My name is Max Stros and I am an accountant, or at least I was before the fall. Now, however I have become something far different, something that seems to be right out of a video game or one of those crazy scifi flicks you’d catch on TV. Though I may not seem it with my thick rimmed glasses and unnatural love for pocked tees, I am a raider, a murderer, a pillager and a survivor. I am Max Stros and I am an account, but not one of figures at least not any more I am an accountant of death.

The acrid smell of waste can be smelled from miles around, it’s only been a week or two, but already I can tell that they’re onto me, collectors. I’ve heard the tales about them from other former corporate in the area, and I’ve heard what they do to those that they find. That’s why I’m sitting here in this god damn sewer with all these rats. The only reason why I left my comfortable condo and why I have been reduced to this.

From above I can hear the sounds of boots thumping on the walk ways and the sound of man well covers being lifted. They’re here and if I don’t think of something quick they’re sure to find me here coddled in waste like a babe in a blanket. Looking down the walkways through the gloom I can see their shadows playing against the walls like specters in the night. Slowly, shifting in my sludge heap I sick farther back choking back the urge to scream and run.

As the shadows slink forward and round the corner three figures move into the corridor. They stalk the walk ways the one with the stub gun in the front. The other two drag metal poles along the walk way like cheap thrill killers out of a slasher film. The heavy poles bouncing off the metal work emitting a low bang and filling my head with horrible images of just how soft my head really is. I gasp in one last breath as they move past me the few seconds seeming to drag out like hours, and to my horror the boots stop right in front of my trash cocoon.

After several long drawn out moments the one with the stub gun motions towards a corridor farther down and the trio begin their slow shuffle once more, each foot step accompanied by a low bang as the metal poles skip and bounce along the walk way. As the footsteps fade I dare to open my eyes and peer out into the dim light sewer world. Alone once more I calculate my options high tail it out into to the light, stick around here or to follow them. Unfortunately for them I am an accountant and they’re in my world now.

Slipping through the dim lit corridors and walkways I make my way to the junction and begin to seal the doorway to the above world. With a low hiss the passage seals and the heavy lock thunders into place, the loud clang echoing through the sewers like the tolling of a bell. Deep within the heart of the sewer I hear them awake, they now that soon dinner will be served and it excites them. Turning back from the door I slink through passages that they have shown me in my stay here, passages that lead to places I dare not speak.

Looking down upon the trio from the catwalk above, I wonder if they’ve come to realize who the real prey is here. We live in their world now and when they come there is nothing that a stub gun will do to stop them at least not for long. Slowly, I pull the cleaning cloth from my shirt pocket and clean the grim from my glasses and silently slide the cloth back into its place. With a downward glance I can feel my mindset begin to shift from the cornered mouse to that of the cat and I slowly begin my decent downward.

Suddenly, the sound of the banging poles seems less threatening and more inviting. They’re here with me now, I can feel their hungry eyes upon me and I know exactly what I have to do if I want to live. Like a silent specter of death I slip the knife out of its side holster and stalk after the collection team. In a matter of moments I am upon them it seems surreal as if moving through a dream I feel a sharp sting and see the lash of the stub gun as it goes off, the thundering crack bouncing through the decrepit corridors. I feel my arm slow and see blood splash against the wall and to my surprise the blood is not my mine but that of the stub man as the knife blade seems to slowly pull through him.

With a heavy thud and a childlike scream he falls to the floor as the other collectors rush towards me like enraged beasts. The sharp bite of pain rips through my body as I collide with one of them, blows raining down upon my body as I repeatedly puncture the man’s body. Like a frenzied dog I rip and tear at him until I feel his blows lighten, my body aches with each move as I slowly turn to fact the last collector. The look on his face is one of horror at the realization that this prey is fighting back and winning. A loud thud and clatter echoes out as the heavy pole he once carried drops to waste strewn floor as he races deeper into the dark. Looking down something catches my eye a small photo that must have fallen from his kit as he ran. The man in the photo looks back at me smiling, his dark rimmed glasses and pristine slicked back hair a mockery. Slowly, I pick up the photo and look at the words on the back that say Max Stros: accountant.

My name is Max Stros and I am an accountant and tonight the figures that I add will be those of the dead. The photo slowly drifts to the ground landing in the sewage left behind by those above. In the distance a scream can be heard and the eyes look greedily upon the feast set out before them.