Night of Arrows

The steam curled lazily from the chipped old mug as Brendon poured himself a cup of bitter black coffee.

The faint, earthy scent of wood and damp stone filled Dr. Grimm's small cabin. It was quiet—almost unnaturally so. Only the occasional crackle from the fireplace broke the silence.

Across the room, Liam slumped against the wooden support beam where he was tied, his arms limp but his eyes sharp, alert, always watching.

Brendon took a sip and grimaced at the bitterness.

He crossed the room slowly, the mug warming his hand, and stood before Liam.

Second round.

"Alright," Brendon said, voice low but firm. "Tell me. What happened to Dr. Grimm? Where is he?"

Liam chuckled under his breath. A dry, humorless sound.

"So you came back for him, huh?" Liam leaned his head against the post behind him, the ropes biting into his skin but not seeming to bother him in the slightest.

"You're totally clueless, man."

Brendon narrowed his eyes. "Clueless about what?"

Liam shrugged as much as the restraints would allow.

"You're asking the wrong questions. You shouldn't be wondering where that madman is." His smile was cold and empty.

"You should be asking... what the hell he's planning next."

Brendon's grip tightened on his mug. "What do you—"

Crash!

The windows exploded inward without warning.

Glass shards flew like razors.

In the same breath, arrows tore through the cabin.

One slammed straight into Liam's chest.

He jerked once, eyes wide, mouth open in a gasp that never finished. Blood bloomed across his shirt as he slumped against the ropes—lifeless.

Brendon barely had time to react.

Another arrow screamed through the air, and though he twisted instinctively to dodge, the sharp head caught his left shoulder.

Thwack!

Pain exploded down his arm, hot and raw.

He dropped the mug, and it shattered on the wooden floor.

Gritting his teeth, Brendon ducked low behind the thick wooden table as more arrows thudded into the walls, chairs, and floorboards around him.

The sound was deafening—the hum of arrows cutting through the air, the crack of impact, the whir of bowstrings.

Think!

He waited, heart hammering in his chest.

The first storm passed after a few seconds that felt like an eternity.

He risked a glance over the edge of the table.

The cabin door creaked open.

Figures entered.

Hybrids—clearly hybrids—dressed in worn cloaks. Their faces were obscured by hoods, but what caught Brendon's attention were their eyes.

Or rather—the absence of life in them.

Wide, unblinking. Vacant.

They moved stiffly, mechanically, like puppets on strings.

What the hell is this? Brendon thought, pushing down the rising panic.

As one of them lunged toward him, Brendon gritted his teeth, blood from his shoulder dripping down his sleeve.

Now!

He surged forward.

His injured arm screamed in protest, but he ignored it, throwing his full weight into a brutal tackle.

The first attacker went down hard.

Before the second one could react, Brendon pivoted and drove his elbow into their jaw, knocking them into a side table, which collapsed with a crash.

Two more rushed him.

Brendon ducked under a wild swing, grabbed a chair, and hurled it into their path, buying a few precious seconds.

Gotta get out. Now.

He bolted for the door, leaping over the body of Liam and smashing his shoulder—injured and all—into the frame to force it open wider.

Outside, the night air hit him like a slap.

But there was no time to savor it.

At least half a dozen more figures waited in the clearing, bows and crossbows raised.

Brendon skidded to a halt.

Seriously? he thought, exasperated even through the adrenaline rush. Am I in some medieval fantasy or something?!

An arrow whizzed past his ear.

No time to waste.

He sprinted.

Arrows rained around him—thudding into trees, kicking up dirt, slicing through the air just inches from his body.

His lungs burned, and every step jarred his wounded shoulder, but he forced himself forward, zigzagging wildly.

A bolt nicked his side, another grazed his thigh.

Still, he ran.

Branches whipped at his face as he dove into the thicker parts of the woods, using the trees for cover. His mind raced, searching for a plan, an escape route.

But he had no sense of direction.

The island was unfamiliar, and in the growing darkness, every path looked the same.

He could hear them behind him—shouts, the pounding of footsteps, the sharp twang of more bowstrings being drawn.

His legs screamed for rest, but he pushed harder.

Can't stop. Can't fight them all.

Another clearing.

A rocky slope.

And beyond it—moonlight glittering on open water.

The end of the island.

Brendon skidded to a halt, gravel crunching under his boots.

Ahead was the sea.

Behind, the thudding of feet grew louder.

He turned, panting, weighing his options.

Fight back?

The thought tempted him.

He could probably take a few down.

He was strong. Fast.

But… he was injured.

Outnumbered.

And the way those hybrids moved... something was deeply wrong with them.

It wasn't a fight he could win cleanly—not without serious risk.

And if he got caught... or killed...

Screw that.

The decision crystallized instantly.

He turned back toward the sea.

The rocky ledge wasn't high—but it wasn't exactly low either.

Jagged rocks loomed at the bottom, waves crashing hungrily against them.

But if he aimed right…

If he pushed off hard enough…

He could make it into the deeper water.

He heard a voice behind him—sharp, commanding, inhuman.

No time.

With a savage yell, Brendon charged the edge.

His muscles coiled like springs.

And he leapt.

For a split second, he was airborne, suspended in nothingness.

Then the world tilted, and he plummeted downward toward the churning waves.

SPLASH!

The impact knocked the air from his lungs, the cold biting deep.

The salt stung his eyes, his wound screamed in agony, but he kicked hard, forcing himself to surface.

Gasping, coughing, he treaded water and looked back.

Figures crowded the edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the night sky.

Some raised bows again—but hesitated.

Arrows wouldn't do much here.

Brendon turned and swam, each stroke sending jolts of pain through his body, but he didn't stop.

He didn't dare.

There was no plan anymore.

No sense of where to go.

Just away.

Away from the deathtrap Lagooncrest had suddenly become.

The tide pulled at him, but he fought it, willing his body to obey even as exhaustion clawed at his bones.

He didn't know how long he swam—minutes, maybe hours.

The island shrank behind him, swallowed by darkness.

Eventually, his strength gave out, and he clung to a floating piece of driftwood, chest heaving, wounded arm limp at his side.

Above, the stars blinked coldly down at him.

"It seems I just survived a nightmare."