Episode 37:
Feral Men, No Bondage
The Lord Captain Caius Augustus stumbled through the woods, clutching a knife close to his chest. The leaves behind him crunched under the boots of the midshipman, whose uniform was in tatters; a torn bit of his sleeve was wrapped around his head. Blood darkened the front of the bandage. His face was turning to a light brown as the blood dried. His right arm swayed dumb and numb as he limped behind the Lord Captain.
A light thud behind caught Caius' attention. He glanced behind him at the ground. A large bloody chunk of shrapnel rested in the orange-brown needles covering the forest floor. Wind whistled through the trees and tickled the inside of the new gap in the back of his arm, creating a sudden pain. He gritted his teeth and collapsed against a nearby tree. "Damn them... Damn them to hell!"
The loyal midshipman stopped in front of Caius and grabbed his sleeve.
"No, no... You need not to..."
"Do you want to die of blood loss, sir?" The midshipman looked at the Lord Captain. Through the suffering in the subordinates' eyes, the Lord Captain could see frustration.
"If you insist..." the Lord Captain groaned as he turned around and shoved his face into the tree's hole. He bit out a chunk of bark from the hole's bottom edge. It splintered between his teeth as the midshipman pulled the wounded arm back, held it, and wrapped it in the make-do bandage.
"This is going to burn for a while, may I remind you," he said as he tightened the blood soaked wrapping, "but you'll live. Hopefully without infection, sir."
"Sounds like were going to have to find some shelter."
"Yes, sir. Or find some travelers who will take us in."
"Then I guess we better get out of these uniforms when we can find another change of clothes, because we stand out far worse than a Daemon standing before the Emperor's Divine Glory. The last thing we need to do is scare the locals." The Lord Captain finished with a tone of hopelessness, conveying some bad vibes.
His voice was breathy. "Good idea, sir." The midshipman tried to remain positive, or at least look the part, as his tone still relayed suppressed frustration and post-traumatic anxiety.
The two continued their march through the forest, climbing up and falling down the uneven terrain. Some of the rocks were still wet from the recent rain, and the wet leaves might as well have been a thick coating of oil. Their march was long, hard, and dull. Alone, without the morale boost of living companions, the two found their trek miserable. The rations they stuffed in their pockets were now crumbs, cheese cubes, and meat strings, soggy and peppered with stubborn lint that tasted of dried blood, sweat, and mud. They did not trust the rainwater. They did not trust the stream water. They did not trust the spring water. Knowing the grim darkness of reality, they knew that even the kindest of nature's invitations were like Slaaneshian whores. They satisfied completely, and then you died.
Days past, maybe weeks. It was hard to tell, and eventually impossible. The sun rose and set, the clouds passed overhead, and the men's frames became thinner and thinner, and thinner than thinner. Their boots cracked and crumbled from continuous wear, their feet and palms grew molds and sores, and their rough pale skin tanned and leathered. Their jackets tore into the bandages they kept changing and tossing aside - and covered the dreadful scars and grooves in the flesh that the wounds left behind.
Deprived of moderate hygiene, nutrition, and the comforts they had once taken for granted, they learned to adapt.
But eventually they became too weak to hunt even the smallest of critters, and too spent to search for good berries and flowers that would not force them to vomit the day's meal back on the ground. They were sick of lapping up their own vomit to not starve to death.
Bark, leaves, and the stems of young sapplings were hard on their teeth and made them sick - the same went for most of the forest's flora and their products.
They had tried drinking their own urine and feces, but the recycled excrement turned sour after two weeks and made them regurgitate it back up. Vomited piss and shit was beyond not-appetizing, beyond nightmares.
They thought of drinking their own blood as their saliva lost all moisture and became a white mucus, but their skin was too leathery and they were too weak to cut it with their nails.
Seclusion and malnutrition had taken its tool...
What emerged from the forest one sunny morning was not the same pair of men who entered.
In the field they saw the grain swaying in the breeze, the appetizing grain. The illness they felt throughout their body vanished and enough strength returned to them to bolted into the field. It felt like a marathon, even though when viewed from a distance it was obvious that the former Lord Captain was limping and the former midshipman was crawling beast-like.
They shoved wheat and tear into their mouths. It wasn't the most satisfying of food, but they recognized it for what it was. Not all of their humanity had been beaten out of them by nature.
They ate their way through the wheat field. Some of their teeth had become brittle, and they spit out broken molars, incisors, and the like as they chewed their way through. Their soft gums bled as they mashed the grain as fast as they could. They wanted the good stuff to be inside them, and fast. They wanted it to fill their stomach to the brim. They wanted their strength back. It wasn't long before they came upon a road at the edge.
The former midshipman looked across the gravel path to a greener field filled with pig-like livestock that squealed, oinked, and farted their way around one another. Through his hollow orbs that ravenously consumed the light coming into them, he saw the walking chubby sausages and he longed for the living flesh. The happily walking tubs of gluttony were tasty, meaty, fatty meals waiting to satisfy his hunger.
On his fours, he turned to the former Lord Captain who stood, eyes still on the stalks in his hands. The more human of the two struggled to pull apart the stalks of wheat with withered fingers, trying to maintain whatever dignity he had left.
"Meat..." the midshipman said, and nodded to the livestock.
The former Lord Captain shook his head as he stuffed more wheat into his mouth. Between each mouthful, he sucked the moisture out of the few weeds he had gathered into his other hand..
"MEAT!" the former midshipman growled.
The former Lord Captain stopped mid-chew and looked at the herd, and then the large building rising in the midst the center of the bounty. Looking back at the midshipman, he shook his head and focused once more on the stubborn, dry stalks of wheat.
The former midshipman hissed at his companion and scurried across the road. He leaped over the low wooden fence and scrambled for the herd in front of. The livestock squealed in horror at the grey crawling thing charging toward them. They scattered into the brush and bushes. Some bashed into the fence. Others bumped into tools and sacks. Everything not bound to the earth was knocked over or trampled.
The chaos broke down the other fences and pens, letting out kinds of livestock. The former midshipman chased after those closest to him. He joined in the chorus of the feral ruckus that echoed through the grazing grounds.
Faint lights flickered on in the windows of nearby monolithic structure. Voices yelled inside. Moments later, one of the many garage doors rolled up and out charged a mob of tired yet excited farmers, armed and ready to kill. The frustration of waking up early showed through their bloodshot eyes and the bulging veins on their hands. One of them let off a warning shot, scattering the herds into the fields. The former midshipman found himself exposed in a patch of low cut grass.
What the farmers saw was not a feral man, but some mutant from the inner city, and not the respectable kind. This was no man, as his light brownish-grey skin clung to his bones like a wet rag on a wooden dowel. His eyes were black, and the skin around them was reddish-black. One of his ears was missing, leaving a hole in the side of his skull. His teeth were worn down to small daggers and rounded stubs, and his head and brows were hairless. The remaining shreds of cloth attached to his body dangled, soaked in brown fluids. Whatever this thing was, it didn't deserve to wander the land of the living - never mind the farm.
"In the name of the living gods, what the FUCK is that?"
"Dunno, Kur. Dunno othur thahn i'taint hewmen."
"Well gawd-damn, I knew I should'a brought out the flameblower!"
"Are we going to stand here all day, or are we going to kill this sonofabitch before it kills something?"
The farmers looked to each other. They were speechless at the sight. It was like something from the Saturday night radio horror dramas. "The Wheat Demon" "The Crop Gremlin" "The Howler of the Corn"
There was fear in them, but it was overwhelmed by the excitement. Here was the something they could tell around the campfire for years to come. The best part, besides the monster itself, was that they could all tell the same story. It was just another spooky tale if one guy told it, but if several tell the tale, then it became a local legend.
"Denoyt, grab the flamethrower and six gallons of gasoline. The thing doesn't deserve the luxury of rotting on or in the ground... Hell, it's gonna spoil the soil! We're gonna kill it, then burn the body, and then roast the earth where it died."
"Aye, Kur. Aye."
The thing turned its head to the group of men who were spreading out in a line. One of the farmers ran out of its field of view while the others worked to keep its attention.
"Alright boys, don't get too close. We need this firing line to work, okay? Got your sights on it?"
"Aye!" the other farmers cheered in unison.
The thing saw the flesh of their arms and faces. It was healthy, juicy, and soft. It could see the vessels pulse under the flesh. It orientated its body towards them and lowered itself to charge.
"Get in in your sights!"
"Aye!"
The thing growled and sputtered from the depths of its throat like a crude diesel engine.
"Aim!"
"Aye!"
The thing hissed and dug its fingers and the toes sticking out from the boot into the moist soil and started swaying forward and back, getting into the momentum for the leap. It hissed and green flem spewed from its gums and drizzled off its shriveled lips.
The farmer's guns cocked and clicked.
"FIRE!"
"AYE!"