Annihilation - Book Three

Chapter 4

Morning arrives with sickening urgency, filled with the desire to see the damage and get out of this area. Frightened animals desperately seek out what's around, even if it's not good. What was lurking in the dark seemed to be frightened off by the light, and he found himself praying to a god he didn't believe in to see the sun one more time. The creature left, satisfied with its kill.

 As the group descends the trees, huddling close together in the morning chill, there is much less question of who needs to be in charge. All eyes rest on the experienced elder as he examines the remains, mauled to pieces with no signs of resurrection. Not a scrap of the flesh had been devoured; the creature had only wished to maim these poor souls and it'd done with little tact.

 Verando takes some tinder out of his pack, instructing the others to gather the remains while using some of the clothing from those killed to protect their hands. They clear a spot on the dead earth to pile the pieces. Stuffing the mound with tinder, he strikes his flintstone to make a spark.

 The bodies blaze, illuminating their horrified expressions. "Prepare your ale, Odin. These boys deserve it." He mutters, frowning at the blank stares from those with little faith. While it wasn't his proudest moment, faith gave them something to look forward to; given the circumstances, he couldn't say that he was entirely convinced, but it was something to pass the time.

Pretending like there was somewhere better after this hell would make it seem not entirely hopeless.  

"Bodies are burned; it sends the souls to Valhalla." His subconscious fractures, and the dark figure scowls. 

You don't believe that, it challenged. Don't lie to them.

"Valhalla?" Beta asks. 

"It's where the gods are. They watch over us, sending us trials to prove our worth. If we were to die a good death, in battle or for a good purpose, we would go to Valhalla. Drink, eat, and tell stories, fight for the rest of our days." He sounds lackluster, a poor pitch for a thought he'd abandoned long ago. 

 There was a time when it meant everything to him; now, it feels like a lie to mark those who wouldn't survive. Desperate for a drink, he runs his hand through his hair to ward off the guilt; there is no alcohol in their bags for good reason. Desperate men drank and killed good men who got in the way. 

"Really? Odin? Is that what you said? Is that a god?" 

"Odin, yes. He's the god of wisdom, death, king of Asgard." It's enough to motivate them, to pull them out of their stupor. Someone cares; let them fall into falsehood. It would do them well to get them through these cold nights.

 As the snow begins to fall, it's a silent threat to keep moving; their bodies had hardly dried from the day before. His coat still felt somewhat damp, though the shirt underneath had finally decided to either be dry or warm and moist.

 "Let this motivate you; listen when I tell you this is very serious. We will not survive this if we do not shape up. We need to be quicker and quieter; we need not to lead this creature back to the pack." The sentiment makes his chest tighten. There would still be the matter of dispatching the beast before they got too much closer to Ziduri. "Let's move. We can't help the dead." 

With the death of their friends, there is little chatter in the pale morning light. Breakfast was uneaten, and only Verando could stomach a cold biscuit, for he knew better than to skip breakfast considering what they faced. Men running for their lives faded quickly when they were starving as well, yet allowing those who were too weak mentally to go without saved more food for those who could go the distance. 

 The scene was too real, putting the severity of their situation into perspective. On high alert, he had to prepare himself for the reality that leaving the small group behind could be his only chance for survival should they prove too exhausted to continue. Quietly, he kept inventory of who was eating and drinking and who'd begun to shrink away.