By the time the last of the fog burned away, the smell of blood still hung heavy at the edge of the Rustwood Forest. The young Rust-Beast's corpse lay where it fell, its dark blood soaking a nasty stain into the black earth. A few stray Gear-Rats peeked out from gaps in the wreckage, their red eyes wide with fear, not daring to come any closer.
Liam slumped against a rust-eaten tree trunk, just trying to breathe for a good fifteen minutes. The gashes on his back and ankle were still oozing. His work clothes were in tatters, stuck to his skin with a nasty mix of blood, dirt, and gear-rat gunk, itchy and painful. He reached up and felt his left arm. The rust had pulled back to below his elbow. The skin wasn't fully healed, but the burning was gone, replaced by a faint, pins-and-needles numbness.
The energy from the Boiling Beast Blood was still there, a low hum in his veins, just enough to keep him on his feet.
He looked down at the dead beast. That single drop of blood hadn't just stalled the Plague; it had sharpened his senses. He could hear the faint rustle of leaves deeper in the woods, smell the damp earth from a hundred yards away, and his arms felt stronger when he moved. But he knew it was a temporary fix. The memories told him the blood's power would last three days, tops. When it wore off, the Plague would come back, and the pain would be worse than before.
"Gotta find a real way to keep this curse in check. And I need a proper weapon, some supplies," he muttered, pushing himself upright. He kicked a gear-rat carcass aside and turned his attention back to the scrapyard. It was a treasure trove of broken parts. Maybe he could cobble together some decent tools, maybe even something to fight with. The piston rod had saved his life, but it was too damn heavy. A few swings and he was exhausted. Useless against a real swarm.
He picked up the rod and dragged it back towards the field of wreckage, carefully stepping over sharp metal scraps to avoid reopening his wounds. The moment he stepped back into the yard, he heard a faint clink-clink-clinking sound coming from deep within the piles of junk. He froze, tightened his grip on the rod, and crept cautiously towards the noise. This island was full of things that lived off scrap, and not all of them were friendly.
The sound came from a stack of pipes and gears. Liam crept around to the side and peered over. A handful of little mechanical birds, no bigger than his hand, were perched on a large gear, pecking at the rust with their sharp metal beaks. They were made of brass and iron plates, their wing-edges sharp enough to cut, their tail feathers just a bunch of long, nasty-looking steel needles. Their eyes were dull red glass. Rust-sparrows. Mostly harmless, unless you pissed them off. Then they'd swarm, slice you up, and those needle-tails carried a venom that made wounds fester.
Liam was about to back away and find another route when he spotted it. Half-buried in the gear pile right under the birds was the broken frame of a revolver. It was rusty, but the barrel, the cylinder, the trigger mechanism... they looked intact. It was just missing the grip and the actual cylinder chamber.
A gun. His heart leapt. A firearm would beat a hunk of metal any day. If he could get it working, find some ammo, things like gear-rats wouldn't be such a problem. But the rust-sparrows were right on top of it.
He watched them for a minute. There were only five, and they were totally focused on their rusty meal, their backs to him. Taking a deep breath, he hefted the piston rod, crept up behind them, and swung it down hard on the outermost bird.
CRUNCH. The rod smashed into the sparrow's brass back, denting it deeply. The little machine twitched, fell off the gear, and lay still, a couple of its needle-tail feathers snapping off. The other four shot into the air with a whir of metal wings, instantly angry. They dove for him, their wings whistling through the air.
Liam was ready. He sidestepped the first one and brought the rod around in a wide sweep, catching a second bird square in the wing. It spun out of control and smashed into a steel pipe, clattering to the ground. The remaining three went berserk. One went for his face, the other two targeted his arms and legs.
He ducked under the face-attack, kicked one of the leg-divers away, but the last one managed to slice its wing across his forearm, reopening a half-healed cut. Blood welled up instantly. Cursing, he backhanded the piston rod, smashing that sparrow into pieces. The last surviving bird took one look at the carnage and fled into the depths of the scrapyard.
Breathing heavily, Liam walked over to the gear pile and picked up the revolver frame. It was cold and rough with rust, but under the grime, he could see the dark shape of what was once a solid weapon. The barrel was a good four inches long, decent caliber. The grip was snapped off clean, like it had been broken by force. He spent the next twenty minutes digging through the surrounding junk, hoping to find a matching grip or cylinder. All he found were a few empty, dented bullet casings and a short length of steel pipe. Nothing useful.
"Can't make it work like this," he grumbled, frustrated. He turned the broken frame over in his hands, and an idea struck him. The casing from that dead mechanical core was tough alloy. Maybe he could break off a piece for a grip. For the cylinder... maybe he could cut and shape some copper pipe. But he had no tools. Just brute force.
He carried the frame back to the empty core he'd drained earlier. The casing was inert but still tough as nails. Liam raised the piston rod and brought it down hard. CLANG! A loud ring echoed, but the shell only had a small dent. He hit it again, and again, from different angles. His arms were aching by the time he finally put a crack in it.
Dropping the rod, he dug his fingers into the crack and pried, his nails tearing until he managed to snap off a piece about the size of his palm. It was thick, sturdy. Perfect for a grip. He found a few thin metal rods, bent them into shape with a rock, and used them to lash the alloy plate to the gun frame. It was a painstaking, clumsy job. Without proper tools, he had to force everything, and the "fix" was wobbly at best.
After more than two hours of frustrating work, he had a shaky, but attached grip. But he still had no cylinder. He sat down staring at the half-finished gun in his hand. No cylinder meant no bullets. It was still just a paperweight. He looked around, his eyes landing on a cluster of discarded steam pipes. The copper tubing inside... maybe he could cut it into short sections, use them as makeshift chambers. He'd just need a spring to make it rotate.
He got up and resumed his scavenger hunt, finally finding a small, slightly rusty but still springy coil inside a broken steam valve. Then he found a length of copper pipe that looked about the right width for the barrel. Using the piston rod as a hammer and chisel, he painstakingly cut the pipe into short rings, each one just big enough to hold a single bullet. He wired these rings together into a crude cylinder and used the spring to attach it awkwardly under the barrel.
He gave the cylinder a experimental spin. It was sticky and rough, but it turned. Now for the hard part: ammo. He had a few empty casings, but no gunpowder, no bullets.
The memories said there was sulfur in the volcanic veins, metal for bullets in the scrap, and gunpowder could be made from sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal. But saltpeter and charcoal were rare here, in this land of black dirt and metallic slag.
"Gotta find that sulfur first. Worst case, I'll just throw sharp metal bits. Better than nothing." He tucked the semi-functional revolver into his belt, stuffed a few sharp metal shards into his pockets, and headed for the edge of the scrapyard. The volcanic veins were at the island's heart, a long and dangerous trek he wasn't ready for in his condition.
Maybe, just maybe, there was some leftover gunpowder in this mess? Holding onto that slim hope, he kept searching. Another half-hour of digging turned up nothing useful, except for a few sealed cans of machine oil. That might come in handy later for lubricating things, so he pocketed them too.
He was just about to give up and head into the woods to look for water and food when that all-too-familiar rapid clicking started up again. This time it was louder, denser. Like a horde of gear-rats were on the move. His heart slammed against his ribs. He grabbed the unfinished gun from his belt and spun around.
The fog had rolled back in, thick and sudden. And in the mist, hundreds of pairs of red eyes ignited, moving fast through the gaps in the wreckage, a black, chittering tide flowing straight towards him. There were so many. Four, five times more than last time. At the front were a few rats noticeably larger than the rest, their teeth like ice picks—rat leaders.
"Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me!" he yelled, turning and sprinting for the Rustwood Forest. His gun was useless, the piston rod was his only defense, and against a swarm this size, it was a death sentence. Last time he'd gotten lucky with the core's energy and the beast blood. Now, he was running on fumes and bleeding from a dozen places.
The rats were fast. They caught up in seconds, the front-runners latching onto his ankles, their teeth sinking into the old wounds. He cried out, kicking them off, but more piled on, scrambling up his legs, biting wherever they could find flesh. The pain was everywhere.
He swung the piston rod, clearing a space around him, sending a dozen rats flying. But for every one he hit, more took its place. His arms grew heavy, his strength fading fast. Rats bit into the wounds on his back, the fresh agony making him see stars. His steps became unsteady.
Trapped, he remembered the gun in his hand. No bullets, but it was solid metal. A crappy club. He yanked it out and started smashing it down on the rats crawling over him. THUMP. One rat's head exploded. But it was too light, too weak. It barely kept them at bay. Soon, his arms and back were a mess of new bites, his clothes soaked with blood. The smell just drove them crazier.
"This isn't working! They'll pick me clean!" Desperate, his eyes scanned the area, landing on a tilted steam pipe connected to a busted boiler. Was there still pressure in there? Steam was hot enough to scald, maybe even cook them.
Ignoring the pain, he ran for the pipe, the rats in a living carpet at his heels, biting and clawing. His left arm began to heat up again, the rust patterns glowing faintly—the Plague was waking up ahead of schedule.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up the pipe, and hauled himself to the top. The rats swarmed the base of the pipe, a seething, hissing mass. They tried to climb the smooth metal sides but slid right back down, their snarls setting his teeth on edge.
Up on his perch, he finally caught his breath. He looked at his left arm. The rust had crawled past his elbow. The burning was getting worse. The beast blood's energy was almost gone. He touched the pendant on his chest. It was warm, but it hadn't given him any help.
He was trapped. He couldn't get down, couldn't go anywhere. When his strength finally gave out and he fell, it would be over in seconds. His eyes fell on the useless gun in his hand, then he remembered the metal shards in his pocket. And the oil. Oil was flammable. He could douse them and get a fire going...
He acted fast, pulling out the oil can, unscrewing it, and pouring the thick, greasy liquid down onto the swarm below. It splattered over dozens of rats, coating them. He pulled out a sharp metal shard, then slammed it against a piece of jagged metal, sparks flying. After a few tries, a spark ignited the oil. It flared up, a burning sheet of fire.
He threw the burning shard down into the mob. It landed on an oil-slicked rat, and WHOOSH! Fire erupted. The rats panicked, the fire spreading rapidly with a hissing crackle. The metal filings in the air popped and burned up.
Liam didn't hesitate. He jumped down from the pipe and ran for the woods, ignoring the burning in his lungs and the fresh pain in his legs. The remaining rats, terrified of the fire, didn't follow. He didn't stop until he was deep among the twisted trees, collapsing against a trunk. He'd snuffed the small flames on his clothes, but they were burnt through in places. His skin itched and burned where the fire had touched. The beast blood was gone. It was just him and the Plague now.
He was fading fast. The memories flickered—the Plague, a fountain in the Rustwood Forest. The water had minerals from the volcano, might take the edge off the pain. Every step was agony, a mix of his wounds and the internal fire, pushing him to the brink of passing out.
He didn't know how long he walked, guided only by the sound of running water. Finally, he found it: a small, clear spring, ice-cold, trickling into a tiny collapse pool. He cupped his hands, drank greedily, the chill spreading through him, calming the fire inside just a little.
He sat by the spring, plunging his entire left arm into the water. It sizzled softly where it touched the rust. A few stray gear-rats peeked out from the underbrush, their beady eyes watching him from a distance, not daring to come any closer. The companion of the young Rust-Beast, a creature of metal and fur, was slowly approaching the island.