Chapter 8: The Thing in the Dark
The growl from the closet was wrong. It was a thick, bubbling sound, like something drowning in its own throat. The eyes that reflected our flashlight beams were too bright, too aware. They didn't have the milky film of the Walkers. They were sharp, focused.
Silas took a slow step back, his axe held in a low guard. "Don't move," he whispered. "Don't make a sound."
I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs so loud I was sure the thing could hear it. Jonah stood paralyzed by the water tank, his screwdriver dangling from his hand.
The closet door swung open another few inches with a slow, grating squeal. A hand emerged, grasping the doorframe. The fingers were long, the nails broken and black with dried filth. The skin was a strange, mottled grey, like old meat.
Then it stepped out.
It was a man, or had been. He wore the tattered remains of what looked like priest's robes. But he was different. Thicker. His shoulders were hunched, his neck almost non-existent, buried between slabs of swollen muscle. His head was too small for his body, his jaw distended, hanging open. Thick, dark drool seeped from his lips and dripped onto the stone floor with a soft plip.
He didn't shamble. He took a heavy, deliberate step toward us. Then another. His movements were slow, but they had a terrible, solid weight to them. He was blocking the only way out, the stairs to the bulkhead door.
"What is that?" Jonah breathed, his voice trembling.
"A Brute," Silas said, his own voice tight. "I've heard rumors. Seen one from a distance. Don't let it grab you. It will crush bone."
The Brute's head swiveled toward Silas, the source of the sound. Its small eyes narrowed. It let out another wet growl and took another step. It was testing us, moving with a predator's caution.
"Jonah," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "The pry bar. By the stairs."
Jonah's eyes flicked to the metal bar lying on the floor near the bottom step. He nodded, a tiny jerk of his chin.
"Silas," I said. "You draw its attention. I'll go for the legs."
Silas didn't look at me. He kept his eyes on the Brute. "Legs won't work. Too thick. It's all neck and skull. But the skull is like a rock. You'll just make it mad."
The Brute was ten feet away now. The smell hit me. Not just decay. A chemical, sour odor, like rotten eggs and bleach.
"We can't stay down here," I said.
"We can't get past it," Silas shot back.
The Brute made its decision. It lunged, not at Silas, but at me. It was faster than it looked. A sudden burst of speed that covered the distance in two stumbling steps. Its arms, thick as fence posts, wrapped around my chest in a bear hug.
The air exploded from my lungs. Pressure. Immense, crushing pressure. I heard my ribs creak. Stars bloomed in my vision. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even scream.
I dropped the bat. It clattered on the stone.
My training screamed at me. Break the hold. Create space. But this wasn't a human opponent. There was no technique to counter raw, mindless power. I drove my elbows back, trying to strike its ribs. It was like hitting a sack of wet sand. It didn't even flinch.
Its jaw opened near my ear. I could smell the rot on its breath. It was going to bite.
"Hey! Ugly!"
Silas's axe flashed. He didn't chop at the head. He swung sideways, the flat of the blade connecting with the Brute's temple. WHUMP.
The Brute's head snapped to the side. It roared, a deafening, wet bellow of rage. Its grip loosened for a split second.
It was enough.
I dropped my weight, going completely limp. I slipped down through its arms like a greased pole, hitting the floor hard on my knees. I gasped, a ragged, burning breath tearing into my empty lungs.
The Brute turned on Silas, swiping at him with a massive arm. Silas danced back, the axe held ready.
"Jonah, now!" I croaked.
Jonah moved. He didn't go for the pry bar. He ran at the Brute's back, screaming a wordless cry, and drove his screwdriver into the base of its skull.
The tool sank in an inch and stopped. Jonah's eyes went wide with shock. It was like hitting concrete.
The Brute barely seemed to notice. It backhanded Jonah without even looking. The blow caught him in the shoulder and sent him flying across the basement. He hit the water tank with a sickening thud and slid down, dazed.
I scrambled for the bat. My ribs screamed with every movement.
Silas was backing toward the stairs, drawing the Brute away from me and Jonah. "We need to go! We can't kill it with what we have!"
The Brute followed him, its steps shaking dust from the ceiling. It was between us and the exit.
I looked at the water tank, at Jonah slumped against it. We hadn't come here to die. We came for water. The tank had a hand pump. We could fill our bottles and go.
"Silas!" I yelled. "Keep it busy! Thirty seconds!"
He understood. He began feinting with the axe, slashing at the Brute's arms, drawing it further into the corner of the basement. "Make it fast, kid!"
I ran to Jonah, grabbed his backpack, and threw it to him. "Fill them! Now!"
He blinked, shaking his head clear. He fumbled with the water bottles, unscrewing the caps with shaking hands. I worked the hand pump. It was stiff, but it moved. A stream of clear, cold water gushed out.
Jonah held the first bottle under it. The sound of the water was loud in the confined space.
The Brute heard it. Its head snapped toward us. It forgot about Silas and started toward the tank, drawn by the new sound.
Silas swore and charged, bringing the axe down on its back. The blade bit deep into muscle. Black fluid welled up. The Brute roared again and turned, swatting the axe from Silas's hands. The weapon spun away into the shadows.
Silas was now unarmed, facing the monster.
"Bottle's full!" Jonah yelled, capping it.
I grabbed the second bottle, held it under the pump. "Keep going! Fill everything!"
The Brute took a step toward Silas, who was backing away, empty-handed. I saw the calculation in Silas's eyes. He was going to make a run for the stairs and leave us.
I made a decision. A stupid one.
I left the pump, grabbed my bat, and ran not at the Brute, but past it. I sprinted to where the axe lay glinting in the dim light. I scooped it up. It was heavier than I expected, the handle slick.
"Hey!" I shouted.
The Brute turned. I was closer to the stairs now. I was the new obstacle.
"Go, Silas! Help him!"
Silas didn't need telling twice. He darted past the confused Brute and back to the tank, taking over the pumping from a trembling Jonah.
The Brute focused on me. It advanced, its small eyes fixed on the axe in my hands.
I had never used an axe. It was all wrong. The balance was off. But I knew about leverage. I knew about commitment.
I didn't wait for it to grab me. I charged.
It was a Taekwondo charge, not a wild run. Short, quick steps, staying balanced. As the Brute reached for me, I dropped low, sliding under its grasping arms like I was sliding into home base. I came up inside its guard, right under its distended jaw.
I swung the axe upward, putting my whole body into it, a rising strike from the floor.
The blade bit into the soft flesh under its chin and kept going, wedging deep into the bottom of its skull.
The Brute froze. A gurgling sound escaped its throat. It stood there for a second, swaying. Then its legs buckled. It fell to its knees, then crashed forward onto its face, the axe handle sticking up from its neck.
I stood over it, panting, my hands stinging from the impact.
Silence, except for the glug-glug-glug of water filling a bottle.
I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I looked at the dead Brute. The thing that shouldn't exist, but did.
Silas walked over, his own breathing harsh. He looked from the Brute to me, a new respect in his eyes. He bent down, put his foot on the Brute's shoulder, and yanked the axe free with a wet, sucking sound.
"Not bad, kid," he grunted. He wiped the blade on the priest's robes. "But you got lucky. Don't make a habit of that."
Jonah was finishing the last bottle. He had filled all four of our large containers. He capped the last one, his movements robotic.
"We have the water," I said, my voice raw. "Let's go."
We gathered our things. The backpacks were heavy now, sloshing with our prize. We climbed the stone stairs back into the grey morning light, leaving the dark basement and its terrible guardian behind.
Out in the memorial garden, surrounded by the dead we had made, the air felt cleaner. But the victory felt hollow.
We had the water. We had survived.
But we had also learned something terrible. The Walkers were not the only thing in the dark. They were evolving. Or maybe they had been this way all along, and we were just now meeting the stronger children of the plague.
As we slipped back through the silent streets toward our shops, the heavy water bottles thumping against our backs, I knew one thing for certain.
The calculus had changed. The price of survival had just gone up.
And we had barely started to pay.