The screams started soon after, thin, reedy sounds swallowed by the vast indifference of the mountains. They were the sounds of innocence shattered, of lives extinguished before their time. I moved through them, a specter of retribution, my machete ablur of silver in the night. Each life taken was a stone dropped into a chasm, a tiny ripple in the ocean of my grief. There was grim satisfaction in it, a cold balm on a wound that had festered for too long. The laughter that had mocked my pain was now replaced by the guttural cries of the dying.
The darkness had gifted me with clarity, a purpose forged in the fires of my rage.
The air grew thick with the aroma of blood, a scent that had become intimately familiar. The party was over. The celebration had curdled into a massacre.
I was no longer the grieving son, the lost brother.
I was the embodiment of vengeance, a force of nature unleashed. As the last man fell, a chilling silence descended, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl.
The mountains held their breath, bearing witness to the grim testament of my ravage destruction and as I walked back into the forest, I finally fell to my knees, my body soaked in the blood of my enemies as I looked at the heavens above and cried out the name that meant more to me than my own blood.
“LEEROY!”
Chapter One
Ravage
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I taunted as the sound of my machete grating against the warehouse walls shrieked like nails on a chalkboard. Taking my time, I moved deeper into the darkness, following the trail of blood he left behind, unafraid of who I was hunting, enjoying the chase, reveling in what was to come.
The air hung thick with the unpleasant tang of rust and the coppery sweetness of fresh blood. My footsteps, surprisingly quiet on the grimy concrete, were a counterpoint to the ragged breaths I could feel echoing in my chest. He was close. I could feel it—a tremor in the shadows, a flicker of movement just beyond my reach. This wasn’t just a hunt; it was an art form, a brutal ballet where every misstep, every panicked shuffle, only tightened the noose.
A sudden clatter from my left sent a thrill through me. He was trying to hide, to become one with the decaying machinery and forgotten crates. Foolish. His scent of fear was a beacon, far brighter than any manufactured light. I swung my machete again, a low, guttural hiss as it sliced through the thick air, a promise of what awaited him. He wouldn’t find sanctuary here. This was my stage, and the finale was about to begin.
Deeper still I pressed, the darkness swallowing me whole, his blood trail a crimson thread leading to his inevitable conclusion. The anticipation was a potent drug, fueling a primal instinct that had been dormant for too long. He could run, he could hide,he could beg, but in the end, it would all lead back to me, the hunter, the harbinger of his final, agonizing truth.
“You are only making this harder for yourself. Why not just let me end your misery? I know you want to.” My words, a silken whisper laced with venom, hung heavy in the stagnant air. The echo of my taunt seemed to caress the rusting hulks of machinery, stirring phantom whispers from the forgotten past.
He wouldn’t answer, of course.
Cowards never did. But his silence was a confession, a symphony of terrified squeaks and rustles that betrayed his presence. His blood trail, now a smear of glistening ruby against the dull gray concrete, pulsed with the rhythm of his failing heart.
Each drop a promise, a tangible testament to the end that was inexorably drawing nearer.
I paused, letting the silence stretch, a taut string about to snap as my eyes danced across a heap of oil-stained sacks, then swept over a towering stack of crates, each one a silent sentinel in this tomb of industry. A faint scraping sound, a desperate scrabble from behind a particularly formidable structure, drew my gaze.
He was cornered; I could feel it, his breath catching in ragged gasps, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. The primal thrill surged, a decadent wave washing over me.
This wasn’t about justice; it was about revenge.
With deliberate slowness that spoke volumes, I raised my machete again.
The moonlight filtering through a grimy skylight far above caught the polished steel, transforming it into a wicked gleam. He could hear my measured footsteps now, the soft, confident rhythm that signaled my approach.
The game was almost over. His desperation was a palpable thing, a stench as potent as the blood and rust, and I inhaled it deeply, savoring the exquisite finale that awaited.
He had taken me along on a merry chase. A formidable adversary, but I always won in the end. One way or another, I always found my prey, and he would be no different.
Reduced to nothing but another stain on my soul.
I lowered my machete, letting it hang casually by my side, the weight a comforting, familiar presence. He was there; I knew it, a knot of sheer terror shivering behind those crates. The silence that followed my footsteps was no longer a game of cat and mouse; it was the hush before the kill, the drawn-out exhalation of fate itself. I could almost taste his fear, a bitter tang on my tongue, mingling with the metallic sweetness of his spilled life. He was a cornered animal, his movements no longer strategic but purely instinctive, a frantic dance against the inevitable.
A strangled whimper escaped him, a pathetic sound that did nothing to dim the fire in my veins. He wasn’t thinking; he was reacting, a raw, primal scream building in his chest, desperate to be loosed. I let him stew in it, letting the shadows play tricks on his already fractured mind.
The moonlight, for all its ethereal beauty, offered no solace here, only stark illumination of his impending doom. My own shadow stretched long and distorted, a premonition of the darkness that was about to engulf him, a darkness from which there would be no return as I stood behind his cowering body, hidden deep within the shadows and whispered, “I see you.”
He flinched, spinning around, his eyes wide with terror.
His eyes, dark pools of sheer panic, darted around, searching for an escape that no longer existed. He saw not me, but the embodiment of his worst nightmares, a monstrous silhouette against the dying light. The machete in my hand felt like an extension of my will, a conductor orchestrating his finalmoments. The hint of desperation in the air intensified, his coppery scent now a heady perfume, intoxicating in its promise. Every labored breath he took was a confession, an admission of guilt and a plea for mercy he would never receive.
