THE HUNTRESS #1 [EB]

10_The_Dinner.docx

Canton Valais, Goppenstein,
Friday 7 November 2121.

The hour and a half Zeurst endured felt like a drawn-out torture session, each minute an agonizing stretch of her sanity. Rest? Not a chance. Not with Joe slumped in the seat next to her, his attempt at singing gnawing at her frayed nerves like a relentless itch she couldn't scratch. The sound wasn't just bad; it was a torment, a grating cacophony that only worsened with every off-key note. Joe wasn't just an irritant; he was a curse, a constant, infuriating presence that seemed to thrive on her discomfort. His voice was the kind of noise that dug into your skull and set your teeth on edge, a low, droning assault that refused to stop. And just when she thought she could breathe, that maybe he'd exhausted himself, he'd pick up again—louder, more out of tune—like a festering sore she couldn't escape.

Could she kill him? The thought flickered through her mind like a dark spark, quick and sharp, before dissipating into the ether. She wasn't a killer, not for something as insignificant as this. Yet the idea lingered just long enough to remind her of what she was capable of, under the right circumstances. Could they placate him, keep him from unravelling into chaos? Yes. They had already tried. They had worn themselves thin, playing every mindless game they could think of: I Spy, Hangman scribbled in the margins of a battered notebook, even word association—things Zeurst had vowed she'd never stoop to. Yet desperation has a way of bending even the firmest of resolves.

The journey through the mountainous terrain had been an agonizing crawl, every turn in the road revealing only more of the barren, desolate landscape. The fog had thickened into an almost tangible force, wrapping itself around the convoy of vans like a living thing, a ghostly shroud that smothered the world and erased all sense of direction. The road ahead was a dark, serpentine coil of asphalt, threading its way through the dense, ancient forests, their towering forms barely discernible through the murk. Jagged rock formations erupted from the earth, like the exposed bones of some forgotten, primeval beast. With each passing mile, the air grew sharper, colder, and the incline steeper, forcing the vehicles to groan and labour against the relentless ascent. The mountain loomed before them, a massive, inscrutable titan swathed in a suffocating veil of mist, its path disappearing into the thick, oppressive fog that seemed to swallow all light and hope.

Amidst it all, Joe's voice carried on, relentless and haunting, a grim and unyielding presence.

"I'm starvin' so bad, buddy," Joe muttered for the seventh time in as many minutes. "Good thing we're almost there, yeah?"

"Tell me, Joe," Zeurst said, "you always take your vacations in shitholes like this, or is today a special occasion?"

Joe let out a low, rumbling laugh, either ignoring or dismissing the edge in her voice. "Aw, come on, snowi, this place's got character if ya just squint a little. Ain't about where yer at, it's 'bout who yer with. And right now, ya got me. Ain't that a treat?"

Nestled in a secluded valley, surrounded by sheer, craggy peaks, the town's entrance was anything but welcoming. A sprawling stone wall, worn and battle-scarred, spanned the valley's breadth, its ancient grey stones devouring what little light dared venture near. Embedded within the wall were rusted iron bars and shattered windows, their jagged remnants hinting at violence long past, or perhaps the slow, deliberate decay of something once feared.

At the centre of it all, a massive arched gate of blackened steel stood as a guardian, its surface corroded and pitted by years of harsh elements. The ironwork, twisted and malformed, bore the scars of both artistry and malevolence, suggesting a place where creativity and cruelty had once intertwined. Above the gate's imposing archway, a closed fist was emblazoned, its silent warning underscored by the ominous letters "KB" etched beneath, their meaning lost to time.