Today we’re starting a new series in preparation for our first game release, Hunters: Battle of Arkady. We’ll be posting short fiction pieces, one for each playable character from the game. Each story will give a little background for the characters, showcase their personalities, and show how their story meshes with the others.
The first story is Erica Morgan’s. She’s a local girl who discovers her psychic powers when the Monster legions begin attacking Arkady, Illinois.Â
Erica Morgan, Playable Character
Erica brushed a strand of golden blond hair out of her eyes and looked up at the sky. What was up with the odd weather this afternoon? There wasnât a cloud to be seen, and yet the air had a dense, thick quality to it and the sun seemed somehow dimmed; it felt like that tense moment right before a rainstorm breaks–only without the storm. She sighed, hunched her shoulders, and turned toward the post office door behind her, shaking her head. Maybe it was just in her mind.
Movement caught the corner of her vision, and she swung back to squint at the gutter across the street. Surely she hadnât just seen what she thought sheâd seen. Arkady, Illinois had a really impressive infestation of snakes in the city sewer system given how small the town was; before the cancer took him, her father had once half-jokingly suggested to the city council that they list the snakes as a tourist attraction. After all, if they couldnât get rid of the things, heâd reasoned, theyâd might as well put them to work. Erica scrubbed one calloused hand over her eyes at the memory, and mentally berated herself for letting her imagination run away with her. It had just been a snake; it couldnât possibly have been a tentacle coming out of that grate.
The athletic young woman ducked into the post office and scooped up her mail, then scooted back to the beat-up blue Chevy that had been her only inheritance; her father had never much believed in planning for the future, preferring instead to focus on living in the moment. The engine coughed once and lurched as she peeled out, headed for the edge of town. She had the strong urge to just go home, lock all the doors, and let today just pass on by.
She didnât notice the figure standing around the side of the post office, watching her.
A few quiet minutes later (radio reception outside of town had always been bad but today there was nothing but static across the dial; the radio mustâve given up the ghost at last), the old blue truck pulled up before a weathered two-story house next to an equally antiquated barn. An old, swaybacked rusty-brown horse was the only welcome-home reception waiting for her in the yard. He put his head over the fence gate and let out a nicker in greeting.
Erica hopped out of the truck and swung the creaking door shut behind her, the bundle of mail tucked under one arm. She smiled and went to return the greeting.
âHey Baron. Howâs the grass, old man?â Baronâs soft nose nudged her elbow, looking for a treat. Long past his prime, but still strong in his old age, the workhorse had gotten spoiled; when she was younger, sheâd delighted in sneaking treats to him, and heâd gotten a little too accustomed to it over the years. She chuckled and fished a carrot out of her coat pocket. âCome on, letâs get you inside.â Glancing at the sky again, she added, âIâll feel better with this place all locked up tight.â
She opened the gate and led Baron toward his cozy stall. He followed along agreeably enough, breath snuffling in her hair and letting out the occasional snort; maybe he was feeling the strangeness of the day, too. Erica settled her hoofed friend (really her only friend, if she was being honest) with plenty of hay, fresh water, and an affectionate pat on his neck, then locked the barn up carefully–checking every door and even inspecting the walls for termite holes and weak boards. Satisfied at last, she crossed the yard and headed for the safe harbor of the house. She pulled out her cell phone to check her messages, but the little symbol said âNo Service.â That was strange, the service was usually great out here; there must be a tower down somewhere.
Or something.
She walked a little faster.
Once inside the front hall, she hung her coat on a peg and tossed the mail onto the little side table that had been her grandmotherâs. It was probably all bills and catalogues; hardly anyone wrote letters anymore.
âMother?â She listened, but there was no answer to her call.
Erica frowned, shifting from foot to foot, her sneakers creaking a bit. The house wasnât just quiet, it was silent. It wasnât like Mother to go out; she didnât move very fast anymore since her joints had started to go, so she tended to stay in her own room, or the living room, as much as possible. âMother! Iâm back from town. Are you upstairs?â
Still no answer.
Erica vaulted the stairs two at a time, her heart pounding. Something was wrong, she could feel it. She didnât even knock at the bedroom door, just shouldering it aside and coming to a halt.
A small scream escaped her lips. Weak, watery sunlight picked out the details of the scene in all its horrific detail. Mother lay sprawled on her back across the cotton quilt with her guts torn out as if by some wild beast, her arms flung out to her sides and face turned toward the wall. Blood dripped to the floor from the soaked bedspread and flies clouded over the body, their drone filling Ericaâs mind. She took a slow step forward, numb, dazed.
A knock at the door echoed through the house, snapping her back to reality. She shook her head back and forth for a moment, trying to clear it of that incessant droning, then turned toward the door. Maybe whoever was there could go for help?
As her wits skipped from thought to thought without guidance or purpose, her body reacted to some other instinct independent of conscious direction. She stepped into her own bedroom, lifted her fatherâs shotgun down off the wall, loaded it, and headed for the door. The knocking came again, quieter this time. With the shotgun held to the side, she opened the door on a figure swathed in the gathering afternoon shadows of the veranda.
âYes? What do you–â
The young woman stepped in toward the open door with some primal, silent menace, and–obeying an unconscious impulse–Erica just managed to slam the door in her face before she crossed the threshold.
Or, rather, her lack of a face.
Smooth, pallid skin curved gracefully below a crop of pleasant auburn hair, devoid of features but bent forward with some terrible intent she couldnât identify precisely except that it gave her a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. Some distant corner of Ericaâs mind had noted the womanâs plain sundress had been soiled and stained with blood, but she was too busy to think about it, throwing the deadbolt before running to the back door to lock it, too. She slumped against the back door, her breathing coming in ragged gasps, her mind racing. Were all the windows closed? What was that⌠thing? Would it try to get in? How fast could it climb?
A noise made her look up, and she choked.
Mother was standing at the end of the hall.
Dead, white eyes gazed mindlessly at her, shriveled feet carrying Mother toward her slowly with shuffling, unsteady steps. Withered arms extended, a plaintive moan boiling up from somewhere in the glistening, gaping belly-wounds, a hanging mass of entrails dragging red streaks along the wooden floor.
Erica brought the shotgun up, all her impulses screaming at her to fight. Her finger spasmed on the trigger as Motherâs corpse lurched toward her, and the report rang in her ears–the force of the recoil making her shoulder jerk harshly. But her aim had been true. The shot pellets glowed pale blue as they ripped through Motherâs head, reducing it to ribbons and spraying them down the hallway. The corpse went limp, toppling over backward with a heavy, wet thump.
Ericaâs shoulders shook violently, sobs catching in her throat as she clutched the shotgun in shaking hands, slumping to her knees. She wanted nothing more than to escape from the world; from Mother and the ominous day and the faceless woman on the doorstep and everything else. Just make it all go away. The hall, with itâs stink of blood and death, faded from her sight.
Another knock came from the front door, and she stared at it wild-eyed. But a reassuring voice came from the other side. A manâs voice.
âHello? Miss Morgan?â He called to her, silhouetted through the narrow window next to the door by the failing afternoon light. âAre you all right in there? Itâs okay to come out, the monster is dead. I put her down. Iâm here to help you, if youâll let me in.â
The doorknob rattled, and Erica pushed herself to her feet. She hesitated.
âPlease, miss.â He called to her again. âThere are more coming.â
She opened the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All content is the property of Roan Arts LLC. Copying or reproduction for profit or without attribution without permission is not permitted. The authors are Lia Wolff and James Weimer. The artist is Caytlin Vilbrandt.
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