The last two weeks have been full of whispers. Some calling them patrols, others calling them purges. Locals just call them “Hunters.” Rumors make it seem like there are tanks rolling down backstreets. Murderous artillery glints in the smog. One figure appears more often than any other. The fearful and the gullible have begun to call it “The Big One.” He is said to walk through the smoke like a ghost. His white hair is pulled back under the cowl of a gas mask. He wears a black trench coat, with the bottom hem brushing the sidewalk. Big boots complete his outfit. The chilly glint of a shotgun is propped across his shoulders. His voice carries the same sober gravity as a funeral bell. It is whisper-English, if the stories are to be believed.
The Rallying Cry
On October 7th, a message was put up on Batty:
“The Insurgents are back (Hunters) with heavy weaponry, armored cars etc. Alone we can not defeat them, but together we stand a chance!”
The above was followed by a second appeal two days later:
“We are the many, they are the few! Take up the fight against the insurgents, do not hide in the shadows. They may have the weapons but we are the weapons. Know your worth!”
The post concluded with a call to action to mobilize. Some answered.
The Tequila-la Incident
A surprise attack by one of the Hunters on Tequila-la was made early in the morning of 18th October. Eyewitnesses spoke of spells crackling under bullets, humans in between, and the walls shaking at something louder than bullets. A few attempted to hold the line most were cut down or sent fleeing. The Hunter defied both magical and mortal force, walking through the opposition as if made of myth. Raining his justice with a huge helicopter, a sniper, and a shotgun. Unstoppable even in the face of the wardens.
Over the last seventy-two hours, three have been noted taken to the Hunter compound and fitted with suppression collars. The collars themselves degrade after twenty-four hours, as if the magic that sustains them cannot be contained within city limits.
š Field Notes for the Cursed and Careful š
Discovered in a sealed letter within an abandoned house near Grapeseed.
No sig, just light scent of lavender and rain.
Shadows require less blood than light.
The more radiant the glow, the faster the drop.
Feed not under open eyes.
The stars gossip, and their children use cameras.
Keep a heartbeat handy.
It distracts the hounds and purchases the fuel.
Clean your face where it clings.
Glowing ones like to save the dead.
Never perform the craft before witnesses.
Their glass eyes remember.
Let the living speak for you.
A borrowed voice is safer than yours.
Go where metal falls signal.
The pulse of the earth will hide you more than faith.
A song alone dies in the forest.
Harmonize, or shut up.
Guide them to smoke, not fire.
Better-fed rumor survives longer than truth.
Smile and let your teeth be concealed.
They fear courtesy more than blood.
Names are promises. Leave yours unspoken.
Send flowers to your enemies.
Lavender lingers longer than bullets.
Leave a bit of hair where you never rested.
Disorientation creates the best scent trail.
Have an eye behind glass in the dark.
The shadows won’t know you.
Fear is becoming. Wear those when necessary.
Create a stage for phantoms.
Let them find the sets, never the player.
A singing floor beneath you is a friend.
Listen for the warning before the door creaks.
When the sky weeps, run.
Even the bloodhounds are confused in rain.
Those who know, know. For the rest of us, keep your lights low and your doors open. The Insurgents stalk what they don’t know. And it’s everyone these days. Stay safe out there.
The Undead Update 
Leave a comment