Battleforged
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Chapter 6 - Rising From The Ashes
🕑 Added 2022-05-09 05:19:10 +0000 UTCEric normally woke up with no real sense of time, always having lived according to his mother's schedules. But now he knew exactly what time it was. As if his interface was equipped with a stopwatch in the form of a gut feeling. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that exactly 9 hours had passed since he had collapsed in an exhausted stupor, and, save for the gnawing in the pit of his belly, he now felt so much better than he had when first emerging from that awful pod that had transformed so many people into hideous tentacled abominations for the orcs' amusement, before grilling the poor fucks on massive beds of coals like calamari.
Yet, somehow, he and his sister had survived.
Or so he prayed, realizing he had been such a self-absorbed fool when he first collapsed that he hadn’t even thought to look for clues or any notes or anything.
But at least he knew she was alive.
At least he knew that his rescue hadn’t been in vain.
If the words scribbled under his map sign and the lock on the door assured him of anything, it was that.
He felt a sudden spike of anxiety at the thought of the lock. A lock he had thrown at the rats. A lock he would probably want to secure his one shelter in this mad awful world if he ever left.
When he left.
He knew eventually he’d have to, despite the surge of dread spiking through him, no matter the cold sweat beading on his trembling palms. Or at least one palm, the other so scarred he was surprised it could grip at all. And thank heavens that it could, he thought. Thank goodness he had full mobility and use of both hands and feet, now leveraging himself up from the leather sofa he had collapsed on.
And for all that he wanted to despair at his weakened frame, he was joyed to the point of actual tears that he could now breathe free and easy. And just as importantly, all the cuts and nicks and abrasions that should have left him too agonized to walk with his already scarred hide had fully healed, with no sign of fever or infection that he could tell.
“And I can level up," he said, before forcing himself to shout for joy.
“I can improve myself. I can grow in ways I never could have imagined before! Even if I’m so far behind the eight ball right now that if any of the girls who had been so eager to chat up Aurelia Silver’s son could see me now...” He shuddered at the thought, all too easily able to imagine the flinches they wouldn't be able to hide, the fear and disgust that would be in their eyes.
Before smirking and shaking his head, determined not to give the slightest shit for anyone whose affections only ran skin deep. "I might look like shit, but I'd bet any amount that if their buff boyfriends saw them getting tossed into an orc roasting pit, they’d be wetting their fucking pants. So to hell with them all.”
He then forced himself to smile, taking in the well-furnished room with its leather sofa, hardwood furniture, and multiple bookcases that included an encyclopedia and nearly a thousand romance, science-fiction, and mystery novels to wile away many an afternoon, as well as an entire shelf dedicated to a full dozen of his favorite LitRPG and progression authors. Novels he had gone out of his way to buy in print form, even if digital media had basically taken over everything, most bookstores dying out before he was even old enough to appreciate them.
It had been a running joke with his sister. If the world came to an end, he wanted his favorite novels and role-playing games in hardback form, so he could actually enjoy reading and playing them when electronic entertainment became a thing of the past.
Who would have possibly thought that he had actually been on to something?
He shook his head at the world’s bizarre twists. Regardless, he and his sister had spent countless hours reading their favorite novels and studying what seemed like a complete bookshelf's worth of military history and survival manuals that comprised their mother's contribution to their impressive collection. All of which helped to stave off boredom and keep him and his sister busy even when not exploring the tunnels and hunting what had once been a far safer game, not that long ago. To say nothing of their constant training, even more grueling than when they had been playing the leading roles in an action fantasy movie that, save for a handful of exclusive premiers, would never hit NightFlix or play on any silver screen.
Of course they still had a flat-screen TV and a computer that they hadn't bothered clearing from the bunker's version of an entertainment room, and Eric was content to leave them be. A relic of the past, and who knew if it could ever be repurposed for something in the future?
But what truly sat with pride of place in their living room was the AM crystal radio attached to a long copper wire running up through the discreet airshaft leading to the damaged ruins of the city high above. It was one piece of historic technology that actually worked, and what sometimes felt like their sole connection to the remnants of what was left of the world above.
A part of him wanted nothing more than to turn that radio on. But he was afraid that hunting down those pirate stations that were now reduced to a mere handful, lifelines in the ruins their society had become, would leave him so anxious and depressed that he’d lose all motivation to do anything.
Just like during those first few days he, his family, and the handful of others who had fled with them had spent endless horrified hours listening to the meltdown of their world, panicked announcers screaming about invading armies of what Eric now knew were pig-faced orcs, jackal-headed gnolls, and extremely unfriendly ogres, looking very much like they did in animated movies. Except that the latter were ten-foot-tall giants that would tear any talking mules they find in half and devour them without batting an eye. Or at least that was the gist Eric got, from the frantic reports he had heard in regards to the fates of other cities and territories.
But for Gilton? It was orcs that served as the bane of their existence here. Massive eight and a half foot tall brutes that not only had the advantage of inhuman strength and thick chain mail hauberks covering their ugly hides, but also had the only working black powder weaponry to be found anywhere, from what Eric understood, their muskets and cannon easily shredding humanity's near helpless resistance. And the local state governor’s desperate call for people to dare the pods and become a militia of heroes fighting for their country was made a mockery of by the orcs who had happily thrown dozens of poor screaming fools into that nightmare vegetative pod every day since Gilton fell to their muskets, battleaxes, and cannons. And far from any glorious ascension, almost every single victim had been transformed into a zombified abomination sprouting tentacles before being speared, tossed into the fire pits, and given a good seer before being devoured and eaten by the monsters who had claimed this city as their own. A bitter truth Eric and his sister had been forced to witness firsthand, several hundred armed orcs apparently all it took to dominate an entire city, once-proud Americans reduced to a broken and defeated people forced to suffer every degradation imaginable, in constant fear for their lives.
If there was a single ray of hope, it was that not all the invaders had turned out to be man-eating monsters. At least one race had appeared that didn't seem to have the death of humanity as a fundamental component of their plans for world domination. An alliance made of tall, slender men and women who favored the bow, with ears any Trekkie or fan of the Tolkienesque would have instantly recognized.
Even if some of these elven tribes looked a bit more sci-fi than others, all of them sported archers reportedly just as deadly as in all the stories told about them. Reportedly, they were the only faction where desperately surrendering humans had a hope of being treated as anything more than slaves or feed. Some animated reports implied that those who survived the pods would even be allowed to join one of the clans or alliances making up their faction, earning wealth and glory, fighting under the Sylvan banner. As to whether or not there was any truth to those words, Eric had no idea. All he knew for sure was that the orcs Gilden was plagued with were hideous monsters armed with hundreds of muskets and at least half a dozen black powder cannon.
Just one volley had near instantly put down the one rebellion that had fomented at the behest of first responders during those first few days when humanity didn't realize how truly and utterly fucked they were, armed with makeshift spears, bats, crowbars, and plywood while facing off against giant muscle-bound savages half again as high as the average man was tall, and far broader and thicker besides. And all of them armed with muskets that could fire a round of ball and shot that would tear through resistance fighters as well as any 10 gauge shotgun. And once the shot was discharged, the orc soldiers would plunge their bayoneted muskets like spears through any resistance with a savagery that defied description, easily blasting through even former SWAT officers armed in full riot gear with such force that those who didn't immediately die from a thrust to the chest would still be sent flying with broken ribs, their skulls crushed by a furious boot heel, just seconds later.
Eric shook his head in disgust and glared at the radio, recalling all too well the desperate hope and talk of patriotism soon fading to almost clinical detachment, then growing despair, as one announcer after another reported the toppling of humanity.
It was just like Mr. Vincent and his mother had said. There was no damn point in listening to that radio and falling into despair. Not when he could be training and bettering himself. Not when a 9 hour period of sleep was all it had taken for a minor miracle to occur. When what should have been permanent lung damage had miraculously healed, completely, as far as he could tell, no matter that his interface pinged it at 95%.
At least now, he was strong enough to take the next step. To take advantage of the weight room and sparring area, and see if his hunches about self-improvement would allow him to turn his crippled body into one that might actually survive another encounter with those rats.
But first, there was a combination lock he had to get, no matter how much he dreaded the thought of going back out that door. Because without it, any asshole could sneak in and lock him out when he was gone. And for all he knew, someone might use it to lock him in as well.
Eric felt his heart start to race, both of his now intact palms growing clammy when he looked at the steel door waiting for him, just down the hall.
“Hell if I’m doing that without something in hand!” he said to himself, hobbling his stiff body down the corridor. First to the weight room, promising himself that he would be hitting those weights very soon, before heading to the training room. The largest room in their underground shelter.
He smiled in fond memory for all the hours he and his sister had both spent shooting their recurved pair of crossbows, just a few that Vincent had managed to liberate from a nearby Victory Sporting Goods store before it truly sunk in for the public, just how screwed they all were.
Not surprisingly, there were no crossbows in sight. The pair of Excalibur crossbows they had most recently used had been lost when they were captured above. For all Eric knew, they had been claimed by the very asshole who had nearly gotten him and his sister killed.
Just thinking of the rat-faced bastard with his simpering smile filled Eric with white-hot rage.
A rage that did him no good at all as he took a deep breath and focused on taking a basic inventory of what supplies he had that might prove useful, both for training and hunting.
Fortunately, the training room still had the straining staves and 18th-century muzzle-loading longrifles, complete with refurbished bayonets, that Vincent had insisted he train with, in addition to both English and Swiss sabers. Because one or two-handed, everyone loved watching a good sword fight. And when you're trying to kill your cinematic opponents by sword, spear, or using muskets like quarterstaves, nothing beat the authenticity of actual skills earned over hundreds of grueling hours getting the shit kicked out of him.
“If you can fight with this, a spear is no problem,” he remembered his sadist of a trainer confidently saying, making Eric go through daily drills of thrusting and parrying with staff and rifle both. Even after the world had ended.
The man had only stayed away from all-out quarterstaff sparring, since there was grave risk of injury, swinging their staves full force, and they didn't exactly have hospitals on hand. But at least Eric knew how to wind his hypothetical spear around his opponent's, and force their weapons offline, controlling the center before driving home a lethal thrust. But even after hours of careful sparring with his instructor, he was still expected to practice with savage force, just as if he were really fighting for his life. Even if his final target happened to be an inanimate object, slamming the wooden stave with a sharpened bayonet firmly attached into the hemp-covered sandbags they used for thrusting practice and archery both.
Not surprisingly, the makeshift pair of sharpened and fully functional spears that he and Elonia had used for actual hunting practice in the sewers, when not using their crossbows, were gone. As was the pilum he had claimed just days ago, plunging deeper into the sandbags than any other weapon he had.
But at least the perfectly straight and padded quarterstaves were exactly where he last recalled putting them, what now felt like a lifetime ago, as were the pair of smoothbore rifles Eric knew would never fire a shot again, though he had high hopes for the old school bayonets they were both equipped with.
He soon returned to the training room with the pair of British 1821 Light Cavalry sabers he had kept very discretely hidden away in his own bedroom, just in case.
He knew he shouldn’t be surprised to find that his space had been invaded, especially if his family thought he had perished in the pod. He was just grateful that the rummaging had been minimal.
Unfortunately, his two-handed Swiss saber, a blade he had learned to use with equal proficiency as both a one and two-handed blade, had been a bit too big to fit into his saber hidey-hole, so he had hung it with pride on his wall.
Not surprisingly, it was gone.
He couldn’t help smiling with relief at the swords he had successfully retrieved in his scarred hands, admiring them just as much as Mr. Vincent had. The stiff, single-edged fullered blades of the 1821 English sabers allowed for deadly thrusts, yet were still balanced with the slightest of curves to deliver wicked cuts as well. They possessed three-barred hilts excellent for protecting the hand, yet were otherwise very similar to the backswords that had seen extensive use for almost 300 years, including eras where armored soldiers and shieldmen were still the norm.
And of course Eric had been forced to practice fencing singlestick, as well as with bucklers and round shields as well. He'd even been taught the basics of German longsword fighting, fusing so well with English saber technique when it came to alternatively using the unusually long yet exquisitely balanced Swiss saber as a one or two-handed weapon.
He shook his scarred head in rueful memory. Just how many times had he made jokes after countless exhausting training sessions this past year, wondering aloud if the whole damned movie was going to revolve around whatever style of fighting looked the best.
Painfully aware of his many glaring flaws,
Eric had done his damnedest to outshine every other would-be swordsman involved in that production.
Because sure as anything, he wouldn’t be showing anyone up when it came to actually delivering his lines.
And that was the real reason why he had spent as much time learning to fence and fight this past year as he had spent trying to immerse himself in his character.
Because at least he could shoot a bow, fight with a spear, and use both saber and bayoneted musket without looking like a complete idiot.
He could only hope that it might make up for the fact that he couldn’t act for shit.
He sighed and shook his head, having felt like such a fake and a poser, this past year.
He knew he was no actor, no matter how good the director and cameramen tried to make him look on screen. He totally lacked the stage presence and the sheer perfect timing that came so naturally to both his mother and sister, radiating so much charisma with their sultry voices and devastating smiles that the minute any test audience saw any movie scene starring either of those virtually identical-looking women, they were won over, in the virtual blink of an eye.
Eric felt a nostalgic warmth flow over him, smiling to himself in remembrance of Elonia grinning so impishly after stealing every last scene they had shared, until his role in the one and only movie he would ever star in had been steadily pruned down to just a few snarky lines he could actually deliver while playing the hero, or shouting dramatically before taking on the antagonist.
A roguish charmer of a villain who ended up killing him by movie’s end anyway.
Which was fine with him, as Eric has assured his increasingly worried sister countless times during the sometimes painful production. Painful at least for him, anyway, as much as his sister seemed to absolutely thrive on everything that went into producing a movie. Especially since she had given up the frequent 'networking parties' that had been doing her no favors at all, instead focusing on her health, serenity, and career… and had never seemed happier.
Eric, on the other hand, was determined that his acting career would end with that one performance, knowing as well as anyone what happened to failed teenage starlets who found no other passion to carry them through life. God knew he and Elonia had encountered enough of them, his sister even playing the amateur therapist to a couple childhood friends that inhabited the same social circles they did, suddenly spending all her free time in between takes going to extremely discrete meetings with a handful of stars who had burned a bit too bright, after getting them into the same programs that had come to her rescue, less than a year ago.
Yet for all that the world had changed in ways beyond horrific, in ways beyond what anyone could have fathomed, not everyone had been as profoundly humbled and shaken to their core as Eric and his sister had been. Strangely enough, some with the most to lose, entire fortunes comprised of hundreds of millions in investments tied to an absolutely tanked world economy, had seemed almost to thrive in the brutal hell hole their contested world had become.
And one of them he had known all his life.
All he had to do was recall the expression on his mother’s still strikingly beautiful face, the day absolutely everyone’s acting career had ended, to feel an icy shiver racing down his spine.
Where everyone else was gazing with horror upon a world where every single television and computer monitor abruptly shorted out at the same time billions of ears rang with the deafening roar of every single firearm going off at once, countless thousands of soldiers and police officers instantly crippled as the world descended into chaos, every online game in the world shutting down forever when every sophisticated electronic device died in unison, his mother had just looked furious.
Not shaken, frightened, or at all out of sorts. She had trembled not with fear, but with a killing rage that had frozen him and his sister and all the hired help with terror where they stood. A look he winced away from the memory of, even to this day.
Before immediately directing them all to the shelter she had somehow secured for herself the very day they had arrived at the hotel, weeks ago. All the help she had hired in town was immediately let go with wads of cash put in their hands so big Eric had blinked twice, though not missing the gentle urging his mother had given them all to buy as much food, water, and weapons they could while they could before barricading their homes and opening their doors for no one.
The only ones not given stunning amounts of cash and his mother’s troubling counsel were Mr. Vincent and a pair of husband and wife assistants who doubled as bodyguards who had been with them forever, as well as their daughter, who maybe Eric had been getting too friendly with. Before dragging them all down into the shelter that half the hotel staff either hadn’t even known existed, or just thought were old, half-abandoned storage rooms. The bullshit story his mother had even given him, when he had been asking why she was bringing so much of their old costumes, training equipment, and prepper material here to the hotel, when they had a crazy big house and acres of backyard in the suburbs, to say nothing of a nice condominium in New York City. Both less than two hours' commute away, though in opposite directions.
His mother’s response had been that she was freeing up space at their homes.
Eric had thought it complete bullshit, even then. Why bring shit you could store for free in an attic to fill up old abandoned storage space in a hotel? Did the manager owe her a crazy big favor? Did she outright own the hotel? But he had known better than to risk her death glare, arguing with her, and had certainly known to keep his mouth shut about it when the world had abruptly ended with screams, shouts, a tremendous explosion, a weird tingle racing down his spine, and the entire world freezing in panic.
He didn't say a word to anyone, averting his eyes from numerous frightened gazes as they darted past confused looking waiters from the restaurant filled will shouting patrons, winding down dim corridors not even emergency lights lit up, lit by candlelight alone, as screams, shouts, and explosions could be heard echoing through the city above.
Even then, the husband and wife bodyguards had been wearing kevlar, but as far as Eric knew, had never once touched a gun. Even Mr. Vincent had glared with contempt at any sidearm that wasn't a black powder using relic, muttering about stability issues, as if it could explode in his face at any second.
Which was damn odd, all things considered.
The whole thing had been beyond surreal.
Unless…
Eric firmly shook away thoughts that did him absolutely no good right now, as he finished taking his inventory of weaponry he had recovered. It was a pile that included training staves, kitchen knives, multiple serviceable daggers, the longrifles with bayonets that just needed a good sharpening, and of course, his surprising find of the pair of English light cavalry 1821 sabers, strong in both the cut and thrust, still secure in their cubbyhole when so much other serviceable gear had been taken.
Missing gear included the other recurved crossbows they had managed to scrounge from the Victory Sporting Goods store nearby, and the half dozen moderately famous 1796 cavalry sabers Eric had successfully bid for online, all in remarkably good condition, at a price even his mother had deemed acceptable. Those choice weapons, perfect for a post-apocalyptic setting, were, not surprisingly, gone. As was his two-handed Swiss saber that he had searched every square inch of the bunker for, in the vain hope someone might have left it behind. Even the pair of French blades his mother had admired, and Eric had thought so little of, were missing. They couldn't cut for shit, but to be fair, they were quite good in the thrust, if nothing else, and perhaps most importantly for any survivor leaving their compound, much easier and more convenient to wear at the hip than most weapons. Especially if people were packing as much as they could manage, and expected to travel a considerable distance.
His old 1821 English sabers on the other hand, with their thrusting points and back edges, were devastating in the cut while still being decent lungers, but were neither as pretty nor as comfortable on the hip as the other blades. And whether it was because they truly had missed his cubbyhole, or wanted to leave something of his behind, just in case, the 1821's had remained. Which suited Eric just fine. Because personally, they were his favorite.
Or they had been, he thought with a sting in his eye, holding one unsheathed blade with a trembling hand, when he had been strong and fit and in the prime of his life, with an effective 14 Strength, at the absolute peak of his form.
According to his interface, 14 Strength would have made him stronger than 90% of people he might meet on any given day. Which might not be saying that much in today’s world, but regardless, he had been 6 full points stronger than he was now. With a paltry eight in Strength, and with his crippled Finesse, Quickness, and mild palsy, he felt as fragile as a kitten, and was now far weaker than most of the population.
But that was a weakness he had every intention of correcting, he thought with a determined glare at the training pel designed almost exactly the way as they did in the SCA, but with multiple additional layers of linen. Because Vincent had actually wanted to make sure he and Elonia could cut with their live steel training swords, slicing as they slashed, not just smacking their targets like they were swinging a bat.
Which really made no sense for a teenage actor who just had to look good during a mock fight, he thought, forcing his trembling arms to go through the motions just like he used to spend so many hours doing. Yet the training did make hell of a lot of sense for the world he found himself in now.
You have successfully struck your target and sliced through 3 layers of linen!
You have successfully managed to strike TRAINING PEL with the tip of your blade!
You have lost your balance and tripped.
You have managed to avoid cutting yourself!
A surprising degree of natural talent and tactical coordination transcending even your crippled body has been detected!
Saber skill successfully quantized at Rank 3! You are at least as skilled as a student who has spent hundreds of hours in the pursuit of his craft… or a true prodigy who can naturally sense how to use his weapon to maximum effect.
Alex choked back bitter tears. He didn’t care what the damned interface said. He hadn’t been this pathetic, clumsy, or slow, in years! He was so damned weak, his muscles so tight, that the moulinets that had once come so naturally to him were now utterly beyond him. Even attempting a simple series of cross-cuts followed by a lunge had seen him fall on his face, almost impaling himself!
If there was one bright side, it was the tiny blue bar, halfway filled, that he saw above the symbol for his saber skill on his character sheet, acknowledging that he was already halfway to Rank 4. And whether that was good or bad, at least he was making progress, and his interface was acknowledging it. As to whether that came with any benefits, save acknowledgment of hard work and practice, he had no idea.
All that he knew was that with his body so damaged, he was a fool to think using a saber like this would do anything but get him killed.
With a sigh, he carefully resheathed it, hating the slight tremble he still saw in his hands whenever he wasn’t moving them deliberately, instead picking up the only weapon a wreck like him had any business using.
One of the long, light, and very sturdy poles he, his sister, and the pair of bodyguards had practiced sparring with, under Vincent's hawk-like gaze.
Though he did take the time to take off the padding at the end, a light pole free of sharp edges that even a weakling like him could use, was perfect.
And despite his bitter self-ridicule, he did find a certain satisfaction to find himself still capable of thrusting with the power of his hips almost as smoothly as he remembered, the lightness and leverage of his wide two-handed grip allowing him to hit where he aimed on the linen-stuffed training pel. Perhaps even more importantly, it only took him a good twenty overhand swings with the pole raised high above his head to his the sandbags in the back corner exactly where he aimed. Because at the end of the day, without any spearhead or bayonet affixed for thrusting, smacking rats with the considerable power that a six-foot pole and a wide two-handed grip would allow, would do considerable damage all on its own. It was, in fact, exactly how various indigenous tribes had hunted certain types of prey in the land down under for many years before the apocalypse, if his memory served.
A surprising degree of natural talent and tactical coordination transcending even your crippled body has been detected!
Spear skill successfully quantized at Rank 4! You are at least as skilled as a semi-professional who has spent over a thousand hours in the pursuit of his craft! If you have minimal experience, then you are a true prodigy who will one day take home trophies in your clan’s honor.
He wanted to laugh with bitterness, almost positive that his interface was mocking him. He had, in fact, spent countless hours practicing with wooden sticks as spears and quarterstaves, and had been about to advance to polearms, which was a bit silly, since he had never planned on taking on another acting role, and knights with swords looked way cooler on screen than those wielding halberds. But since Vincent had offered, and Eric had been seriously thinking about competing in actual HEMA tournaments as soon as he finally broke free of his mother's influence… he had been game.
He had spent what might have been several hundred hours in total, practicing with the spear, or the bayoneted musket equivalent. So that was hardly ‘minimal experience. And his scarred, wasted body sure as hell wasn’t that of a prodigy.
He was just a half-dead survivor trying to get back the skills he needed to make it in a savage world where even the rats were eager to kill him!
It was only after psyching himself up and having a drink from the thankfully still fresh water supply that he felt ready to face what he had been dreading thinking about all morning. Reopening the hatch and facing whatever the hell might be waiting for him out there, desperate to get that combination lock safely back, assuming he could even find it.
He took a deep, steadying breath, fully clothed and padded as best as he could manage, grateful that he had access to his clothes and dressed as comfortably as his tightly stretched scar tissue would allow after a careful and only slightly painful sponge bath. Additionally, he had donned not one but several flannel shirts and three pairs of blue jeans over sweatpants as added padding against any nasty rat teeth.
Eric took another cleansing breath as he forced his anxious hands to spin open the lock to open the vault-like steel door, the fluorescent light behind him piercing the gloom beyond.
Eric forced himself to step out of the warm embrace of his sanctuary into the alien darkness of the tunnels once more. All but tasting his own peril as he dared one step, then another, down the increasingly dim corridor, his staff firmly held in trembling hands, looking desperately for any sign of the combination lock.
His heart was pounding in his chest, visualizing so clearly the monstrous rats that had come so close to eating him alive, infravision kicking in as he almost stumbled over the charred corpse of the one he had fried.
There. Just a few feet further down the corridor. Near where it curved into the central tunnel, he spotted the cool disk of metal representing the lock. Almost but not quite the same temperature as the surrounding stone floor.
And just when he was about to approach, he heard the faint, far-off skittering of rats in the distance.
His breath hitched, heart beating a staccato rhythm of terror in his chest.
He forced himself forward, telling himself the rats weren’t getting closer, knowing he needed that lock.
Forcing himself to bend down, now using his weapon like the walking staff it pretty much was for him.
A surge of dread slithered down his spine as the far-off squeaks grew ever more distinct.
Ever closer.
He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, grabbing the discarded lock.
Success!
That was when he saw it, the grinning skull wedged in the stone wall on the far side of the tunnel ahead, bright white bone lit up by a tiny flicker of light, from he knew not where.
Eric froze as the sound of furiously squeaking rodents grew in pitch and volume.
Eager to claim their prize.
It was all he could do to take a deep steadying breath, knowing that to panic now was to trip and fall on suddenly unsteady legs as he carefully made his way back to the inviting embrace of his sanctuary, even as the vault door began to close.
NO!
In a sudden panic, he sprinted forward, grabbing the handle and forcing it back open just enough for him to slip through, his shirt catching for one frantic moment as he forced himself through, popping a button, and then he was safely inside and slamming it closed and spinning the wheel shut!
He then sunk to his knees, shaky with adrenaline and fear and shame and a sense of triumph.
He had been terrified, and he had done it!
Before laughing weakly, wondering why he had let himself get so psyched out. What did it matter if the door naturally eased shut? It had no lock on the outside, save the one in his hand.
Dented by furious gnashing teeth, he noted with a chill, instantly dropping the lock to clatter on the ground.
Just as he heard a dull thud against the door, vibrating against his back.
Then a second, and a third.
And violent shrill squeals that sent shivers down his spine.
Eric glared at the door, holding back the hot sting of tears. So hating what had happened to his world, terrified of what waited for him beyond that door, and absolutely disgusted with his terror.
“It doesn’t end this way,” he cursed under his breath. “I refuse to die trapped in here, like some weak, broken coward!”
He then turned around and headed to the weight room, filled with a fierce sense of purpose… but not before quickly turning around and triple checking the entrance, making absolutely sure that yes, it was firmly sealed shut, and no, nothing was breaking in.
