The Bombers’ Toll

The stillness of the forest pressed in, a thick blanket of tension wrapped around them like a noose. Étienne's breath came shallow, eyes darting toward the shadow he'd glimpsed moving between the trees. He didn't speak, but his hand tightened around the hilt of his saber, his muscles coiling, ready for a fight.

It wasn't long before the first figure emerged from the undergrowth, its silhouette jagged and broken, like a discarded rag doll caught in a gust of wind. It was slow at first, dragging itself forward, stumbling as if uncertain. Then, another appeared behind it, its limbs swaying grotesquely, moving with an unnatural gait that was neither deliberate nor accidental.

Étienne's heart skipped a beat. These weren't just any undead they had the unmistakable signs of Bombers, those cursed horrors that had plagued the survivors ever since the plague had first spread across France. They were called Bombers because of what they did when they were killed: explode.

But these weren't just one or two Bombers. There were at least half a dozen of them, shuffling out of the trees in a sickly procession. Their movements were erratic, like marionettes with their strings cut. Their bodies were swollen, bloated with decay, skin stretched thin over distended guts. Some of them had pieces of their faces torn away, exposing the blackened skull beneath, and others had limbs that were little more than gnawed bones, dragging against the dirt.

A low groan escaped from one of them, a rasping sound that echoed unnervingly in the quiet night. Then another, and another, until they all began to moan in unison. The sound was like a chorus of death, a warning of the horror they were about to face.

Jean-Luc's voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper. "We need to take them out before they get too close." He tightened his grip on his pistol, the worn wood creaking under his hand. "But if they explode when we shoot them..."

"We wait too long, and we're all dead," Étienne said coldly, his gaze never leaving the advancing Bombers. He felt the weight of his decision, but there was no time to hesitate. The risk was one they had to take.

Heinrich, already setting up his rifle, spoke grimly. "We have to shoot them in the head. A body shot will just make them explode."

Étienne nodded, his mind racing. The Bombers were dangerous, but their true terror was in their explosive deaths. If one of them went off too close, it could bring the entire group down. No, they had to do this carefully.

He raised his musket, the familiar weight of it in his hands steadying his nerves. His heart beat steadily, the rhythm matching the slow shuffle of the Bombers. As his finger brushed the trigger guard, he caught the faintest whiff of the rancid smell that clung to their bloated bodies an overpowering mix of rot, sulfur, and something far worse.

The first Bomber drew nearer, a grotesque figure that seemed to lurch toward them like a nightmare come to life.

"Now," Étienne muttered.

With a single, practiced motion, he aimed for the creature's head. The crack of the musket echoed through the clearing.

The Bomber's head burst in a spray of blackened gore, but instead of collapsing lifelessly to the ground, its body erupted. The explosion was deafening, a violent burst that sent a shockwave rippling through the air, knocking Étienne and the others off balance. The smell of burnt flesh and sulfur filled their noses as they scrambled to avoid the flying shrapnel and chunks of the creature's disintegrated form. The blast had torn a hole in the earth, a jagged crater where the Bomber had once stood.

"Get down!" Étienne shouted, his voice urgent.

But it was too late.

The second Bomber, now enraged by the noise, surged forward, stumbling over its own torn limbs. Without warning, it let out a rasping shriek a horrific, guttural sound that seemed to rattle the very trees around them and then the unmistakable bloated body exploded. The blast rocked the clearing again, showering them with debris and a mist of blood and rotten flesh. This one was closer.

Marie cried out as a piece of shrapnel grazed her cheek, and Heinrich staggered back, one of his boots caught in the loose dirt. Jean-Luc dove behind a tree, swearing under his breath as the force of the explosion rattled the ground beneath him.

Another Bomber appeared from the shadows. Its swollen form twisted grotesquely as it advanced, dragging itself along with a jerky, lurching gait. Étienne didn't hesitate this time. He fired again, the musket flaring bright in the dimness of the forest.

The shot landed true, but the explosion was too close for comfort. This time, Étienne was knocked off his feet, the impact throwing him to the ground with a bone-jarring thud. His head spun as he tried to push himself up, the acrid smoke from the explosion stinging his eyes, his ears ringing from the concussive blast.

He could barely see through the smoke, but he heard Jean-Luc's voice, sharp and panicked. "We can't keep doing this! They'll tear us apart!"

"Stay focused!" Étienne shouted, dragging himself to his feet. He wiped blood and soot from his face, his heart racing. The Bombers were relentless every shot was a gamble, every blast a risk they couldn't afford. But they had no choice.

A fourth Bomber stumbled forward, and this time Étienne knew they couldn't wait. He charged, saber drawn, the edge glinting in the faint firelight. The Bomber turned toward him, its dead eyes vacant as it let out an incoherent scream. Its bloated body swelled as Étienne moved in, the seconds feeling like hours.

With a swift slash, he severed the creature's head clean off. The Bomber's body lurched forward as if unaware of its own destruction but then, just as Étienne had feared, the detonation came. A massive explosion sent Étienne flying backward, his saber slipping from his hand as the ground heaved beneath him.

Dazed and bleeding, Étienne pushed himself up, the ringing in his ears slowly fading as he took stock of the scene around him. Jean-Luc was already moving, dragging Marie to her feet as she wiped the blood from her eyes. Heinrich had taken cover behind a nearby rock, his rifle still steady in his hands.

The clearing was filled with the acrid smoke of the explosions, the trees around them scarred and blackened from the blasts. The ground was littered with remnants of the Bombers, chunks of flesh and bone scattered like macabre confetti.

"Are we done?" Jean-Luc asked, his voice tense, but there was relief in his eyes.

Étienne looked around, scanning the forest. The threat wasn't over, but the immediate danger had passed.

"For now," he said, his voice tight with exhaustion. He stood shakily, wiping the blood from his face. The last of the Bombers had been dealt with, but Étienne knew that the explosion had likely attracted more attention. The undead were relentless, and this was only a small fraction of the terror they would face.

"Let's move out," he ordered. "We need to keep moving. We can't afford to rest for long."

They gathered their things quickly, their eyes still scanning the shadows of the trees. The Bombers were gone, but the night had grown darker, and something told Étienne that the worst was yet to come.