Ficool

Chapter 3 - Chapter 3: Robbery

Glen pushed open his door to see a tall, slightly stooped figure pacing his neighbor's lawn, calling out while holding something.

The old man turned at the sound, spotting Glen. His shouts faltered. He seemed on the verge of asking something, then stopped.

Instead, he offered only a sinister grin.

The old Dylan would have been terrified, scrambling back inside to lock the door.

But the Glen of now felt no such fear. He returned the old man's gaze with a calm, faint smile of his own.

The old man's expression stiffened, surprise flickering in his eyes. What's gotten into this spineless worm today?

Snorting in derision, the old man turned and stomped back into his house, slamming the door shut behind him.

He hasn't found the dog's body? Glen shifted his gaze from the neighbor's house to the spot where the bulldog had died the night before.

Indeed, the spot was empty. A frown creased Glen's brow.

He strode over and crouched down.

Up close, he could still make out faint traces of blood, smeared or licked away.

Something definitely prowled here at night. What exactly...? I'll find out later. Glen stood up, casting one last glance at the old man's house before heading back inside.

He made straight for the storage shed. Rummaging inside, he found a sturdy wooden staff of unknown purpose. He gave it a few experimental swings. It felt solid and well-balanced.

"This'll do."

While confident in his skills, Glen wasn't complacent. The old man had a gun, after all.

That big guy's revolver is still back in the woods. I'll retrieve it after this... just need to get some bullets for it. With this thought, Glen stepped back outside.

The town remained unnervingly quiet. Mist swallowed the distant view, a common weather phenomenon in this region. Sunny days existed, but they were rare. Without Dylan's memories confirming otherwise, an outsider would assume Byrek was perpetually shrouded and abandoned.

Glen stepped off his property, vigilant eyes scanning his surroundings while mentally rehearsing potential conflict scenarios. He vaulted the low fence separating the yards, landing silently on the old man's lawn. Staff concealed behind his back, he approached the front door and knocked.

Knock. Knock.

Two crisp raps echoed in the silence. Glen waited.

And waited. The heavy wooden door remained stubbornly shut.

What's going on? Shouldn't the old bastard be storming out to beat me up by now? Glen's eyes narrowed. He knocked again, louder.

"Old man! Need a word. Open up! Won't hurt you! Promise!" Glen called out while knocking, mentally adding, ...just planning a robbery.

He knocked persistently for a long minute. Still, not a single sound came from within.

Frustrated, Glen switched from knocking to pounding the door with the heel of his hand. The dull thuds were much louder, yet equally ineffective.

He can't have just vanished into thin air, can he? Glen stopped pounding, considering for a moment. Then, he raised his voice again.

"Don't you want to know where your precious boy went?"

The effect was immediate. A distinct clatter sounded from inside the house.

That should do it. Glen tensed, eyes fixed on the door, ready for it to fly open.

He was mistaken.

Still, nothing happened. A muscle twitched near Glen's eye, a vein pulsing faintly at his temple.

"Alright then," Glen growled, taking a few deliberate steps back. "Don't blame me for forcing my way in!" He launched a powerful side-kick straight at the lock.

CRACK!

The flimsy wooden door splintered inward. Glen didn't charge in blindly. Instead, he instantly dove to the left. Just in time.

BANG!

A shotgun blast tore through the space where he'd just stood, peppering the wall with buckshot. The old man, standing just inside with his hunting rifle leveled, looked momentarily stunned that his target had anticipated the shot. He fumbled, trying to pump the shotgun for another round.

But Glen was already moving. He surged through the doorway with startling speed, the staff whistling through the air towards the old man's head!

Caught off guard, the old man could only raise the shotgun horizontally to block.

THWACK!

The impact vibrated painfully up the old man's arms, sending a jolt of shock through him.

Before he could recover, Glen drove his fist hard into the man's solar plexus.

OOF!

The air exploded from the old man's lungs. He doubled over, retching, the taste of last night's dinner rising in his throat. He swung the shotgun wildly, blindly, hoping to connect.

Against Glen's trained reflexes, it was useless. He dodged the clumsy swings easily, his movements economical and precise. He'd faced armed opponents before.

Seizing the moment while the old man gasped for breath, Glen wrenched the shotgun from his grasp and delivered a sharp, shoving kick that sent the man sprawling onto his backside.

"Alright, old timer," Glen said, his voice low and dangerous as he smoothly worked the shotgun's pump action, chambering a fresh round. He kept the barrel pointed squarely at the figure struggling to rise. "Stay down. Be smart. Or this gets messy."

The old man was tall, easily over six feet, with thick, powerful arms. A formidable man normally. But now, winded and disarmed, he looked merely pathetic. He slowly pushed himself up, glaring hatred.

"Kid," he rasped, spitting a gob of blood-streaked phlegm onto the floor. "Don't know what crawled up your ass... but don't get cocky. Our neighbors... they don't take kindly to noisy disturbances."

He sensed something was off with me. That's why he didn't come charging out like usual. He holed up, Glen realized. Ignoring the veiled threat, he got straight to the point.

"Where's your food? Tell me, and I might just let you keep breathing."

The abrupt demand threw the old man. "Wh-What? What are you—"

"What does it look like?" Glen snapped, impatience sharpening his tone. "I'm robbing you! I'm starving. Don't waste my time, or I'll make you regret it." He hefted the shotgun meaningfully.

The old man's face darkened with impotent rage. Finally, his shoulders slumped. He lifted a trembling hand, pointing towards a doorway deeper inside the cluttered main room. "Kitchen... it's all... in the kitchen."

Without hesitation, Glen strode past him, shotgun held ready, heading in the indicated direction.

The old man remained slumped on the floor, listening. Soon, the sounds of cupboard doors banging open and items being shoved aside echoed from the kitchen. Then came the distinct, ravenous sounds of chewing and swallowing.

What the hell happened to him? The old man thought, utterly bewildered. Like a different person. Where'd he learn to fight like that? Some kind of... spirit possession?

The old man's kitchen was far better stocked than Glen's. Shelves and cupboards overflowed with preserved goods, dried meats, root vegetables, and sacks of grain. Glen ate methodically, shoveling food into his mouth until the gnawing void in his stomach finally subsided to a manageable ache.

Sated, he finally had a moment to assess himself properly.

The fight confirmed it. This body is stronger. Much stronger than an ordinary man's. Stronger even than my old body. He flexed his hand. That punch to his gut... if I hadn't pulled it, it might have killed him.

He also noticed the wounds from yesterday – the deep cuts on his arm and wrist – were completely healed. Only faint pink lines remained where deep gashes had been. That's... not normal.

Something filled my veins, strengthened the muscle. When did this happen? When I first crossed over... I was so weak, dizzy... hard to recall any specific sensation. He clenched his fist, feeling the dense power coiled within. It felt good.

Shaking off the introspection, Glen walked back into the main room, the shotgun held loosely but confidently. The old man had managed to haul himself onto a rickety chair, watching him with wary, hate-filled eyes.

"Thanks for the meal," Glen said, his tone almost conversational. "Don't feel too hard done by. You had your fun terrorizing the old me for long enough. I think you understand... what goes around comes around." He patted the stock of the shotgun. "I'll be taking this, by the way."

Under the old man's burning, impotent glare, Glen walked calmly out of the shattered doorway and back into the misty quiet of Byrek.

More Chapters