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The fading glow of twilight washed over the stone-paved streets of Whiteleaf Town, casting a pale gold hue on the worn cobblestones.
All eyes were fixed on the end of the street.
A lone, dark figure stumbled into view, moving slowly, unsteadily.
Earl's father exhaled, tension leaving his face. He raised a hand to wave.
No response.
The figure kept shuffling forward, head bowed, silent as the grave.
Something was wrong.
The air thickened with unease.
Earl's father swallowed, tightening his grip on the gun in his hands. The barrel lifted, steadying toward the end of the street.
Drip. Drip.
Liquid hit stone in the silence.
The figure came closer, the last orange of sunset fading from the sky, shadows growing deeper.
As the shape clarified, the crowd froze.
Blood covered the man's frame. Gaping wounds lay open his flesh, raw muscle glistening beneath. His eyes hung half-closed, hair matted to his brow with gore. His lips, hidden beneath a thick beard, moved faintly.
"…C-Coch?"
Earl's mother gasped, recognition striking her like lightning.
It was he, the League officer stationed in Whiteleaf, their strongest protector.
The crowd surged forward, panic and concern breaking the stillness.
Coch's dull eyes cracked open, cloudy and fading. With what little life remained, he lifted his bloodstained right hand, trembling.
Scarlet droplets slid from his fingertips as his voice rasped out, barely audible:
"R…run…"
Thud.
He collapsed, lifeless, his final warning hanging in the air.
But it was already too late.
From the town gates, shadows slid into view. Black shapes, low to the ground, eyes glowing crimson. Their snarls carried the reek of blood.
Mightyena.
Once loyal hunting partners, they were twisted now infected predators that hunted humans as prey. Their sleek black manes rippled like flames as they padded forward, blood still clinging to their jaws.
The lead Mightyena sniffed the air, catching the rich scent of fear and flesh. In a heartbeat, the pack surged forward, streaks of death racing across the street.
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Drip.
A droplet of moisture struck Earl's cheek in the dark. He shivered violently, curling into himself.
The cellar was cold, damp, and suffocating.
Green eyes wide, he hugged his knees and bit his lip, forcing himself silent. He didn't know what was happening above but his parents' faces, tight with fear, told him everything.
He was just a boy. He couldn't fight. He couldn't help. If he left this cellar, he'd only burden them.
So he stayed still.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunfire erupted above, thunderous and violent.
Earl flinched, clapping a trembling hand over his mouth to stop his own cry. His body shook as the battle raged overhead shouts, screams, the sound of tearing flesh.
Then silence.
The gunfire faltered, then ended.
Only the sound of rending meat and crunching bone seeped through the floorboards, enough to make his stomach twist and tears spill hot down his cheeks.
He sobbed quietly into his hand, his small frame quivering like a trapped creature.
Time passed in minutes, hours, he couldn't tell. At some point, exhaustion claimed him.
When he woke, his lips were cracked, his stomach was hollow, and his body was weak.
The world above was silent, deathly still.
No mother's voice. No father's knock.
Fear gnawed at him. Hunger drove him.
At last, Earl pushed himself upright, legs trembling. He staggered to the cellar door, bracing his weight against it, and pushed.
The hatch creaked open.
Blinding sunlight flooded in. Dust motes danced in the golden beams.
He climbed out, collapsed onto the wooden floorboards, and lay there gasping until his strength returned.
Finally, he rose and stumbled to the storeroom door. He tried the handle.
Click. Locked.
Then the smell hit him.
Rot. Acrid, foul, like something long dead. Earl gagged, retching.
Hands shaking, he spotted the spare key left on the ground. He picked it up and slid it into the lock.
Clack.
The mechanism clicked open.
Earl took a long, shaky breath.
Slowly, carefully, he turned the handle and pushed.
The door creaked wide.
And the boy saw what waited beyond.
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