DAY TWO : Blood, Hunger, and Death (The Second Night)

Night fell, and with it came the now familiar sounds. With it, too, came a painful realization- he hadn’t eaten all day. Now, left to his own devices, with nothing to do but wait, he was wracked by horrible hunger pains. His stomach started convulsing, twisting in knots. He checked his inventory- he had nothing to eat.

Why can't you eat mushrooms? I've been able to do that in real life on several occasions.

It’s only been a day, he thought. Tough it out! You’re wounded as it is, going out now would be suicide. But his body refused to listen. With a muttered curse, he dragged himself over to the crafting table and began attempting to fashion himself some sort of crude armor out of all the wood and stone he had lying around. Nothing worked.

With the pains getting more and more intense, he abandoned armor for the time being, and made a new sword, out of stone. It’s heavier heft and more wicked edges reassured him. Maybe the creatures of the night would think twice before tumbling with this!

He wanted to travel light, and fast, so he consencrated all his worldly possessions to a hastily thrown together box, and, his sword never leaving his hand, walked up the door, listened for noises, and cautiously swung it open.

This probably won't end well.

The pain subsided, but the want and need were stronger than ever. He wondered if perhaps the raw meat had given him sort of infection? Either way all he wanted now was to consume, to feel the flesh of a living creature grind between his teeth, hot blood dripping down his throat. Pigs everywhere, beware.

He started climbing the hill, hoping to reach the top and get a good vantage point to see some prey.

Before he’d gone very far, a thick, lumpy black shape dropped out of a tree infront of him. He saw legs whirring in the darkness, and his blood ran cold. Eight red, merciless eyes turned to face him. Before he even had time to run or think, it hissed and jumped straight for him, fangs snapping in the moonlight. He swung his sword to meet it, knocking it back and shooting black blood out in an arterial spray. Again and again the monster jumped, and again and again he knocked it back, operating at a level far beyond fear.

Matheson had had no particular hate for spiders when they were small. He wasn’t fond of them, but he never went out of his way to kill them. They way they kill their victims, however, the slow paralysis, the poison, the helplessness, their ungodly appearance; now that he had to deal with life-size ones, he wasn’t to petrified to even allow himself to think about it, lest he crawl into a hole on the floor and open every vein he could find.

The beast lunched one final time, its eyes mashed and mangled, it’s left front leg hanging uselessly at its side. Matheson was getting the best of it, and as it jumped he plunged his sword into its mouth, killing the creature instantly as it let out one final gurgle. Unfortunately, it’s momentum kept going even as it’s life stopped, and it fell on Matheson, and pinned him briefly, it’s socketed and bristly face inches from his own, weeping blood into his.. He twisted, crawled, slithered and sprinted away, his hands shaking. He was thoroughly wigged out, and it took him several seconds to stop just running in circles and shaking.

Finally, he allowed himself to catch his breath. His face was drenched with the creatures black blood, and without thinking, he licked some of it off. It had a bitter, acidic taste, like rancid battery acid or what a raccoon must taste like if it died in a washing machine in a flood, and it’s body spent weeks slowly churning around in the fetid water. He spit several times, but the taste wouldn’t leave, though it had reactivated his hunger pangs.

I don’t have time to stop, he thought. If something else comes for me, I will split its fucking head open, and I will keep going.

He crested the hill, and looked around. The tree’s made it really hard to get a good 360 degree view, something he’d have to fix in the future. But a soft clucking noise made him stop in his tracks. He slowly turned his head, in disbelief, and standing on the edge of a cliff, looking at him with happy eyes, was a chicken. He blinked, and then raced toward the chicken, swinging his sword wildly and yelling.

Come here and let me kill you!

The chicken dodged this way and that, missing his sword just barely. It lost its tail feathers to a close swing, and another just nicked it’s head, cutting the hair off and making it look like a tonsured monk.

It was then that a creeper came out of the tree’s, hissing and lunging at Matheson. He screamed like a little girl but kept chasing the chicken, all the while trying to keep the creeper in vision and not letting it get too close.

The chicken skidded to a halt in front of him, looking up with pleading eyes. He couldn’t stop in time and nearly went sprawling over the edge of the cliff, to certain death on the beach far away below. But he caught himself, and up went the sword, and off went the chickens head. MEAT!

"There ought to be a law / against you coming rooooound..."

There was still the creeper to deal with, however. It was right behind him, but stuck on a tree, jumping up and down ineffectually. With the adrenaline coursing through Matheson’s veins, the scene was almost comical, and he left out a hearty laugh that sounded far more savage then he’d intended.

He really wasn’t sure what made these things explode, so he advanced cautiously, and gave it a good slice right along its midsection. It recoiled, hissing, and its skin flashed. He hadn’t killed it, but he had freed it from the tree, and now it was coming for him again. He gave it another good stab when its skin stopped flashed (something about that odd glow rubbing him the wrong way), and then waited and did so again.

It was now flashing rapidly, hissing increasing in intensity. Something told him to run, and he did, and had barely gotten out of range when the beast imploded and a shower of earth filled the sky.

Confused, but glad to be alive, he pushed himself up off the ground and brushed himself of off. He walked back to the chicken, which still intermittently spurting blood from the stump where its head used to be. He started salivating even before he got to it, hands ready to pry the flesh from its bones.

But there was none to be had. The corpse poofed out of existence, and all that was left was a single, solitary, feather.

He looked for a few seconds, uncomprehending, and then pounded his fists into the earth, partly out of rage, and partly out of the pain inside him.

SSSSSssssss.

He turned. Another creeper.

It's almost cute.

Oh, god damn it, he thought, and stood up once more. He danced up to it and hit it again and again. Make it fear him instead of the other way around. A good slice caught it on the neck, and it’s head fell back, hanging on by little shred of skin and a few blackened tendons. The creeper flailed it’s arms as some sort of fluids bubbled out of it’s neck hole and dribbled down it’s front, and then it fell over. Matheson leapt back and covered his ears, bracing for an explosion that never came.

He lifted his head. There was the creeper, dead, on the ground. Was that it….? He walked up, and the corpse vanished with a popping noise, startling him for a second.  All that was left was a pile of grey something- Guts? Rocks? Sand?

He bent down and ran his hands through it, bringing it up to his face.

GUNPOWDER! He started to grin like a mad man. These things drop gunpowder? I bet that means, at some point, I’ll be able to fashion some kind of gun! Or maybe a canon! I’ll make a god dam battleship air-fortress and blow every one of these motherfuckers off the face of the earth!

A chicken wandering into his view brought him out of his reverie.

“You better have more meat on your bones than that friend of yours,” he yelled as he sprang forward, “ or I’ll kill you!”

He didn’t pause to consider the fact that he was going to kill the chicken regardless, but he noted the contradiction in his mind.

There was no lengthy chase like the last time. In a few seconds, he had the chicken bisected in the middle, and was reaching down to scoop up its gut when it, too, poofed out of existence. He looked around him, but there was nothing. This time, there wasn’t even a feather.

He didn’t get mad. He didn’t stomp. He was so filled with rage, he was the perfect figure of calm. He couldn’t even think. He just smiled a bitter, terrifying smile, and walked over to the edge, peering across the darkened landscape.

At least tonight he could see much better than the last night. (My monitor was tilted up, making the night and sort-of dark places virtually black. With it turned the right way, I could actually see what I was doing a little bit, which was nice.)

There was a pig on the opposite mountain. It was bobbing back and forth, like a special-ed cheerleader waiting in line for a sandwich she was disproportionately excited to receive.

 He didn’t react right away, he didn’t bolt off. He just watched the pig for a few minutes with cold, calculating eyes, then looked down. It was almost a straight drop off below, and it was dark, but it wasn’t impossible.

He was feeling very weak. Tonights, and last night’s battles, had taken a lot out of him, and though he hadn’t thought he’d sustained very serious wounds, he was definitely worse for wear.

The shriek of a giant spider close behind him spurred him to action. He leapt down to the nearest landing, and starting picking his way down the mountain, his previous calm, detached rage giving way to an uncontrollable lust for blood and food.

He’d made good progress, leaping from rock to rock like a mountain goat, and was almost halfway down. But his options were starting to get pretty limited.

He heard the spider scuttling about above him- he looked up, and it was too dark to really make out, but he thought there were several up there, many pairs of red, clustered eyes watching his every move and waiting for just the right moment.

He was close to the ground, but he was stuck. With nowhere to go but down (and for some reason completely forgetting that the ground could be dug out) Matheson decided to jump. A nearby tree would catch him and break his fall; from there he might be able to just drop to the ground. He went flush against the wall, holstered his sword, and run forward and leapt.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

For a few seconds, it looked like he might almost make it. He fell in slow motion, arms flailing, as the tree neared, then rose up above him, and he knew he’d misjudged. He hardly had time to even curse as he hurtled toward the earth, face up to the cold, impartial stars.

He didn’t even hear or feel himself hitting the ground. Suddenly, he was simply dead.

After this, only one re-spawn left...

Continue to the next post....