Origins of Blood[Will be republished]

A young blonde man sat alone on the train, isolated from the sparse crowd in the stillness of the night. His phone, connected to a pair of wired earphones, rested in his hand. He sat hunched over, arms loosely hanging by his sides, his gaze fixed on the floor. Softly, he hummed to the rhythm of the music, his right leg bouncing in time. His hair fell over his eyes as he nodded along to the beat, his mind lost in the melody. Then, with sudden intensity, he stood. His expression fierce, his movements even more animated. "If the world was ending—I wanna be..." he sang, his voice rising as his body moved with the song. His arms, hidden beneath the loose white fabric of his shirt, swayed with the rhythm. His legs, clad in worn blue jeans, danced with equal energy. He let the music sweep him away, absorbed by the rhythm, until—without warning—the melody cut off. His phone had died.

"Damn," Elliot sighed inwardly, casting a melancholic glance at the dark, shifting scenery outside the train window. The world rushed by: one moment, a blur of trees, the next, benches, roads, or fleeting glimpses of empty playgrounds. But mostly, houses—silent, unchanging. Everything comes and goes, he mused.

Friends, family, possessions—nothing lasts forever. Not even me. Not even this world. He inhaled deeply, though it did little to settle his mind. He lay down across several seats, hoping to find some rest, though the weight on his chest remained. His thoughts circled back to the visions that had plagued him for months.

They varied, each more obscure than the last, often leaving him guessing at their meanings. But the one he had a week ago… that one was different. It had been a vision so vivid, so catastrophic, that it left him drenched in cold sweat and wracked with pain for days. Normally, his visions were less intense—more like flashes of mundane tragedies: a child breaking an arm at a playground, a student bullied in a bathroom. He would experience the sensations, the dull ache of the fracture or the chilling splash of water dumped over a head, and then, a week later, the event would happen exactly as he had seen it.

But this time… This time, he had seen the world on fire. Millions suffering. The earth itself crumbling, consumed by flames. Everything unraveling into chaos. And if his previous visions had all come true after a week, then that meant the world had only hours left. The end was coming. He knew it with a certainty that gnawed at his soul.

As exhaustion crept over him, Elliot finally succumbed to sleep, despite the occasional jolt of the train beneath him.

Then darkness. Deeper than the blackness of night, so profound that he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. A void. In an instant, it was filled—images flashing too quickly to comprehend. Fire. Churches. Eyes—one, three, seven, eleven. Blood—red, blue, green, orange, yellow, violet, brown, black, white, gold. A black-haired man with red, pupil-less eyes, his skin torn and bleeding from every gash, impaled by a black sword through his chest. Angels. Demons. Gods. A woman, also black-haired, searching desperately. Colossal beings, shackled and chained. More eyes, empty of pupils. Masks. Violet deserts. Black mountains. Syringes—countless syringes. A blonde man with golden eyes, his skin peeling as a torrent of blood—golden, red, every color—poured from his eyes, ears, and mouth. Maggots swarming his body, devouring him from within.

A voice echoed through the chaos, calling out. The black-haired woman's voice, filled with anguish. "Damian, no!" she cried, her voice breaking as she knelt beside the man with golden eyes. Rain poured, cold and relentless. The scene bathed in the light of a golden moon. The black-haired man stood over the other, gripping his black sword with both hands, the blade held upright. Around them, the world was tinged in a bluish glow—a blue sun. Skulls littered the ground. People—what few remained—fought, soaked in blood. Chains rattled. Hunger gnawed at the edges of his vision. Slaves… death… monsters… It was too much. Far too much.

Elliot's head pounded as the vision ended, leaving him trembling in a cold sweat. The train had stopped. He found himself wrapped in a blanket, disoriented. Panic surged as he rose to his feet, but the moment he stood, his legs gave way. He collapsed to the floor, his skull thudding against the hard surface. His head throbbed violently, his balance off, his thoughts scattered. Gripping a nearby pole for support, Elliot massaged his temples, desperately trying to make sense of what he had just seen. Gods… death… slaves… monsters? What the hell is all this?

He forced his gaze to the window, hoping for clarity. Daylight had already broken, the sky a soft blue, clouds drifting lazily across the horizon. The train was eerily still.

What was he supposed to do now? Wait? Hide? But before he could think of a plan, a dreadful noise shattered the silence. It wasn't the sound of the train, nor the wind. It was something far more grotesque, akin to the wet, choking gasp of a throat half-severed, struggling for breath. The sound persisted, not fading but growing more persistent, more horrifying by the second.

Elliot's pulse quickened, panic clawing at his chest. Instinctively, he crawled on his stomach, his movements awkward, almost desperate, like a soldier in the field—or more accurately, like a caterpillar inching its way to safety. But technique didn't matter. He had to move. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The ghastly sound faded, becoming more distant, but it lingered at the edge of his hearing.

He dared to peek. His hands shook as he pressed them against the window, steadying himself. His legs trembled as he pulled himself closer. Slowly, cautiously, his eyes swept the landscape. Trees. Houses. Nothing but broken windows and abandoned cars. Not a single soul in sight.

So, it's really happening, Elliot thought, though the confirmation only deepened the pit in his stomach. His pulse hammered in his ears as he shifted his gaze to the other side. More of the same—houses, cars, trees. All empty. All dead.

Forcing himself to breathe, Elliot turned once more, his posture more stable now. Sweat dripped slowly down his face, sliding off his chin as he tried to calm the storm inside his mind.

Thump! Thump!

Out of nowhere, something slammed into the train behind Elliot—twice. It was like a figure from a zombie nightmare, but worse. The creature, vaguely human in shape, oozed red blood laced with a strange blue hue, and black stakes, the size of pens, were hammered through its joints. The sight alone was horrifying, but the stench—sharp, metallic, and rotting—was overwhelming. Elliot's stomach churned. Why didn't I notice the cracks earlier?! The twisted, mutilated creature, its blood-soaked limbs thrashing, was smashing violently against the window. It was only a matter of time before it broke through. He needed to escape. Now.

Panic surged through him. He pounded on the window across from the creature, desperate to shatter the glass, but it held firm. His elbow throbbed from the effort. Think rationally! Focus! His mind raced as he looked around—forward, backward, left, right—nothing. No exits. Then he spotted it: an emergency tool with a pointed end. Without hesitation, he grabbed it, swung with all his strength, and shattered the window. Covering his eyes with his arm to avoid the flying shards, he leapt through the opening, his teeth clenched as his feet hit the ground hard.

Suddenly, something grabbed him. "Arghh!" he yelled, instinctively kicking at the creature. "Get off me! Get off, you filthy beast!" His voice cracked with fear. Damn! This thing—it's worse up close! The creature was grotesque beyond description. Worms, countless writhing worms, spilled from its open wounds, crawling over its decaying skin, through its exposed bones. How could something so destroyed still move?

The wriggling mass of worms began to climb onto his shoes, then up his legs. "Damn it! Argh!" Elliot kicked violently, like a trapped insect, trying to free himself. "Kraggghhh!" The monster screeched, lunging at him with even more fury. "Damn! Damn! Damn it all!" His hoarse screams echoed in the still air as the creature's blood, now a mix of crimson and blue, coated his legs.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his calf. His body froze in shock, his voice caught in his throat. No. No, no, no! Did I just get bitten?! By this…thing?! His face twisted with disbelief and rage. His teeth ground together, veins bulging on his forehead. With a surge of adrenaline, he kicked harder, his arms scraping against the rough ground, nails breaking against the stones until his fingers bled. "You goddamn monster! Go back to the grave you crawled out of!"

The creature's grip loosened. But Elliot wasn't done. Fueled by desperation, he kicked it one final time, severing most of its neck, leaving its head barely hanging by the stake lodged in its spine. Gasping for breath, Elliot stared at the mutilated creature lying before him, its mangled body twisted in the dirt. Its wide, toothy grin stretched unnaturally, maggots wriggling from its split cheeks. And then it laughed—a sickening, hollow sound. The joy on its face was monstrous, unnatural, a grotesque mockery of human emotion.

Elliot couldn't bear it any longer. He turned away, bile rising in his throat. He needed to get away—to hide, to check his wounds. He glanced down at his calf. Blood—his own, mixed with the monster's—was oozing from the bite. His hand, too, was cut, smeared with the creature's strange azure-red blood. This can't be happening. Not like this, he thought, his heart pounding. If the world is ending, why not a meteor strike? Why…this?

…

Minutes passed—long, agonizing minutes. Elliot stumbled through the streets, clutching his injured leg. Every step was a battle against the searing pain, but he didn't stop. Finally, he found shelter, an empty house. The doors were locked, but after searching frantically, he found a way inside. It was quiet. Too quiet. Elliot barricaded the door behind him, his body drenched in sweat. His vision swam as he collapsed onto a dusty, brown sofa in the living room. The simple furniture, untouched for who knows how long, felt like a sanctuary, even if only for a moment.

He knew he didn't have much time. He had to assess his wounds. His legs shook as he looked down. His calf bore deep bite marks, swollen and throbbing, blood still seeping from the gashes. His hand, cut from earlier, was smeared with a mix of his own blood and the creature's. The skin around the wound tingled, and his mind raced with dark thoughts.

His gaze drifted to the ceiling, his body finally succumbing to exhaustion. Damn… so I'm going to die, huh?