Short Story: The Factory

Warning: This contains fictional dark/fantasy violence

I could still remember the smell in the air. The fresh rain mixed with thick smoke, harsh enough to stop your lungs from filling with the oxygen they screamed for. It felt like it was clawing at my throat, scratching down the walls of my insides as it burnt all of my senses.

It was tough being out here, but out here was my only home.

The burning chemical factory roared in the distance, it usually wasn't this aggressive, maybe it was another fire that broke loose through the decaying tanks, or maybe it was just a harsher chemical they were using in their attempts to invent a new, stronger disease.

Whatever they were doing, it didn’t leave a positive impact on my body. And it definitely didn’t help my situation.

I was being hunted like a dog, wanted for them to rip my flesh off for their new rug, stuff my head for their mantelpiece. All so that they could brag “I killed a werewolf!”

They were mistaken if they think they could catch me, let alone hunt me. Because stepping into these woods, stepping onto my infested ground, would get them nowhere but below it.

As I weaved between the trees, an arrow flew past me, narrowly missing my shoulder. I dropped my hands to the ground and took off on all fours, my speed quickening as my instincts for survival took control.

I sniffed them out, like the prey they were. I pounced on them, and mauled them.

Their flesh tasted like fresh meat, but their blood tasted like ash. But what else was to be expected? I’m not a vampire after all.

I couldn’t deal with the rest of them, the heavy rain created such thick mud that it was turning to liquid under my boots. Making it impossible to dispose of their remains.

The newly formed smell of metal mingled with the remaining scent in the air.

I raised my nose to the sky, the moonlight shining down on me through the dense darkness of the trees. The factory almost blocking my view.

In a world lusting for hunger, we strive to kill one another. We’re monsters to them, but we never strike first.

(Might be continued...)