CADAVER: FIRST BLOOD

In the distance through a barrier of human waste a familiar child was being dragged towards a roaring pit of fire. Sound erupted through his senses and the reality of happenings caressed him. Men were dying all around, their screams and wailing smashing at him as his sword scythed through, levered from hand to hand it kept swathing a figure eight that cut tendons and arms, guts and heads. His muscles ached, yet men screamed, his legs grew weary with each step, yet men writhed and his head throbbed with their wails, yet men died.

Those out of reach of his sword, that survived his onslaught collapsed at the feet of others that followed him. Then the way ahead was clear, his sword tipped the ground weighing heavy in his grasp as the sound of the dying still rung forth from behind. A head slid past his vision, its eyes fixed, amazed, upon his and mouth agape, a bloodied strip of flesh dripping remnants of body followed it.

The child was raised over the head of Paul's enemy and he turned. Their eyes met. Paul saw only resolve there, no pity, no hate or loathing. The arms flexed and the child screamed as he left the hands holding him aloft.

Paul warched in disbelief as the figure strode away, no glance backwards to the child's body that sparked in the flame of the fire, dead seconds after he landed.

Paul screamed and flung himself upright, his muscles forcing life back into his movements as he drove towards the fire, slicing and dicing his way through the remaining enemy between him and his goal. He knew he would not be of any help, he knew his son was dead, but by all the Gods holy, or not, he was going to make these bastards pay.

He yelled his abuse at the retreating figure, he yelled his defiance, and to the Gods of eternity he promised this man would pay, this man and all his kin will pay from now until this world and the next have ended.

​

Paul raised himself from the dust of the street, tears welled in his eyes and grime coated his clothes, this was not the kind of place he needed to be after dark. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, there was a couple of figures hunched over a small tin fire attempting to feign disinterest. 

Paul started their way to find out where he was, then realised it was not he they were not disinterested in but the group that sidled up behind him. The two figures at the fire can rummaged for their meagre belongings and left their little fire to disappear into the dark.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here? You ain't from around here are you?" A tall well tailored tough slipped out of the ring of followers.

"No, I'm just trying to find my way home."

"Trying to find your way home? Well ain't that a shame he's lost?"

The followers laughed.

Paul found himself unconsciously weighing up his odds, counting the gang and breaking down each man's possible abilities and the danger to himself from each individual. He stepped back to the wall allowing no one to get behind him.

"I wish I had a sword." He mumbled aloud.

"You what?" Asked the leader.

The group laughed.

"Man you gonna need more than a sword, this is our turf."

Paul dropped as one front runner charged and allowed him to drive his fist into the wall, he then stood upright and took the man on the chin with the top of his head and swung his arm as if possessing a sword and cut his fist through the middle of an approaching enemy. His free hand thrust the unconscious first man up and backwards to fall limply against two others that stepped into the fray. Paul grabbed the hair of another and dragged him driving his head into the wall and using his back as a springboard, catapulting up and over the confused group and clipping the ring leader across his exposed throat with the palm of his hand. Paul kicked at two others at the rear and used them to leap himself further from the group and hit the ground running, not daring to look back at the carnage he may or may not have left behind.

Paul slowed as he entered the apparent shopping district and the well lit streets exhilarating in the feeling that pumped through him. He can handle himself, boy can he handle himself, this was amazing... He never had this shit before, what was going on with him? He opened the door to a coffee shop and stepped in, he needed to find out what was going on with him, it wasn't just hallucinations anymore, the 'previous life', or whatever it was, now intruded into the present and he was becoming this... This warrior.

He sat and ordered a coffee, the young waitress barely registering him.

Someone was staring, he felt their presence, someone was not just looking at him, they were staring. He slowly raised his head, an old lady sat in the corner, her eyes appeared to look right through him as her hot coffee steamed around them. She smiled.

The waitress placed his coffee on the table and backed away, frightened as three figures approached Paul from behind.

Paul's head clipped the table top as he ducked a swinging punch that would have taken the side of his face off, his hand gripped the coffee mug and the contents found the face of his attacker as Paul rolled off the chair. The second attacker felt a foot buried deep in his groin and crumpled painfully to the floor as the first ran screaming from the building. The third attacker  backed away, unsure until his scrambling hands latched onto his knife and he found a new lease of courage. The bread knife that protruded from his stomach thrown from swift hands gave him a change of heart and he followed the groin damaged groaner out the door.

There was no cheering, no hooray's, he felt like a hero, but nobody appeared to recognise the fact as the coffee shop sat silent. The old lady sidled up beside him, dropped some money on his table for his coffee and nodding guided him out of the shop.