“The Eleventh One!”
Raymond swung his stick with raw force, sending the mutant rat in front of him flying through the air. Its companion, trailing closely behind, met a similar fate. But the victory was fleeting, more mutant rats surged forward, relentless and snarling, their small bodies lunging toward him like a tide of claws and teeth.
A feral grin spread across Raymond's face as he moved. With a swift, sweeping motion, he cleared a path through the swarm, the stick in his hand slicing through the air. The rats he struck never got back up, their flesh torn apart with every blow. Blood and bits of gore spattered in every direction, painting the ground in a macabre tapestry of violence.
Yet no matter how many fell, the horde pressed on. Two of the rats leapt onto Raymond, their claws raking furiously at his protective gear. He felt the sharp scrapes but saw with relief that the suit held strong; no punctures, no breaches. They couldn't get through.