Terror. A dimension mirroring the living one--but morphed to reflect the imagination of its Overseer. And the current Overseer... has refused to relinquish her power for centuries, tormenting her souls--"terrors"--into becoming... zombies.
Arielle f...
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After seeing that sign-post in Tennessee, Benny lost all track of time. He watched his steps—somewhat even, sometimes wobbly—and didn't feel like they were accelerated, nor that they were carrying him faster than usual. He studied Jade's paces, careful but lengthy and graceful, despite the mud caked on her boots and the wear and tear over the leather. She seemed to walk normally, too; no brisker than a usual human would walk to get to their destination.
So how did they move so quickly? The scenery—if one could call inflamed trees and piles of corpses and bared bushes scenery—didn't flash past him in rapid motion. And he didn't feel like he was getting anywhere faster than he should.
Magic, powers, dimensions—none of it made sense to him, and if they never stopped for a few breaths, he'd never be able to ask Jade for more explanations. Not that she'd give him any—she'd made it quite clear he'd learn more as time passed. But she'd caused more questions when she'd stated he didn't belong in Terror, and that he needed to return to the Void.
Return? How could he return when he'd never been in the Void in the first place? And how could she be so certain he belonged there? She'd dwelled in that realm for a bit, she'd told him. What was it about him, his demeanor, his appearance, that caused her to believe he should have been in there too? Sure, she mentioned unfinished business; but his business was finished the instant he died. Penelope killed Kylie, and he didn't need her to confirm it. He needed to rest.
If he was supposed to be in the Void, was that why he was in constant pain? His head throbbed, his belly bubbled with discomfort, his legs were so sore it was as if he'd been meandering the burned forests of Terror for weeks without reprieve. Was Terror rejecting him? Was this its way of telling him he shouldn't be there, he wasn't defective, and his presence was foreign, unwanted?
The road ahead was never-ending. The ominous red glow pooled down over them from the scarlet skies, never relenting. Even with the chunky charcoal clouds often providing cover, the reddened gloom never subsided. And the fires, though sparse in the woods, were so intense and ravaging that their smoke surged between trees, weaved between branches, and loomed around Benny and Jade as if wanting to embrace them, squeeze them to death.
As he was about to snag Jade's wrist and beg her to slow down—they must have been fast-traveling, as she'd called it, because he was breathless—she came to an abrupt halt. He barreled into her and grunted, rubbing his forehead and nose as he stabilized himself. She had strong back muscles, and with his head lowered, he'd slammed right into her.
"Fuck." She didn't move, her arms not quite glued to her sides, her fingers twitching.
Benny cruised around to stand beside her, and peered ahead, wondering what she'd seen, heard, sensed. He'd learned to trust her judgment. Five months in Terror meant five months of intense training, fighting, and developing skills a regular human wouldn't. "What is it?"
He saw nothing, smelled nothing. There was, however, a sudden, strange surge of cold breezing through the area, thickening the fumes, swarming around him and Jade. It came out of nowhere, blending in with the already gloomy surroundings, and swished up to caress his cheeks with ice.
