The Berserker

The forest was calm, cool night air whistling through the leaves and branches of the tall trees as they stood firm, providing shelter to the various woodland critters that dared roam the night, sharp beams of ivory moonlight piercing through the foliage to illuminate the wildwood.

Apart from the odd chirp of a cricket or the occasional audible gust of wind, the forest was quiet, peaceful even. The weather was calm, no rain or heavy winds blowing, and most of the animals that usually roamed these woods were soundly sleeping, preferring to frolic in the day, while those who preferred the night were keeping to themselves.

This tranquility would not last.

The silence was broken by the loud cacophony of panicked gunfire, along with the frightened screams of men being slaughtered and what sounded like the howling of wolves.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a well-dressed man stumbles out from the green, clutching a pistol, soaked in crimson and limping with an arrow embedded in his right thigh, his eyes bloodshot and widened in terror. He hobbles his way through the woods as best he can with his wounded leg, doing his best to ignore the blood curdling screams of his men being torn to pieces.

He would soon notice with dread that the screaming stopped, being replaced by the original silence that filled the air before the carnage that took place.

The silence wasn’t calming or serene, but ominous and eerie. Mere seconds ago, the horrible screams of his subordinates being massacred were resounding in behind him as he fled, leaving his men to their fate in a desperate attempt to change his. He cared not for the lives of his guards, they were simple workers, hired from some shady detective agency he contracted to safeguard him and his interests. His life was the only life that mattered, and he would do everything in his power to ensure his escape.

“ᛏᚺᛖ ᚹᛟᚱᛗ ᛏᚺᛁᚾᚴᛋ ᚺᛖ ᚲᚨᚾ ᚹᛁᚷᚷᛚᛖ ᚨᚹᚨᚤ, ᚺᛖ ᚲᚨᚾᚾᛟᛏ.”

A sinister voice speaks to him, barely audible, as quiet as the meekest of whispers yet seeping with hate and disgust. The man stopped dead in his tracks, frantically checking his surroundings for the source of the whispers, to no avail. With no visible source, he moves back on his way through the bush.

“ᛋᛩᚢᛁᚱᛗ ᚨᚹᚨᚤ ᚨᛋ ᛗᚢᚲᚺ ᚨᛋ ᚤᛟᚢ ᚹᚨᚾᛏ ᚹᛟᚱᛗ, ᛁᛏ ᛁᛋ ᛈᛟᛁᚾᛏᛚᛖᛋᛋ.”

Not wishing to find the source of the whispers, he continues to wobble away, his breathing becoming heavier.

“ᚤᛟᚢ ᚱᛖᛖᚴ ᛟᚠ ᚠᛖᚨᚱ, ᚤᛟᚢ ᛗᛁᚷᚺᛏ ᚨᛋ ᚹᛖᛚᛚ ᚺᚨᚡᛖ ᛈᛁᛋᛋ ᛞᚱᛁᛈᛈᛁᚾᚷ ᛞᛟᚹᚾ ᚤᛟᚢᚱ ᛚᛖᚷ.”

Completely consumed by fear, he fires his pistol into the brush and shadows behind him, letting off five shots before the weapon clicked empty. Now useless, he hurls the empty gun into shadows behind him, in a futile attempt to strike his pursuer before continuing his escape.

“ᚤᛟᚢ ᚲᚨᚾ'ᛏ ᚺᚢᚱᛏ ᛗᛖ, ᚤᛟᚢ ᚴᚾᛟᚹ ᚾᛟᛏᚺᛁᚾᚷ ᛟᚠ ᚱᛖᚨᛚ ᛈᚨᛁᚾ, ᚾᛟᛏᚺᛁᚾᚷ ᛟᚠ ᚱᛖᚨᛚ ᛋᚢᚠᚠᛖᚱᛁᚾᚷ.... ᚨᛚᛚᛟᚹ ᛗᛖ ᛏᛟ ᛋᚺᛟᚹ ᚤᛟᚢ!!!!”

With considerable force, the man finds himself pushed down into the dirt, face down. Completely panicked and at his assailant’s mercy, he desperately tries to make his escape, clawing at the earth to crawl away, even throwing dirt to blind them, but it was all to no avail. Nothing he did seemed work, his aggressor unflinching in his assault, and soon he would find himself being dragged deeper into the woods, darkness enveloping him as his screams echoing into the night.

“Wakey wakey, private. It’s time you and I had a little chat.”

Benjamin Dutton awoke with a gasp, finding himself face down again, this time restrained by shackles and chains, his arms spread apart.

As far as he could see, he was still in the forest, though he was guessing he was even deep into the woods judging by trees were older and thicker and the foliage denser. He also realized with a start that he had an audience, composed entirely of wolves and Indians, the same ones who ambushed him and his caravan, judging by the blood on their weapons and the muzzles of the wolves.

Now that he could see them up close, he had a good look at them, and he could see how distinctive they were compared to other Native Americans.

The warriors were a mix of men and women, all of whom were leaner and fitter than the average tribal warrior. Even more unique was their European features, with a lot of them having blonde or red hair, as well as blue or green eyes, with some of the men even sporting thick beards. Their weapons and attire were for the most part not that distinctive, composed of various bows and firearms and wolf pelts, what was distinctive was their tattoos, which looked a lot like Nordic runes. Instead of tomahawks, they were armed with what looked like Norse war axes, with a couple warriors even sporting large battle axes.

They looked more like Vikings rather than Indian warriors.

“Done ogling at my soldiers?”

The bloodied businessman tried to turn around to face the source of the voice, which he recognized as the one who was whispering to him earlier, only now he was speaking English as opposed to the Nordic language he was speaking earlier. He couldn’t turn around however, the position he was restrained in made it impossible.

“Feeling comfortable? I would hope so.”

Coming into view from the corner of his eye, he could finally see who was talking to him. He was a giant of a man, well over six feet tall, with a lean muscular build to match. He wore attire not that different from his compatriots complete with a wolf pelt worn over his head like a hood, and several old Norse runic tattoos, most of which were visible on his chest. What really caught his eye though was his coat, which resembled an overcoat that non commissioned officers in the Union Army would often wear.

“Please, I beg of you let me go, I’ll pay you anything you want just please don’t hurt me.”

“Begging for your life? Have you no shame, did I not teach you better.”

Mr. Dutton looks quizzically at his captor, seemingly puzzled by his response. Did he know this brute from somewhere?

“Who are you?”

The hulking brute lowers himself down to his captive’s face, temporarily removing his hood to show him his face. Once Mr. Dutton sees his face, he turns white, looking like he’s staring at a ghost.

“Sergeant Lothbrook?”

“In the flesh.”

“No! Impossible! We killed you!”

“You should have made sure I was dead; you would’ve avoided the big pile of shit you’re about to fall into.”

The sergeant nods to one of his men, who approaches the battered prisoner from behind, reaching for the collar of his shirt, tearing it open all the way down to his waist, completely exposing his back.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you a send off, fit for a king.”

Ignoring the banter of his captive, he walks behind him, one of his warrior’s hands him a searing hot blade.

“My ancestors had a way of executing prisoners called the Blood Eagle. It starts here at the base of the skull; you make an incision like this.”

Starting at the base of his neck, at the top of his spine, he makes a rather large incision, going all the way down to the base of his spine. The process is long and torturous, and the prisoner is understandably shrieking in agony, agony that his sergeant and his soldiers appear to be reveling in, judging by their snickering.

“Once you make your way to the bottom, you peel back the skin, exposing the spine, like so.”

He does just that exposing not only his spine, but all the fleshy parts surrounding it as well. Switching to a serrated knife, he begins with the next step in the process, separating the ribs from the spine.

“Next, you breakup the ribcage, spreading the ribs away from the spine. Now my friends like to do this quickly, hacking away the ribcage with an axe, I however-”

The sergeant orders two of his men to hold down by his arms, further restraining him, as this next part would cause him to thrash violently at his restraints.

Using the serrated edge of the blade, he begins separating the rib from the spine, starting with the top right most rib, meticulously carving away at the bone, which makes Mr. Dutton’s screams all the louder and more intense.

“-prefer a far more refined approach.”

The whole process takes about an hour, and his screaming stopped about halfway in. Remarkably, he was still alive, albeit in rather rough shape.

Time to change that.

Initiating the final step in the process, he spreads the now severed ribs apart, creating a fleshy opening.

“Now for the pièce de resistance.”

Discarding the knife, the sergeant burrows his hands straight into his bloody back, clawing his way through ichor and sinew to find his prize: the lungs.

Mr. Benjamin Dutton can do nothing more at this point, having lost too much blood, not even having any energy to continue screaming, his only response now being to twitch and faintly whimper.

Finding his quarry, he firmly grips both lungs, pulling them out rigidly but mildly to avoid ripping them. Once they’re out of his back, he drapes the organs over his shoulders, which coupled with his spread out ribcage portrays a grisly imitation of wings.

Gazing upon the handy work of their boss, they show their admiration and approval of his hard work by howling like wolves, being joined in by the actual wolves in their possession. These howls echo into the night, instilling fear and unease into all those that have the misfortune of hearing it.

For his part, the sergeant does nothing. He just stares at his macabre work of art before saying one word.

“Perfect.”

Colin Hennessey sat at the fancy bar stewing in his thoughts, occasionally sipping on a glass of malt whisky, his handsome face marred by a sullen frown. You didn’t have to be a mind reader to know how he was feeling, he was depressed.

“Corporal! What’s eating at you?”

The frowning promptly tore himself away from his whisky and his sorrows to appraise who it was that was approaching him before returning to his drink.

“Henry, I told you I’m not in the mood. Go and mingle with the others if you’d like, but I’m not up for it.”

“And why not?”

“You know why not.”

Henry did in fact know why, apart from being a successful professional card player, Henry Blackwood was also Colins best friend, ever since they served together in the Iron Brigade during the Civil War, and he had a very fair inkling as to why his battle buddy was in such a sour mood.

“Are you still brooding over what happened with Sarge, for Christ’s sake Colin, it’s been ten years.”

“Still feels like yesterday to me.”

“Well, it wasn’t, so listen to me.” Henry politely chides to his best friend, pulling up a seat to his next to him to further reassure him.

“That gold we kept was going to a tribe of highwaymen, a bunch of thieves and marauders who made their living robbing good, honest folk, a lot of which were women and children. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but we all did the right thing by keeping it for ourselves.”

“Did we also do the right thing when we all shot Sarge in the back?”

“Colin!” He scolds his friend, not wanting him to say something so incriminating in front of so many souls.

“Look, Lothbrook made his choice, as did we. He wanted to carry on with the Unions mission and hand that gold over to the tribe, claimed it was crucial to winning the war, but it wasn’t! The South lost and we didn’t need the help of those dirty murderers to win either. It was a win-win situation all around.”

“Not for Sarge, he lost everything.”

“Christ Colin.”

At his wit’s end with this conversation, he stands up from his seat and walks away from, having had another for the night.

“Look I’ve had enough for one night, I’m going back to my room, but we’re not done with this Corporal, we’ll continue discussing this in the morning, got it?”

Colin doesn’t respond with words, just lifts his glass up as if giving a toast, apparently agreeing with him.

“Good night, Colin.”

“Good night, Henry.”

The hallways of this posh hotel were exactly what you would expect from an establishment of this type, pearly white and sparkly, complete with dainty furniture, fancy paintings and spotless floors, with the occasional maid or bellhop going into the odd room to attend to their guests.

It was also rather quiet, the only sound to be heard being the whistling of guest walking back to his room, dressed in a three-piece white suit and a black feathered slouch hat.

Henry Blackwood was strolling down the hallway to his room the only thing on his mind being to kick his shoes off and to hop into bed. Also on his mind was the talk he was going to have with Colin in the morning, and how he was going to approach it.

However, his train of thought and his whistling are cut short when he arrives at his room, noticing that the door is unlocked. He knew he locked it when he left, and hotel staff would’ve let him know if they were cleaning his room. This could only mean one thing, someone broke in.

Reaching into his coat, he draws a pistol, a beautifully engraved cattleman revolver. Entering through the door, he does a complete sweep of his room, checking through every nook and cranny to make sure no one was trying to ambush him.

Upon finding that he was indeed alone, he holsters his gun and goes through his things to make nothing is missing or rifled through.

Nothing, exactly as he left it.

What he does notice however is a box, neatly wrapped up with a bow on it like a Christmas present, about the size of a watermelon, laid out neatly on his bed.

Opening the box on his desk with a letter opener, he’s treated to the sight of his former squad member Benjamin Dutton’s severed head, his face forever twisted in a look of anguish and horror, with two words carved into his forehead.

YOU’RE NEXT