life is a house of horrors. you should know that better than anyone. ( tlou verse btw ... )
widows bay. | @griefdaddy
it's FEDRA training that keeps sam from tailspinning, the implicit mandate of strength and resilience that accompanied military station: even if that path of his life had come to a somewhat gleeful end, the trajectory remains imprinted on him. he's fourteen, bird bone narrow shoulders hanging baggy denim jacket, every step doe-like and careful. as night crests the balmy aquamarine sky, john gestures open handedly, ushering sam closer.
' we gotta check these houses before we can sleep. right? '
you got it, kid.
' should we split up? i mean, it'd go faster if-- '
no.
sam buttons down a shock of disappointment, swallows back what he wants to say. i'm almost an adult circulates the gutters of his mind, where its cast off in favor of a wordless sigh that wont preclude an argument. ' okay. ' john gives him a sidelong look before taking point, slowing as he approaches the crumbling veneer of an old townhouse. infected could hide in any crevice and cranny, beneath beds and in closets, where terrified locals might have stuffed themselves on the precipice of infection. he lays his palm against the front door, using the broad side of his shoulder to tenuously nudge it ajar. a low, distorted moan sounds from somewhere inside. sam flinches, fingers traipsing the rail of his pistol's grip seated at hip. john, glancing over his shoulder, shakes his head no.
the second story floor--this one's ceiling--creaks, groans, and violently collapses in a puff of shattered subfloor and stringy carpet fibers. a thick plated, hefty bloater crashes into the ground level, puffing up acidic spores. john quickly backs out, scooting sam several feet behind him as he hastily fishes for his gas mask.
' wh--what the hell is-- '
it's a bloater. stay back. stay out this building. if anything else comes, shoot it.
sam staggers back onto the property owner's blackened lawn. the grass hadn't grown back, a detail he found utterly peculiar; every other house was beyond overgrown and unattended, flush with flora. perhaps it'd seen a scorching fire so intense and deep that the earth would remain forever marred.
from his pack, john hefts out a double barreled shotgun, checks the chamber, and marches into the confines of the bloater-occupied home. sam, as instructed, waits, grinding his teeth in anticipation. he gets flashes of the chaos when john darts past the open door, the bloater drunkenly following and crashing into structural walls. so they were strong, but lacked fine motor skills. that sounded like an exploitable weakness to him.
glass shatters, the telltale sound of a molotov lit and thrown. fire bubles up the bloaters defensive plating, stripping years of densely callused fungal plates to the softer interior of a man lost to decades of cordyceps. john fires until the shotgun empties, and at last, the bloater collapses in a muddying pool of oxygenated blood and wafting spores. john grimaces beneath his mask, exiting moments later. he yanks the thing clean, gripping the bottom lip of the mask hugging his jaw.
are you hurt?
' no. '
good.
' you called it a.. a, bloater? '
yeah. he's been infected for a long time. they get this hard armor all over. fire burns it off.
sam shivers, shaking off his disgust with a comical blubber. the corners of john's eyes crease, just subtly, imperceptible to the teen. ' that's so gross. '
life is a house of horrors. you should know that better than anyone.
' uh, it's still gross! '
