Tales of the Wastelander Ch. 47 - Teaser (Patreon)

The hospital loomed ahead, its silhouette stark against the gray wash of sky. Relief tugged at every face—Byanka’s shoulders eased and Mellany let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Even the Darkwolves perked up, ears forward, tails giving the faintest wag. For a heartbeat, the sight of that sturdy shape promised safety, a place where walls and height would buy them rest… then the ground trembled.

The rhythm was unmistakable. Heavy, deliberate, earth-hammering steps reverberated through the cracked asphalt. Bellona froze, her eyes widening, her whole body going taut as a bowstring. Her lips didn’t move, but her voice resonated in every mind present like a cold finger dragged across their thoughts.

‘Bellower. Stay quiet!’

The command sank deep, and not a sound followed. Even the Darkwolves stilled, their hackles bristling but not a whimper escaping them. Vesna’s tail stopped mid-wag, Odyn’s ears flattened, Achilles pressed low against the ground, and Ahmalia’s yellow eyes burned, unblinking, locked on the street ahead. The thudding footfalls grew louder, nearer, until the thing shambled into view and Ben’s breath caught.

This Bellower was not the towering nightmare he and Zandyr had glimpsed in the night, but it was no less monstrous. Standing just over nine feet, its body was a grotesque parody of strength. Thick cords of muscle knotted beneath sickly greenish-gray flesh, parts of it stretched too tight, other places hanging loose in leathery folds. Its arms were long, one dangling low enough that clawed fingers scraped sparks from broken concrete as it walked. Its chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, ribs ridged beneath the skin, each breath like a furnace dragging air into a cavernous maw.

And then there was the clothing.

Primitive wrappings covered its body in patches, strips of cloth and scavenged leather crudely tied together, knotted over its waist, shoulders, and thighs. Not armor, as it offered no protection, but this was modest and deliberate concealment. Its groin was swathed tightly in darkened fabric, as though something beneath needed to be hidden. Ben felt his stomach twist at the sight. Screamers didn’t wear clothes because they didn’t and they had no gender to hide.

The Bellower’s head tilted as it moved, though not toward them. Its face was a ruin of bone and meat: eyes milky white yet somehow aware, a nose collapsed inward, and a mouth split wide, teeth jagged and yellow. Where its skin cracked, a sickly pallor oozed black ichor that glistened in the wan light. Ben forced his breath slow, steady, and touched Bellona’s shoulder lightly as he caught her attention and thought what he wanted to say.

‘Can you feel anything? Anything about it that’s… vulnerable?’

She closed her eyes, her brow knitting as she reached inward. The silence stretched thin until her mental voice brushed against them all, urgent and clipped.

‘Yes. Three places. The armpits—the flesh there is thinner. The throat—not as armored as I thought. And the chest… its heart is oversized. Too large for its body. A single perfect strike could end it, but miss, and it will scream. And if it screams…’

No one needed her to finish the thought. Ben swallowed, gaze fixed on the massive thing as it lurched past their hiding place.

‘Then we don’t let it scream,’ Ben stated, his mental tone calm, decisive. ‘I’ll pepper it with a couple of arrows and force it to turn. When it exposes its throat, that’s when you and the others strike. If it can’t breathe, it can’t bellow and if it can’t bellow, it can’t call the horde.’

‘Risky,’ Bellona thought as her lips parted in the faintest trace of a protest, but she closed them just as fast as she grasped what Ben was after. ‘But… it will give us answers about them, which we need if we are to survive this place.’