The church bells chimed — yet those deemed sinners and the blasphemous gathered toward it.
"A new behavior from the Caro-class… are they evolving socially and mentally?" Ray was baffled.
There was one particular act these anomalies did that he almost missed.
"Some of them — they're grooming themselves. Wearing nice clothing, making sure they look presentable. They're not as mindless as I thought," he murmured.
The hunter had to investigate these phenomena. He took one last glance at the brutalized body on the bed before slowly walking out of the room, closing the door, and moving carefully down the stairs.
His ears were particularly heightened because of the numerous footsteps outside, and he paid close attention to the sound of windows and doors opening.
Everything seemed to be going smoothly as he reached the first floor, where, in the living room, were the anomalies he had just recently slain.
The hunter was feeling it — thirst was starting to get in his way. As a result, he went to the kitchen of the house and, to his luck, saw a water jug.
He got closer to inspect it, checking whether it was safe for consumption. So far, it looked uncontaminated.
Without saying a word, he wasted no time getting a glass of water and drinking it in one go.
He waited…
"I'm fine — the water tastes normal," he let out a soft sigh. "I have no reason to think it's contaminated in the first place. It hasn't been that long since this town was invaded," he muttered, leaving the glass on the kitchen table.
"I'll be more careful next time," he said as he prepared to exit the house through the front door.
Being outside was dangerous, but every anomaly seemed preoccupied by the chimes of the church bells. Yet, as Ray moved between buildings and secluded spots, his eyes caught something rather disturbing: a cart full of mortally wounded humans, some still alive, struggling to cling to life.
"What are they planning to do with these?"
One anomaly took a human from the cart, and several nearby undead began snacking on the poor soul. The man's scream couldn't even be heard, as he was too weak to muster it.
"I can't save him," Ray said, moving on.
He spotted a nearby tower with an extended roof close to the church where he could safely observe the gathering of the anomalies.
He crept forward, soundless, but before he reached his destination, he slipped into a house with blooming flowers and a neat little garden. Ray planned to scale the yard wall to avoid detection — but what he saw next made him pause.
A woman — an anomaly — doing laundry in the backyard.
She had the same bloodied mouth as the rest, but her movements mimicked the familiar routines she must have carried out when she was alive.
"Where is my son, Evan?"
"Evan, it's dinner time! Evan, it's dinner time!"
"I cooked your favorite meal! Evan!"
She kept repeating the same phrases while doing laundry. However, instead of water, she was using blood to wash the clothes with the dirtiest piece of soap.
Ray took a deep breath and sighed.
The hunter, knife held tight, thought about ending her misery — but every time the woman shouted for her son to come to dinner, it chipped away at his heart.
He bit his lip.
Ray, without hesitation, moved for the kill — but the hunter didn't want to perform unnecessary brutality. He set aside his knife.
He went behind the woman.
She was sitting and washing clothes when he gently wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as if he were a long-lost son.
"Evan, is that you?"
"I missed you—"
Snapped.
As quickly as he could, Ray twisted her neck, while softly laying her down on her garden.
"These anomalies — they shouldn't show any emotions." He sighed. "I'm being irrational." He shook his head and wiped his eyes with his hand before steeling himself to continue his mission.
The hunter walked away, focusing on reaching the nearby tower to observe the ongoing mass.
It didn't take long before he arrived. He inspected the interior through the windows — the place was already empty; those who had occupied it had already left for the church.
He entered the building through the same window, fitting himself carefully, and once inside, he softly closed it, trying his hardest not to make a sound.
Looking around, there wasn't much: wooden floors, a lot of camping tools, fire lamps — but one thing caught his eye.
A shotgun sat on one of the tables.
Used-up shell casings scattered on the floor; someone must have been desperately protecting themselves, as the same floor was smeared with red.
Yet the hunter's eyes were alight with interest — the firearm on the table was a black Remington 870.
He moved closer, sliding his fingers over every contour of the shotgun before lifting it and inspecting it with utmost care.
"This is a vintage 12 gauge."
"110 years old, and it has survived the test of time. Look at this finish… despite its age, it's flawless, even after all these years."
"Original, minimal wear… the owner respected their firearm — Craftsmanship like this doesn't come around anymore."
The hunter found himself marveling at the eleven-decade masterpiece — he found himself checking every drawer for ammunition, then to his fortune he eventually found a box of buckshot shells, at least 25 of them, and some camping tools he really didn't need.
He reloaded the shotgun methodically, four in the tube and one in the chamber as he cocked it back — he gathered and stored ammunition in the compartments of his black suit.
He took four shells and placed them inside his right pocket, then another four in his back pocket.
Then, other than the shotgun, there was one more thing he could use — the wooden axe hanging on the wall. Beside it was an axe belt holder that he could attach to his belt. So he did. He felt the weight; his pistol was already on his right, so he placed the belt and the axe on his left hip.
Then he heard the church bells ringing — it was a gathering. The hunter locked the door.
He made sure he didn't compromise his movement too much from all of the equipment — but the ammo box… he thought of ways to use it more efficiently, as it still has twelve shells in it.
He moved it up to the second floor of the tower, placing it carefully where he could retrieve it later.
From a window, he observed the anomalies gathering outside the tower, carefully noting their movements as the bells rang once more.
"What are they doing?"
The humanoid anomalies bore fatal wounds and grotesque deformities; many of them carried axes and pitchforks.
Men and women alike were among them, all waiting for someone to emerge from the church's doors.
"They're holding mass outside the church? Interesting…"
The church doors opened, revealing five people. Four wore white robes streaked with red — the priests, but the one in the middle was the most striking.
He wore a black and red robe — resembling a bishop.
The bishop in the black and red robe stood on a platform, holding a book made of dark leather.
Their cowls hid their faces — yet the hunter caught a glimpse of a harrowing sight: the priests in white robes were dragging chained humans, adults and children alike.
"This is a ritual…" Ray murmured as the figure in the black and red robe began chanting a mass. The gathered anomalies fell silent. His language was demonic, and Ray couldn't understand a single word.
"What language is this…" The hunter gripped his shotgun.
Something was brewing — something he had to prevent.
"I've come to finish every one of you."
Chapter End.