The End of the Dream

Chapter 11

Limbs split and multiplied, elongated, twisted. Bones cracked, flesh tore. Ichor gushed from gaping wounds as the creature's form reknitted, hardening into a thick, inky shell.

By the time it was finished, it was twice as tall as a man, with an upright torso wielding multiple pairs of sickle-like claws instead of arms, and an elongated abdomen with far too many legs. Like the unholy offspring of a praying mantis and a centipede, back armoured with chitin and a misshapen, fleshy underbelly.

Celine's corpse remained visible on it even after the transformation, embedded in its chest like a twisted figurehead.

You felt sick. You couldn't even imagine how Dark and Wilford felt, when they had cared for, loved Celine.

Fucked up was a goddamn understatement.

Distracted as you were by the monstrous creation before you, you'd completely forgotten about Mark. So had Dark.

Abruptly, his auras shrieked with pain, though the man himself only hissed through clenched teeth. He took a step back, then dropped to one knee. Mark's sword was embedded all the way through his shoulder.

"Dark!" you yelled, then clapped your hands over your mouth as the monster, attracted by the noise, wheeled towards you.

Mark rose to his feet, a smug grin twisting his lips. You wanted to punch that expression right off his face. He'd only landed the hit on Dark because of the goddamn horror show the monster had distracted you all with.

Mark placed a foot on Dark's chest and yanked the sword free, a violent spray of blood spattering over the ice and snow.

Dark only grunted, despite how much pain the move must have caused; Mark fully intended to cause maximum damage on the removal as well. Shadows lashing around him balefully, Dark grabbed his axe, partially leaning his weight on it, and took the opportunity to retreat a few steps.

They were back to circling each other like caged animals, sizing their opponent up. Only now Dark's shoulder was gushing blood—he bled black; a corrupt, ichor-like substance—and there was the monster to worry about.

This was the same creature that had killed the poor person you'd woken next to, you were certain of it. It was what had killed the original inhabitant of your current body. Your hand subconsciously moved to your side, where the scars were, tensing as you regarded its claws.

"Wil," Dark ordered sharply, "take them and get out of here."

Wilford did not respond. You glanced over; his eyes were fixated on the monster, on Celine's remains, and he was frozen. His arms hung limply at his sides. Suddenly, he looked much younger, much more vulnerable. Death meant something. Horror meant something. It wasn't a joke anymore.

"Wil!"

The monster rose on its back legs, sickle arms twitching as though just itching to rend and tear. It made a deep, hissing, chittering noise.

"I'm sorry," Mark said, "but none of you will be leaving."

The monster lunged. A concentrated wave of Dark's shadows knocked you into Wilford, and both of you off your feet. Dark rolled safely to the other side, just before sickled claws pierced into the ice, tearing gouges through it like tissue paper.

You sputtered, popping your head back out of the snowdrift you'd been sent sprawling into. Wilford did likewise, shaking his head and sending snowflakes flying from his hair.

The attack and impact had been enough to snap him out of his shock, at least. Though there was still a look in his eyes both wild and fragile.

"Brr!" He jumped back to his feet, drawing his gun and facing the creature. "Well," he scolded it, "that's plain rude."