My first instinct is to run. To turn and flee back through the shattered door I just broke down. But I force it down. Running is what prey does. I am not prey. Not anymore. My grip tightens on my pipe, the cold metal a small, solid comfort in my hand. The ice in my chest, the shard of rage that defines me now, sharpens into focus.
I start to move, not running, but walking with a deliberate, silent grace. My bare feet make almost no sound on the damp moss. I stay close to the wall of the greenhouse, using the massive, twisted ferns for cover. The sweet, cloying smell of decay is a constant, sickening presence in the back of my throat.
Another cocoon twitches. A wet, tearing sound comes from it, like fabric being ripped apart. I don't look. I keep moving, my eyes scanning the room, looking for a way out. There has to be another door.
The giant, pulsing flowers seem to be getting brighter, casting an eerie, shifting glow over the scene. The air grows warmer, more humid. The whole room feels like it's waking up.
I find a small, wrought-iron gate set into the far wall, almost completely obscured by a curtain of hanging vines. It's rusted and looks like it hasn't been opened in a century. This must be the way.
I move toward it, my steps slow and measured. The rustle of my skirt against a fern sounds like a gunshot in the oppressive silence. I freeze, listening. The only sound is the wet, tearing from the cocoons, a steady, rhythmic chorus now. They're all hatching.
I'm almost at the gate when I see it.
On the ground, half-hidden by the spongy moss, is a human skeleton. It's clad in the tattered remains of a gardener's uniform. One bony hand is outstretched, reaching for the gate. In its other hand, it's clutching a pair of long, wicked-looking pruning shears.
The blades of the shears are clean, sharp, and gleam with a faint, oily light. A weapon. A better weapon than my rusty pipe.
I kneel down, my eyes fixed on the shears. My fingers brush against the brittle bone of the skeleton's hand, and I have to force myself not to flinch away. I pry the shears from its grip. They're surprisingly heavy, the metal cool to the touch. The handles fit perfectly in my hands.
As I stand up, a soft, wet sound comes from behind me.
I turn.
One of the cocoons has split open completely. A creature is unfolding itself from the tattered remnants of leaves and human skin. It's tall and slender, vaguely humanoid, but its limbs are too long, its joints bending at unnatural angles. Its skin is a pale, glistening white, smooth and featureless. It has no face. Just a smooth, blank oval where a face should be.
It takes a step toward me, its movements unnervingly fluid, silent and graceful. It raises one long, spindly arm and points a single, claw-like finger at me.
The ice in my chest doesn't burn. It doesn't flare. It just spreads, a cold, creeping numbness that deadens the fear. The world seems to slow down, the colors fading to muted shades of grey. The only thing that's real is the creature in front of me, and the shears in my hands.
[COLD RAGE ACTIVATED]
The system's message is a distant, irrelevant whisper. My body feels lighter, faster. The ache in my arms is gone, replaced by a thrumming, contained energy. The fear is gone, replaced by a cold, clear, absolute focus.
The creature lunges.
It's not a charge, but a flow, a liquid motion that carries it across the space between us in a heartbeat. Its clawed hand swipes at my face.
I don't flinch. I don't dodge.
I'm not trained for any of that.
But I'm also not here to get hit again.
I bring the pruning shears up, not in a block, but in a short, vicious arc. The sharpened blade meets the creature's wrist with a wet, sickening snick.
The creature doesn't scream. It doesn't even seem to register the pain. It just stops, its severed wrist twitching. Black, viscous fluid, like the stuff that leaked from the boy's eyes, oozes from the wound. The detached claw-hand twitters on the mossy ground for a moment before going still.
It tilts its smooth, featureless head, a gesture of mild, alien curiosity. Then it attacks again, its other hand now a blur of motion.
I'm ready for it this time. I sidestep, the motion feeling impossibly easy, and swing the shears in a wide, sweeping arc. The blades bite deep into the creature's torso, tearing through the pale, featureless flesh. More black fluid sprays across the moss, but the creature doesn't slow.
It's relentless. A tireless, unfeeling engine of destruction.
I fall back, my movements a strange mix of calculated grace and raw, desperate instinct. The Cold Rage is a high, a surge of pure, cold adrenaline. It sharpens my senses, quickens my reflexes. It's not a skill. It's a state of being. A glimpse of what I could become.
The creature lunges again, its long arms wrapping around me, pulling me close. Its skin is cold and slick, like wet leather. I can feel its unnatural strength, a crushing force that threatens to break my ribs. Its smooth, featureless face is inches from mine, and I can feel a strange, psychic pressure, a silent scream that tries to invade my mind.
I struggle, my bare feet slipping on the damp moss, but its grip is too strong. I can't get enough leverage to use the shears. I'm trapped.
My mind races, searching for a weakness, an opening. The creature has no eyes to blind, no throat to cut. Just a smooth, blank face and a relentless, single-minded purpose.
My husband's face flashes in my mind. The moonlight on the knife. The word 'sorry'.
No.
I will not be a victim again. Not here. Not now.
With a final, desperate surge of strength, I twist in its grip, raising the pruning shears and jamming them upward, into the place where its face should be.
The blades sink deep.
The creature's entire body convulses, a violent, shuddering spasm. The psychic pressure in my mind vanishes. It releases me, its arms falling limp. I scramble away, gasping for breath, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The creature stumbles backward, its movements clumsy and erratic. Black fluid pours from the wound in its face, a dark, cascading waterfall. It takes one last, faltering step, then collapses, its long limbs folding beneath it. It lies still, a pale, broken doll in a garden of horrors.
I stand over it, my chest heaving, the shears slick with its black blood. The Cold Rage recedes, leaving me shaking and weak, the adrenaline crash a wave of cold and nausea. The vibrant colors of the greenhouse rush back in, the sickly sweet smell of decay a physical assault. My body aches, a symphony of bruises and strained muscles.
[System: Cold Rage Deactivated. Cooldown: 59:59]
A soft, rustling sound comes from behind me. I spin around, raising the shears. Another creature has emerged from its cocoon. And another. And another.
They're all waking up.
The wrought-iron gate is my only chance. I turn and run, my bare feet pounding across the spongy moss. The creatures don't chase me. They just watch, their featureless faces turned in my direction, a silent, observing audience. It's more unsettling than if they'd attacked.
I reach the gate and grab the rusted handle. It's cold and rough, fused shut with years of neglect. I put my weight against it, pulling with all my strength. The metal groans, protesting. My muscles scream in protest. I can hear the wet, tearing sounds of more cocoons hatching behind me, a rising chorus of nightmares.
I'm out of Cold Rage. Just one person. And all I have is the weapon that someone else died using.
If I don't break through this gate soon, I'll be the next one devoured.