Page 1 of Surviving Hallow Hill
One
There’s a stark,numbing moment among the screaming chaos, and the erratic surroundings of the world open up, and my classmates becoming my enemies. There’s a slip of time where I’m not looking at the blood or the rage in everyone’s eyes or even the long, jagged nails of the hands that are clawing their way out of the dry dirt. In that bizarre pass of minutes, the cloth against my dirty skin shifts. It feels like it’s attacking all on its own, as if my shirt might very well be the death of me.
Instead of strangling me with its threads, the material melds together with my pants. A surprised gasp sounds through the air, and I notice the others are experiencing the same.
The dozen or so men and women pause, the sound of terror pausing right along with them, as my shirt and pants turn into a soft, violet-colored jumpsuit.
It’s then that I hear a familiar voice for the first time.
“What the fuck,” Sia grumbles.
I peer across the blood-soaked terrain and spot the last Sekar in all the world.
The last aside from myself.
And his hard, slitted eyes are glaring down at his pretty purple jumpsuit like it truly has assaulted him. My first instinct is to run to him. Wrap my arms around the brooding bastard and just be thankful he’s all right among so much wrong in this fucked-up world.
My attention drifts, though. I catch sight of the same violet clothing on the dragon man just a few feet away. A slender, beautiful girl stands in a huddled circle with a few other women. They, too, wear purple now.
Five or so students start to come together when they realize they’re all wearing a jade color of green. Among all the colors, I’ve lost sight of Kira. I scan the area again and again, but she’s just gone.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
Across the hellacious hole in the ground, colors of red and yellow can be seen.
One single man on our side of the cliff wears a deep red jumpsuit. He’s surrounded by a sea of purple-and-green. The dozen or so students on the other side of the deadly cliff wear that same crimson color he wears. But the lone man cannot get to the others, who are clearly meant to be his team.
And I’ve never seen someone so afraid of his peers. His wide brown eyes shift from one of us, to the next, to the next.
No one moves.
The booming voice calls out to us, and it’s then that I spot the speaker through the trees. A golden wall glints in the sunlight. The height of it stretches so monstrously tall that it appears to be trying to replace the skies entirely. And at the center of the glittering, gold wall is a tiny speck of a man.
“Two teams can easily become four just for my own entertainment.Four teams. Four sets of the most elite supernaturals in all the world. Soon, there will be two sets. And soon, there will be one. And those pretty creatures...” A giggling manic laugh clatters from his throat, and I can’t look away from the demented, shapeless speck of a man. “Those will be the strong that survive. Those will be the ones who walk out of the Hallow.”
He pauses then, while I peer around at the purple-clad students who are now my team. I measure them up, finding the dragon man to have the largest, most physically impressive build. But size isn’t everything.
Magic is.
“But do not think it is only each other you have to survive. Oh no.” The cackling sound of the speaker’s amusement sparks through the forest, and it’s then that I remember the lone team member who’s separated from his pack.
His feet pound over the ruddy dirt to put space between us and him.
He’s faster to respond than we are. None of us so much as take a step in his direction.
We’re all too confused. Too uncertain.
That doesn’t seem to matter.
Not in the Hallow.
A battered hand finally reaches the cliff’s edge. Its sharp, cracked nails sink into the dirt. And half of a man pulls himself up from the depths of hell. He’s entirely nude, but that isn’t at all the strangest thing about him.
Black hair is matted into his blistered and burned features. One arm hangs loosely at his side, held onto his charred body by fraying threads of mangled flesh. The other arm is gone, but we all know it’s unlike the Doctor to let someone go without. Not when mechanics are so readily available. A shining black club extends from his shoulder. His right leg is shredded flesh from the knee down, and that, too, has so generously been replaced for the walking dead man. A metal rod sticks out where his leg falls short. It’s uneven and weak and causes every one of his steps to jar and rock his meaty, burned corpse.
But none of that stops him. The creature of the dead swings his shining metal club out, and with shocking force, he embeds it hard into the temple of the fearful running man.
Our enemy—the nameless man from the red team—he stops dead in his tracks.
