The Last of the Wilds

The leaden sky leached everything of color - except the blood.

The faces of the corpses were white, the hair either black or a bleached non-color. The weapons, still clutched in stiffened hands or wedged in flesh, lacked shine. The circs of the priests were a dull white.

But the stains on them were luridly bright. Thick crimson oozed from wounds and slicked blades. Pools of it gathered under the dead like a morbid carpet. Trickles of it flowed down folds in the earth. It gathered to form streams. Pooled. Soaked into the soil, so that it bubbled to the surface at every step.

The sickened mud sucked at her feet. She took a few more steps, then found she could not move. The mud clung to her shoes. It gave beneath her. She felt herself sinking into it. She felt the cold moisture creeping up her legs and her heart began to race.

“You killed us,” hissed a voice.

She looked up to see corpses raising their heads to stare at her with dead eyes.

“You,” another said, his partly severed head lolling on the ground. “You did this to me.”