the first drops of rain. I kicked the door open and immediately my nostrils flooded with the smell of musty wood.

I brought out my assault rifle and looked around cautiously. The shack had been stripped down to the insulation and the studs, most of the wooden paneling had already been burned for firewood. There was a small little stove in the corner and a musty, sour smelling mattress. It was all only three rooms with the room off to the side looking like a kitchenette and the one to the right, a bathroom.

My boots crunched against the floor, plaster from the ceiling coming off in large chunks, spilling the electrical wiring from the holes like it had been disemboweled. I sized it up and deemed it heaven, so I started settling in for the night.

That night I tried to clean some of the small wounds on me, though I left the one on my head alone. I didn’t have any antiseptic or anything like that so I boiled snow and some pieces of cloth.

I winced and sucked in a breath, but I steeled myself and pressed the hot cloth against a cut on my face. Where I had been punched I assumed. I doused and dressed every injured part of my body before refilling an old rusted out pot with snow.

Then with a mug of hot water I drew my blanket tighter around me. The rain pattering on the tin roof and dripping down the dirty glass in hypnotic drips. Tomorrow I might just stay here; I didn’t think it would be smart to walk in the rain. I was already coughing more and more, and my headaches were a constant fear on my mind. I was warm enough here so... perhaps a day to gather my strength. I had been on the road almost four days now.

I treated myself to a cigarette after I had dried out all my clothes and ate the last meat on the arm. Then I broke up the arm bone into sizable bits with a hatchet I found and started boiling myself up some soup. I left that to simmer on the stove and tried to get some sleep.

I was woken up with a start that night. My heart gave a convulsive hammer as I heard something snarling and snapping outside.

My eyes widened. I shot up from my nest of blankets and grabbed a knife. With my hands trembling from adrenaline I made sure I had a firm grip in place and pressed myself up against the wall. As the noise continued outside I braced myself and listened.

Then a screech from a different animal. I clenched my teeth, wondering just what the fuck was fighting outside and who was going to win.

Then, as the growling and snapping got louder, my chest started to vibrate. I felt a brief feeling of recall as I remembered that deacons and deacdogs could shake your ribcage with the low, bass-like growls they could make.

Going against my fear I rose and looked out the window.

It was Deek... the deacon dog was staring out into the darkness, the grey fur around his hackles raised and bristling. I looked ahead to try and see what he was growling at but the firelight behind me made it impossible for my night vision to kick in. I wasn’t sure how long he had been out there for, he could have barked or something, I would’ve let him in.

“Deek? Come inside, boy,” the stranger living in my voice croaked. The door creaked with rusted hinges and my head warily poked through.

I heard a huff and the shifting of snow. I took a slow step out onto the front porch and scanned the darkness. Just rocks and slushy snow. I couldn’t see anything moving.

Then the dog darted off out of sight, barking and snapping like a lunatic. With that act the hairs on the back of my neck prickled, but my isolation during the last several days had given me a small vein of bravery. I had survived so far, I had been on this road for a while – I should take charge. I should show I was strong enough to survive here.

So I took another step outside and continued to try and find the source. My knife ready to kill myself some game.

Then several things happened in that moment, none of which I was prepared for. I heard a shifting of snow, and as soon as I heard it my reflexes took my gaze in that direction, but it wasn’t what I thought.

A pair of burning eyes the size of tennis balls burrowed into me, but, before my hand could raise the knife, they rose into the air. The next moment I was on the ground with a startled scream, jaws clamping on my arm with a vice-like bite.

My head cracked against the side of the porch, breaking open the scab and filling me with an incomprehensible surge of pain. I felt my limbs go rigid and my breath get ripped from my lungs.

“Deek!” I choked. I wrenched my arm further into the animal’s jaw to try and unlock its grip as my other one fumbled for the combat knife at my side.

Then with a jerk of my head I managed to get a good look at it.

A large cat, the size of a mountain lion stared at me as it snapped my arm forward. A cat which I knew had six legs, long, gut-ripping claws, and a thick scaled tail. It was a carracat, a mutated animal from Skyfall.

The creature bit down harder and tried with jerking thrusts to tear my arm from its socket. I gritted my teeth and struggled to raise myself but four of its legs were pinning me down.

Thick fur pressed against me as it pulled me under it, warm and strong from ropey muscles that I could feel flex against my body. It smelled like sour and dander from its fur-covered skin.

“DEEK!” I tried to scream. I choked as two of its paws climbed higher up my chest, digging its serrated claws into my neck in its struggle to snap my arm. I pulled my free hand down and with a shaky but focused thought I managed to grab the combat knife.

I dove the blade inbetween its protruding ribs and in a flash it released my arm.

I struggled to get to my feet but as I rose it pounced on my back, taking the hood of my jacket into its teeth. I felt a hot snort as it pulled, its weight throwing me off balance and bringing me to my knees.

I dropped the knife but with a burst of adrenaline I jumped back to my feet, the creature still on top of me tearing apart my hood.

My mind suddenly flashed, to a time long ago when I had jumped on someone’s back. They had run backwards until I was slammed against a wall. Well, I might not have a wall, but I had the ground.

I flung myself backwards and, with a hope and a wish, I landed on top of the creature hard, snapping its jaws from my clothing and temporarily leaving it stunned.

I rolled off of it and ran towards the door trying to climb the steps, smelling rain and blood in my nose now. I reached my arm out to the handle but my legs were shaking my entire body. My hand grazed the door knob and I fell forward; half in the safety of the house, half in the rain, the darkness, and the awaiting predator.

My chest rose and fell, my mind seemed to race in all directions but at the same time it stood frozen and still. Unable to command my body to rise, I took to crawling through the door frame.

An overwhelming weight slammed my body down; the wind got knocked out of me. I gasped and waited for the jaws to wrap around my throat.

Then with nothing but a breeze against my neck and body, the weight was gone, only to be replaced by the intense and bone-chilling sound of a vicious fight. A violent and emotionally-jarring racket of two beasts tearing each other apart.

I crawled into the door frame and collapsed onto the wooden floor, my chest frozen and clenched in a terrorized stupor. I couldn’t breath and with every desperate gasp my body only turned to thicker ice; the snarling and snapping of a fight to the death happening only feet away from me.

I collapsed beside the stove and grabbed a combat knife with a shaking hand. I leaned up against warm stove and held the knife.

Then the next blow to my mind, I heard a rattling behind me. I turned and saw a medium-sized carracat with my salvaged meat in its jaws. We looked at each other in shock for a split second before it shot past me and ran out the door into the darkness.

I wanted to crawl into the kitchen to see if there were any others, but my brain forced me to stay stationary with the knife.

“Deek!” I cried, knowing the deacdog would never hear me in his frenzied mind. The once silent mountain pass was filled with such deafening noise I thought the fabric of reality had burst around me. My ears hurt, my senses hurt, and my mind felt like it was edging inch by inch to a breakdown I had only been holding off from sheer will.

Without telling them to, my hands cupped my ears and I stared at the shadowed silhouettes of my boots. The sounds of the fighting awakening every primal instinct in me. I put my hands to my ears and pressed, not because I was a coward, unable to deal with the reality, but because I feared at any moment my mind would snap unless I got away from that horrible noise.

But pressing my hands into my ears wasn’t enough. I could still hear the vicious fighting going on around me. I found myself starting to sing, loudly, with my eyes staring unblinking. I sung the first song that came to my head and tried to drown out the shaking anxieties in my chest, bloodletting each shudder of fear as the words rolled off my tongue.

I moved my lips to the music in my head, one hand on the cold gun and another on the combat knife. I would focus on the words and nothing else.

Then the pressure behind my eyes. I closed them hard and sung louder, feeling the pounding migraine start to gather itself for its orchestra of pain. It hit me with its full strength and soon my singing turned to screams.

That morning I stumbled to my feet, only several seconds between the haze of sleep and the closing jaws of reality. In a robotic movement I walked to the door and opened it with a bloodstained hand.

There was the body of a carracat, its stomach ripped open with pink and red innards strewn around, half-eaten and covered in dirt and snow. A skinny, chipped, mutated cat with a thick coat of brown fur, a black-scaled tail, and six legs.