bro i have this crazy fucking idea. idk if anyone's done this before.
but like *smokes joint* what if zombies were an oppressed class?
like let's say in the future - and we're talking years after the zombie apocalypse, humanity reclaims the Earth one city at a time. yay, capitalism's back. it's like nothing ever changed. except oh no... zombies still exist in small pockets across the country.
we call those the "old cities". reminders of what the world was like before. zombies roam freely, attacking and ravaging each other. there's no law - which entices the lowest of low (outcasts, vagabonds, stupid teenagers). these cities are fenced off and heavily guarded by Z.S.I (Zombie Suppressant Initiative). their mission is to slowly bring zombie populations down, one kill at a time. the government doesn't monitor them; they just want the zombies gone. so ZSI uses... questionable methods. but zombies aren't people anymore; just monsters, right?
if you spot a zombie wandering outside its zone, you have to call the ZSI hotline. is your friend twitching a lot? bleeding from his eyes? call the ZSI guys. we'll take care of them.
"we can't risk another outbreak." "i think my neighbor's infected."
paranoia ensues. think the Red Scare.
some zombies are "different". does it perk up when you say its name? does it collapse at the doorstep of its childhood home, the last place it remembers to be safe? doesn't matter. call ZSI.
ZSI spreads propaganda that zombies can't feel, that they're just monsters. and for the most part? they're right.
not all states/countries have reclaimed their glorious past. they make do with slave labor in the form of zombies. hook them up to treadmills, dangle bait so they'll plow your fields. mafias use them as guards. everyone's in a rush to get back to the way things were, even if that means enslaving what were formerly people.
except, their idea of "the good days" is a dramatized lie told by ZSI. they're told if they rat on their neighbors, kill zombies who remember, and work really hard, eventually they'll get vending machines and 40-inch TVs. like that'll make them happy. they're rushing to reach a past they never lived.
the dwindling zombie population is an obstacle to utopia. a reminder of their long, painful past.
but if they learned to coexist, to rebuild society at a more sustainable pace, then maybe... just maybe... they'll create a world that is better than any other society in the past.
*smokes another joint*
i came up with this on my own. i felt so smart coming up with it. reads a lot stupider now that it's been turned into words, but oh well. maybe i can fit this into my current l4d fic ;)
Artists and writers depict Hunters as these cute anime doms. Which is whatever. You do you. As for me, I'm attracted to MONSTERS. I like my Hunter with a side of grit, rabid dog, and bloodkink. ;)
Here are my slightly fucked up Hunter headcanons:
Their metabolism is fast as fuck. If they don't eat anything in five days, they'll starve to death in just hours. Why? 'Cause the virus wants to spread. It'll self-cannibalize the host without a stream of prey. But this means the Hunter is almost always starving. Always frothing, trembling with hunger, gnawing on itself to cope.
That's why Hunters screech when they pounce: they're really fucking hungry, and can't help but express it. Being that hungry is painful.
A Hunter's body temp is 106 F (41.1 C). It's because of a high temp + fast metabolism. It makes them leathery and hot to the touch. They're constantly trembling, panting like hungry wolves, their heartbeats rapid—borderline cardiac—muscles misfiring, twitching, ready to pounce at any given moment.
Circling back to that "heat" thing, Hunters will only eat prey that's still warm (so freshly killed or still alive). They won't eat what they haven't killed. This also means they won't eat "human food"—not unless they're on death's door. After feeding, their metabolism slows… way… down… it's not uncommon for them to sleep 12+ hours after a feeding. They'll sleep anywhere: rooftops, cars, out in the street. They're dead to the world in this state. And once they come out of it, they'll be lethargic a few days... then that dreaded hunger returns.
They overexert themselves easily. Hunts are stressful and energy intensive. Whether they've eaten or not, they must find a place to rest and recover. Otherwise, that metabolism backfires and their heart will EXPLODE. They're also prone to bleeding from their nostrils, gums, eyes, and old wounds. Overexerting makes this 10x worse.
There's always something misfiring in their body. A muscle, a nerve, a chemical. Their body can't handle all the shit the virus is doing.... This can manifest as twitching, rocking, tapping, or head tilting. It's a way to discharge extra energy, like stimming.
Hunters have brain damage, especially in the language centers of the brain. They all have Isolation Aphasia. This means they can repeat and mimic words, but they can't understand them. Like a parrot. Some of the smarter ones use mimicry to lure prey to them.
They don't drink water. They get all of their fluids from blood.
Their bite force is 802 PSI (552 Newtons). Strong enough to break a human femur in 2-3 bites.
If a Hunter's been starving for too long, the virus will selfishly cannibalize the hunter's own body. First, the fingers and toes will rot and turn black, the skin peels. Then that rot will slowly creep up the limbs... until it finds the heart. If enough time passes the heart will stop beating.
The Hunter can leap 6-10 feet vertically from a couch, and 15+ feet from a sprint. They have strong legs and springy tendons with fast-twitch muscle fibers. Sometimes they accidentally launch themselves in the air when frightened. It's not their fault; their pouncing muscles are always ready to go.
The momentum from that kind of jump is fucking DEVASTATING. Getting pounced is like getting hit by a motorcycle at 30 mph (48 km/h)! That'll knock you flat, crack your ribs, dislocate your shoulders, and give you a concussion! And the heavier the Hunter, the more devastating that pounce becomes. They're a cannonball if it was alive and screaming.
Sometimes predators will guard prey they don't immediately eat (resource defense). When a Hunter imprints on a human's heat signature, it may "guard" them for days. This seems like loyalty, but it isn't. The Hunter is waiting for his last meal to digest before he hunts again.
Humans fear is like heroin to a Hunter. The touch of a human's warm skin, the delicious scent of adrenaline and sweat, and that pleasant rapid prey breathing... it's intoxicating to a hunter.
The virus drives them to seek warmth and motion, producing an instinct that feels like lust but is actually predatory compulsion. With just a few thrusts, they'll start hemorrhaging from the strain. But hunters don't care if they bleed… or if their poor victim bleeds. He'll mount and fuck his prey to release built-up stress and satisfy his dominance hormones. Even females mount.
Honestly the virus turns them into reckless, stupid adrenaline junkies. He'll do anything to get you; jump from a height he won't survive, chase you across an entire city. It'll all be worth it when he finally wins.
Adrenaline and hunger make it difficult for a Hunter to get hard. But once he gets going, he can't stop. He can cum twenty times in a row and still rock a raging boner. And he'll only want more.
The high body temp makes him infertile, which is a plus for some. Overall, he's a passionate, if not slightly terrifying partner.
I might add more HCs in the future. These are basic ones I needed for Chapter 2 of my fanfic.
Btw if you wanna write a fic using these, definitely gift the fic to me on AO3. I would be HELLA STOKED!!
I like the Hunter from Left 4 Dead—a lot. It's a borderline obsession. (But it doesn't really matter, right? We only live once after all...)
Warnings: Mentions of non-consensual acts, dismemberment, gore, vivisection, choking. Adults only.
Step into my strange mind. If you dare.
Original drawing by Capreoline-Desolation. Edited by me.
Cujo — Male zombie; 22; likes to eat people (what zombie doesn't?); his mission is to survive; feral, paranoid, quietly intelligent; after a shotgun blast to the face (courtesy of Alek), the left side of his jaw is exposed/mangled
Alek — Human male; 28; Slavic; enjoys harming others; bored, masochistic, self-destructive; weapon of choice: fireaxe
Cujo forced to give a blowjob.
Alek and Cujo, both predator and prey in their own rights, had a long and bloody fight. Cujo managed to bite a few fingers off, even took a good chunk of Alek's arm. But Alek was well-fed, fit, and he wasn't suffering from a slow-burn, fatal infection. It was inevitable he would win. And as Cujo lay there, heaving, Alek grabbed the back of his head—tightly winding the strands around his fist—and forced Cujo to kneel between his legs. The Hunter growled, of course, because survival was all it knew. But for Alek, this had nothing to do with survival. No... he fought for pleasure. And now, it was time to reap his reward, to let off some steam. Surviving is stressful, you know.
Alek stuck a gun to Cujo's head. Immediately, Cujo went quiet with fear, his bloodshot eyes staring at the man. Hunters may be primitive, more beast than man, but even they knew guns were bad. Guns were loud, and they burned, and they stopped survival. He wanted to live, so he stopped fighting. Alek took that at his cue to continue, and with a smirk, he quickly unzipped his pants, revealing his large, throbbing cock. Cujo shuddered at the sight of it. Meat. But he could not bite, he had to be still or the gun would kiss his brain goodnight.
The hunter—this feral, dangerous, man-eating machine—is forced to suck off his prey—like a worthless prostitute. Like he's nothing, like his survival is just a game he can play with. Cujo chokes on Alek's cock. He's large and aggressive, leaving little chance for Cujo to breathe. His cock was too big—he's too big he's too big...
The wound on Cujo's jaw tears, spilling blood and loose tissue on the floor, where his clenched, furious hands shake. He wants to bite, but he can't—he wants to pull back and breathe—but he can't. He resigns himself. Given up and given in. He whimpers, like the worthless, helpless creature he is.
Choking is underrated.
Picture it: The Smoker's tongue wrapped around Cujo's throat, using a tree branch as leverage to hang him. His claws rip at the tongue, struggling for breath, while his feet kick above the ground.
Or Cujo choking a man, a woman—doesn't matter. Or Cujo is getting choked, maybe by the Bounty Hunter. Repeatedly. He writhes under the man's weight, desperate to break free, but everything's getting dark. Spots fill his vision as he claws at the road, then his body grows heavy, slow. With a weak whimper, he slumps like a dead weight. The man waits for a beat, then after a moment of silence, releases him.
Air rushes into his lungs with a desperate, crying gasp. But he doesn't get to breathe for very long. The hands are on him again—choking, squeezing—darkness—breathe. Choke, release, choke, release.
"Just breathe... that's it, good boy," a voice whispers.
Soon, the man stops choking him, but Cujo's too delirious to notice. His head rolls from side to side, mouth gaping like a fish out of water. His pupils too big—too dull—like something that's already dead. The hands descend on him again, but he doesn't flinch.
My absolute favorite is vivisection.
Imagine Cujo is tightly restrained. Yellow eyes dart from side to side, trembling with quiet, animalistic fear that will soon be heard. He's overwhelmed by the bright lights, sharp chemical smells, and straps wound too tight. A head moves in front of the light, blocking it. Now all he can see is the scientist's mask and two cold, sterile eyes—already looking through him. Analyzing what's beneath. He swallows, but doesn't cry. Hunters don't cry.
First, they unravel his intestines. Then they remove his bladder, his kidneys, a liver. Everything's dragged out of him, bit by painful bit, all while he screams. He melts into the pain. His entire world consumed by it. Above him, the scientist lifts each organ to the light, tilting it this way and that. Their eyes never change expression.
All he can do is watch.
Despite himself, the scientist looks... not bad. Male or female, doesn't matter. Either way, his cock hardens. Perhaps excited at the sight of her breasts, the smell of her wet cunt. Or his cock jumps when those strong, muscular arms lean across his belly, reaching for another tool. He finds himself rutting against the straps, helpless, completely unable to move. Between his shaking legs, his cock lays ignored against his thigh. Dirty monsters like him don't get to cum. That's just making a mess of their corrupted seed.
The scientist wouldn't give him another glance, wouldn't even look at his cock. Maybe they'll saw him in half, annoyed with his animalistic display. And as he's torn in half, his cock points to the sky, leaking harder.
He never got to cum.
Not even in his final moments.
And those are some of my dirty Hunter thoughts. I have many, many more... would you like to read them? 👀
Let me know if you find a typo or weirdo sentence (I wasn't brave enough to ask a beta-reader).
My Discord/Tumblr DMs are open for kinky text roleplays. Adults only.
Synopsis: Thomas didn't sign up to be a soldier. The Hunter didn't sign up to be a zombie.
Warnings:
Gore, blood, cursing, major character death, cannibalism
Fandom: Left 4 Dead (with original characters)
You are not allowed to redistribute my writing. You are, however, encouraged to reblog and comment!
Post looks best in dark mode.
Thomas fidgeted with the AR-15 safety like a kid bored in class. He sat shoulder-to-shoulder with twenty other strangers, their bodies jostling in the back of an armored van. All of them about seventeen—eighteen. Not children, not adults either—yet they wore the tactical gear of soldiers, eyes aged and tired. Their boots a size too big, tactical gear so heavy they drowned under it. Thomas was pale and corpse-like. The army provisions weren't cutting it anymore.
If someone would've told him he'd be shooting zombies in a year, wearing all of this badass gear, he would've said, "Sign me up." But that was a naive Thomas—who played Call of Duty on the weekends, smoked weed in the parking lot with his friends. So blissfully unaware of the world.
He stared at his gun. It was ancient, rust clinging to stubborn corners. He thumbed over the black casing and peeled off a small piece.
"You look nervous." Someone said.
Thomas bristled as another man sat beside him. It was the Chief of Unit 5. No last name—just Chief.
Chief was stern, stout-looking. Hair shaved close to the skull with the barest silver dusting the temples. The wrinkles ran hard and long on his face. And his arms, thick and corded with muscle, permanently scarred by long, raised gashes.
Thomas cleared his throat, voice low and cracking.
"I'm not."
"Good." Chief said.
Thomas nodded absentmindedly… not really thinking. "Um, so… Chief…" He sat up straight, mirroring Chief's posture. "What are we hunting?" He asked. The van hushed. All heads turned towards Chief.
A boy snickered, asking, "Yeah, Chief. What's it this time?"
Chief's jaw twitched, considering his words carefully. "We're tracking dangerous game tonight, boys—we call 'em Hunters." He said.
A fist tightened in Thomas' chest, squeezing. That name was familiar, but he didn't know why. Just a burnt out memory.
"Ugly fuckers." Chief continued, "Mean, loud. And they're fast… but we're faster. I think you'll enjoy it."
The boys were on the edge of their seats. Some frowned. Most were smiling, blissfully unaware.
"I have 500 kills in Call of Duty 3, I think I can handle this." One boy said, half-joking. Another boy punched him in the arm, then they rough-housed again.
Thomas watched them shove each other. He felt even worse, somehow. Words like bomb shells.
"I wouldn't worry about it, son." Chief said, observing him. Thomas swallowed the animalistic whimpers that threatened to escape. Chief hesitated, then he leaned in, caging him off from the rest of the room's noise. Then he said quietly, "let me tell you something. Between just us two men, you're the best soldier I've got. You understand?" Thomas paused, body lit up from the inside. His muscles were too heavy to smile, so he just… nodded. Like a good soldier.
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
Chief settled back, his presence left a cold spot in the air. The words felt good, but Thomas still felt nauseous. It was like rotten fruit had been dropped in his stomach, and the flies had just begun to squirm.
The van stopped. Flies scuttled under Thomas' skin.
"We're here," Chief said. The boys were buzzing with excitement now, jumping to their feet. Chief stopped and helped Thomas up with one arm. His legs wobbled, but he held on. Chief looked at him like he knew what was up, but said nothing. Just patted him on the shoulder and said, "Don't forget your gun."
The muscles in his face tightened, but he grabbed it as he was told.
"Safety catches off, boys! This ain't no video game!" Chief announced. One of the boys kicked open the double-doors of the van. Then they spilled out in a hurry, eager to explore post-apocalyptic Seattle. They marched out of sync and hollered like brats, as though silence was just a suggestion. Thomas stood behind them in the doorway, trembling. Confused.
This was home. The streets, the signs, the shops. The buildings slouched under their own weight, just thin, corroded shells with nothing inside. He could smell their decay; that once familiar scent of wet dirt and rain. Streets drowned under carpets of moss, thick and green from the damp air. Something came into his home and rearranged the furniture, gave it a new face. Home was dead. It was a zombie like everything else.
"Hey," Chief said, voice firm. Thomas nearly dropped his gun in surprise, but he quickly caught it in his arms and hugged it to his chest. He didn't know what he got himself into—what Chief got him into. Thomas' expression was one of near-exhaustion. A boy cosplaying a soldier, something he wasn't. Never would be. He just wanted to go home, but that didn't exist anymore.
"Thomas. C'mon, you're not a boy anymore. You're a soldier." Chief said.
A cold wind pooled in the back of Thomas' neck. He shivered, and stepped off the van with sluggish steps. "Yes, sir." And followed Chief like a shadow.
Seattle watched him from rooftops and broken windows. If the walls could speak, they would scream.
Unit 5 was more than happy to desecrate his home. They clustered up ahead as a group, like a clique he wasn't invited to. Pointing, kicking, making fun. Thomas hung back and kept an eye out for trouble.
"Come check this shit out, man!" Someone cried.
Thomas obediently walked in their direction, holding his gun like a lifeline. The boys huddled, staring down. Thomas nudged past their shoulders so he could get a better look. The figure was lying on the curb like it'd been dropped there. It easily could have been mistaken for a man, were it not for its' blood-filled eyes and rotten-grey skin. Its eyes rolled in the sockets, rotten grapes, empty of all expression save hunger. Its mouth hung rasping, drooling. One boy nudged it with his gun. The creature suddenly jerked and gurgled, spitting blood. Its stomach was shredded by several serrated marks. Intestines steamed on the asphalt, saturated in blood and fluid. Thomas gagged. Any man would have bled out and died, but this was no man. Not anymore.
"Let's set it on fire," someone whispered.
Nausea bubbled in Thomas' throat; he swallowed and pushed it down, shaking his head. "Wha—no. We… we can't do that."
"Quit you're bitchin'. The hunter'll think we're havin' a barbecue." They snickered. Thomas' jaw twitched, but he didn't argue; it wasn't his place.
The end of the world brought out the worst in people, thought Thomas. Then he thought of home again.
By the time the boys doused it in lighter fluid, Chief had finally caught up. He studied the zombie and its disemboweled stomach like you might study a bug squashed on the sidewalk.
"Hunter's close. Just look at those marks, boys. No man can do that." The zombie clawed at the air in front of him, unable to move. Chief smirked, then he watched the rooftops and windows. "I need y'all to stay in pairs, it's safer that way. Matthews, Pearson—take the west perimeter. Russell and Moyer to the east…" then he said, "And Thomas? You're with Rollins."
Thomas, despite his exhaustion, smiled. The curve of it far too boyish for a man in his attire. "Sir, yes, sir!" The zombie growled at the sound of voice, but he ignored it.
The group dispersed with guns in hand, flashlights beaming into dark corners. Thomas followed Rollins into an alleyway. When he looked back, smoke was building over the rooftops, bringing with it a damp, burnt flesh odor. The thought made him shudder.
Rollins said nothing. He was well-groomed, wearing the nicest, cleanest clothes Thomas had seen since the world died. He had blonde, recently cut hair and cheeks dusted in freckles. He was also clearly well-fed, unlike most of the boys in this unit.
Thomas sweeps the walls for those crawling infected, but he could only see sun-bleached bricks and an air-conditioner. His tactical gear clung to him like a wet blanket from sweat and humidity. A dumpster laid on its side, oozing trash. Like a drunk lying in its own vomit.
"Hey, virgin…" Rollins whispered. Thomas ignored him. Rollins' elbow cracked into his ribs hard enough to make him gasp. "Psst!"
Thomas winced and shielded his side. "Jesus christ! That—that's not my name, dude. It's Thomas."
"You're a virgin, so that's what I'm gonna call you—dude."
With a sigh, he asked: "What do you want?"
"You seem scared back in that van," he said, smiling. "Gettin' cold feet? Gonna run as soon as the Hunter shows up? Bet you will."
Thomas went stiff. "Chief hunts them all the time—"
"Pfft, so? You're nothing like chief. Man, I just know he gets laid every damn day of the week."
"Hah—yeah, even though there's, like, three women left in the world…"
"If you were the last man on earth, you still wouldn't get laid. Let's be honest with ourselves."
Thomas stuttered, his face scorching.
"We're supposed to have each other's back." He found his mouth saying.
"Yeah, well, the Hunter won't care about that when it's ripping your throat out. You really think Chief is alive because he plays team spirit?"
"No. I guess not." He said, heart racing. Then it was quiet; save for the rhythmic tapping of water from a pipe. And the wind, howling through him like he wasn't there.
The alleyway was a dead end. Rollins grit his teeth and huffed. He walked around an overturned dumpster, nosing his gun through the piles of trash. Flies buzzed around his face, he waved them off and then smiled at what he saw. He pointed at a soggy takeout box.
"Ew, what is that…"
"I dare you to eat it." Rollins blurted.
Thomas balked. "I'm not gonna do that."
Rollins smiled in disbelief.
"Come on, we should… we should go back. There's nothing here." Thomas added, holding his gun tighter. The air was electric.
Rollins huffed very loud. "Fuck—how do pussies like you survive on your own? My fucking grandma's tougher than you. Pussy ass bitch."
Thomas' heart beat even faster, it was a violent war drum in his chest. It physically hurt to breathe. His eyes stung, so he rubbed them with shaking strokes. "I'm gonna go."
"Yeah, 'course you are. Ditch your teammate. Chief'll love to hear about this." He tossed the takeout box at Thomas, who caught it on reflex. "Now you gonna do what I say like a good soldier?"
Thomas' lip wobbled. His hands did too, the box squishing between his fingers. His body was a tight spring. Suddenly he smashed the box against Rollin's cheek, noodles exploded everywhere. Rollins gasped and lurched to one side, but didn't fall.
Rollins wiped his jaw with his fist. "You fucking idiot." He growled.
He tackled Thomas to the ground with ease, their guns clattered and forgotten. Thomas threw punches and kicks at random, panicking, as Rollins pinned him to the cold, hard floor. He took every hit without emotion, without pain. His eyes two hard stones. He flipped Thomas onto his belly and twisted his arm behind his back, joints popping from strain. Thomas gasped, inhaling expired rain. His free hand clawed at the ground, trying to get away. "You're hurting me!" He cried, choking.
"That's the point." Rollins twisted it back harder, bones grinding against each other. Thomas felt something warm and wet dribble on his scalp.
Rollins' eyes snapped forward. His face went pale.
"Oh shit." He said.
Suddenly the weight lifted off of him. Thomas heard Rollins' footsteps retreating.
Thomas sat up and rubbed the back of his head, fingers coming back wet and clear. His arm ached fiercely. He winced and sat back against the opposite wall, catching his breath.
A low rumble resonated through his body and chest. Like a car engine in an empty garage.
Thomas looked up to the rooftops, like Chief had once done. There in shadow, a dozen feet above his head, sat The Hunter.
"R… Rollins…?" whispered Thomas.
It crouched on hands and feet, brooding over him like a dark, demonic gargoyle. Its face was almost human; a nose, lips, two eyes—but it's teeth were jagged spears. Its eyes were blood-filled and glowing from two yellow irises, the flesh around them rotted. It watched Thomas like a tiger might stare down its prey. Its hands gripped the edge of the rooftop, half-lit by scatters of light. Its fingers ended in long, ragged claws. The nails were hardened keratinous spears, no longer resembling anything human. Its breath, reeking of miasma, fogged in front of it. Almost like a man smoking. Through its breath, two silvery fangs of saliva glistened and touched the ground. The back of Thomas' skull tingled.
The hunter moved. Thomas' hand shot for his rifle automatically, but his arm seized and he bit back a scream. He quickly reached for it with his free hand. He cocked it back and flicked off the safety with his finger, breaths bursting in and out. He looked up. The hunter wasn't there.
He looked down. It was less than a foot away. He didn't even hear it land. It slunk towards him on all fours, far too poised for something that was once human. It moved towards him warily, its eyes never blinking as they stared.
It moves into the light. One side of its face had been scraped away, exposing teeth and gums to the light. A permanent death-grin. The gun rattled in Thomas' hand.
"I'm a soldier." Thomas whispered, voice on the verge. "I'm—I'm a s-soldier. I'm a fighter. I'm..."
He aimed between its eyes. The creature pressed its brow to the cold lip of the gun, staring into Thomas. Its eyes violated him. I dare you.
Thomas dared. The gun jammed. His lungs seized on air. He squeezed the trigger, again—click, the live round pinged in his lap. The rust had eroded its metal organs. Useless. Dead. The monster's pupils inflated.
He screamed. It lunged. His vision was swallowed by teeth.
The boy's jugular crackled under its teeth. It spurted like a balloon deflating. With a shriek, it grabbed his shoulders so it could taste more of him. Sickening gushes filled the alley as it drank in Thomas, savoring him.
Thomas was dead.
This is the first story I've written in 5 years. (depression sucks lmao✌️)
If this story's up your alley, I'd love to hear what made it click for you.
Teeth bared, the creature snarled and clawed at the water. When the ripples cleared a wobbly reflection stared back.
It paused. Tilted its head.
Prominent cheekbones pressed through thin skin, and its hungry eyes were cupped within bony eye sockets. It hooked a finger in its mouth and pulled its lips back. Grinding the teeth together, it noticed the teeth looked worn—aged, as if exposed to the rain for a hundred years. Its tongue rubbed against a molar where a piece of plastic was. That'd been stuck chafing its gums for many sunsets.
It leaned forward, scrutinizing itself in closer detail. The look-alike followed along.
Too thin. Too grey. And its teeth were useless for hunting. It was weak, like prey.
Another set of eyes watched.
Slowly, it turned; dragging its eyes from the water to the road, and then up and around.
Short fingernails, blunt teeth, and soft eyes—a man.
Prey.
The man crouched close enough to touch. He had black bags smudged under his eyes, and his skin was pale, colorless. Almost sickly. However, he looked firm, large. And he didn't shake like a diseased animal. The healthiest, most intimidating prey the creature had ever seen.
The cigarette flared in his lips, and he readjusted it with two pointed fingers. Unbothered.
"Hey."
The creature flinched back. Ice-cold lakewater nipped at its bare foot, causing it to snarl and jump away. The creature glared at the man, as if bracing for an attack, inching backward into the open road.
The man stood towering on two legs, smoking leisurely. Perfectly at ease in the Hunter's territory, his face almost entirely hidden—only a pair of doll-like eyes visible above the slow curls of his cigarette.
It backward crawled, putting some distance between the man, then froze. Lowered into a crouch, watched its prey.
His arm twitched. The hunter's eyes snapped to it, and it realized the man gripped a fire-axe low in his fingerless gloves—almost lazy. It smelled dry blood on the blade, both infected and human.
This was not prey.
The creature wanted to run, to hide, but the hunger was begging. Please. Its heart pounded with fear and excitement at once. At the thought of eating such large prey, its stomach twisted into knots, gurgling stomach acid burned from the inside out. It hadn't felt fullness—real fullness—in a long time.
It inhaled sharply, the air damp and stale on its tongue. Then it screamed: a loud, high-pitched sound that scraped like glass. The man flinched, shielding his ears, then stopped. Smiled.
"Feisty little крыса," he rasped in a thick Russian accent, his voice sly.
The Hunter charged forward on all fours, spider-crawling with supernatural speed. Like a film reel sped up. The man's eyes widened as the creature sped toward him. He stepped back, felt cold water on his foot. He squared his shoulders and swung the axe. The Hunter leapt back just in time. Wind whistled off the blade and ruffled the Hunter's hair, mere inches away from cutting flesh. Before the man wound up another swing, the Hunter snarled, jumped. The man grabbed a fistful of hood, twisted, and slammed it to the ground. Rough asphalt cut into its spine and neck.
An axe-blade flashed above it. The hunter pulled its legs up and donkey-kicked the man, sending him tumbling up the road. He tripped on his own feet and fell, the axe clattering. The Hunter clawed at the road as it vaulted forward, climbing on top of the man and pinning him down. It pawed at his chest where blood seeped through his shirt. A rib must've snapped from the kick. And from the way he convulsed, it hurt bad. The creature hissed, and bright drool fell from its mouth.
For a moment, the man lay in a state of pure shock. Unable to fight back. When his eyes opened, the pupils were blown wide and unfocused, rolling as they searched for nothing. Teeth chattered feebly. The Hunter licked its own teeth; too much drool. Its stomach spasmed violently through the dirty hoodie. So hungry…
It lunged—
Arms snapped up—the axe handle crashed against the Hunter's teeth. It kept them away by an arm-length, drooling and trembling. Brows furrowed, the Hunter growled, surging forward. It gnashed its broken teeth against the handle. Where the teeth dragged, they left gouges. The beast looked into the man's eyes, expecting fear response. It loved to drink in their expressions. Only the prey wasn't scared—he was smiling.
POP.
The sound filled the Hunter's skull. Its jaw had dislocated.
It was seized by a blinding white-hot pain—a pain so intense, it couldn't breathe. Couldn't cry. Its body instinctively sensed the dislocation, and tried to relocate it by tensing the muscles, but the man forced the handle back. He jammed it past the hinge of the creature's jaw, keeping it propped open and gaping.
Claws dragged down the man's chest and ripped his shirt, unzipping flesh and exposing blood and tissues. The man cursed in Russian. He rammed the handle back hard, and it winced, nostrils flaring with ragged breaths. Its claws hooked into the man's chest where his rib had snapped. It wanted him to hurt. It wanted him to suffer. Its claws sank past his skin and twisted, pulled.
The man headbutted the creature. It flew back, skidded, and hit the ground. It scrambled onto all fours, panting toward the ground. God, the pain. Its jaw tried to reset; the muscles twisting its face left and right. Years of chronic starvation had slowed its healing. Exhaustion already settling into its weary bones, but it couldn't stop—not with prey here. A moment later, the jaw-bone crunched painfully into place. It looked over its shoulder across the road to watch its prey—he was gone.
Then a boot came crashing into its face. The creature collapsed in a heap of limbs. A high-pitched ringing filled its ears. It tasted iron—blood.
The man was already on top of it.
And he was smart.
Using his boot, the man pinned the creature's leg so it couldn't jump. A shadow fell on its eyelids. Opening its eyes, an axe glinted in the dim light—and then a flash of silver as it swung down.
Synopsis: When a crisis threatens the entire Empire of Sky, Head Strategist Alto is forced to into an uneasy alliance with Dusk—a man who seems more Krill than Moth.
Warnings: None
Fandom: Sky: Children of the Light (with heavy canon divergence)
You do not have permission to redistribute my writing. You are, however, encouraged to reblog and comment.
Suddenly the doors opened. The room hushed. A nervous looking man walks through, followed by a dark figure.
The strategy room was cavernous, yet private. A vast map covers the table from end to end, the corners pinned down by blades. The generals sat quietly in their chairs. Eyes hard and unwelcoming as the pair stepped forward.
The nervous man avoided eye contact, his head dipped politely. Pale strands in his eyes. His hands trembled audibly around the papers, loud enough to fill the room.
Finally, the man at the head of the table spoke.
"We're in a meeting."
The man bowed once more, the dark visitor did not.
"Head Strategist, Alto." The man said, shaking. He was not used to this attention. "I ap-apologize for interrupting you, but I have instructions from the Queen."
The generals looked at one another and grumbled to themselves.
Alto's lip twitched, then his eye. He hushed his peers with a practiced wave.
Then he sighed, rose to his feet, and slid into a cape. "So be it— men, to your families. We resume tomorrow."
The others reluctantly grabbed their things and headed to the door, complaining as they did so. The meeting was clearly important. And by the tired look in Alto's eye, an interruption was the last thing he wanted.
"To my private chambers. Now." Alto said. And they followed him to the back of the room.
Alto's chambers was just as large as the strategy room. The curtains were closed, dust motes swirling in cracks of light. In the center of the room sat a desk covered in papers. Inkwells. Quills. And more papers below the desk than on top of it—crumpled up or shredded.
Alto rubbed his eye, biting back a yawn. He pointed to the desk which had no chairs. "Make yourself useful, Nimbus." He grumbled.
The nervous man, Nimbus, quickly sprang into action and grabbed chairs for them to sit in. The wooden legs groan as he dragged them, luring a migraine into the back of Alto's head. Then Nimbus pulled up two chairs for himself and the dark figure, who had yet to speak.
Alto watched his useless assistant dust off their chairs with excessive care. Alto cleared his throat, loudly, and watched Nimbus scramble to fill his seat.
"And who is this? You bring strays into my chambers now?" Alto asked, seating himself.
The figure offered a hand from his dark sleeve. " Dusk ."
Alto's eyes narrowed in recognition. He doesn't take it.
"I know who you are," Alto said.
A grin curves on Dusk's face, dark and delicious. Like a taste of first blood.
"Can't say the same for you." Dusk's hand hovers between them, then it returns, swallowed by his black cape.
Alto watched him carefully. "What does this homeless fool have to do with the Queen, Nimbus?"
Nimbus looked up from his lap, eyes avoiding him. "Ha, funny thing… the Queen asked him to help us with the Krill crisis."
Alto's brows knitted together. This had to be a colossal mistake, but he'd humor it for Nimbus's confidence.
"Interesting…" Alto said, curious. Nimbus smiled and nodded enthusiastically. "And for what purpose?"
"I have my reasons."
Hm—hiding something, Dusk? Alto smiled, studying him with a head tilt.
"Oh, please do tell." Alto baited.
…
"Are you always this suspicious?" He didn't bite.
Silence. An inhale.
Nimbus watched as Alto's fingers flexed, as though watching an unlived memory; his fingers clamped around Dusk's throat, squeezing and choking and squeezing. Finally putting an end to this little game before it wasted any more of his precious time. Like one might snap shut a book that's gone on too long.
"Alto—I mean— sir ." Nimbus started, "We, we don't have to argue. The Queen must have a plan in place, otherwise she wouldn't have invited him. Don't you think?"
Alto studied the portrait above his fireplace. Yes, of course. The Queen. He made a promise to protect her interests, or die trying. That was the vow all Strategists had to make. He was the last one.
"I'm the Strategist , Nimbus. I am the plan." Alto said. "But… if the Queen sees something in you, whatever that may be, I have no choice but to to respect it."
But I'll be watching you. I'll be always be right there, waiting for your first mistake.
Dusk looked at him from across the desk—the bags under Alto's eyes like purple bruises. The occasional yawn that slipped from his lips. And the semi-hysteric scrawlings that peppered his desk—the logic lost even to Alto.
"You are loyal to the Queen." Dusk observed.
Suspicious. Alto considered if this was a trap before speaking. "Yes."
"How is that working for you?"
"Fine." Alto hadn't slept in three days, nor did he see the sun or eat much. His mind was occupied with the Krill crisis raging on. Skykids and Spirits were being destroyed in their homes—their lights snuffed out—while Alto was breaking his mind trying to fix it. "...as opposed to slumming in Golden Wasteland, like yourself?" he added, "I am doing quite fine. Thank you."
Dusk's smile loses its edge, but he looks satisfied with his last jab. Of course he did. The crisis benefited him most, which only made this more suspicious.
Nimbus, either oblivious or too tired to care, produced a big smile from ear to ear. "Yes! So it's settled then. You'll work together?"
Dusk's eyes flick up, glowing and apple-green—a predator's eyes in the dark. Life in the Wastes changed him; he was more Krill than Skykid now.
"You have my word." Dusk offers his hand once more— his left instead of the right . Alto balked, already suspicious, he scans for movement beneath his cloak. Nothing.
Alto takes his hand, the cold weight of it crushingly final.
They shake on it.
"We'll see." Alto said.
Feint [fānt]
Noun
"A military maneuver designed to distract or mislead."
I might write the next chapter, might not. If you want more of this, let me know in the comments.
Warnings: Gore, blood, and general zombie-apocalypse tropes.
This is lil' excerpt I wrote for a Discord roleplay. The character is Alek, a bounty hunter whose been tracking a Hunter (Cujo) after he bit his dick off (literally). Alek blew off half of Cujo's face with a shotgun, but he got away. Alek's been hunting him down ever since...
"It's been fun, грязная крыса," Alek said, playing with their hair. "But I've got places to be now."
The dark ski mask on his face concealed everything but his blue eyes. Traces of insomnia bled in the corners, and purple bags were smudged beneath his eyes like bruises. The zombie coughed, a wet gurgling sound. Alek leaned down with all his weight, immobilizing its neck with his boot. It needed to be perfectly still for him. He didn't want to fuck up again—not like he did with that fucking mutt.
The moon was a pale dime, bathing the city ruins in a bright glow. The city was dead—a corpse; propped up and fake-smiling like a Victorian child's corpse in an old family photo. Dark windows, crumbling corrosive steel. A telephone wire swayed in the breeze, but there was no sound. Just the wet gurgling under his boot. He raised his hatchet, moonlight glinting off the head, crusted with blood. The zombie's dull eyes finally focused. And when they did, the eyes bulged and it whimpered.
"Ah, stop it, my god," he said in a clipped tone, annoyed. He swung the axe back, casting a long shadow on the cracked street. Then he brought it down and cleaved its head from its body. The spine crunched under sharp steel. He twisted the axe, rolled the head aside with his blade. The blood looked pretty in this light. Less red and more black, rotten. But he found no joy in it. The adrenaline quickly fled and left him more tired than before.
He couldn't find it in him to smile; not with the creature running around. Still free. Still pouncing over the rooftops, hunting people—fucking. While he still had to live with…
He needed to get his revenge. Fucking hack that hunter's ass to a million pieces if he had to.
Footsteps.
He didn't know there were others.
He dried the axe on his sleeve, flicking a smudge of blood on the ground. He hurried into a dark alley nearby and pressed up against the brick wall. The movement jarred his body. Sent a bolt of pain burning up through his stomach. He swallowed the sound, breathed—exhaled, pale breath streaming through the mask. As the footsteps drew closer, Alek's fingers were knuckle-white around the axe handle, shaking from adrenaline—from the violent trembling of his heart. The cold metal bit his palms, grounded him.
It wasn't infected. They made no sound. It was human—and it had been so long since he killed one.
She walked on past. Didn't see him.
Alek paused.
A girl?
Got worked up and scared over a little girl?
His face burned red-hot, skin prickling with desire. Stepping forward, Alek crushed a bottle under his boot, let it ring loud and clear off the walls.
"Hey," he whispered, voice ragged from disuse. He stepped fully into the light, axe hung loose in one arm. Relaxed. He could take her without it.
CW: Gore, blood, psychotic character is psychotic, etc. I don't endorse cutting people open (obviously), this is a character study.
Don't read if you're squeamish.
He's not "mad". He's not even misunderstood; he just hates zombies.
There will never be enough words to describe how much he HATES them.
When ZSI drops another zombie on his table, he can't hide his disgust, his disappointment. They are disgusting scum on the face of the Earth. They couldn't go extinct sooner. Once, the world was… somewhat functional. He played the people game, made his patients bleed. But he was a good boy. Made sure to never cut more than he could get away with. Always sent his patients home healthy and safe. It gave him drive, power.
Now? All that's left are these… 'things'. That used to be people.
He never liked people, not much. Now he hates them.
But then… oh, when… when a zombie is dragged kicking into his office, he gets that flutter in his chest. Their strange biology both disgusts and fascinates the scientist. He can't stay away.
The rabid, dumb creature will choke on its spit—on its hunger—and keen, whine, and moan while he cuts them open.
His scalpel unzips their chest, ribs cracking under his hands. The tissues wet and red and so bright. He peels the skin back like a wet shirt, toss it in the garbage. Digs for more.
He loves the sound a zombie makes when it dies. It's almost human.
