Anthony's body twitched as blood pooled beneath him.
The shadow—the thing—watched in silence, then turned and left.
Time passed.
Cold crept in.
His lifeless frame slid into a shallow puddle. Water soaked his wounds, yet something deep inside pulsed. A final flicker of his sacred blood kept his heart stubbornly beating. Hours later—
Gasp.
His eyes flew open.
Hands—numb, frostbitten—had turned violet from the slow, agonizing healing. He couldn't feel his fingers.
Survival instincts surged.
He needed warmth.
A shape. Nearby.
Mark.
Blackened and half-burnt, the corpse of the boy who once screamed alone in the dark.
Anthony hesitated.
Then bit.
The taste of soot, of ash and flesh—it made his stomach turn, but he chewed.
He swallowed.
Fire returned to his limbs.
He tore part of his robe and twisted it with sticks, creating a crude torch. Lit it from the embers of Mark's remains.
He stood.
He descended deeper.
---
It stank of rot. Blood. Earth.
In the gloom, something quivered ahead—an organism, massive and pulsing with life. It looked wrong. Alien. Yet...
Warmth.
It radiated comfort.
A parent. A womb.
But comfort was a lie.
Anthony pulled a blade from his belt.
Plunged it in.
The creature screamed—not with sound, but with spasms. It twisted in violent ecstasy as he stabbed again and again.
It died.
He sliced it open, hands soaked in thick, dark fluid. The skin, pliable and tough, became a bag. The meat—dense, veiny—was packed inside. He walked with its corpse on his back like a trophy.
---
Then—movement.
A man, barely human, emerged from the dark.
Teeth rotted.
Eyes wild.
Voice ruined from madness.
The old man shrieked and hurled rocks, one grazing Anthony's shoulder.
Anthony flinched.
He'd had enough.
He grabbed a stone and launched it—striking the man in the jaw. Bone cracked. The old man fell and began crawling, a trail of blood behind him.
Anthony followed. Calm.
A sharp stone in hand.
The old man whispered something—pleading?—but Anthony didn't hear it. Or maybe he didn't care.
The stabbing was methodical.
One.
Two.
Six.
Twelve.
Twenty-three.
Until there was silence.
He stripped the flesh with mechanical efficiency. Skinned the arm, then the thigh. Bone exposed like marble beneath meat.
From the corpse he built.
A stick.
Skin lashed with sinew.
A rock sharpened to a point.
His first weapon: a spear born of desperation.
He walked on.