Origins of Blood (RE)
Chapter 63: The Bunker (3)

Chapter 63: The Bunker (3)

I’m still looking for somewhere to hide, my heart thundering in my chest so loud I’m sure they can all hear it.

“DO NOT SPEAK IN THE TONGUE OF OUR GODS.”

The orange creature’s voice rattles the walls. It’s not just loud—it’s heavy, pressing into your bones.

If Frank is big to me, this thing is an elephant to me. Even more than that.

I see Frank move. He shouts something I can’t hear over the ringing in my ears. Then he storms forward.

My first thought: He knows he’s going to die.

But he does it anyway.

Why?

Bitter anger coils in my gut. Fool, I think. Hero. Idiot.

The woman behind him follows, close enough that her outline seems to merge with his. For a moment, they’re both cast in that hellish blue light, two black silhouettes to the rest of us skulking in the dark.

I see more of them behind the creature now. Faceless things. Beings that look human from afar, but wrong up close. Their skin is pale and stretched, mouths cracked open, some lined with jagged teeth, others empty pits. Maggots writhe from the holes in their faces and wounds, crawling out lazily as if they have all the time in the world.

Some of these monsters are blue-skinned but not zombies, standing straighter, cleaner somehow—like minders among livestock.

Frank charges.

He slows deliberately, planting himself wide. He stops a meter away.

The orange thing doesn’t move.

It waits.

Its head tilts, as though it’s thinking.

It’s smart, I realize with a cold, clinical dread.

But I see their plan.

The woman behind Frank is crouched low, her body in his shadow. She’s hidden from the creature’s view, her dagger in hand.

And then it happens.

The orange giant swings.

Slow. Almost lazy. It’s nothing like the earlier brutal dismemberment. Its fist collides with Frank’s chest. I hear bones snap.

He flies backwards, smacking into the opposite wall like a ragdoll.

And in the same instant, while that enormous arm is still swinging, the woman lunges.

She rises from Frank’s shadow like a phantom, slipping into the blue light. Her hair catches the glow, a gold halo around a face twisted in determination.

She’s cut her own palm. Blood drips down the hilt of the dagger she grips.

She drives it into the creature’s cheek.

It sinks in deep.

She wrenches it free, going for another strike, but the thing reacts.

A monstrous fist blurs.

I see her arm fly away, severed at the shoulder.

She doesn’t scream right away. There’s a stunned pause before the sound rips free.

She curls on the ground, gasping, a keening wail leaving her throat. Blood fountains from the stump, painting everything red.

“INTERESTING!”

The orange creature laughs.

The sound is wrong.

It vibrates in my ribs, rattles my teeth.

“DIAGO, HEAL HER.”

She lies in a ball on the floor, shuddering, holding the stump against her chest.

One of the faceless steps forward.

It smiles. Too wide. Lips cracking, splitting.

“Yes, my lord.”

He raises his forearm and cuts it open without hesitation. His blood runs in thick, dark rivulets. He grabs her chin with cracked fingers and forces it open.

She gags and chokes as he pours his blood into her mouth.

I fight the urge to vomit all the time.

The orange creature watches impassively.

“NOW; TAKE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM: I WANT TO SEE THEM IN THE ARENA OR AS FOOD FOR THE BROWNS.”

The faceless turn in unison.

Their boots thud against the stone.

Some wear ragged, bloody formal suits. Like office clerks resurrected from the grave, dead eyes shining with obedience.

I freeze.

I feel cold as the snow I haven’t seen in years.

And then—one of them turns.

Its eyes lock onto mine.

Empty sockets, but I feel them.

It smiles widely.