Apocalypse: Fairy System by Macronomicon (fox in socks read aloud txt) 📕

stump-neck. The move caused the knife in his guts to tug against the ground for a moment, and Jeb would’ve passed out right there, but for the gobs of rocket fuel coursing through his system.

He carefully hauled himself to his feet and scanned the eerily silent camp. Only the occasional pop of burning wood from the fire broke the silence as the remaining butterflies settled onto every surface, awaiting instructions.

“Is that all of them?” Jeb asked, glancing at Smartass.

“I think so. I’ll do a look-see,” she said, buzzing off to survey the camp.

Need first aid, Jeb thought, stumbling to a nearby corpse riddled with holes. He tugged at the man’s thick leather belt, something he could use to help with the bleeding. Normally, the rule of thumb is to not pull out whatever sharp object was inside you until the professionals could do it themselves, but that logic was predicated on a world where ambulances were a phone call away, and doctors still existed.

Jeb gathered ingredients for a good fifteen minutes in the silent camp before he stumbled his way over to the yurt with the girl in it. Jeb brushed the door aside, shedding light on the situation.

It made him wish he could’ve taken his time killing the pirates.

The Grenore girl was chained to a thick iron post drilled into the ground, her body covered with dirty hides. Where the skin was exposed, Jeb spotted bruises.

Goddamnit.

“Is it over?” a tentative voice asked as Jeb took a step into the yurt.

“I think so. Just waiting on word from my partner.” Jeb gave a self-deprecating chuckle as he approached the girl’s chains.

“Seraine Grenore, right? My name’s Jebediah Trapper, and I’m here to get you out of here. Honestly, I thought I would be a lot more heroic when I rescued you,” he said, “but now it turns out I need your help.”

Jeb grabbed the big lock keeping the girl from leaving and peered at it, scowling. Chances were the matching key was on Svek’s body. Jeb didn’t have the patience to go looking for it with a knife in his guts, so he opened it the old-fashioned way.

He grabbed the tumblers with Myst and flipped them, springing the lock open in his hand like a magic trick.

“Did you kill them?”

Jeb searched her eyes for a moment. “Fuck yeah, I killed ‘em.”

“Good.” She buried herself deeper under the hides.

“I know you’ve had a pretty fucking rough couple days,” Jeb said, unhooking the lock from her restraints and freeing her. “And I would understand if you need to sit there and process, but I would really appreciate some help with removing this,” Jeb said, pointing to the handle sticking out of his stomach.

The keegan girl looked up at his face, then down at the knife handle before nodding. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Jeb said, helping her to her feet and turning around while she got dressed. Their species all looked like Holocaust survivors, and Jeb was fairly sure none of the people who’d assaulted her even thought she was pretty. They just wanted to hurt someone.

Once she was dressed, Jeb led her out into the open, where he sat down against the torture device. Next to him was a jug of nearly pure alcohol, a needle and thread, the cleanest cloth he could find, and a belt to cinch it all together.

“So here’s the plan,” Jeb said before walking her through the basics of what he expected to happen when the knife was removed, and how to handle it, just in case he passed out. The process took a couple minutes, but it paid off in spades.

“Ready?” Jeb asked. Seraine nodded, holding alcohol and bandages.

Jeb slowly removed the knife, biting a leather strap through the pain and trying desperately not to cut anything new on the way out. Minutes felt like hours, and when the blade left Jeb’s stomach, he got the unenviable sensation of a gush of warm blood streaming down his stomach and basting his crotch in his own juices.

Then she hit him with the alcohol.

Jeb’s eyes rolled back in his skull, and everything went black.

Chapter 6: Gettin’ Paid

People in the streets of Kalfath moved out of the way as a one-legged man limped down the street, caked in dried blood. Over his shoulder was a rope lashed to a sled chock-full of weapons and overstuffed burlap sacks that rang with a metallic chime every time they shifted.

Some might have been tempted to steal from the sled, were it not for the dozen or so severed heads that rested on top of the pile of booty.

***Zlesk Frantell, Sheriff of Kalfath***

“No, you don’t understand,” Zlesk said, glaring at Bree. “That wasn’t my signature.”

“Looks like your signature,” the obstinate desk jockey said, the barrel of a woman scowling at him as she pointed between Jeb’s fake and a zoning form for an outdoor hunter recruitment bazaar he’d signed for them a few years back.

“But I didn’t write it! He forged it using another signature I gave him!” Zlesk said, his ire rising. “I suggested that you not allow him to join the association!”

“You said he couldn’t read. He said he couldn’t read.”

“Obviously he paid someone to help him!”

Zlesk leaned forward, unafraid of the oversized melas in front of him. “Listen. That man is incredibly weak, stupid, and dangerously foolhardy. He was a homeless bum until yesterday. Did you know that? He’s only level six, for god’s sakes!”

“It’s not my problem if people want to get themselves killed biting off more than they can chew. Keeps the gene pool fresh.”

Zlesk let out a hum of anger. “Listen here. On my authority as sheriff, I want you to strike him from the record, and kick him out the next time he shows up. The man is dangerously incompetent,