walls, the entire second floor was a winding network of trashed rooms, and we stormed through with like a couple of meth heads killing through an amazing high. James pumped rounds into the few that tried to block us, while I fired at those that tried to flank us. We took many to the grave, but not without barely surviving a number of close calls that left us bleeding.
The lick of a sharp blade nipped my burnt arm, and the pain continues to throb as I write. I pray that my blood doesn’t ruin this journal, making it completely unreadable for any that follow our path. Assuming any would dare the same thing we did.
Though the bullets flew wild, streaming by, nearly grazing us, the downpour of lead didn’t send us to this void. No, we secured our assailants’ fate with a quick delivery until we reached him. I didn’t get his name, but he stood over Jack and Grace as if he insisted to bombard them with questions.
His glance stopped us in our tracks, and he whispered something into a hand radio that triggered a swarm of Marauder thugs to emerge out from the woodwork. We were fucked, absolutely fucked just as we are now. And the others could do nothing to help. Grace lay on a bed with her shoulder wrapped in bandage, while Jack sat tied to a chair with fresh blood dripping from his nose.
He approached us, the strange and yet professional figure, with a sincere question regarding the old man. This question alone dispelled my fears that he would have us pay for the body count, but this dreamy idea plummeted the moment James spoke. The man freaked out, screaming for mercy from a God that appeared too busy to intervene. His crew raised their weapons, roughed us up, but stopped under his command.
He didn’t want us dead, at least not then anyway. He informed us through an egocentric monologue the same shit we already knew: The old man was the key to turning this hellish episode around. His men tried to stabilize the place until a way to seal the gates could be found. Apparently, I had it wrong. I thought each gate would be tied to a specific item or relic, but apparently the old man seemed to think differently. I pray that this information is true, but I don’t know.
The leader of the Marauders freaked out, discharging the cursed Ouija board into the wall, shattering it while yelling a string of glorified profanities.
Then this. Well, sort of. Besides the moment of intense screaming, bright pulsating crimson, and demonic taunts, we now sit in this cold nothingness. Feet shuffle from the other side of these strange, organic walls. Sounds of torture, of extreme agonizing pain seep in from somewhere beyond, while slowly we manage to regroup, questioning where the Marauders and their leader went.
Jack sat in a pile of busted wood from a shattered chair, working through the rope with tested patience. James noticed and was quick with a helpful knife, before catching a glimpse of Grace’s weak condition.
Her wound was bandaged, but how the Marauders actually treated it was uncertain. The bleeding stopped, but her strength seemed very slow to collect. James held her, checking for pulse, and feeling her sweat drenched skin.
James shot me a look I will never forget, a look of dread that comes about only rarely in a man’s life. My eyes failed to comfort him; instead, they only made it worse.
…..
I pray that we make it out of here alive, and if I die down here, whose gonna read this? How’s this journal ever going to see the light of day if we are indeed in the shores of hell?
-Chris Lecher
The lick of a sharp blade nipped my burnt arm, and the pain continues to throb as I write. I pray that my blood doesn’t ruin this journal, making it completely unreadable for any that follow our path. Assuming any would dare the same thing we did.
Though the bullets flew wild, streaming by, nearly grazing us, the downpour of lead didn’t send us to this void. No, we secured our assailants’ fate with a quick delivery until we reached him. I didn’t get his name, but he stood over Jack and Grace as if he insisted to bombard them with questions.
His glance stopped us in our tracks, and he whispered something into a hand radio that triggered a swarm of Marauder thugs to emerge out from the woodwork. We were fucked, absolutely fucked just as we are now. And the others could do nothing to help. Grace lay on a bed with her shoulder wrapped in bandage, while Jack sat tied to a chair with fresh blood dripping from his nose.
He approached us, the strange and yet professional figure, with a sincere question regarding the old man. This question alone dispelled my fears that he would have us pay for the body count, but this dreamy idea plummeted the moment James spoke. The man freaked out, screaming for mercy from a God that appeared too busy to intervene. His crew raised their weapons, roughed us up, but stopped under his command.
He didn’t want us dead, at least not then anyway. He informed us through an egocentric monologue the same shit we already knew: The old man was the key to turning this hellish episode around. His men tried to stabilize the place until a way to seal the gates could be found. Apparently, I had it wrong. I thought each gate would be tied to a specific item or relic, but apparently the old man seemed to think differently. I pray that this information is true, but I don’t know.
The leader of the Marauders freaked out, discharging the cursed Ouija board into the wall, shattering it while yelling a string of glorified profanities.
Then this. Well, sort of. Besides the moment of intense screaming, bright pulsating crimson, and demonic taunts, we now sit in this cold nothingness. Feet shuffle from the other side of these strange, organic walls. Sounds of torture, of extreme agonizing pain seep in from somewhere beyond, while slowly we manage to regroup, questioning where the Marauders and their leader went.
Jack sat in a pile of busted wood from a shattered chair, working through the rope with tested patience. James noticed and was quick with a helpful knife, before catching a glimpse of Grace’s weak condition.
Her wound was bandaged, but how the Marauders actually treated it was uncertain. The bleeding stopped, but her strength seemed very slow to collect. James held her, checking for pulse, and feeling her sweat drenched skin.
James shot me a look I will never forget, a look of dread that comes about only rarely in a man’s life. My eyes failed to comfort him; instead, they only made it worse.
…..
I pray that we make it out of here alive, and if I die down here, whose gonna read this? How’s this journal ever going to see the light of day if we are indeed in the shores of hell?
-Chris Lecher
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