Primal Gambit

Chapter 25: The Yard Pt. 3

The weathered hunter pulled himself from the cockpit of the mighty builder – his adrenaline overcompensating for a lack of movement and thrusting him out into the storm. The first thing to slam into the mud and the metal was his face. The gasmask did little to break the fall, the lenses cracking into webs. Gunk flooded the blood in his eyes as he picked himself up, collapsing again once his mangled leg had some weight on it. The wounded man struggled to maintain sight of the thing that had been pried from the machine and pronged into the earth.

Husk stumbled over rubble, his wound already festering – exposed to the polluted air and harsh conditions. His body became weighed down by the wet ash that gradually caked onto his armor. The unrelenting situation brought about the worst in Husk. He yelled – roared violently as his arms latched to the shells and empty chassis' that forged the oasis in which the helicopter rested. He pulled himself forward without quarter, afraid that the beast might return. Through sheets of sog he could still make out the blinking green and red dash lights in the cockpit of Grey's chopper.

The mercenary never contemplated the choices he had made, particularly those made with the intention of survival. He was an animal like any other, best adapting itself to an evolving ecosystem – an eternal struggle to be on the top. His own ambitiousness, it seemed, was about to betray him. Damned if he didn't know his place out there – more damned for trying to remediate the circumstance.

His mind grew foggy, reeling back and replaying the missteps. The first rule the veteran hunters of Marcotte revealed about tracking prospects beyond the city limits was: "Know your place in the food chain."

Husk could see his then-superior in the back of his mind. Notched cowboy hat, one lined with dust marks and grease and extra rounds. The pointed brim lent shadow to the black marble orb that replaced his left eye, though did little to mask the hideous scars of his face. The man's name escaped him. He could have brought himself back to reality, but was there really anything there for him?

Grey had disappeared, likely killed or fleeing back to civilization as best he could. Bits and pieces of aged quotes flurried Husk's mind as he pulled himself forward.

"Soon as you leave the borders, you're on your own."

Husk felt a warm pressure in his back, the sensation forcing him to the ground mere feet from the helicopter. The raking of serrated claws tore through his camouflage and inserted deeply into the tissue of his back. He coughed.

"There are things out there besides chop shoppers and wild dogs; things that'll occupy your nightmares once you see'em."

Hellish cackling resounded inches from his neck. Blood began to evacuate the hunter's mouth – clogging the filter until it backed up, forcing gore back into his drawn maw.

"That's just how it is in The Yard."