The Beast God

Chapter 6:The Edge Of Control

Damon stumbled through the ruins, his breath ragged. The serum’s effects were fading fast. His hands trembled scales had begun creeping up his wrists again, and his claws kept slipping out like flick knives. He’d been walking for days, avoiding the others, but the Beast God’s voice haunted him. Weak. Pathetic. You need me.

He stopped at the edge of a dried-up riverbed, staring at his reflection in a murky puddle. One eye glowed amber; the other was still human. “I’m not yours,” he growled, slamming his fist into the water.

The wasteland stretched endlessly. Damon scavenged for food, but even the mutated rats smelled poisonous. At night, he slept in hollowed-out cars, listening for the skitter of claws or the groan of approaching Harbingers. On the third day, he found a road sign, rusted and tilted: “Grayport 10 Miles.

He remembered Grayport a coastal city that had been drowning in toxic algae before the apocalypse. Now, it was probably worse. But the sign gave him direction. Maybe there’s a boat. Or supplies. Or just… something.

Grayport was a graveyard of crumbling docks and sunken ships. The air reeked of salt and rot. Damon’s boots sank into the soggy ground as he crept past warehouses with collapsed roofs. His mutated hearing picked up voices.

“fresh meat! Saw it crawling near the docks.”

Damon froze. Flesh Tenders.

He ducked behind a rusted shipping container as three figures shuffled into view. Their skin was peeling, revealing patches of scales and tentacles. One carried a jagged hook; another had a mouth full of piranha teeth.

“Smells… human,” the hook wielder hissed. “But… wrong.”

Damon’s claws slid out. He could take them but fighting would draw more. He backed away silently, but his foot snapped a brittle bone on the ground.

Click

All three Tenders turned. “There!”

Damon ran.

The chase was a blur of rotting docks and seaweed choked alleys. Damon’s mutations flare scales armored his back, and his legs pumped faster than humanly possible. He leaped over a gap in the dock, landing hard on a half-sunken fishing boat. The Tenders followed, screeching.

One lunged with its hook. Damon ducked, slashing its throat. Black sludge sprayed as the body dissolved. The other two circled him, teeth snapping.

“Join us,” the piranha-mouthed Tender gurgled. “The Beast God rewards loyalty.”

“Not interested,” Damon spat.

He killed the second Tender with a claw to the chest, but the third tackled him into the icy water. They sank, tangled in seaweed. Damon’s gills flared a new mutation letting him breathe underwater. He drove his claws into the Tender’s skull, then swam to the surface.

Alone again.

Exhausted, Damon dragged himself onto a rotting pier. His body ached, scales retreating only to reappear minutes later. He found a shack nearby, its door hanging off its hinges. Inside, moldy blankets and canned food old supplies from someone who hadn’t survived.

He ate cold beans straight from the can, ignoring the metallic taste. A photograph on the wall caught his eye: a family on a beach, smiling. The edges were burned. Damon tore it down. No use missing what’s gone.

Sleep didn’t come. The Beast God’s whispers grew louder. You’re mine. Always mine.

At dawn, Damon explored the shack’s back room. A locked cabinet held a journal and a syringe labeled “Serum Prototype 14.”His heart raced. Another dose.

The journal’s pages were waterlogged, but he pieced together notes:

“Serum 14 stabilizes mutations for 48 hours… Side effects: hallucinations, aggression… Do not combine with Harbinger DNA.”

Damon stared at the syringe. Two days of being human. But the warning glared at him.

He injected it anyway.

The serum hit like a sledgehammer. Damon collapsed, his muscles seizing. Visions flashe the Beast God’s realm, a palace of writhing flesh; Eli screaming; Anya’s scarred face dissolving into smoke.

When he woke, his scales were gone. His claws were human nails. For the first time in weeks, he felt normal.

But the journal’s warning echoed. Hallucinations. Aggression.

He packed the remaining serum and left Grayport.

The road north was littered with abandoned cars and bones. Damon avoided the highway, sticking to forests where the trees whispered and the ground pulsed like a heartbeat. By midday, he found a truck stop. The sign read: “Last Stop Diner Best Pie in the State!”

Inside, the diner was frozen in time. Plates sat rotting on tables; a jukebox played static. Damon rummaged behind the counter, finding a first-aid kit and a map.

A noise made him freeze a whimper.

Under a booth, a dog cowered. It was mangy, one eye milky white, but alive.

“Hey,” Damon said softly. “You’re not a mutant, huh?”

The dog growled but didn’t attack. Damon tossed it a stale cracker. The dog sniffed, then devoured it.

“Guess we’re both survivors,” Damon muttered.

He didn’t notice the trap until it was too late.

As he stepped outside, a net snapped around him, hoisting him into the air. Four figures emerged humans, not Tenders. They wore scavenged armor and carried rifles.

“Look what we caught!” a woman sneered. “A mutant playing human.”

Damon’s claws tried to emerge, but the serum blocked them. “I’m not your enemy.”

“Says the guy with glowing eyes,” a man said, aiming his gun. “Boss’ll wanna see this.”

They dragged him to a fortified gas station. Inside, a man with a burned face sat on a throne of car parts.

“Another one of them,” the man spat. “Hang him with the others.”

Damon glimpsed bodies outside—mutants strung up on chains. Purists.

“Wait!” Damon yelled. “I’m not fully mutated. I have a serum it can help you!”

The leader paused. “Serum?”

Damon pulled the syringe from his pocket. “Two days of being human. Test it.”

The leader snatched it. “You first.”

He injected Damon.

Nothing happened.

“See?” the leader said. “A lie.”

But Damon felt it the serum was fighting the new dose, his body caught in a war. His claws burst out, scales rippling. The Purists screamed, opening fire.

Damon didn’t remember killing them.

When the haze cleared, he stood surrounded by bodies, his claws dripping red. The dog barked outside, unharmed.

The leader’s burned face stared up at him. “Monster…”

Damon ran, the dog following.

He didn’t stop until nightfall.

By a dying campfire, the dog curled at his feet. Damon stared at his bloodstained hands. The serum’s stability was a lie he’d lost control. Worse, he’d enjoyed it.

The Beast God’s laugh echoed in the wind. You see? This is who you are.

Damon buried the remaining serum. “No more shortcuts.”

The dog licked his hand.

“What do I call you?” Damon asked.

It wagged its tail.

“Rust,” he decided.

They walked into the dark together.