Day 4: Insanity
Ethan's training kicked in, and he moved instinctively, twisting his body to the side as the axe blade slammed into the wooden banister where his head had been moments before. The impact sent a shower of splinters flying, and the man snarled in frustration, his breath coming in ragged, animalistic gasps.
Ethan wasted no time. He drove his shoulder into the man's chest, slamming him back into the wall with a dull thud. The man grunted, his grip on the axe loosening momentarily, but not enough to disarm him. Ethan could feel the man's strength—a desperate, crazed energy that made him dangerous despite his ragged appearance.
The narrow hallway gave little room to maneuver, the walls pressing in on them as they grappled. The man swung the axe again, a wild, sweeping arc that forced Ethan to duck, the blade whistling just inches above his head. Ethan's heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline surging through his veins as he fought to stay one step ahead of the axe.
He knew better than to fire his gun. The sound, even suppressed, could draw the Death Angels if it wasn't perfectly masked. He would have to rely on skill and instinct.
The man came at him again, swinging the axe recklessly. Ethan sidestepped, slamming his forearm into the man's wrist, deflecting the blow just enough to avoid a fatal strike. The axe buried itself in the wall, the man wrenching it free with a guttural growl, his eyes wide and unfocused.
Ethan took the opening, driving a knee into the man's midsection, forcing the air from his lungs with a choked gasp. The man staggered, but didn't go down. He was beyond reason, beyond pain, a feral intensity driving him to attack again and again.
The man lunged, and Ethan pivoted, bringing his arm down hard on the axe handle, trying to knock it from his grasp. The wood cracked under the force of the blow, and the man's grip faltered. Seizing the opportunity, Ethan delivered a swift elbow to the man's temple, dazing him.
But the man was relentless. With a roar, he swung the axe in a brutal backhanded strike. Ethan raised his arm to block, and pain exploded through his forearm as the blade bit into flesh. He gritted his teeth against the pain, refusing to cry out, knowing that even a single shout could spell doom for everyone in the house.
Gasping for breath, Ethan stumbled back, his vision momentarily blurring. The man advanced, sensing weakness, his eyes gleaming with a crazed triumph. Ethan blinked away the pain and blood, focusing through the haze. The next swing came, and Ethan dodged low, then drove his shoulder into the man's midsection again, knocking them both to the ground.
The two men grappled in the narrow hallway, rolling over each other in a desperate struggle. The man swung wildly with the axe, and Ethan barely managed to deflect the blows with his forearm, feeling the axe blade scrape against his skin. He kicked out, connecting with the man's knee, eliciting a sharp grunt of pain.
The man recovered quickly, though, slamming the butt of the axe into Ethan's ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Ethan's vision swam as he fought to breathe, his world narrowing to the sounds of their struggle and the pounding of his own heartbeat. The man straddled him, raising the axe high for a killing blow.
Lightning flashed again, the stark white light illuminating the man's wild eyes, the blood smeared across his face, the desperation in every ragged breath. In that moment, Ethan saw the man's intent—there was no reasoning with him, no pleading or bargaining. He was lost to whatever madness had gripped him, and there was no coming back.
Ethan's hand darted to his pocket, yanking out his flashlight. In one fluid motion, he flicked it on and shone it directly into the man's eyes. The beam of light blinded him, and he recoiled, raising his arm to shield his face. Ethan used the distraction to twist his body, bucking the man off balance.
The axe came down, but Ethan was ready. He rolled to the side, letting the blade bury itself in the floor where he'd just been lying. The man howled in frustration, yanking at the axe, but it was wedged tight.
Ethan was on his feet in an instant. He lashed out with his boot, connecting with the man's wrist, just as he got the axe out. The bones crunched under the impact, and the man screamed. With a quick, brutal motion, Ethan grabbed the man's arm and twisted, using the momentum to drive the man's own hand into the axe blade. The sharp edge bit into flesh, severing tendons and bone. The man howled in pain, his grip finally loosening.
The axe clattered to the floor, and Ethan kicked it out of reach. But the fight wasn't over. The man, even with his hand mangled and bleeding, lunged at Ethan with wild fury. Ethan barely had time to brace himself before they collided, the impact sending them both crashing into the wall.
Ethan felt the man's nails clawing at his face, his teeth snapping at his neck like a rabid animal.
But Ethan was a soldier. Pain was just another obstacle, another challenge to overcome. He gritted his teeth and fought through it, driving his knee into the man's groin, then following up with a vicious headbutt that sent the man reeling.
The man staggered back, dazed but still standing. Ethan pressed the advantage, slamming him against the wall and delivering a series of rapid punches to the man's midsection. He could feel the man's ribs crack under the force of the blows, but the man refused to go down, his eyes wild and unfocused, driven by some primal need to kill.
A sudden movement in the corner of his eye caught Ethan's attention. Mike was there, he held a length of wood, probably torn from the banister. Without a word, Mike swung it with all his strength, bringing it down on the man's back.
The man crumpled to the ground, gasping in pain, but still trying to crawl toward Ethan. Mike swung again, this time aiming for the man's legs, shattering his knee. The man tried screamed, his voice raw and ragged, but still, he tried to pull himself up.
Ethan and Mike exchanged a glance—this had to end now. Ethan raised his pistol, waiting for the next flash of lightning to mask the shot. The storm raged outside, the wind howling and rain lashing against the windows.
Finally, the lightning came, a brilliant flash that lit up the entire hallway. In that moment, Ethan fired. The suppressed shot was a dull pop, almost lost in the roar of thunder. The bullet hit the man square in the chest, and he collapsed, his eyes wide with shock.
But even then, he wasn't done. With a final, desperate burst of strength, he grabbed at Mike, his fingers clawing at Mike's leg. Ethan fired again, this time aiming for the head. The man's body jerked once, then went still, the life finally draining from his eyes.
For a long moment, the only sound was the pounding of the rain and the thunder outside. Ethan stood over the body, breathing heavily, blood dripping from his wounds.
Mike leaned against the wall, his chest heaving with exertion, his face pale. He was covered in sweat, his clothes damp from the rain that had blown in through the broken window.
"Jesus," Mike panted, wiping blood from his face. "What the hell was that?"
Ethan didn't answer, his eyes still fixed on the dead man. He knelt down, searching the man's pockets. But there was nothing—just a few crumpled bills, some coins, and a photograph of a woman and a child, both smiling.
Zoe appeared at the top of the stairs. "Uncle Ethan," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Are you okay?"
Ethan looked up, meeting her eyes. He forced a nod, trying to reassure her even as his mind struggled to process what had just happened. "I'm fine, kiddo. We're fine."
The adrenaline began to ebb from Ethan's system, leaving him acutely aware of every ache and pain. He leaned against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as the full weight of what had just transpired settled over him. The hallway reeked of copper and sweat, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the musty scent of the old house.
"We need to move him," Ethan muttered, nodding towards the lifeless body. "Can't leave him here."
Mike nodded grimly, moving to help. Together, they lifted the man's body, carrying it carefully down the stairs. The others watched in stunned silence as they passed.
Once they had dealt with the body, securing it in a back room away from their living space, Ethan allowed himself to focus on his injuries. He made his way back to the kitchen, his movements stiff and pained. Zoe hovered nearby, her face filled with concern.
"First aid kit," Ethan said, his voice hoarse. Zoe nodded, rushing to retrieve it from his pack. As she returned, Ethan eased himself onto a chair, wincing as he peeled off his blood-soaked shirt.
The wound on his forearm was deep, a jagged gash where the axe had bitten into flesh. Blood oozed steadily from it, trickling down his arm and dripping onto the floor.
Zoe's hands shook as she opened the first aid kit, fumbling with the clasp. Ethan reached out, steadying her hands with his own. "It's okay," he said softly. "I've had worse. Just need to clean it up."
Margaret stepped forward, her earlier skepticism now gone. "Let me," she said, taking the kit from Zoe. "I was a nurse, before... all this."
Ethan nodded gratefully, leaning back in the chair as Margaret set to work. Ethan gritted his teeth against the sting of antiseptic, his muscles tensing involuntarily.
"This'll need stitches," Margaret murmured, examining the gash closely. "It's deep, but clean. You're lucky it didn't hit anything vital."
As Margaret prepared the suture kit, Mike cleared his throat. "So... we going to talk about what just happened?"
Ethan met his friend's gaze, seeing the unspoken questions there. "Guy was far gone," he said simply. "Too far gone to reason with."
"But why?" Sara asked. "Why would he attack you like that?"
Ethan sighed, wincing slightly as Margaret began to stitch his wound. "Fear does strange things to people. Desperation even more so. He probably thought we were a threat, or maybe he just wanted our supplies. Either way, he wasn't going to stop."
"Could have been infected," Arthur mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Some kind of virus that affects the brain, makes people go crazy. It would explain a lot about what's been happening."
Timothy shook his head vehemently. "No, no, it's not a virus. It's a test. A divine test of our faith and our humanity. We're being judged, don't you see?"
"Oh, knock it off with that religious nonsense," Margaret snapped, not looking up from her work on Ethan's arm. "If this is your God's idea of a test, then He's got a sick sense of humor."
Ethan held up his free hand, silencing the brewing argument. "Look, we don't know what caused this. Aliens, virus, divine judgment - it doesn't matter. What matters is surviving it."
He paused, looking each of them in the eye. "What happened tonight... it's not the last time you'll face something like this. The world out there, it's not just the creatures you need to worry about. It's other people too. People driven to extremes by fear and desperation."
Margaret finished the last stitch, tying it off neatly. "That should hold," she said, applying a clean bandage over the wound. "But try not to strain it too much. Last thing we need is for it to open up again."
Ethan flexed his arm experimentally, testing the range of motion. It hurt, but it was manageable. "Thanks," he said, offering Margaret a small smile. She nodded in return, a silent understanding passing between them.
As Ethan pulled on a fresh shirt, careful not to disturb the bandage, Mike spoke up again. "So, what's our next move? We can't stay here, not after... that."
Ethan nodded, his mind already racing ahead, planning their next steps. "The marina," he said. "If we can find one of those corridors, we'll be safe."
"And if we can't?" Arthur asked, his tone skeptical. "What then?"
Ethan met the older man's gaze steadily. "Then you continue doing what you've been doing. Surviving. One day at a time."