Chapter 19: Chapter 18: The First Night (II)

-----The Devout-----

The boat made its way quickly across the water. The scent of the fiend was getting murkier the closer they got to the island. Not like it was getting further – if anything, it seemed like the fiend might be making its way across the sea at the same speed Gulliver was. More like it was being obscured. Masked by another presence he wasn’t familiar with, but whose scent dominated his senses. It was a neutral scent, like clean linen. He wondered what could be causing it.

And how much more difficult it was going to make finding his target.

In the seat across from him, Gregos was wiping the white makeup from his face with a cloth. The nobleman’s face paint had been running ever since his dip in the water, causing him to look like a melting clown. After getting a look at himself in a pocket mirror, he made the decision to just wipe the rest of it off.

Without the makeup, he looked far more normal. In fact, Gulliver would go so far as to call him remarkably average. A mostly clear complexion, an unassuming nose, mellow brown eyes. The kind of person you would struggle to pick out of a crowd. Perhaps that was why he wore such a ridiculous style, to stand out.

Gregos caught him looking at scowled at him. “What is it?”

“Apologies. I was just musing as to the purpose of your face paint.”

“It is common for the nobles of Bastion to wear such,” he explained. “It is a symbol of our wealth and status.”

“Basically, that shit they smear all over their face is ridiculously expensive,” the older woman, who had introduced herself as Laura, added. “He probably wiped more value onto that rag than a common man makes in a month. They think by wearing it, it shows off to everyone how rich they are. But to me, it always spoke of being terrible with money.”

Gregos waved her off. “I don’t expect you to understand the ways of nobility.”

“Oh, I understand it well, dear,” Laura replied. “Me and my husband used to treat at the courts of the rich and powerful regularly. We even had been invited on one occasion to join one of those courts, elevating us to minor nobility. We turned that down, of course.”

“You rejected a seat at court?” Gregos asked, sounding absolutely flabbergasted. “But why?”

“We had everything we need in our lives already. There was nothing that such wealth and position could offer that we found appealing.”

This quieted Gregos for a moment. But only for a moment. “Perhaps you and your husband didn’t have what it takes for the responsibility of the position. The wealth and power comes with duty – a duty to the common people living on your land, a duty to the court, and a duty to the high lord.”

The older woman just chuckled. “You don’t need to defend yourself. You are perfectly free to enjoy the position you are in, and feel it is a powerful and important thing. And I am free to think it is silly to spend a large sum on makeup before entering a combat-oriented tournament where it was bound to be ruined.”

Gregos sighed. “It wasn’t my intention to wear it in the tournament. I had intended to remove it, and change my outfit, after the opening ceremony to something more combat appropriate. But the event started quite suddenly. I’m not ashamed to admit the opening moments caught me unprepared.”

“I didn’t fare much better,” Gulliver agreed, happy to have some common ground to build on. “I nearly lost my head in the opening seconds when I hadn’t quite realized what was happening.” He looked over to the fourth passenger, seated across from Laura, to see if he could rope him into the conversation. “How about you? How’d you fare when the first round suddenly started?”

The last passenger was a sharp-eyed man carrying a wooden longbow. He’d been completely silent the entire trip thus far, with even Laura’s genial personality unable to get him to speak. Gulliver’s question equally sparked no response, not even a glance in his direction.

“The strong, silent type act only carries you so far,” Laura commented. “Eventually, the girls grow out of that phase and start to look for a man who can make them laugh.”

That also warranted no response.

Laura shrugged. “Well, I tried.”

The boat finally reached the island, and the captain pulled it to a dock that was standing alone in the middle of a sandy shore.

“If you’re going to start killing each other right after debarking, please get at least fifteen feet from the boat before you do,” the captain requested. “I just painted this thing, and I don’t want to have to wash bloodstains off it.”

Gregos eyed Gulliver. “We still have something we need finish.”

“Do we? I have another target I’m hunting. I don’t want to waste time fighting you.”

“So, I’m a waste of time, huh? Even though I was getting the best of you before we were interrupted.”

“I had yet to bring forth the divine might of my Mantras. If I had done so, the fight would have been over quickly.”

“You think I didn’t have tricks up my own sleeve I was saving?”

Laura slapped the both of them on the back of their heads. “That’s enough out of both of you. Really now, carrying on like barking dogs instead of grown men. Look at you – you’re both still soaking wet and the night’s only going to get colder. We should build a fire so you can properly dry out, or it will be the cold that takes you both out of the tournament.”

Gulliver slunk like he’d been scolded by his own mother. The fight also seemed to go out of Gregos’s eyes.

It was kind of strange how quickly she seemed to be able to calm them, Gulliver noted. Maybe she just had that much maternal aura.

As they stepped off the boat, Laura made one last attempt at the archer. “You are free to join us at our fire, you know.”

He didn’t respond, instead slinging his bow across his back and walking off into the forest.

“Some boys can’t be helped,” Laura declared. “Alright, let’s get to work on this fire. Gulliver, you collect some wood. Gregos, grab some stones and start arranging them in a circle. I’m just going to find a seat over here. The old legs are still aching, you see.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Gulliver and Gregos exchanged another look, but ultimately did as they were told as they prepared to settle in for their first night on the island.

-----The Gunslinger-----

The boat pulled in cove, and the captain got just close enough to it for the passengers to hop out. He didn’t want to take the time to moor it, and the moment the last of them had unloaded, he immediately started to fly back the way they came. Clint didn’t blame him. The fighting was about to start.

The man with the rod raised it again, and again sparks began to fly from its tip. “Alright, asshole. Now you’re going to get it for you did to Tevin!”

Clint hovered his hand near his revolver, but not out of concern for lightning rod. His focus remained fixed on what his instincts told him was the biggest source of danger here – the young man in the blue hooded coat.

The kid started to walk away, taking unhurried steps up the cove and over some rocks.

“Hey, asshole! Are you paying attention!” the man with the lightning rod yelled. “You think I won’t kill you just cause you won’t look at me?”

It wasn’t until the young man had disappeared atop the rockface that Clint allowed himself to turn to the more minor problem at hand. “Yeah, yeah. I hear ya. All your hollerin’ ain’t going to get this done any quicker.”

“Oh, you’re real tough, just cause you were able to shoot a man when he wasn’t ready for it. But I’m not going to be so easy. My lightning stick will blast that pea shooter out of your hand, and then take its time cooking you ‘til you’re nice and crispy.”

“How, now, that’s uncalled for. I know you’re sore at me, but that’s no reason to take it out on my old six-shooter.”

The man growled and began to point the rod towards Clint. Clint lined up his shot and reached for his pistol –

Before either of them could finish, the filthy man appeared beside fellow with the lightning rod, and his arm opened. That was the best word Clint could think of to describe it. From the tip of his middle finger down to his shoulder, the arm split in two. Both halves of the arm revealed multiple sets of jagged, sharp teeth. Something akin to tongue slobbered between the two.

“What the fuck?!” the man said as he turned his lightning rod towards the grotesque, bizarre display.

But it was too late. The arm-mouth – for lack of a better word of how to describe it – locked itself around the man’s head and chest. It lifted him into the air, and blood spilled from all the wounds opened up by those wicked teeth. The arm-mouth chomped on its prey, who only struggled a little while longer before falling still. Then he was swallowed completely by it.

The arm closed back together, appearing normal once more. Its victim was nowhere to be seen.

“That’s a hell of trick you got there,” Clint said, trying not sound like he was on the urge of vomiting.

The dirty man wailed. “It’s not my fault! I didn’t want to do it! You have to understand! I don’t want it. But it makes me. I can only hold it back for so long, but it gets so hungry. I was barely able to get this far without it coming out to feed.”

Clint hand hovered ever closer to his revolver as he lined up his shot. “That sounds rough, I reckon. Maybe not as rough as what our friend there just went through. Why don’t you take a walk away from here, before your friend gets hungry again.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But it’s hungry now! After how long I went without feeding it, just eating one isn’t enough. It is insisting on eating you! I am sorry! I don’t want to!”

His arm opened up, once again revealing those teeth and that disgusting tongue.

Clint took his shot. His aim was true, and he put a bullet right between the freak’s eyes. Blood burst forth, his eyes rolled back, and his head went limp.

But the body didn’t drop. Even though the head was laying limp to the side with blood pooling out of a fresh bullet-hole, the body started to move towards him. First slowly, then at a full sprint, that arm-mouth extended towards him.

“Oh, that ain’t right!” Clint shouted as he emptied the four more rounds from his revolver into that thing’s body.

The bullet holes sprouted across its body, each spewing forth blood, but nothing seeming to slow the freak down. That arm-mouth nearly was onto of him.

With one shot left and no better ideas, Clint fired into that tongue.

Finally, he got some reaction. An inhuman wail resounded from freakish limb as some kind of black ichor spewed forth from the tongue. The mouth closed, returning to the form of a regular arm, and the body wavered on its feet.

“Is it dead?” Clint asked.

“I’m sorry…” The man’s head righted itself, life coming back to his eyes, and the bullet hole between his eyes notably missing. “It can’t die … I can’t die. They’ve tried. They have all tried. It won’t stop. It will only try harder.”

As if to prove his point, the man’s stomach suddenly opened up. The man was split open at the middle, with teeth appearing under his abdomen and over his waist. Two sets of the grotesque tongues slapped around between them.

“Ah, you’re kidding me!”

Clint ejected the empty shells from his revolver, but didn’t have time to load new ones before the stomach-mouth was upon him. He had to dive out of the way, rolling in a way that was very unpleasant for his shoulder. The freak crashed into the ground next to him, getting a big mouthful of sand. It roared in frustration.

Now what? Even if Clint could load his revolver quick enough, that’s already proved ineffective. He guessed it was time to bring out the big guns. The bundle of explosives was in the same pocket as before, and he slipped one from the wrapping. And now –

Where was his fucking matches?

The creature came at him again. Reaching into the opposite pocket of his coat, Clint grabbed one of the smoke pellets and tossed it to the ground.

The thick black fume it spewed wasn’t the pleasant kind of smoke, like that of a cigar. It was the acrid, bitter smoke of a housefire. Clint coughed and his eyes burned as he got a face full of it. He noted that next time, he needed to toss the pellet somewhere other than directly at his feet. Fortunately, it had the same effect on the freak, who cried and wailed. It lashed out around him, but couldn’t seem to find him in the smoke cloud.

Which gave him some time to try and find his fucking matches. Not bottom pocket, not pants pocket, not back pocket. Could it be –

Vest’s breast pocket? Since when did he ever put the matches in the same place twice in a row?

He struck a match and lit the wick on the blasting stick just as the smoke was starting to clear. The freak spotted him and rushed forward, stomach-mouth opened wide.

“If you’re hungry, have a bite of this,” Clint said, tossing the lit blasting stick into the mouth.

The mouth chomped down on it.

BOOM!

Teeth, blood, and black ichor exploded out in all directions. Clint shielded his face with his hat to keep any of it from getting in his mouth or nose.

The freak looked like a cracked egg now, still split open and leaking all kinds of fluids from the gaping maw filled with shattered teeth, with more damage to his upper body, including a big hole in his chest.

There were screams and cries, some of it coming from the stomach-mouth, some from the hole in the chest, and some from the still human face. They blended together in a disturbing cacophony.

The freak’s body lurched forward, bending so the center of his back was arched up at almost a right angle, and then it began to run on all fours deeper into the cover, still screaming and crying as it went. It crawled up the rockface and disappeared.

Clint wiped as much of the gore off his hat as he could before putting it back on his head. “Why can’t this place be full of normal folk who die when you shoot them?”

Well, at least that thing was gone for now. Hopefully it became someone else’s problem.

But Clint wasn’t about to stick around here in case it decided to come back. He picked the opposite direction of the freak and began to walk up the shoreline, hoping to find a place to hole up for the remainder of the night.

This was a whole new world for him, and he wasn't sure how much he liked it. Hopefully his future opponents would be vulnerable to bullets. Otherwise, Percy was going to have a whole lot more to laugh at him about. Though no amount of drinks were going to be enough to get this night out of his head. Stomach-mouths? A man who could fold others like a napkin with one kick and who shrugged off bullets like they were mosquitos? Him putting his matches in the same pocket twice? What a nightmare of a day.

He pulled out a cigar as he looked for his hiding spot. It took a little bit of the edge of. Not all of it, but some. It was calming. Not like the smoke from that smoke pellet. He wondered if he could get Doc to create a cigar-smoke flavored smoke pellet. Would that be as effective? Maybe not, but it would be a lot more pleasant if he had to use it in closed quarters.

He wondered if anyone was ever going to believe him about this stuff. Even Annie would probably look at him like he lost his mind. Ah, well. That's what made a good story a good story - the fact that it smells like 100% horse manure.