C21 A Tragic World

Frank finally stopped his screams, clinging to his father's waist and burying his head behind him, still shivering uncontrollably. Horace, feeling his son's fear, began to shake slightly as well. Yet the chill from the shattered windowpane snapped him back to alertness.

With the gun pointed outward, he spoke with as much calm as he could muster, "Son, stay in the living room. Dad needs to check outside the window."

Frank, somewhat settled, obediently made his way to the living room.

Horace switched on his flashlight, pairing it with his pistol, ready to fire at a moment's notice. He moved toward the small window with extreme caution. A splatter of blood stained the jagged window frame. At such close range, missing his target would be unthinkable.

Contemplating the destructive capability of the hollow-point bullet, Horace exhaled deeply and carefully peered out the window, extending the beam of his flashlight downward. The area below was a blind spot, but even with the flashlight's limited reach, he could see the bottom clearly. Aside from dust, there was no sign of the expected corpse—the terrifying creature hadn't been killed.

After closing the bathroom door, Horace returned to the living room, picked up his son who was huddled on the sofa, and soothed him. "Dad, what was that thing?" Frank asked, seeking solace in his father's embrace.

"It's..." Horace struggled to articulate the fleeting image he had seen. The thought that such a close shot hadn't killed it, and that it would surely seek revenge, was unsettling.

Clearly, this humanoid creature had targeted them, and they might not be as fortunate next time. The thought of it scaling walls with ease, appearing and disappearing at will, sent waves of cold dread through Horace. He realized their home was no longer a safe haven—it was perilously insecure.

The sudden beeping of his watch alarm made both father and son jolt, their nerves on edge. Horace set his son down and spoke with gravity, "Pack quickly. We need to leave and find shelter in the black market."

"Awesome! Hooray for Dad!" Frank cheered, his youthful memory quick to discard fear.

The pair, efficient and practiced, finished their moving preparations before the first light of dawn. There wasn't much of value left in the house, and their supplies were nearly depleted.

Before stepping out, Frank cast a lingering glance at their home, now a disheveled mess, and couldn't help feeling a pang of reluctance. "Daddy, aren't we coming back?"

Horace was noncommittal. "Maybe we will, maybe we won't."

He had deliberately left the house in disarray to deter other Excavators from visiting. It was, after all, the small nest where he and his son had lived for many years. They were willing to return as long as it remained safe.

A cunning rabbit has multiple burrows, and Horace was not one to easily abandon his home.

In the dim light of dawn, the safest time to transition from night to day, the father and son shouldered their bags, armed to the teeth, and left their home. They mounted their bicycles and set off toward the black market.

As they passed the entrance to their complex, Horace hesitated, eyeing the Buick half-hidden in the trash heap. He contemplated driving it to the black market but ultimately decided against it. It was their last resort, and they were not yet desperate.

Little did Horace know that this decision would almost lead to a lifetime of regret.

Despite a recent scare, the father and son felt a sense of liberation akin to a bird escaping its cage after being apart for over a month. Their presence seemed to breathe a faint spark of life into the otherwise lifeless surroundings.

Still, Horace couldn't shake a sense of unease, likely the aftereffect of the encounter with the terrifying creature.

He pedaled furiously, taking a shortcut through a desolate alley, the derelict buildings blurring past them. The weight of their bags was substantial, causing Horace, even with his mask on, to break into a sweat.

Ahead lay a pile of trash that he didn't recall from their last journey through this route. His usual caution compromised by the recent fright, Horace was intent on reaching the black market as quickly as possible.

He swerved to bypass the trash, but suddenly the bike jolted and slowed. Amidst his son's piercing screams, both bike and rider tumbled forward.

Horace's heart raced with fear as he instinctively reached out to protect his son, but found himself helpless as the world violently flipped before his eyes.

He saw the ground rushing up to meet him, felt a sharp pain in his head, and then everything went black.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Horace groggily came to, the scent of roasted meat hitting his nostrils first. His ears picked up a cacophony of sounds: a woman's wailing, a man's raucous laughter, and the cries of his son, Frank.

Frank's cries were muffled, as if his mouth was stuffed with something.

Horace's heart clenched with panic. He was about to let out an instinctive roar of anger when he realized his own mouth was gagged with a musty, moldy rag.

A chill ran through him as he discovered his hands and feet were bound, and he lay on the ground trussed up like a dumpling.

This realization, however, helped him regain his composure. Hardening his heart, he chose to ignore Frank's cries and continued to feign unconsciousness, determined to understand what had happened.

He dared not move a muscle, instead, he cautiously opened his eyes a sliver, peering through the slits to assess his predicament. What he saw was a scene of utter horror.

The setting was a rundown building, once perhaps a small diner. In the corner lay a woman in disheveled clothing, utterly still, her condition unknown.

In the center of the clearing, a bonfire blazed. Two men with black hoods and windproof sunglasses pushed up on their foreheads sat on either side of the fire, each brandishing a sharp knife and facing the corpse of an adult male.

Horace nearly retched. Despite having witnessed countless atrocities in the Doomsday World and hearing rumors of cannibalism, this was the first time he had seen such a gruesome reality with his own eyes.

A piece of the puzzle fell into place in his mind: the day after the snow, two riders known as the Death Knights had captured a defenseless survivor, and now it was clear they had done so for food.

Indeed, in this nuclear-ravaged world, humans had become the most accessible source of uncontaminated nourishment.

It was evident that a new occupation had emerged among the survivors — the Ogre.

The shock to Horace's psyche was immense. His eyes widened, his teeth bared in a grimace, as his bound limbs shook with barely contained fury.

It was confirmed: in the crumbling Doomsday World, there was no 'bad' — only 'worse.'

Survivors had to contend not only with the harshness of the natural environment and the threat of nuclear-mutated creatures but also with the horrific reality of human cannibalism.

In a tragic world on the brink of ruin, humanity was marching toward a dead end.

On the edge of despair, Horace was fortunate to spot his son in time.

Frank was sprawled at his father's feet, bound hand and foot, a rag stuffed into his mouth. His face was streaked with tears and caked with dust, having cried for so long that his voice was now hoarse.

Suppressing the guilt of failing to protect his son, Horace clung to the small comfort that they were, for the moment, safe together. His mind raced, desperately seeking a sliver of hope for himself and his son, now ensnared in the jaws of death.