The Dead End Butcher
Content warning: the following story is bloody and dark, and those squeamish with horror should consider other stories. The content herein would be considered on par with a slasher horror movie.
The
murky sun dips low over the horizon, casting dim rays over a gloomy, urban sprawl. A man wrinkles his nose above a recently lit rusty barrel, collected burnables catching fire and releasing acrid smoke along with life sustaining warmth.
He sighs, huddling closer while holding leathery, rag wrapped hands towards the flame. "Another long night..." he mumbles to himself.
Glancing to one side, he notes
a disturbance some distance away; shouting and the sounds of fighting echoing strangely throughout the alleyways. Shaking his head, he merely eases himself into a more comfortable position while making himself as small and unworthy a target as he can. Energy blasts ricochet off the dilapidated buildings nearby as orders are crisply delivered, and before long the fight is over. "Spiders at it again. Hmph."
Faint warmth begins to fill the area around him as the fire burns through its fuel. A pop sounds out as the fire consumes something particularly combustible, causing the man to jump back instinctively and protect his hands. He carefully eases closer again when it fai
ls to repeat the noise, trying to stay warm against the coming Autumn evening.
Minutes later, the footfalls of heavy boots tromp on past the alleyway... save for one pair entering behind the man. "You shouldn't be out here, scum. It's past curfew." the Arachnos Soldier announces as he approaches the man at the barrel fire. The soldier doesn't bother waiting for a reply of course; he just wants an excuse to bully and push others around. True to form, rough hands shove the vagrant before he can sputter a single word, pushing him into and toward the flame. Stumbling, he crashes into the barrel clumsily, spraying burning trash over the ground as he falls to rag wrapped hands.
Laughing, the soldier turns and saunters out of the alley, leaving the vagrant to struggle with the flames as best he can. Unbeknownst to both, a watching pair of eyes follows the scene carefully, tracking the soldier as he departs.
Later that night...Two men gather at a local bar, drinking their wages away after a hard day's work. "Hellions, can you believe 'em? Again? You'd think they would take the hint and get out of Port Oakes, but no..." The man laughs, largely finished with a pint.
"What, you think they learn? We keep putting them in body bags but they keep coming back! Bet it's all that oil by the crashed tanker." Shaking his head in reply, he shrugs and drains his pint.
"Eh, we had our fun knocking heads together. 's a great gig, the life of a soldier!" The first man finishes up and leans back. "Ugh... speaking of the life of a soldier, we should probably get back to barracks before tomorrow..."
"You go on ahead, I won't be long. Just gotta use the pisser..." His companion carefully works his way to the back, intent on his goal.
Shrugging, the first man gets to his feet after leaving some change on the table and winds his way to the front doors, stepping out into the darkness of another ocean-cold night. "Shoulda brought a coat..." he mutters, slipping his hands into his pockets. Moving quickly, he starts walking h
is way back to the closest Arachnos base, a solid ten minute walk away. Nothing challenging for a military trained man with the fitness that accompanies such training, of course. Sure, supers could be running around, but they don't usually bother civilians going about their business, and he wasn't wearing anything that would give away his employment. Anybody dumb enough to try him would find themselves disappeared before long when word got back to base.
Moving from the flickering pools of street light back into the darkness, he finds himself uneasy. "
Is it colder...?" he wonders silently, before shrugging. "
Just the dark..." he assures himself.
Shadows gather silently nearby, a miasma of malicious intent coalescing into solid, towering form, unseen by his chosen victim. The furthest street lamp sputters and dies with a pop, causing the soldier to startle momentarily. "Shit!... friggin' lights need to be replaced..." he mutters to himself. The next nearest light flickers one last time, then it too fades, only to leave one last pool of light ahead of him. He moves more quickly towards it, spooked and grateful for at least that little bit of respite.
The presence intensifies, muted and hidden from its prey, yet nevertheless gathering strength as it begins to stalk into the shadows ahead of the street light, moving between two buildings and waiting just as the soldier screws up his courage enough to leave his oasis of safety.
A large, rough hand darts from the darkness and grabs the soldier, pulling him into the shadows suddenly and violently before pinning him against a wall around the corner, the soldier struggling against the sudden assault. "Hel-!" he manages to gasp before a large cleaver is shoved into his guts, forcefully thrust hard enough that the blade is buried partially into the brick and mortar wall. The rest of his words are cut off as he gurgles and bleeds profusely.
Wild eyes fight to focus as they struggle to take in their attacker: a towering brute of a figure wrapped in bandages, a mask over its face, and a corroded cleaver still held in one hand watches him impassively, a dull red glow lighting up where its eyes should be. It holds up its free hand, showing the bandages wrapped around it, then slowly points to a nearby trash bin, never breaking its gaze from the soldier.
Life dripping away, the terrifi
ed soldier grasps the cleaver piercing him to the wall, trying to escape. Callous and uncaring, the brute hefts his free cleaver and begins to dismember the soldier limb by limb. All the while the soldier remains in agony, yet horribly alive through the entire process, as though being sustained to endure the agony. Each limb finds its way to the trash bin, trails of blood and viscera marking their sailing arc through the air as they're tossed one by one into it.
The soldier can no longer scream, even if he wanted to. His lifeblood has long since drowned his lungs, even with naught left but his head and torso. The hulking figure tilts its head slightly, as though listening to something, yet the soldier hears nothing at all. It slowly brings the dripping, pitted blade up, holding it parallel to its arm for a moment before pulling back and swinging towards the soldier's neck, roughly hewing it like an axe to a log.
The remaining pieces are thrown to the bin as well as the killer pulls his cleaver from the brick, letting his victim's torso fall bloodily to the pooled viscera beneath, then lifting it and slowly walking to the bin to deposit this last grisly trophy. The red glow fades from its eyes as it returns and walks around the corner, fading back into the shadows before disappearing completely.
The next morning...Groaning and limping, the vagrant shuffles on his route, collecting trash and anything else he can find of value, rummaging through bins and the like. A macabre scent begins to fill the air as he nears the buildings, and he wrinkles his nose as he pauses. Is it worth it to even check? After last night he hardly needs a beating, but if he misses something valuable he might not last the night anyway. He sighs quietly, then starts to make his way nearer, huddling into himself as though to make himself a lesser target.
The scene of carnage that greets him is a new one. While he has seen a lot in the Isles over the years, most murders are either very quiet or very loud. This... this is something else. The wall bears the scars of multiple hacking slashes, and a deep gouge caps the scene. Crows caw as they flee the scene of carrion feast, flapping to the roofs to watch and wait for him to leave.
Moving slowly and quietly, the vagabond takes in the sight with eyes wide before realizing the blood leaves a trail, leading nearby...
