Too Little Too Late

It burned, everything burned. Killjoy's lungs, his throat; he barely managed to breathe. Even the soaking snow that crunched under his pacing feet, and the blitzing air that slashed his skin could do little to cool him down, if at all. 

The hunter held his right shoulder tightly, hurting as it still bled; everything hurt, his legs as well. But he couldn't stop running, because if Killjoy did, he would surely die.

With each step Killjoy took, he heard two more thumps behind him, followed by the sound of trees being trampled with gross moans. The only thing that kept it from catching up was the sheer woods. The hunter weaved past them with ease, but the monster steamrolled and crashed with each stump and oak it faced. Like every fibre of its being was only set out for the delicious treat running away from it.

Think, think, he had to think. All problems had a solution, this was no different! Killjoy had to use this time to come up with something, anything; what could he do to survive? 

He thought hard. But in his attempt to come up with even a single ounce of a plan, all Killjoy could hear was the rapid beat of his own heart. The choked exhale of his short breath, the pitter and the patter of his desperate feet trying to keep him running as far as he can, and the thumping and the drumming of the thing behind him. 

Empty. 

There was nothing he could try to do in the next few minutes that'd keep him alive. Bullets did nothing to its skin, it kept its orifices shut, and Killjoy could feel the strain on his lungs. 

Soon, even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to move his legs one more step. And even if he were to run, where to? The nearest town was miles away. 

Was he trapped?

"Damn it…" Killjoy muttered hoarsely as he ran, "Damn it…damn it!" he finally yelled, losing all control of his inhibition.

With a rumbling screech, the monster tore through one thinner tree right behind the scampering Killjoy, using nothing but its hands and pure bloodlust to drive the force. 

The hunter tried to turn, but all he could see in the next second was the spinning of the trees around him. 

Killjoy was struck from behind with a massive might sending him flying through the air once more. His body rag-dolled through as it landed on the lap of a distant tree. 

He shouted in pain as his stomach took the brunt of the damage head-on, and he could have almost heard the sound of his ribs cracking. Through it all, he still held onto his rifle, like it was a part of him.

Stumbling through, he tried to open his eyes, but after so many concussions, and so much running, it felt like the ground was shackled to him like his body wanted to collapse. Exhaustion took over.

But another screech, which shook his broken bones back in place, was all he needed to hear to shake off the rust. Between passing out right now before probably being eaten alive, and struggling more to survive, well…

He's struggled too much to give up now in his terrible life. Tearing his eyes open, he saw the monster lurching for him, as hungry as a rabid cat trying to find its next meal. 

Too tired and broken to get up and run, Killjoy crawled back against the tree. Pulling up his rifle, he loaded a new clip into it, pulled back the lever, cocked it, and aimed it straight at the meaty skeleton of a zombie.

Blasting at the thing, he felt the recoil of the gun push back against his weak grip, something he hadn't dealt with in years. 

Killjoy would grin if he could; the bastard truly got him cornered, screwing him up like this.

He opened fire again, then again, then some more. Each bullet bounced off the monster like pebbles against a wall but hit just enough to slow it down. But that was all it did, that was all he could do. 

What else was there to do? Was this the limit? Just firing away to delay his doom, hoping—no, praying, somewhere in his mind—that something would rescue him? Perhaps the next shot would be just enough to take that down? Killjoy never relied on hope, luck, divine intervention or whatnot, but why now?

He was weak.

Twenty years of killing, of taking, all of that to survive. It was all just to survive and make ends meet. He never had to be the strongest or smartest, nor had the quickest draw. As long as he had the grit to do the job and make it out, he could do it, and he did. It was what he was good at.

After a while, he felt invincible, that he had escaped death. It was a truth, rather than a delusion. Now death was knocking, and it was not asking. 

The monster grew closer, inching towards him unphased by the bullets that passed. Killjoy continued to fire away, unrelenting, his fingers going numb from the pain and recoil. But it crept closer no matter how much he shot at the beast.

"You bastard!" Killjoy cried out, his voice hoarse, blood almost bursting from his throat.

It let out a roaring growl, taking the human's yell as a challenge. 

The ghoul began to run, screeching as it leapt towards Killjoy. It bore its wet teeth, diving for the human, hungry from the hunt. 

All the moonlight around Killjoy vanished in a blink, faster than he could even turn his head. All he could see was only the cast shadow of the vast beast soaring above him like the immediate darkness would be the last thing he'd see. 

Without thinking the hunter thrusted his rifle forward. The monster crashed its face into the end of the iron barrel, jerking back its head. The rest of its limbs landed over Killjoy, its bony arms to his sides, and its haggard legs mounted on the small human. 

Killjoy's arms felt like they would've burst apart trying to hold the rifle up. It was like trying to keep a shell out of a cannon from escaping with but his bare hands. If the ghastly beast had landed a little differently, it would have snapped his body. 

Killjoy tried to keep it away, as much as he could, inching and wiggling back against the snow. The monster got annoyed and snorted roughly before raising its arm. It bore its claws, the sharp nails shining amidst the light.

The monster then sliced through the human's gun, tearing away the end of the barrel like butter. His arm lurched to the side, still trying to hold onto the gun. And just as quickly as the monster disarmed Killjoy's rifle, it shrieked before going for the kill, lurching for the human's succulent head. 

He barely had time to think as his arms moved by themselves to block the ghoul's gaping maw. Killjoy pushed the broken rifle ahead of him and lodged it inside the mouth of his predator, the serrated teeth latching onto the steel trying to bite through it.

Killjoy holds the rifle end to end with both hands, trying to push away the ghoul attempting to chew his gun out of the way. But the weight was immense, and blood poured from his injured shoulder. All of the muscles in his upper body felt like they were about to tear and explode.

Something had to be done. He couldn't just let himself be crushed to death before it even ate him. But the moment he would let go, it would all end the same. 

Killjoy sighed and bit down on his lips before ripping away his offhand and struggling for his side knife. He could feel the bones in his lone arm begin to crack as it held the gun, his only barrier from being torn to shreds. It was risky, but at this point, he'd rather lose an arm before he'd lose his head.

His fingers wrapped around the knife as if his life depended on it, because oh it did, and with all of Killjoy's extinguishing fury, he hacked away at the monster's head. He bashed it and jammed the edge of the blade into the dull skin uselessly, as dense and rubbery as whale blubber.

Killjoy yelled with each desperate slash at the ghoul's tough skull, putting his entire strength behind every stab. He tried to aim for the orifices or the eyes, but the ghoul's damn dismembered hand was still wrapped around it, protecting it like some blindfold.

Then a snap. The blade snapped. It broke off the handle, flying to the side.

The beast howled triumphantly, like it knew something went wrong with the human, and grew more ferocious in its mauling. It reached further for Killjoy's head, mere inches away, as its long fingers wrapped around his waist. He felt the pressure of the ghoul's hands crush his body, holding him in place like a snack, all the while its head craned forward and forward, one inch at a time. 

Even with its prey at its grasp, it still toyed with him, as if holding a sandwich and squeezing out the juices within. Killjoy would find it ridiculous if he weren't already letting out guttural groans, his insides mashing together.

The pain, the stress, the heat; it was all too much, too much even for him. Killjoy held his rifle up with every fibre of his being trying to stop his arms from giving way. He tried to bear the pain of his body being squeezed like a doll, he tried to last, to survive. But to what end? 

He was going to die. He was going to die, right here, in the middle of some woods. In the dead of winter where his body would freeze up for days, even weeks until another victim found him. Just another casualty for the masses to overlook. Just for Adeline to find his measly grave over many.

Adeline. 

Killjoy felt something in his gut sink. He didn't know why at first, as he continued to struggle, but his sight lingered on the open jaw of the beast trying to devour him. Through the wet drips of saliva that spilled from the monster's mouth, Killjoy found himself absorbed by the pitch-black darkness of its throat, like swallowing every ounce of light.

In that pitch-black darkness—unsure in that second if any of it was even real, or just the product of a dead man's last moments—Killjoy could even see himself. A dark, twisted form of himself stared back, with the same intense eyes, and gritted teeth like holding on for life.

Was it himself in the immediate seconds to come, to be eaten whole and trapped in the ghoul's stomach, or was it him now? Killjoy realised there may not be any difference in that manner. How he'd lived his life before and where he'd be after this foolish death, there really would be no difference; it was all dark.

Adeline always tried to pull him out of it, the work and the danger. Killjoy did not choose to be this way, it was just how he was. It was what he'd always known, what he was good at, what he enjoyed until now. He'd say there was no time for her or their family; there was always the next job and work to do.

But there was time, he soon realised. And now Killjoy would reap what he sowed.