Pail Moon Prequence

The man runs at full charge down the street. Sure, he'd hit a setback but surrender wasn't a welcome word in his vocabulary. But even as determined as he is, he knows his time is running short. He reaches the crossroads. The roads are, surprisingly, still fairly empty for this time of night. He comes to a halt to get a hold of his breath and let his companion catch up. He holds his toned arm close and peels back the dressing to examine his wound. He's been bitten. Gulp. The skin hasn't been torn but the pain coursing through his veins tells him that that doesn't matter.

A sudden fresh wave of pain rocks him and he stifles a cry. The woman he's been travelling with finally trudges up with shallow breath and asks him if he's alright. The man is on one knee, pale faced and sweaty. He is obviously not alright. He gets back to his feet and smiles reassuringly anyway. They both know his fate. They'd seen it happen far too many times to not understand it at this point. You get bitten by a rambler, and you become a rambler.

It won't be long now before the streets fill up again with the wandering moon-born beasts so the man proposes they begin moving again. The man had been taking the lead up until now but as his condition worsens he slows down, so naturally their progress slows too. The woman decides it is best that they find a place to rest for the night. She would like to examine his wound and staying out in the open for too long has been proven to be a terrible idea in the past. The man protests, she insists, he protests more, she raises her voice. It really is a useless argument and only serves to draw attention to them.

Click clack. The sound of wood-like feet clattering against the hard road echoes out from behind them. The pair turn their heads melodramatically slowly towards the path they'd come down and a pair of dark brown eyes glimmer back from the inky depths of the badly lit road. Click clack click. Several more shadowed figures fill out the darkness like a menacing gang. Click clack click clack. The pair swivel around the axis of the crossroad, dread washing over them each as each of the four paths are flooded by the hungry, monochromatic creatures they'd been running from. A deafening murmuring sound bellows forth from the ramblers as they close in on the man and the woman.

'Ramblers'. That's the name they'd given the large black and white beasts who wander the midnight streets. As of yet, little is know about the dull, horse-like monsters. These were once friends and family but their now dead eyes and swollen bodies show no remaining sign of humanity. They are incapable of speech, but tend to make these guttural, moaning sounds. Their blank, expressionless faces and listless, aimless wandering give away no discernable motivations for their presence. The only time they break their calm, zombie like state of nothingness is when presented with food which usually consists of plant life. They seem to be herbivores, not carnivores, though they insist on biting humans. Maybe they don't realise humans aren't their usual diet of grass or weeds or whatever roughage they can find. Or maybe they have another reason for being so captivated by the nibbling (but never consumption) of human flesh. What is known for sure is that this form of contact is enough to pass on whatever transformative disease the ramblers carry.

So the man grabs the woman's arm and dashes toward the open door of a building but the door is kinda busted and won't hold the monsters out so he's goes into 'selfless heroic sacrifice' mode and throws her into the building and she tries to stop him but he barricades it with his own body to keep the things out and blah blah blah. This story is kind of boring and I just got home from visiting family for the weekend for early Christmas so I am sooooooo tired. You get the gist though, right? Sort of?

It'll make more sense (hopefully) later. Pail Moon comic thing coming soon. Maybe.