Enjolras stood to his feet, his saw cleaver and firearm in his hand. The moon in the sky had not moved above Paris, the night carrying on and time stopped by broken hands. His brow furrowed, his hands clenched tight about his weapons as he followed the street back to where he had died. The man that murdered him, the beast, was nowhere in sight, but red, wet blood, his blood, still stained the street. Enjolras glared at the blood, at the reminder of the pain he had endured. Enjolras pressed forward, an aggravation, an anger swelling within him that prompted such determination to never succumb to such fate again. He'll kill to never die again.
Tucked behind an overturned carriage, a man emerged with a roar, "Die!" The man was just as unruly, just as bloodthirsty as the one who had killed him, swinging his axe. Enjolras dodged his attack and swung his cleaver, its teeth cutting into flesh. The man groaned before falling at Enjolras's feet. He stared down at the corpse, the yellow eyes of a beast wide open, jaw slacked, human blood pouring from a human body with a beast's mind. And the man was dressed in hunters' garb.
Enjolras continued cautiously through the city, slaying beasts that crossed him as humanity shut itself in homes guarded by lanterns. People inside those homes sought sanctuary, protection. Innocents were doomed to die if the lanterns failed them, if the night went on too long, and Enjolras could not shake the guilt that festered or the unwavering desire to help. He approached the homes marked by red with the intention to protect innocent citizens. However he was only met with curt, bitter rejections that sent him back into the shadows of the night.
He dipped in and out of alleyways, following the guidance of the messengers that appeared here and there to lead the way. He then came to an open street where a mob of men stood in front of a bonfire. They held a variety of weapons ranging from batons to pitchforks, knives to short swords. The yellow-eyed men, beasts in hunters' clothing lit their torches from the bonfire and began to disperse. Four remained circled around the fire while one with a rifle stood on a broken carriage to keep watch. Another group of four walked left, down the street and turned the corner, the glow of their torches flickering as they went. Two more on both sides of the street for a total of four patrolled the area. Enjolras watched them, his heartbeat thudding in his chest with the sudden fear of death. A messenger tugged at the ankle of Enjolras's trousers, pointing past the mob and the fire to the barred gate ahead, and Enjolras detested the task of having to fight so many men and risk death just to get to his destination. He was grateful to see, at least, that the gate was open enough for him to squeeze through. Deciding it best to avoid confrontation, he scoped the area, looking for places to hide in order to fight as few of the beasts as possible. If he planned it correctly, he wouldn't have to fight at all. But the watchman atop the carriage concerned him. He could shoot sentry and get rid of that extra pair of eyes, but he feared the noise would draw attention to himself.
He opted for stealth and kept to the shadows, as deep as he could so that he was pressed against the wall. He looked back at those at the bonfire; none had taken notice of him, but that brought him little comfort. Ahead of him the two pairs on patrol had joined together, stopping directly in front of the gate. Enjolras inwardly cursed, gritting his teeth, his heart pounding, blood pumping in anticipation. In the dark, tightening his hold on his cleaver, he approached the four, swinging and slicing the closest beast, and he collapsed to his knees.
"Fiend!" cried out one, and the three standing charged at him, raising their weapons.
Enjolras stepped back, fear coursing through him as he struggled to dodge their attacks.
"Beast, beast! Kill him!" called a low, gruff voice.
And Enjolras heard roaring behind him. He did not need to look to know he had been caught by the others. He swore to himself, swinging at another beast, cutting at his abdomen, and as he dragged the cleaver through the beast's body, his entrails out in a bloody display, another beast stabbed Enjolras's side with a pitchfork. Enjolras screamed, terrified from the pain, horrified at the thought of dying again. He heard gunfire then, and the bullet pierced his arm. He yelled out, eyes wide and for a moment, he forgot to move. "No," he thought. He was so close, the gate just beyond last two beasts. And seeing no other choice, he ran, pushing past the beasts that blocked his way. He ran despite his injuries, despite the beasts that pursued him. Gunfire rang out, ricocheting off the ground, sparks flying mere inches beside him. His heart was in his ears as he held his side, his other hand clasping the cold iron bar of the gate. Adrenaline sent him into a panic, the beasts so close behind him, their weapons raced, ready to taste his blood. He stepped over the low iron bar that poorly latched the barred gate together, squeezing between the vertical bars that attempted to impede his escape. Gunfire again and the beasts were at his heels, swinging their weapons and torches at him. And as he shuffled his way through, lifting his foot over the bar, his entire body just on the opposite side, the beasts smacked against the gate with a clang. They clamored for him behind the bars, roaring and calling out in frustration.
Enjolras breathed out in relief, smiling lightly at his victory, but before he could feel safe and secure, the bang of the rifle echoed out, and the bullet passed through his shoulder. The force of it threw him to the ground. He yelped out in pain, his vision blurring, the pain stealing all breath. The calls of the beasts behind him suddenly sounded far away, and all Enjolras could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing. He forced himself to move, dragging himself as far away as he could from the beasts that clawed at him through the gate. The watchman could shoot him again, and it would mean his death. He dragged himself to the wall of a building, tucking himself behind a large, thick plank of wood. He could feel blood soaking his clothes, pooling beneath him, his body growing weaker, colder. The watchman fired again, the bullet splintering the wood beside his right arm.
He looked up to see if the plank would hold, and Enjolras saw that the wood was in fact a large, adult sized coffin. He sucked in a breath, hissing as he did to keep from panicking again, but he could feel the blood bubbling up his throat, his vision growing darker. He was running out of time. He then remembered the Doll's words and quickly reached for the blood vials latched to his belt. He grabbed one and plunged the needle into his thigh, injecting the blood into his veins. With the blood vial depleted, he threw it aside, and within an instance warmth enveloped him. He watched as the blood ceased to flow from the deep gash on his arm, and that gash became a cut and that cut scabbed and flaked away to dust. There was no more pain, no more blood at his throat, his wounds healed and energy resorted. Enjolras panted, his breathing becoming nearly hysterical in his relief and excitement. But the gunfire returned him to his senses, and he stood to his feet, darting for the nearest alleyway. He returned to the shadows, out of sight from the beasts.
Enjolras smiled as he pressed himself against the wall, his limbs shaking, struggling to control himself as the adrenaline continued to course through him. He closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. He then felt the tugging at his trousers again, the messengers at his feet, beckoning him to walk. He did so, walking deeper into the alley that led him to a house, its door open wide. No lanterns hung, and so he entered with caution. The house was poorly lit by candlelight, and much to his relief there were no beasts. However, the condition it was left in was startling. Papers and books were scattered and torn all over the floor, tables overturned, and chairs broken. Blood was strewn across the floor that led out the door at the opposite end of the house. Four lines long were scratched into the wood floor and walls. Enjolras stared at the lines, the claw marks, wondering what could have created such long, deep grooves into the wood.
He followed the marks that led him up the stairs which creaked under him, groaning in protest against his weight, finding the condition of the second floor no better than the first. The smell was nearly enough to send Enjolras away, the horrid stench of blood and rotting flesh turned his stomach. Upon walking in, he noticed the claw marks that covered the floor, furniture, and walls of the master bedroom. Blood soaked the bed, feathers and stuffing shredded and torn out of it to cover the floor. At the corner of the room, Enjolras could see another splatter of blood on the wall and wardrobe. He walked closer and found that between the wall and wardrobe was the body of a man tucked into the corner, his eyes open and vacant, his abdomen opened, his insides on the outside. Enjolras swallowed, turning away to look towards the bed. And there he found a woman who he assumed to be the man's wife. She was in the same state as the man, deep lacerations to reveal her bones, her organs visible through the gashes at her stomach. Poor innocents of such a terrible fate. But Enjolras could not mourn these strangers. They succumbed to the same fate as the rest of the fallen citizens, and he could do nothing for them now.
He walked back down stairs, and the light of the messengers stole his attention. Across the room, the white little creature lifted another note for him. He approached the messenger, took it, and read it under the glow of the candles.
"Blood ministration began in London, and still it seeks to spread its web."
Enjolras frowned. What was the significance of blood and ministration, he wondered, and the lack of any substantial conclusion to his question bothered him. Nevertheless he pocketed the note and looked back at the blood stains on floor. Gripping his cleaver, he followed the blood out of the door that led him outside.
The blood led him not too far from the house to the body of a child, a young girl no older than ten. He could imagine the terror that must have been on her face before she died, the poor child stripped of the comfort of her parents who were tucked away in their bedroom. He felt his resolve weakening, pity seeping into his heart. He thought to take her back to her parents. But then he heard a cry of a woman, and he could not think of the little girl any longer. He ran to the sound of the cries, fearing the worst, that he'd arrive too late, and she'd be dead before he could reach her.
The screams led him down the street that was flanked on both sides by tall, looming buildings. He turned the corner, and to his surprise, standing before him was the Hȏtel National des Invalides, much grander than he had remembered the building. The street ended at the building's steps and just before the steps, beneath the trees, a man held the throat of a young woman. The man lifted her up by the throat, choking her, her feet dangled uselessly beneath her. She clasped the hand that held her, incapable now of the tiniest of sounds, powerless to scream.
"I can't let you do it," the man's voice quivered. "I—I can't let you. You reek. You're sick, you'll infect me! I won't become like them."
"Stop!" Enjolras called out, running as fast as he could to reach them.
The man lifted his weapon, a longer, thinner saw cleaver. It was serrated on both sides, and the blade came to a long, sharp point much like a spear. The man then thrust the saw spear into the woman's abdomen, and all she could do was grunt. Enjolras felt his stomach drop, his eyes widen in fear, his adrenaline spiking as if aware of his failure. The man pulled the blade from her body, a squelching sound reaching Enjolras's ears as the man dropped her. She lay motionless on the ground, her green eyes open to the unforgiving moonlight, blood flooding from her, reddening her fair skin.
"Beasts all over the city." The man said, swinging his spear to rid the excess blood.
He was only twenty feet away, his saw spear extended out, the entirety of the weapon longer than his body. Enjolras gripped his cleaver and pistol as they faced each other, and he could see yellow eyes behind the man's spectacles.
The man hissed, "You'll be one, sooner or later."
The wind blew, sending a chill that clawed down Enjolras's spine. The man then charged at him, quickly closing the gap, and Enjolras's heart leapt to his throat. The man swung, the spear longer, heavier, than Enjolras's cleaver, and more difficult to calculate, and it nearly sliced Enjolras in half had he not jumped back and out of the way. His adrenaline spiked, rushing through him as fear tightened his muscles and frazzled his mind. He raised his pistol, his arm shaking, and he shot, sparks spitting from the barrel as the bullet flew. It struck his opponent in the chest, and Enjolras expected him to collapse, the battle over. But instead the man grunted, staggered, and hunkered over, blood seeping from the wound, and his eyes flashed even yellower as he touched the red oozing from the hole. He curled his body up to glare back at Enjolras, pointing his spear at him, and Enjolras clutched his weapons tighter.
The man charged again, and Enjolras prepared himself for his attack, dodging as he swung. But instead of only one heavy swing, the man swung again and again, horizontally, vertically, and horizontally again, and Enjolras panicked and stumbled, tripping on his own feet. The spear sliced open Enjolras's side at his ribs, and the sheer force and strength of the swing sent him flying. Enjolras landed, smashing against the stone ground, pain ripping through his body and blood flooding from him, staining the ground, his clothes, and his hand as he pressed against the wound. His face contorted in such agony, his chest heaving rapidly, hissing as he panicked, his blood warm on his numbing fingers. Death's footsteps clomped against the bloodied ground, and Enjolras did not look back as he struggled to drag himself away. And then the blade tore through flesh and bone, and Enjolras, unable to scream, groaned out softly, his mouth open and blood spitting from it. The pain broke him, until he felt nothing, not even the pull of the spear as it was removed from his body, his vision turning to black as he expired.
