Alone in the Dark

1:30 am, 10 days after the fight at the Temple of Zeus, the coast of Glyfada, a suburb south of Athens

Monica walked down a thin, lonely beach. Shops and stands littered the coastline- empty. In the dense fog of the early morning, it was an eerie yet tranquil atmosphere. Her barely-awake mind was drunkenly reminded of 'Creature from the Black Lagoon'. A cold pleasure washed over her as she imagined her favorite movie monster emerging from the depths to drag her to a watery grave. An oddly pleasant thought, and one that occurred to her often.

She walked over to the water's edge, dropping her purse unceremoniously on the sand. She followed suit, and sat with her knees to her chest; the sand was bound to get caught in her stockings and Daisy-Dukes, but, this was routine for her, and so she was long past caring.

During the day, this beach was filled with tourists and hipsters talking and typing away about one thing or another, a cup of coffee almost always in hand. In those hours, the thin beach and commercial atmosphere was more exhausting than it was relaxing, but here, in the dead of night, the thick fog isolated this space from everything else, creating a miniature paradise for her to enjoy. She always came here after work, and it was always the highlight of her day: just sitting here, looking out over the watery expanse at the intersection of evening and morning. The crisp, salty air nipped her skin and enveloped her body like an old friend, as if to say "Everything will be alright, and even if everything goes wrong, I'll still be here."

She was usually here later, but late-night business had been decreasing in the last week or so. Prior to eleven, business was no different than expected, but after that everything slowed down to a crawl until only the drunk, homeless, or high were left- all half-asleep or so hyped up on substances that sleep was far beyond them. She and the other workers had started being let off early since there wasn't anyone there, but she didn't care except for a faint worry that it might affect her salary. If she was being frank, she wasn't sure she could handle a decrease in pay, and while she didn't really care why, she couldn't help but wonder what it was that was killing the once healthy night-life of Athens. It was as if some haze had enveloped the city, and, in fact, she had started feeling more tired herself, though, since she was always tired, she couldn't be sure it wasn't just in her head. She had heard talk of a gas leak or chemicals in the water, but didn't put much stock in them.

She rubbed her forehead. There wasn't any point in thinking about it; whatever happens, happens, she may as well just focus on the waves washing ashore.

Having grown up in the mountains, the beach had been so distant from her until a mere year ago, but now felt so much like a part of life that she wasn't sure she could live without it. Much more than an old friend, it was her only comfort.

She had run away from home a year and a half ago, going immediately from there to Athens to try and make it on her own. Unfortunately for her, the city was a living tourist trap, built from the ground up to try and milk people of their cash. Living in Athens meant you were either very wealthy or barely scraping by, and there was no place for a runaway within the towers and ruins of the old city. Glyfada was technically a part of Athens; a suburb that contained much of the city's lower-income residents; it was also the best place in the city if you didn't want people asking too many questions. She was only 17, though she could pass for older, but, lacking an ID and formal residence, any half-decent job was out of her reach. She had no choice but to work for a local club.

She worked from 5pm to 3am, and slept in until past noon. It was an exhausting lifestyle, and, between her schedule, tiredness, and general introversion she had neither the ability nor the motivation to make any real friends. Was she lonely? Well... she couldn't say that she wasn't, but she also couldn't say it was something that she thought about often. People, in a word, sucked. People were terrible and cruel and unkind and stupid and rude. They're generally horrible and unpleasant. Why would she want to be with people when all of them just annoyed her, when they were just going to leave her behind anyway? People are selfish, and Monica was too selfish herself to bother with them.

She sighed, her building frustration melting into a hopeless gloom.

She remembered her friend at the club, Rhiannon. The women of the club were mostly antisocial and rude. Like her, they did this out of necessity, and were happy to drop their happy-go-lucky act outside the job. But, Rhiannon, like Monica, was a runaway, a college dropout to be specific. She was shy and quiet, but friendly, and they bonded quickly. She recalled how Rhiannon had wanted to move in with her, and how she had refused, citing her apartment as the only place and the only time she could be alone, and that she didn't want to spoil her limited and valuable "me-time", though she didn't mention that it was also because she didn't want to be reminded of work when she wasn't on the job. They lived in the same apartment complex anyway, so what was the big deal?

It was eight months ago, now. eight months since Rhiannon had killed herself.

It wasn't like she hadn't seen the signs either, but who was she to tell Rhiannon that her life was worth living? Who was she to tell her that things would get better? Who was she to tell her she was wrong? She, who had these thoughts herself? She who, on some level, found herself rooting for Rhiannon, for her to escape the life she hated so much? Who was she to refuse her wishes, she who couldn't even disagree honestly?

Tears stung the sides of her eyes as she pulled her knees closer into her chest.

Her life was the definition of a dead-end. Most of the women she worked with had been there for years and years, without any hope of escape. Being that most of the women there had no other opportunities for work, the management paid them only the bare minimum, not even close to enough to afford an apartment; the only reason any of them had a place to live was because the manager also owned an apartment building, and gave them all a place to stay. They had to live there to keep their job, they had to keep working to keep their place to live, and the manager's underground connections meant that, if you quit, you couldn't work in Athens again. The only way out was through some outside intervention, but, since the girls' hours kept them from any real social life and they already didn't have anywhere else to go- they wouldn't have been working there if they did- this was not a practical option. It was far more common for workers to die from suicide or overdose than to quit; the only other option was to get nice with some mobster that could buy you off to be his maid. There was no hope for her anywhere, no future except those laid out before her.

Did she regret running away? Did she regret the life she chose for herself? Not really. This life wasn't any worse than her old one. She had just as many friends- none-, just as much support- none-, and was just as satisfied- she wasn't. No matter where she went, someone else was pulling the strings. No matter where she went, someone was controlling her life. No matter what she did, she was never happy. At least this way.... at least now... she could have some peace... at least...sometimes...

She began to sob uncontrollably. Formless thoughts moved through her mind, bouncing around, appearing and disappearing in random order, without any reason to them. She sat like this for God-only-knows how long. Though these tears came as routinely as anything else in her life, they never became any easier to bear.

She cried until her throat was sore. Though she didn't have a mirror and didn't care enough to use her phone to check, she knew that her makeup was smeared across her face. Like everything and everyone else in her life, it was cheap and easily ruined.

She wiped her eyes and tried to pull herself together; the waves comforting her by kissing the tips of her toes. Standing up, she did her best to wipe the wet sand off her legs; she would take a shower when she got to her apartment, but still needed to minimize her discomfort for the walk back.

She started to look around, pressed by her insecurity. There was never anyone here, but she wasn't going to take any chances; there was nothing more unpredictable than the young and the high, and Glyfada had plenty of both. Her anxiety was justified by a man, maybe middle-aged, walking towards her.

This was the last thing she needed right now.

Given her "uniform", cropped tank-top and aforementioned stockings, her blonde and dyed blue hair, her youth and- to her chagrin and her employer's pleasure- curvature, it wasn't terribly uncommon for her to get stopped on her way back from work. Sometimes the money was appealing, sometimes it was even worth the trouble, but not tonight. She needed to sleep, she needed rest, she needed to go home, and, as much as she already wanted to kick this pervert in the balls, she needed today to end.

Monica looked at him more closely to see exactly what she was dealing with. How old was he, how wealthy? What was he on? Was it safer to just ignore him and walk away than to acknowledge his advance? He was staggering but stiff, and he was definitely looking at her. He was maybe twenty feet away now, and advancing steadily.

Maybe it was better just to ignore him.

She moved down the beach at a slightly hurried pace. In about forty feet she would be able to cross back to the well-lit streets where her pursuer would hopefully lose interest.

He kept pace with her, the distance between them never decreasing. Her heart was starting to tense. She couldn't help but swallow, but did her best not to look back. Reaching the street that ran parallel to the beach, she looked for anyone else that could act as witness.

Nobody. Too much to ask for at two in the morning.

It was one of the wider streets in the area, one of the few streets in the whole city with the liberty of two lanes on either side. The street lamps mixed with the fog, surrounding her in a yellow-orange mist. There were no cars coming from either side, though the fog was so thick that she couldn't be sure a car wouldn't appear suddenly and strike her as she crossed. Normally she would follow the street for a while before going to the backstreets since it'd be safer and easier to navigate, but tonight she was more focused on getting away from the man behind her- who was just starting to turn the corner. She hurriedly crossed the street, head swiveling back and forth, and pressed forward into the darkness of the backstreets, increasing her pace with each step she took.

Though rattled and slightly panicked, she did her best to update her mental map as she took a different route than usual. Between the hour, the fog, and the simple fact that she didn't come here too often, the dark streets had an otherworldly feel. With only the occasional streetlight to illuminate her way, she was still able to discern the general direction she needed to travel.

Monica looked behind her.

His outline was vague among the fog, but was unmistakable.

She turned right.

Hopefully he wouldn't see her in his stupor.

She looked ahead and saw another figure emerging from the fog. A woman. She was walking on the other side of the street. Like the man, she was very clearly high on something-or-other. Her movements were strange and irregular, but at least she wouldn't try to solicit her. Hopefully. One never knew these days.

Monica stared at the ground and continued walking, doing her best not to make eye-contact with the woman.

'Why is this happening? Is there some new drug on the market?'

In her fear, the stories of gas leaks and secret societies almost started to make sense.

A tug on her arm pulled her suddenly from her panicked stupor. The woman was now grabbing her arm. Hard.

Monica turned to look at her, and regretted it instantly. Where her eyes should've been were two black orbs of ooze.

She screamed, pulling her arm back with enough force to break the creature's grip. Its long fingernails drew blood as they ripped away.

Monica's breath caught in her throat. She was scared. She wanted to run, but she couldn't look away. The woman's face was hypnotic in its repulsiveness- its uncanny nature impossible to truly comprehend. Breaking her trance was two- no, three figures emerging from the fog behind the woman.

Monica stepped back- and turned into a full dash.

'What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the hell what the fuck what the hell what the fucking Hell!'

She couldn't even think. Whenever she tried to process the situation, her thoughts always stopped at the same place: 'There's no such thing as zombies! Zombies are the invention of Hollywood movie-makers, they're not real!'

'This was a nightmare! I'm high! This can't be real!'

Despite her attempts to convince herself otherwise, her body refused to listen to her rationalizations. She ran and ran, her heart seeming to pause with every shadow that appeared in the fog. She also became aware of something else: the woman, the man, the figures from before were running after her now, keeping pace. She could swear she even heard growls and gurgles past her footsteps and beating heart.

'That's not fair! Zombies are supposed to be slow!'

She ran and ran; her heart barely able to keep up. It pounded. It hurt. How much longer could she maintain her pace? Where was her apartment? She was lost, and, to her horror, the streetlights were becoming fewer and farther between. At times, she ran through complete darkness, even the moonlight obfuscated in the fog. But she ran. Tears began to stream down her face, the cold biting her cheeks. A pitiful wailing broke from her chest- was there any hope for her?

Maybe she could knock on someone's door. Maybe they'd let her in. But would she even be safer? Would she just be putting off the inevitable? Was this the end? Was this how she died? Was this re-

The ground disappeared from under her feet and Monica planted face-first into a stream of salt water. A man-made river leading to the sea. Pulling herself above the surface, she sputtered and coughed before turning onto her elbows.

She heard them.

The growls. The gurgles. The shuffling footsteps. How many were there now?

She scrambled on her hands to turn around, forcing herself up and out of the pool, her drenched clothing trying to drag her back to the depths, her sore body threatening to give way at any moment.

Her fingers dug into the soft sand of the ditch, her feet struggling to find purchase in the looseness of the soil. But they did. She leapt up and out-

-and found herself staring directly into the black eyes of a walking corpse.

Her breath seized. She leaned back and slipped; falling back into the salt pool.

Her tears fell harder than ever before. More and more figures emerged from the fog on all sides.

There was no escape.

There was no hope.

But she didn't want to die.

She was scared.

She gripped her left arm, bleeding and sore.

She wasn't ready.

Not like this.

Her lips quivered.

Her eyes stung.

Everything hurt.

She wailed. Despair took her very soul as darkness clouded her mind.

This was the end.

There was nothing left.

...

And yet-

There was light.

The water began to glow like liquid gold and swirl around her. She felt like she was at the beach again. That familiar feeling: "Everything will be okay. I'm here for you."

The light condensed and focused into a single point in front of her, just between her and the water's edge, and broke. Water splashed into the air, refracting golden light, and, among the droplets, a shape took form.

Before she could even start to understand the circumstances, the form charged in a single motion towards the zombie across from her. A shining golden dagger(?) seemed to manifest like water in his hand as he impaled the corpse upwards through the chin. The blade melted and reformed cleanly as he swiftly turned and leapt over her towards the group that had been following.

Monica scrambled to turn around, struggling to follow his impossibly swift motions in the pure darkness. But by the time she was able to stand, the water coming just below her knees, the job was done. A golden chain wrapped tightly around the final creature's neck, he pulled the now twin daggers apart in each hand. The tension took the zombie's head clean off, and it plopped with a gruesome thud on the pavement.

He- the form that had appeared just a moment ago- stood there, looked around, focused but unconcerned, and, satisfied that there were no other immediate threats, the daggers in his hands evaporated into golden mist as he turned to face Monica.

"Well..." He sighed as a sad smile crossed his face, barely noticeable in the dark. "That was a close one, wasn't it?" 

His smile broadened into something genuine and warm as he scratched the back of his head.

He seemed to wait for some response from her, but she was far too stunned, too shocked by the unreal, unending evening, to say anything.

He shuffled awkwardly before clearing his throat. He knelt slightly with an outstretched arm, gesturing to help her out of the shallow stream. "My name's Chrysaor. I'm the Saber-class servant. It's a pleasure to meet you."

As Monica reached out to meet his hand, she noticed a strange mark on her left forearm: a mark both curved and sharp that wrapped around her arm like a snake separated in three parts.

....