Chapter 5: Cure

  Raven worked quickly, hands shaking as he poured antiseptic over Darryl’s wound. The sharp, acrid smell filled the small room, but it did nothing to mask the sickly black tendrils creeping outward from the gash. The skin around the wound was hot to the touch, far too hot. He scrubbed at it with a rag, trying to clean away the spreading poison, but the dark veins remained, crawling further insidiously with each passing second.

  Darryl groaned, shifting slightly, but he barely reacted otherwise. His skin had grown pale, his breath coming in short, shallow puffs. Raven clenched his jaw, swallowing down the surge of panic clawing its way up his throat. This wasn’t working. Nothing was working. Maybe he could cut it out, carve the poisoned flesh away before it spread further. But no—that was madness. Darryl could bleed out just as easily.

  Raven panicked. Darryl was dying.

  The thought wrapped around Raven’s mind like a vice, squeezing the air from his lungs. He had already lost his parents. He couldn’t lose Darryl too—not like this. Not to some damned goblin’s knife. His heart pounded, the rising dread pressing against his ribs, and for a moment, he felt like a kid again, lost and powerless in a world that didn’t care. Abandonment. The word curled like a sickness in his gut. No matter how hard he fought, how much he tried, the end result was always the same. Alone.

  No.

  His teeth clenched, he shoved the fear down. He wasn’t a helpless child anymore, and Darryl sure as hell wasn’t gone yet. If there was even the slightest chance to save him, then Raven would take it. He straightened, forcing his thoughts into something resembling order. He needed answers. If the goblins were using poison, then maybe—just maybe—they had something to counteract it. It was a long shot, but it was the only shot he had.

  His mind turned toward his gear. If the goblins had used something to poison Darryl, maybe they carried an antidote—or at least a clue. It was a slim hope, but better than standing around watching him die. His bow and hunting knife lay on the shelf behind his bedroom door, untouched since he had stumbled into the house. He moved toward them with purpose, fingers tightening around the grip of the knife before sliding it sheathed onto his belt. His bow followed, freshly stringing it and making sure the arrows in his quiver were loose and free he placed it over his shoulder, its familiar weight grounding him. How many times had Darryl drilled him on keeping his gear ready? On always being prepared, always thinking two steps ahead? Hunting had been their thing—tracking, stalking, learning the way the world moved. But hunting was controlled. It was predictable. This? This was chaos.

  A memory came unbidden.

  They had been hunting wild pigs a few years back, stalking a herd through the dense underbrush for hours. When they finally spotted them—rooting under the twisted limbs of an old ironbark tree—Darryl had gestured silently, indicating the largest sow. Raven had already drawn the same conclusion. The piglets would scatter the moment their mother fell.

  On Darryl’s silent count, they loosed their arrows. Twin strikes—one behind the leg, straight into the heart, the other behind the ear, dropping her instantly.

  Before they could celebrate, the piglets shrieked, bolting in all directions. And then came the boar.

  A flash of movement, a guttural grunt, and Raven barely had time to react before it barrelled into him. Pain erupted in his leg as a razor-sharp tusk tore through flesh, sending him sprawling. He barely registered the impact before Darryl was there, a madman with a knife, tackling the beast mid-charge. In one swift motion, he drove his blade into its chest, twisting deep before rolling clear. The boar stumbled, gurgled, and collapsed, its life spilling onto the dry earth.

  Darryl was on Raven in an instant, cursing under his breath as he tore through his pack for first aid supplies. He bandaged the wound with rough efficiency, then, without another word, hoisted Raven onto his back. The hike back to the truck was nearly five kilometres, but Darryl never hesitated. He grumbled and swore the entire way, but never slowed, never faltered.

  Raven never forgot that day.

  Never forgot the way it felt to know—without a doubt—that someone had his back.

  Now, as he stared at Darryl’s limp form, breath shallow, skin ashen, that feeling twisted into something cold and sickening. He clenched his fists.

  He wouldn’t let it end like this. His gaze drifted back to Darryl, watching the slow, laboured rise and fall of his chest. Hunting was about survival, about understanding the balance between life and death. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut—what was he supposed to do if Darryl wasn’t there? Who the hell was he without him? The last few years had been rough, sure, but Darryl was still his anchor, the one thing in his life that felt solid. If that was taken away… Raven didn’t let himself finish the thought.

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  Instead, he moved to Darryl’s side, crouching beside him. “I’m going to find something to fix this,” he said, voice rough but steady. “I won’t be long. Just hang in there.”

  Darryl made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a chuckle. “Don’t… do anything stupid.”

  Raven huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so hollow. “Can’t make any promises.”

  With one last glance at the man who had raised him, Raven steeled himself and slipped out the door, heading back toward the ambush site. The goblins had answers. One way or another, he was going to get them.

  Raven moved through the streets with deliberate steps, keeping to the shadows and avoiding open spaces. The last thing he needed was to attract attention, not when he had no idea what else might be lurking in the town. The morning quiet had given way to sporadic noises—distant shouts, the occasional clash of metal, inhuman screeches that made his skin crawl. The city wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe. But none of that mattered right now. He had a job to do.

  He reached the house where the goblins had ambushed them, the stench of blood still thick in the air. Steeling himself, he crouched beside the first goblin’s corpse and began his search. His fingers moved quickly, rifling through its crude belongings—scraps of cloth, a rusty dagger, bits of bone that made him grimace. Nothing useful.

  Moving on to the next, he found more of the same and then, something different. A small leather sheath, its insides coated in a viscous black goo. Raven’s stomach twisted. This had to be it—the poison. He brought it closer, examining the substance. It was thick, sticky, and reeked of something acrid and foul. He had no idea what it was, no idea if it was natural or something the goblins had concocted. He needed more information.

  Leaving the house, he returned to the street, finding the goblins he had killed earlier. Their bodies lay sprawled where they had fallen, weapons still clutched in stiff hands. He knelt beside one, searching as quickly as he could. More poor-quality weapons, more useless junk. His fingers brushed something smooth—small and round. He picked it up, holding it up to the light. A stone, palm-sized, with a faint, engraved symbol of a dagger.

  Before he could inspect it further, his grimoire pulsed. A warm thrum radiated through his chest, not painful, but insistent—like it was trying to tell him something urgent.

  Raven tensed, feeling the strange warmth radiating from his chest. His hand twitched, instinct urging him to open the book. But he resisted. Whatever it wanted, whatever it was trying to tell him, it wasn’t the priority right now. He shoved the stone into his pocket and turned back toward home.

  The walk back felt longer than before. Hope had faded, and in its place sat a gnawing dread he couldn’t shake. Each step heavier with the weight of failure. He hadn’t found an antidote. Hadn’t found anything remotely useful beyond confirming what he already knew—Darryl was dying, and he didn’t have a way to stop it. His grip tightened around his bow as he pushed forward, mind racing for alternatives. There had to be something. Someone.

  The hospital.

  It wasn’t ideal. He had no idea what the situation was like over there. He had heard rumours from the woman earlier—monsters had been moving in that direction. It could be overrun. But it was the only place in town where he might find actual medical help. Waiting wasn’t an option.

  By the time Raven stepped through the front door, the air inside felt heavier, as if the house itself could sense what was happening. Darryl lay where Raven had left him, but something was wrong. His skin had grown paler, a shade too grey, too lifeless. The dark tendrils from the wound had crawled further, twisting like roots beneath the surface of his flesh.

  Raven swallowed hard, forcing himself closer. He pressed two fingers against Darryl’s wrist. Too slow. A sluggish, unnatural rhythm, like the pulse was fighting against something inside him.

  Then Darryl exhaled, his chest stuttering and seizing in a rhythm that didn’t feel human. His eyelids flickered, but his pupils were wrong. They were dilated, unfocused, the usual sharpness in them dulled. A flicker of awareness returned, his lips parting as if to speak—but then a violent shudder wracked through his frame, his fingers twitching against the blanket.

  “Darryl?” Raven’s voice cracked. No response. Just the slow, creeping poison.

  “I’m getting you to the hospital,” he said firmly. “One way or another.”

  He moved to the garage, looking for something—anything—that could help transport Darryl. His gaze landed on an old wheelbarrow tucked into the corner, rusted but sturdy. It wasn’t dignified, but it would do.

  Grabbing what little supplies he had, he hoisted Darryl as gently as he could into the wheelbarrow, locking him in as well as he could with blankets. Taking one last deep breath, he rolled the wheelbarrow out into the street, gripping the handles tightly. The city was waking up to chaos. Monsters prowled the streets, people were either dead, hiding, or fighting. And here he was, pushing a dying man in a rusted wheelbarrow, hoping to find help that might not even exist.

  The air felt too still, like the world was waiting for something. A broken streetlight flickered erratically, buzzing with dying electricity. A few blocks away, a car alarm blared once, then abruptly cut off, as if something—or someone—had silenced it.

  Raven’s grip tightened. He scanned the street, searching the shadows between collapsed buildings and overturned cars. Nothing moved. But the feeling in his gut remained—something was watching.

  He pushed forward, the wheelbarrow’s rusted metal creaking too loudly in the silence. Every step felt heavier. Every second stretched longer. But the silence wasn’t empty—something was out there, waiting.