Snippet #2388114

Der Schatten.


A tall figure slumped through the street in the rain; heavy boots pounded a rhythm into the wet pavement. It was a soothingly deft sound to their owner, a ragged man, who slowed his steady pace only to nudge another of the dead bodies out of his path. Movement meant he was going somewhere, and that he had a purpose. Once people had started dropping dead, his purpose seemed less important. That made him angry.

It made him useless.

The masked figure exhaled in dissatisfaction. For now, he was content to keep moving through the city. If he kept moving, he had a reason to exist.

A heavy boot swung back to kick the skull of a cadaver, the muffled yet distinct snap of the spinal column reaching satisfied ears. He gazed down unsympathetically upon the rotting, bloated dead man as the head rolled back to stare blankly up at him, neck now elongated, the soft fat of his cheeks sunken and sallow, and the red, lazy eyes of those infected now glazed to a milky white, sightless long before their owner's death.

"Hmh. Putrid pussbags of diseased shit," he spat in a low grunt, stepping over the body and continuing on. People had never given him any solace in life, and they were just as infuriating in death. However, now that he had no one to complain to it seemed he had an inclination for nostalgia. He smiled at the thought, somewhat crookedly, through his mask. It was a simple mask, akin to ski headgear, but had been missing a opening for his mouth. To make do, he had cut one in it himself. A small bit of steam passed through the jagged slit, disappearing into the rain. He frowned. The night was getting cooler. The chilling rain beat down on the hood and shoulders of his heavy jacket, rolling off the scuffed rainproof material. It was steadily getting harder. This wouldn't do. He needed to find shelter until the storm passed.

A large gloved hand lifted to adjust the hood of his coat to better shield himself from the torrent of rain. There didn't seem to be anyone left alive in this once bustling metropolis. He had followed the river from the familiar countryside into what he suspected to be the skeleton of London proper, and yet, had not seen a single living soul within the city. Had they all fled, leaving behind their dead to rot in the streets? Or, had they been too late to save even themselves? How did the panic of the first few weeks manifest, he wondered. It was a curious thing; a pandemic he wasn't aware of until the country streets he roamed began to fill with uncollected body bags, and before long, defiling his river with it's festering dead. Then there was the other curiosity; the marvel of his own health. He mulled this over as he strode on, following the flickering solar-powered street lights and the soothing sound of the River Thames nearby.

A flash of light lit up the bodies strewn before him. Some seconds later a loud roar of thunder rolled through the silent streets. Another crash echoed the thunder shortly after, but it was not heaven-sent. It was something close. He turned slowly. Beady eyes under a thick hood stared hard into the dim interior of what seemed to be a restaurant. The hooded figure cocked his head. Perhaps it was an animal, feeding off the dead and their scraps. His hand slowly reached into the pocket of his heavy coat as he stepped out of the street light's range, melding back into the shadows.

The question of the culprit was revealed suddenly as a slim figure darted out and across the street. It seemed to be grasping something; something it struggled with for a moment in front of the entrance to a convenience store before scurrying inside.

Hello human.

The hand was drawn back out of the pocket of the man standing just beyond the pool of light, and instead reached within the heavy coat and up over the shoulder. It reappeared with a black object; cylindrical and about a foot long. Light, like something a runner would carry during a relay race. A flick of a wrist extended the aluminum alloy, lengthening the baton. The masked grin stretched wider; it's owner setting course for the same store as the stranger who had fled the diner, his strides longer, and eager.


He stepped over the cut lock and chain and pushed open the door slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust. The convenience store was dark; the only illumination came from the faint light permitted in through the windows of the shop, and the digital clock on the wall above the cashier. It read 8:04 P.M. According to his watch, it was correct. Must run on batteries.

Stepping carefully around broken glass and an upturned magazine stand, the tall man entered, finger tapping methodically on the grip of the baton. Gray eyes scanned down the isles he passed as he listened for any noise. Come out, come out…

He continued on; only three more isles to go before he would be at the back of the store, near the refrigerators.