The church bells rang out — and yet, the very people labeled as sinners and heretics moved toward the sound.
A new behavior from the Caro-class… are they developing socially? Mentally?
There was one subtle behavior he nearly overlooked.
Some of them… they're grooming themselves. Dressing well, minding their appearance. They're not as mindless as I assumed.
The hunter had to investigate these phenomena. He took one last glance at the brutalized body on the bed before slowly walking out of the room, closing the door, and moving carefully down the stairs.
His ears were particularly heightened because of the numerous footsteps outside, while paying close attention to the potential sound of windows and doors opening.
Everything seemed to be proceeding smoothly as he reached the first floor — and there, in the middle of the living room, were the anomalies he had just recently slain.
But the hunter was still constrained by natural human limitations — his thirst was starting to get in the way, prompting him to visit the kitchen, where he luckily spotted a water jug.
Ray inspected it thoroughly. The water appeared clean. Mentally, he debated whether to risk it, but for now, it seemed safe to drink and uncontaminated.
Without saying a word, he wasted no time grabbing a glass, pouring himself some water, and drinking it in one go.
He waited…
The water tastes normal.
I have no reason to think it's contaminated in the first place. It hasn't been that long since this town was invaded.
Ray, with common courtesy, still left the glass in the sink — then prepared to leave the house through the front door.
Being outside was dangerous, but every anomaly seemed preoccupied by the chimes of the church bells. Yet, as Ray moved between buildings and secluded spots, his eyes caught something rather disturbing: a cart full of mortally wounded men, some still alive, struggling to cling to life.
What are they planning to do with these?
One anomaly took a human from the cart, and several nearby undead began snacking on the poor soul. The man's scream couldn't even be heard, as he was too weak to muster it.
Saving him would be disadvantageous.
He spotted a nearby tower with a protruding roof side close to the rather imposing church where he could safely observe the gathering of the anomalies.
He crept forward silently, but before reaching his destination, he slipped into a house with blooming autumn flowers and a neat little garden. Ray planned to scale the yard wall to avoid detection — but what he saw next made him pause.
A woman, an anomaly, was doing laundry in the backyard.
She had the same bloodied mouth as the rest of the Caro-Class anomalies, but her movements mimicked the familiar routines she must have carried out when she was still alive.
"Where is my son, Evan?"
"Evan, it's dinner time! Evan, it's dinner time!"
"I cooked your favorite meal! Evan!"
She kept repeating the same phrases while doing laundry. However, instead of water, she was using blood to wash the clothes with the dirtiest piece of soap.
Ray took a deep breath and sighed.
The hunter, with his knife held tight, thought about ending her misery — but every time the woman shouted for her son to come to dinner, it chipped away at his heart.
He bit his lip.
Ray moved for the kill without hesitation. Yet, he didn't want to perform unnecessary brutality.
He set aside his knife.
He went behind the anomaly.
She was sitting and washing clothes when he gently wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as if he were a long-lost son.
"Evan, is that you?"
"I missed you—"
Snapped—
As quickly as he could, Ray twisted her neck, while softly laying her down on her garden.
These anomalies — they shouldn't show any emotions.
He sighed.
I'm being irrational—
He shook his head and wiped his eyes with his hand before steeling himself to continue the mission.
The hunter walked on, focusing on reaching the nearby tower by scaling the garden walls and landing on the other side to observe the ongoing gathering.
It didn't take long before he arrived. He inspected the interior through the windows — the place was already empty; those who had occupied it had gone to the church.
He entered the building through the same window, fitting himself carefully, and once inside, he softly closed it, trying his hardest not to make a sound.
Looking around, there wasn't much: wooden floors, a lot of camping tools, fire lamps — but one thing caught his eye.
A shotgun sat on one of the tables.
Used-up shell casings scattered on the floor; someone must have been desperately protecting themselves, as the same floor was smeared with red.
Yet the hunter's eyes were alight with interest — the firearm on the table was a black Remington 870.
He moved closer, sliding his fingers over every contour of the shotgun before lifting it and inspecting it with utmost care.
This is a vintage 12 gauge.
Over a century old, it has truly stood the test of time. Just look at that finish — flawless, even after all these years.
All original, with minimal wear… clearly, the owner took great care. Firearms with this level of craftsmanship are rare nowadays.
The hunter found himself marveling at the eleven-decade masterpiece — he checked every drawer for ammunition, then to his fortune he eventually found a box of buckshot shells, at least 25 of them, and some camping tools he really didn't need nor have the means to store.
He reloaded the shotgun methodically, four in the tube and one in the chamber as he cocked it back — he gathered and stored ammunition in the compartments of his black suit.
He took four shells and placed them inside his right pocket, then another four in his back pocket.
Besides the shotgun, there was one more tool he could use — a hatchet hanging on the wall. Next to it was an axe belt he could fasten to his own. He did just that, feeling the weight settle. With his pistol already on his right side, he positioned the hatchet and belt on his left hip.
Then he heard the church bells ring once more. The gathering had spilled into the town's streets, and the hunter locked the door.
He made sure he didn't compromise his movement too much from all of the equipment — but the ammo box… he thought of ways to use it more efficiently, as it still has twelve shells in it.
He moved it up to the second floor of the tower, placing it carefully where he could retrieve it later.
From a window, he observed the anomalies gathering outside the tower, carefully noting their movements.
What are they doing?
The humanoid anomalies bore fatal wounds and grotesque deformities; many of them carried hatchets and pitchforks.
Men and women alike were among them, all waiting for someone to emerge from the church's doors.
They're holding mass outside the church? Interesting…
The church doors opened, revealing five people. Four wore white robes streaked with red — the priests, but the one in the middle was the most striking.
He wore a black and red robe — resembling a bishop.
The bishop in the black and red robe stood on a platform, holding a book made of dark leather.
Their cowls hid their faces — yet the hunter caught a glimpse of a harrowing sight: the priests in white robes were dragging chained humans, adults and children alike.
"What am I looking at…" Ray murmured as the figure in the black and red robe began chanting towards the mass.
The gathered anomalies fell silent. His language was demonic, and Ray couldn't understand a single word.
What language is this…
Something was stirring — something he had to stop.
The hunter gripped his shotgun, knowing the hunt was about to begin.
Chapter End.