Battlefield - Chapter 01 - 4581 words
Note: hopefully i'm not meandering too much. i've revised the prologue posted before so you may want to re-read it. also, there's no kuroro yet. this chapter is mostly to set the tone of what people have to live through. (title is temporary until i find something that fits; taking suggestions)
Beta-reader: Gold
Chapter title: Ashes to Ashes
Chapter 01
Ashes to Ashes
A man could drive himself crazy, were he to wonder the possible outcomes of taking a different path than the one he had chosen, and Kurapica was no exception. The loss of his hometown to a fire had been difficult for him due to sentimental reasons, but it had also chased him from his only shelter and the few ressources he’d managed to scrounge up. When push had come to shove, Kurapica had had to sacrifice his home to save his life. It had been a hard blow, but if he ever encountered any of his clansmen, he knew they would say that his life was more important than the small cluster of round houses with thatched roofs.
Only now, Kurapica was homeless again, and in this harsh, unforgiving world, this caused some rather pressing concerns. This wasn’t the world he’d grown up in, one where he could just live off the woodlands and sleep comfortably on a bed of moss. This was a world in which even silence was dangerous. He would have a lot more trouble sleeping at night without the ability to bar doors and windows.
Still, he couldn’t really change this latest deviation into his life plans, and it was better to roll with the punches than to try and hold his ground. He shouldered his bag, which was frightfully empty, considering the fact that he would have to survive for days, possibly weeks or months, before he found supplies somewhere.
He took one last look at the still smouldering remains of the house he’d been hiding in for the past few months, then he turned away and resolutely walked into the woods. He once may have let his thoughts wander as he walked through the underbrush, but this wasn’t a safe world anymore, and he couldn’t afford the luxury. He listened carefully, advancing as quietly as he could, his eyes flicking this way and that. This was a new reality the survivors of the Plague simply had to deal with.
Safety was the far-off memory of a dream dissipating to nothingness.
He walked for much of the day, needing to put as much distance between his former village and himself as he could. He was fairly sure that the burn-man who’d found him had now finally been reduced to ashes, but the light and noise might have drawn others.
As the sun dipped lower, he had no choice but to try and find shelter for the night. Under the trees, shadows lengthened and deepened. Already, visibility was poor despite the fact that the entire circle of the sun was a few degrees above the horizon. He didn’t have much time, not if he wanted to find somewhere he could defend or escape if need be.
He finally found refuge up in the boughs of an old oak, using a length of rope to climb to his bed for the night. He didn’t have anything to soften the wood and bark with, but it was to his advantage not to sleep too deeply anyway, and perhaps the rough surface he had to lay on would keep him alert.
The loud snuffling of an animal awoke him in the dark of night. Kurapica couldn’t see it and didn’t dare turn on his electric torch to see what it was, but its gait was heavy; he could hear the sound of its feet as they hit the ground, low and ponderous. It circled his tree a few time, sniffing at the trunk or the ground, its breath loud in the still silence of the forest. Kurapica held still, his palms moist with anxious sweat as adrenaline coursed through his body. He barely dared to breathe as the thunderous steps circled and circled. His nerves were close to breaking and his right hand had clutched the torch, when finally, the animal, whatever it was, ambled away.
It took him a long time to calm down enough to close his eyes. Not that it made much of a difference; the woods at night were impenetrable, a deeper black than one would believe possible unless they saw it for themselves. It took him longer still to fall into a fitful sleep.
He was jolted out of it by the high-pitched cry of a small animal, followed by deep growls. Something was hunting, an animal of some kind, although whether it was dead or alive was anyone’s guess. In this new, terrifying world, all that moved was not entirely alive. There was the rustling of leaves and ferns in the undergrowth, cries of pain or panic, growls and groans of the hungry. It all unfolded somewhere to his right, and Kurapica held his breath, listening to the death cries of a small animal he couldn’t name. And once things were quiet again, he had to listen to the crunch of small bones and tearing of flesh. Whatever it had been, it had died very close to his tree. Kurapica was not a coward, but the sound was horrendous, and he shivered despite himself, then held still as the animal stopped eating to sniff at the air.
Once it too had gone, it took the Kuruta even longer to let himself slip into slumber again.
The sky was lighter when he next was conscious of movements near him. It was faint at first, and he frowned at the small pieces of sky he could see through the leaves above him. He strained to hear, aware that something had awoken him, but unsure of what it had been. Then he heard it, still some distance away, something walking through the brush. It was slow, making no attempt to conceal its presence. He gave up on sleep altogether and slowly, carefully sat up on his uncomfortable branch. He had been careful to be especially quiet, but whatever animal it was stopped, as if it had heard or sensed his presence. Kurapica slowly pulled one leg up, balancing his foot on the branch, then did the same with his other foot, so that he was crouched on the tree limb, ready to climb higher up, or jump down to run.
There was a moment of absolute silence. Kurapica held his breath, and pushed his torch back into his bag, then slung the strap across his chest. Everything was still, too still. It was predawn, still too dark to see much under the canopy of the forest, but with the sky a deep blue that was growing steadily lighter. Morning birds should be singing, crickets should be trilling, small animals should be venturing out of their dens to graze the ferns or gather seeds and fruit from the trees, but all there was, was absolute, dead silence. The pale blond hairs on his arms rose as he pushed down a wave of panic.
The dead had come to pay a visit.
Slowly, carefully, Kurapica unsheathed one of his daggers, leaving the other so his left hand would be free, should he need to make a quick getaway. Seeing how contact with the undead could possibly infect someone, the best strategy was always to avoid them rather than fight. They were slow. Amblers, most probably. The rustles and soft snaps of breaking twigs gradually got closer as Kurapica took in a few shallow breaths. Closer and closer they creeped, and the Kuruta entertained the idea that perhaps they may walk under his tree without noticing him. No one quite knew how they found the living, if it was simply by sight and sound, or if smell played a part, or perhaps even heat signatures like snakes could. All anyone knew, was that once they found a quarry, they rarely let it go.
Suddenly, something large and ungainly crashed through the underbrush somewhere ahead of him, closer than Kurapica liked. Thankfully, it was headed away from him. Perhaps the beast from the night before, spooked by the amblers heading their way. Whatever it was, Kurapica soon heard the amblers groan and stumble after the sound. He could just about glimpse the vaguely humanoid figures in the dark shadows of the trees. He held his breath again, watching them pass by, a mere stone throw away from where he was crouched in his oak tree.
They didn’t seem to notice him, and went on without ever turning in his direction. Still, Kurapica waited. The silence was heavy now, pregnant with unnatural horrors. To calm himself, the Kuruta started counting the soft but rapid beats of his heart. Slowly, the sun rose in the east, casting gradual light that finally started piercing the lush canopy above head. Somewhere, a hopeful insect trilled, shy and hesitant. It tried again. And again. Somewhere to his left, another answered.
This seemed to give courage to other forest creatures, as slowly, gradually, the air filled with the sounds of insects and birds, and small mammal started scurrying about the trees. Kurapica sheathed his dagger and sat down, sighing in relief. He took a deep gulp of air, then slowly released it, eyes closed, head tilted up to the lightening sky. A moment later, his stomach started protesting his neglect, and he went through his back to find the small packet of oatmeal cookies and the box of fruit bars he’d managed to grab before his house had burned to the ground. He ate slowly, ears trained on every small sound around him.
The early days of the plague had passed him by, sheltered as he had been in his small village. The world had come to an end, and they had never known. The first few weeks he’d been away from home, he had been so carefree; just a child, really, out on a mad adventure, the type of which he’d used to read about. His first encounter with the hungry hordes had nearly ended in disaster. He’d learned to be hypervigilant, and it used to be so exhausting, at first, but now it came as second nature. He could barely remember how it felt to be unaware of your surroundings, how it was to feel safe.
He finished his food and carefully put away the wrappers, then scurried down the tree. Once on the ground, he slowly pivoted on himself, his head cocked, ears strained. Birds chirped in the trees, crickets added to the music, all normal, natural sounds. He rolled his shoulders and set off.
He walked most of that day, stopping only for quick meals, eating just enough to keep himself on his feet. He spent another uncomfortable night in a tree, where he slept fitfully, awoken by every sound, from the hooting of owls to the feral growls of beasts of prey. That morning, as he sat up on a high branch, watching the sun rise slowly above the horizon he could just about glimpse through the trees, he started planning.
Up until now, he had not done much in terms of being proactive. He’d reacted. First he’d reacted to the Plague, to this strange world in which he’d found himself. He’d tried to explore, to learn, but everywhere, whatever culture and social structure might have once stood, all of it had gone to rubbles as more and more people had succumbed to the illness. So he’d tried going home, and everywhere, everything had been so twisted, so wrong, it had taken him far longer than it should have to get back to Lukso. And once there, he’d found everyone gone, the huts abandoned, no note, no indication of what had happened to his people. So he’d waited. Waited and waited for them to come home.
They never had.
Now the village was gone, and for the first time, Kurapica had to face the fact that perhaps his people never would come home. That standing around for them to do so would never accomplish anything. He had to stop reacting to things, had to start acting instead.
He didn’t know where the Kuruta had gone or why, but rather than simply amble away, going nowhere, his only goal mere survival, he was going to aim for one thing: finding his people or, barring that, learning what had happened to them. He’d entertained a million scenarios through the months he’d been camped in the remains of his old village, each more terrible than the last.
Sometimes, on rare, precious occasions, he’d envisioned them leaving for somewhere safe, somewhere the Plague could never reach them, but any such illusion was soon shaken by his undying belief that his parents would never had turned their backs on their only child like that. His mother would have raised hell, what with her fiery temper and outspoken nature. She would have been taken by force, or she would have remained home for her son to come home. Being the strongest martial artist in the village, no one would have managed to make her budge. Whatever had happened, she’d not resisted, or had encountered something stronger than her.
He’d stopped using his Scarlet Eyes once he’d been in the village for some time. Whatever traces of his clansmen had long disappeared, and searching for signs of their presence had been an exercise in futility, so he’d soon given it up. Now, though, he triggered the change, looking around himself with a strange mix of dread and hope.
Nothing.
With a sigh, he checked his bag to see how much was left of his dwindling supplies, then he zipped it shut, slung the strap across in narrow chest and carefully climbed down from his tree. He knew that there was a village closeby, where he could try to break into a shop or two, but they wouldn’t have much, either. And their infected might still be ambling down every small street, lay in wait behind every door, sit by any window. Given how he was either going to risk it or starve, he had little choice. Many of the plants were still infected, and it could be risky to try to eat berries and nuts as he might have once done.
He hadn’t known that at first, of course, and counted himself lucky that he hadn’t eaten anything that carried the bacteria responsible for the pandemic. The thought that any of the food he’d taken could have made him one of the hungry dead sent a chill down his spine every single time, so he tried to avoid letting his musings get this far.
He set off in the direction of the small settlement which had been the closest thing to neighbours the Kuruta had had and strode resolutely until he reached the edge of the woods. There, he paused, his head tilted to listen at first. He was surrounded by the normal sounds of the natural world, and pivoting slowly on himself brought no apparent sign of the undead to his vision.
He wiped his hands on his pants, his eyes darting back to the comforting gloom of the underbrush. What had felt a bit worrisome before was now comforting, safe. He turned resolutely away. Ahead of him, under the harsh glare of the sun, there was a field of untilled earth, slowly succumbing to grass and wildflowers. It felt so barren and exposed, but Kurapica told himself that this could work to his advantage. The undead might spot him, but he could also spot them before coming upon them, and run back to the safety that the woods presented.
He squared his shoulders, loosened his daggers in their sheaths, then resolutely strode forward. He was going fast, without actually jogging, hyper-aware of his surroundings. Some birds flew from the ground with irritated squawks a few metres to his right, while a fox slung away, back towards the treeline, a little further away. A few insects buzzed lazily in the grasses around him. He could see the small cluster of houses ahead of him, but though he squinted against the morning sun, he couldn’t discern any movement in them. It meant nothing, however. The dead could stay immobile when not triggered to follow a quarry. If they caught sight, or scent, or heat of the living, they would all start moving immediately, something in their brains compelling them to follow after the potential meal.
The term dead and undead were misleading, Kurapica decided as he caught movement to his right that turned out to be just a rabbit hopping away. No one he spoke to actually knew if the people who had succumbed to the plague had actually died. Perhaps their hearts still beat inside of their chests. No one would be willing to risk infection to check.
Why was it so far? He glanced back. He was perhaps halfway to the village, and had only left the woods a few minutes ago, but if felt like an eternity.
He faced forward and hastened his steps. Keeping most of his attention on his surroundings, he started mentally listing what he would need to find in the village. Food, of course, and medical supplies. Bandage, both for bleeding wounds and the fabric type for sprains. Painkillers. Caffeine tablets, if he could find some. Rubbing alcohol or small medical wipes. Would the village have a pharmacy? He couldn’t recall from his last time there; he hadn’t known about the plague then, and it hadn’t touched the small community.
It had been a few years, and if his people had gone, he couldn’t quite sustain the hope that the small human settlement had escaped unscathed. And, as he approached the closest building, his suspicions were confirmed. The place was derelict, the garden abandoned, and the back door hung open, only held semi-upright by one hinge.
Kurapica slowed down, peering cautiously around, before approaching the gaping doorway. He listened carefully, but heard nothing, so he carefully stepped in. He had to stand just inside of the door for a minute, ears straining for signs of un-life as his vision slowly adjusted to the gloom. The stench inside was nearly unbearable. All he could hear was the squeak of the hinge as a soft wind pushed at the door, the drip of water from a faucet hitting a sink or bath and the otherwise oppressive silence of the village.
His eyes finally adjusted enough that he could see that he was in a kitchen, a meal abandoned and rotted away on a table, chairs tumbled on their sides, the fridge door hanging open. He’d gotten used to these spectacles in his years of wandering a crumbling world, but they still gave him a shiver.
He gave the table a wide berth and went to the cupboards so he could rifle through them for food. He couldn’t avoid the horrible smell coming from the refrigerator, however, and had to pull his T-shirt over his mouth and nose. Most of the cupboards contained dishes and cookware, and he only glanced briefly through each. Finally, he went to what he had first thought was a broom closet. Inside, he found shelves with various food items. He quickly grabbed cans of soup, vegetables, even some fish. He didn’t take too many, as these items would be heavy to carry, but figured two of each would keep him fed for a few days. He also found a packet of crackers and shoved it into his duffle.
He could look through the bathroom for medical supplies, but he didn’t want to trap himself in a small room where there would usually only be a tiny window, if there was one at all. He would try to find a pharmacy or general store instead. He paused by the door, letting his eyes get accustomed to the light again.
He crept around the house, still watchful, and finally caught sight of some of the villagers. Two of them, hopefully amblers, were standing above what was left of a third. Their skin was grey, their eyes vacant and they shifted listlessly, stiff, crooked fingers twitching from otherwise limp hands. The woman had a patch of skull showing where its scalp had been pulled away from the bone.
Kurapica felt a shudder of revulsion and carefully backed away, watching them for any sign that he’d been spotted. He went to the back of the house he’d gotten the food from, then walked around the small cluster of houses, glancing in between them whenever he reached a corner, trying to spot a shop.
He circled around the small hamlet and was nearly on the other side from where he’d started when he spotted the sign advertising a general store. It would have to do. By this time, Kurapica’s focus was a little frayed from constant wariness, and he was already exhausted. He wanted to go far from any settlement, where he may be a little safer. He wanted to sleep, for an entire week.
But first, he needed to find some things for his survival. He had to have something to treat wounds with before he was actually injured. Knowing there was a store here with what he needed would be meaningless when he was out in the wilderness, running a fever from a cut that had gotten infected. He just had to make it inside, first, and he didn’t know how many of the undead were around.
He crept carefully down the main street, where he had a fair view of his surroundings, but kept close to the houses so as to not be in plain view himself. Each time he neared the edge of a building, his heart beat a frantic rhythm against his ribs and he carefully looked around the house, so as to not be surprised by something coming out from between the structures. As it was, it was very slow going for him. It was still early spring, but despite the cool air, he felt sweat bead on his temples and upper lips.
A few doors down from the shop, a loud noise in an alleyway had him stop in his tracks, stricken with fear. There was the yeowling of cats fighting for scraps of food or territory, which relieved him a bit, but he still took a deep breath and ran the rest of the way to the general store. If noise roused some of the undead, then they would likely converge onto that alley.
He opened the door a little too forcefully, and winced as bells attached above it rang with a tinny sound. He reached up reflexively to grab them and quiet them down, then closed the door more carefully, before taking stocks of his surroundings. Inside the small, cramped shop, everything was deathly quiet. He took a tentative step forward and heard muffled sounds from outside. Pivoting slowly, careful not to give his position away through sudden movement, he glanced out in time to see three amblers stumble down the paved street towards the alleyway he’d left behind.
His heart was beating an erratic thumping inside of his chest as he watched the former-humans trip over themselves in slow motion. They looked more like rabid animals than anything, lips pulled back over grinding teeth, eyes covered with a white film but still looking wild and hungry somehow. He shuddered again.
Inching away from the windows, he went deeper into the shop. It was dark, the lights being turned off, with just the windows, which were covered in a dark film, to let in dimmed light from outside. The aisles were narrow, barely large enough for him, and he definitely wasn’t the largest person around. The shelves were packed to bursting with products of all sorts, all covered with a thin layer of dust. He ignored most of it, going straight for the aisles marked pharmacy.
He opened up his duffle and put in a few bottles of fever and headache medicine, some antacids and antiemetics in case he ate something bad, and some bandages and disinfectants. He turned his attention to the counter at the back. Some shelves had toppled over, but they still seemed to be full of medications. Kurapica wandered closer, wondering if he could find some antibiotics. He didn’t know the name of any of them, save perhaps penicillin and cipro-something-or-other, but most towns had had multiple bands of survivors go through them, and Kurapica doubted he’d ever have another chance like this.
He jumped on the counter and heard a groan or growl, and instantly froze. The sound came again, somewhere ahead of him, too close to comfort. Some scuffling, and a toppled shelf shifted. Kurapica craned his neck, but couldn’t see the person- or undead -from under it. His frantic eyes jumped around the full shelves again. He could probably never get another chance like this.
Taking a deep, calming breath, Kurapica slid off of the counter and gave the toppled shelves a wide berth. Keeping the area in his field of vision, he started scouring the medication on display for anything that seemed remotely interesting. Most of them meant absolutely nothing to him.
Another groan, and he shifted his full attention to the place the sounds were coming from. He saw the back of a shelving unit shift, and he unsheathed one of his knives. The noise that came out next was nearly pitious, and Kurapica resisted the urge to help the creature. He was likely going to end up as its meal. He couldn’t afford pity.
He turned back to the task again, and his eyes caught on some harder painkillers, codeine and morphine, and he snagged a few bottles of each. He went back closer to the counter and finally spotted the penicillin. He didn’t know how to use most of the antibiotics, but some had the posology printed on the boxes, and these were the ones he grabbed.
Satisfied that he’d gotten more than he’d even hoped for, he jumped over the counter again and made his slow, careful way back to the front windows of the shop. As he passed the outdoor gear, he found a hammock that didn’t seem like it would take too much room once rolled properly, complete with mosquito net. It wouldn’t do anything to keep him warm, but neither would a tent and that would leave him defenseless on the ground, whereas the hammock he could use up high in the trees. He added a thermal blanket, and declared himself more than satisfied. He’d probably need to keep the hammock and blanket rolled under the handles of his duffel, but at least he still only need the one bag.
He peered carefully out before exiting, making sure to hold the bells above the door so they wouldn’t give his position away. He was halfway back down the street when two amblers stumbled out of an alley. He sprinted away as fast as he could, out of the small village, throwing (most of his) caution to the wind in favour of a quick getaway. He made it out without a hitch, but the noise was attracting more and more villagers, all clearly very much infected. Thankfully, they were slow amblers and he could outrun them easily on relatively flat road.
He ran and ran, until the fields gave way to brush, then to woodland, then he plunged into the trees, ran some distance and scrambled up a large walnut tree. He went as far up as he dared, then he sat, his heart thudding a near painful staccato in his chest.
He’d made it another day.
Beta-reader: Gold
Chapter title: Ashes to Ashes
Chapter 01
Ashes to Ashes
A man could drive himself crazy, were he to wonder the possible outcomes of taking a different path than the one he had chosen, and Kurapica was no exception. The loss of his hometown to a fire had been difficult for him due to sentimental reasons, but it had also chased him from his only shelter and the few ressources he’d managed to scrounge up. When push had come to shove, Kurapica had had to sacrifice his home to save his life. It had been a hard blow, but if he ever encountered any of his clansmen, he knew they would say that his life was more important than the small cluster of round houses with thatched roofs.
Only now, Kurapica was homeless again, and in this harsh, unforgiving world, this caused some rather pressing concerns. This wasn’t the world he’d grown up in, one where he could just live off the woodlands and sleep comfortably on a bed of moss. This was a world in which even silence was dangerous. He would have a lot more trouble sleeping at night without the ability to bar doors and windows.
Still, he couldn’t really change this latest deviation into his life plans, and it was better to roll with the punches than to try and hold his ground. He shouldered his bag, which was frightfully empty, considering the fact that he would have to survive for days, possibly weeks or months, before he found supplies somewhere.
He took one last look at the still smouldering remains of the house he’d been hiding in for the past few months, then he turned away and resolutely walked into the woods. He once may have let his thoughts wander as he walked through the underbrush, but this wasn’t a safe world anymore, and he couldn’t afford the luxury. He listened carefully, advancing as quietly as he could, his eyes flicking this way and that. This was a new reality the survivors of the Plague simply had to deal with.
Safety was the far-off memory of a dream dissipating to nothingness.
He walked for much of the day, needing to put as much distance between his former village and himself as he could. He was fairly sure that the burn-man who’d found him had now finally been reduced to ashes, but the light and noise might have drawn others.
As the sun dipped lower, he had no choice but to try and find shelter for the night. Under the trees, shadows lengthened and deepened. Already, visibility was poor despite the fact that the entire circle of the sun was a few degrees above the horizon. He didn’t have much time, not if he wanted to find somewhere he could defend or escape if need be.
He finally found refuge up in the boughs of an old oak, using a length of rope to climb to his bed for the night. He didn’t have anything to soften the wood and bark with, but it was to his advantage not to sleep too deeply anyway, and perhaps the rough surface he had to lay on would keep him alert.
The loud snuffling of an animal awoke him in the dark of night. Kurapica couldn’t see it and didn’t dare turn on his electric torch to see what it was, but its gait was heavy; he could hear the sound of its feet as they hit the ground, low and ponderous. It circled his tree a few time, sniffing at the trunk or the ground, its breath loud in the still silence of the forest. Kurapica held still, his palms moist with anxious sweat as adrenaline coursed through his body. He barely dared to breathe as the thunderous steps circled and circled. His nerves were close to breaking and his right hand had clutched the torch, when finally, the animal, whatever it was, ambled away.
It took him a long time to calm down enough to close his eyes. Not that it made much of a difference; the woods at night were impenetrable, a deeper black than one would believe possible unless they saw it for themselves. It took him longer still to fall into a fitful sleep.
He was jolted out of it by the high-pitched cry of a small animal, followed by deep growls. Something was hunting, an animal of some kind, although whether it was dead or alive was anyone’s guess. In this new, terrifying world, all that moved was not entirely alive. There was the rustling of leaves and ferns in the undergrowth, cries of pain or panic, growls and groans of the hungry. It all unfolded somewhere to his right, and Kurapica held his breath, listening to the death cries of a small animal he couldn’t name. And once things were quiet again, he had to listen to the crunch of small bones and tearing of flesh. Whatever it had been, it had died very close to his tree. Kurapica was not a coward, but the sound was horrendous, and he shivered despite himself, then held still as the animal stopped eating to sniff at the air.
Once it too had gone, it took the Kuruta even longer to let himself slip into slumber again.
The sky was lighter when he next was conscious of movements near him. It was faint at first, and he frowned at the small pieces of sky he could see through the leaves above him. He strained to hear, aware that something had awoken him, but unsure of what it had been. Then he heard it, still some distance away, something walking through the brush. It was slow, making no attempt to conceal its presence. He gave up on sleep altogether and slowly, carefully sat up on his uncomfortable branch. He had been careful to be especially quiet, but whatever animal it was stopped, as if it had heard or sensed his presence. Kurapica slowly pulled one leg up, balancing his foot on the branch, then did the same with his other foot, so that he was crouched on the tree limb, ready to climb higher up, or jump down to run.
There was a moment of absolute silence. Kurapica held his breath, and pushed his torch back into his bag, then slung the strap across his chest. Everything was still, too still. It was predawn, still too dark to see much under the canopy of the forest, but with the sky a deep blue that was growing steadily lighter. Morning birds should be singing, crickets should be trilling, small animals should be venturing out of their dens to graze the ferns or gather seeds and fruit from the trees, but all there was, was absolute, dead silence. The pale blond hairs on his arms rose as he pushed down a wave of panic.
The dead had come to pay a visit.
Slowly, carefully, Kurapica unsheathed one of his daggers, leaving the other so his left hand would be free, should he need to make a quick getaway. Seeing how contact with the undead could possibly infect someone, the best strategy was always to avoid them rather than fight. They were slow. Amblers, most probably. The rustles and soft snaps of breaking twigs gradually got closer as Kurapica took in a few shallow breaths. Closer and closer they creeped, and the Kuruta entertained the idea that perhaps they may walk under his tree without noticing him. No one quite knew how they found the living, if it was simply by sight and sound, or if smell played a part, or perhaps even heat signatures like snakes could. All anyone knew, was that once they found a quarry, they rarely let it go.
Suddenly, something large and ungainly crashed through the underbrush somewhere ahead of him, closer than Kurapica liked. Thankfully, it was headed away from him. Perhaps the beast from the night before, spooked by the amblers heading their way. Whatever it was, Kurapica soon heard the amblers groan and stumble after the sound. He could just about glimpse the vaguely humanoid figures in the dark shadows of the trees. He held his breath again, watching them pass by, a mere stone throw away from where he was crouched in his oak tree.
They didn’t seem to notice him, and went on without ever turning in his direction. Still, Kurapica waited. The silence was heavy now, pregnant with unnatural horrors. To calm himself, the Kuruta started counting the soft but rapid beats of his heart. Slowly, the sun rose in the east, casting gradual light that finally started piercing the lush canopy above head. Somewhere, a hopeful insect trilled, shy and hesitant. It tried again. And again. Somewhere to his left, another answered.
This seemed to give courage to other forest creatures, as slowly, gradually, the air filled with the sounds of insects and birds, and small mammal started scurrying about the trees. Kurapica sheathed his dagger and sat down, sighing in relief. He took a deep gulp of air, then slowly released it, eyes closed, head tilted up to the lightening sky. A moment later, his stomach started protesting his neglect, and he went through his back to find the small packet of oatmeal cookies and the box of fruit bars he’d managed to grab before his house had burned to the ground. He ate slowly, ears trained on every small sound around him.
The early days of the plague had passed him by, sheltered as he had been in his small village. The world had come to an end, and they had never known. The first few weeks he’d been away from home, he had been so carefree; just a child, really, out on a mad adventure, the type of which he’d used to read about. His first encounter with the hungry hordes had nearly ended in disaster. He’d learned to be hypervigilant, and it used to be so exhausting, at first, but now it came as second nature. He could barely remember how it felt to be unaware of your surroundings, how it was to feel safe.
He finished his food and carefully put away the wrappers, then scurried down the tree. Once on the ground, he slowly pivoted on himself, his head cocked, ears strained. Birds chirped in the trees, crickets added to the music, all normal, natural sounds. He rolled his shoulders and set off.
He walked most of that day, stopping only for quick meals, eating just enough to keep himself on his feet. He spent another uncomfortable night in a tree, where he slept fitfully, awoken by every sound, from the hooting of owls to the feral growls of beasts of prey. That morning, as he sat up on a high branch, watching the sun rise slowly above the horizon he could just about glimpse through the trees, he started planning.
Up until now, he had not done much in terms of being proactive. He’d reacted. First he’d reacted to the Plague, to this strange world in which he’d found himself. He’d tried to explore, to learn, but everywhere, whatever culture and social structure might have once stood, all of it had gone to rubbles as more and more people had succumbed to the illness. So he’d tried going home, and everywhere, everything had been so twisted, so wrong, it had taken him far longer than it should have to get back to Lukso. And once there, he’d found everyone gone, the huts abandoned, no note, no indication of what had happened to his people. So he’d waited. Waited and waited for them to come home.
They never had.
Now the village was gone, and for the first time, Kurapica had to face the fact that perhaps his people never would come home. That standing around for them to do so would never accomplish anything. He had to stop reacting to things, had to start acting instead.
He didn’t know where the Kuruta had gone or why, but rather than simply amble away, going nowhere, his only goal mere survival, he was going to aim for one thing: finding his people or, barring that, learning what had happened to them. He’d entertained a million scenarios through the months he’d been camped in the remains of his old village, each more terrible than the last.
Sometimes, on rare, precious occasions, he’d envisioned them leaving for somewhere safe, somewhere the Plague could never reach them, but any such illusion was soon shaken by his undying belief that his parents would never had turned their backs on their only child like that. His mother would have raised hell, what with her fiery temper and outspoken nature. She would have been taken by force, or she would have remained home for her son to come home. Being the strongest martial artist in the village, no one would have managed to make her budge. Whatever had happened, she’d not resisted, or had encountered something stronger than her.
He’d stopped using his Scarlet Eyes once he’d been in the village for some time. Whatever traces of his clansmen had long disappeared, and searching for signs of their presence had been an exercise in futility, so he’d soon given it up. Now, though, he triggered the change, looking around himself with a strange mix of dread and hope.
Nothing.
With a sigh, he checked his bag to see how much was left of his dwindling supplies, then he zipped it shut, slung the strap across in narrow chest and carefully climbed down from his tree. He knew that there was a village closeby, where he could try to break into a shop or two, but they wouldn’t have much, either. And their infected might still be ambling down every small street, lay in wait behind every door, sit by any window. Given how he was either going to risk it or starve, he had little choice. Many of the plants were still infected, and it could be risky to try to eat berries and nuts as he might have once done.
He hadn’t known that at first, of course, and counted himself lucky that he hadn’t eaten anything that carried the bacteria responsible for the pandemic. The thought that any of the food he’d taken could have made him one of the hungry dead sent a chill down his spine every single time, so he tried to avoid letting his musings get this far.
He set off in the direction of the small settlement which had been the closest thing to neighbours the Kuruta had had and strode resolutely until he reached the edge of the woods. There, he paused, his head tilted to listen at first. He was surrounded by the normal sounds of the natural world, and pivoting slowly on himself brought no apparent sign of the undead to his vision.
He wiped his hands on his pants, his eyes darting back to the comforting gloom of the underbrush. What had felt a bit worrisome before was now comforting, safe. He turned resolutely away. Ahead of him, under the harsh glare of the sun, there was a field of untilled earth, slowly succumbing to grass and wildflowers. It felt so barren and exposed, but Kurapica told himself that this could work to his advantage. The undead might spot him, but he could also spot them before coming upon them, and run back to the safety that the woods presented.
He squared his shoulders, loosened his daggers in their sheaths, then resolutely strode forward. He was going fast, without actually jogging, hyper-aware of his surroundings. Some birds flew from the ground with irritated squawks a few metres to his right, while a fox slung away, back towards the treeline, a little further away. A few insects buzzed lazily in the grasses around him. He could see the small cluster of houses ahead of him, but though he squinted against the morning sun, he couldn’t discern any movement in them. It meant nothing, however. The dead could stay immobile when not triggered to follow a quarry. If they caught sight, or scent, or heat of the living, they would all start moving immediately, something in their brains compelling them to follow after the potential meal.
The term dead and undead were misleading, Kurapica decided as he caught movement to his right that turned out to be just a rabbit hopping away. No one he spoke to actually knew if the people who had succumbed to the plague had actually died. Perhaps their hearts still beat inside of their chests. No one would be willing to risk infection to check.
Why was it so far? He glanced back. He was perhaps halfway to the village, and had only left the woods a few minutes ago, but if felt like an eternity.
He faced forward and hastened his steps. Keeping most of his attention on his surroundings, he started mentally listing what he would need to find in the village. Food, of course, and medical supplies. Bandage, both for bleeding wounds and the fabric type for sprains. Painkillers. Caffeine tablets, if he could find some. Rubbing alcohol or small medical wipes. Would the village have a pharmacy? He couldn’t recall from his last time there; he hadn’t known about the plague then, and it hadn’t touched the small community.
It had been a few years, and if his people had gone, he couldn’t quite sustain the hope that the small human settlement had escaped unscathed. And, as he approached the closest building, his suspicions were confirmed. The place was derelict, the garden abandoned, and the back door hung open, only held semi-upright by one hinge.
Kurapica slowed down, peering cautiously around, before approaching the gaping doorway. He listened carefully, but heard nothing, so he carefully stepped in. He had to stand just inside of the door for a minute, ears straining for signs of un-life as his vision slowly adjusted to the gloom. The stench inside was nearly unbearable. All he could hear was the squeak of the hinge as a soft wind pushed at the door, the drip of water from a faucet hitting a sink or bath and the otherwise oppressive silence of the village.
His eyes finally adjusted enough that he could see that he was in a kitchen, a meal abandoned and rotted away on a table, chairs tumbled on their sides, the fridge door hanging open. He’d gotten used to these spectacles in his years of wandering a crumbling world, but they still gave him a shiver.
He gave the table a wide berth and went to the cupboards so he could rifle through them for food. He couldn’t avoid the horrible smell coming from the refrigerator, however, and had to pull his T-shirt over his mouth and nose. Most of the cupboards contained dishes and cookware, and he only glanced briefly through each. Finally, he went to what he had first thought was a broom closet. Inside, he found shelves with various food items. He quickly grabbed cans of soup, vegetables, even some fish. He didn’t take too many, as these items would be heavy to carry, but figured two of each would keep him fed for a few days. He also found a packet of crackers and shoved it into his duffle.
He could look through the bathroom for medical supplies, but he didn’t want to trap himself in a small room where there would usually only be a tiny window, if there was one at all. He would try to find a pharmacy or general store instead. He paused by the door, letting his eyes get accustomed to the light again.
He crept around the house, still watchful, and finally caught sight of some of the villagers. Two of them, hopefully amblers, were standing above what was left of a third. Their skin was grey, their eyes vacant and they shifted listlessly, stiff, crooked fingers twitching from otherwise limp hands. The woman had a patch of skull showing where its scalp had been pulled away from the bone.
Kurapica felt a shudder of revulsion and carefully backed away, watching them for any sign that he’d been spotted. He went to the back of the house he’d gotten the food from, then walked around the small cluster of houses, glancing in between them whenever he reached a corner, trying to spot a shop.
He circled around the small hamlet and was nearly on the other side from where he’d started when he spotted the sign advertising a general store. It would have to do. By this time, Kurapica’s focus was a little frayed from constant wariness, and he was already exhausted. He wanted to go far from any settlement, where he may be a little safer. He wanted to sleep, for an entire week.
But first, he needed to find some things for his survival. He had to have something to treat wounds with before he was actually injured. Knowing there was a store here with what he needed would be meaningless when he was out in the wilderness, running a fever from a cut that had gotten infected. He just had to make it inside, first, and he didn’t know how many of the undead were around.
He crept carefully down the main street, where he had a fair view of his surroundings, but kept close to the houses so as to not be in plain view himself. Each time he neared the edge of a building, his heart beat a frantic rhythm against his ribs and he carefully looked around the house, so as to not be surprised by something coming out from between the structures. As it was, it was very slow going for him. It was still early spring, but despite the cool air, he felt sweat bead on his temples and upper lips.
A few doors down from the shop, a loud noise in an alleyway had him stop in his tracks, stricken with fear. There was the yeowling of cats fighting for scraps of food or territory, which relieved him a bit, but he still took a deep breath and ran the rest of the way to the general store. If noise roused some of the undead, then they would likely converge onto that alley.
He opened the door a little too forcefully, and winced as bells attached above it rang with a tinny sound. He reached up reflexively to grab them and quiet them down, then closed the door more carefully, before taking stocks of his surroundings. Inside the small, cramped shop, everything was deathly quiet. He took a tentative step forward and heard muffled sounds from outside. Pivoting slowly, careful not to give his position away through sudden movement, he glanced out in time to see three amblers stumble down the paved street towards the alleyway he’d left behind.
His heart was beating an erratic thumping inside of his chest as he watched the former-humans trip over themselves in slow motion. They looked more like rabid animals than anything, lips pulled back over grinding teeth, eyes covered with a white film but still looking wild and hungry somehow. He shuddered again.
Inching away from the windows, he went deeper into the shop. It was dark, the lights being turned off, with just the windows, which were covered in a dark film, to let in dimmed light from outside. The aisles were narrow, barely large enough for him, and he definitely wasn’t the largest person around. The shelves were packed to bursting with products of all sorts, all covered with a thin layer of dust. He ignored most of it, going straight for the aisles marked pharmacy.
He opened up his duffle and put in a few bottles of fever and headache medicine, some antacids and antiemetics in case he ate something bad, and some bandages and disinfectants. He turned his attention to the counter at the back. Some shelves had toppled over, but they still seemed to be full of medications. Kurapica wandered closer, wondering if he could find some antibiotics. He didn’t know the name of any of them, save perhaps penicillin and cipro-something-or-other, but most towns had had multiple bands of survivors go through them, and Kurapica doubted he’d ever have another chance like this.
He jumped on the counter and heard a groan or growl, and instantly froze. The sound came again, somewhere ahead of him, too close to comfort. Some scuffling, and a toppled shelf shifted. Kurapica craned his neck, but couldn’t see the person- or undead -from under it. His frantic eyes jumped around the full shelves again. He could probably never get another chance like this.
Taking a deep, calming breath, Kurapica slid off of the counter and gave the toppled shelves a wide berth. Keeping the area in his field of vision, he started scouring the medication on display for anything that seemed remotely interesting. Most of them meant absolutely nothing to him.
Another groan, and he shifted his full attention to the place the sounds were coming from. He saw the back of a shelving unit shift, and he unsheathed one of his knives. The noise that came out next was nearly pitious, and Kurapica resisted the urge to help the creature. He was likely going to end up as its meal. He couldn’t afford pity.
He turned back to the task again, and his eyes caught on some harder painkillers, codeine and morphine, and he snagged a few bottles of each. He went back closer to the counter and finally spotted the penicillin. He didn’t know how to use most of the antibiotics, but some had the posology printed on the boxes, and these were the ones he grabbed.
Satisfied that he’d gotten more than he’d even hoped for, he jumped over the counter again and made his slow, careful way back to the front windows of the shop. As he passed the outdoor gear, he found a hammock that didn’t seem like it would take too much room once rolled properly, complete with mosquito net. It wouldn’t do anything to keep him warm, but neither would a tent and that would leave him defenseless on the ground, whereas the hammock he could use up high in the trees. He added a thermal blanket, and declared himself more than satisfied. He’d probably need to keep the hammock and blanket rolled under the handles of his duffel, but at least he still only need the one bag.
He peered carefully out before exiting, making sure to hold the bells above the door so they wouldn’t give his position away. He was halfway back down the street when two amblers stumbled out of an alley. He sprinted away as fast as he could, out of the small village, throwing (most of his) caution to the wind in favour of a quick getaway. He made it out without a hitch, but the noise was attracting more and more villagers, all clearly very much infected. Thankfully, they were slow amblers and he could outrun them easily on relatively flat road.
He ran and ran, until the fields gave way to brush, then to woodland, then he plunged into the trees, ran some distance and scrambled up a large walnut tree. He went as far up as he dared, then he sat, his heart thudding a near painful staccato in his chest.
He’d made it another day.