The cigarette smoke hung thick in the still, freezing air. The compound was small, protected by silvered barbed wire and layers of fencing. The inside would’ve been jam-packed, had there been more people to fill the empty spaces. No, instead it was a handful of Austrian Militia members and three traders, all of whom had plans to move out to greener pastures as soon as the flurry outside settled. Teodor was with them, but he wasn’t trading. No, no brass doorknobs and magic wands for him, he was heading out to snuff the undead light out of some ghouls’ eyes, first thing morning. But before that, rest. Relaxation, or as much as he could squeeze out of his short stay at the lovely Marianne Freudenthaler hair salon. It was a terrible place to defend, but given how many cans of ammunition could be found in the basement… it was a place worth defending. Entertainment came next, in the form of an AM member coaching one of his civilian counterparts in the act of executing undesirables. On one end of the sidewalk was a fellow in a long, ratty coat, resting on his knees with his arms held loosely at his sides. On the other end; an officer dressed in a prim and proper coat, detailed with many non-combat medals, one hand on a scratched Glock 17, the other on a weathered-looking teenager who was struggling to get away from him. The German he was shouting grated against Teodor’s ears, and he understood some of what was said; something about the “need to survive”, the “ability to root out subverters”, and killing in a quick and concise manner. As Teodor watched, the officer swept the thickly-clothed teen off of his feet with a well placed kick, then immediately bent down to wrap an arm around his throat. The officer continued maneuvering around until he had the younger fellow pinned, then went about forcing the Glock into his hand. The teenager struggled, his words of rage muffled by the scarf protecting his face. He struggled and struggled, but the end goal was inevitable. The Glock slowly drifted on-target, the barrel directed at the nonchalant thief’s chest. The firearm went off with a bang, and the response was anticlimactic. While the boy screamed, the target merely swayed, a grimace drifting across his face. The officer growled and threw the boy aside, and from his sitting position fired several more times. Each bullet tore through the thief’s chest, and he eventually keeled over to bleed out all over the pavement. The guards waiting along the side of the building were quick to drag his body through a nearby open gate, while the others began dumping bleach over whatever blood they saw. Insurance, in case some of the undead had a sharper nose than the usual motley array that attacked once the sun went down. The officer sighed in a resigned manner, gestured to the teenager, then aimed a swift kick for his back. Said back arched and he yowled in pain, but the officer ignored it and shuffled off in a furious manner. Teodor watched it all, having seen it already. Wash, rinse, repeat. Day in, day out, and there was killing to be done. It didn’t matter who was on the receiving end as long as they earned their place at the end of a barrel. He smoothed out his parka and slipped off of the parking pole he had been using as a seat, then snatched his Saiga and turned to walk inside. Boredom was quick to take him in the quiet halls of the hair salon, and not even his notes could keep it at bay. He turned in early, with plans to get up just as early. 

Linz was… underwhelming. No Lovecraftian creatures roamed the streets like a Bloodborne spinoff, in fact, not a soul walked the lonely, snow-covered road. Victor stared through the windshield of an oversized truck, the wipers occasionally interrupting his reverie. Each swipe was hypnotic, in a way, especially combined with the snow piling onto the hood of his requisitioned vehicle. He sniffed, shivered, and pulled the heated blanket tighter around himself. While he yearned to rest indoors, preferably on a king-sized bed like the one he had back home, he wasn’t sure as to which doors were safe to break through, or which ones were alarm’d. Vic’s molars grinded together the longer he thinked on his shit luck, but he just sighed and deflated. He lowered his seat and shoved the back as far as it went, hit the ignition, and curled up to get as comfortable as he could. With the engine off, the silence was overtaken by the howling, inhospitable wind outside. And, just his luck, Vic had to brave such wind the next morning to find the “mysterious” leader of the Austrian Militia referred to only as the “Vizeleutnant”. The NATO equivalent was “Command Sergeant Major”, a desk-bound NCO for those that went to school or were too scarred to continue their military service on the frontlines. Victor dealt with those types before; and this one would be no different from the other desk jockeys that pretended to be in control of their battalion. The Vizeleutnant put a formal request out for mercenaries- honest to God mercenaries that cared little for their own livelihood. The United Nations let it slide, given the state of the world and the state of Austria, alongside the rest of Eastern Europe. With no soldiers of their own to spare and Germany eating up the land around it once under NATO control, they had no choice but to allow third party assistance to the countries affected by the Sanguine Dominion, as the bloodsuckers called themselves. Czechia was doing the same, but through more official means, like Grendwell Security Contracting and similar organizations. Victor responded to an advertisement online while perusing eBay for magical items, and he soon found himself in Linz with no further assistance and no direction. He’d been there a week already, scouring the abandoned town for any hint of the elusive Vizeleutnant and harassing the local Militiamen for a location. He scored earlier today, by chance, and was led to a sprawling military depot and compound that apparently housed plenty of underground railways and access tunnels, which in turn housed what was left of the military high command. Suffice to say, he had plenty of walking and searching to do the next day, all for a single man that probably wouldn’t be of much help. Vic was annoyed, just a tad pissed off, and more importantly, tired. Some nights he spent staring out a window, ensuring that the undead that crawled the frozen expanse that was Linz left him be while he tried to rest. Fleshhunters with their packs of ferals were the biggest problem. They reigned in several survivors over the course of the week that Vic had been in town, and were bold enough to risk attacks on smaller AM compounds in the dead of the night. Zombies and their tougher counterparts, ghouls, weren’t much better but at least they were mostly brainless. They burned up just the same in the silvery smoke, but unfortunately didn’t care for UV lights. He swallowed and peeked out the windshield; he had maybe another thirty minutes of daylight left before the undead began roaming freely. He could only hope that he sat in the dark alley long enough for the snow to block his body heat from leaching into the vehicle, and if not, well… they wouldn’t take him alive. Vic slipped the windshield cover in place and leaned back, trying to let the day’s exhaustion lead him into dreamless sleep.

The sun set slowly behind the horizon, which in turn was obscured by the waning flurry. Barrick looked on from his perch atop a candy shop, his heavy gaze sweeping the road below. He wasn’t searching for anything in particular, only something to grab and possibly hold his attention. Barrick saw scavengers slipping away into their hideaways, stray animals loping into dark crevices, and shadowy creatures making off into the night, to hunt, to kill, to survive. “The Brave”, or “The Bastard”, as he was known, watched it all through a mesh screen that protected him and his things from the harsh wind blowing outside. His eyes drifted shut, and he opened them minutes later to the Call, as he had come to know it. It was a long, warbling scream, joined moments later by several other higher-pitched howls across Linz. Barrick didn’t know what manner of beast could make such a noise, but he was familiar with those that responded; ferals, and their handlers, the Fleshhunters. He shifted in his lawn chair and cast his eyes down, to the car-clogged street. For the moment, all was still, but given the Call… the tense silence would be broken by the undead. His breath misted in the air as his breathing picked up; expecting vicious undead did a number on a man’s mind. Barrick leaned forward, snatching his VR60 by the barrel to check the magazine already loaded in. Rarely he fired a shot, as he managed to avoid the undead as a whole, but tonight felt different. The magazine was at full capacity, loaded with twelve gauge buckshot. Barrick the Bear rarely felt ease, especially now, but seeing his plethora of ammunition assuaged his mind. He watched, waited, his body still despite the freezing temperatures outside. And finally, something broke through the shadows. A pale, knife-eared being dressed in rags crawled overtop cars, barely disturbing the snow that had spent the day piling up. Barrick could hear its sniffing over the wind as it hunted for spilled blood, cologne, tobacco- anything that hinted at human habitation. She, probably once a fair elven maiden, was joined by a wild-haired human in similar condition to herself. Then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. Soon, a pack roamed the streets, observed by an armored figure with wings that stretched the length of their six-foot-five body. Barrick assumed they looked on impassively, but the plain helmet covering their head hid their expression well. He shouldered his shotgun and glared, hoping that the vinegar he boiled earlier was enough to mask whatever he smelled like. The ferals scoured the vehicles first, brushing aside snow to stare through the windshields. They were methodical with their search, which felt… downright unnatural, given their bloodlust. Barrick assumed it was because of their leader, but his point remained; telepathy or not, it was wrong. The ferals ignored his complaints and continued searching for livelier folk, but the cars clogging the road held nothing of importance. They moved on to the buildings lining the street, kicking down doors and breaking through glass. Some walked out with nothing, others fell back with holes peppering their chests. Gunfire rattled out into the night as scavengers and random civilians fought the ferals that tried bursting into their humble abodes. Barrick watched as a man was thrown from a window of a second story building, only to land rather softly on the top of a snow-covered car. In his dazed state, he couldn’t defend himself from the pale-skinned beasts that latched onto him with throaty cries of hunger. He bucked, kicked, screamed as fangs penetrated his legs, arms, and neck. The ferals were relentless in their feeding, and soon the fellow went still as he was drained of his lifeblood. Barrick blinked, long and slow as he considered his next actions. More and more people were being dragged into the street, to be bound or to be feasted upon like cattle. The undead were unaware of him at the moment, and he had a clear shot on the Fleshhunter leading the hunt. The barrel of his shotgun swiveled slowly to the ferals’ leader, poking through the mesh screen. Barrick sighed, low and slow, and his finger squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked in his hands, but he was quick to follow up with another shot. The first load of buckshot slammed into the Fleshhunter’s armor, and they reeled back into a nearby car. The second load ripped through the being’s wing, but there was no blood. The response was loud, louder than any shotgun blast. The being’s roar pierced the electronic hearing protection, and Barrick winced. He stumbled back, tripping over his chair and through his protective mesh as his vision rapidly unfocused. The roar was layered, and clearly magical given the sudden bout of nausea the Bastard suffered. Bile rose into his throat and he spat it out, coughing heavily. He struggled to right himself, and began to twist out of the mesh when he heard the ferals scrambling up the side of his candy shop. They were coming for him, and he wasn’t in any position to fight back. 

The gunfire wasn’t the noise that drove Victor to a near-panic, no, he had heard it before and expected it that night. No, it was the ear-piercing roar that sounded like it was right outside his car. He snatched his wheelgun from the seat beside him and pointed it at the windshield, then the driver’s side window, waiting for a beastly claw to break through and drag him into the flurry. When it never came he grew brave enough to pull aside the windshield screen, finding… nothing. Just a car-clogged road, and more snow than what he had fallen asleep to. Vic checked his watch, and groaned when he noticed that only twenty minutes had passed since he had finally slipped off into dreamland. The gunfire stopped momentarily, but picked up with a new fervor not moments later. Another roar swept down the road like a wave, encompassing what it truly meant to be afraid of the dark. Vic cringed back, ducking down for a moment as the beastial howl drove his lizard-like instinct to the forefront of his mind. Again, nothing came of it besides a temporary lapse of gunfire. Stress sweat rolled down his cold forehead from underneath his furred ushanka, but he laid back and pulled the quilt back over himself. Attempting to fall back asleep was futile, as the gunfire and terrible roaring only gained in volume. Eventually he had enough, and Victor shrugged off the quilt to slip on his rig. The unofficial merc snatched up his armaments and quietly slipped out of his truck, making sure to shut the door behind him as quietly as he could. He hit the lock button on his keyfob once, ensuring that no greedy fucktards could open the back gate and snatch his shit. Vic tightened the sling on his rifle to his back and drew his CZ, then made his way down the road, to the source of the roars. Regret filled him with every step he took, but it wasn’t like he was getting any sleep that night anyway. So; on he went. The wind was unforgiving, slipping into the looser portions of his clothing and brushing roughly against his already cold flesh. He shivered, pressing his arms against his sides as he attempted to cut off the wind. He always said he loved the cold, the Winter, but at the moment he wished to be in Tijuana, girly drink in one hand, and a knife-eared babe in the other… even if there was a chance for his throat to be cut. No different than hanging with the crazy bitches of the regular world. It sure as shit sounded ten times better than fighting undead that physically couldn’t feel the bitter cold plaguing the lovely land of Austria. The gunfire no longer sounded faint, and unfortunately Vic could hear the hissing of ferals as they attempted to tear apart the gunmen. The merc finally stepped onto the battleworn street, finding… one hell of a sight. There were ferals everywhere, clinging to the sides of buildings and diving through windows in an attempt to get to the scavengers and survivors that fired sporadically from the buildings lining the road. Corpses littered the snow, some dressed in rags, others in thick coats. Blood was splattered everywhere, probably due to the messier eaters that had gotten ahold of an unlucky live one. Further down the road was a massive figure dressed in heavy plated armor and a billowing cape. In one hand they waved a mace, and in the other a glowing vial of mystery fluid. As Vic watched, the figure tried pouring the contents onto their ruined wing, but a stray shot ripped off two gauntlet-covered fingers and sent the contents of the vial to the snow below. It roared yet again, and Vic could see the air around the figure bend against the rage-filled force emanating from its body. The mercenary’s knees gave out, his sidearm dropped to the snow, and he clutched his ears. His vision swam, coming in and out of focus. His head was filled with fire, and the gray matter in his skull was ripping itself apart. He groaned, but it was cut short when one hundred and eighty pounds of feral flesh slammed into him at the speed of a coasting car. Vic slammed into the ground, the remaining air in his lungs expelled in a violent manner. The vampiric spawn mounted him and swiped a set of talons across his chest, but the strengthened keratin only skittered across his scale mail armor. The creature, probably once a proud nobleman from the Other Side, lunged for Vic’s throat, and he got a noseful of old blood and rot. Thankfully he was aware of their penchant for following up with a bite, and brought his arm up in time to catch the fanged maw. He winced, the sharp teeth brushing across his flesh as they pierced the thick leather bracer. The feral reared back, bringing Vic’s arm with it, and Vic sure as shit went wherever the mouth went. The far-from-home merc blinked away tears as the effects of the Fleshhunter’s roar slowly petered out, but his vision still swam. Moving on instinct, the American’s free hand dropped to his belt, where several items of use rested. Said hand brushed across a wand, a wheelgun, and… a light. Vic tore it from its sheath and directed it at the beast’s twisted face, and hit the “on” switch. He squinted as bright purple light flashed brilliantly in the dying flurry, then grunted as a piercing howl echoed out into the night. The scent of well-done flesh filled Vic’s nostrils as the feral’s face was quickly ashed by the UV light. It finally fell back, writhing in the snow and leaving Victor to recover. Several of the ferals took notice of his shenanigans and were quick to hop from their respective perches, then subsequently charged. With the hellish monsters hot on his trail, the American lunged forward and shoved the burned vampire aside to grab his trusty sidearm. The artificial sunlight swept back and forth, forcing the vampires back and giving him enough time to open fire. Round after round went downrange, some zipping off into the night, others tearing holes into crispy Spawn. Sixteen nine millimeter rounds in total were spent, and as the American went to eject the magazine, the ferals got a whole lot more intelligent. The group- seven in all- split three on the left, three on the right, and one straight for Vic. He couldn’t maneuver his flashlight around fast enough, and even those that were caught by it didn’t seem to care. They rushed in, and Victor managed to slam another magazine into his weapon, then racked the slide. He barely got a shot off when the Spawn swarmed him, tearing him this way and that as they each tried to get a piece of him. He brought his arm up to protect his throat and felt fangs pierce his bicep instead. Another latched onto his leg, and another began clawing at his face. His breathing became labored as he tried to prolong his existence just a little longer, but he was struggling. There was no acceptance, just fear, fear that he’d end up little more than a sack of skin and bones in the snow, to be picked clean by the scavengers no doubt escaping their hovels while a chunk of the beasts were distracted. Vic reared his free leg back and slammed his boot into the head of the Spawn chewing on his leg. Something gave out, and the feral scrambled back with a hanging lower jaw and tongue. One of the beasts roaming the outer feeding circle dived in on the pile alongside another, causing a fight between the two. A third took advantage of their spat and snatched Vic by his thigh. Two more rounds spat off into the night, driving the vampire cutting up the American’s face back. Victor felt the fight leaving him the longer the vampires remained latched to him, his energy dipping with each passing second. His eyelids felt heavy, and the handgun began to near the snow. It wasn’t too bad of a death, it hurt a lot less than he expected it to, and the snow wasn’t half bad of a place to rest. Shame it was so cold. 

Two shotgun blasts jolted him from his deathbed reverie. A pale, buckshot-ridden chunk of flesh dropped onto his chest, and something fell out of sight. The Spawn of the outer circle slipped out of sight, heading to combat the newest threat. Victor’s lips curled back into a snarl as he bent his hand around to direct the UV light at the head of the beastie chomping on his bicep. His finger jammed into the button, and like magic the Spawn tore away from his arm. A chunk of his arm went with it, and by God did he yowl. Blood dribbled steadily from the wound, darkening the snow he rested on. Vic grimaced as he swallowed down another cry of pain, but the mild inconvenience of suddenly missing a portion of muscle from his arm proved to be a good enough distraction for the feral at his thigh to go for his throat. It wasn’t a quick lunge, no, the bloodied smile suggested otherwise. No doubt, the winged monster down the road had something to do with the sudden change in the ferals’ tactics, and was clearly relishing his intelligence. The sickly-looking orc swept aside the UV light, damn near taking a finger too. The American bucked as his index and middle finger suddenly lost feeling when razor-sharp nails cut the nerves within, but the orc just continued on his merry way- that is, until Vic began squeezing rounds into the feral’s torso. He didn’t miss, and would’ve spent the whole magazine had the once-normal orc’s head not snapped to the side with the assistance of one of Bubba’s pissin’ hot handloads. Gray matter, skull fragments, and dark ichor slapped onto the blanket of once-virgin snow, and it was followed by the orc’s brainless body not a moment later. Victor was up a moment later as the gunfire continued behind him. He turned, the scene laid out before him like a movie trailer’s freeze frame. Corpses, their respective missing body parts, and more ichor decorated the snow like a deranged artist’s canvas. Several steps away from the slaughter was a hefty-looking figure covered head-to-toe in thick winter clothing and armor, similar to a Chernobyl trekker. He struggled against a taller feral who chomped at his throat. It was a fruitless endeavor, given the fortified mask that hung over the neck. The shotgun in between them was the only thing holding the beast back, but it was fast slipping. Several other Spawn paced around the scene, waiting for the inevitable moment that the Chernobyl trekker would slip. Vic groaned as he leaned over to grab his light with his uninjured hand, forcing him to put his handgun down for the time being. The light flickered on for a third time, and the effect was immediate. The Spawns’ flesh went up like dry tinder, forcing them away from the struggle. Most got away, but there was one that slipped and got caught in the light’s path. The tall feral and the grounded one couldn’t get away in time before their bodies cooked like steak in a campfire. The one already on the ground curled up into a ball and ceased its writhing, while the other one had his knee stomped. The Chernobyl trekker backed away, his shoulders heaving as he struggled to regain his breath. Like the trooper he was, he managed to reload his Saiga, pull the charging handle, and gave the beastie a buckshot fade. It was a hell of a finisher, one fit for a thick memoir. But that’d come later, once Vic could actually use his fingers and maybe wasn’t in the middle of a vampire hunting ground. Mister Trekker waltzed over to Vic and offered a hand up, a hand that the American gladly accepted. Now that he was on his feet, Vic gathered his discarded magazines and holstered everything in its respective places on his rig. The gunfire had all but tapered off, leaving nothing behind but the injured Fleshhunter, a handful of ferals, and a shitton of bodies ripe for necromancer haha-funny spells. 

“Did you get separated from your team?”

The fellow spoke in near-perfect English, in a rapid-fire manner. Vic squinted at him with a questioning gaze.

“Nah, man, I came here alone. That Vizeleutnant wanted mercenaries, and I needed a break from overgrown reptiles.”

The Trekker gently slapped his helmet.

“So -you- left your team?”

“Team? What fuckin’ team are-”


Vic made the connection. He had forgotten the baby-blue UN helmet that rested on his head in a haphazard manner. 

“Oh, shit, no. I’m not UN, I’m just some guy from the States. Picked up this helmet at a surplus store.”

The Trekker bobbed his head once Vic provided an explanation. 

“I bought my gear from surplus stores as well. The old stuff has its merits.”

He replied, then gestured down the road.

“We’re the cleanup crew now. Those things need to be put down before they can return to whatever stronghold they’ve created.”


The bulky fellow gave Vic a once-over, noting his condition.

“I… don’t know how you can help, but please do something.”

Victor just nodded, a plan already in mind. So long as the Trekker played the heavy-hitter role, he could ensure that the Spawn and their master couldn’t get out alive. Said heavy-hitter approached what remained of the hunting party with a confident gait, while Vic shuffled behind him, his leg beginning to drag. As they drew closer to the undead, the nearest feral fell dead as several suppressed gunshots rattled out into the night. Black ichor sluggishly spilled out onto the snow. Their walk didn’t pause, but both most definitely thanked the unknown shooter for staying behind to assist. The Fleshhunter gestured sharply to his undead underlings, and as if they were puppets having their strings pulled, the Spawn jerked back and began retreating. Vic hooked his thumb through the pin on one of his smoke grenades, lobbed it further down the road, and sent another out for good measure. Hopefully he doctored them correctly, or he’d be in deep shit for the rest of his trip. However long that lasted, anyway. 

“Cease, humans. You’ve proved your point.”

The Fleshhunter held out a hand, his offputting, soft voice echoing out from the depths of his helmet. The duo paused momentarily to see if the fellow had anything worth listening to. The undead retreat continued, and they fearlessly delved into the thick smokescreen now clogging the street. The Trekker glanced over his shoulder, unsure as to why now of all times Vic would pop smokes, but he just waved a hand. He readied his flashlight.

“You fought well. I… could use those such as yourself. Humans of this realm, with skills like your’s. Rarely do we find anyone willing to help our cause, but you two… could be different.”

The Fleshhunter finally pulled off his helmet. He had vaguely human features, but his eyes were just a bit too large, his face just a bit too angular. His ears were a tad sharper than a regular man’s, but Vic figured he wasn’t a regular man. Probably a half-blood of some form.

“Whatever you’ve been offered, I can surely double, triple, whatever you wish. Gold, land, slaves, weapons, and, of course, eternal life if you so wish it. Your kind lust for power, we all do, but judging by your looks I assume this is the first concrete offer you’ve had in your entire life. And I can assure you, it will be the best offer.”

The speech sounded fabricated, like it was read off of a list he memorized. And their faces, well; their faces were covered. Even if Vic’s face was uncovered, it probably wouldn’t look as promising as the vampire would hope. The undead half-elf continued, or tried to, when his eyes narrowed and he gazed over his shoulder. 

“Burned, all of them. You humans, you’ve gotten so bored you’ve damn near perfected killing eachother. You would fit perfectly into our hunting parties.”


The Trekker leveled his Saiga at the Fleshhunter’s chest and waited.

“Not a listener, I see. How about I help with that?”

The next sentence was most definitely loaded with magic. Of what kind, Vic didn’t know. The vampire’s eyes flashed, and the words sounded like Heaven. Of course he’d accept help from such a well-to-do man. Surely he wouldn’t have to lose fingers or freeze his balls off for a crackpipe desk jockey hidden away in some tunnels, and… 
Victor swayed. A vein in his forehead throbbed as everything was set back into place. The pain, the cold, the scene, it all crashed back onto him like a wave. The American leaned forward, slapping the stock-still Trekker’s shoulder to shake him out of the spell. He grunted in response, glanced over his shoulder, and murmured something in a vague eastern-bloc language. Victor pressed the button on his light, the UV rays quick to torch the Fleshhunter’s exposed skin. His helmet dropped to the snow and both his hands rose to cover his face. The Trekker lowered his shotgun and began sending buckshot downrange. The armor was clearly magical as it held up to so many pellets, but it could only defend against so much. While the half-elf doubled over from the wave of lead, the mysterious shooter began planting rounds along the unarmored sides of the undead’s body. Bullets ripped through the fellow’s chest cavity, and he soon collapsed in a rather anticlimactic manner. The gunfire from the top of one of the buildings ceased, but the Trekker wasn’t finished. He shoved another full magazine into his hefty Russian shotgun, stepped forward, and sent a final load of twelve gauge buck through the bloodsucker’s forehead. Darkened blood, bone, flesh, and hair splattered into a starburst pattern on the snow, leaving nothing recognizable left. Vic dropped onto the hood of a nearby car, thankful that their spat came to a quick end. While the Trekker examined the aftermath, the American tugged his IFAK from his belt and struggled to get it open. He did, eventually, with the assistance of his uninjured thumb. He clicked on the headlamp on his helmet so he could get the full extent of his wounds- which weren’t grievous, but could’ve been better. The bleeding was sluggish, due in part to the less than optimal temperatures of Austria. Every little movement sent pain shooting up his arm, centered around his torn bicep. With thick bandages, plenty of curses, and a bit of metaphorical magic, Vic’s fingers were wrapped like pigs in a blanket. The American glanced up from his work, finding the Trekker speaking with an equally bulky fellow with a shotgun hanging from his shoulder. He was dressed in old war regalia, it reminded Vic of the Korean War with the patch-covered M1951 uniform and the ALICE gear to accompany it. The only thing that broke up the old uniform was the VR60 at his disposal. They must’ve felt his gaze, because the duo stopped their conversation and turned to look at him. They joined him a few moments later and the Korean War soldier nodded in greeting.
“Another American. You’re looking for the Vizeleutnant too?”


The bulkier fellow inquired. Victor assumed he was well-built under his patchwork uniform. 

“Yea, man. Answered the call through the classifieds.  Took me back to when I could be hired out to shoot the UN in Congo.”

The fellow American gazed at him for a moment, silent. His eyes flickered upwards, and the helmet finally registered. He snorted softly.

“Nice, very fitting. Well, dear Peacekeeper, have you found our mysterious military leader yet?”

The Trekker leaned in, curious as to what Vic knew. The “Peacekeeper” swallowed and went to work on his bicep.

“Yea. Been here about a week now, traveled back an’ forth between AM encampments. Grilled every guard I could about this Vizeleutnant, and was finally given some answers this morning. He’s in a depot, specifically underneath it. Apparently, there’s railways that run everywhere underground, probably providing the military ease of transportation. If I remember correctly, it’s just outside of Linz, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”

The Trekker nodded in an aggressive fashion as Victor trailed off.

“Good, good. The Dominion’s reign has gone on long enough. I suspect they’re preparing for open war, and need us to pad their ranks.”

He stated firmly.

“We’re out of luck in going to war.”
The bulky, bear-like fellow remarked. The Trekker’s gaze shifted to him, waiting for further explanation.

“The Austrian Militia asked for mercenaries, and many came over here to answer the call. They got cold feet, literally and metaphorically. Some squatted in the compounds, others left Austria entirely. A fair portion more became scavengers and thieves when they realized the wealth left behind by kidnapped citizenry. The numbers that would’ve been used to swell the ranks of the Austrian Militia, which would have provided so many bodies to distract the undead, are simply no more. It’s us, and maybe a handful of others spread around various areas of Austria.”

The Trekker listened intently. When the Bear finished, he sighed and wrenched himself away from the conversation at hand to take a breather. Vic turned his attention back to his arm, which was now covered as best as he could get it. The cold numbed his arm well enough that he only felt a dull ache, which was in turn numbed by a pre-measured half-shot of a painkilling narcotic. The first American let out a long sigh as the fluid entered his vein via syringe, heralding a short burst of pain before dulling everything. 

“A pick-me-up, huh?”

The second American inquired. He stepped forward, and dropped heavily onto the hood of the car Vic was sitting on. Victor just bobbed his head in response, the warmth of the drug doing it’s wonderful work. The duo sat, catching their breath while the third turned over corpses and snapped pictures of those that were living before their inevitable death. Probably for later IDing, if the Austrian Military cared enough. Judging by the unmarked graves outside some of their compounds, Vic could hazard a guess that they didn’t. Several minutes later, long enough for the windchill to get Vic’s joints aching, the Trekker slipped his camera into his rig and returned to the idle duo. 

“I am ready to go. I believe we should stay together for the time being, until we’re well rested, and in your case-”


He gestured to the first American.

“Healed. I do believe there are several displaced nonhumans with regenerative capabilities nearby.”


Victor groaned in response. Just what he needed, to be indebted to an otherworlder. Not racist, just didn’t like ‘em, simple as. They took up space and a majority fucked too much up with their goddamn magic. Playing with fire, sometimes literally. 

“Not one for the Otherfolk, huh?”

The Bear remarked. Vic just nodded, as the others already knew his answer as to why. 

“Fuck it, let’s get goin’. Don’t want to keep the crowds waiting.”

Victor shoved himself off of the hood of the forsaken four-door hybrid and tucked away his useless fingers. The Trekker nodded once in a sharp manner, then turned heel and began making his way down the road. The far-from-home Americans set off after him, and with that their night ended. Vic figured after the massive firefight the rest of the hunting parties would’ve fucked off back to their respective strongholds, as by now they would’ve been flooded with more undead if the Fleshhunters wanted a fight. He sighed, not looking forward to being indebted to anyone from the Otherside, no matter how simple the matter was. Like he said before- he didn’t like ‘em, simple as. 

The walk ended a short time later, at the front gate of a fenced-in, dilapidated hair salon. The trio were flagged with gun barrels, shined with UV lights, forced to hold silver coins, and had their lips peeled back to check for fangs. Vic and the others were hustled inside, then stripped of their gear for prompt examination. He shivered as the sub-zero winds bit at his unprotected flesh, waiting impatiently for the guards to complete their checks for any brandings or tattoos that might hint that they were saboteurs. He was right in guessing that the Bear was built; he had layers of scarred muscle and fat, and Vic’s assumption was that he was somewhere in the manual labor field before he joined the others in Austria. The Trekker, on the other hand, just looked like some ordinary guy. His skin was naturally tan, and somewhat scarred from the undead occupation. His hair was long, somewhat unkempt, and his bright green eyes held a thousand yard stare common amongst the War on Terror vets. Vic observed, and was eventually scoured up-and-down for any hints that he was an enemy of the Austrian Militia. They spoke in rapid-fire German, a language Vic was unfortunately not adept in. 

“You, and you! Americans, get your things and go inside. We will interrogate you momentarily!”

Vic jolted and got to movin’. He gathered his things and hustled into the salon, joined seconds later by the Trekker and the Bear. The trio found themselves in a soon-to-be empty waiting room on the first floor, rather bare aside from some folding tables and chairs. In the half-light Victor barely saw a smaller figure scurry away upon their entry, going up the stairs on all-fours. He didn’t see much else, and others didn’t appear to care or notice themselves. With a half-hearted shrug the American slogged over to a nearby chair and dropped heavily into it, sparing only a moment to slip his pants back onto his hips and tighten his belt. Thankfully the Austrian Militia weren’t ones for rectal checks, so his dignity was relatively secured. With his bandage-wrapped leg he dragged his gear nearer to the wall, so as to prevent anyone with sticky fingers from rooting around through his things while he slept. Or tried to, anyway. The Trekker slipped into the chair across from him with a small sigh, then went about retrieving… something from his rig. Moments later, he brought forth a wooden pipe and a tin of tobacco, and began packing. The Bear reclined back in his seat, delegated to staring at the ceiling while they awaited the so-called interrogation from the guards outside. Vic gritted his teeth as the warmth of the salon finally worked over his frozen muscles, but with it came pain, of course. The minutes dragged on, and as he rose in temperature his bandages began to redden. It was a slow spread, but a spread nonetheless. He pressed a thick handful of bandages against his bicep and let out a groan; he couldn’t move his fingers, nor rotate his wrist, but he sure as shit could feel their pain. The Trekker’s thousand-yard briefly gazed upon him before flicking back down to his pipe. When the gaze returned it looked more impassive, or interested in a detached manner.

“You got lucky tonight…”

The Trekker trailed off. Vic sat in awkward silence before he realized that the dramatic pause was a window for him to introduce himself.

“Uh- Vic, Victor, whatever you call me’s alright.”

The Trekker nodded once, then went about lighting his pipe. Smoke soon curled into the air as he sucked air through the burning tobacco, and the scent of faint Fig Newtons joined the smoke.

“Or maybe I got lucky, Mister Bait. Your sacrifices enabled us to wipe out those undead before they could gain a foothold in the area. I admire your resolve to keep going.”

The Bear’s head swiveled around to look at Vic.

“He held his own rather well. They bit him, quite a lot from what I saw, but he kept them off of anything important. Give him time to master the craft and he’ll be able to slip out of anything.”

He commented. Victor bobbed his head in a tired manner, then chin-checked the Trekker.

“Let’s hear your name, Chernobyl Trekker. Master Shotgunner, if you so prefer.”

The Trekker snorted and held his pipe a length from his face, as if examining the tobacco.

“Teodor.”

Vic cracked a woozy smile.

“Mister Motherfuckin’ Theodore, undead slayer extraordinaire. I’m callin’ you Theo, bud.”

His half-lidded eyes flicked to the Bear.

“I’ve been callin’ you the Bear, if you don’t mind it.”

The bulky fellow’s head inclined in a soft manner.

“You’re right on the dot. That was a nickname of mine, back home. You can call me Bear, or Barrick, whichever comes to mind first.”

“Sick, man.”


Vic eased his chair back until it touched the wall, and he finally relaxed. He was tired after that short assclencher of a fight, and did not look forward to an interrogation. The minutes drew into an hour, and the guards finally stomped inside, scattering snow all over the floor. They escorted a man in a long woolen coat, who was decorated with a plethora of medals. He looked somewhat important, and when his glare snapped to the trio in the corner, he puffed out his chest and approached with a swagger.

“Excellent, excellent. What are you, thieves? Hired killers, here to wipe my outpost out? I take direct orders from the Vizeleutnant, do you think I’m an incompetent man? It is by my good grace that you are still alive, you three, so I…”

The officer’s almost-perfect English was cut off by a quick murmur from a nearby guard. The “decorated” militaryman’s eyebrows knit together and he responded in a similar fashion, unfortunately not in English. 

“Wrong people. Fine, why are you here? Seeking aid, to leech off of my already dwindling supplies?

Another murmur from the same guard. The officer seemed to deflate a bit and he sighed.

“Local mercenaries, who happened to kill some vampires. Great, I’m glad you were able to riddle some mindless ferals with your bullets, congratulations.”

Theo blew smoke and cleared his throat.

“Try an entire hunting party, including the Fleshhunter.”

He corrected coldly. The pale, stubble-covered officer looked at him with an incredulous gaze.

“You must be mistaken, I-”

And for a third time, he was interrupted by the AM guard. The fellow’s wide-eyed gaze flicked between the three and their gear, probably wondering how they managed to tear into the undead without hefty losses. The officer’s mouth formed an “O” as he listened to the guard’s explanation of the scene, and their personal accounts of what happened.

“I… see. I don’t see how you managed to do it, but the corpses are there, so are the shells. We heard those… magic roars from the other side of Linz, but we knew with a Fleshhunter like that the hunting party would be far too large to take on ourselves. I… see that thanks is in order. I… will figure out a reward for all of you, you may rest here for the night until then.”

The officer’s bloodshot eyes shut, as if to blink something away. He shook his head, scratched his scalp, and turned away, leaving behind stunned air. The guards were left to their own devices, but they too disappeared moments later… which left one more, a man Vic didn’t notice until the room was empty. Standing in the corner, at the bottom of the stairs was an older, long-haired fellow with large almond-shaped eyes and ears that jutted past his head like blades. He was garbed in simple robes, clearly not fit for any harsh Winter but it didn’t seem to bother him. He wore a talisman, similar to a road paved into a sunrise around his neck. It glowed like the other magical rings and trinkets the elf was draped in. He looked on, silently judging the three in their sorry state. The others took notice moments later, but disregarded his presence. Vic attributed it to a curious Otherfolk, nothing more. He turned his attention elsewhere, through the cracks of the boarded-up window nearby to watch the road. There wasn’t much to look at besides piled snow, unfortunately, and when the American turned around the elven fellow was several steps closer. He looked down upon them, his judgement withheld for the time being.

“Travelers. You are of great importance to the officer of this locale, rightfully so. Your skills, no matter how… unrefined they may be, are of use.”

The fellow’s hands clasped on his tailbone, and he peered down at their firearms with a look of distaste. Victor shared a look with Teodor, while Barrick fixed a pleasant smile on his face.
“But I noticed that during your… spat outside, you’ve acquired wounds. Some worse than others.”

The elf’s almond eyes suddenly scoured Victor’s battered body. Had he not been in pain, nor under the influence of narcotics, he would’ve jolted. Instead, he stared back with a set of glazed-over orbs.

“I wish to offer my services to you, as a cleric of his holiness, Lathander. Many do not appreciate my miracles, some take great offense to them.”

“Sure, man, sure… do what you need.”

Vic replied. Everything began dropping on him at once- the dump, the wounds, the narcotics, it all squeezed the life out of him. He drooped in his seat, giving the elf free reign to do as he needed. After that, his vision faded. He knew nothing more of that night.

The dreams, on the other hand, plagued him yet again. They had gotten especially vivid during the onset of the Convergence, and more… applicable to the real world. Whatever caused them was back, and back with force. No longer was he in the comfortable warmth of the Austrian Militia outpost, now Victor found himself amidst a snowy field broken by shadows. The sky was shattered like a crystal, the stars that were oh so far away now suddenly massive. The world was broken, unrepairable. But that wasn’t the point of the dream, as one of the slivers of sky above him spun around, offering the word “allies” without context. Said context arrived moments later, as a group of undead charged over the horizon, chasing after a diminutive figure that looked to be running for their life. The snow at Vic’s feet shifted, and the barrel of a hunting rifle poked out from underneath a camouflaged space blanket. There was a crack, a quiet one at that, and one of the greener undead suddenly tripped and hit the ground hard. It popped, splattering a viscous material over its nearby fellows, who also stumbled and fell over. The rest continued to tear after the figure, who in return simply melted away. They didn’t dive for the snow, or simply stop, they were running full tilt and were suddenly not there anymore. The crowd continued its charge until it reached the spot where the figure had disappeared- and subsequently blew up. A bone-shaking charge blew a deep hole into the earth, sending various limbs up into the air to fall like gorey rain. The landscape was… still, silent, with only the wind to moan in the distance. Victor shivered and looked down at himself; he wore nothing but his boots and pants, like he had back at the outpost. He stepped back, leaving behind treadmarks in the fresh snow… but he shouldn’t have. There was no way he was in the middle of nowhere- surely it was something like a premonition, a fucked up one at that. Did the sky really look like that?

“Damn, chap, you look rather cold.”

A hand clapped his shoulder, and Victor winced in preparation for the spike of pain to shoot down his torn-apart arm. It never came. The snow crunched off to the side and a short fellow dressed down in thick, woolen clothing stepped into view, a PPSH slung at his side. His bushy eyebrows knitted together as he examined Vic.

“Lost, too. But I didn’t see any footsteps leading up.”

The snow shifted again. The sniper discarded his quilt-space blanket combo and sat up, but it’s not like it revealed who he was; the fellow was dressed in thick winter camo, like the Finnish sniper of ‘yore. Vic doubted he was Finnish, though.

“I shouldn’t be here, man. It’s, uh, complicated. Give me about five minutes and I’ll be gone.”

“Five minutes sounds long enough for an explanation. Please, do me a solid and tell me what you’re doing here.”

The Soviet-bloc LARPer’s gaze tore from him to somewhere off to his side, and Vic meant to turn around but an itching feeling in his kidneys told him otherwise. Maybe if he made the wrong move he’d get a blade or two there.

“If I don’t freeze first.”


Victor commented, but continued nevertheless.

“I’m supposed to be at an Austrian Militia outpost. In fact, I don’t doubt that I’m there right now, still being healed by that elf. Myself and two others fought a hunting party and got ripped up in the process, but the Fleshhunter’s dead. We hobbled over to that hair salon outpost, got interrogated, and we’re apparently being rewarded in the morning. With what, I have no fucking clue.”

Mister Soviet-bloc rubbed his bearded chin, gazing intently at Victor.

“You’re not from around here, are you one of those foreign mercenaries?”

He inquired.

“Yea. American.”

“And you said you took on a Fleshhunter and its hunting party… where?”

“Over in Linz. Forget the exact street but I’m sure the corpses are still there.”

The “Soviet” glanced past him, as if looking for confirmation. He… reminded Vic of a character, a certain British fellow from that gun-porn first-person movie. A grating, feminine voice interrupted his line of thought.

“Yes. There were many corpses on that road. I do not understand how they did it, but they did. Doubtful this one was involved, however.”

Soviet’s gaze flicked back to Vic.

“You said an outpost at a hair salon, right? Over in Linz… I can be there in the morning to verify. And, you… you’re getting transparent, my friend.”

Victor didn’t know about transparent, but he could feel himself getting lighter and his vision more blurry. The sniper leaned forward, swiping at his leg, but his fingers merely passed through. Darkness soon overtook him, and with it, dreamless sleep.

By the time Victor came around, the sun was high in the sky and the flurry was over. The American was alone at the table, his fellows and their things elsewhere in the outpost. Vic lifted himself from the chair with the help of the table, jolting until he realized that the expected pain was missing. He looked over his pale, thin form and found nothing to write home about besides mild scarring. The bloodied bandages were gone, presumably taken by the clerical fellow from the night before. 

“Sonovabitch. That magic shit’s somethin’ else.”

And… speaking of magic, something thrummed on his fingers. He somehow hadn’t noticed before, but when he looked down at his hands for a second time he noticed there were rings slipped over his digits- four in all; a nondescript silver band, a thick oak chunk roughly shaped like a ring, a fine golden ring marked in finer print in a language Vic didn’t understand, and what looked like a mass of intertwined copper wires; the crackhead’s dream, if one so wished. Victor stared hard, trying to deduce their effects. Funny enough, he did feel a bit lighter, and he seemed to move with less… grinding in his joints, maybe. He squatted, stood, jumped, rolled his shoulders and stretched his hips and found that he moved like he had years prior- a teenager, at the height of his martial arts career. He felt good. Victor grinned like a madman and went about getting dressed. Minutes later he was out the door and sweating, and only felt a tad bit better when he stepped outside. The howling wind felt like nothing more than a cool breeze. As Vic opened his coat to air out, he eyed the rings that had been slipped onto his fingers the night before, wondering which one spared him from the biting cold. He touched each individually, but they were all warm in their own right. Nothing stood out to him, and as he looked on his memories returned. It was a haphazard day following a suggestive dream, one that dragged him to the local Otherworld market. Rings, he’d be looking for rings that would eventually help him in his coming days. He had dragged an enchantress out of her shop to help him sift through the “random rings” bin to ensure he didn’t pick up a curse or some sort of magical virus; it was paid work, of course. Funny, because several days after that market run, he had seen the advertisement for mercenaries in Austria. 

“Put on your coat, American. You don’t have experience with our winters.”

One of the guards suggested with a harsh tone. Vic grinned in response, fanning his coat to make a point. There was a bit more of a hustle and bustle than usual; it appeared two random tradesmen had made their way into Linz from Graz, laden with magical items and “specialty” bullets for the vampire hunters roaming the wastes. Apparently, they weren’t going to swing by the settlement because they simply didn’t have the time- that is, until the vampires cleared the streets after a certain Fleshhunter tanked a hefty amount of lead and silver, making it safe to travel at night. There were several guards and randoms perusing and buying goods from the carts, including Barrick and Theo. Victor looked on, and was very quickly accosted by a certain officer from the night before. 

“You, sir! I need to speak with you, before you go.”


His posse formed out in a fan behind him-clearly favorites, or combat specialists. The officer wiped his upturned nose and peered around, then called for both Barrick and Theo. Once he had the three assembled in front of him, he began speaking.

“Your reward, clearly you deserve one. It’s been so long since we’ve seen traders here. I can do gold, silver, USD, credit, whatever you want you can have.”

He jingled three coin pouches on his hip, each filled to the brim with precious metals. He handed them out; first to Barrick, then to Theo. Both turned heel to return to the cart, clearly intent on purchasing something. When his bag was dropped into his hand, Vic felt its weight and nodded in satisfaction.

“Hell of a reward, sir. Thank you.”

Vic nodded his thanks and tied the pouch to his rig. The officer nodded sharply, but continued speaking in a breathless manner.

“I need to make this quick, I have much to discuss with my superiors. Your group, while formidable, can only take on so much. I would suggest more members, and I have a place for you to look.”

The officer’s thin, pale hand shot from his coat sleeve and he pointed down the road, back where they had come from the night before.

“There is word of a magician of some form. Unfortunately, he was caught by a group of zealots, if memory serves correctly. It isn’t much, but as you say; better than nothing.”

The officer inclined his head in a sharp, businesslike manner. He turned heel, his posse forming up behind him. Together, they marched through the fresh snowfall and disappeared around to the back of the salon.