gabrieljudd:
heâs been âexcusedâ from patrol duty. that doesnât mean he wonât do it. gabriel judd at a loose end wasnât in anyoneâs favour ( especially his own ). time on his hands meant space in his own mind. moments, seconds, that swirled and blurred into infinite spans - places where he sank into the past and lived inside the grief, the anger and the despairâŚ
the present was easier. violent. visceral. chaotic. unsteady. shifting. it didnât matter so much as long as it provided a distraction from that⌠from himself. idle hands being the devils playthingâŚÂ and perhaps heâd pity any devil that decided to try to work those hands. perhaps⌠if he wasnât absolute in the notion that they would wrap around the throat of any such creature and pry the life from anything with the taint of the abyssâŚÂ Â
though right now - not wrapped around a throat â rather embracing the smoothed wooden handle of a sturdy woodcutters axe. bladed with wicked edge and heavy enough to cleave a sturdy branch in two. enough to cleave a skull in twoâŚÂ
âŚand it does. Â
thereâs a âthudâ as the axe bites into a wall. embedding inches deep. a gruesome splatter of blood and congealed viscera decorating the same. it was, at the very least - turner prize worthy - an added aesthetic as the top of the recently detached skull slid slowly from the top of the metal and dropped onto the wretched corpse of itâs previous owner. retched, decrepit and hungry⌠hungry⌠ravenous⌠the revenants crowded without fear of their recently dispatched fellow. one down, three remaining of their ânestâ - ragged bodies crowding into a wider space from a back room of one of the mall stores, picking rotted flesh and gnawing on the stripped bones of their last victim. ( someones mother⌠father⌠daughter⌠son⌠)
gabriel was the promise of their next meal.
which might have been ironic. if he wasnât more ravenous than them. a hunger never sated.  a man in the wilderness for too long. something biting deep. a craving to see every single hellish entity decimated.                             âŚif youâre hungry enough even poison tastes good                             and he is â starving.
one of them âchittersâ. a rapid clack of sharp teeth in anticipation.  and heâs had just about enough of this shit. trusty axe abandoned momentarily âÂ
âshut the fuck up.â
two down. two to goâŚ
How it happened, she doesnât know. But thereâs creatures in her sight that she still doesnât have a name for. Theyâre all monsters in the end and giving them a specific name wonât change that and it wonât change her. It doesnât make anything easier to kill by calling to it. Perhaps it just makes it harder, makes them more real and something closer to human. She doesnât want them to be human and they look enough like it. Theyâre still easier to kill when she canât imagine they once had families, dreams, and names.
She wonât give them a name.
She sees them before she hears any sound, eyes focused upon a familiar face in the group, one she can call her own, almost surrounded. Oneâs down, head detached from an axe like a knife through butter. And thereâs a gunshot ringing in her ears that says another one is down. But sheâs never handled a gun. Still. And sheâs only relied upon sharper weapons to get the job done.
As Charlie rushes towards her comrade, she stops before the body just been shot, dual axes clutched in both hands as she strikes at the neck of the one shot, trusting her history with something sharp over her lack of experience with a gun. Overkill is better than a shock. The first hit slices through flesh and muscle, blood splattering in Pollock patterns across her face and collarbone. The sound of her own grunting never reaches her ears when her own blood is rushing in her cranium and another strike severs the head from the column of its neck. And when sheâs satisfied, she charges for the others.
It doesnât settle in her mind that the man might be able to handle this all himself. Itâll be quicker if she lends a helping hand she might reason later, if the thought ever crosses her mind. All she knows is she couldnât handle four of them on her own. But heâs dispersed of two.
To distract one, she whistles at it, shouting a strained âheyâ to grab itâs attention. The being turns, less with curiosity and more with fury, gnashing angry teeth at her and hissing in its hunger for her. The redhead takes a step back before swing one axe down and then the other. The first strike misses, a whoosh of air greeting her ears but the second slices at the thingâs cheek and only serves to anger it.