This story will be my first submission to the Malton Chronicles. After reading this excellent story, I was inspired to write my own. If you are interested in more of my works, I have a poetry blog: on Wordpress.
||This story is part of the Malton Chronicles.|
This story is fan-made, and is not officially part of any background history for Urban Dead.
He had always been the hunter. His white Victorian face mask the nightmare of hundreds. A banging issues from down the hallway; a repetitive steady thumping of flesh on wood and metal. The mask tilts upwards. Contained in this red garbed mans hands are an ancient, yellowed tome with tiny, mechanical writing on the page. The book is almost to its end. Besides the rhythmic thumping issuing from the door leading to the hallway, the whisper of pages turning filled the silence. He is surrounded by oak book cases and a labyrinth of stacked books. Seemingly, this man has read each and every one. This building, once a public library is aging. The walls reek of mold and grime, the ceilings buckled from water damage and neglect. The room is illuminated from outside; the steady flickering blaze of the nearby mall. The radio in the corner, propped up on a desk built of books, is constantly buzzing with noise. “–Help! They are everywhere! The mall is overrun… We are making a stand in the hardware store! Anyone that can hear this, get the hell–”, the man in red has padded over to the radio and turned it off. The firelight flickers on the white mask, the ceiling windows basking the room in soft orange light. The white mask tips gently to the side, as if listening. Over the blaze of the mall, merely a few blocks away, moans, groans are heard from outside. The entrancing cacophony of thumping is still issuing from the mountain of furniture outside the doorway in the dark, dank hallway. The man in red turns, carefully wading through the maze of books that his own red gloved hands had built. A crash causes the masked man to pause, listening. The wooden desk from atop the pile had been shaken loose, shattering on the linoleum below. His almost finished book laying open on the ground, the man in red pauses. His white mask is level, facing the open doorway. His hands flexing at his sides, the leather of his gun belts creak as he slides his left foot slightly ahead of his right. More groans and thumping can be heard now. The mountain of the furniture is now only a hill. Dark shapes can be seen behind it. Rotten, broken fingers grab and pull at the barricades, carefully breaking them down. A cloud of pestilence and death chases the breeze from the now open entrance way. A leering jack-o-lantern face peers into the room that the masked man occupies. He draws, the cool slap of metal on leather is quickly overpowered by the explosive gunshots that light up the room, briefly illuminating the gathering horde of demons occupying the once sacred hallway. The face implodes, brains splattering the wall and congealed blood flecking the ceiling. Other faces are now appearing, each met with explosions and flashes of their own. Carefully, the man reloads his death-dealers, allowing the creatures to begin entering the room. A carefully expanding lake of congealed fluids and blood begin to pool around the doorway. It seemed that he spent hours reloading and blasting away at the endless stream of undead that choked his home. Finally, as if a switch had been flipped, or a faucet turned off, the stream stopped all at once. Surrounding the red clothed man is a ocean of black, red, and crimson fluids. A mass of bodies fill the doorway to the room, shattered and broken. Books and shelving lay scattered, blood covered and gore soaked around the room. The man in the white mask pauses, an audible sigh issuing from within. He slips his dealers of death back into their leathery crypts, the worn metal seeming to sigh on their own accord. The man wearing the red clothing, and white mask pauses. A smile appears on his lips, but the mask hides this. However, the mask does not hide what he says next.
“At least I am allowed to finish the final chapter. I say Thankee Sai. Long days and pleasant nights.”
He pauses, examining the damage he had wrought. He bends, picking up the book that he had been forced to stop reading by these rude creatures of the night. Carefully tucking the book within his red cloak, the white masked man turns and carefully pads past the pile of rotting corpses. His red leather boots now covered in red fluids better left to the imagination. He turns, now outside his library to turn and look into the night. Shapes dash, followed by many others. A grin appears once more, still hidden. He turns down the nearby alley, and disappears into the scream filled night.