Chapter Text
A shack. A shack unremarkable and awkward, uncomfortable with being cushioned between large flocks of trees like a passenger sandwiched between two leg spreaders on a three hour train journey. It barely could stand, or sit in this case, with its flimsy, poor structure leaning to one side, with its two front windows smashed and its door hanging off its hinges. Floor boards elevated or sunken, holes in the ceiling, shattered glass, rot, rats, soot, dirty mats. A putrid smell that crawled from every tiny crevice, so edged in the very foundation of the building that no amount of juvenile baking soda vinegar concoctions could wash it away. With all this, you would have to be a heedless, emotional masochist to even step foot near this place.
Down a hallway, in a collapsed room, a man sat in a dusty corner. Bags, dark and deep, arched beneath his eyes and those eyes themselves were unmoving in a vacant stare, a mild twinkle of self-reproach shone on their optical surface. A shotgun rested between his arms, and he held it worryingly tight. The tight grip kept him grounded, kept him safe, and kept his thoughts stable. Scratched on the gun's side were doodles, drawn by a steady hand. Intelligible but poor, as a gun is not a proven replacement for paper. Flowers with delicate details, wolves with scales, sharp pointed hats and a strange, long fluffy worm. The incoherent markings of a mad man, some would say. Hidden, seated on the handle of the gun, was the scribbled name of the gun's owner. Olly.
Olly was camping in this corpse of a building to find quiet and rest. He had not properly slept for two days. A drunk mania, induced by being constantly awake, was seeping through his exhausted brain’s defenses, endangering his common sense, and he knew it. The plan was to take a nap and feel rejuvenated afterwards, he could not afford to lose his senses, but he had not slumbered a wink for the three hours he had lodged himself in that corner.
The rucksack that was situated on his back, filled with supplies, was his lifeline. To lose it was to lose himself, as much of himself as was left, and the chance to move forward in impregnable bliss, but this shack was the least protected spot he could have chosen. The excuse he would repeat was that it was the most convenient. Scavengers could rob him if he slept in the open, creatures could seek him out or ruthless bastards could just kill him for his stash.
Even in this apparent ‘safe’ lodgings, the fear of being found kept him still, unable to heed to his screaming body’s demand to sleep. His stomach wails of grief for sustainable food. His heart's slow, rhythmic beats, losing the will to keep banging on his chest. He took a deep breath in. Well, he tried to, with the stench that assaulted his nostrils, and ignored all these warning signs for the hundredth time. The only step now was to find a more protected space. One that was hidden and stable. He decided to press on, fatigue being pathetically pushed into the abysmal depths of his exhausted physique.
Rustling. Something crunching the debris sprinkled around the floor. Olly stiffened. Shifting his shotgun, receding the gun up against his shoulder, aiming it forward. Slowly, the sounds tip toed down the hallway and came in tandem with his heart. One, two, three, four, each sound went, like a horse walking. A deer, he suspected,with how gentle each hoof reverberated. The one creature all would prefer to meet, opposed to anything in the big cat family, a bear or even a hornet in some cases; sadly, the prospect of a deer did not calm the adrenaline swerving through his veins as he held the gun upright. It's not the deer he feared, but what was attached.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Poking its head through the door frame, elongating its neck to look further inside. The deer stood erect, waiting for something, waiting for him. Olly sucked in a gulp of air, and held it there. He knew how sharp their hearing was, having had to learn that the gruesome way. Their hearing was the only sense they had, for they could not see. He felt hypnotised by the swirling teeth that protruded in and out as the creature breathed. What should have been the unsuspecting, innocent face of a clueless deer was replaced by the mouth of a leech. The leech, obsidian black and reflective with its wet exterior, would twist itself around anything, adopting the dead or the living indiscriminately as hosts and feeding on whatever source of blood it could track. Olly let his gun falter downward, the barrel pointing at the chest of the deer. You couldn't kill the leech itself, you could only remove its transport from the equation. That breath which scratched at his throat, wanting to be released, whistled from out his mouth. The creature paused. Suddenly, it cascaded towards him with violent intent. One, two, three, four, the hooves went-
BANG.
Nothing but fields. The thought process was, abandoned farmland usually meant abandoned farm houses, but nothing of human ingenuity and construction could be spotted, not for miles. Only the graves of once plentiful wheat, potatoes, beans, rice, chicken, beef…
The sun, baring down on him with sizzling judgement, made him delirious. Leftover blood from the leech greeting was now dried, black crusts along his face and arms, stains on his pale blue shirt. It only took one blast, and the leech unlatched its tendrils from the deer's corpse, bumping and whacking the walls as it slivered away from its killer in great desperation. He remembered sitting in silence, then he just carried on. The memory of the encounter was hazy, even though it was only…an hour ago, he reckoned. Unzipping his bag, pretending that he hasn't checked its contents millions of times over, expecting a biscuit or two to appear or a jingle of leftover water in his bottle; he had run his bottle dry, and the only food left was his expertly crafted sandwich he made while freeloading in an acquaintance’s house, which he forced himself to save.
Only a few other objects sat in his bag: a torch, a wallet with a miniscule amount of money, medical supplies, spare bullets, an odd device he always assumed was for navigation and his sketch book. He contemplated whether paper would be a reliable source of brief relief from hunger, but the conclusion was why would he even entertain the thought in the first place. Contrary to what his shotgun canvas conveys, he is quite the artist. Smooth, precise lines that complimented and replicated woodland, people laughing and birds chirping; manifesting the essence so meticulously that it's almost as if you can hear the different sounds of each sketched bird, the echoes of laughter, and the feel of breeze shifting through the trees. All that magic he conjured was abruptly slapped shut, as he shoved the sketch book unceremoniously back into the bag.
Miles, he thought, miles away the shack was now. A wise masochist would have settled for that wrecked shelter, but unfortunately he was a regular one. He had just turned away from the endless expanse of fields, and came upon a blown apart road, closed in by enormous trees on either side. Maybe a dilapidated car would appear, happy to provide its rusty walls as a temporary solution to a massive problem. Another solution arose though, when a vibration drinkled down his spine. His navigation device, round like an old fashioned compass, with most of it consisting of a screen, buzzed with news.
Friendly signal detected - North West from current position, 2 miles.
The device had never done that before. Olly rubbed his neck, confused. Lifting his head up to see that the road diverged to the left, to a long driveway and waiting patiently at the end of the road was a tall fence, flickering in the sunlight, a lighthouse beckoning boats adrift at sea. He was very much lost in the sea of inconvenience, so he let himself float forward. The fence guarded the entry way of a once standard, nine to five office building. Brutalist in its architecture, scary in its presentation, that Olly wondered who would’ve wanted to work there. The building casted an intimidating shadow as the sun ducked down behind it, settling down for the moon to take the night shift.
The dawning realisation that he had been walking continuously for the entire day bunted him in the face, but he felt a tinge of pride for how he’s successfully avoided dying so far. Observing the half open gate, his eyes darted to the cracked concrete below him where a giant lock sat idle, fallen off from the chains that once wound around the gate. No flakes of dirt were present on the lock, and the chains hung limp from being cut open. Presumably, though he hoped not, someone had only recently broken the gates little security and wedged through. Squatters could be wobbling about, or something worse was waiting.
Friendly nearby!
The device hummed. What was it going on about?
Hesitatingly, Olly slivered past the narrow entry, and he let his trusted gun sink off his shoulder. Clack. The gun’s barrel bent forward, cracking its neck so he could examine the quantity of bullets needed. He advanced slowly, pressing his back against the once automatic doors, uneasy from how quiet this place was. Click. Assured he had enough power, Olly shifted the gun's barrel upwards to its normal position, its broken neck being reset. Feet crunching glass as he snuck, the doors smashed in years ago, he was greeted with a mundane reception area. A blend of washed browns and greys showered the walls, white reception desk, abstract paintings he believed were meant to evoke tranquility but he just felt perturbed. Everything was fine. Which meant something was definitely wrong. The best thing to do was to find an enclosed space, an office cubicle or to hunker down in the toilets.
All of it was dreary. Every glance directed him to a new, uninteresting sight that it started to remind him of the Leeches; how they'd suck your life force out of you, their saliva forcing you to bleed out. Well that's how this office building made him feel, draining him of joy and coating his wounds with boredom. It was like it was designed to be unremarkable and…unassuming. What was once a meeting room, was now a collapsed cavity in the floor. Pipes and rails, hidden in the ground, flopped forward, dangling at the edge of the hole, where nothing but the endless void could be seen. Olly, against his better judgement, took a hold of the door frame for support and leaned the best he could downward, taking a peek at what dwelled underneath. Striking blue lights flashed within the blackness, swirling and forking like lightning, and the architecture that unmasked itself during each dollop of light, was a drastic design change.
Above, average and safe, below, smooth and technologically advanced. He felt his heart jump, he knew that style from somewhere. Swerving backwards, he slipped off his bag and rummaged, grabbing his torch with voracity. The little glow of his torch pieced the darkness, allowing him to unearth the mysteries of the building. Grey walls with black arches, and an eye-catching purple stripe on each wall and floor. Blue lights, some cracking and flashing, some barely producing any light at all, hummed quietly as their energy sources sizzled. He heard a ding from his device, alerting him once again of a ‘friendly’ being nearby. The second he put down his torch, and made the decision to shut off the thing, something dashed across in the corner of his eye; the faint sound of feet galloping away. Olly paused, instinctively grabbing for his gun. Nothing human could be heard, as he held still, only the buzz of lights. Pinching his arm, he wrote it off as the hallucinations from sleep deprivation started to kick in, and he thought the most responsible thing to do was to get some sleep.
Grabbing onto the hanging pipes, Olly climbed down hesitantly, his trusty torch stationed in his mouth. Every hour, his judgment skills were worsening from the lack of sleep, but he knew this purple stripe pattern from somewhere, and it had something to do with his past, the days before he was out here.