Hope is a poison. A slowly dripping poison that kills you one wish at a time. If you ever catch yourself feeling hope for even a minute, you shut that feeling off before it takes hold. That was the only way for most to survive out in the wild.

  Grunt had lived his entire short life with those words repeating in his mind. He was born to a starving mother who tried to sell him off the first chance she got. When she died he fell in with a group of starving vagrants. When they travelled south they were immediately beaten half to death and enslaved by the Reavers, forced to fight in wars they didn’t care about.

  He had not even reached the twentieth year of his life. Or at least he thought so, every second had been spent on trying to survive, so it was hard to pin down. Now though, he may have reached a turning point. There was a risk of hope rearing its ugly head.

  His former master now lay dead before him, they were out on patrol and found themselves alone for just a moment, Grunt used that opportunity. They taught him how to fight, how to kill and how to be desperate and he used that to his advantage. His left arm may have laid limp at his side and he was covered in bruises and blood, but he was alive.

  Sweat dirt and blood coating his body caused a great sense of discomfort, but rather than washing himself in any way, what he needed most was a splint. Hesitant, Grunt poked his former master with the sharp end of his Combat Cleaver, the signature weapon of a Reaver Slave. There was no response, his blood continued to stain the ground. Grunt looked around him, able to hear the ritualistic shouting of the Reavers in the distance.

  He wasted no time, grasping the dead raider's leg with his good arm and dragging him behind a nearby set of rocks. He had decent strength thanks to his rough life, but dragging an entire body whilst half starved wasn’t easy. He nearly collapsed next to the corpse when he finally dropped it.

  A fog began to set in on the humid Stormgap coast, it gave him a bit of cover to make his escape. First though, Grunt needed supplies. He removed the Reavers armour and equipment and searched through every pocket he could, every nook even, he was desperate.

  There wasn’t much of use, but he found just enough to keep him going. Dry bites of bread, a bandage, a few Cats and his battered leather shirt. It stunk of sweat and blood, but squalor had more than prepared him for bad smells.

  He sat down and slowly removed the rag he wore over his head, catching his broken arm a few times with a wince. He awkwardly applied the bandage around it, it wasn’t a splint but it was all he currently had access to. The bandage was tight, but haphazardly placed, some bits hung down like vines from a tree in the Swamps, still at least it kept his bones somewhat together.

  A few more winces and the leather shirt was on, it wasn’t much but it would protect from a few light blows and maybe stop a Bonedog bite from bleeding him out. Grunt looked down to the Hack pants he wore, armoured leggings popular with the Reavers. He would need to lose them soon, but for now he did fancy running around with his legs and other regions exposed.

  Finally, he took a few bites of the stale bread and stuffed the rest into a small pocket, wrapped in bandages, then, he let himself collapse against the rock, even for a moment. He could still hear the yelling from the nearby patrol, but it wasn’t getting closer, at least not yet.

  For the first time in his life, someone else wasn’t directing it, so he actually had to think about what to do, where to go. A bed would be nice, but bars generally charged Cats to use theirs and his ex-master only had a handful on him. He could try to make a few Cats, but how? He wasn’t skilled enough for mercenary work and definitely not for thieving. When he ran with the vagrants they would only attack other nobodies.

  Grunt knew about one United Cities city nearby, and by nearby he meant through the forbidden zone. He could of course go around it, but if he needed Cats, the forbidden zone gave him a good chance of getting some, or a good chance of being ripped in half.

  A pained sigh escaped the young man's lips. Misfortune and fortune were often such a blurred line and he couldn’t decide which end of the line he lay on. Usually it was the latter. With a few more breaths, the now free man decided it was time to get a move on. He got to his feet and began his walk to the forbidden zone.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  The fog still lay thick as he moved through it, caution in his limping state led to very slow progress, but progress none the less. After a while his leg hurt a little less, or he got more used to the pain, either way his steps quickened. That is until he reached another corpse.

  It was not wearing the armour of a Reaver, it looked to be a Black Dog, a mercenary group, the only interaction he had with them was one of combat. They were tough, but the Reavers had numbers.

  Another dead body gave him pause though, so he slowed down once again, moving slowly, cautiously. Suddenly, there was the sound of rustling nearby and quietened voices, imperceptible to his eyes and ears, but it wasn’t far. Just through the fog. He paused once again, and slowly began backing up.

  ‘Hey.’

  His body froze. The voice came not far from his right and the rest of the voices stopped. He turned his head to see a woman partially visible, on the edge of his vision. A few others slowly appeared behind her.

  ‘Hey,’ he replied.

  She looked him up and down, eyes stuck on his Hacker Pants, then drifting to the blade on his waist. ‘You kill a Reaver? Or just loot one?’

  Keeping his eye on her, Grunt instinctively reached for the handle of his rusted hacker. ‘Kill. Just about.’

  Eyes glanced over his bandaged arm. ‘Yeah, I can see that.’

  A few more bodies appeared behind her, seven more in total. Some held sticks, one at the back a Toothpink crossbow. He knew what they were, because it wasn’t too long ago since he was one. Vagrants, a bunch of starving bandits too hungry to use sense. Each one more bony than the last.

  ‘Me and the boys. We ain’t got any arguments with a Reaver killa, but, if you’se got food. I needs it.’

  An instinctive hand reached for his pocket before his brain caught up, he cursed himself for his poor instinct. ‘D-Don’t got any.’

  A blood soaked blade fell to the woman's side, dark crimson dripping on the dusty ground. ‘Now we both know that’s a lie.’

  ‘P-please, it’s all I have.’

  Her face darkened. ‘And we have even less.’

  Fight was very unlikely going to work in his condition, so Grunts flight kicked in immediately and it drew him to the Forbidden Zone. He darted as hard as his damaged legs could take him.

  ‘Fuckin’ get him!’ he heard the woman yell.

  A bolt shattered against a nearby rock not inches from Grunts head, he turned his head only briefly to see the man in the back loading another round whilst the others sprinted after him.

  Curses and cries flew through Grunts mind as the wind flew by his body, with the fog he could not even see the sky, he now traveled purely by instinct, hoping the initial direction he began walking in was still the direction he took.

  He felt his body lurch and looked down to see a small bolt head sticking through his already limp shoulder, followed by a sharp agonising pain. He grit his teeth and refused to slow down, adrenaline keeping his collapsing body together.

  A few more shots whizzed past him along with screams and shouts, gradually the ground changed texture, the rocks changed colour. He was getting somewhere new. Darting between two rocks Grunt made the mistake of looking behind himself once again, thinking that he may have gotten away. Instead, a club shadowed his vision and a hard smack threw him back into the rock behind him.

  ‘I- I told you. We only wanted food.’ The woman stood in front of him, hands on knees. Panting.

  With his vision blurring, Grunt struggled to stay awake as she grasped him by his ragged collar. ‘Now I’m gonna beat you until you stop fighting back, yeah?’

  He couldn’t reply, he could barely move. The ex-slave tried to budge, his hands reaching behind him for something, anything until he found something. Something rough, coarse, and rounded. He peaked back, shaking. He could guess what it was, something he had never seen before, but had heard of. Something that could be his ticket to a warm meal and a good night's rest for once. A Beak Thing Egg.

  Which could only mean they were in a nest. The bones he now realised surrounding them only reinforcing that knowledge. ‘This is because you ran,’ he turned back quickly to see the woman pull her arm back. ‘Don’t blame me.’

  Grunt threw his working arm in front of him. ‘Please wait!’ he shouted, but it was too late. Before the bandits stick could reach him, it was gut deep in a Beak Things jaw. Her scream was cut off as another sharpened beak swallowed her head, sending her body limp. Grunt, still bleary eyed and half concussed, scrambled backwards, getting his arm around the weighty unborn. A few more appeared behind the bandits, three times the size of a human, sharp beaks on the end of long necks able to swallow a man's head whole. He had also heard it was impossible to outrun them, but all he had to outrun was the bandits.

  He didn’t look back, he didn’t dare again. Instead he just sprinted, somewhere. Anywhere, away from where they were. The sounds of futile combat faded into the distance and all that was left was the sound of his heartbeat and the heat in his arm. Somehow, none of the beasts chased. Somehow he was still alive. Fortune or misfortune? He still couldn’t decide.