The beads of perspiration that dotted Marcus' forehead were slowly flowing down. Marcus felt the heat, the exhaustion. He couldn't rest his lethargic body. He couldn't seek respite. His grip on the pistol tightened. Jake lied in front of him, his body resting against the walls.


"Marcus, don't do this. I'm sorry."


He took aim. Jake looked at him, his eyes filled with the desperation that leaked out in the form of tears.


Marcus laid his finger on the trigger. It felt strangely cold... an alien sensation, triggered by the fear that had enveloped him.


"Marcus, listen to me. Look at me, man."


"Marcus, please. I have a wife, you motherfucker. I have ki-"


Marcus pulled the trigger. The shot that resulted was deafening. The kick of the pistol struck his hand, as he jotted back in surprise. The bullet that had escaped drilled into Jake's head in mini-seconds, the sound of blood spilling, head smashing and the gunshot itself. They mixed into an alarming cacophony. He looked down at his palms. They had been caked with blood. He looked up. Jake's corpse slowly sagged. Marcus closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Each breath that escaped through his chapped lips were a relieving reminder.

"I'm still alive."

Marcus turned around. He placed the pistol inside his pocket and trudged through the tunnel he had dragged Jake through. Each step's sound ricocheted in the giant hole. Music to his ears. He squinted as he walked out through the other end, in the harsh light that seared down the ground. Davis was waiting for him. The plastic bottle he held in his hands arrested Marcus' attention. Davis chuckled. Like him, Davis' hands were bloody and what used to be a shirt which Davis wore was now a rag soiled with blood and little bits of human organs.

"Give me that."

Davis passed Marcus the bottle. Marcus greedily slurped whatever liquid was in it, his throat expressing its gratitude in the form of a soothing feeling that gradually calmed him down. Marcus closed his eyes. He was distracted. A small, plastic bottle that had altered his train for thoughts. Which was probably why he failed to notice the mutilated figure that had jumped down and crept up to Davis. Marcus opened his eyelids. Then he saw it. A man, his jaw nearly ripped of its end, its flesh dangling at the edge of his chin. That wasn't the most distinctive part. It were his eyes. They were pale white. No pupils. And the nails? They seemed to be razor sharp. Another of those creatures. Again.

"Duck! Move!"

David did. But not quite fast enough before the man had somehow managed to dig his nails into his back emitting the ripping sounds of his skin as he fell to the ground. Davis howled and Marcus instantaneously reached for his pistol. Still not quite fast enough. Davis had became a forgotten prey in the eyes of the monster. Marcus was new. The man jumped at Marcus, as he growled. It was a cringe-worthy sound, and his outstretched hands caught hold of Marcus by the collar of his shirt, pulling him down onto the ground. It had never felt colder.


The pistol soared out of his pocket, carried by the blow the man had laid into Marcus as it landed meters away from the struggle. The only defense mechanism he knew. His savior, manifested into the form of steel and danger. Gone.

"Fuck! Help, Davis, get my fucking pistol!"

Davis cursed, the small range of barbaric vulgarities he knew escaped through his mouth. He stood up. The sharp pangs of pain at his back defied his body's order. He collapsed again, managing a slight whimper. The man lay on top of Marcus, its head lunging forward, the swift growls uncovered a rancid stench the monster had hidden. Marcus tried to claw his way out. A futile attempt.


The man shoved one of its grimy hands into his mouth. He yelled and tried, with the last remaining energy he could muster, to push this thing away. Last measures. A futile attempt.


Davis crawled, his whimpers the only accompanying factor he could sense. His outstretched fingers felt the barrel. He pulled it to him. Marcus wasn't looking. The visual image of Jake pleading, with his last tears, sprang up to mind. Marcus felt the first pearl of sorrow escape, slowly running down his from his eyes. The same thing. The same desperation. He pushed the man as hard as he could, but he was coming closer. The stench, the drops of blood from its dislocated, mutilated jaw, the small bits and pieces of stench, showered Marcus' face. The demonic man was inches away. And he was getting closer.


Davis screamed in the anguish that encompassed him, aiming the pistol at the aggressor.

"Go to hell, you fucker."


Click. Click. Click.

The transition of torment between the two was evident. Marcus screamed, as Davis stared in the pure disbelief at the accursed pistol. A cruel, twist in itself. No bullets. Davis hurled the pistol at the man with his last, pathetic attempt with salvaging what has been dropped. The man's head sunk into Marcus' neck, and its teeth, or what had remained of it, bore deep into his neck. The exchange of blood, the quenching of hunger. A chunk was torn off Marcus' neck as the man bit hungrily.


Marcus closed his eyes. For the last time. He embraced it now. The second bite. And what would come with it would be the third. Then the fourth. And then soon, it would be over. He would be dead. It's over. The pain, synthesized by the physical tortures ... it would be a miracle to even put up resistance. He waited. The incoming form of death that would come. The comfort of it.

The second bite never came. Marcus opened his eyelids. The greeting sight to him was surprising enough. The man, whatever the thing had compounded of, was lying on the ground. He was missing his head. The head was quite a distance away. The neck showed obvious signs of tearing. It was quite the sight. Marcus looked up. It was hard. Davis was standing up, his hands clutching onto an old brick, one of its edges stained with the crimson red stains. So that was what had happened. He didn't use the damn pistol after all, but that was okay.


Then he spoke.

"We've both got a lot of shit to say but I- look, just lie here, alright? I'll get the kit. It's ... It's in the van. I'm sorry. Just- just don't move."

Davis tuned around and began limping off. He didn't know.

Marcus began to twitch. The pain was stronger now. Marcus opened his mouth ... no sound came out. His vision had became foggy. Yet, he could make out a rough, acrimonious shape. It was Davis. He was still walking. Yet still in sight.

Marcus knew what he needed to do.

He needed to get up.


Marcus got up on his legs, and stared ahead. His jaw began to quaver.


Marcus felt his eyes burn. But it didn't concern his actions. Not anymore.


He tried to move. Towards Davis. It was surprisingly easy. His back was still turned towards him.


Growls. Insatiable hunger. Lack of pain.


Davis turned around.

"Marcus, what are y-"


Marcus lunged at him.

Written by PrimalES 
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