The Pig's Game - A DBD Short Story

JDSInfinity

Amanda Young pulled the leaves of a bush back, lowering her head to peer through the rotted leather mask that sat atop her face. She stared hungrily as the light hit those cruel, bloodshot eyes, dark bags sinking deep into her cheeks. Her eyelids twitched erratically, half from the cold, half from the strain of never, ever having slept, and the remainder of whatever dark calculus drove this realm causing her eyes to twitch from the strain of holding herself back. The Pig wanted to leap out and charge directly for the girl crouching across from her, but she ground her teeth as she restrained herself. Soon.

The Pig let go of the bush, fading back into the shadows. In a small, crowded maze of timber several dozen meters away, Claudette whipped her head around as she worked to repair a generator. Some trials were loud, ugly, full of roaring and screaming and the dull staccato of machine revving. Worse were trials like this, when the old adage of "too quiet" held firm and the silence gripped her nerves more tightly than any shouting monster.

Claudette never saw as the Pig snuck up to the jungle gym. The killer slid her fingers along wooden beams rendered smooth by thousands of tight chases, then carved up again by hundreds of missed swings. Amanda crept up along it in a low crouch. Her calves burned, but she ignored the sensation. Whatever ######### the Entity had pumped into her felt like coffee and motor oil jacked up to a hundred, but no matter how hard she strained, she could always keep going. She was more than meat, now, as the bullet forever burning a hole in her side kindly reminded her.

The Pig could hear all too well as Claudette ratcheted and clanked around inside the generator, filling the air with mechanical noise, and providing her stalker ample audio cover as she slid up next to one of the entrances. Amanda placed a hand on one of the holes in the pallet that sat flush with it, drawing herself close to the wall as the repairs grew louder. The survivors had all these tools, all these protective structures, just so they could gather around these generators, the clanking gears and sparking wires growing louder and louder and filling them with hope. Hope.

What a disgusting thing, thought Amanda, as she peered through the cracks in the wooden structure, confirming the placement of her quarry. These brats had had everything. They'd studied math and poems and space, eaten cakes and tea and steaks, then gone home to their comfy beds to dream of a future where no one asked a damn thing of them. They had everything. And when they got pulled into a place without the everything they'd taken for granted, to feel what she'd spent her entire life living, they had the audacity to ask for hope? Nobody had ever given her hope.

Amanda gripped the pallet tighter, a primal roar welling up from within her breast. The moldy wood cracked, loud enough for Claudette to hear over the din of the generator repairs and cause her to look around in panic. She stepped back, unsure of where it was coming from. But her mistake was that she didn't run. Sloppy, thought the Pig, as the roar in her belly exploded from a dull rumble to hunting cry. She leapt out from behind the wall, charging directly at the hapless survivor. Claudette turned and ran, reaching for a window. But the Pig was too fast.

Amanda had never been a martial arts champion or a legendary street fighter. In fact, she'd been nothing, worse than nothing, until she put on the mask. But when you have nothing and nobody to protect you, you learn the art of shanking a ######### pretty quick, or else someone who does will be glad to show you. So it was with practiced ease that the Pig grabbed Claudette's shoulder, pulling her back into the range of her serrated knife, which went from hidden in Amanda's sleeve to hilt-deep in Claudette's lower back in less than a second. Claudette screamed, a shrill whine that quickly tempered to a gurgling moan as blood spilled from her mouth. Amanda pulled her instrument out, and Claudette fell to her knees, struggling for a few quick seconds to stay upright before collapsing onto the ground.

Amanda wiped her blade as she stood over the convulsing girl. Oh, how special you must have thought you were, muttered Amanda. Mommy and daddy's little girl. Gonna be an astronaut, or President, or some bullshit. You want to be special? I have a way to make you special. 

The helmet-sized contraption hanging from her hip gleamed in the pale moonlight. Amanda crouched over the exsanguinating girl, pulling the rig around her head and strapping it in. She felt and heard, with visceral satisfaction, the clicking of the timer as she cranked it as far as it would go.

Tick, tick, tick, little girl.

Now she must be brought to the hook, as per the rules of this game. It wasn't one that Amanda had decided, nor did she approve of all the contrivances that gave the survivors chance after chance, but at least it was a game, and that she could understand. The ground rumbled, signifying that the survivors were one step closer to making their wretched escape. Amanda accepted the urgency. She would make sure none of the survivors left unless they understood the sacrifices they had to make to stay alive. The gears on Claudette's reverse bear trap clicked louder as the mechanism started counting down.

Come, said Amanda, hoisting the prone Claudette onto her shoulder. It's time to play a game.