Chapter 6: Moss

Chapter 6: Moss

The dimly lit pub was unusually quiet. The usual liveliness of drunken laughter and rowdy conversations had been replaced by hushed murmurs and the occasional clink of glass. A group of old men sat around a scratched wooden table, their faces etched with boredom and frustration.

One of them, a wiry man with a gray beard, let out a tired sigh. "I tell you, I've never felt more like a prisoner in my own home," he grumbled, running a hand through his thinning hair. "I sit around all day, staring at the walls. If this lockdown doesn't end soon, I'll go mad."

"You think that's bad! try stretching what little food you have left for another week. I swear, if they don't lift this damn lockdown soon, I'll be chewing on my own boots."

The man next to him, gaunt and sharp-eyed, scoffed. "Bah. We all knew this would happen. You can't lock people up in their houses forever without them running out of food. You lot are lucky I still had this," he said, gesturing to the half-empty bottle of liquor on the table. "Drink up while you can."

The others gladly took turns pouring themselves a drink, but one man hesitated. He glanced toward the door before shaking his head. "You lot have no idea how hard it was to get here," he muttered. "Patrols are everywhere. I had to slip through three alleyways just to avoid those city guards."

The gray-bearded man narrowed his eyes. "That strict, huh?"

"Aye," the man nodded grimly. "They're not playing around. Anyone caught outside without a permit is getting dragged off. A few poor bastards tried to argue their case, and guess what? They disappeared."

A heavy silence settled over the table.

The round-faced man cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "So… anyone here actually know why we're locked up like this?"

The men exchanged uncertain glances.

The gaunt man took a slow sip from his cup before leaning in, lowering his voice as if speaking too loudly might summon the misfortune itself.

"I heard it's a plague," he muttered. "A new kind. No fever, no cough—just sudden collapse. One moment a man's walking, the next he's on the ground, dead before he even knows what hit him."

The others tensed at his words. The gray-bearded man let out a sharp breath. "A plague? Spirits help us… If that's true, then we're done for."

Before the mood could sink further, the pub owner—a stout man with thick arms and a grizzled face—walked over, placing another round of drinks on the table. He scoffed loudly, shaking his head.

"A plague?" he said, his voice thick with disbelief. "You old fools will believe anything you hear in the streets."

The men turned to him, some frowning.

"You saying it ain't true?" the round-faced man asked.

The pub owner wiped his hands on a rag and leaned against the counter. "Use your heads. If it were a plague, where are the priests? Where's the Church of the Spirit King setting up their healing tents? I ain't seen a single holy man going around purging the sick. Not one."

The gaunt man hesitated. "Maybe they're keeping it secret to avoid panic."

"Secret?" The pub owner let out a harsh laugh. "The Church? Keeping quiet? If it were a plague, they'd be marching through the streets in full force, blessing water and burning bodies. Instead, we get armed patrols and city guards hauling folks away in the night."

The men exchanged uneasy glances.

"Then what is it?" the gray-bearded man asked.

The pub owner shrugged. "That's the real question, ain't it?"

The sudden slam of the pub door made the old men jump, their nerves already frayed from the uneasy conversation.

"Quit slamming! You'll break my damn door!" the pub owner bellowed, irritation thick in his voice.

Silence followed. For a brief moment, all that could be heard was the faint sound of footsteps outside, slow and unsteady, echoing against the quiet streets. The men exchanged nervous glances, shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

Then—

CRASH!

A window shattered, glass spraying across the wooden floor. The men barely had time to react before three figures clambered through the broken window, their movements stiff and unnatural.

A wretched stench filled the pub—thick, wet, and putrid, like rotting meat left to fester under the sun. The old men gagged, their eyes watering as they recoiled from the overwhelming odor.

In the dim candlelight, they could barely make out the figures that had entered.

They were human. Or at least, they had been.

The first still had remnants of clothing clinging to its decayed frame, though the fabric was in tatters, barely hanging onto the rotting flesh beneath. The second was worse—skin peeling away in strips, exposing darkened muscle and brittle bone. But the third…

The third had almost nothing left. Its skin had disintegrated, revealing skeletal limbs, with patches of blackened flesh barely holding together. But what made it truly horrifying wasn't the decay. It was the moss.

Thick, vibrant green moss covered large portions of their bodies, clinging to their skin like parasitic growths. It spread from their limbs to their torsos, filling open wounds, growing along exposed ribs, and even creeping up to their hollow, lifeless faces. It wasn't just decay—it was infestation.

For a moment, the old men were frozen in horror.

Then—

Screams erupted.

"Demons!" one of the men shrieked, scrambling backward.

"Monsters! Spirits protect us!" another cried out, knocking over his chair in a frantic attempt to flee.

The pub erupted into chaos,the old men with their trembling hands grasping whatever they could use as a weapon—a broken bottle, a rusted knife, a wooden stool.

The creatures moved, their bodies jerking in unnatural motions. Then, with a sickening lurch, they lunged.

The old men ran for the door, their legs sluggish with fear, their breath coming in ragged gasps.

But before they could escape—

The door of the pub was suddenly smashed open, wood splintering as more corpses stumbled inside. The old men recoiled in terror, their last hope of escape shattered before their eyes. Their hearts pounded as they realized—they were trapped. There was no way out.

More figures emerged from the darkness outside, stumbling into the pub, their rotting bodies blocking the exit.

"No—no, no, no—" one of the men stammered, his voice cracking as he tried to push past them. But the creatures moved fast—faster than the dead should be able to.

One of them lunged forward, its rotting, moss-infested arm swiping at an old man's arm. Its jagged nails raked against his skin, leaving deep gashes—gashes that immediately began to darken.

The old man gasped, stumbling back, clutching his wound. His expression twisted—not just in fear, but in agony. A sickening green spread across the scratches, the skin bubbling as moss began to grow, creeping outward, blooming from his flesh as though his body were nothing more than soil.

The others watched in horror as he screamed, clawing at his own arm, trying to tear away the invasive growths. But it was no use.

One by one, the creatures attacked, their jagged hands cutting into flesh, their bites sinking into arms, necks, legs. And with every wound, the moss took root—spreading, consuming, taking over.

The pub filled with agonized wails, the old men thrashing as the infection spread across their bodies. Their screams turned to choked gasps, their bodies convulsing—until, one by one, their cries died out.

Silence fell.

The pub owner, once full of complaints and frustration, now stood motionless, his face blank, his arms stiff at his sides. His once-lively eyes had lost their fire.

The old men, too, had stopped moving.

Their breathing had slowed. Their expressions had emptied. Their bodies, once trembling with fear, were now eerily still.

The moss-covered figures turned toward the door. And the old men—the infected, the newly turned—wordlessly followed.

Without a sound, without hesitation, they walked out of the pub, joining the other moss covered corpses.