Skin and Atmosphere

[Jedidiah Grimm]

London, England
24 January 1924
23:00 hours (11:00pm)
Overcast, 0 deg C (32 deg F)

Grimm pushed the corpses off of the top of him. Their lifeless forms rolled off with not-so-much ease. Blood stained his sweater and his fatigues now. His boots, too, were covered in the dried red substance. His face was smeared with blood, and it matted his hair as well. He stood up, dusting himself off, but the attempt was in vain. He looked around at the scene of carnage. Nothing stirred. . . Well that wasn't necessarily true, but not much stirred. . .Even his heart beat was faint enough to not break the silence of the night. He peered into the darkness but he couldn't see anything.

He took one step out of the gruesome pile of the dead, now standing in the alley. He would have been alarmed at the sight of blood on himself, but it wasn't fresh, so it wouldn't attract the beasts. . .Thank God. He wasn't sure which way he wanted to go. Well. . .He had come from the left, so he turned to his right and went that way. He chided himself, knowing he shouldn't be traveling at night, but day was only slightly better. His boots slowly met the street, and he moved as stealthily as he could. He didn't want any extra attention. . .He wasn't in the mood for a chase. And he most certainly wouldn't be the hunter tonight. . .

The acrid smell of smoke still filled the air. It wasn't fresh and the plumes were in decline, but the scent lingered. . .As if it was a morbid reminder of the genocide of mankind that had taken place. . .The innocent people that had been taken under by the infection, and the innocent people that had been taken under by the others. . .Purged out of fear of dying. The authorities had killed a lot of people in the first few days of utter panic. Some didn't deserve to die but did, some did deserve to die and didn't. . .But he hadn't died, and he wasn't about to.

He walked down a derelict street filled with abandoned shops and apartments. Bloody hand prints smeared some. . .Evidence of a petty attempt at escaping the scourge of the world. That's all there was in Britain nowadays. . .Rotting Skin and empty Atmosphere. . .He stepped into a shop. He didn't have to bother with the door, it was smashed off the hinges, leaving a gaping portal into the mysterious unknown of the building. It was a bakery. . . He could tell by the shelves of rolls and dough and flour that lined the back and front of the shop. Most of the bread was moldy. . .But there was some in a sack that would have managed to stay fresh. It was the baker's own rations. He wouldn't be needing it anymore. . .He'd be having something else in his diet now.

Grimm hefted the sack, but then decided against it. The less weight the better. He opened the sack and took out a roll, biting into it. It was a tad bit stale but he was used to shitty food. He exited the bakery where the moon was covered by dark clouds. It granted very little light down on the street. Bad for him. . .Good for his hunters. He walked cautiously down the street, still chewing on the bun. He didn't have that all-too-familiar feeling of something watching him, which was what worried him the most, if anything was able to worry him. But he wasn't worried. . .He couldn't afford to be. . .He had to remain calm and collected, because if he didn't then he'd fall victim to the ever-adapting monstrosity that was Britain.

It took a hard man. . .No. . . A hard animal to survive in a place of Skin and Atmosphere.

[Jedidiah Grimm]

It was several days after the bakery that Jed had run across a group of orphans. They were huddled in an old school, abandoned now since the plague swept the streets clean. Many of them were malnourished, but somehow they had managed to survive the madness. Some of them, the older ones, were armed with rusty rifles and a various assortment of melee weapons. One hefted a bat, another wielded a cruel looking knife. Yes, it appeared they knew how to take care of themselves. They had almost killed him as he was navigating the streets, but seeing that he was no threat, they had invited him into their "home", if one could call it that. . .

That night he finally sat around a warm fire, even if it was a little small. He had finally been able to relax for a night. The children, ranging in years from 6-15, were grateful for the company. Grimm figured it had something to do with the fact that he was an adult. It conveyed a sort of security, he supposed. He picked apart some bread they had offered him as he stared into the fire and faintly listened to them chit chat. They continually nudged him, trying to get him involved in their interacting, but he was just too occupied. It was when he heard the bricks tumbling that he realized how bad of an idea it was to have the small fire.

The leader of the group, if there had to be one, his name was Richard, noticed as well. He was the oldest at 15, and the smartest. He looked in the direction of the noise. The others were to busy talking to notice. Richard looked at Jed, as if asking for advice, but Grimm had nothing to say. He simply picked a knife out of its sheath on his chest and waited. . .There wasn't much more to do. The first burst through a weak wall on their opposite side, catching them off guard. Even Grimm was surprised. The children shrieked with terror. The older ones tried to collect themselves, utilizing their weapons to defend the others. The creature went down with ease, a hail of bullets littering its body in a matter of moments. Others came though, and even more were lured at the sound of bullets. The blitzed through the hole the first had made, and they shattered the door off its hinges, pouring in like an unhindered tide.

The children scattered, bullets whizzed by, and some of the braver ones addressed the creatures hand to hand. A few went down to knives and bats, but the children were being consumed like gasoline in a fire. Grimm stared face to face with one of the runners, throwing his knife, meeting the skull of the creature with a razor sharp blade. He ran towards it, retrieving his knife and sheathing it. He took his parang out, facing another one. It lunged at him, but he hacked its hand in half in mid air. He went down with its weight on top of him. It began gnawing at his neck, but he was saved, barely, by Richard's bayonet through the thing's skull.

Grimm rolled the dead weight off of him and stood up, parang in hand. He ran to the aid of a small child being manhandled by one of the things. He lopped its head off, blood spurting into the air like a fountain. The child couldn't be saved. . .He'd been bitten. He turned around to find Richard, who was busy attempting to save a little girl who was being butchered in a corner by a group of them. Grimm made his way towards Richard, stabbing one through the mouth on the way. Nearby there was a group of 4 or 5 children who had made a valiant stand, defending themselves, backed into a corner, the last bastion of hope. Richard had the little girl's arm, trying to drag her to the group, but her arm soon came loose. . .Richard fell to the ground from the force of his pulling. He dropped the hand and scrambled for the group.

One of the things grabbed Richard, trying to drag him back. Grimm grimaced, grabbing a blood stained rifle and aiming it. He dreaded guns, but it was his only chance of saving the kid. He shot, missing, and took another shot, hitting the thing in the collar bone. One more shot brought it down, but it was from Richard's rifle, not Grimm's. Richard skidded away, towards the group. Grimm grabbed his arm and shook his head, referring to going back to the group. It was suicide. They had a very small window of time before they would all be trapped in the mayhem. Richard realized this a moment later, and nodded. Grimm led him away from the group, who was quickly running out of energy, ammo, and hope.

One child tried to follow Richard and Grimm, but soon fell victim to the horde that now choked up the school like a flood. The group was slowly devoured, fairing no chance against the blood thirsty mob. Richard wept as he and Grimm made their way out of the building stealthily, the screams of the children filling the air of all of Britain. There was nothing they could do. . .Now they had to move, before the things caught onto their presence. Grimm led the broken Richard away. . .

They had surviving to do. . .