He ran towards them – seeing what he saw; it wasn't difficult to determine, of each of these groups, which he'd root for –

Demons.

Not –

Demons.

A big one-eyed boy slapped a rotting bag of flesh and corpse meat up the side of the head with a big stick, spitting and yelling at him, in clear panic. The same time, the women were yelling, running back behind the three demons – their reactions not so quick operating their rotting bodies/nor as tall as either woman – or the kids. Just completely caked in dried blood, each of them.

Neither was that blood their own, and this was a premonition but it was clearly dried in – and true, the premonition, in some weird sense. It covered every square inch of their frames. Their rotting flesh; their scored epidermises – their hacked up flesh and underparts, were visible – but only under this layer of instant dried blood that somehow looked like they'd walked through a gas of it.

This was merely the way in which it had adhered.

“Pry!”

And the impression it gave.

“Pry!”

– this was a word said to him as he ran up and kicked a demon on the floor, in the back. – He had no weapons. The other three demons instantly turned/went for him; he backed up; unfortunately no weapon, but he was larger, anyway – than these demons that –

“Open a corridor!” She said this mysterious phrase at him. The young one. “Pry! Open one up! Throw the fucks in!”

All three demons barked an explosion of incendiary bile at him – the explosions he'd witnessed from distance – leaping back, he edged over, and nearly fell back down the hill again; edging back sideways away from the – up here exterior – domes. The demons followed barking more clouds of bile – that was clearly on fire. Greasy clouds of steam came off the liquid-gas explosive vomit-bile stuff that they barked instant gallons of in his face. He edged back and –

A flying rock hit the demon in the coupon – strange word; from whence had that – he didn't know who he even was/he was momentarily going to die; so there were actually currently more pressing thoughts to –

Anything/anything, looking for anything – he really did not like fighting demons sans fighting-weapon-objects. – These were a bare minimum necessary requirement during these events. Another rock smacked another demon in the face, and two fell, crushed skulls, paralysed; or anyway dead – if there was any kind of biological finality you could apply to such beings as this; ambulatory.

But also spaced out and capable of barking incendiary bile, in gallon-clouds, but still, in all, he didn't – he stumbled back over a rock he hadn't seen and on his back and the two remaining demons were on him; kicking their stomachs on the floor with impressive strength he didn't know he was capable of, both flying back off him.

– They hit the floor at distance in dramatic thuds. On his feet again he leapt over to them; pounding the skull of the first of them and smashing it; smashing; pounding massively with his impressively large feet, he thought – he had a body; he had noticed – and thankfully it was a comparably large one.

Handy for fighting these sorts of obviously supernatural beings if this would be something like a daily requirement or anyway not a rare occurrence. Which was presumably the case given the fact he'd just been born – in a manner of speaking – had had about eight thoughts and then this event/fight – in/for his life – as a statistical matter –

These were the thoughts he had pounding a demon skull into mush on the ground as the two broads, and three kids, ran up to the other floor-flattened fucker and set about the smashing off its skull; with rocks and large sticks, on their end. – Which was okay but he preferred weapons specifically manufactured for the purpose, or at least one similar, and then –

He stopped.