The air was thick with the stench of blood, oil, and something sour I couldn't quite place—fear, death, maybe both.
I'd already torn through three cars, my lungs burning, my legs screaming, when I risked a glance over my shoulder, a decision I deeply regretted the instant my eyes caught the nightmare chasing me.
The escort from before—the shorter one, the one with those writhing, black tendrils—was tearing through the metal doors between cars like they were paper, his oily mass of a body surging forward with terrifying efficiency, a living shadow that seemed to eat the light around it.
"Well, fuck me sideways," I cursed under my breath, my voice a hoarse rasp, my wit barely holding up against the sheer panic clawing at my gut.
Behind the escort, I could just make out the beastman, his massive frame bounding between cars like a feral dog on a leash too short, his roar a guttural promise of violence.
Victor and Atticus were hot on his heels, their faces grim, weapons drawn, hopping the gaps between cars with the kind of reckless determination that only comes when you know death's breathing down your neck.
The rest of the crew trailed behind, a ragtag band of misfits stumbling through the wreckage, their eyes wide with the kind of fear that makes you move faster than you thought possible.
I didn't have time to admire their grit, though—my own survival was screaming at me to keep running, to find Brutus.
I tore through the fifth car, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the train's rhythmic clatter mocking my desperation. The air was cold, biting at my sweat-soaked skin, carrying the faint hum of the engines and the distant screech of metal being torn apart behind me.
I stumbled into the car just before the conductor's cab, feeling my boots slip on something slick—blood, oil, who cares?—and nearly face-planted before catching myself on a crate.
That's when I saw him: Brutus, all six feet of muscle and menace.
His hands wrapped tight around the taller escort's hood, slamming the bastard's face into the floor with a crack that echoed like a thunderclap.
The escort's mask shattered, porcelain shards scattering like broken teeth, and Brutus, not one to half-ass a job, stomped down hard on the man's head, the sound wet and final, like a melon meeting a sledgehammer. Holy shit, Brutus, save some violence for the rest of us. I thought to myself, a slight smile beginning to curl at my lips.
"Brutus!" I shouted, my voice cracking with relief and exhaustion.
He snapped his head up, eyes wide, locking onto me for a split second before flicking past me to the nightmare tearing through the cars behind.
His face, usually a mask of stoic rage, went pale, his jaw tightening as he registered the approaching horror. Without a moment's hesitation, he reached into his cloak and yanked his shotgun free, its barrel glinting with grim promise.
"Duck, you idiot!" he bellowed, his voice a gravelly roar that shook me to my core. I didn't argue—when a man built like a siege engine tells you to duck, you hit the deck like your life depends on it, which, let's be honest, it did.
I dropped to the floor, my knees slamming into the metal. Just then, Brutus raised the shotgun, his massive frame steady as stone. He pulled the trigger and—
BAM!
The blast was deafening, a concussive wave that made my ears ring and my teeth ache. The smell of gunpowder permeated the air, sharp and acrid.
The shot hit the shorter escort square in the face as he tore into the car, his body jerking back like a puppet being yanked at by its strings, collapsing to the floor in a heap of writhing black tendrils and shattered porcelain.
The beastman and the rest of our crew skidded to a halt at the torn out door behind him. Their faces twisted into a mix of shock and disbelief, weapons still raised but useless in the face of Brutus's handiwork.
I pushed myself up, my hands shaking slightly, and let out a laugh that was half hysteria, half relief. "Saints above, Brutus, you just turned that bastard into modern art!" I said, my voice high and breathy, my grin more manic than I'd like to admit.
Brutus snorted, lowering the shotgun. His eyes began scanning the corpse like he expected it to get up and start tap-dancing. "Guess so," he growled.
I saw it then. There was a flicker of a smirk on his face, the kind that said he appreciated the commentary even if he'd never admit it.
Atticus, ever the poised one, adjusted his glasses, his face calm but his eyes sharp, darting between Brutus and the corpse. "A fine shot, I must say, almost elegant," he said. His voice was smooth, like he was critiquing a chess move instead of a murder.
I blinked at him. "Elegant? The man's missing half his face! That's not elegance, that's interior design by ballistic trauma."
He raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered. "Art is subjective. Some prefer symmetry, others… expressionism."
"Expressionism? He's expressing his intestines on the damn wall. What's next, you gonna write a review? 'A daring exploration of red, featuring bold splashes of despair—four out of five stars'?"
Atticus actually smiled then—just barely. "Four and a half," he corrected smoothly. "The composition's quite balanced."
I groaned. "You're insufferable."
"You're one to talk..."
But before I could throw another quip into the mix, Atticus's face went rigid, his hand shooting up, pointing at the corpse.
"Look out!" he shouted, his voice cracking with urgency, all his poise gone in an instant.
I froze, my eyes snapping to the escort's body before my stomach dropped like a stone. Without warning, the black tendrils, those oily, writhing masses, erupted from the corpse in all directions, lashing out like living whips.
One shot straight toward my head, fast as a bullet, and I would've been skewered if Brutus hadn't leapt in front of me, his massive forearm blocking the tendril with a meaty thwack.
The impact drew a grunt from him, blood welling up where the tendril grazed his skin, but he stood firm. His eyes lit up, blazing with defiance. Brutus, you beautiful bastard, I thought, my heart pounding. You're gonna get us both killed, and I'm gonna thank you for it.
Then, impossibly, the corpse began to rise, its movements jerky, unnatural, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. And then I saw it, something that defied logic, something that made my brain scream in protest.
His face wasn't a face at all—rather his features were crafted from that same black mass, shifting and pulsing like a living nightmare. His eyes were nothing but scratched-out hollows, dark pits that seemed to stretch into his skull.
His mouth curled into a smile, his teeth an impossible shade of white, gleaming like pearls in a sea of tar.
His voice slithered through the air then, low and mocking, each word dripping with venom. "You're all so… persistent," he said, his head tilting like a predator sizing up its prey. "You truly believe you can outrun the Warden's will?"
I forced a smirk, my voice sharp despite the dread coiling in my gut. "Outrun it? Darling, I've been outrunning shame, debt, and bad decisions my whole life. The Warden's will can get in line." I paused for a moment, letting out a breath.
"Oh, by the way, just what the hell happened to you? You look like a midlife crisis that got dunked in motor oil. Did the Warden decide you weren't unsettling enough and just—what—staple a squid to your soul?"
The escort's grin widened, those hollow pits where his eyes should've been seeming to drink in my words. "After you butchered our brothers," he said, his voice smooth, almost reverent, "the High Warden deemed us lacking. So he gifted us...readjustments."
"Readjustments," I echoed. "Is that what we're calling it now? Because from where I'm standing, you look like someone lost a fistfight with a vat of roofing tar."
He ignored me, instead spreading his arms wider, the tendrils flaring outward, catching the light like a slick of ink on water. "We were remade, forged in his vision, stronger, purer, eternal."
I wanted to hurl, my stomach churning at the thought of whatever twisted alchemy turned a man into well...this. Forged in his vision? Sounds like the Warden's got a fetish for nightmares and a budget for bad decisions.
I couldn't help myself—the words spilled out before I could stop them, my wit a flimsy shield against the horror.
"The Warden's vision?" I scoffed, my voice dripping with disdain. "What's his vision supposed to be, anyway?" I continued, gesturing vaguely at the monstrosity before me. "Turn his guards into sentient ink stains with delusions of grandeur? Oh yes, very inspiring. Truly the next great artistic movement: Existential Goo, by the Mad Warden of Prismillya."
His breath hitched, that black mass on his shoulders writhing like it was feeding on his rage. But I wasn't done. Oh no. I'd found the nerve, and I was playing it like a harp.
"You know what it looks like to me?" I said, leaning forward, voice dropping low. "A man with a god complex and a tentacle fetish."
The escort's face twisted then, that smug grin morphing into a wild, feral rage, the black mass pulsing like a heartbeat. "You dare mock the Warden?!" he roared, his voice a jagged edge that cut through the air, shaking the very car around us.
Before I could blink, a long, scythe-like limb erupted from his right arm, the slimy material hardening into a razor's edge.
I froze, my sarcasm evaporating as the blade gleamed, its curve wicked and sharp, like something carved from the marrow of a nightmare.
Just then, Atticus's voice cut through the chaos from the next car over, sharp and urgent. "Fire!" he shouted, his tone cracking with desperation. "Light him on fire!"
I whipped my head toward the sound, my mind racing. However, Brutus was already moving, his eyes locking onto the lantern swinging above us, its flame flickering like a tiny beacon of hope.
In one fluid motion, he yanked it from the ceiling, the metal screeching as it tore free. I sidestepped, my boots slipping on the blood-slicked floor, my heart pounding as I realized what was to come.
Brutus charged forward, his frame nothing but a blur of muscle and rage. Mid-charge, he hurled the lantern. It spun through the air before the glass shattered across the escort's skin with a sound like breaking bones.
In that instant, the escort's entire body erupted into flames, a roaring inferno that consumed the mass enveloping him.
His screams tore through the air—high and agonizing, like a beast being flayed alive. But Brutus wasn't done. He slammed into the escort with the force of a battering ram, sending the flaming nightmare flying into the next car.
The escort's burning body hit the floor with a wet thud, his screams fading into whimpers as his skin shriveled and cracked like burnt paper.
The rest of our crew jumped back, weapons raised as they distanced themselves from the human bonfire. Atticus stepped forward then, his face lit by the firelight, a manic smile curling at his lips. His usual poise was replaced by a gleeful intensity that was almost unsettling to look at. Victor stared at the smoldering corpse in wide-eyed shock for a few seconds before turning to Atticus.
"How'd you know?" He asked.
Atticus adjusted his glasses, his smile widening, though his eyes stayed sharp, calculating. "I observed his demeanor when I threw the flammable potion earlier," he said, his tone calm but tinged with pride. "He hesitated, unnerved by the flames. Furthermore, my research into such forms of Incarnic magic suggest matter crafted from biosynthetic manipulation to be susceptible to elemental forces—fire, in particular, disrupts its cohesion."
I let out a shaky laugh, my hands still trembling, my wit clawing its way back to the surface. "So, what, you just saw him flinch and thought, 'Let's barbecue the bastard'? Gods, Atticus, you're either a genius or completely unhinged, and I'm not sure which scares me more."
Brutus grunted, eyes scanning the flames like he expected the escort to pop back up like a jack-in-the-box from hell. "Good call," he grunted, his voice rough but approving. "Now let's make sure he stays dead."
Dregan appeared then, hoisting a limping Freya into the car. Her face was pale, her eyes half-lidded but burning with stubborn defiance. The crew parted to let them through.
"Well damn, you look like shit," I said, just enough to make her eyebrows twitch in annoyance.
"Still prettier than this burning fucker," Freya managed. "Takes more than a kick to keep me down."
That's my girl, I thought, my chest tightening with relief. Don't you dare die on us now.
Dregan straightened, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at the smoldering corpse. "What about the other one?" he asked, his voice low and suspicious.
I blinked, my mind catching up, sarcasm faltering just a bit. "What do you mean?" I asked, my voice rising slightly. "He's—"
I whipped around, my eyes darting to where the taller escort's body should've been, the one Brutus had stomped into the floor.
The spot was empty, nothing but a smear of blood and a few shards of broken mask. My mind screeched to a halt, panic boiling up my insides.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
All of a sudden, Dunny shoved his way forward, his face pale, eyes wide with terror. "Gramps!" he shouted, his voice a sharp cry.
My heart stopped, the realization hitting me like a punch to the gut. I didn't think—I just moved. I dashed into the conductor's cab on instinct, my breath catching in my throat as I scanned the empty space.
The throttle was still pulled, the engine humming, but the old man was gone, his pipe lying forgotten on the floor. "Damn it, Gramps, where are you?" I cursed.
I spun around then, trailing back to the last car. My mind was racing, my sarcasm nothing but a thin thread barely keeping me together.
"He's gone!" I shouted to the others, my voice cracking as I stumbled back into the car. My eyes met Freya's as she spoke, her voice a whisper that cut through the collective silence like a blade forged from pure panic.
"But where?" she asked, her words fragile but urgent. I opened my mouth to answer, my mind scrambling for a quip to mask the panic, when something caught my eye—a flicker of movement outside the train.
For one hideous instant, the torchlight from outside caught it, revealing a glimmer of slick flesh and something almost—almost—resembling a hand, pressed against the glass and crawling its way up the side.
Then it vanished over the edge, leaving only the echo of its movement and the sick certainty that our troubles were far from over.