The Dark Beyond - The Huntsman - Part 1, The Book of Fear

The floor was cold and damp against John’s cheek. The wood smelled of old earth and mildew.

His tongue felt thick. Chemical bitterness clung to it, sick and sharp.

He blinked.

Raw wood ceiling danced through shadows, conducted by a single light somewhere behind him that hummed, barely pushing back the dark.

He pushed himself up as the room shifted before settling.

His hand found the chain beneath his shirt, closing around it.

One set.

His.

His fingers slid along the chain, searching.

His other hand patted his chest, shirt, and pockets.

Nothing.

His thumb traced the familiar shape again beneath the fabric.

Then the room came in pieces.

Bodies on the floor, most still down, some dragging themselves upright — arms shaking, eyes slow to focus.

Somewhere behind him, a woman was saying a name quietly, again and again.

The man to his right was already awake, breathing fast and tight.

He wore an ill-fitting suit and glasses, the frames sitting crooked on his face.

He sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, palms flat on the floor, his eyes darting and wet with panic.

John watched him for a moment.

“Hey,” John said quietly.

The man's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as he stared, unable to utter a sound.

“What’s your name?” John asked.

The man swallowed.

“K... k... Kevin.”

A sharp metallic snap broke the moment as the door opened without ceremony, calling every head in the room.

A man stepped inside.

He was shirtless. Dense with muscle. Scars cut across his chest and shoulders. A combat knife hung at his side, black handle catching the light.

He wore a dark leather face mask. One strap ran over the crown of his head. Another hooked from the jawline around the back of his skull, holding it tight against his face.

The mask was grotesque.

Old ink marked the left cheek. A black anchor sat there, cracked through the middle by design, its lines warped where the skin had been stretched and worked into something else.

But it was not the mask that held the room.

It was the eyes.

Dark blue.

Cold.

Flat.

Unhurried.

They studied each person the way a butcher studies weight before a cut.

“I know you’re afraid,” he said, his voice low. “Good. You should be. Everybody feels fear.”

His gaze swept over them.

“Not everyone runs.”

He took a slow step inside, gently closing the door behind him.

“Each of you is here for a reason.”

The words settled over the room like a sentence waiting to be passed.

His attention settled on a woman near the wall.

“You taught a man to hate himself so badly he finally believed you.”

Her face lost all color.

His head shifted, eyes passing over the room until they found the large bald man sitting on the floor.

“You beat your wife with one hand and wore a badge with the other.”

The bald man went still.

A younger man with a split lip and a tattoo of a broken anchor on his cheek stared at the masked man as if the dead had just walked back into the room.

The masked man locked eyes with him.

“You and others sold people pain and called it business.”

The young man’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His eyes were still on the mask and the warped black anchor on the left cheek.

The masked man moved on.

His gaze settled near the far side of the room.

A massive man sat there with thick hands resting loose against his knees, nearly motionless. Even seated, he seemed too large for the space around him. His shirt was dark, the sleeves rolled to the forearms. His eyes were heavy.

Empty.

The masked man looked at him.

He held the stare without flinching.

Silence stretched.

“You found peace taking people apart without purpose.”

The man’s mouth bent into a weak smile that did not touch his eyes.

The masked man’s eyes left him.

Again, silence.

John turned his head.

Those piercing blue eyes were already locked on him from under the mask.

His blood ran cold.

“A fucking coward.”

John swallowed, his hand tightening again around the chain beneath his shirt.

“Fear is not the problem.”

Cold blue eyes held his face as he spoke.

“What you do with it is.”

His eyes left John's and moved around the room again.

A woman beside John flexed her hands against the floor, her body angling toward the door.

John moved toward her, reaching out.

“Hey!”

She lunged.

She scrambled past two people, shoulder clipping the wall, boots slipping on the wood as she drove for the door.

Fingers stretching out.

The masked man stepped into her, catching her high at the collar and turning her head hard.

There was a thick, wet pop.

John felt it in his own neck.

The panic in her body folded.

Her knees struck first. Then her head hit the floor with a dull crack.

Her eyes were still open, still staring at the door she never reached.

The room’s focus remained on the lifeless body.

The masked man was already speaking when the room’s attention returned to him.

“You may not leave until the door unlocks. When it opens, it begins.”

The door shut behind him, the sound rolling once through the cabin before dying against the walls.

The dead woman lay where she had fallen, one leg bent under her, an arm twisted beneath her chest, eyes still locked on the door.

Then the room broke into chaos.

John didn’t move.

He stood gripping the chain so hard that the metal started to cut into his skin.

The buzzing light seemed louder now, pressing through the screams until John’s eyes lifted toward it.

“The shutters!”

A man broke from the cluster and rushed the window, jamming his fingers under the edge of the wood.

The shutter shifted.

“Yeah!” someone shouted. “Get more leverage!”

Near the back, the man in the dark shirt watched without helping.

Around him, bodies shoved toward the window.

Another man broke a chair and tried to slip one of the legs into the opening.

The first man dug his fingers deeper, holding the gap while the other leaned in and forced the broken chair leg under the wood.

The man’s shoulders dipped without warning.

Both hands jerked. One slipped free immediately, fingers scrabbling as if they could find the wood again. The other stayed hooked beneath the edge, knuckles gone white.

His free arm jerked inward, tight against his chest.

His body pitched forward, face settling against the shutter.

A dark sliver caught a faint line of light at the back of his head.

Steel.

Narrow.

Clean.

The woman near the window screamed.

“What the fuck is that?”

Then the head snapped back and struck the shutter with a bang.

The blade was gone.

His body dropped hard, but one hand stayed clenched beneath the shutter, leaving him hanging there on slack knees.

His face turned toward the room.

One eye stared wide.

The other was gone, torn open and running dark down his cheek.

A woman stumbled backward, catching herself on the floor with both hands, a high-pitched scream ripping out of her.

A hollow drop hit beneath John’s ribs. His stomach fell away from him.

He couldn’t breathe.

The way the man hung there — one hand still hooked beneath the shutter — left his face turned toward the room. The sentence frozen in his mouth. The ruined eye laid bare.

The screaming rolled right over everything.

The large bald man shoved himself to his feet and stepped into the middle of the room.

“Hey.”

Nothing.

“Hey!”

The screaming kept coming.

He spread his stance and pulled in a breath.

“Everybody shut the fuck up!”

His voice cracked through the noise like a bat through glass.

Someone swore back at him.

“Like your badge means shit in here.”

He turned toward the voice.

“It means I know what panic does.”

The screaming broke apart.

He pointed at the bodies.

“You see them? That’s what happens when you panic.”

He spoke again, voice now shaking.

"If you idiots don't shut up and think for five goddamn seconds, we're all gonna get fucking killed before that door even opens."

The noise faded into soft mumbles.

He scanned the room, chest heaving.

"They’re dead. We're not. Not yet."

"We need a fucking plan."

A sharp crack split the cabin.

Every head snapped toward the window.

The shutter had given way entirely. The dead man's body lay fully on the floor now, one hand still clenched around the broken wood, mouth still contorted in its last attempted words, cheek pressed into the crushed ruin of his eye.

All eyes locked on the corpse.

Behind the empty window frame, iron bars ran across the gap where the shutters had been — partly hidden before by the closed panel.

The bars caught the thin light and threw narrow shadows across the floor.

Someone near the back let out a slow breath.

The cop turned away from the window.

"We need a fucking plan," he said again. Quieter this time.

"Look at him," he said. "Look at both of them."

A man in the back choked out, "See? We're all gonna fucking die."

The cop's eyes snapped to him.

"Yeah," he said. "Maybe."

He stepped forward, boots scraping across the boards, shoulders squared.

"But not like that."

Someone near the wall shook their head.

"This is fucking insane."

The cop gave a short mocking laugh.

"You're right," he said. "It is."

"And he's just as fucking insane."

"Francis."

The cop’s jaw tightened.

"You know I go by Frank, Sean."

Sean gave him a hard smile.

"Yeah. I know what you go by."

"Shut the fuck up."

Sean took one step toward him.

"Why don't you shut me the fuck up?"

The cop stared back at him.

"I won't need to."

His eyes flicked toward the door.

"That fucking freak show will."

Sean’s smile held for another second.

Then his eyes went back to the door.

"You know who the fuck that is just as well as I do, Francis."

The cop didn’t answer.

Sean’s voice dropped.

"That’s Mickey fucking Ficher."

Nobody moved.

"Fishermen don’t just fucking disappear, man."

A murmur started near the wall.

"Okay."

The cop turned on the room.

"So back to my point."

His hand swept toward the bodies.

"You want to stand here and piss yourselves over who he used to be?"

No one answered.

"Or do you want to live?"

His eyes moved across the room.

"Now look at the math."

"One."

"One of him."

His hand swept the room.

"And ten of us."

"What kind of a fucking chance does he have against that?"

Nobody moved.

He paced once across the room, stepping around the bodies.

"You want to run?" he said. "Go ahead."

"See how that works out."

"We need people who can fight."

Sean was the first one to move.

He pushed himself away from the wall, split lip wet again, broken anchor tight against his cheek.

“You know I ain’t fuckin’ dyin’.”

The cop looked at him.

“Yeah, I know, Sean.”

“That’s one.”

His eyes moved across the room.

“Who else?”

A tall man near the wall rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, then lifted his chin.

“I was a ranked wrestler in college,” he said.

The cop looked him over.

“Nice. Name?”

“Mercer.”

“All right. Let’s get it, Mercer.”

Near the window, the woman who had screamed earlier wiped the last of the tears from her face with the heel of her hand.

“Sammie,” she said. “I climb.”

The cop looked at her.

“Rocks and ropes don’t hit back, sweetheart.”

Her eyes hardened.

“I do.”

For a moment, the cop just stared at her.

Then a grin pulled at one side of his mouth.

“Fair enough.”

She stepped away from the window and joined the others near the door.

The man in the dark shirt had already crossed to the shelf on the wall.

A rusted boning knife lay forgotten near the corner.

He picked it up and turned it once in his thick hands.

The blade caught the weak light.

Something had been scratched into the metal near the handle.

C A L V I N

His thumb passed over the letters.

Once.

Then again.

His mouth barely moved.

The cop saw it.

His eyes dropped to the man’s hand.

To the knife.

To the bandage wrapped tight around the smallest finger.

The man closed his fist around the handle.

“Butcher,” he said simply, without looking up.

The cop looked at the bandage.

“Looks like you lost something.”

The butcher’s eyes lifted.

The cop nodded toward the wrapped finger.

“Funny thing. We found one of those last week.”

The butcher turned fully now, towering over him.

The room seemed to thin around them.

For a moment, neither man moved.

Then the butcher smiled.

Small.

Private.

He turned back toward the door.

“You’re coming too,” the cop said.

The butcher didn’t look back.

“I was coming anyway.”

The cop turned back to the room.

“That’s four.”

His eyes moved across the rest of them.

“Who else wants to live?”

A woman beside the wall had dropped down in the chaos and was fighting to stand again.

John crossed the space, crouching beside her.

“Easy, you’re good,” he said as he helped her upright, steadying her until her legs held.

As he stepped back, the chain slipped free of his collar.

Tags struck his chest with a dull clink.

Frank’s eyes fell onto them.

“Dog tags.”

John said nothing.

“You military?”

“Infantry.”

“You’re in.”

“I didn’t volunteer.”

“You volunteered the day you enlisted.”

He gave a short laugh and turned away.

Five near the door now.

Sean, shadow boxing, broken anchor tight on his cheek.

Mercer, stretching, drilling sprawls.

Sammie, tightening shoes, hair, everything.

The butcher, standing like a monument among them, one hand clenched on the rusty blade.

Motionless.

Blank.

Eyes locked on the door.

Frank, pacing back and forth.

John, still holding the chain against his chest.

The rest pressed back against the far wall—arms folded, eyes down.

John sat against the wall, knees drawn up, watching the barred window.

Outside, the last gray drained from the sky.

There was almost nothing left but waiting.

Sean’s hands slowed.

Mercer stopped moving.

Sammie went still near the door.

Frank’s pacing shortened, then stopped.

The butcher had not moved at all.

He stood with the rusty blade held low in one hand, eyes locked on the door. Only his shoulders moved, rising and falling slowly beneath the dark shirt.

The buzzing light filled the silence.

John’s hand closed around the chain at his chest.

Snap.

Click.

The lock turned.

No one moved.

Frank looked at the handle.

Then at the others.

He stepped forward and tested it.

The latch gave.

“It’s unlocked,” he whispered.

Still, no one moved.

Frank pushed the door open.

The smell came in first.

Pine.

Wet earth.

Cold rot beneath it.

Something older.

John stared through the open door, past the swirling mist, to the black line of trees beyond it, where the dark of the woods waited.

His heart pulsing in his eyes.

The thought hit him.

We’re all gonna fuckin’ die.

The cabin was the safest place he had ever been.