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It was his own fault, really. His own fault that he didn’t check the durability on his elytra, that he hadn’t bothered to enchant them with Mending. How was his laziness more pressing than Mending?
So Etho had tumbled out of the sky, drifting where he could on his damaged wings, until he managed to crash into a tree and fall through its branches, where he landed on the ground just at the edge of a forest.
Etho groaned, pushed himself up onto his knees. His face stung from the lash of the branches against his cheeks, his entire body sore from the impact against the ground. He might have broken his right wrist, caught under his body. It was already swelling up, his hand practically useless.
He wiped his other hand across his face, grimaced when it came away bloody. A quick look down showed he was bleeding from a multitude of different scrapes on his body, his clothes torn here and there. None of them looked serious, or even all that deep, so that could have been a lot worse.
A wrist and some scrapes wasn’t the end of the world, but the dull pain coming from his ankle told him that wasn’t all. He shifted to sit, tugged down the sock of his right foot to check it.
Yep, it looked about the same as his wrist, already swelling up. Maybe broken, maybe badly sprained—either way, he wasn’t walking out of there.
It wasn’t too bad, he supposed. He could be in a lot worse of a situation. Sure, night was falling, but if he messaged the main chat for help, someone would come get him.
<Etho> hey anybody on-world and awake
<Docm77> Hello
<Cubfan135> I never sleep
<Tango> so not bdubs? haha
<Etho> my elytra broke far away… ://
<Tango> oh etho
<Cubfan135> no mending?
<Etho> I haven’t gotten around to it
<Docm77> how far away are you?
<Etho> idk pretty far out
<Etho> [COORDINATES]
<Tango> oh dude that’s forever away
<Etho> yup
<Cubfan135> needing some help?
<Etho> well I think I broke my ankle
<Cubfan135> oh nooo
<Docm77> no potions?
<Etho> nope
<Cubfan135> suiting up now
<Docm77> omw
<Etho> thanks guys haha
Etho set his communicator down in the grass, dug through his satchel. He usually carried a couple of bandages, so he could at least wrap the ankle, get it some support.
He did find an ace bandage, thankfully. He set one end against his ankle, started looping it around the arch of his foot and the joint of his ankle. He moved with practiced efficiency, pinning the loose end and pulling his sock and his shoe back up over it.
He tested it carefully, putting a bit of weight on that foot. Not too bad, but nothing that he thought he could reliably walk on.
A groan sounded from the treeline, and Etho’s head jerked up, scanning the trees for movement. Had the sun already set enough for monsters to spawn?
He wouldn’t be able to wield a sword all that well. He last practiced left-handed combat . . . two or three years ago, probably, on a consistent schedule, he just hadn’t needed it in so long. . . .
“This is why you stay on top of your skills, Etho,” he told himself. Maybe he could construct some sort of shelter? Or—
Another groan from the forest. He’d never been that fond of building, so he didn’t tend to carry that kind of stuff on him. Especially not when he was just flying out to find some unexplored cave, his pockets as empty as they could be. Sure, he had torches, but that wouldn’t be enough to fend off a horde of zombies.
He passed over a village not too long ago, didn’t he? If he could find a large enough stick to lean on, maybe he could make his way back toward it. Surely it wouldn’t be too far of a trek—he remembered seeing it just before he crashed.
Etho glanced back at the forest, the most likely place to find a stick. No sun filtered out through the thick canopy of trees, the darkness much deeper than it ought to have been, even at this late hour.
Yeah. That probably wasn’t going to happen.
He had to lean on his sword, then, and hope that it was enough. Luckily, the ground was dry enough that the tip shouldn’t just sink into the earth. Etho counted that as a blessing and started off, adjusting his left-handed grip on the hilt after each step, trying to find what worked best.
It wasn’t all that helpful, to be honest. The sword was just too short to work the way he wanted it to, and he would have preferred it on his other side. Just his luck that he happened to break the wrist and ankle of the same side of his body.
He probably should have wrapped his wrist, too, but he wasn’t in the habit of carrying more than one ace bandage, and he didn’t really have time. His arm shoved into his sleeveless coat, held in place by the halfway-zipped zipper, would have to do.
He should message the others, let them know that he was moving and heading toward a town, but when he reached for his communicator at his belt, he found the holster empty.
Uh-oh.
Etho turned (slowly, too slowly), spotted his communicator on the ground where he’d left it, ten feet behind him, resting in the grass.
Come on .
“Okay,” he breathed, staring at it. How long had it taken him to walk those couple of steps? Not too long, surely, mere minutes, but minutes were everything at sundown.
Should he risk it? Grab his communicator, or keep making his way toward the village?
It was more important to be able to update his friends, probably.
He tightened his hold on his sword, started to hobble back to his communicator. He tried to keep his uneven footsteps quiet, careful not to disturb any monsters in the woods, but the grass underfoot was dry and crunched, and his gait wasn’t particularly suited for quiet at the moment.
He made it to his communicator, though, and puzzled for a moment with the concept of picking it up. He could bend forward if he put his weight on his sword, but he wouldn’t be able to pick it up with his free hand. Not to mention, when he attempted to bend over, his back shot through with stiffening pain—deep tissue bruises from his fall, no doubt.
Right. How was he meant to do this?
He could crouch, he supposed. On one leg, though? Well, his right leg might not take much weight, but it could at least steady him. He would have to put his sword into its sheath, unable to hold it and unwilling to drop it.
He fumbled with it, awkwardly trying to work his sword into the sheath with his left hand. He managed to slide it in, though, and was about to crouch when he heard the snapping of underbrush.
Etho looked up, eyes trained on the dark woods. He scanned them, back and forth, and quickly identified the source of the movement—a bush, right up at the edge, trembling as something pushed its way through—
A rotting hand shoved aside the last branch, and a zombie stumbled out, arms reaching toward Etho.
Now, Etho didn’t usually have any problems dispatching zombies. A quick stab and slash, maybe a running jump, and they were down. One of the easier monsters to handle, honestly. Far easier than creepers or skeletons.
But this zombie was . . . different.
Etho had seen zombie villagers before. He’d always shuddered at their twisted features, their not-quite-right noises. He’d killed those as well, if they were too far gone to be restored.
This one was, quite notably, not too far gone.
It was a farmer, once. Its wide-brimmed hat protected it from the last rays of the sun, its blood-stained overalls not thick enough to save it from whatever zombie bit it, blood staining the jean. Gloves hung from its belt, one almost entirely slipped out, just a finger pinning it in place.
It wasn’t quite a zombie, though, not yet. Sure, its skin was splotched with green, its mouth hanging open to show rotting teeth. Its eyes were completely clouded over with white, its fingernails cracked and blackened. But something about it screamed human, something in the way it checked right and left before lurching toward Etho, something in its repetitive swallowing of saliva instead of letting it all drip down its chin.
This was a freshly-turned zombie villager. Its reflexes were likely to be quicker, its bites stronger. Usually, Etho would turn the thing back, but as proved earlier, of course he didn’t think to bring an Ender chest with him.
He didn’t want to kill it, though. It was just a farmer, maybe still conscious enough to recognize that something was wrong, and he hated to condemn it to death for not being able to defend itself against a monster—not when he should have been able to help it.
Ah, well. He cared more about surviving this encounter than feeling bad for a zombie.
“Whoa there, buddy,” Etho said, hopping back a bit on his uninjured foot. His communicator remained on the ground as he tried to get his sword back out, sweaty fingers pulling fruitlessly on the handle. “If you want to just hang tight for a minute, my friends are on their way. They can turn you back.”
He didn’t think that the zombie could understand him, but there wasn’t any harm in trying.
His sword came free—
The zombie lunged—
Etho missed. Etho missed , and the zombie reached for him—he did his best to twist away, but his good foot slipped out from under him. He hit the ground and swung back blindly with his sword, pulling himself away on his bad arm. His wrist buckled under him and he gasped, pain surging through it.
Before he could properly turn around and defend himself, the zombie was on top of him. Etho writhed, tried to shove it off, but before he could get any leverage, it was biting down on his upper left arm.
A pained noise escaped his clenched teeth as he felt his flesh break under the zombie’s teeth, fire spreading from the bite. Involuntarily, his fingers released the sword, letting it clatter to the ground beside him. He shoved back, managing to dislodge the zombie—but a glance down showed several of the teeth still stuck in his bloody flesh. Etho rolled onto his back, scooted backwards as quickly as he could.
The zombie threw itself at him again, and Etho had nothing to defend himself with—
It bit into his chest this time, and Etho kicked and kicked and beat at its head with his fist, grimacing as its soft head gave way partially under the heel of his palm. White-hot pain burst from his chest as its jaw clamped down on him—Etho’s arms spasmed, but he just forced himself to breathe through it and kept trying to push the zombie away.
Without warning, his broken ankle erupted in pain. For a moment, he couldn’t make sense of it—the zombie was still on top of him, pulling away with a mouthful of flesh, blood dripping everywhere: how could it have grabbed his foot?
There was a hand wrapped around his bad ankle, and as the zombie pushed off of him, Etho saw it.
Another zombie villager, and this one was a teenage boy. It was a farmer as well, made clear by its jeans and straw hat, and Etho had a moment of staring at the two through tear-blurred eyes before he realized that they were probably father and son.
Then the son pulled, and Etho had a second realization.
He’d only seen this happen once. A villager reported missing from one of his villagers, that had been seen dragged away by multiple zombie villagers. Etho had ventured out in search and discovered an entire zombie villager family, feasting on the kidnapped villager.
These two were taking him to their family.
That wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all.
“Hey,” Etho gasped, trying to spot his communicator as they started to haltingly drag him toward the forest. “Hey, I don’t really appreciate this. I’ve got—things—”
There it was, glinting in the grass—he reached for it—
The farmer’s boot came down on it, the screen cracking and fizzing out.
Maybe it still worked?
Etho twisted around onto his stomach, gritting his teeth against the scream that tried to tear from his throat at the turn of his injured ankle. His efforts were wasted, anyhow; his communicator was already out of reach.
He kicked, grabbed the grass, tried his best to fight, but the father growled something like a warning and Etho let himself go limp. He just had to wait for an opportune moment.
They breached the treeline, and Etho groaned aloud when the branches and roots of the underbrush began to pull at his clothes, scraping his skin up even worse.
This was going to be fun.
“Uh-oh,” Cub said as they landed at the coordinates that Etho had sent. Doc made a noise of unease.
Before them was Etho’s communicator, a large crack splintering down the screen. His sword lay abandoned a couple of feet away.
More ominous than anything, however, was the clear sign of something heavy being dragged through the broken grass and into the woods, the trail dotted and smeared with darkness that shines in the light of Doc’s torch. Blood.
They looked at each other, a quick analysis of the situation passing between them.
No discussion was needed. They turned toward the forest and charged in.
Following the trail was easy—blood marred it, of course, but whatever had taken Etho had made sure to drag him through the worst of the underbrush, making a clear path all the way through. Cub kept one eye on the ground while Doc followed close behind, his mechanical eye whirring.
Then they heard a sound that chilled their very bones.
A scream, cut-off and choked, sounding from not too far within.
Without a word, Cub broke into a run. Doc followed right behind.
Etho was still pretty sure he could make it out of this alive.
They hadn’t reached the rest of the zombie family yet, and the two dragging him hadn’t shown any signs of tiring out, but Etho was just resourceful like that.
He’d managed to roll back onto his back (terrible for his elytra, which he just knew were getting as destroyed as his mask already was), and from there he had pulled his satchel onto his stomach and begun pawing through it, ignoring the quickly-failing mobility of his right arm and the pulsing pain and slow seeping of blood from his chest.
He had torches, a pickaxe repair kit, some basic redstone. Food. Some finer instruments for chiseling. Not much, but certainly enough.
His left-handed throw would be rough, but surely he could launch something at these guys. If he could catch the kid in the face with his chisel, it might loosen its grip enough for Etho to sit up, then swing the miniature sledgehammer at the leg of the father. That should shatter the bone, give Etho a moment to grab his pickaxe off his back and swing.
He grasped the chisel, rubbed it between his bloodstained fingers. He had this. He just needed to breathe, ignore all the pain, and. . . .
Before he could take aim, they broke into something of a clearing—still with heavy tree covering, but few obstructions.
Sitting in the clearing were three other zombie villagers: the farmer’s wife, a baby, and another son.
Oh, no. He’d better not have left this too late.
“I really don’t want to die,” Etho said, as casually as he can manage. “I know that’s kind of your thing, but—”
He threw.
That part worked, somehow. The boy dragging him let go as the chisel hit him square in the nose, stumbling back and covering his face.
The next part . . . didn’t. Etho tried to sit up, tried to swing the sledgehammer at the farmer, but his back seized up with all-encompassing pain, just as it had earlier. He was stuck on the ground, muscles jerking, he couldn’t sit up—
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Etho muttered frantically, doing anything he could to roll to his feet. He’d run on a broken ankle, he didn’t care anymore, but this was getting dangerous and he had to go.
He was too late, not even able to turn onto his stomach as the farmer’s hands closed around his right foot and twisted. Etho screamed, briefly, at the horrible jolt and drag of pain as he felt his bones crunching together—he shoved his forearm into his mouth to stifle the noise, tried to focus through his watering eyes.
He threw the sledgehammer—missed. Just his luck. And now the other zombies were stalking toward him, and the older son was back to it, reaching toward his other leg with his mouth open—
The father bit down on his foot, his teeth held at bay by Etho’s shoe. Etho jerked, tried and succeeded in kicking him in the teeth, despite the added pain to his ankle. The farmer dropped him, but the son had his other leg and bit down on his shin—it hurt, it hurt , and the little baby was crawling toward his face, green hands reaching for Etho’s eyes—
This was it. Etho was going to die here.
He had a good run, he supposed. Friends, laughs, some redstone contraptions. Looking back, he’d had more good times than bad times, and that had to mean something. He must have done something right, right?
He didn’t have the energy to fight anymore, but he didn’t give up. He still tried to get away, still struggled and kicked and flung out. He still shoved the baby away.
But his energy was flagging, and soon enough, he would be nothing more than zombie food. The farmer’s wife, bent over him, tore into his stomach—the other son was gnawing on his shoulder—this was definitely it—
He’d never been this bone-chillingly terrified before, it washed over him like a tropical storm, he was dying—
Etho didn’t hear the thud and twang of the crossbow firing, nor did he see the bullet land, but he did see the wife zombie stumble away from him, landing hard on its back. He watched it, confused, his left hand coming up to uselessly try to staunch the bleeding from the gouge in his stomach.
This time, he did hear the whistle of an arrow, which buried itself in the older son’s throat and sent him crumpling to the ground, dropping Etho’s leg.
Etho looked back, over his shoulder and to the left, and there—
Cub, Cub drawing another arrow, Doc tossing a crossbow to the side and coming forward, sword already drawn.
Etho could have cried.
They had come for him. They were going to get him out of here.
The other zombies were taken out with relative ease (though Doc did splash a weakness potion on the baby and led it away to give it a slice of golden apple), and Cub was at Etho’s side in mere moments, light touches cataloging each wound.
Cub’s face had never looked so beautiful. And Doc’s.
He was going to survive .
“Hey,” Etho rasped, trying to smile. “Took you long enough.”
“Dude,” Cub shook his head. “We can’t leave you for one second.”
“Yeah, I’m a noob.” He felt a bit lightheaded. Probably the blood loss. “Got any . . . uh, potions?”
Cub clicked his tongue. “Yeah, but we’re gonna want to clean these out before you have anything. Which ankle did you hurt?”
“Uh, the right one. My wrist, too.”
Cub examined them both, his frown growing deeper and deeper. “You’ll probably want to get these checked out by a real doctor, off-world. I don’t wanna give you a potion if it isn’t set properly.”
“Whatever,” Etho said, biting his lip to keep his teeth from chattering. Now that the danger was over, he couldn’t seem to stop shaking. He watched as Cub uncapped a bottle of disinfectant, pouring some onto a piece of cloth and beginning to wipe down the wounds—it stung, of course it stung, he knew it would. Etho tried not to make too much noise.
“No head trauma?” Doc asked, approaching. Etho hummed, still gritting his teeth against the sting of the disinfectant.
“Don’t think so,” he said. “Don’t even remember hitting it on the fall.”
Doc knelt beside his head, took his face between his hands—surprisingly gentle, considering the cold metal of one of them. Etho’s mask was ripped to shreds by now, but Doc still straightened it as he stared into Etho’s eyes, his mechanical eye flashing.
After a moment, he smiled. “You can sleep, Etho. We’ve got you.”
Honestly? Sleep sounded really good.
So Etho fell asleep.
When he woke up, he was home, wounds bandaged and a soft glow coming from the lamp at his bedside.
He was safe.
He closed his eyes again and let sleep take him.