The heat was the first thing that registered, a humid, carnivorous warmth that smelled of copper and old rot. Elias squeezed his eyes shut, his hands scrabbling blindly against the wagon’s underside until his fingers closed around a jagged piece of discarded iron. Furthermore, he didn’t scream; his throat had constricted into a tight, useless knot. He simply waited for the strike, certain that the next sensation would be the tearing of his spine.
But the strike did not come. Instead, the heavy, rhythmic breathing hitched, as if the predator were savoring the scent of his terror. A low, vibrating rumble emanated from the creature’s chest, a sound so deep it felt as though it were rearranging Elias’s internal organs. Then, with a sudden, sickeningly controlled movement, the weight shifted. The lion didn’t bite; it nudged him, a terrifyingly deliberate gesture of dismissal, before bounding away into the gloom.
Through the suffocating dark, the sounds of the camp turned from chaotic to rhythmic. There were no more frantic shouts from the men, only the wet, tearing sounds of flesh being separated from bone and the heavy, methodical thuds of massive bodies moving through the scrub. A single, choked sob broke the silence, followed by the unmistakable crack of a human ribcage giving way. It sounded less like a struggle and more like a harvest.
” Silas!” Henderson’s voice drifted from the far side of the wagons, sounding distant and hollow. “Get the light! We need, “
A sound cut Henderson off, a sound that would haunt Elias for the rest of his short, miserable life. It wasn’t a roar. It was a heavy, wet thud, followed by the sound of something large being dragged across the gravel. Then, absolute silence. The silence was worse than the noise; it was a void that seemed to press against Elias’s eardrums, thick and expectant.
Trembling, Elias forced himself to move. He crawled toward the overturned lantern, his movements agonizingly slow. He needed light. He needed to know if he was truly alone. His fingers brushed against something soft and warm in the dirt. He recoiled, a whimper escaping his lips, only to realize he had touched a discarded cap, Henderson’s cap, soaked in something dark and viscous.
He reached the lantern and fumbled with the flint, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped it. On the third strike, a meager, flickering orange glow bloomed. The light did not bring relief; it brought a tableau of nightmare. The camp was a slaughterhouse. In the dim light, Elias saw the silhouettes of the lions moving with eerie, practiced grace between the wagons. They weren’t scattering. They were circling, herding the few survivors toward the center of the clearing like cattle. And as one, the largest of them, the one with the blood-matted mane, turned its head toward him, its eyes catching the light with a predatory, mocking gleam.
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