The Survivalists

-Chapter 3-

He didn't have emotions. This was evident as he sat still within his room, looking carefully at the men before him. 

He would refuse to use the word men to describe them, but at one point, this was what they had been. Instead, he reffered to them as it, them, those things, the pets. No other names were given to them. 

He watched as they gnashed their teeth at him, jerking their famished bodies about in almost convulsive movements. 

"Stop." He murmured, though he knew this would fall on deaf ears. 

He sat back slowly, hearing the metallic bed creak from beneath him in it's weak and almost rusty state. 

They continued with their wild behaviour and he glared harshly at them, his cold eyes staring back into theirs. His cloak's hood was still on his head, casting a shadow across his face in the bleak lighting of the room. The only rays coming through the miniscule window far above his head to the right. 

His thoughts however, were not set on any one thing, and especially were not concerned with the window, or the monsters chained up before him. 

The Infecteds. 

His mind was somewhere distant. Far off. Pushed back memories inflitrating his thoughts. He tried his hardest not to remember these things. Memories of the past. Though, he couldn't say he wasn't curious. 

Yes, of course he was. But curiosity, as said by the red Hood, would only lead to  premature death. 

He couldn't die, not yet, he still had a purpose to fulfill. To keep the red Hood pleased, to mantain The Hood Society. 

A sudden growl and guttural roar sounded and snapped him out of his thoughts. 

A road, a winding road. A flash of red. Hands gripping his shoulders. These thoughts and flashes of memory were pushed back once more and he gave out a rather irritated sigh at the two Infected's before him. 

"What? What is it?" 

They stared, their red and puffy eyes boring within his own hidden ones. Hidden by the shadow of his hood. 

"Fine." 

He stood abruptly, pushing the first one back against the wall, and pushed back the dark red curtains infront of a metal gate which he also pushed up with the concealed key within one of the many pockets inside his cloak. 

He stepped out into the quiet hallway, lit only by the lanterns hanging from the ceiling. He continued on quickly, hands clutching spare bowie knives kept on either hip beneath the black, flowing, cloak. 

He continued on quickly down the hall just as the screeching of another rusty gate being open was heard. Another man emerged, his face concealed, though by the gruff chuckle and by the obvious large build beneath the cloak, you could tell it was obviously..him. 

"Where are you off to, brother?" 

Brother. 

He hated that god forsaken term that all black Hoods often used to refer to one another. It mainly derived from the fact that the red Hood often called them, my children. One day, a black Hood had come up with the joke that if the red Hood was all over theirs father, then they must be considered brothers to one another. 

It was a rather humorless and poor attempt at a joke, though everyone ate it up. Ever since, they'd used the slang almost religiously. 

He looked at the large man for a moment, not stopping or slowing his pace, and continued on.