Chapter Text
Maintenance...
The air is hot in the bunker, warmed by the bodies, and stenched with death. We go slow into the beast's lair, our steps are too loud, our ears are too strained; but still we go, laden with bottles so empty you can't even smell the wine they used to have.
My new ally, I've given my spare pocket bags to him, while I kept the satchel I woke with, stretched on that infirmary bed. I, the crank-powered lamp, he, the lighter. Our conventional weapons are still in my possession, the gun and grenades explosive; while the German has our unconventional items, torches made from the spare stick and cloth, and our grenades gaseous. He the wrench, I the bolt cutters; to him the gas mask, to me the pocket watch. As even a split as can be.
My personal satchel is weighed down with glass. We haven't even opened the wine cellar yet, there were just so many bottles scattered around.
An electric box I didn't notice last I came through is in my light, and a pull clicks on the overhead lights. But they're so spaced apart, I might as well have not bothered turning it on.
Skittering, scratching, the demon growls in the wall; and a tap on my shoulder and a point from my companion shows me where. One of the holes its dug through this stone coffin, the dirt in front displaced by its breathing, a massive claw reaching out and reaching around. The German pulls the pin on one of our gas grenades, letting the striker lever click open and rolling the thing towards it. Gas spews from the device, right after the monster's clawed hand grabs the noisemaker and pulls it in violently.
A hiss, gas spews from the hole, a painful scream, the wall shakes; and then he and I hear the thing scurry away, whimpering as it runs.
For a man screaming just yesterday at the sound of it, he carries himself well. We can't afford to panic now. To panic is to die.
Further ahead, the fuel storage door. And a roar comes from behind. It's hunting.
In haste I throw open the door—
A click, a striker lever free, it's a grenade. I've half-a-moment to yell, I don't even know what comes out of my mouth as our legs scream, and the door explodes.
Pain hotter than the bunker's heat strikes my back, the lights flicker overhead, it's here and my gun sways in my hands. I can barely see under torchlight, the hurt is great.
Its torn mouth roars, its snake-like and ropey neck twisting. I pray to God, as I pull the hammer back. It charges on all fours, the torch goes flying forward and nails the beast. Clarity comes to me, my aim steadies, the trigger pulls. The bullet hits, staggering the demon, shoving the lit torch forward.
Right into a spilled fuel puddle, a trap from my long-dead brothers-in-arms.
An instant is too slow for how fast the beast sets fire, screaming its agony as it runs off into the darkness, diving for the tunnels it calls home. But I am weak, the clarity gone, the pain too much. I can see curious rat monsters coming, they smell my blood.
And the last thing I see before I fall is the German, an angel in a halo of fire, driving the gathering rat horde with a sword of flaming cloth and wood.