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Jackson wished last night would be a haze—he hoped it was just a nightmare, but it wasn't. It had happened. All of it. He'd turned into a creature, killed that innocent man, and raced through the woods like the very animal he'd almost lost his life to.
The beast he'd become had retreated behind his real body, but his clothes were gone, and he had no idea where he was. As the sun grew higher into the sky, he finished cleaning the dried blood from his tawny brown skin and left the small river behind. He trekked aimlessly through the snowy woods, constantly checking behind him for the creature that attacked him yesterday. But there wasn't a single sound out here this morning.
Each snowflake that fell around him melted within an inch of his burning body—he no longer felt the cold, but that didn't relieve him. This wasn't right; how was this real? Part of him wanted to convince himself this was all some trippy experience—maybe this new environment was having a freaky effect on his brain—but he wasn't that naïve.
No. This was real.
What was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go? He had no idea where he was. Wherever he looked, all that lay before him were trees, mountains, and snow. He didn't recall which direction he'd come from, and whenever he tried to remember, all he could see was Daniel's mangled body.
Is this what happened to the others who had come to Ascela? Had they been attacked in Greykin's mountains just like he had? A conflicted frown struck his face when he reached the treeline; he stopped walking and stared ahead. The mountains stretched as far as his eyes could see, and behind him, the forest continued for just as long. He desperately searched for something he recognized or something that might jog his memory, but all the daunting white gave him was a deep feeling of hopelessness.
He was never going to find his way back. He'd never find the people he'd come here for, and if he didn't starve to death first, he was sure another rotting, crazed animal would burst out of the woods and kill him.
With a frustrated huff, he sat down in the snow and buried his head in his arms, which he rested on his knees. This was it. He was giving up. Why waste his breath aimlessly walking around when he could just wait for his end to find him?
Something sickening then brewed in his stomach. He couldn't give up. Was it really that bad? He wasn't dead, was he? No...he'd just turned into a savage creature and torn a man apart with his teeth.
He scoffed at himself and leaned his head back against the tree behind him. As he dragged his hand over his forehead, he tried his best to make a choice. Sit here and wait to die or get up off his ass and try to find sense in all of this. Rotting wolf creatures, him turning into a beast—if this was what had happened to the people he was looking for, he had to find out. They deserved that. Maybe surviving this was some sort of message—he'd seen first-hand what had happened, and now, he had to make sure he found the victims Greykin managed to claim.
Jackson sighed away his defeatist thoughts and pulled himself to his feet. It wasn't over yet.
He left the cover of the trees and continued through the snow. If only he knew how to read the time by simply glancing at the sun, he might know how long he'd been walking.
Eventually, he found a hill and followed it down. He'd trekked up one the day before yesterday, so heading down felt like the right way to go. And to his immediate relief, when the snow started to calm, he set his eyes on smoke climbing into the sky. Someone was over the ridge up ahead.
Jackson picked up his pace, dragging his bare shins through the frozen ground. Despite his hurried steps, each continuing without a moment of rest, his body didn't plead for a break. He made it to the very top of the steep hill with ease, and as he stood beside a crooked, dying tree, he gawped at the small village at the very bottom of the ridge.
But then he remembered—he was naked. What were the people down there going to think if he ran into their village butt-ass naked, ranting and raving about a rotting-bodied creature attacking him up in the mountains? Well, the first half of his predicament would shock the people, no doubt, but as for the part about rotting creatures, everyone in that bar he'd visited seemed to know something was going on up in Greykin, so perhaps his story wouldn't confound them—maybe they could help him.
He looked around for anything to cover himself up with, but he wasn't sure what he was expecting to find. Maybe he'd find something in the village; he'd just have to do a good job of making sure no one saw him until he was decent.
Unwilling to spend a moment longer lost and alone, he began his journey down the ridge.
When he approached the bottom, he used the scattered trees as cover and headed towards the broken fence of a hut's garden. A clothesline displayed exactly what he needed, and as he crept into the garden, he checked around cautiously for witnesses. There was no one.
Jackson hastily snatched the shirt closest to him, but as he did, muffled voices began echoing inside his head. He frowned and shoved his finger into his ear—it felt like there was water stuck in there, but nothing came of his prodding. In fact, when he pulled his finger out, the distorted voices became clearer. A woman and a child, tapping, clanging—he sharply turned his head in the direction of the sound and stared at the hut's foggy window. He could just make out the shifting silhouette of a person inside, and their movements matched the shuffling he heard inside his ear.
Croaky laughter snatched his attention. He glanced to his right, the sound of boots crunching against the snow growing closer. Someone was coming.
He grabbed a pair of animal skin trousers and some fluffy socks so puffy they looked like boots—maybe they were. He didn't care. Now that he had his clothes, he scurried out of the garden and back into the cover of the trees just across from the broken fence.
Hiding behind a white, peeling trunk, he watched as a pair of bearded men strolled down the alley sitting between the garden he was just in and the rotting-wooden back of another hut. Once they'd passed, he pulled on his stolen trousers, shirt, and boot-like socks. He was ready.
With a deep sigh, he stepped out from behind the tree and headed over to the alley. He followed it to its end, but when he emerged, he stopped and frowned. This was the same village he'd arrived at the day before yesterday. To his right was the exit, and it looked like the ridge he'd just come down connected to the hill he'd headed up, too. Somehow, he'd found his way back without actually trying to find his way back. Maybe his sense of direction was much better than he gave himself credit for.
He turned left, heading towards the bar, and as he stepped inside, the chattering voices fell silent. Jackson didn't stop to gawp this time. He walked straight to the bar. The bartender eyed him up and down with a look of surprise on his grisly face.
"You find what you came looking for?" he asked as Jackson rested his arms on the bar.
"Uh...no," he breathed, tensing up as the silence stretched on longer. "I, uh...need help."
"Help?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Jackson glanced to his left—everyone was staring at him. He looked back at the bartender. "I um...got attacked," he mumbled.
"Attacked?" the man asked, raising his voice a little.
Whispers shot around the room behind him.
"I-I don't know what it was—it looked dead. And...well—"
"Dead?"
"Yeah, like a dead wolf," he explained.
The bartender's frown morphed into a hostile glare, and as he reached under the bar, Jackson stepped back warily. "You got bit?" he questioned, cocking the shotgun he'd just pulled from below.
Struck with horror, Jackson froze on the spot. "W-what—"
Everyone else in the bar jumped to their feet, pulling out knives and axes, and someone even wielded a pair of garden shears. Jackson stared around at them all in terror, too afraid to speak, even more afraid to attempt to dart for the door.
"Did you get bit?!" the bartender yelled, aiming his shotgun right at Jackson's face.
"I-I—"
"Check 'im!"
Immediately, three men started approaching him. He stayed where he was, trembling as the men cautiously lifted his sleeves and trouser legs; one of them even patted him down. What the hell were they doing?
"Nothin', boss," the dark-skinned man called.
"Where's all your city stuff?" the bartender questioned, still pointing his gun at him.
Jackson shuddered, gulping as he glanced over at the three men, who backed off but didn't stray too far. "I-I lost it."
"Do it," the man then said, nodding at someone to Jackson's right.
Before Jackson could react, a woman he hadn't seen approaching reached out and nicked his hand with her dagger. He grunted in shock, pulling his hand into the cover of his other—
"Give it 'ere," one of the three men who had searched him demanded, snatching his wrist.
Jackson tried to pull his wrist back, but he stopped struggling when he watched the cut on his hand slowly heal.
"He's infected!" the man announced fearfully, backing off.
Panicked mutters circled the room, and everyone seemed to become a mixture of angry and disgusted. They clenched their weapons; Jackson could feel the tense atmosphere growing, and he knew that whatever was about to come next wasn't good.
He didn't have time to say anything else—
"Get him!" the bartender yelled, vaulting over the bar.
With a panicked whimper, Jackson swung around and bolted for the door.
"Don't let it get away!" someone shouted.
"Kill him!"
Jackson raced out of the bar, panting in terror. He hurried through the village, the volley of yelling voices trailing behind him. Infected? Kill him?! Why? What had he done?
People burst out of their huts—a gunshot fired past his head, missing him by inches. He skidded to his left, darting down an alley between two buildings and then into a narrow passage sheltered by planks of wood, forming a bridge between two tall homes.
The yelling voices of his hunters echoed around him. Flurries of 'Find him!', 'Where'd it go?!', and 'Look over there!' His heart raced in his chest as he frantically looked for a way out, but the only way was that which he'd come from.
What was he going to do? They wanted to kill him! He panicked, dragging his hands over his face, pacing back and forth—what if he went out there and tried to explain that he wasn't whatever they thought he was? He didn't want to do them any harm...but they didn't know that, did they? They weren't going to let him explain. If he went out there, he'd either get an axe to the face or a bullet to the head. His only option was to flee. But where was he going to go?
He listened to the voices and running footsteps. They didn't sound close. Maybe he could sneak back out and head for the trees. There wasn't really any other way. He clenched his fists, trying to calm his nerves as he squeezed back through the narrow passage, but when he approached its end, three men appeared before him—
"Over here!"
"Come 'ere!"
Horrified, Jackson desperately shuffled back into the passage. He raced to its end, tears now forming in his panicked eyes—where was he going to go?!
The planks above him creaked.
"Up here," came a deep, firm voice.
He looked up. A man with honey-brown eyes and a stubbly, expressionless face reached down from the planks, holding his hand out to him. Jackson had no idea who he was, but he was offering his hand, and he didn't seem to have a weapon. So, without hesitation, he hurried up onto one of the crates and stretched his arm out, just reaching the man's palm.
Without a strained grunt and little to no effort at all, the man pulled Jackson up onto the planks. But before he could thank the man, he immediately headed along the planks to the balcony they connected to. Jackson followed—this man had saved him from the hunters chasing him into the passage, so he didn't suspect he was leading him to his death.
"On the roof!" yelled a voice.
His saviour picked up his pace, leading the way along a tiled roof and down some stairs; Jackson had no time to ask the questions he had. He struggled to keep up with the man, panting, panicking, but when they approached the treeline, the man stopped and pulled him behind a tree.
Jackson stared at him, watching as his observant eyes scoured the village. The voices of the hunters continued on, Jackson kept trembling, but the man before him didn't seem the slightest bit alarmed. His ear-length black hair floated in the breeze, his loosely tied shirt shuffling to reveal his defined body.
He didn't look anything like those grisly men in the village. His skin appeared lightly tanned, but Jackson couldn't tell whether it was a result of genes or the sun, and a collection of dark, twisting lines was tattooed up his right arm.
As the man's gaze shifted to him, he tensed up a little more, something nervous accompanying his fear. He leaned closer to Jackson, and when he inhaled—when he sniffed him—Jackson frowned strangely.
"Thank you," he uttered through his confusion.
The man let go of him, and when Jackson examined his stoic, stubbly face, he found a perturbed expression.
"Wh-who are—"
"Go back up the ridge," he told him, his voice stern and deep. "Stay away from people. They kill our kind." Then, he turned around and started walking off.
Stumped, Jackson watched him leave. The number of questions he had just grew. Our kind? Was that man like him? A beast? That had to be why he'd rescued him just now, right? It had to be why he was heading into the mountains.
Jackson wanted to follow him—what other choice did he have? Run away and be on his own again? Risk getting caught by the clamouring hunting party? Or coming face to face with that rotting creature once more? No. He felt he'd had his fair share of shit luck already. That man evidently knew at least some of the things he was desperate to know, and he wasn't going to lose the opportunity to get answers—to get help.
With a desperate huff, he pushed himself away from the tree and hurried through the snow, following his rescuer.
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