Loomis was a very lonely man.
All he knew was to kill. He couldn’t really do much anything else; he stalked these DUZII-ridden lands, instinctively steering clear of any of the infected zombies, sighting an unlikely life for himself amidst human slaughter & bloodthirst alike.
He didn’t talk much. He didn’t remember the last time he’d even cried out in pain or agony, let alone formulated words with his mouth, which was stuck in a constant frown. He was reclusive to any & all human interaction, which only quite made his situation of isolation worse.
He often slaughtered people out by the pier. He didn’t know exactly why they gathered there in flocks, but it had something to do with the headless fish they sold in their dinky little wooden stalls. He didn’t dwell too much on the matter, only focusing on it as a hotspot for his own merciless bloodlust.
One night, whilst he was out stalking by the wooden dock, a shimmer of tangerine-orange & turquoise caught his eye; a sudden flash that emanated from the sparkling water, usually still in the absence of boats, yet was currently rippling due to movement underneath its surface.
Curiosity hit the hunter. He stalked closer over to the edge of the pier, his sickle held down low as he peered over the edge, emotionless eyes skimming the water for any sign of the creature that had surfaced for just half a moment…
& there it was, again.
A flash of a tail, & then what seemed to be scales & fins. They were bedazzled in a pretty, almost alluring, pattern of deep turquoise & a distinct, rich shade of orange; the sort of colour combination that made people stop & stare, & Loomis was no exception to this.
It was a siren.
A mythical creature, known for its beauty & allure through song.
Loomis knew of them, despite how isolated he was from humanity; he had heard of the countless rumours surrounding the existence of a mythical creature inhabiting this island, yet he’d never anticipated that he’d actually come face to face with it.
After that night, Loomis ventured out to the pier front every dusk. He soon discovered that the siren wouldn’t show up to him if there were other people present in the vicinity as well, which only made his intrigue of this siren grow.
The siren didn’t talk much. He didn’t, either. He just sat by the sealine, sometimes on the sand, sometimes on the dock, awaiting for the creature’s arrival. It never truly showed its face to him, which he couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed about; it had this rusty old scuba-diving helmet on its head, which only made Loomis wonder further about the beauties that lay beneath its cracked, blacked-out visor.
One night, when Loomis was feeling particularly bold, he’d reached out to the siren; a gentle hand, so he hoped, to prise off its helmet. The siren had recoiled from the touch the moment his fingertips grazed the rusted metal, then disappeared underneath the surface of the water with a subtle splash.
…he didn’t see it again that night.
Nor the next.
Nor the next week.
He began to wander out onto the pier even during the daytime, staring out onto the water as if willing the siren to show its face to him, even if it would be concealed, for one last time. He quickly began to draw up to the conclusion that he, in fact, shouldn’t have reached for the siren’s helmet so brazenly.
For the first time in his life, he felt… guilt. A distinct sensation of bitterness coiling in his gut that only got worse each time he glanced out onto the ocean.
Now, Loomis had a fishing shed he found recluse in whenever the people rioted against him, which to be fair, was rather rare. He didn’t use it much, but it was still a comfort to know it was there. He was venturing out to this particular shack one night when his sharp ears caught noise of a few muffled noises coming from within the shed; the telltale sound of someone struggling against a gag.
He stilled for a moment outside of the battered door, his hand drifting to his sickle on instinct as he pushed open the door.
His eyes widened.
It was the siren.