The Last Night on Arnan (2)

Rudy didn't remember letting the spear slip down to his side. He only realized it when the hard wood almost dropped from his hand, the cold of the metal tip biting against his shin. His knuckles were white, his breath ragged, and his heart hammered like a war drum inside his chest.

He stood at the edge of the south gate, shadows flickering in the light of the Arias moons above. Reds, greens, and blues rippled over the terrified faces of families who huddled nearby, waiting for a word from the chief, or hoping they would wake up from this nightmare.

He heard a child sobbing long before he saw what was left of her family's house. Around him, villagers whispered, Held their shivering children and prayed. It was usually quiet at night in Arnan, but now—now there was nothing but distant chaos, the crash and bang of weapons, and inhuman sounds echoing from the center of the village.

Rudy wanted to run, to hide, to find the comfort of his own home where his mother always hummed softly in the dark, where his uncle told him to be brave even when monsters were just stories and shadows. But that world was gone. The world was knives, screams, sweat, and panic.

He looked for the chief, hoping for some kind of direction. The old man had told him to watch the south gate, but now the chief was gone, lost in the chaos. Rudy stood frozen, unable to gather his thoughts as more people ran toward him, eyes wild.

Something sharp split the night—a high-pitched cry. It was close, desperate. Rudy's body moved before his mind caught up. He ran toward the center, feet barely touching the ground, clinging to the spear with both hands.

The closer he got to the village hall, the worse everything became. Broken lanterns spilled faint light over the sticky ground. Blood shone black under the colored moons. A group of people clawed at the closed backdoor, pleading for someone to let them out. Their faces were twisted with terror—he recognized a neighbor who had helped him repair a roof just a week ago.

He didn't see Keynes at first. All he knew was that the door to the main hall hung limply on its hinges, shaking with the force of something heavy. Shadowy forms, half-hidden, bumped and slipped inside. He saw white cloth stained red, hands slamming into windows, and faces pressed to the dirty glass.

The village he loved was nothing but a painting of chaos.

Suddenly, glass shattered. A shape collapsed through the window, rolled, and staggered upright. Lantern light revealed it was Keynes, face smeared with blood, shirt torn, arm hanging strangely.

Rudy's blood ran cold. "Keynes!" he shouted, running forward, barely dodging the hands that reached from the darkness beside the hall.

Keynes gasped, eyes unfocused. "They're all—they're all changed," he stammered. His words were lost, but his hands and knees told Rudy all he needed to know.

Behind him, in the hall, those terrible figures—once people, now monsters—spilled through the doors, tumbling over one another, moaning and chomping air with hungry jaws. Some villagers tried to run, but the dead caught them by the legs and pulled them down.

Rudy's heart screamed in his chest. He lifted his spear, shaking, feeling his body not obey his wishes. He needed Keynes to look at him, to recognize him, to keep moving. "Keynes! Stand up! We have to run!" he cried.

For a moment, it seemed Keynes might collapse again, but the movement in the darkness drew him back. One of the monsters had almost grabbed his foot. Rudy leapt between them, thrust his spear at the villager—it sank into the chest, red fluid pouring from the wound, but still the thing… supposed to be dead villagers moved.

Rudy's legs trembled. "No, no, please no," he whispered. He yanked the spear free and kicked, sending the monster staggering backward into another group. His mind flashed with memories of happier times. Eating sweets after a harvest, watching the Arias with his father, playing near the stream.

He wanted to stay in those memories. But all around, reality washed back in—broken doors, dead friends, something moving at the edge of every shadow.

"Please, Keynes! Don't give up!" Rudy said. His voice cracked like glass. But Keynes barely moved.

A child's cry tore through the night—high, shrill, full of terror. It was so sharp even the dead seemed to snap their heads toward the sound. Rudy saw a little boy—barefoot, mud-caked, stumbling. He recognized the boy as the miller's son.

All at once, the monsters changed direction. Their eyes—lifeless, glassy—focused on the child.

Rudy's stomach twisted. "The kid—the kid!" he screamed to Keynes.

Keynes, dazed and injured, pushed himself up. Beads of sweat trickled down his face, mixing with the blood. He looked at Rudy, then at the boy.

A table stood nearby, one leg splintered. Keynes staggered over, gave it a wild kick toward the crawling monsters, then ran to the child, scooped him up, and shrieked, "Run! This way!"

As Rudy turned to help, a new sound shattered the world—a tremendous crash from the west. It was followed by a deep, bellowing howl. The ground jumped. Rudy looked up just in time to see the village wall apart. Huge logs, thick as big as a three to five man's waist, soared overhead, knocking houses apart and crushing anything in their path.

A wave of horror washed through the villagers. They ran for the gates, pushing past each other, trampling those who fell. Rudy grabbed hold of Keynes and the child. "To the north—run!" he screamed.

But the logs kept coming, one bouncing inches from Rudy's head, spraying splinters in all directions. He shielded himself, felt the sting as tiny cuts opened across his arms and face.

Through it all, the monsters hunted. Some villagers were crushed, others bitten and torn by the dead. Rudy watched in horror as the little boy's grip weakened in Keynes's hand.

Keynes shouted, "Come on, don't let go!" but the boy's body jerked oddly. The arm came away in Keynes's grip, torn loose by wood chips flying like knives through the air. Rudy watched, helpless, as Keynes froze—holding just an arm, the child already gone.

The noise and confusion, the sound of death everywhere, the burn of sweat and blood—it all crushed Rudy's mind.

He wanted to fall, just for a second. Nothing made sense anymore. Monsters swarmed, logs flew, houses fell… childhood ended right now. He screamed for Keynes, but even his own voice disappeared in the endless chaos.

Suddenly, he felt hands dragging at him, and he realized Keynes had fallen—adrenaline and injury finally catching up. Rudy screamed, "Get up! We can't stop! PLEASE!" but Keynes's eyes were already glassy.

A new scream rose—pain, fear, finality. Rudy spun about. The village chief, legendary in Rudy's heart, charged through what was once the main street, sword brandished, shielding a wounded woman and her daughter.

That was when a goblin that lost half of its face leapt at him, claws digging. Rudy gasped, cried out, but the chief spun, slicing the goblin while yelling for the woman to run.

They did not get far. Another wolfy, this one bigger and more dangerous, rushed forward. The chief stabbed at it, but the beast tossed him like rubbish. Goblins and supposed villagers descended. Rudy saw, in sick detail, the chief's body torn open, intestines pulled out, twitching and jerking in a sea of teeth.

He braced himself, hugged Keynes's head to his chest, and squeezed his own eyes closed. This is not real. This is not real. But the world was cruelly real.

He opened his eyes and saw Keynes's lips moving, forming a wordless plea. He shook his friend hard. "Keynes—KEYNES! This is no time to wail!" With a final effort, he hauled Keynes up, half-dragging, half-carrying him.

They ran toward the north gate. Villagers surged with them, propelled by the pure terror behind them. Some fell, tripped, or clutched wounds. Rudy grabbed those he could. others the monsters caught. He wanted to pull them all, but it was impossible—a river of blood and pain separated the living from the dead.

He did not look back. He could not. If he ever truly looked, his courage would surely be swallowed whole.

***

The world had become blurred with pain and noise. Everything Keynes saw was streaked with blood and shadow. His muscles screamed, and his mind spun. He forced himself to move, but his legs felt heavy as stone, and every step sent fire through his wounded side.

He became aware of Rudy's hand gripping his arm, dragging him, pleading. All around, the village he knew was torn apart—homes burning, familiar faces twisted with terror or madness. He barely heard Rudy's desperate cries or the pounding footsteps of others running past. His ears filled with a dull rushing, louder than any words.

He glanced down and finally saw what he clutched in his hand—a small bloody arm no longer attached to its owner. The truth struck him like another blow. The child. The village. Everyone. Gone.

His thoughts began to slip. He told himself to focus, to not lose himself in the horror, but the pain pulled at the edge of his vision, blurring the world. Something inside him wanted to collapse among the wreckage and give up, to just let himself fall and join the rest of the broken village.

But a voice—Rudy's voice—cut through. "Keynes! Move. We're almost out. Don't look back." Keynes felt Rudy's arm around his shoulders, the desperate grip keeping him upright, giving him direction when his own feet could not remember how to run.

A fresh wave of villagers fled past, pushing and stumbling, crying for names and for help that would not come. Keynes saw familiar faces—neighbors, old friends—transformed by wounds and fear. Many fell before they even reached the road, pulled under by hands that only a day ago had baked bread, sharpened knives, or tilled the land.

Screams split the air—a sound of pure terror, a sound that felt like glass shattering in the heart. The north gate appeared through smoke and haze, the wooden posts now splintered and hanging loose.

Keynes limped over broken ground. Something sharp jabbed his foot inside his boot, but he kept going, half-supported by Rudy. Once, he tripped, his vision filled with dirt and gore. Rudy yanked him up again, voice steady even as it trembled. "Stay with me, Keynes. Just a little more. We're leaving. We're getting out."

Through the ruined gate, the fields waited—silent except for the distant, echoing growls of monsters and the shrill wails fading behind them. The crowd thinning around him shrank to only a handful—a mother, pale as milk, clutching a silent bundle, an old man in his night-shirt, arm broken, eyes lost. The rest—the rest could not be saved.

There was one last surge of chaos—creatures howling, wood cracking, a final wave of villagers screaming as they were pulled down. Keynes felt his stomach wrench as he recognized the smith, still fighting with his hammers, and then the smith was gone too, his cries swallowed by the monstrous, hungry crowd.

He and Rudy burst out into the cool night air beyond the walls, few enough to count on their fingers. After sure they are far away from the supposed to be Arnan Village, Keynes dropped to his knees and retched, body shaking. His mind hovered between relief and despair. His hands shook uncontrollably.

Rudy crouched next to him, blood and sweat making streaks on his dirty face. "We survived. We made it out," he whispered, more to himself than to Keynes.

Keynes dared look back once. The village burned and bled and howled. The sky was a sick painting of flames and colored moons—reds and greens shifting over collapsed roofs, spilled cooking pots, windows cracked and empty. Here and there a pale figure stumbled through the streets, still searching for someone lost.

A numbness washed over Keynes, one deeper than pain. He stared at his shaking hand, remembered the feel of the child's grip, and blinked away tears he could no longer hold back.

The world outside Arnan was dark, the road ahead empty and uncertain. But behind them was only death and shadow. There was nothing left to do but stand, help the others to their feet, and keep walking.

He looked to Rudy—his last connection to the life he had known—then to the other survivors, huddled together in fear, the wilderness before them and a nightmare at their backs.

No words came. None were needed. The silence of escape, the hollow spaces where hope used to live—this was all that remained.

Keynes took a step forward, and then another, walking into the cold night with Rudy at his side, as the screams and growls from Arnan faded into memory and the darkness closed behind them.