Blood streamed down her face, yet she did not seem to notice. The heavy golden armor, boasting proudly the embossed emblem of the Decusian Holy Legion, protested against her fatigued body. Her arm writhed in excruciating pain, undoubtedly broken in more than two separate places. Her body pleaded with her to yield, yet her mind knew better than to concede; to stop was to die, die like the others, die like everyone else in this god forsaken world called Eden…
She would survive, however she could. It was her will.
The midnight storm poured rain down upon her that had blurred her vision, yet what lay ahead of her was unmistakable. Billowing flames reached high into the heavens, licking the storm clouds in defiance, resembling an insolent child in midst of a tantrum. Despite the disturbing scene, she felt relief; for escape from this gauntlet of horrors lay just within reach. She staggered, tripped, and hobbled, nearly losing her footing in the soft mud beneath her.
Various buildings and charred rubble lay in a small meadow no more than a half mile away. What was once a small village was now engulfed in flames, the heavy downpour having little effect on the raging inferno. The scattered buildings had been nothing more than hovels and shanties, a collection of shacks that comprised one of the many humble farming communities that littered the Midlands’ rolling countryside. Now, it was naught but a graveyard; a place where the dying had bid their final farewell to the cruel land of Eden and went on to the worlds that lay ahead.
She knew this to be fact, for Legionnaire Alana Morgan, Twelfth Battalion of the Twenty Fourth Vesica Brigade, had been personally responsible in helping assemble that graveyard. For this particular village had been situated upon a stretch of land on the wrong side of the Badlands line, and thus, anything found breathing was to be considered a threat.
Considered…afflicted.
Suddenly, the screams erupted behind her again. The familiar feeling of adrenaline flooding her body returned, and she managed to increase her pace. Her legs burned with pain and her arm exploded in writhing agony, yet she continued on, for the sounds of screams quickly turned into the sounds of footfalls; footfalls closing in behind her. Terror filled her heart and soul, daring not to look back. Her entire Company had been decimated in this god-forsaken shithole, and undoubtedly, they were now behind her amongst the undying…the unliving. The cold midnight air burned her lungs, pleading her to stop.
More voices joined the unholy screams as Alana pawed at her armor, attempting to loosen it from her person. Only through her ragged gasps of breath had she begun to realize that her own guttural screams had joined the choir of voices that pursued her. Just as a frantic set of footsteps grew in volume over her right shoulder, she managed to jostle free the buckles holding her pauldrons in place; plates of tempered steel slid free from her shoulders and arms, tumbling into the soft mud below. Her pace quickened as she heard the clatter of the armor make contact with one of her pursuers, the footfalls turning to a loud tumble and labored scream of anger.
Her entire Company had been decimated in this god-forsaken shithole, and undoubtedly, they were now behind her amongst the undying…the unliving.
Sensing a momentary second of reprieve, Alana worked to manipulate the leather bindings that held her cuirass firmly to her chest, and allowed herself a quick glance behind…
Seven figures gave chase to her, sprinting at full speed. They were no more than fifty yards behind her and were gaining quickly. The moonlight did little more than illuminate their silhouettes due to the storm churning above, yet the visage was enough of a sight to strike fear into the deepest recesses of her soul. With trembling hands, Alana loosened the cuirass from her chest, shedding it off like a discarded shirt. A hopeless scream erupted from deep inside her, and somewhere, she found the strength to run even faster.
Rounding the village, she could now feel the heat of the raging fires upon her blood-soaked face, and, distantly, a sound that graced her ears like nothing else could. Approximately fifteen horses had been tethered to a large Yew tree upon the northern outskirts of the former village, and now they stood no more than a hundred yards away. One in particular had caught her eye; a sorrel stallion neighing in angered protest of the storm above. It was her Company commandant who thought it to be wise to scout the village and farm on foot, mostly as to avoid getting a mare’s foot stuck in a rabbit hole or soft patch of mud. Consequently, it was a tactical mistake that lead to the ambush and subsequent deaths of her entire company. Ironically, it may be the one thing that could save her yet.
She quickened her pace. She passed burning embers and the ruins of what were once homes. The scent of burning flesh pierced her nostrils, yet she paid little attention to it. Her voice was coarse, and her legs burned. Escape lay just in reach, and as she reached the Yew tree, her eyes locked upon a silhouette sitting with its back against the tree’s trunk. She recognized the figure as the young recruit they had picked up back in Taltha, a young teen with strawberry blonde hair and freckles lining his nose. He was assigned sentry duty in order to keep an eye on the mounts while the others scouted the meadow and farmland for the afflicted. Upon hearing Alana’s labored approached, the teen suddenly stirred to his feet. It had not taken long for him to make out the half-dozen or more figures giving her chase, and the teen stammered impotently about, his legs paralyzed in fear.
Yet Alana wasted no time. Her shaking hands grasped the leather tether of the sorrel stallion that caught her eye moments before, straining to untie it. The horse neighed and snorted, as if as desperate as Alana to leave as well. The young sentry was still petrified, unsure as to what to do. He rushed to the Alana’s side, only to be answered with incomprehensible babble and a sharp push, sending him to the soft ground below. It was only when Alana’s pursuers wailed their ungodly screams that the teen realize what was truly at hand. He scrambled madly for the nearest tethered mount, clawing at the hemp bindings with shaking hands.
A sheer sense of terror filled Alana as she manipulated the rope from the stallion’s neck, scurrying to mount the steed. To her right, the sentry fumbled with his own attempts, yet to no avail; his shaking hands had naught the dexterity to unfasten such knots in haste. The afflicted that had given her chase for more than a mile now were no more than fifteen yards away, parting the high grasses of the meadow in pursuit of the injured Legionnaire, the scent of blood filling their nostrils and frenzied lust driving their every move.
Consequently, it was a tactical mistake that lead to the ambush and subsequent deaths of her entire company. Ironically, it may be the one thing that could save her yet.
The sentry screamed, looking to Alana. He turned on his heel, making a sprint towards her, his arms outstretched in pleading terror. The grasses surrounding the Yew tree parted, and from within came spewing forth the afflicted ones; her former comrades, now mindless husks driven by one simple emotion;
Rage.
Without thinking, Alana whipped the steed to the left, striking off in a gallop. In one moment of sublime chaos, the scene had all came to a crashing climax. The sorrel stallion Alana sat upon neighed in both fright and surprise as the sky above cracked with ear-shattering thunder, all the while the screams of her former brethren coalesced into a blood-curdling rapture. Yet despite the cacophony of madness that filled her ears, Alana could make out one last distinct sound above the rest of the chaos; a gurgling, wet cry that that she would never forget for the rest of her tortured life. It was the sound of blood racing into the undeveloped lungs of a young man that would never see the age of fifteen; one that would never lay with a woman, or lay claim to his own land. It was the sound of surprise, terror, and agony.
It was the sound of death; it was the sound of abandonment.