Chapter 4 - The Bridge, SC (Patreon)

The voice was back and with it, came something else.

Sunday’s stone missed as the blue eyes ducked beneath and attacked again with the iron rod. Sunday didn’t skip a beat, led by pure instinct. He stepped closer and to the side. His hand rose once again as if possessed by a devil and delivered something that made his bones tremble. It was lightning and thunder upon an unexpectant cheek. Executed to perfection, the slap made full use of each ounce of weight and strength he had. There was another quality to it too. Something indescribable.

The corpse’s head snapped from the force behind the slap and he faltered, his neck bent just a bit too much. Sunday took the opportunity and tried to wrestle away the iron. His grip had grown stronger yet, but the blue eyes didn’t give in that easily. The fingers were curled like a vice around the rod.

Sunday slapped it again, but whatever force had driven the first slap was not present in this one. Still, it was enough to further disorient the blue eyes. Sunday twisted his arm, finally managing to pry his fingers open. The iron cluttered to the stone beneath. Sunday pushed with both hands, forcing the blue eyes to lean on the wall nearby. He picked up the rod and used it like a baton aimed at the skull.

The blue eyes managed to raise his hands in defense, but the forearms broke quickly under the assault, and finally iron met skull. It took quite a few hits but soon the corpse struggled no longer.

Sunday’s ribs mended under the rush of warm strength. It was the strongest surge of power yet. It felt like a shot of coffee after a week of sleeping. The pleasure was indescribable as his body cracked and popped. Muscle fibers ran beneath the skin creating curves upon the skeleton. The skin itself stretched to accommodate the new mass and became a bit smoother, its color changing from midnight black toward dark gray. Sunday felt more like himself and less like a disjointed mess of mind and limbs, finally touching upon something that was him. Something he hadn’t realized had been gone.

He spent the next span of time roaming through the countless twisting streets of the city, lost in a maze of mists, art, and corpses. Sunday was methodological in his extermination. He attacked at each good opportunity and hid when he met bigger groups. He felt no pity or compassion, nor did he hold any foolish notions of honor or being fair. Those were things someone like him hadn’t been able to afford most of his life. He was in a similar situation now. Or at least felt like it. Everyone was both the prey and the hunter.

With each kill, he wondered more and more if this was some sort of punishment for the sins he had committed in his life. An endless emotionless slaughter which made him more, ensuring that he would never stop. His memory and thoughts were growing sharper as his body was growing stronger. Killing became the only purpose he had, the only thing that kept him somewhat centered. However, the stronger he grew the weaker the anger that raged during each fight became. It still helped, but it was an ember, a small remnant of the first few times. Losing the only emotion that was there to guide him was terrifying.

The call guiding him further into the depths of the city finally led him out of the endless streets and into a wide empty strip. Benches sat along its length, and long dark lamplights hung from steel poles, as if at some point in time people had sat to rest and gaze upon the passage of time.

A massive bridge made as if for giants was at the center of it all. It stretched over a large chasm that cut the city apart. A sea of dark clouds rumbled inside of it like a dense and slow-marching river. The rest of the bridge and the other side were hidden by a curtain of gray.

Two statues marked the threshold. Monstrous stone beings with swords of silver steel crossed in an arch above, threatening to fall upon the undeserving who took a step too far. The statues were humanoid, yet alien. No matter how Sunday moved he wasn’t able to catch a glimpse of their faces, as if they were avoiding his gaze.

Briefly, he wondered if he should venture on the bridge and get it over with. The beckoning was coming from the other side. He was sure. However, charging headfirst was not his style. It took sheer willpower to force himself to step away. Even with his improved body, the need to go over was too much. Grunting internally, he reached a shadowy corner beneath a large stone gargoyle, and waited, battling the pull in his soul that was growing stronger by the minute. Patience was a virtue and a street rat learned patience like no other. Observing, learning, and weighing the risks all came before acting if one wanted a piece of bread.

His mind revisited the events since he woke up. His body had grown taller. The limbs that had been thin dried-out sticks now held definition and strength. His stomach was still hollowed out and almost sticking to his spine, but his chest had gained some mass too. It was a far cry from an adult human body, but as far as living corpses went, he assumed that he had reached the strength of a well-developed teenage boy. The lack of sense of touch and pain was really hard to get used to, making moving adequately harder than it had to be.

Sunday’s mind snapped back to reality as he caught a glimpse of another mural on a nearby wall. How had he missed it? Through the thin mists, he saw a depiction of the same young man who had slapped a mountain away, grinning and staring right at him. Sunday blinked and looked again. The young man was gone and its place stood a carving of a gutted bull. This wasn’t right. Was his imagination playing tricks? He didn’t quite feel like himself yet. Although he firmly believed that the narrating voice was as real as they came. He had ignored it when it had spoken of a young master, lost in the killing and growth, but it had been there.

No matter how much he stared the carving remained unchanged.

Corpses came occasionally from the mists and those who passed close to his hiding spot were met with an iron rod to the head. Shortly after their bodies would fall apart into small flakes, leaving no warning for those who came after. Sunday had noticed it a while ago and the process was oddly mesmerizing. There was something beautiful about their death, but he chalked it up to his numb emotional state and muddled mind. The gains he was getting from each kill were diminishing and he decided that hiding would take priority for now.

One of the weaker corpses he had let through finally reached the bridge. Only after a few short steps it spun and walked toward the edge until the stones were over and it fell into the churning chasm. 

Sunday watched it all happen. Why did it do that? Fear? Hallucinations? Maybe there are requirements? Strength, kills, or something else?

One of the corpses that appeared next was different than the others. She was like Sunday – taller and stronger, well-defined. There was a weapon in her hand – a damp torch that held no flame. Sunday focused all of his attention on the new arrival and watched her go toward the bridge, ignoring the weak mindless zombies.

The corpse examined each detail carefully and hesitated as she looked around. She finally reached a decision as her foot stepped onto the bridge. Sunday half expected the giant blades to fall and execute her, or for her to walk off the bridge like her predecessor, but nothing of the sort happened. She strode forward, slowly at first, then more confidently, and soon the mists obscured her form from Sunday’s gaze. This was no help at all. Who was to say that the corpse wouldn’t just jump a bit later? He remained patient and waiting. He highly doubted this was race.

The stream of corpses was dwindling, but some appeared occasionally. At one point the mists parted and Sunday squinted his eyes as two corpses walked out shoulder to shoulder. A man and a woman. This was the most decisively feminine corpse he had seen yet. He spent a few moments lamenting how people managed to find love in the strangest places, then shook off the strange thoughts and shamelessly looked them over.

Their bodies were brimming with strength, and although they were currently a bit smaller than Sunday, especially the woman, he decided that this was not a proper measure of how much one had killed. He shrunk further in his hiding place. This was not a fight he wanted to take even if he had a weapon advantage. Threesomes were not his thing either.

He was worried they would notice him for a few brief moments. Their gazes roamed everywhere, taking in the surroundings. However, the bridge soon took hold of their attention. They stopped to the side, near a bench, and hesitated.

Another corpse came then. This one made Sunday reevaluate his theory. For some size was a definite measure of strength. He was a mountain of a man, at least a head and a half taller than Sunday and double the width. The corpse might have killed double, no, triple the amounts of corpses Sunday had, but the diminishing returns wouldn’t have allowed it to grow as much. There was something else at play here. Maybe his grave had been in a more mineral-dense soil?

The mountain of a man neared the bridge and stood next to the base of one of the statues, unperturbed by the others.

Following him by mere seconds came another strange one. This one was lite in body. However, each muscle fiber was visible beneath the thin skin like a steel wire. Sunday got the sense that so far, this was the most dangerous arrival. Whether it was due to acute intuition or the thin but long stone sword swung over the corpse’s shoulder, it didn’t matter. The weapon was gray and lacked a guard. It was melded to the hand holding it, which had turned to a similar stone up to the forearm.

One by one the strongest gathered. Some were odd, be it because of the strange implements they carried or because of the color of their eyes or skin. No one had anything similar to the sword. The mindless weaklings that were still roaming about were quickly dealt with.

The group that had grown to more than twenty stood still. The tension was almost palpable and no one wanted to make the first move. But someone would. If there were human minds in those heads, then it was a matter of time even if they didn’t suffer the burden of emotions. One thing was sure, and that was that it wouldn’t be Sunday.

It was hard to tell whether time stood frozen or continued its march. Only the slow crawl of the mists destroyed the illusion that this was another carving upon a stone canvas. Sunday was patient.

One acted soon enough. The corpse with the thin stone sword moved as if a blur. He only covered a short distance, appearing behind one of those closest to the threshold of the bridge. It all happened in a flash. Sunday highly doubted he could move like that even if he killed a hundred more corpses.

Perhaps something like the slaps. Do the murals hold keys to some strange power? If so, I’ve missed quite a few opportunities. It felt like the mural chose me though. Maybe it’s just a chance encounter.

A head rolled and fell with a dull almost imperceptible sound to the ground. The sword bearer instantly changed, becoming more. Sunday sensed it as sure as the mists rolled on the stone ground. The sword bearer turned and walked on the bridge slowly as if struggling despite his new strength. His movements were stiff. The mists swallowed him shortly after.

A decisive one. Sunday thought. To grab one last boost of power before facing the unknown. Impressive. What bothers me is if all of those before me hold special skills. I’d be hard-pressed to slap them all into a daze…

No one followed the sword bearer, but his actions provoked the rest. The fight started slow and ramped up rapidly. Some wanted to just reach the bridge, while others thirsted for one last drink of power, following the example.

Sunday hesitated. He could use the commotion and move through but the thought of the murals granting power had taken nest. Some part of him wanted to walk back into the streets and study them closer, proving his theory. It’d be worth it if he gained some strange powers.

He left his hiding spot and turned into a nearby alley. Just a quick look wouldn’t hurt. What greeted him was the sight of a corpse a few feet further down. It was one of the strong ones, but it was dragging itself on the ground, the dried-out face somehow stretched in a mask of pure horror. There was darkness behind him. Not shadows cast by the tall buildings or the walls, nor by the statues that occasionally rose high up like trees. It was physical, thick darkness that crept forward like a wave in slow motion, swallowing both mists and city.

Terror wracked Sunday’s frame. Terror unlike any before it. When the gangs kidnapped his fellow orphans to sell, he’d been devastated and very afraid. When the authorities caught and tortured him as a warning to the others, he’d been angry and very afraid. When his belly rumbled, empty of food and hope, he’d been desperate and very afraid.

This was different. The terror came from a need larger than fear of death or suffering. He couldn’t place it, but it was not his body shaking. It was his soul. The darkest depths of a horrifying sea were spilling over the city, slowly engulfing it. The corpse before him soon lost the ability to crawl and remained there, flailing its arms. Its eyes were the only thing Sunday could focus on – alive, terrified, begging for salvation, or death, or whatever would make the darkness let go.

Sunday turned and walked toward the melee without a second glance. If he had a heart, it would be leaping out of his chest right about now. Murals be damned, it was time to cross the bridge.