Apocalypse Expert in a Beastman World

Genevieve lay on the stone slab, her breathing a series of shallow, ragged rasps that echoed in the cold, silent cave. The blood from her wound had already formed a dark, sticky pool on the grey rock beneath her.

Kameron leaned against the cave entrance, arms crossed, his silhouette a dark promise of death. He was waiting. Watching her die.

A sudden gust of wind and a flurry of leaves announced Jameel's return. The hawk-man landed with a thud, dropping a large bundle of dry branches and a heap of tinder-dry grass at Genevieve's feet. A few stray wood chips flew up and hit her face.

She ignored the sting.

With a grunt of effort, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Her blood-soaked hands sifted through the pile, pulling out a straight, hard stick and a small, softer piece of wood.

Kameron raised an eyebrow, his expression a mixture of confusion and contempt. What could this woman, who was usually too lazy to fetch her own water, possibly want with a pair of sticks?

Genevieve placed a wad of crushed grass under the soft wood, braced the hard stick between her palms, and began to rub. The motion was frantic, desperate. The bow drill. A technique from a world and a life away.

Her hands shook violently from blood loss. The first attempt produced only a wisp of pathetic smoke before her strength gave out.

Gilberto and Dalvin entered the cave then, supporting a still-dazed Angelo between them. Gilberto saw her pathetic efforts and let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

Genevieve ignored him. She bit down on her tongue, the sharp, coppery tang of blood a jolt to her system. She began to rub again, faster this time, a wild, desperate energy fueling her. The rough bark of the stick tore at her palms, drawing fresh blood, but she didn't feel it. Or if she did, she folded the pain into her effort. The second attempt failed, yielding only more useless smoke. She tried a third time, and a fourth, her vision swimming with dark, dizzying patches. Sweat and blood mixed, making it nearly impossible to grip the wood. Just as she thought her failing body would completely give out, an unyielding will forged in the apocalypse forced her hands to make one final, agonizing push.

A tiny, glowing ember sparked into life, falling into the nest of dry grass.

Instantly, Genevieve collapsed forward, her face close to the smoldering tinder, and blew. A gentle, steady stream of air. A tiny flame flickered, caught, and then grew, devouring the dry grass.

The moment the fire truly ignited, the men reacted as if a bomb had gone off. They scrambled backward, pressing themselves against the far walls of the cave, their eyes wide with a primal fear.

Beastmen were terrified of fire. And the original Genevieve, they knew, had been the most terrified of all.

Kameron's pupils contracted to pinpricks.

Genevieve didn't spare them a glance. She fed small twigs to the fledgling fire, coaxing it, building it. Then, she did something that shattered their reality.

She plunged her hand into the heart of the fire, not into the flames, but into the bed of burning wood, and scooped up a handful of glowing, grey ash.

Without a moment's hesitation, she pressed the searing hot ash directly onto the gaping, bloody wound in her abdomen. "Damn it," she thought, the pain threatening to shatter her mind. "There are no sterile conditions here. The alkaline nature of the wood ash might temporarily inhibit some bacteria and cauterize the worst of the bleeding, but the impurities will cause a massive infection if I don't find a substitute for antibiotics soon. It's a calculated risk-burn now, or bleed out in minutes."

A sickening sizzle filled the air, the smell of burnt flesh and scorched blood overwhelming the damp scent of the cave.

Genevieve's body arched back in a silent scream of pure, unadulterated agony. Her muscles locked, her whole frame convulsing as if struck by lightning. But her hands, her bloody, trembling hands, stayed firm, pressing the source of the agony deeper into her own flesh.

She bit through her lip, blood welling, but she refused to scream. A low, guttural growl rumbled in her chest, the sound of a cornered animal choosing to fight rather than die.

Dalvin, the closest thing they had to a healer, stared, his mouth agape. He had seen battle wounds, had treated torn flesh, but he had never seen anything like this. This brutal, savage, and terrifyingly effective act of self-preservation.

Hiding behind Gilberto, Angelo peeked out. The woman in the flickering firelight, her face pale and beaded with sweat, her expression one of ferocious concentration, was a stranger.

After an eternity that was likely only a minute, Genevieve slowly, deliberately, pulled her hands away. The wound was a mess of blackened, cauterized flesh, but the bleeding had stopped.

She collapsed back onto the slab, her body utterly spent. She was drenched in a cold sweat, her clothes clinging to her as if she'd been pulled from a river.

The immediate crisis was over. And in its place, a new, primal urge asserted itself. A hollow, aching hunger. Her stomach let out a loud, embarrassing growl that echoed in the stunned silence of the cave.

The men just stared, their faces a mixture of fear, disgust, and a new, unsettling emotion. Awe.

Genevieve wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of a shaky hand. She turned her head, her gaze landing on Kameron.

Her voice was a dry, cracked whisper.

"I'm hungry," she said. "Get me something to eat."

Kameron didn't move. He looked at the fire she had created. He looked at the horrific, self-inflicted wound on her belly. He looked at her eyes, clear and demanding despite the agony she had just endured.

And for the first time, a terrifying thought took root in his mind.

The face was the same. The body was the same.

But the soul inside it was something new. Something utterly, terrifyingly different.