Among the Shadows

Born in the Bayou...

March 15, 1885

The grunt let out a guttural snarl as I buried my hunting knife deep into its throat. A spray of black, foul-smelling blood splattered across my coat, but I didn't flinch. My arm jerked upward, twisting the blade for a clean kill. The creature crumpled at my feet, lifeless. The bayou was alive with the sounds of its kind, their groans and growls crawling through the humid air.

There was no time for mistakes—although they might be slower than the average human and the clumsy feet not helping I must not let my guard down. I'd taken a contract out of desperation. It was a simple task, or so I'd thought: "kill grunts, bring their heads back for study." But things in the bayou were never simple. Not anymore.

A rustling in the underbrush drew my attention. My hand instinctively reached for the revolver at my hip, the worn grip always is a familiar comfort. I scanned the darkness, every sense on high alert. Then, a large shadow shifted among the trees, growing bigger as it stumbled forward. It suddenly lurched into the dim light, emerging from behind a twisted, gnarled tree—its bloated body swaying awkwardly on legs too short and fragile to bear its weight. It was grotesquely fat, a stark contrast to the usual skeletal bodies of the dead I encountered. Perhaps this one had feasted on fine meats, sat at long tables laden with food while the rest of the world began its descent into ruin. It's fine clothes, now rotting and torn, clung to its decaying flesh, hints of wealth that meant nothing in today's world.

There was no mistaking the lingering arrogance in its posture—an unnatural stubbornness even in death, as if it still believed itself untouchable, above the rest. Its sunken eyes, surrounded by folds of sagging, mottled skin, were locked on me with a hunger that had long devoured any trace of the man it once was. The only thing left is the lumbering beast that stumbled toward me, its swollen belly jostling with each step, bloated by the decay that rotted it from the inside out.

The irony wasn't lost on me—those who had taken the most in life now wandered the bayou, just as empty as the rest.

I squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot tore through the swamp, the sharp crack of the revolver echoing like a curse in the still air. The bullet struck its chest, but the creature kept coming, staggering forward with a slow, relentless gait. Grunts don't fall unless you hit their heads. Anywhere else? You just make them angrier.

"Dammit," I muttered under my breath.

I was tired, I dropped to a knee, bracing the revolver with both hands. One bullet left. My arm was steady as I lined up the sights. Pulled the trigger again, and the grunt's head snapped back as the bullet pierced its skull with a sickening thud. It toppled over, the splash of its fall swallowed by the thick muck of the swamp.

I could hear more groans, The others were heading in my direction. They always headed towards the noise.

"Time to move," I whispered under my breath.

Two heads should be enough to satisfy that crazy fool—or at least for now. The stench hit me as I sawed through the necks, the blade slicing through decayed flesh and bone. Black goo, thick as tar, oozed out, splattering over my hands and clothes. I'm going to have to burn these rags when I get back. There's no getting rid of that smell, no matter how much you scrub. Rotting flesh never leaves you.

I grabbed the first corpse by its greasy hair and yanked its head back. The smell hit me like a punch to the gut—a thick, suffocating stench of rot that made my stomach churn. I gagged, but forced it down. The blade bit into the decaying flesh, dull at first as it sliced through the swollen skin, then deeper as I sawed into the muscle. Black goo, thick and sticky like tar, oozed out in sluggish rivulets, splattering over my hands and clothes. It stank more than usual, a rancid mixture of rot and something else, something unnatural.