Gremlins

They moved together, weaving through debris and shadows—never staying in one place long enough for danger to settle.

The air was thick with the scent of blood and stone.

Then the floor trembled beneath them. A deep, rumbling growl followed. Stones cracked somewhere in the distance.

"The monsters…" Elarin whispered, her ears twitching. "They're fighting. Against each other."

Caelan didn't stop moving. He just smirked. "Good news for us. Let them rip each other apart."

He stayed at the front, the chain slack coiled loosely in his hand, guiding them 

like a warhound through the slaughterhouse. Despite everything, everyone had fallen into a rhythm behind him. Even the noble, bitter as he was, followed.

Then—

"Wait," said the gray-haired boy. He slowed, squinting into the murk. "Slow down. I feel something."

Caelan stopped without question. Even with his honed sight, he could only see ten meters ahead in this gloom. That was the limit. He didn't dismiss the boy—just raised a hand, signaling everyone to freeze.

Luke leaned in close to Elarin, voice a whisper. "Can you hear anything ahead?"

Elarin closed her eyes, blocking everything else out—the pressure of movement, the warmth of breath, the stench of death. Her ears twitched slightly.

"…No," she said, strained. "Not clearly. The growling… the screams… they're everywhere. It's drowning everything out."

A tense silence followed, broken only by the whisper of disdain.

"Why are we even trusting this random?" the black-haired noble muttered. "This is how you die—standing still, like idiots."

Luke didn't turn. His voice stayed calm, sharp.

"Better safe than sorry."

He extended his hand toward the wall 

beside him, fingers brushing against the cold stone as if feeling the air, the vibrations.

Then the gray-haired boy crouched suddenly, palm flat against the ground.

"…Six people," he said. "Running. Straight at us."

Elarin's eyes widened. She focused harder. "He's right. North—still in chains. Coming fast."

Caelan turned immediately, eyes narrowing. "We move. Quietly. They might not be friendly."

The noble scowled. "Tch. So it begins…"

Luke stepped forward, voice low but firm.

"Everyone stay close. Don't shout. If they run past us, we let them. If they stop—we decide together what to do."

The ground trembled again—this time, not from monsters.

But from humans.

"Brace for impact," Luke jested dryly, though his body was already tense.

Then—

"AHHHH! HELP US—SOMEBODY, ANYBODY—"

The scream was cut short.

No echo. No reply.

Just silence.

The black-haired noble stiffened, his nose wrinkling. "Blood… up ahead."

Elarin's ears twitched violently. "Muffled voices… something pounding. Repetitive. Wet."

They crept forward. Caelan moved first, crouched low, a jagged chunk of stone gripped tight in one hand.

He saw it first.

SPLAT. CRACK. CRUNCH.

Three bodies lay crumpled on the ground, heads caved in—bone shattered beneath blunt force, brain matter leaking like soup from a cracked pot with a wet, sloshing sound.

Kneeling over them were three figures.

Two of them were small, wiry, and twitchy—gremlin-like, smeared in red, their mouths glistening with blood.

They held stones slick with gore, still pounding at the lifeless corpses.

THWACK.

SPLUT.

HEE-HEE-HEE!

Their laughter rang out—high-pitched, manic, childlike—as if they'd just unwrapped a long-awaited toy.

The third stood slightly taller. Lean.

Sharp yellowed teeth glinted beneath cracked lips.

Sunken eyes glowed with feral delight.

He didn't laugh.

He grinned.

A low, rumbling inhale—almost a purr—escaped his throat..

Luke saw them and immediately stepped back.

"Get ready," he whispered. "Even with our numbers… this could go bad fast."

Then the grinning one stood fully, snapping his neck side to side with a loud pop.

"LOOK BROTHA!" one of the gremlins squealed. "HAHAHA! THEY CAME RIGHT TO US! WE DIDN'T EVEN HAVE TO LOOK!"

"HAHAHA—HOW SHOULD WE KILL 'EM, BRO?" said the other, licking something red from his fingers.

The 'leader'—their "brotha"—snorted, arms wide in welcome.

"BASH THEIR HEADS!," he roared.

And lunged up.

"LOOK ALIVE, FOLKS!" Luke barked, his voice cutting through the thick tension like a blade.

"Caelan, front with me. Elarin—gather the others and head for the center. Pick up anything useful on the way. Don't worry about us."

There was no hesitation. Orders were clear. Everyone moved.

Caelan immediately tossed a blood-crusted stone to Luke without looking, then stepped forward beside him—like a living 

shield. "Let's give these freaks something to regret."

Luke caught the rock with one hand—but his eyes never left the bloodied 'leader.'

Then—motion.

Luke threw the rock with a sharp grunt of force.

The feral leader flinched, leaning to the side as the rock zipped past his head and clattered somewhere in the dark.

"HAHA! AMATEUR—YOU MISSED!"

But Luke was already there.

The moment the rock left his hand, he sprinted—full force—closing the distance 

before the gremlin could recover. His real weapon, a jagged, sharpened stone he'd palmed earlier, was already in motion.

SHKKT—

Luke buried the sharp edge into the gremlin's stomach.

The sound was thick. Wet. Gurgling.

The 'leader' gasped, eyes wide, blood already dripping down his lips. Luke didn't let go—not yet. He leaned in close, gripping the rock deeper, twisting.

"You talk too much."

Behind him, Caelan met the first gremlin charging with a brutal shoulder slam—knocking the smaller man backward into 

the stone wall with a sickening CRACK.

The second gremlin howled and lunged wildly—but Caelan moved like a predator. He caught the arm mid-swing, twisted it until bone popped, then drove his knee into the thing's ribs.

Luke pulled the rock free with a wet tear just as the 'leader' collapsed, lifeless.

Blood stained his hands now. It dripped down to his cuffs. His breath came ragged, but his eyes were cold.

This was survival.

And he had just made his first kill.

There was no time for second thoughts—Luke immediately darted toward Caelan.

But out of the corner of his eye, he saw it: another gremlin breaking off, heading straight for Elarin and the others like a starving hound sniffing out weakness.

Its limbs slapped the stone as it lunged forward, breath rattling—huhhh—huhhh—huhhh—in its throat.

Luke changed course mid-sprint, scraping against the wall as he plunged into the darkness after it, guided only by instinct and the faint echoes of movement.

His senses sharpened. The world narrowed down to breath, footfall, bloodlust.

Tap-tap-tap, his boots echoed beside the distorted slap-slap of the gremlin's crawling gait.

He had sent Elarin to the center for a reason. Not because it was safe—but because, paradoxically, it was safer. The beasts there fought one another in brutal, mindless chaos. Human survivors, on the other hand, were far more unpredictable. Some would protect. Others would prey. But monsters had patterns. People didn't.

By keeping the group near enough to skirt monster detection yet distant enough to avoid desperate humans, Luke had chosen the lesser of two evils.

Elarin's acute hearing made the maneuver possible—she could guide the others through that tight, living minefield, her ears picking up every distant clatter, rasp, and moan.

The gremlin—Luke's nickname for him, a man so warped by desperation he looked 

more beast than human—snarled as he charged through the blackness.

Hehh—hahh—gghhkk—

Driven by hunger and malice.

But blind with bloodlust, he never saw his end coming.

The beast that claimed him rose from the dark like a specter.

Then—

CRUNCH!!

A single shriek—"GAHHHH!"—ripped the air, but it was cut short.

Then silence.

SPLORCH.

A wet, sickening rip as the thing tore him apart.

Plop.

His head hit the stone floor.

Thud.

The rest followed.

Headless. Lifeless.

The gremlin's body fell limp, its blood painting the center redder than before.

Drip… drip… drip.

He never reached his prey.

Elarin had already steered them clear—she'd heard his ragged breathing, the frenzied footfalls, and veered them away just in time.

Luke heard the scream—a raw, broken sound that ended too suddenly.

SCHLUNK—CRACK—SPLAT.

Then silence.

He knew.

The "gremlin" was dead.

He cupped his hands and shouted, "ERALIN!"

A reply came, loud and clear despite the chaos:

"LUKE, WE'RE GOING TOWARDS YOU!"

The monsters didn't care. Their howls, snaps, and snarls drowned out everything else as they tore into one another, the floor soaked with gore and thrumming with violence.

Through the swirling black, Luke spotted a glimmer—mint green. Elarin's hair.

"What items have you picked?" he asked 

quickly, jogging up as she approached.

"A femur, some rocks, and a decapitated arm," Elarin answered flatly, as if listing groceries.

"Give me the femur. I have to help Caelan."

Without hesitation, Elarin tossed it—whap!—into his hands.

Luke caught it and dashed off, memory guiding him through the darkness.

Tap-tap-tap! His boots beat a path through the blood-slicked stone.

He shouted ahead, "CAELAN, CATCH!"

Caelan turned at the sound—just in time to see the white femur flying toward him.

Thunk! He snatched it out of the air.

The second gremlin—a man twisted by madness and hunger, another one of the "brothers"—froze. The way Luke and Caelan moved. The coordination. The confidence.

It meant his brother had failed.

His rage boiled over.

With a bestial screech, he lunged at Caelan.

But Caelan, now armed, didn't hesitate.

CRACK!

The femur smashed into the side of the gremlin's skull—

THUD.

He collapsed in a heap, unconscious.

Caelan stood over him, breathing hard.

Then, without a word, he turned and 

jogged back toward Luke.

Together, they regrouped with the others—back in formation, back in motion.

After regrouping, a voice cracked through the air like a whip.

"YOU IMBECILE!"

The black-haired noble stepped forward, his face twisted with fury.

"WHY DID YOU ORDER US TO GO TO THE CENTER?! WHAT IS THIS, A SUICIDE MISSION?!"

His voice rang out above the distant roars, squelching, and tearing flesh of monsters locked in savage battle.

Drip… drip…

Blood from the ceiling. Or the walls. Or maybe both.

No one could tell anymore.

Luke raised a hand—calm but firm.

"I chose the center because the beasts are too busy tearing each other apart to notice us. The real danger? The other survivors. We're less likely to be hunted if we stay near but not in the chaos."

His voice was measured—loud enough to cut through fear, steady enough to force attention.

"And Elarin's hearing gave us a path. No one else here could've done that."

The noble bit his lip, looking away—but didn't argue.

Elarin blinked, surprised. Her eyes widened slightly as she turned to Luke.

He caught the expression—and something 

inside him paused.

She hadn't questioned him at all.

She hadn't hesitated.

She had trusted him. Blindly.

Luke's chest tightened.

He blushed—just a flicker, a moment of warmth in the cold, death-choked air.

But behind it was a pang of worry.

That kind of trust… in a place like this…

It was dangerous.

She trusted him more than he trusted himself.

Luke looked away quickly, then exhaled.

Focus.

There was no time to dwell.

Not here...