Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The Dark Basement

True thundered down the stairs, missing half the steps. Their trusty lighter wavered but held and cast thin light on the basement. Stained floor, rust or blood leading to a drain under the bulb. Narrow drag marks cut through the stains.

And bodies.

Row after row of naked, sallow bodies swaying upside down from rusted chains.

The back of the basement was lit, a second fridge hanging wide open to spotlight two thrashing shapes.

Hrōkr towered over Radio, pinning it to a freezer. A hand yanking rusted chain tight around its neck, the other pressing a sleek black gun to its head. Wide, mirthless grin stretched over his bone-coloured maw. Horrendous wet-sandpaper choking echoed off the concrete walls.

"Hrōkr!" True yanked the gun from their waistband. The scarecrow of a man swivelled to shine his grin and gun on True. Fire spit through the basement. True lurched out of the bullet's path, missing the last step. They landed hard, a wrenched muscle raking them over from shoulder to hip. Hrōkr cocked his head. Ran his tongue over his teeth. Got halfway through the motion when a bullet took care of the rest of his teeth. True's finger shivered on the trigger.

Red misted the air, and the kickback burned all the way across their chest. Hrōkr was nothing but red. True saw nothing but red. They tossed the gun, without a break in their stride kicked the collapsing body down and for good measure stomped on the remnants of Hrōkr's skull. Wet squelches filled the basement as they crushed away what was left.

Fucking Hrōkr.

Fucking Factioneers.

They were about sick of entitled assholes eviscerating their life.

A final squelch and they stumbled back, bumping into one of the many freezers. Black started to flood the red. They needed to catch their breath. The air tasted of rust.

"Rag?" They wheezed. Their side screamed, they'd pulled a muscle. Not surprising, not at once important. They turned to look for Radio, the motion deleted vision in both eyes.

They blinked away stars to see red-stained hands reached for them. Radio, unharmed. Good, a ball of anxiety unravelled from their stomach. It seemed Radio had become a little more important to them than they anticipated.

It lunged forward to—catch True? When had they started falling? It pressed their pulled side muscle.

Fuck that hurt. Shoved its hand away with gritted teeth. Firelight glinted off shiny fresh blood on its palm. A glance down.

"Shit," breathless, "oops."

The hand returned, pressing hard on the epicenter of the spreading lake of blood staining their shirt.

Not a pulled muscle.

Hrōkr's gun drooled a lazy curl of smoke. The lighter flickered out.