This time the head was off, the force that had crushed the skull too much to allow it to stay connected to the spinal column.
I stood in the entrance for some time, lost in thought, unable to stand the stench yet knowing there was more. I'm not sure how long I remained there, dazed and sick, but I eventually checked another cell. It was the same, and on and on it went, every occupant dead, head crushed, insides hanging from open body cavities like a nightmare in a butchers. Some of them had their guts strewn on the floor, every one of them had their heads mushed to a pulp.
It was like a huge hand had gripped their heads and simply crushed them, but no hand could do that, it would have to be the size of a troll. Yeah, I was a little slow.
Look, I'd been out of the game for a while, and the horror was overwhelming, clouding my mind. I wasn't used to thinking this way any longer, and trolls may be as tough as, well, trolls, but I had never heard of them squeezing heads like this—damaging those they had no argument with. They preserve that particular honor for those that insult them or they get paid to by their boss.
This was something else. This had the feel of mercy killings, like they'd put the zombies out of their misery. A final rest. Personally, it felt like mercy. They would never have known what was happening, being little but empty vessels that craved brains. Still, it was gross, and I was having a hard time keeping down the rest of my breakfast.
There was nothing I could do, and I was sweating badly even though I knew it was cold. I had the shakes and the smell was threatening to make me black out. Time to go.
Back downstairs, I sucked on fresh air gusting through the open front door. It felt good, oh-so-good. I know what you're thinking—you're supposed to be a dark magic enforcer, aren't you used to this stuff? Well, the answer is no, I am not used to seeing loads of zombies with their insides dangling and their heads all squished. Are you? Haha, thought not.
Where the hell was Rikka? I fished out my phone, deciding to call him. I had expected to hear from him, or for him to turn up. Maybe he had found Paul and there was an explanation for all this, although I couldn't think what on earth it could be.
The crunch of gravel interrupted me as a car approached.
Rikka, I assumed.
You know when you need a pee right when it's least convenient? I had one of those moments. Everyone does it, right? But I always find that in books nobody ever needs to go to the loo, or eats or sleeps. Don't know how those guys do it. Well, I'm telling you this tale and I'm telling you I needed a pee. So I ducked back inside and used the bathroom.
Thankfully, it was devoid of squashy heads or goopy bits. Just me, sighing and then washing my hands like a good boy, even though men only wash their hands in bathrooms if there are other guys in there too—it's an unwritten rule.
Bladder doing the happy-no-more-wee dance, I went back to the entrance, expecting, or hoping, to see Rikka, Dancer, Paul the zombie leader, and a load of gnashing undead following close behind.
I was wrong.
As I stepped out into the rain, fizzing as usual, the vehicle that pulled up was like one of those crazy monster trucks you see on TV that drive over other vehicles, making them look like toys.
The wheels were huge, but the cab was larger. It was like an army vehicle on steroids, painted camouflage green and belching out smoke from the rear like an old wizard who'd gone more than an hour without his pipe.
A very, and I mean very, large troll jumped out and took off its shades. Like we wear sunglasses in Wales! Come to think of it, how the hell did it find any large enough? The same for the accountant. They must have been inventing and making all kinds of things since they suddenly got brains.
He wore a leather bomber jacket, à la Tom Cruise from Top Gun, and I swear he turned his head to give me a better angle of his chiseled jawline. Yes, actually
I stood in the entrance for some time, lost in thought, unable to stand the stench yet knowing there was more. I'm not sure how long I remained there, dazed and sick, but I eventually checked another cell. It was the same, and on and on it went, every occupant dead, head crushed, insides hanging from open body cavities like a nightmare in a butchers. Some of them had their guts strewn on the floor, every one of them had their heads mushed to a pulp.
It was like a huge hand had gripped their heads and simply crushed them, but no hand could do that, it would have to be the size of a troll. Yeah, I was a little slow.
Look, I'd been out of the game for a while, and the horror was overwhelming, clouding my mind. I wasn't used to thinking this way any longer, and trolls may be as tough as, well, trolls, but I had never heard of them squeezing heads like this—damaging those they had no argument with. They preserve that particular honor for those that insult them or they get paid to by their boss.
This was something else. This had the feel of mercy killings, like they'd put the zombies out of their misery. A final rest. Personally, it felt like mercy. They would never have known what was happening, being little but empty vessels that craved brains. Still, it was gross, and I was having a hard time keeping down the rest of my breakfast.
There was nothing I could do, and I was sweating badly even though I knew it was cold. I had the shakes and the smell was threatening to make me black out. Time to go.
Back downstairs, I sucked on fresh air gusting through the open front door. It felt good, oh-so-good. I know what you're thinking—you're supposed to be a dark magic enforcer, aren't you used to this stuff? Well, the answer is no, I am not used to seeing loads of zombies with their insides dangling and their heads all squished. Are you? Haha, thought not.
Where the hell was Rikka? I fished out my phone, deciding to call him. I had expected to hear from him, or for him to turn up. Maybe he had found Paul and there was an explanation for all this, although I couldn't think what on earth it could be.
The crunch of gravel interrupted me as a car approached.
Rikka, I assumed.
You know when you need a pee right when it's least convenient? I had one of those moments. Everyone does it, right? But I always find that in books nobody ever needs to go to the loo, or eats or sleeps. Don't know how those guys do it. Well, I'm telling you this tale and I'm telling you I needed a pee. So I ducked back inside and used the bathroom.
Thankfully, it was devoid of squashy heads or goopy bits. Just me, sighing and then washing my hands like a good boy, even though men only wash their hands in bathrooms if there are other guys in there too—it's an unwritten rule.
Bladder doing the happy-no-more-wee dance, I went back to the entrance, expecting, or hoping, to see Rikka, Dancer, Paul the zombie leader, and a load of gnashing undead following close behind.
I was wrong.
As I stepped out into the rain, fizzing as usual, the vehicle that pulled up was like one of those crazy monster trucks you see on TV that drive over other vehicles, making them look like toys.
The wheels were huge, but the cab was larger. It was like an army vehicle on steroids, painted camouflage green and belching out smoke from the rear like an old wizard who'd gone more than an hour without his pipe.
A very, and I mean very, large troll jumped out and took off its shades. Like we wear sunglasses in Wales! Come to think of it, how the hell did it find any large enough? The same for the accountant. They must have been inventing and making all kinds of things since they suddenly got brains.
He wore a leather bomber jacket, à la Tom Cruise from Top Gun, and I swear he turned his head to give me a better angle of his chiseled jawline. Yes, actually
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