Infernal

[Layarteb]

Infernal

In just six years five million people, mostly Layartebian citizens, have died. The Third Layartebian Civil War is over and the Layarteb we knew and the Layarteb we grew up in changed, drastically and dramatically. The revolution that brought about the Empire bought about a demise too. Disorder, chaos, and a dystopian passion, that's what we have left. Nothing is the same anymore, not our borders, not our culture, now our presence, not our anything. Yet here we are, standing on the edge of an abyss.

The outer realms of society have risen through, spoke up and drawn fourth from the shadows. They stalk the graveyards at night, linger in the tunnels during the day. The evil fear evil, evil that will be their own undoing. Evil hunts in them, hunts for them, and hunts to them. The blackened skies of the abyss change from storm to storm bringing lightning, thunder, turbulence. Times have changed...

Venture in the Neatherealm of humanity, the very place good fears to tread and evil roams freely. Have a drink with the most vile vermin that society has produced and play Poker with the devil. There is no hope in sight and no end to this horror that governs our lives each and every day. We roam the forbidden lands, a twenty-five mile bubble that doesn't exist on the map anymore. It doesn't exist in the people anymore. It is a black hole of humanity, where good is sucked into darkness, never again to escape...

Beware...

Lastly, before you read please do not pass any judgement that this will be a pathetic post. If you must have a reference, please go to to the list below and you will see the abilities of me to tell a story. I am a writer.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Legend

All text in red type is top secret classified. It is unknown to the normal reader and even anyone else other than those present in the text. All are loyal to the government so please none of that, "We had spies" nonsense because I'm going to ignore it.

Italic text is text that is speech. It is italic to differentiate from normal text.

Italic underlined text is thought.

Orange text is a memory.

Green text is documents, communications, etc.

Small text is a translation.

Bold, blue text is a service announcement meant in OOC form

Small, bold text is OOC.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

This will be updated on a irregular basis. If you see a lapse then by all means, bump the topic. Pictures may be included with horrible images of death. The RP will be R-rated. I will not delve into the realm of sexual acts such as rape and the like because they are just unnecessary but there may be elusions to horrid acts. There will be profanity and there will be gore. I am warning you of all of this because I feel that if you do not like it then this is your chance to avoid reading it. There won't be any surprises. If there is ever something that violates NS rules (and no nothing illegal will be had here) please inform me and I'll take care of it. If you are offended don't read! Simple as that, I know, what a concept, actually not reading something you're offended by instead of protesting like a sissy whimp.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Other Role-Playing Stories

Against All Enemies
Ascensión
Down with the Sickness
Isla del Enfermo (Earth II)
La Guerra que no Hombre Debe Saber
Ride the Lightning
Sehnsucht für das Glück
Tale of the Time: Ancient Secrets Found in Yucatán...
Tale of the Wicked: An Empire Within...
The Decayed
The Forsaken Island
The Kingdom of Forgotten Warriors (Earth II)
The Knight of Dark Chaos
The Layartebian Chronicles
The Praetorian Project

[Layarteb]

Table of Contents

• Prologue: Fate (Page 1)
• Chapter I: False Promises & Honest Lies
• Chapter II: Untold Secrets & Silver Bullets (Page 3)
• Chapter III: What You See
• Chapter IV: Corrosive Desires (Page 4)
• Chapter V: My Blackened Soul
• Chapter VI: Exiled Hopes (Page 5)
• Chapter VII: The Devil's Regrets

[Layarteb]

Fate, fate is so unkind
Now I should have known
Blind leading the blind
Reaping what I've sown
If it all amounts to nothing
Why, why then am I standing in this line?



Hell is still overburdened
I must stand and wait in line
I may never know for certain when will be my time
How was I considered evil?
Measures taken in this life
Someone granted me repreival
Decades spent in strife

Led to nothing
Repeat it in mind
Led to nothing
If only I was born another time



Hell is still overburdened
I must stand and wait in line
Hell is still overburdened
Now I find that some take turn in the line

It's the closing of the curtain
In the play that was my life
Now this chapter's left all open tragedies inside
I was fighting for a reason
Holy blessed homicide
Seems I have committed treason
All I've sacrificed



Led to nothing
Repeat it in mind
Led to nothing
If only I was born another time



Hell is still overburdened
I must stand and wait in line
Hell is still overburdened
Now I find that that some take turn in the line
Hell is still overburdened
I must stand and wait in line
Hell is still overburdened
Now I find that that some take turn in the line



Fate is so unkind
Now I should have known
Blind leading the blind
Reaping what I've sown
If it all amounts to nothing
Why then am I standing in this line?

"Yes. Fate is so unkind. Too unkind. It felt like the fire of a thousand suns that day it all came to an end. What a wasteland we're left with, created by our own misgivings. We created this place. Fate is unkind to let us survive it, to let us roam the Earth. To roam this place. Hell is too overburdened and I wait in line. For now. I've been waiting since the day it all ended, since my life collapsed through, into an oblivion to which I know not. Now I must stand here. Waiting in line. I watch others around me and they take turns. I take turns. I wasn't evil. Not then...Now? Now is a different story...My story..."

Hell is still overburdened
I must stand and wait in line
Hell is still overburdened
Now I find that some take turn in the line
Hell is still overburdened
I must stand and wait in line
Hell is still overburdened
Now I find that some take turn in the line

[Layarteb]

The wind swept through the air peacefully but violently turned up dust a few feet behind the figure. He stood on the barren, cracked, and dried ground, staring off, to the west. The sun was setting and smoke was billowing. The temperature had gone down by forty degrees since the beginning of the day and it was barely above freezing now. He shivered slightly as he looked around. Where am I? He thought to himself as he lifted a cigarette to his mouth. He held it there for a moment, scanning the horizon as the wind kicked up again. The chilling breeze of the wind cut through his bones and turned his skin to leather. He waited a moment, cupped his hand over the cigarette and pulled out a box of matches from his vest pocket. They were wooden and he didn't have many of them left. He looked down as he opened the box and saw just four left. I need more. He pulled out one and turned around, to avoid the wind. Quickly, he struck the match against the side of the box and watched as the tip of it flared up and sizzled in the air. The smell of the match wafted up, into his nostrils and he held the cigarette tight to his lips. He put the match flame to the cigarette end and inhaled as the thin paper end of the cigarette caught fire and the tobacco inside began to burn. He had ripped off the filter long ago but kept them, just in case they proved to be useful. He had no home and no safety deposit box. All of his possessions he took with him, inside his rucksack. He had gotten it when he first walked into the wasteland and now that he was there, he had it filled to the brim. He had camped for the night in the middle of the wasteland, against a wrecked shack that had once been the tin garage of a house. The house was a skeleton now but the tin shack still stood. Its roof and sides had rusted almost clean through. He had barely slept the night. He built a fire in the small shack just before sundown and sat down against one of the corners after it was fully going. He found parts of the house still suitable to be burned and tossed them into the fire. It was all he could do to keep warm. As he had sat down against the corners of the shack, he pulled his pistol from his upper leg holster and put it on the ground next to him, the suppressor still attached. The pistol was a Layartebian military model and he had used it since he arrived in the zone, when he got the rucksack. He got it from someone but where he was going, he wouldn't need them. The figure had killed him, quickly and skillfully, with his bare hands for it was all that he had. The man died slowly and it was a fight and a half.

The figure came up behind him in the middle of the night, during a horrific thunderstorm. Lightning flashed all around as he came up behind the man. Rain danced all around him and aside from the rain and the thunderstorm, it was silent. Even through the storm, he could hear the man's heart beating. He stood there, in the wasteland, eating a loaf of bread and drinking a bottle of vodka. Half drunk from the night before, the man stood there, unbeknownst to the threat behind him. The figured crept up on him like an animal creeping up on its prey. The man was the figure's prey. He was a hunter, a villain. He kept his body low and his hands in front of him as he moved, careful not to make any noise. The water that hit him rolled off his clothes and onto the ground below. He could hear, through the rain, the heartbeat of the man and he listened to it, rhythmically. He had no weapons and no armor to protect him but the man he stalked he had a pistol and a shotgun. His back was dominated by a heavy rucksack and he wore a suit that provided ballistic protection. It was a highly effective combination of a light military bulletproof vest and of a rubberized fabric suit. Reinforced with ceramic and Kevlar plates it could protect against a few rounds of gunfire. The man he stalked had all of those and more.

With his hands out and body low he got close enough to hear the man's breaths. Stay still... He thought as he moved closer and closer, ready to strike. When he got close enough, he stopped and stood there, watching the man for a second. What are you going to do? He thought again as he lifted his body up and moved another step forward. The man coughed and took a long swig of vodka, nearly finishing the remainder of the bottle. Now or never. He thought once more as he lunged forward and upwards. He had jumped into the air and propelled himself forward, his hands out, ready to strike like a falcon coming down from the heavens. Without a sound he neared the man and when he reached him, he made sure that he was hitting him with full force. It was enough to throw the man down, into the muddy ground, shake the pistol away, and cause him to drop hold of the shotgun. The figure drove his knee into the man's back and pinned him, face down, against the ground. With a yell and a grunt, he pushed his face straight into the muddy terrain, trying to drown him but the man kicked and fought, hard. With a valiant effort, he threw the figure free and stood up, his face covered in mud. The figure bounced along the ground and skidded to a stop in the mud himself. He was quick to recover himself but not quick enough; the man was almost on top of him, a large knife in his hand. The figure was facing certain death and he threw his legs out and forward. He caught the man as he flew through the air towards him and gave him a powerful push, sending the man through the air and back to where he came from, this time skidding along the ground on his back.

He let go of the knife but quickly grabbed it again as he and figure bore down on each other. He came down with the knife next and soon they were locked in a grasp. The figure held his wrist and swung forward only to have his own fist caught. They struggled against each other, enormous amounts of strength within the two of them. Their feet dug into the muddy ground and they sank and slipped. Their boots dug down, into the ground as they locked themselves there, in the struggle. The figure broke free first, kicking his leg out and sweeping the man down, to the ground. In the struggle the man release the knife again but neither of them was able to grab it as it pierced into the muddy ground and both of them toppled over. The figure lay on top and pushed, with all of his might, against the man's chin, trying to break his neck but it wouldn't work. The man kicked and fought and managed to roll the figure over the top of him and onto his back, a wrestling move it seemed. The figure kept rolling though, long enough to get him slightly further away, far enough that he could recover his footing. The man came after him, with his hands out, forgetting the knife. They struggled again, fists raging against each other, kicking as hard as they could. The figure scored blow after blow but, inebriated, the man didn't feel them for what they were. He roared around again and pushed the man over, face first, into the mud. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked throughout the fight and the man screamed again as his head was pushed into the mud. He continued to try to drown the man but he wasn't successful again. The man flung him away and, for the second time, threw him onto the ground. The figure dashed around and grabbed the man's knife. With a powerful throw he sent it airborne and towards the man. It was a futile attempt, the knife missed. He struggled around again and sent himself flying through the air with a drop kick to the man's chest, pushing him over again, back first. He lunged on top of him again and pressed down on his head and his neck. He tried to break his neck but it wouldn't work either. The man was just too strong and he flung the figure off again and, with a grunt, picked up his knife from the ground. He lunged forward but didn't get far. The figure went low and grappled him down, grabbing his right wrist, holding the knife at bay. He pushed down, into the man's chest with his knee and man sure to push as hard as he could.

With the man on the ground again and the figure with the upper hand, he banged his hand hard, trying to loosen his grip on the knife. The man reached around with his other arm but the figure grabbed his arm and locked it around. With a powerful shift of his weight, he managed to break the man's arm at his elbow, the crack of his bones louder than the thunder in the air. The man screamed in pain but it did him no good. The figure rolled him around and threw his arm around his neck and held him on the ground. He used his legs to hold the man's legs and torso down and held the man's good arm down. His arm was around his neck and as much as the man tried to fling him off it wasn't working and slowly, he was losing air. He had him in a lateral vascular neck restraint and it was aimed at stopping blood flow to his brain by compressing both the carotid arteries and the jugular veins without closing off his airway. It was effective and in twelve seconds, the man was beginning to lose consciousness. By fourteen, he was old cold but he could regain consciousness in just ten to twenty seconds. The figure used it to his advantage and grabbed him again around the neck but this time twisted violently and with brute force. With a quick snap, he broke the man's neck around his fourth vertebrae. It didn't kill him though and he flung the man against the ground. When he regained consciousness he found that he was still alive but completely paralyzed. The figure, once again, pushed his head, into the mud below and within minutes he had drowned the man, causing him to ingest enough water and mud to fill his lungs enough that he couldn't breathe anymore. The man died shortly thereafter and the figure, muddy, bloody, and in pain, stood over the man. He took his possessions next.

That was a long time ago, before he got to this point in his life. When he put his M33A2 Pistol down, he had put it right by his leg. He wanted to grab it if he needed it and he put his shotgun across his lap. It was a powerful weapon but a slow weapon and it weighed a small ton. It had two barrels and was breech loaded. Each barrel could hold one twelve gauge round, either a slug or buckshot. When he took the shotgun it carried buckshot but, since then, he got his hands on two dozen shot rounds. He rarely used them though. The weapon weighed seven and a quarter pounds, unloaded, with a beautiful wooden buttstock and twenty-eight inch barrel. Overall it was just under forty-six inches long. He was lucky, he picked it up with a rubber recoil pad on the buttstock but it still kicked like a mule. He had almost lost it a week earlier when his vehicle when he got into a fight. His wounds were still sore from the fight and he fought six men, killing one of them in the process. He had killed him with a powerful shotgun blast to the man's chest but by then the fight was over and they got away in a four by four enclosed jeep. He heard rumors about the cannibals walking around so when he laid down for sleep, he was too cautious to fully fall asleep, lest he be caught by them, in the dead of slumber. When the sun rose, so did he and the fire continued to smolder. He hadn't left yet...

[Layarteb]

It was late fall and the fire was the only thing that kept him warm throughout the night. He had chosen this site to sleep because it was a site that was abandoned. There was a small shack that he built the fire and slept in and that was it. The rubble of a home that used to be stood only feet from the shack and he had scoured it for any sort of valuables but there were none. It had a skeleton of a frame remaining and the roof had punctured the wounded floor into the basement. He debated whether or not to sleep in the basement but he would have a tough time getting out of it if he had to, so he slept above ground, using the wood from the house for the fire. He had a tough time getting it started; the wind had kicked up hard on him a few times. He finally caved and emptied the gunpowder from one of his .45ACP bullets onto the kindling and used his lit cigarette to light the fire. It flared up right away and the kindling burned hot. After he got it to a point where it was sustained, he added the wood, smaller pieces at first, to get the fire going, and then the bigger pieces, for longevity. It gave off heat even the next morning, which was a good thing because it was cold.

The man wore layers upon layers of clothing. He had on six shirts, a pair of thermals underneath his clothing, two pairs of socks, a pair of jeans, and a thick, leather jacket with a hood on it. He had the jacket buttoned up to his neck and the hood around his head, trying to hide from the wind and he had gotten lucky, the wind shifted in the middle of the night and, instead of coming from the side of the shack, it came from behind it, meaning that he was safe from it. The man looked up at the gray sky above and felt a chill run up his body. It was warmer than freezing but not by much. The ground was cold and he had slept on its hardness all night long but that was something he was all too used to, especially in this world. He planned to head to a small encampment about four miles away and he wanted to get there by nightfall. He heard stories about the place and he hoped that he would be able to find some useful information there. That was why he was here, in the frozen abyss of hell, to find answers to questions he sought. He had been throughout the abyss, from its center to its outer rim. Now he was back on the outer rim, seeking that which lied within.

He stood up and looked down at the smoldering fire. It was hot enough to light a cigarette and the idea came to him after he stood up, forcing him back down, to the cold, hard ground. He pulled a cigarette from the box in his pocket and he only had eight left. He needed more. Carefully, he put the cigarette in his mouth and bent down to the fire. His face felt the heat right away and sucked in the warmth as his body craved heat. The cigarette lit itself quickly and he felt warmer right away, until the pains of hunger began to take over him. Food, he thought to himself as he picked up his rucksack from the ground and opened its flap. He felt around inside of it and finally found what he wanted. It was a packet, small enough to fit inside of the pack and not take up too much weight but it was still over a pound. With a smirk, he closed the flap and tossed the rucksack onto his back and began walking, cigarette in his mouth, shotgun around his shoulder and pistol on his thigh, knife by his side, and the packet in his hands.

The packet was a food ration, an MRE, Meal, Ready-to-Eat, as the military had called it and he got them from a trader along his journeys. He didn't have many of them left though, only about nine, which meant that he needed more and he needed to find more. Each of them gave twelve hundred calories, enough for a full meal and he stretched the one MRE to a whole day, eating a little here and there to sustain himself when he couldn't find alternative food. Sometimes he would find an animal and kill it; using the food it provided to push himself further. He lived the life of a drifter but he wanted at least some place that was warm and not exposed to the elements. This particular meal was tuna and he ate a bit of it to immediately placate the hunger pains and it did. Before long, they went away and he put the packet away, having only eaten about a quarter of it.

Four miles later, he had the camp within sight. He used a pair of binoculars to see it and he carefully scouted it out from a small hill that overlooked the settlement. There were a few hours with a dirt road in the middle. The houses were small and in poor shape. One had a hole in one of its walls, another had no roof, a third was missing most of its framing except the brickwork, and a fourth was collapsed into itself. He saw no signs of life whatsoever but waited carefully. It was nearly noon and he knew people wouldn't be sleeping. He debated whether or not to come back at night but he decided against it and to scout it out during the day. There really were no signs of life. He put the binoculars away and withdrew his shotgun from his shoulder and held it. He clicked forward the barrels and looked inside. There were two rounds loaded and he clicked the barrels shut again and unlocked the safety. Carefully crouched down, he walked towards the encampment as slowly as possible, looking down the sights of the shotgun the whole time. There were five houses on the left of the dirt road, including the one that was without a framing, and there were four on the right side of the road, including the one with the hole in the wall. He decided to check the left side first, since it was closer to him and wouldn't require him to cross the road.

When he got to the bottom of the hill, he put his back against the wall of the first house and listened. He heard nothing. Slowly, he crept along the way, keeping his head below the windows and moved around to the side entrance. There was no door and when he looked in all he saw was four walls, a floor, and a ceiling, nothing else. The house was empty, devoid of everything. He moved through it quickly. The bathtub was full of rust and anything not built into the house itself was gone. A chimney stuck into the air and its fireplace hadn't been used in months, it seemed. He passed through it and to the next house and the next. All five houses in that one stretch were devoid of anything but that which was built with the houses. When he got to the fourth house, he exited it and looked at the destroyed house in front of him. White brickwork was all that was left except for some wooden framing pieces of the roof but not much. He walked up to it and looked around. Satisfied it was empty he turned his body to cross the street when an echo filled the air.

[Layarteb]

Suddenly, he stopped and listened. The echo was that of a motorcycle or a dirt bike, he couldn't tell yet, it was still far enough away that its sound was just an echo, bouncing off the trees around them. He scurried quickly into the fourth house and put his back against the wall as the sound grew louder and louder and, eventually, ceased to be an echo. He maneuvered himself to look to the east, where the sound came from, and barely lifted his eyes over the windowsill to see a black dirt bike come whizzing down the dirt road, kicking up dust behind it. The rider was dressed all in black leather and wore a dark helmet. No part of the rider was visible underneath the clothing, meant to keep the rider warm in this unbearable cold. The man was careful not to breathe too hard, to avoid his own visible breaths from being seen. The rider never knew he was there and drove past the house, slowing down as he did. He moved himself around to see where he went. He drove up to the third house on the right side, next to the one with the hole in the wall and stopped.

Curiously, the man with the shotgun watched the rider drive around the back of the house and disappear. The dirt bike went silent moments later and he knew that whoever that was, he lived there, probably the only person to live in the encampment. Seeing an opportunity to get supplies, and a dirt bike, the man with the shotgun emerged from the house and scurried across the street, careful not to be caught in a line of sight of the house where the rider went. From there, he carefully crept, in a low stance, along the back wall of the second house and towards the third one. He could hear a radio now and he could barely make out what was being played or said because of its low volume and a lot of static. He guessed it didn't have an antenna. He darted to the third house and put his back against the exterior wall and looked around the back to see a pair of cellar doors that were heavily rusted metal. He probably could have stepped through them, it seemed. Slowly, he moved along to the doors and looked down at them. They were in poor shape and he decided to sidestep over them, to avoid making any noise. The dirt bike had hid the noise of them opening and closing and he didn't want to give it away that he was there now. He wanted that bike and whatever supplies the rider had on him or stored here.

The man walked around to the other side of the house and looked all around at the windows, which were boarded up to prevent anyone from seeing in or out, it seemed. There were peepholes, where wood knots should have been but he avoided those too and aimed for the front vestibule, which also had no door on it and led to the main entrance to the house. Like the windows, it too was boarded up and he realized that the only way in was through the rusty metal doors. Careful not to make any noises as he walked on the floor, he left the house and returned back to its exterior. It had a peaked roof, which meant that it had a crawlspace, at the very least, for an attic. There was a window on the rear of the house that had no glass on it and it looked out from the attic. He looked up at it and looked at the red, brick chimney on the exterior. He couldn't climb up the chimney itself, it was in surprisingly decent condition.

Instead, he looked at the window on the first floor, which was boarded up, but could provide footing for him if he was quick. Realizing that this was probably the best way into the house, he put his shotgun back around his shoulder and unclipped the strap holding his pistol in the thigh holster. If he needed it, he would draw his pistol and not his shotgun. The footing on the window gave him the necessary height to reach up and grab hold of the attic windowsill. He held it firm with his right hand and, using an amazing feat of strength, pulled himself up, walking up the chimney and holding on it with his left hand at the same time. He stood now on the top of the window from the first floor on the molding around it, molding that was tiny but enough that he could put his boot side on it and not fall, so long as he leaned against the wall. He carefully peaked into the attic and saw it was empty and pulled himself into the window moments later. He drew his pistol this time and was careful to watch his step. Parts of the attic floor had fallen away and revealed the empty house below. The radio echoed up through the basement and up to the attic although he still couldn't make much of it out, if any at all.

He looked down into the first floor and like the other houses, it was rather empty. There was, however, a weak metal frame with a thin mattress on it in the back room and a small wooden cabinet there too. He could use that to get down without jumping onto the floor. He carefully slid his legs over and held onto a beam as he lowered himself, slowly, onto the top of the cabinet. He made sure to place his feet on either end to prevent it from tipping over and he nearly did as his weight shifted from his arms to his legs for support. He stabilized himself and carefully stepped down on the floor. He pulled his pistol out and tip-toed across the floor, careful where he stepped. The floor was old and it creaked here and there as he walked and he hoped that the radio would drown out the sound. He was lucky, it did.

The house had a back room and a main living room before any of the other rooms, which only included a kitchen, a bathroom, and a foyer. The stairs to the basement were between the living room and the foyer and he could see that the door was off its hinges and lying on the ground. The man held his breath as he leaned his back against the wall and peaked around the corner and down the stairs. It was dark but he could see a flickering light, a candle definitely. He put his pistol firmly in front of him and stepped around the corner, the pistol always going where his eyes went. Throughout the whole time he kept the sight bridge perfectly flat and kept his finger just over the trigger. The stairs were just as rickety as the floor and he got to the bottom of it rather quickly. To the left was a wall and to the right there was another wall but there was also a flickering light dancing off the left wall. To the right, past the wall was an opening leading into a room, a room that had life within its four walls. Just then an echo of static bounced off the concrete walls and filled the air, followed quickly by music. Whoever was there, they had turned on the radio and though it wasn't too loud, it was loud enough that the man could afford to be less quiet and careful in his movements.

He put his back against the wall and slid towards the opening, watching carefully to make sure that nobody came out of the opening. The radio also helped to shield any noises that came out of the room and it was as silent as the grave, except for the radio. He was just inches shy of the opening when he stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. Suddenly, a shadow bounced in front of him. The person was moving but suddenly, the shadow went away as the person either went out of the realm of the light or had stopped moving. He couldn't tell. He put his finger on the trigger and took in a deep breath. You or me pal! He thought to himself as he slid up to the edge and turned his body around, so that now his chest rubbed against the cold concrete. He slid forward a little more but stopped before his shoulder could go around the edge of the wall. He carefully tilted his body so that just the right side of his face passed in front of the opening and he used his right eye to scan the room. A woman! He thought to himself as he saw the shadow. The he was a she and he looked at her as she looked away, facing away from the door. He took a careful inventory of the room and saw a dilapidated couch, a pathetic bed, which she sat on, facing away from him, a desk, a small kitchenette area, and possibly a small, little bathroom.

A smell wafted into the air as he pulled his eye away from the doorway. She was cooking something, some sort of meat, he couldn't tell what and he had only glanced at the kitchenette set that included a stove but she wasn't cooking on it. She was cooking on a small, gas burner. He doubted there was running water there either but there was a sink as well. Lastly, in addition to all of that, he spotted a submachine gun lying on a crate next to the couch. It was a small M75A1 Submachine Gun, known elsewhere as the MP7. Adept at breaking through body armor, it had a forty-round magazine and could tear him to shreds with a quick burst. Still, he was closer to it than she was and he looked down at the cold, concrete like floor and stepped out, his pistol in front of him, the bridge lined up, and his eyes down its sights. He carefully took a step forward and into the room, careful not to let his own shadow dance in front of her. The music, hiding his footsteps, deafened her to the doom that approached as he stopped at the couch, bent down, and picked up the gun, never taking his eyes off the sights or off the back of her head, where the sights were pointed. He held the submachine gun in the other hand and took a few more steps towards her when she turned around.

[Layarteb]

She must have felt his presence because she had never heard it and when she turned around all she saw the barrel of a pistol and of her submachine gun, both pointed at her. She shrieked and tripped over her feet as they crisscrossed on the floor. She fell hard against the wall and slid down, seemingly lifeless. "Please don't kill me." She said as tears began to roll down her cheeks. She didn't know who he was or what he wanted but, given the situation, she imagined that he was there to kill her. She thought that her past had finally caught up to her that even here, in the abyss of the world, she had been found. "Please. Please." She begged as the tear rolled down her face. She glanced up; her knife was on the bed but out of her reach. She was defenseless. "Who are you?" She demanded though still begging not to kill him, tears still rolling to the ground. She looked around but he was silent, the silence of an assassin that she knew all too well. "Please don't kill me. I'm just here to start anew. Please. Please don't kill me." She begged and begged. A sinister smile came about his face as he stared down at her. He was far enough away that she couldn't reach him with her feet or her hands but close enough that he really didn't have to aim to shoot her.

"Why are you here? Don't you know this place is cursed?" He asked, his voice echoing in the basement, the radio seemingly silent.

"I'm just here to hide. That's all. Are you the police? Are you the Shadows?"

"No. Why did you come here? This is no place for a girl!" He berated her as she continued to sob but the comment sparked some independence and fire in her as she looked up at him, a determined look coming about her face.

"I can handle myself!"

"Apparently not." He motioned at the gun he held that should have been in her hands.

"Please. Let me go. What do you want, take it all? I just want to live." He looked forward as she cried. The pistol held firm in his hands but he hadn't pulled the trigger yet. "Please. Mister. Let me go. I don't mean you any harm. Please..." Her whole face was contorted as the pain of her tears tore through her cheeks and into her bones. "Please..." She continued to beg.

Beggars. He thought to himself. He hated when people begged for their lives and refused to accept the fate that was about to hit them. Women did it. Men did it. It didn't matter they all begged and he hated it. He wanted people to accept their fate, to make it easier for them. It didn't matter to him either way, they were going to die but begging was just pathetic. He fought and killed people before and most of them begged. Some of them didn't, those were the really good foes that he faced, the ones he respected. "I despise people who beg for their lives. Accept your fate."

"Change your mind. Please. I don't have anything to offer you. Do you want the bike? You can have it. This place? My money? My food? Have it all. I just want to live," she tried to stand but it didn't work, her legs gave out and she hit the ground, on her knees, closer to the knife and begged more.

"Nice try. Get up. And leave the knife." He back stepped and she stood up, slowly, her hand so close to the knife. "Get over here..." He said as he stepped back further. "There. Sit down on the couch. Give me a reason to shoot you. I dare you."

"I won't. Please. Just let me live." She sat down on the couch. No weapon was near her except her two hands. "Please. Let me live. I beg you. Please."

"Stop begging!" He inched back to the other side and looked at the doorway to see that there was a door, it had opened inward and it was still open. "Shut the door and lock it." He ordered her, the pistol still pointed at her the whole time. "Don't try to run. I'm a good shot."

"I won't. Please. Don't shoot me."

"Lock it."

"Please. Stop..."

"Good. Sit back down!"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to kill you."

"Why? What did I do to you?"

"This place. This place is hell. Don't you know that? It's hell and I'm here to give people a reprieve."

"What reprieve?"

"This is a nice machine gun you have."

"Keep it. Please. Let me go."

"No. I won't."

"You aren't going to..."

"No. I'm not an animal." She sort of breathed a sigh of relief but she knew that she was about to be killed. Little else changed in her demeanor. She was still begging, crying, and her entire insides were wrenched out of position. She felt queasy and was turning pale.

[Layarteb]

"Oh God no!" She doubled over onto the ground, right over a drain, and turned as white as a ghost. She threw up right there, the entire contents of her stomach, which included some bread, some alcohol of some sort, possibly vodka, and a pair of candy bars that she had eaten. It stunk more of alcohol than anything else and though it drained down, into the hole, it still stunk up the whole place. He looked over to his left to see a cigarette burning on the wooden crate. It wouldn't light it on fire but it was nearly burned out and he couldn't necessarily stomach the smell that was now wafting into his nostrils. "See..." She puked again, her eyes and face red now, the color flushing back into her as she let out her stomach on the floor, the acids too. "Please...Don't kill me..." She sat up, against the couch, her knees drawn into her chest, her face red, her eyes tearing still, her eyes blood shot, and the smell wafting in her nose. "Please don't kill me." She mumbled.

He felt sorry for her a little bit; she was pathetic. She wouldn't stop begging and bargaining. Anything she could give, she would give, just to live. "I'm not going to take anything from you." He put away the pistol. He had little humanity left in him and what was left had been torn to shreds and the few shreds that still existed had suddenly shone through his tough exterior. She wasn't a killer. He began to wonder if she could even use the submachine gun that she carried or the knife that she had dropped. "Get up. I'm not going to kill you."

"But you said..."

"I changed my mind." Anger filled her body instead of relief. She had been taken to the brink of her emotions, she threw up into the floor drain, and she had never been so scared in her entire life. "Maybe you can help me."

"Help you? You sick fuck. Help you? After that?" She lunged into the air at him, violently and without a warning. He didn't wait around to find out what she would do though and countered with a quick adjustment of his feet. He reached out with his hands and grabbed her by the neck and by the torso. With a sudden movement of his arms he took all of her momentum away from her and changed its direction. She went from flying towards him towards to flying down, onto the sofa, in less than a second. She hit the couch hard and stared up at him, his right hand on her neck, holding her windpipe. She reached up to try to grab his face but he grabbed her hand too and immediately countered by grabbing her hand. With his knee he held down her other hand and though she tried to kick, she was completely pinned. "Let me go..." She said, barely able to breathe.

"You going to be calm?" Her face was changing color again as the air stopping getting to her. Her kicking ebbed and her eyes began to shift around, her inability to focus becoming evident. As she turned a shade of purple, he left go. She drew in a deep breath of air and coughed as it filled her lungs and go to her red blood cells. "Relax. I'm sorry. I made a big mistake." He said it completely nonchalantly and it annoyed her even more but she had no fight left in her. She fell onto the floor, still coughing as the air rushed into her body. "Breathe girl. You're going to pass out if you don't."

"Fuck you..." Her coughing stopped as she pulled herself to her feet again and sat down on the sofa. He was seated across from her, on a crate, his pistol away but her knife now in his hands. He used its sharp blade to clean underneath his fingernails. "Get out of here..."

"No. I need your help."

"Kiss my ass."

"No. Sit there and don't move or I swear I will kill you and I'll make it real slow. You know a stomach wound is the most painful wound you can get from a gunshot?"

"Oh so I'm supposed to believe you now?"

"You'd better. Just sit there. What's your name?"

"Larisa"

"Larisa. I like that name. I need your help. You're here to escape the law aren't you? Whatever you did in the past. Right?"

"Yes." She answered suspiciously.

[Layarteb]

"Well I came here to find someone. To find someone that took every last bit of humanity that I have left in me. Well almost every last bit. Whatever I have left it isn't much. That much I hold onto and that much is why you're alive right now. If you help me I'll help you."

"How? You're not the law."

"No. I'm not. But if you tell me who's hunting you I might kill them."

"How will that solve my problem?"

"We'll get to that. If the people that are hunting you are dead. How can you be hunted?"

"There will be more."

"Perhaps. But we'll kill them all. You see I am here for one person. One person only. He's somewhere here."

"What'd he do?"

"Took everything away from me. Everything."

"Like what?"

"Don't worry about it. I just need your help. How long have you been here?"

"A year and a half."

"Good. I just got here a few weeks ago. Maybe longer. I don't remember anymore."

"I don't get it."

"I need your help."

"Fine. Fine. I'll help you on one condition."

"What is that?"

"You never threaten me again."

"Done. You want me to fix your problem?"

"Maybe."

"So will you help?"

"Will you agree?"

"Yes."

"Then yes."

"Alright."

"So what's your name?"

"I don't have one. Just call me 'Outlaw' for now."

[Layarteb]

Hours had passed and it was the dead of night when they finally found words to say to each other. Larisa still shook a little and was still in disbelief about what happened. The man was different. He was calm and sat on the couch, his pistol in his lap, still untrusting of her, and stared up, to the ceiling. It was almost as if he was asleep and, for a while, it seemed he was. She was reading on the bed, reading a book that looked as if it had survived every battle of the war. Pages were torn out and stuffed back in, the cover was nearly torn off, water stained every page, and there were a few burn marks. "What are you reading?" The man asked, startling her. She expected him to be asleep. "Is it good?"

"It's an old book. Really old. I found it a week ago in a dumpster near the middle rim, near Sanctuary." Her voice shook a little but she dared not look up from the book. "Why?"

"Curiosity."

"Are you really curious or just trying to kill the uncomfortable silence?" She folded the book shut and looked up; her piercing brown eyes tore through the thick air in the basement bunker and into his own eyes as he leveled them off at her.

"A little bit of both. You see I made a terrible mistake earlier. First off, I thought you were a man. That would have made it easier. You see all I wanted was the bike and the weapon. Maybe the place too. I hadn't decided. I was afraid you would kill me too. I don't have a home. That was stolen. You see I'm sorry. I need someone's help. You need help to. It's a barter system. We help each other."

"And what promise do I have that I'm not just being used?"

"My word. That's all I can give." He stood up from the crappy sofa. "I'm here for revenge. You could say. Somewhere in this Neatherealm of hell is a man who took everything away from me. My heart. My soul. Whatever humanity I have left is a shred of what I used to have. You saw all that I have left. I need this man in my hands. I need to take from him as he's taken from me."

"Seems Biblical."

"You could say that. It's pure revenge Larisa. I'm not here to make a living or to hide from the law. I'm here to hunt. I won't stop until I find him. You realize?"

"What did he take from you? Specifically?"

"All that a man has. Twice."

"I'm sorry."

"So why are you running?"

"I killed my boyfriend." She said as she hung her head low. It was tough to admit the truth. "I killed him."

"Why?"

"Because he abused me. He threw me against the wall. He beat me. He spit on me. He treated me like an animal." Tears, once again, rolled down her face as she remembered all of the bad times. "He trapped me with him. I couldn't get away. He locked me in a cage a few times. I couldn't get help. I was too scared. So one day, I got out. When he came home I put a steak knife through his neck. He fought still. Stabbed me and almost shot me. But I won. Sort of. I'm still scared on my shoulder from the knife. But I had to."

"I can't disagree."

"No? You shouldn't. You ever treat a woman like that?"

"No. No I haven't. To be honest, I've never saw the need to."

"Good." Her eyes, though covered with tears, shone a sort of demand towards him. If he didn't agree, her eyes said, he would have to die as well. "But I had to. You understand?"

"It's tough to take a life. Isn't it?"

"I regret it still."

"Why? If he beat you he deserved it."

"I know. I've been told. But I still killed someone."

"You will have to live with that I cannot help you there. But I can alleviate those who seek you out. Why do they? Just because you skipped bail?"

[Layarteb]

"He was a cop." Everything suddenly made sense. "I never made it to the jail. They pulled off on the side of the road. They were going to shoot me there but a trucker. Someone. He stopped to help. Distracted them while I ran off. I wound up here but they're looking for me. They might even be here. I don't know."

"Cops?"

"Two of them. His partners. They want their own 'justice' but the truth is they're just as bad as he is."

"I can protect you from them."

"How?"

"In my past I was a soldier. I enforced the law sometimes." She curled out at the words he uttered. Suddenly she felt alone and trapped again. "I'm not here to arrest you. I'm here because I need your help."

"You're going to kill me in my sleep. Won't you?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"If I was going to kill you I would have done it already. I've resigned that thought." He had to build her trust and with the early events that wouldn't be easy. Not in the least bit. "Listen to me." He sat down on the edge of the bed but she shot away, scared of him. "I'm sorry about earlier. I won't harm you. I promise you." He looked into her eyes but he didn't know if she was looking back at him or just staring into oblivion, clouded by her own repressed memories and fear. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes." She whispered. "I do."

"Then you can have this back." He handed her the submachine gun and, almost instantly, she brought it up and pointed it right at him. "What are you doing?" He calmly asked. He wasn't afraid to die. That would at least give him a reprieve from the hell he suffered. "If you shoot me. I can't help you. I can't get who I came for. Don't deprive me of that. Please."

"You're going to kill me."

"No. I'm not. Why would I give you the gun?"

"Because you want to 'hunt' me."

"Because it's yours. I have my own."

"Get up. Turn around. Against the wall."

"No."

"Then I'll shoot you."

"You won't."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you aren't a killer. If you were you wouldn't feel bad about killing your ex-boyfriend."

"I was lying."

"No. You weren't. Go ahead. Shoot me. I dare you."

"Don't. I will!" Anger filled her face but the flow of tears didn't stop. She was red and trying her hardest. Her arm began to shake and the submachine gun shook violently. "I will!"

"You can't do it." He stood up and turned around. "Here. You don't have to look me in the face. It's easier that way."

"Shut up!"

"No. If you're going to kill me then just do it. What are you waiting for? I could have taken the gun from you forty times already."

"Shut up!" The tension inside of her built up to astronomical levels. "I will."

"Go ahead." Those were the last words he would say as she raised the gun and pulled the trigger. Silence filled the bunker as the bolt clicked. Well I'll be... He thought to himself. She looked at the gun and threw it on the ground. It didn't go off, just clicked. He turned back around and looked at her. She was crying her eyes out on the bed. "It isn't easy. Is it?"

"No..."

"Good. I want you to learn that. I don't want you to help me to kill people. I want one person. I want to find him."

"Okay..."

"Will you help me?"

"Okay..."

"Will you try to kill me in my sleep?"

"No..."

"The gun was empty. I wouldn't be stupid to give you a loaded gun like that."

"I guess... You're going to kill me now aren't you?"

"No..."

"Then why are you here?"

"I told you. Listen to me. Listen to what I've told you. I'm here for one man. That's it." He sat back down on the sofa and lay down. "Just one man. Not you..."

"Please don't kill me..." Her eyelids were too heavy to keep open and she had, effectively, cried herself to sleep. The man smirked and shut his own eyes. The sofa was beyond uncomfortable but it beat the ground. His pistol was on his leg holster and his shotgun was beside him. He was facing the door, just in case anyone tried to sneak into the bunker during the night. And so, the man's story finally began...

[Layarteb]

Chapter I
False Promises & Honest Lies

"It is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it."

Rain danced on the roof and on the ground. It turned the dry, cracked, lifeless dirt and straw ridden fields to rivers and lakes, muddy and brown, stained and soiled with filth. It would bring life where it was already dying but, at the same time, it would kill life on its own. It was the brutal cycle of nature and it took as much as it gave whereas mankind merely took. The forbidden land was just another example of mankind's taking. Each and every day, mankind took more and more, feeding on the planet like a virus, a virus with only one cure, utter annihilation. The world nearly came to it as the corners of the Empire crumbled away and the walls of its borders shattered into pieces. Its effects far reached even the dirtiest, most remote crevices in the world. Life halted for those moments when everything seemed to come undone. After it unraveled, life would never retain the semblance of normalcy it once had. That was the brutal truth in 2011, three years after the hell bore through the crust and to the surface of the Earth.

The man dreamed as his eyes flickered underneath their closed lids. He saw the horrific images of his past. He saw what he unleashed and what had been unleashed on him. He saw his prey, the man he hunted, the man who took everything away from him, twice. He saw the people he once knew. He saw the people he once killed. Their souls haunted him now and karma caught up to him, twice. He wasn't a deep sleeper, nobody in the Neatherealm was. The sound of roaches crawling along the dimly lit floor garnered an eye and a head move. There was no clock in the basement and he didn't know what time of day or night it was. Larisa was asleep, machine gun in her hands, fearful that the man was going to kill her in the night. Likewise, he gripped his shotgun, wary that she could do the same. He was groggy but he didn't think more into it and shut his eye, back to the restless slumber and painful memories of the past. They drove him. They provided the fire within that pushed him day in and day out and drove his revenge. The fire burned within, hotter than the core of the Earth, hotter than the core of the Sun. Everything about him screamed revenge and his body yearned for it. "Revenge..." He whispered in his sleep. "Revenge..." Vengeance was his only will to life anymore. He needed revenge more than he need air, food, water, or even shelter. He hungered for it and he wouldn't stop until he had it.

He barely moved on the uncomfortable, filth-ridden sofa until a startling noise echoed into the basement, right into his ears. His eyes shot open and his body lurched off the couch, to the right, faster than light itself. His shotgun was shouldered and the sound didn't startle Larisa at all. She barely heard it. The man, on the other hand, keen to his senses, bolted up before the sound could cease its echo. It was the sound of creaking floorboards only one thing could make that sound. Someone was upstairs and walking slowly. The door to the room was closed but it had no locks on it and it was only half closed. His breathing elevated and his heart echoed in his cavernous chest. Come on...Come to me! He willed the interloper as he steadied his aim at the door.

The creaking continued but quietly. The person wasn't a professional but neither were they an amateur. The man was a professional and now he was going to end whoever was trying to get into the basement. He didn't want to startle Larisa and wake her. She could shoot him, after all he had a twelve gauge, shotgun in his hands and his face was not smiling. Then again, she could just be a hindrance if someone did get into the basement. He decided to let her lie; it was safer that way, for everyone. Then he heard footsteps now on the stairs and he knew that the interloper was getting closer. That was bad news. He would have to reinforce the locking mechanisms on the doors and set some booby traps. He didn't need to be startled like this once a night. He enjoyed his sleep as much as anyone could who didn't sleep. The interloper moved towards the door and he could see the shadow. Then, the interloper decided to see what was inside the door. That's it... He saw a pistol poke through the door but he could not make out if there was someone behind it yet. The door was opening slowly and carefully and the person was armed although with a weak weapon, a nine millimeter pistol. He almost laughed at it as he held his shotgun close to his shoulder.

With a sinister smile, he sidestepped to the right a little and leaned around the corner, leaving very little of his body exposed, the shotgun flat against his shoulder, ready to let loose. He had two rounds loaded and both of them, at the range from the corner to the door, would turn anything short of an elephant into a fine, red mist. He saw a hand land on the side of the door as it slid open further. It was barely six inches open already and the person was working really slowly. They wanted in and they weren't sure if someone was armed inside. The man was careful not to move. He stayed completely still, using the shadows of the basement to hide himself. He could see out but he couldn't easily be seen. That was how the light danced off the concrete walls. There were no voices to be heard and certainly, as the door slid further and further open, each inch seeming like an hour, he could feel the impending doom that would befall the interloper.

[Layarteb]

The hand stopped as the door was about a foot open. The door stopped too and now the hand vanished back into the darkness of the night. The pistol fell back and then he could see an eyeball reach around, just one eyeball. It was surreal. He could see its detail. It was a blue eye, that was well adjusted to the low-light of the night but not the eye of someone who knew what they were doing or was still an amateur. He revised his original assumption that it was somebody mediocre. This was definitely an amateur. The eye looked around but didn't see him and didn't see with any depth perception whatsoever. This basement was situated knee-deep in Hades, the abode of the devil but that didn't stop all sorts of creatures of the night from wandering around, poking their heads where they didn't belong. The man stood perfectly still, waiting to squeeze the shotgun trigger. He waited and waited and the eye eventually drew back. Whoever it was, they hadn't seen him or the shotgun that was going to be staring them in the face. Then the figure appeared. It was a lonely, shadowy figure with a pistol in one hand, the right hand.

The figure sidestepped through the hole and into the basement, the barrel of the pistol pointed at the ceiling. He didn't recognize the person, who was definitely a man nor did he recognize anything else about the situation. The shotgun sights had landed on his chest, right about his heart, and he waited. Patience was his game and he relished in the failures of his enemies. They were opportunities, he always said. The figure stopped after he had moved into the basement, sidestepped to the left, in front of the half open door. The opening was cleared and the man kept a close eye on it, should anyone else come into the basement that wasn't supposed to be there but then again he had only heard one set of footsteps upstairs. The interloper held the pistol out, straight and took three small steps forward. His eyes fixed on the shotgun but it was evident he couldn't tell what it was, not in the darkness. Three steps were all he needed and they were all he was going to get. The man squeezed the trigger a moment later, sending the 00 buckshot pellets flying at the man at over 1,400 feet per second. They didn't even have to go fourteen feet. The blast of the shotgun echoed so loudly in the basement that his and Larisa's ears instantly began ringing. As the barrels rocked upwards, smoke coming from the muzzle, Larisa jumped out of the bed, her submachine gun in her hands. "Don't shoot me! I'll shoot back!" She yelled, before she could open her eyes.

The interloper didn't stand a chance. The rounds bore into his chest, in a tight circle around his heart, removing it and half of the rest of his organs. The pellets and the force of them tore through his weak, chain mail-type armor, continued through his thick, leathery skin, through his organs, and out of his back. They blew out a hole big enough to stand in and blasted, against the back of the door, a red ooze of blood, organs, and spinal bone. His spine was severed from the shot and his heart had been nearly dislodged from his body. It hung out of the hole in his back, still beating, miraculously. The trauma made sure that it didn't matter. The next step was the concussion of the shot, which pushed the interloper backwards and slammed his mortally wounded carcass into the door, shutting it in the process. He slid down it, landing on the floor, sitting down with his back against the door and his legs out forward. His heart stopped beating by then and lay there. Blood was smeared all over the door and pooled on the ground. The splatter effect made sure that the walls, ceiling, floor, and door were decorated in reddish ooze. The man recoiled from the shot but recovered the barrel immediately and trained it to the opening of the door. He listened, as best as he could, for echoes, for voices, for foot steps, for something that would indicate that the interloper wasn't alone. Surely, the noise of the blast could be heard outside. It had echoed for over a mile away, bouncing off everything there was to bounce off of, hiding within the raindrops and thunderclaps along the way.

[Layarteb]

For two minutes nothing changed. Larisa recovered herself and looked forward of her to see the man's figure, staring towards the door, the shotgun against his left shoulder. It was an uncomfortable and unnatural pose, she noted but he wasn't pointed the barrel at her. She didn't lower her weapon but she did inch closer. "What happened?" She asked. Her own voice was drowned out in the ringing and it sounded as if she was underwater. He didn't hear her at all for two reasons: the blast and his attention were focused on the open door. He waited for someone else to come but nobody came. After several minutes, he lowered his weapon and turned his head, to see Larisa, standing just a few feet away, the barrel of her submachine gun pointed right at him. "I asked what happened." She said though he could still barely hear her. He tried to read her lips but he couldn't so he just gave her a head nod to come to where he was.

"I want to show you something..." He said but to her it was just lips moving. She read them and moved closer, slowly, the submachine raised the whole time. "Interlopers." He mouthed again, which she understood. She looked at the mess on the floor and at the corpse of the interloper. He was alone, a loner in the Neatherealm. Their hearing came back a few minutes later, after the ringing began to subside. "Know him?"

"Yeah." She said as her eyes were fixated on the gaping hole in the man's chest. "I know of him. He's a bad man."

"What do you mean?"

"He breaks into peoples' homes. Well if this can be called a home. Well, into their shelters. He prefers women to men and the younger the better. He's an escaped convict. The chaos of the revolution set him free. Along with the rest."

"I see. Well there was a prison not far from the epicenter."

"No. It wasn't. Not at all. He was coming for me." She said somberly. "He was coming for me..." She lowered her submachine gun, finally, tears swelling up in her eyes. It seemed that she spent her whole day crying. "He was coming for me..." She turned around and looked at the man, clear in the eyes. He was much taller than her, by at least six or seven inches but she still looked up at him. "He was coming for me..."

He couldn't help but feel bad for her and so he did, putting his arms around her as she clung to him for dear life. It's okay. He's gone now. You're safe."

"Am I?"

"You are. I promise you that I won't let anything bad happen to you."

"You won't?"

"No."

"You mean that?"

"I do. Please. Don't look it's terrible."

"It's okay. I've seen death before. Worse than that."

"Go back to bed. I'm going to get rid of the body."

"No. I can't."

"Why?"

"I can't have that blood there."

"Got a bucket and a sponge?"

"A bucket. Rags. I think."

"I'll get rid of the body. I'll collect some rainwater too. It'll be muddy probably. But it could work."

"It's all I have." He let go of her and put his shotgun on his back. Then he took a few steps towards the body and looked down at it. He smiled, opened the breech of the shotgun, and used his nails to pull out the spent, plastic shell casing. He dropped it on the floor and loaded another one. With a snap, the shotgun was ready with two rounds again. He used his foot to push the lifeless body over so that he could open the door. Carefully, he peered around the door, up and out, to the right, and to the left. Nobody was there. He stepped out, the shotgun in front of him and it went where his eyes went. He carefully stepped up the stairs and to the surface where he looked around, through the monsoon of rain coming down from the darkened heavens. Lightning flashed in the distance.

[Layarteb]

He took a quick look around, throughout the house. Nobody was around and so he walked back to the basement, never once lowered his weapon. When he got to the door, he put the weapon on his back and dragged the body free. The blood followed it and he pulled it up the steps, making them slippery. As he did, rain water began to come in through the roof, which was in horrific condition. The water would leak all over the place but hopefully help wash the blood free on the floor and steps, where he dragged the body. On the surface, the water from the rain had drowned the ground already and he stepped in puddles everywhere. He wasn't going to bury it, not yet at least and probably not at all but he would take it far enough away from the bunker that the smell wouldn't seep in as it rotted away. On the surface, the body became heavier, the rain getting into its clothes. That didn't stop him and he dragged it to a small, rain lake about a hundred feet away from the house entrance. He dropped it on the ground; face up, a look of unsurpassed horror on the corpses face stared up at him.

Before he disposed of it he dug through the pockets. The interloper wasn't wearing a knapsack so there was nothing to take there. In his pockets were ammunition, a map, a compass, and other odds and ends. He took all of it and looked for jewelry but there was none. With a kick and a roll, the body fell onto the lake and was immersed in brown, muddy water, which turned red as the blood continued to leak out of the corpse, draining from the gaping wound that killed him. Upon returning back to the basement, he was handed the bucket by Larisa, who was still visibly shaken. He put it underneath one of the leaks and left it there for a few minutes, while the rainwater began to fill it up and began to splash all around it. "Thank you." She said as she looked up at him once more. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. Listen let's just clean this up and go back to sleep."

"Okay." She pulled out the rags and he began wiping up the blood, using the leaking rainwater to wet them and drain them although they would be stained forever. Oil had stained them already so it wasn't as if they were new rags. It took a while to clean up the blood but when he was done he got most of it up and out. There was going to be a stain there, always but it wouldn't rot away with the corpse. He shut the door again, put a crate in front of it as a barricade, and fell back asleep within a few minutes of lying down on the sofa. Larisa, on the other hand, shook on her bed, afraid to shut her eyes again.

Dawn came and the sun peaked its head over the horizon at first, checking to see if the coast was clear. As the darkness ebbed, the light bathed the ground. The rains had stopped just a few minutes before first light and now the ground could dry out as it baked in the sunlight. The clouds had cleared the area and left a clear, blue sky above, a sky out of a children's fairytale. It was too bad that the ground was an adult's nightmare. Animals awoke and went about their instinct filled days as the people awoke in the Neatherealm just to go about their meaningless, fear-driven lives.

Larisa awoke first but was barely asleep from the night before. She stood up in the basement and looked around in the darkness. The light had burned out just as her eyes grew too heavy to stay open and the only light peeking in did so through the floor boards. Gravity won against her about twenty minutes before first light. Four hours later, she awoke, although she had never really gotten to sleep even after she shut her eyes. Her slumber was shallow and she seemingly kept one eye open. For the man, who sat still on the sofa, it was all the same, a story that he knew too well except that he almost did sleep with one eye open, all the time. As she stirred, he awoke too. They both looked at each other in the dark although neither of them knew it and both of them were wary that the other was awake. It was eerie, in a way.