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Chapter 8
Bobby was the leader of the bandits… and he was fucking proud of it!
He spat into the dirt, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand, grinning as he watched the firelight dance off the barrels of their stolen guns.
The camp stank of blood, smoke, and sweat, but to Bobby, it smelled like freedom.
The kind of freedom he never had back when the world was still spinning like it used to, back when cops and cameras and laws kept men like him in cages.
But not anymore.
Now? Now Bobby was a king!
He would kiss the walking corpses if they weren't so fucking disgusting!
He leaned back in a rusted lawn chair, his throne, and scratched his stomach through a hole in his grimy flannel shirt, surveying the camp like a man who owned the land itself.
All around him were the spoils of their latest raid: crates of canned food, a few half-broken rifles, some battered backpacks, and best of all, people.
Survivors they hadn't killed yet.
The good ones were long dead, Bobby liked to say.
The ones still breathing now were either cowards, suckers, or meat.
He loved the fear most of all.
The way their eyes darted like trapped animals.
The way women flinched when he came too close.
The way men stared at the dirt when he passed, too scared to look him in the eye, knowing one wrong word would earn them a cracked jaw, or worse.
He lived for that power.
For the taking.
For the owning.
"Got my pick of the lot," he muttered, grinning to himself. "Ain't no one to say otherwise."
He thought back to the girl they'd snatched last week, the way she'd screamed and kicked while the others laughed and held her down.
He chuckled at the memory, licking his cracked lips.
"Shame she stopped struggling so quick," he said aloud, loud enough for his buddies nearby to hear and laugh with him.
One of them, a rat-faced bastard named Clyde, let out a cackle and raised a dented beer can.
"She was a hell of a screamer, huh?"
"Damn right," Bob said, spitting again. "But we broke her good."
They all laughed.
There was no shame in their circle, no guilt, just the thrill of being untouchable.
Unchecked.
He thought about the family they ran off from the gas station some time ago.
How the father begged for mercy, how the daughter tried to shield her little brother.
Bobby had pistol-whipped the man until his skull cracked, just for fun, then laughed when the boy pissed himself.
Laughed even more when he made the boy watch what he did to his sister.
It was the best thing about the world ending: no more rules. No more judges or jails or righteous pricks thinking they were better than him.
Because now?
He was the king of the fucking world!
He has all the guns, he has all the boys, and now he has more power than ever before!
"And if anyone tries to take it from me," Bobby grinned, "I'll take twice as much from them."
He leaned over and dug his fingers into the ribs of a half-dead guy they were keeping tied up by the fire, just for fun.
Bastard thought he could save his wife or some shit, stupid fucker.
"H-Hragghh…"
The man let out a weak groan, which made Bobby laugh.
He loved it when they made noise.
Made it feel real.
This was his world now, and anyone who didn't like it could die screaming.
Bobby leaned forward with a sick grin, about to press his fingers harder into the tied-up man's ribs, when something moved.
Out of the corner of his eye, just past the dying firelight, in the treeline beyond the camp, something shifted in the dark.
His head snapped toward it.
And for a split second, less than a blink, he saw it.
A figure.
Not a man.
Not a walker.
It was just standing there, not creeping, not shuffling.
Just watching.
And the mask, Christ, the mask, was what turned Bobby's blood to ice.
A dragon's skull, long and jagged, like it had been peeled from a monster.
The bone gleamed faintly, ghostlike, in the dim light, its hollow sockets boring straight into him like twin pits of fire.
And it was watching him.
"HOLY FUCK!!"
Bobby shrieked and stumbled back out of his chair, nearly falling onto the fire as he scrambled for his gun. He knocked over a crate and stepped on the injured man's leg, drawing a sharp yelp of pain that Bobby didn't even hear.
He was too busy pointing his gun toward the trees, finger twitching on the trigger.
"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!? I SEE YOU! YOU FUCKING FREAK—!"
But the woods were still.
Empty.
Silent.
No mask.
No skull.
Just leaves rustling in the breeze and the crackle of flames.
One of the bandits, a scruffy guy with a lazy eye, dropped the tin can he was eating from.
"The hell, Bobby?!"
Another stood up fast, gun in hand, "What the fuck was that about?!"
"Shut the fuck up!" Bobby barked, sweat already streaking down the grime of his face. "I saw someone! Right there! RIGHT FUCKING THERE!"
They looked towards where he was looking.
There was nothing.
Just trees.
Clyde glanced at the others, then at Bobby.
"Dude… you on fucking drunk again? 'Cause you're yellin' like a little bitch over a tree."
"I fucking saw it!" Bobby growled, lip twitching. "He was wearin' a fuckin' skull! Some freak in a dragon mask! He was lookin' right at me!"
"Okay," Clyde drawled, clearly amused now. "And then what, he just… poofed?"
Bobby snapped the rifle in Clyde's direction for just a second.
That shut him up real quick.
"No one fuckin' laughs at me," Bobby snarled. "No one."
He stared hard at the treeline, breath heavy, chest rising and falling like a cornered animal.
But the woods didn't move.
Only wind and shadows.
"…Fucking freak," he muttered, backing toward the fire again. "I'll kill 'em all if they try anything."
No one said a word after that.
They just watched him carefully, quietly wondering if their boss was starting to lose it.
The uneasy silence lingered for a minute or two, broken only by the crackling fire and the occasional muttered curse from Bobby as he kept eyeing the trees like a paranoid man watching ghosts.
The others? They'd gone back to what they were doing.
Clyde was back at the fire, reheating a dented can of beans like nothing had happened.
"He's just drunk again," he muttered under his breath to no one in particular, shaking his head. "Fuckin' always sees somethin' when he's been hittin' the shine…"
A few others chuckled quietly, not loud enough for Bobby to hear, but enough to show they didn't take his freakout seriously. He had been drinking earlier, and sure, maybe he saw something weird, but the man was twitchier than a cat in a doghouse on a good day.
Nobody was going to jump just 'cause he saw a shadow.
One of the guys, Marcus, a big dude with a bad back and an even worse attitude, grumbled as he stood up and stretched.
"Gonna go take a piss," he mumbled, scratching at gut.
No one acknowledged him, Bobby sure didn't.
He was still sitting forward on his lawn chair now, rifle across his lap, eyes locked on that same patch of treeline like it might start crawling toward him.
Marcus stomped off into the woods, flashlight bobbing once through the bramble before it blinked off.
The others barely looked up.
A good ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Bobby started tapping the side of his rifle, harder with each second.
He glanced over at the others.
"Hey assholes," he called. "Where the fuck's Marcus?"
One of them shrugged. "Still pissin', I guess."
"Maybe takin' a dump," Clyde offered lazily. "You know how his guts get. All that canned chili you keep feedin' us…"
Bobby didn't laugh.
His eyes narrowed.
"Twenty minutes to take a piss?"
Clyde rolled his eyes. "Then he's shittin', man. What do you want me to say?"
Bobby stood up suddenly, eyes flicking again to the trees like a man obsessed.
He turned to two of the others sitting near the barricade—Jax and Ramon. Both were half-dozing by now, rifles resting across their laps.
"You two," Bobby barked. "Go find Marcus, now."
Jax groaned.
"Oh, come on, man. It's dark as shit out there."
Ramon scratched his neck.
"Yeah, and if he's takin' a dump, I ain't gettin' close."
Bobby took a step toward them, and the firelight caught just enough of his expression to shut them up.
His face was drawn tight with anger, sweat shining across his forehead, his trigger finger twitching near the stock of his rifle.
"I said go."
"…Alright, alright, damn." Jax stood up first, grumbling under his breath as he slung his rifle back over his shoulder. "Guy sees a squirrel in a skull mask and we all gotta take a midnight hike."
Ramon muttered something in Spanish under his breath, but followed.
The two headed off into the dark, lights flickering between the trees, leaving the firelight behind.
…And then there were five.
Bobby stared after them, unmoving.
Clyde, arms crossed and annoyed, looked over from where he was poking the fire.
"You happy now?"
Bobby didn't answer.
Because he was still staring.
Still waiting.
Still listening.
And the woods?
They didn't make a sound.
Five minutes.
That's how long it had been since Jax and Ramon vanished into the woods.
Five minutes of nothing.
No jokes, no shouting, no piss-soaked complaints about stepping in something, no flashlight beam bobbing through the branches on the way back. Just the fire, the faint hum of insects, and the whispering hush of the trees swaying in the wind.
The camp had gone quiet.
The kind of quiet that sat heavy on your shoulders and curled around your spine like ice water.
Clyde was the first to speak.
"…Jax!" he called out, voice thin.
No answer.
He looked at the others, four men still left around the fire. Each one slowly turning in place, gripping rifles tightly, suddenly much more sober than they'd been a minute ago.
"Ramon?" another called.
Still nothing.
One of them, Skinny Sam, rose from his seat, stepping slowly closer to the edge of the camp.
"Yo… this ain't funny, guys," he said nervously, voice trembling. "Come on out."
The fire crackled.
A bug whined in the air.
Bobby's jaw clenched.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
He reached for his rifle and turned to the others. "Get to the perimeter. Sound the alar—"
The fire went out.
Like a candle being snuffed.
The night swallowed the camp in a single breath.
Sparks flared for a half-second as embers scattered into the dirt, then died.
Every man still standing recoiled instantly, eyes wide, shouts choking in their throats.
"What the fuck—!?"
"Where's the fire?!"
"WHO KILLED THE DAMN—!?"
"Quiet!" Bobby hissed, heart thundering in his chest. "Shut the fuck up you dumb fucks! Or you're going to g–"
He barely got the word out.
Because in the space between one heartbeat and the next, a hand clamped tightly around his mouth from behind, shutting him up.
A whisper of leather and metal on his throat.
A blade.
His eyes bulged.
He struggled, tried to shout, to twist free, to raise his weapon, but the arm around his mouth pulled him back with terrifying strength.
He kicked.
Thrashed.
Fear consumed him whole.
But it was like being pulled into a void by a being far stronger than him.
Then, just before the darkness swallowed him, his eyes caught one last thing.
A mask.
Not like the ones he'd seen before.
A dragon skull, black and faintly gleaming in the dark, stared straight into him with hollow sockets that seemed to swallow him whole.
The figure didn't speak.
Didn't make a sound.
And then Bobby was gone.
The other men shouted his name, stumbling backward, rifles raised.
"BOBBY!?"
"What the hell was THAT!?"
"FUCK! FUCK! HE'S GONE!"
"WHO THE FUCK IS OUT THERE!?"
No answer.
Just the forest.
Just the dark.
And the realization that they were not alone.
"AHHHHHHH!!!" One of the bandits let out a panicked yell, high-pitched and raw, and squeezed the trigger on his rifle.
The muzzle flash lit up the trees in brief, violent bursts, bullets ripping into the underbrush where Bobby had been dragged.
The silence was then shattered as their guns lit up the night.
The others followed suit, fear overtaking reason.
Gunfire exploded into the night, wild and uncontrolled. The treeline lit up with staccato flashes, hot brass bouncing off crates and the ground.
Shouts overlapped with panicked curses as some screamed Bobby's name, others just screamed.
"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!?"
"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!!!"
"JUST KEEP FUCKING SHOOTING!"
The forest howled with gunfire, shadows dancing between the strobe-light bursts of chaos, but there was no target for them to hit.
They were just shooting at the darkness.
Shooting at their fear.
Down the hill, deeper into their camp, the gunfire jolted the rest of the bandits awake like a grenade in their tents.
People scrambled out of lean-tos and under tarps, half-dressed and swearing, some tripping over each other, others already gripping rifles or pistols, alarmed and disoriented.
"WHAT THE FUCK'S HAPPENING!?"
"WHO'S FIRING!?"
"IS IT WALKERS?!"
The gunfire stopped as suddenly as it began, the echoes bouncing through the trees like the cackling of ghosts. Those who hadn't seen what happened ran toward the source, some with weapons raised, others still trying to get their boots on.
They burst onto the scene, eyes wide, adrenaline pumping, greeted by the terrified faces of the original group who were still pointing their guns at the woods.
The newly arrived bandits shoved one of them. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, YOU PSYCHO?!"
"You trying to get us eaten!?" another shouted, spit flying.
"You just brought every walker in a mile radius down on us!"
"I SAW SOMETHING!" the shooter screamed back. "IT FUCKING TOOK BOBBY! BOBBY'S FUCKING GONE!"
Another man grabbed him by the collar. "What the fuck are are talking about!? Make fucking sense motherfucker!"
"He got fucking pulled!" someone else shouted, panic rising again. "SOMETHING GRABBED HIM!"
"Where?!"
"WE DON'T KNOW!"
"Shut up! You ass holes! This ain't helping anybody with all this fucking nonsen-Thwok!"
Amid the chaos, someone stepped forward, raising his voice to demand silence, only to jerk back a half second later with a wet thunk.
An arrow punched straight through his eye.
He didn't even scream.
Just collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
A shocked, breathless second passed.
Then the screaming began again.
"GET DOWN!"
"WE'RE FUCKED!"
Half of them dove behind crates and barrels. Others started firing wildly into the woods again, completely blind to where the arrow had come from. One man dropped to his knees beside the corpse, hands shaking as he reached out toward the arrow sticking grotesquely from the skull.
"No no no no—!"
The others backed away from the edge of the clearing, guns raised, eyes darting through the shadows, waiting for the next one to drop.
But nothing came.
Only the darkness.
…And the terrifying realization that they were being hunted.
All thirty-five remaining bandits were out now, a mob of rough, blood-slicked killers packed into a loose ring around their camp.
Their eyes darted wildly between the trees, weapons trembled in sweaty hands, and the stink of gunpowder clung to the night air like a warning.
"THEY TOOK FIVE OF OUR GUYS!" one of the shooters screamed, wild-eyed, voice cracking from panic. "THEY FUCKIN' TOOK BOBBY, THEY'RE IN THE FOREST, THEY'RE OUT THERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"
"Marcus, Jax, Ramon! GONE! Fucking GONE!" another added, voice shrill with disbelief.
Fear was spreading like fire through dry brush.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" someone bellowed. "Get your shit together! Guns up! Guns up!"
All of them were terrified, unable to think properly, unable to react properly, and unable to fucking coordinate with each other!
They almost shot each other when one of their own ran into another one of theirs.
But they soon froze when they heard it.
A voice.
Cold and mocking, echoing from all around the forest.
"...Surrender…"
It was impossible to tell where it came from.
"...Make it easy…"
The same voice, another direction.
"…Put the guns down…"
The same eerie tone, another direction.
"…Or put 'em to your heads."
Again.
"… And kill yourselves…"
And again.
"…It'll hurt less that way."
The voices overlapped, slithering through the trees like smoke.
Each one layered on top of the other, shifting and circling like wolves in the brush.
"…Otherwise…"
The voice was coming from every direction, making it impossible for them to tell where exactly it was coming from.
"…we'll make it hurt."
Each one layered on top of the other, shifting and circling like wolves in the brush.
"…more than you can ever imagine."
It was like the night itself was taunting them.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!? WHO'S TALKING!?" a bandit shrieked, spinning in place, rifle snapping side to side. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?!?"
"SHOW YOURSELVES, YOU FUCKING COWARDS!" another screamed into the trees, throat raw with panic. "FUCKING SHOW YOURSELVES!!"
Silence.
For a second, they thought the voices had left or were just a figment of their imagination.
Unfortunately for them…
Rustle
A sharp shuffle of leaves to the left.
Every gun turned as one.
Dozens of muzzles leveled on the tree line.
And there they were, barely visible in the darkness of the night.
Six figures.
Unmoving.
Each one wearing a horrifying mask carved from what looked like dragon bone.
Cold, empty sockets stared through them, making their very souls shake in fear.
Their bodies were cloaked in black and gray tactical gear, and each of them held a weapon, rifles, pistols, knives, and other things the bandits couldn't identify.
Not a single one of them spoke.
Not a single one of them so much as moved.
"WHO THE FUCK—DROP YOUR FUCKING GUNS!" a bandit screamed, aiming his rifle with shaking hands. "YOU'RE OUTNUMBERED FUCKERS!"
"THERE'S THIRTY-FIVE OF US AND FIVE OF YOU!" another barked, voice cracking, as he pointed his shotgun at the masked group. "YOU'RE FUCKED!"
The five didn't answer.
Didn't raise their weapons.
And somehow, that silence was worse than a fight.
The stillness gnawed at them.
Their own panic twisted in their chests like a knife.
"What the fuck are they doing?" one whispered, taking a step back, making sure to keep an eye on the freaks.
"We should just fucking shoot them!" One of the more twitchy-fingered bandits demanded, eyes mad with fear.
"Let's waste these bastards!" Another agreed with him, getting ready to shoot.
"Not until we know where Bobby is, god fucking dammit!" Clyde screamed out, unwilling to accept their leader to be gone just like that.
One of the dragon-masked figures moved.
Only one.
A slow, deliberate shift in the dark, smooth and practiced, like a predator with no reason to rush.
He crouched and grabbed something at his feet.
The bandits raised their guns higher in a panic.
"Don't fucking move—!"
"STAY RIGHT FUCKING THERE!"
But the figure didn't listen, didn't even fucking flinch.
And with him came Bobby.
Dragged to his feet, bound and gagged, face swollen and smeared with blood. His hands were tied behind his back with thick cable, and a strip of black cloth was wrapped tightly around his mouth.
His eyes, once cocky, cruel, and smug, were now wide with pure, helpless terror. His legs buckled under him, barely holding him up, and the masked man had to grip him by the back of his shirt to keep him upright.
The firelight, dim and flickering from the torches now hastily lit, glinted off the tear-streaked grime on Bobby's face.
And those terrified eyes… they locked with Clyde's.
"BOBBY!?" Clyde choked, stepping forward. "HEY! HEY DO-DON'T FUCKING TOUCH HIM!"
"YOU PIECES OF SHIT—LET HIM GO!"
"WE'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
"GIVE HIM BACK!"
The one holding Bobby cocked his head slightly, as if studying them.
And Bobby?
He made this muffled, pitiful sound, eyes darting back and forth, silently begging his crew to save him.
But no one moved.
No one dared.
Because the standoff had frozen everyone in place.
The two sides, thirty-five armed bandits and six masked freaks, stood locked in a silence thick enough to choke on.
Triggers quivered and hearts pounded.
Sweat rolled down necks and palms slicked around the rifle gri–
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Eight gunshots.
Sharp, fast, and precise.
From behind.
Eight of the bandits dropped to the ground like stringless puppets, bullet holes punching clean through their heads.
Not a single warning and not a single scream.
Just death.
Panic exploded across the clearing.
"WHAT THE FUCK!?"
"WE'RE SURROUNDED!!"
"WHO'S SHOOTING!? WHERE ARE THEY!?"
"THEY'RE BEHIND US!"
"FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!"
Then—
Thunk
Something bounced at their feet.
One of the men barely had time to mutter, "What the fu—"
FLASH-BANG!
A thunderous BANG! Cracked through the air like a bomb.
White light exploded in a violent burst, blinding and deafening every man still standing.
Screams tore through the clearing.
Men fell to their knees, clutching their eyes, their ears, their heads. While some ran wildly in random directions.
One man fired wildly into the air, hitting nothing and no one, well, no one important, that is, as two of his friends dropped to the ground riddled with holes.
Everything was noise and fire and pain.
Eyes blinded.
Ears rang.
The forest spun.
And in that chaos, twelve masked dragons moved.
——
Clyde ran.
He didn't think; his legs just moved, tearing through branches, stomping through leaves, stumbling over roots and rocks and half-buried bones.
The gunshots, the screams, the flashing light behind his eyes, none of it felt real anymore.
All he knew was that he had to get out.
He had to get away.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!"
His boots tore through the dirt, sweat pouring down his face, his breath wheezing in and out in ragged gasps.
His heart was a jackhammer trying to beat its way out of his ribcage. Somewhere behind him, he thought he could still hear the others, screaming, shooting, dying, but he didn't dare look back.
He didn't want to look back.
He just ran.
Past twisted trees, past rotting corpses, and rusted signs.
The only thing that mattered now was survival.
After what felt like hours, Clyde finally collapsed against the base of an old tree, panting, gasping, nearly dry-heaving from the effort.
His hands were shaking, and his rifle was gone; he must've dropped it during all the chaos.
His clothes were soaked with sweat, and his face was slick with tears he'd never remember crying.
He leaned back against the bark, eyes wide and darting between the shadows.
He was alone.
He was safe.
Slowly, he let out a breath, shaky and shuddering.
"Fuck…" he rasped, wiping his mouth. "Fuck me…"
He sat there for another minute, trying to convince his lungs to stop burning and his legs to stop aching.
Then, with a snarl, he clenched his fists.
"Those fuckin' freaks… those masked freaks… they think they can do this to us? To me?"
His voice came out harsher than he expected, cracking with fear even beneath the anger.
"I'll kill every last one of 'em. I'll find more guys, better guys, real killers, not the trash we had. I'll burn their camp to the fuckin' ground. I'll make 'em scream like—"
Thump
He staggered back, his words dying mid-sentence as he collided with something behind him.
Something solid.
Something alive.
Clyde's foot caught on a root, and he tumbled backward onto the ground, landing hard on his back with a sharp grunt.
He looked up.
And froze.
The same horrifying silhouette.
That same dragon-bone mask, like a nightmare made flesh. Twin black sockets stared down at him, hollow and endless.
The bone gleamed in the pale light, and for a moment, it didn't even seem human.
The figure didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Clyde couldn't even scream, his voice caught in his throat as the icy fingers of dread clenched around his lungs.
He scrambled backward, trying to push himself away with his heels, dirt kicking up behind him.
"N-n-no… no no no no no—!"
A gloved fist swung like a hammer.
CRACK!
Clyde's world went white.
Then black.
Then nothing.
"..." The masked man tilted his head before huffing and took Clyde by the leg and began dragging him back to the camp.
Like a predator dragging its prey.
___
…
…
…
Bobby groaned in pain, his eyes barely strong enough to open.
His head throbbed like a war drum, every pulse stabbing behind his eyes.
His mouth was dry and tasted of copper and dirt, and when he tried to move, his shoulders screamed in protest.
The ropes dug deep into his wrists, cutting off circulation, and when he lifted his head just enough to look around—
His blood turned to ice.
His camp was gone.
Or… no, ruined, torn a fucking part.
Every tent flattened, every crate busted open, every weapon stripped from their racks and either smashed or simply vanished.
Bodies were scattered across the ground like trash. Some were dead, but some were bound.
Gagged, bruised, and beaten were...
His men.
His boys.
All of them were tied up just like him, eyes wild with confusion and fear, mouths stuffed with cloth or duct tape. Some were trying to wriggle free, others were sobbing behind their gags.
Clyde was among them, a swollen lump on his jaw and blood smeared across his cheek where the dragon-masked figure had struck him.
And around them?
Five men.
No, Monsters in masks.
Each of them was armed, standing silently like statues of death around the captive bandits.
They didn't pace, and they didn't fidget.
They watched.
Cold, still, and unforgiving.
Beyond them, the other five were moving through the hostages, the survivors Bobby's crew had taken days earlier, and were helping them.
Men, women, even a few children.
They were checking bindings, cutting ropes, handing out water, whispering soft reassurances to people who hadn't heard kindness in weeks, maybe months.
One masked man kneeled beside a crying girl, her face streaked with dirt and bruises, eyes puffy from hours of weeping.
Her thin arms trembled as she gripped the stranger's sleeve.
He murmured something to her, something low and gentle.
Then he reached into his pack and handed her a small, foil-wrapped bar.
Food.
The girl blinked in disbelief and clutched it like it was made of gold.
He patted her head softly.
And then he stood.
Bobby's breath hitched in his throat.
The man turned.
And began to walk toward him.
Each step echoed in Bobby's chest like the ticking of a bomb.
The leader.
Even among the other masked freaks, this one stood out.
His mask was darker, less bone-white, more shadow-stained, with deeper grooves etched into the sides. Faint red symbols were carved just above the brow, too clean and precise to be random.
The air seemed to get heavier with each step he took, like the air was bending around him.
Bobby whimpered.
His bravado was gone.
His throne was gone.
His gun, his gang, his control.
All gone.
He began to shake his head wildly, desperate, eyes bulging.
"Mmmhh!! Mmmf! HMMMFF!!" he tried to yell, the gag muffling everything into pitiful noises.
He writhed in place, struggling against the rope, until the fibers bit into his skin and made his eyes water.
The leader stopped a foot away, towering above him like a dragon out of a nightmare.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the figure crouched low, head tilted slightly, the skull-like mask inches from Bobby's face.
He stared.
Long and hard.
And Bobby…
Bobby broke.
He thrashed harder, trying to scoot back, his entire body screaming in panic. Tears ran freely now, mixing with snot and sweat and blood. He tried to shake his head, tried to plead.
"MMH-MMH! PLE—MMH! DON'T! DON'T!"
The leader slowly reached up.
Bobby flinched.
But the man only pulled the gag down from his mouth.
Bobby gasped, spitting, choking on his own fear.
"Please," he whimpered, desperation taking over for the sake of his survival. "Please don't kill me, man. Please—I-I got supplies! I got ammo! Girls! I can give you anything, anything!"
The masked man didn't move.
Didn't respond.
Just watched.
"Y-you want food?! Weapons?! Just say it, I'll get it! I'll—I'll do anything you want, just—just don't kill me! I was just—just trying to survive, man! I'm just surviving!"
The man leaned in slightly.
"You call this survival?"
His voice was low, calm in the most terrifying way.
Bobby swallowed hard. "I—I didn't mean to—shit, I was just—I was just!"
"You tortured people."
The voice didn't raise.
Didn't accuse.
Just stated the facts, like a ledger being read aloud.
"You hurt women. Children. You made them beg, beg for their lives, and laughed while doing so."
Bobby trembled. "I'm sorry, okay?! I'm sorry!"
"You're sorry now," the man replied. "Only because you're beaten and afraid, with no way out."
He stood.
Looked around the camp.
At the crying survivors.
At the broken bandits.
At the ashes of Bobby's kingdom.
"You were a king once, weren't you? At least that's what you told your victims," the masked man asked, tone colder now.
"They told me you believe you could take whatever you wanted, do whatever you pleased… and that the world would never make you answer for it. That it would never punish you for what you've done."
He looked back down.
"But here we are."
Bobby didn't know what to say.
Didn't have anything to say.
He could only weep and pray to whoever was listening to save him.
"P-Please! P-Please don't kill me! I-I b-beg you! Please! I'll never do this again I fucking swea-"
"You're not dying tonight."
He was stopped from spewing more of his bullshit.
"R-Really?!" He asked, hope igniting within him.
"…Because you're going to live to regret everything."
The man reached down towards his belt and unclipped a mask, the same one most of the other freaks were wearing.
And grabbed hold of his neck hard enough for him to painfully choke.
"Have you ever wondered how it would feel if your very existence was ripped apart from you, Bobby?"
And brought the mask to his face.