[Nightmare Path: The Undead Convicts]
A sweet, angelic voice resounded in Pace's head, further solidifying his claims.
Slowly, his senses started to return—the heat in his body, the smell of smoke and metal, and the biting chill in his wrists and ankles.
—Biting chill?
Opening his eyes, Pace immediately noticed the thick, heavy metal cuffs binding his frail wrists. The cuffs were further attached to a similar metal plate binding his legs via a chain that was hooked to the wall of a carriage.
'Huh?'
Around him were several men in rags, bound to the carriage wall in a similar fashion. The only difference was that these men were about triple his size.
In the corner of the carriage was a man with a slender build—slightly taller than Pace—who had rather beautiful lapis-coloured eyes. He wore an army—no, police—uniform in an untidy manner, almost akin to a poet's lazy dressing sense. Under his armpit was a leather holster containing a small black pistol, and in his hands was a leather-backed book.
Looking to his right, Pace noticed how the carriage was a little different than the ones he had seen in those old movies. It was shaped more like a cage, if anything, with thick metal bars blocking every window and door.
'Wait—what path was this again? The Undead Convict?'
Suddenly, everything made sense.
'The scenario revolves around criminals being transported somewhere? But then what did undead mean? Zombies?'
Pace's eyes widened as he felt a sudden urge to scream his heart out.
It didn't really take long before—
"AHHHH—why does this stupid virus always have to give me a different nightmare each and every time?" Pace shouted, yanking himself as far away as the chains would let him.
Letting out a sigh, he calmed down a little before looking back up.
The carriage had grown quiet. Awkward, really. All the criminals stared at Pace with wide, confused eyes, unable to bring out any words.
"Something wrong, little one? Why did you scream all of a sudde—" one of the criminals with thick eyebrows asked.
He hadn't even finished his question before someone elbowed his side.
The perpetrator, who had a fox-like face, spoke in a hushed tone. "Oi—that's the Bloody Demon, you know. Don't talk to him much. Who knows when he'll crack?"
The moment he heard the name Bloody Demon, Bushy turned pale, as if he had seen a ghost.
'Huh? Don't tell me… am I supposed to be some big-shot psychopath in this nightmare?'
Whispers broke loose across the entire carriage, making it feel more like a busy classroom than a prison transport.
'Kinda reminds me of my days in the orphanage,' Pace chuckled, but his smile soon turned dead as he looked at the men again. 'If only they weren't this big.'
Pace drooped his shoulders and was about to sit back down when suddenly he felt his muscles stiffen up—every instinct telling him to run and hide.
Pace's lips shuddered. "Bloodlust?"
Composing himself, he looked around. The entire carriage was silent again. Only this time, it wasn't out of shock. It was out of plain and simple…
Fear.
Turning around, Pace was already sure about the cause.
The officer with the poetic aesthetic.
He hadn't budged an inch.
No. All he did was stare at the convicts for a mere second—a single glance—before he shifted back to reading his book. And yet, that was enough to scare seven well-built men out of their heads.
'Hehe—to think I have such a formidable man holding the collar to my neck,' Pace cocked half a smile, his lips twitching.
"Inmate 323, sit back down. I'm letting you go this time, but cause any more trouble and you'll face consequences," the poet said, flipping a page of the book he was reading.
Pace was confused for a second before he noticed the number stitched to his rags with a dull yellow string.
Sucking in a deep breath, he relaxed his body and calmly sat back down on his seat. 'I swear the world will end the day this man smiles.'
Looking outside through the barred-up window, he could make out a cityscape. The buildings and houses were mostly made of bricks and painted, while some still had wooden walls. The road wasn't paved and was mostly soil. The sunlight was growing an orange tone, so Pace assumed it was evening.
'By the looks of things, it's either the medieval era or a little later… nineteen hundreds? Roads aren't paved, and we're still using horse-drawn carriages, so it can't be later than that. It is kinda weird how there are no people outside, though.'
Pace closed his eyes, leaning back into his hard metal seat on the carriage.
'As for my condition, all my limbs are chained. I'm seated next to a warden from hell and have the reputation of a psychopath.'
Pace opened his eyes with a sudden realization.
'Isn't this the worst possible start? Finding the red gate might be a little difficult with how things are right now. Will I even be able to do it in under three days? It's my last chance, you know… if I die now I'll be dead for real.'
Just then, the horses up front went into a frenzy and refused to take another step, causing the carriage to rattle, threatening to crash sideways.
After a while, the horses finally calmed down, but still weren't moving. Outside, the voices of people talking could be heard, but were too low to make anything out.
'This must be the virus's doing, huh… could've waited a bit longer till I had a better assessment of the area.'
"PLEASE LISTEN TO ME, COMMANDER!" a high-pitched, almost feminine voice bellowed from outside.
Pace leaned in closer to the wall, as close as he could without drawing a certain someone's attention. The last thing he wanted was to be on the poet's watchlist.
"We can't stay the night here! This town is—"
"What's going on?" Fox suddenly said in a loud voice.
'Tch—loudmouth. I just missed valuable information.' Pace clicked his tongue, narrowing his eyes toward Fox-face.
"Elvia, as a criminal rights defendant officer, you were allowed to travel with us, but please stop causing trouble with your superstitions!"
"But Commander—"
"Enough!"
The voices outside grew more and more distant, making it impossible to listen further.
'Ugh—if only that idiot hadn't spoken! Well, at least I know it's something related to superstitions. Bad luck? Ghosts? God's anger? Not that helpful.'
Pace sighed, turning his head back toward the others.
Gulp!
Pace's eyes widened. His heart pounded in his ears, blood pumping fast enough to burst his veins, as he saw the poet again.
Staring at him with his narrow emerald eyes.