Maxton Thane's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The town of Redglen rose from the dust like a fossil—bleached, cracked, half-buried by time. Rusted mining cranes leaned like drunks over the dead road, their long arms frozen mid-swing. A dry wind rolled down from the surrounding cliffs, carrying the scent of copper and ash. Captain Maxton Thane watched the town slide past the bus window, head resting on his fist. It was hard to tell if the place had been abandoned before the war, or after. Either way, Redglen wasn’t a place anyone wanted to end up. “Charming,” Flynn muttered from the driver’s seat, her eyes scanning the crumbling buildings and boarded-up store fronts. The road curved, revealing the rest of the town—one long main street framed by collapsed awnings, shattered glass, and sun-worn signs. A bar with no door. A clinic with its windows shot out. A post office buried in rockslide debris. Redglen had once been a mining hub. Now, it was a grave. They were halfway through when the bus jerked violently and let out a mechanical groan. Flynn cursed, wrenching the wheel as the engine sputtered, coughed, and died altogether. The vehicle rolled to a slow stop near a half-burned gas station. Thane leaned forward. “Tell me that was just a hiccup.” Flynn flipped a few switches on the console, listening. Nothing. She tried again. Still nothing. “Not a hiccup,” she said. “That was a death rattle. Think you can fix it?” “I’ll need to see what I’m working with.” Flynn grabbed her rifle, stepped out of the bus, and motioned for Thane to follow. Heat slammed into them like a wall. The sun was brutal, the sky white with haze. Their boots crunched on sunbaked gravel as they circled around to the rear. Thane popped the hatch and peered inside the engine compartment. “Fuel line’s cracked. Might’ve been a pressure spike, or just old age.” Flynn frowned. “Do we have spares?” He shook his head. “We’re lucky this thing runs at all. It’s patched together from three different models.” “So what’s the plan?” Thane turned, eyes sweeping the skeletal remains of Redglen. “We scavenge.” He slammed the engine hatch shut and turned to the small group gathered near the front of the bus—half a dozen soldiers, all dusty and sunburned, watching him with tired eyes. Behind them, the civilians were beginning to stir with nervous murmurs, the heat and sudden stop making everyone edgy. “Listen up,” Flynn said, her voice sharp and clear. “Fuel line’s busted. We’re not going anywhere until we get a replacement.” A soldier—Rika, short and broad-shouldered—tilted her head. “You think we’ll find one here?” “If we don’t, we’re walking,” Flynn replied. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m not dragging these people across the wastes on foot.” A few uneasy glances passed between the troops. Flynn pointed at the bus. “You stay with them. Keep the civilians calm, keep the perimeter tight. We don’t know what’s lurking out here, but if it’s anything like Bloom, I don’t want anyone caught off guard.” Thane stepped up beside her, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. “Thane and I will sweep the town,” Flynn continued. “Look for a mechanic shop, or anything that looks like it’s got salvageable parts. Circl’s still dead, so assume worst-case scenario if we’re not back in an hour.” A grumble from the crowd of civilians drew Thane’s attention. An older man stepped forward, sunken eyes flicking toward the horizon. “This place… it was bad before the war. Miners just started disappearing. Then one day, everyone left.” “Appreciate the optimism,” Flynn muttered, turning on her heel. “Hold the line.” She and Thane set off down the main street, their boots echoing on cracked pavement. The silence of Redglen closed around them like a coffin. “Think we’ll find anything useful?” Thane asked, eyes scanning the shattered storefronts. Flynn shrugged. “Depends on how generous the ghosts are feeling.” The first shop they passed was a grocery store, or what was left of one. The windows were shattered, the roof partially caved in, and the shelves inside had long since been stripped bare. Moldy cans and rusted shelving were all that remained. Flynn barely glanced at it. “Keep moving.” They pressed deeper into the town, past a row of collapsed homes and a rusting water tower that leaned at a dangerous angle. The heat bounced off the pavement in shimmering waves, and dust clung to every surface. It was dead quiet. Somewhere far off, a metal sign creaked in the wind. A crow called once and went silent. Thane adjusted the grip on his rifle. “Place feels wrong,” he muttered. Flynn didn’t argue. She just kept walking. Then came the sound—faint, but unmistakable. Scrraape Scrraape Scrraape Flynn halted, hand shooting up in a signal. Thane froze beside her. The sound was steady, metallic. Like someone dragging a tool across pavement. It was coming from an alley up ahead. Flynn crouched low and signaled for Thane to circle wide. He nodded and moved around the adjacent building, rifle at the ready, while Flynn crept closer to the edge of the alleyway. She peeked around the corner. An emaciated man stood with his back to her, shirtless, his skin sunburned and blistered. He was dragging a sledgehammer behind him—Scrraape—as he stumbled forward, muttering to himself. Flynn’s grip on her weapon tightened. “Got a live one.” The man turned, and Flynn immediately knew something was off. His eyes were wide, unblinking. His lips were cracked open in a bloody grin, and a crudely drawn symbol—a spiked circle—had been carved into his chest. He raised the hammer. Flynn didn’t hesitate. “Drop it!” The man didn’t. Thane appeared from the other side, leveling his rifle. “Sir, put the weapon—” The man lunged. Flynn fired once. The shot hit center mass, but he barely flinched. He swung the hammer wildly, catching Flynn with a glancing blow that sent her stumbling. “Darn it!” Flynn barked, firing again—this time into the leg. The man dropped, finally still, blood pooling beneath him. His breathing was shallow, but he was alive. Thane moved toward the man. “Who the heck was that?” “No idea,” Flynn said, stepping closer as well. “But he’s no Rean. Look at the carvings.” They stood over the body in tense silence. The man was still muttering, though now it was just a whisper. One word over and over again. “Phantoms… phantoms… phantoms…” Flynn and Thane exchanged a look. “Great,” Thane muttered. “The guy’s high out of his mind.” Flynn nodded grimly. “Let’s search him. Maybe he has something useful. Then we keep moving.” She crouched beside the shirtless man and gave him a once-over. His skin was red, streaked with dirt and old bruises, ribs showing through like scaffolding. His only possessions were a belt crudely fashioned from wire and an old satchel fashioned to one of the belt loops, frayed nearly to ribbons. She pulled the satchel free and opened it. Inside: a few crushed pills wrapped in stained paper, a cracked glass vial filled with amber liquid, and what looked like a child’s toy—an old wooden soldier with one leg missing. “Useless,” she muttered. Thane stood over them, arms crossed. “Nothing helpful?” “Not unless you want a broken doll and mystery drugs.” She tossed the satchel aside. The man kept mumbling. “Phantoms… phantoms… the eyes in the black… they see everything…” Flynn stood and brushed dust off her knees. “We keep moving. There has to be a mechanic’s shop down the road. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Thane nodded, but his eyes lingered on the man. He wasn’t trying to stop them. He wasn’t even aware of them anymore. Just a body barely clinging to a mind. They turned away. The muttering followed. “Phantoms… phantoms…” — Back at the bus, the mood had shifted from tired patience to simmering unrest. Dorn stood near the front, one hand resting on the hood, the other gripping his rifle like a lifeline. Sweat trickled down his temple. The midday sun had crested high, and with no shade, the heat was turning the metal shell of the vehicle into an oven. Rika paced nearby, sharp eyes scanning the horizon, hand never far from her sidearm. A few civilians sat on the cracked pavement under makeshift shade—blankets tied between the bus and a collapsed streetlight. Children cried softly. One of the older men coughed until he nearly collapsed. “They’re scared,” Dorn muttered. Rika shot him a look. “No kidding.” A younger soldier—Jase, barely twenty—approached. “They want to know what’s taking so long. Supplies are running low. No one wants to be here when the sun goes down.” Rika’s jaw tightened. “We’re not going anywhere without Thane and Flynn.” “What if they don’t come back?” Dorn stepped in before Rika could snap. “They will.” His voice was calm but firm. “They’ve been through worse.” From the edge of the group, a civilian woman stood up, holding her toddler against her hip. “We need to move. There’s nothing in this town but dust and ghosts. Redglen’s not safe.” “We’re not leaving the officers behind,” Rika snapped. “You want to walk? Be my guest. But you won’t make it far.” The woman backed down, but the unease remained. A few others murmured, casting glances toward the town. Even the children had gone quiet now, like they sensed something watching. Dorn stepped forward, raising his voice just enough to carry. “We’ve got eyes out. If anything moves, we’ll see it coming. But right now, the best thing you can do is sit tight and trust the people who got you this far.” He wasn’t sure they believed him. But they sat down. For now. — Thane and Flynn left the muttering man where he lay, still whispering to the sky, and moved deeper into Redglen. The town was too quiet. Even the wind seemed hesitant. Flynn had her rifle raised now. Thane followed with his own weapon at the ready, boots crunching glass and loose gravel. They moved in tandem down the main street—half the buildings were collapsed, and the rest looked one strong breeze away from joining them. Thane gestured ahead. “That used to be a diner,” he said quietly. “Could check it for water or tools.” Flynn shook her head. “Later. Priorities first, we find that fuel line, then we scavenge.” He sighed but didn’t argue. Every shadow felt too long. Every open window felt like an eye. They passed a rusted-out delivery truck, its back doors open and swinging in the breeze. Buzzards scattered from inside, shrieking into the sky. Something red dripped from the bumper. Then Flynn froze. She held up a fist, and Thane stopped in place. He didn’t ask what she saw. He just raised his rifle and waited. From somewhere up ahead—near the edge of a collapsed storefront—came a sound. Shuffling. Then… breathing. Not the snarling, wheezing rasp of a Rean. Something more human. They ducked behind a wrecked vehicle. Flynn peeked over the hood. “Three of them,” she said under her breath. “Shirtless. Dirty. Same look as the last guy.” Thane frowned. “Who the heck are these people? Some kind of cult?” Flynn nodded. “Drugged out probably. Not Rean. But not right, either.” The people were slow, their movements erratic. One of them held a rusted axe, dragging it behind him along the road like a child with a toy. They didn’t speak. Just twitched. Sniffed the air. One of them began scratching at his chest until blood ran down his abdomen. “What kind of junk are they on?” Thane whispered. “I don’t know,” Flynn said. “But they’re blocking the way.” One of them stopped walking. His head snapped toward them—fast and sudden like a crow jerking toward carrion. Then he hissed. A dry, animal sound. The others turned. And they charged. Flynn fired first—one clean shot that dropped the leader instantly. Thane followed up, hitting the second in the leg, sending him sprawling. The third kept coming. No fear. No hesitation. Thane stepped forward and cracked the butt of his rifle into the man’s jaw. Bone crunched. The man fell, groaning but still twitching. They waited, breathing hard, weapons raised. Nothing else came. Flynn scanned the buildings. “We need to move. Fast. They weren’t scavenging. They were watching.” “Watching for what?” Thane asked. Flynn didn’t answer. She just moved on. — Back at the bus, a faint breeze carried the dusty smell of the town’s decay. The civilians sat in small clusters, some talking in hushed tones, others staring off into the ruins like ghosts waiting to be claimed. Dorn sat on the hood of the bus, rifle across his lap, legs swinging lazily. Rika leaned against the side, arms crossed, helmet off, chewing the inside of her cheek as she scanned the horizon. “You ever think,” Dorn said, “what it’s like outside Alister?” Rika raised an eyebrow. “You mean like… Kalv?” “No. I mean outside. Beyond the war. Past the sea. Whole other countries.” She gave a humorless laugh. “You think about that now? After everything?” He shrugged. “We’re out here in this wreck, scraping for parts in some cursed little mining town, praying we don’t get overrun by Rean or starve to death. Meanwhile, somewhere out there, some rich bastard is sipping wine on a balcony. Never seen a trench. Never lost anyone.” Rika looked away. “You sound bitter.” “I am bitter,” Dorn muttered. “We fight for our lives every darn day. Lose people. Watch whole cities fall. And what’s it even for? Half the world probably doesn’t even remember Alister exists.” Rika was quiet for a moment. “I used to think we were the lucky ones,” she said finally. “That we had purpose. Something worth dying for.” “And now?” She didn’t answer. Dorn glanced down at the rifle in his hands. “I just hope whatever Thane and Flynn are looking for, they find it fast. I’m not ready to die in a town no one’s heard of.” “Too late for that,” Rika muttered. They sat in silence for a while. Just two soldiers in the dust, surrounded by scared civilians and a quiet that felt more like warning than peace. Then, somewhere in the ruins, a distant gunshot echoed. Dorn slid off the hood, eyes narrowing. “That wasn’t far.” Rika put her helmet back on. “Let’s hope that was ours.” Dorn stepped forward, rifle up, scanning the rooftops and alleyways. “Did you see that?” Rika joined him, sweeping her scope across the roof. “Thought I saw movement behind that chimney.” “Yeah…” Dorn’s voice trailed off as his gaze locked on a figure standing half-hidden between two crumbling buildings. Shirtless. Covered in grime. Just… watching. “Contact,” he muttered. Rika zeroed in. “Who is that?” “Not sure.” Then another shape shifted to their right—perched on a rusted balcony, head tilted like a curious bird. Then another, crouched in a burned-out window frame. The more they looked, the more they saw. Eyes. Dozens of them. Some wide and vacant, others twitching and erratic. All staring silently back at the bus and those around it. “They’re everywhere,” Rika whispered, hand tightening on her weapon. Dorn’s stomach turned. “No weapons. No screaming. Just standing there.” “Like they’re waiting.” A civilian noticed and let out a soft gasp, followed by nervous chatter spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Rika turned toward the other soldiers. “Everyone stay calm. Get the civilians inside the bus. Don’t fire unless they do.” Dorn stepped back slowly, eyes still locked on the watchers. “What the heck is this?” “I don’t know,” Rika said. “But I don’t like it.” A low, eerie chant floated on the wind—barely audible, but unmistakably human. Dorn couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Maybe all around. He glanced at Rika, voice low. “You think Thane and Flynn are seeing this too?” “I hope they’re moving fast,” she said. “Because something’s not right here.” — The mechanic’s shop sat at the far edge of town, partially collapsed on one side, with a faded sign that read Kellen’s Auto & Repairs swaying in the breeze. One of the garage bay doors was halfway open, stuck on a warped track, revealing a cluttered interior coated in dust and silence. Flynn approached cautiously, her rifle raised. “Let’s not assume it’s empty.” Thane crouched low and moved beside her. “If it is empty, it hasn’t been for long. There’s footprints in the dust.” Flynn nodded. “Keep your eyes open.” They pushed the door the rest of the way up with a groan of rusted metal. The inside smelled like old oil and rot. Broken tools littered the floor. A cracked workbench sat beneath a wall of hanging wrenches, most of which were missing. Several cars—burned out, rusting, or disassembled—lined the garage like skeletons. Rodents scattered as the light shifted. Something dripped steadily from a broken pipe overhead. “Lovely,” Thane muttered, stepping over an overturned tire jack. “You’d think a town like this would have one spare fuel line.” Flynn pointed toward a row of tall lockers in the back. “Start there. I’ll check the lift.” Thane moved to the lockers and pried one open. The door creaked loudly, echoing off the concrete. Inside, he found a stained jumpsuit, a half-empty water bottle, and a mangled wrench. “Nothing.” He opened another—this one held a busted radio, a few spark plugs, and what looked like a jar of jerky long since molded over. “Still nothing.” Flynn swept her flashlight beneath the lift and dragged out a cracked toolbox. She popped it open with her knife. “More rusted bolts. Who hoards broken bolts?” Thane chuckled dryly. “Same people who write Help Me on garage walls, I guess.” He gestured to a smear of faded red paint behind the workbench. They continued their search. Thane checked under the driver’s seat of a stripped-down utility van—just a mouse nest and the decaying remains of a glove. Flynn opened a cabinet against the far wall and found empty bottles of coolant and a broken oil filter. “Nothing but junk,” she muttered. Then she turned and spotted a tarp half-buried beneath stacked tires near the lift. Dust puffed up as she yanked it free. A dusty wooden crate sat underneath, half-hidden in shadow. “Here we go,” she started, crouching beside it. “What is it?” Thane asked, stepping closer. Flynn lifted the lid. Inside were several hoses, clamps, and what looked like a nearly intact fuel line assembly. She turned it in her hands, inspecting it from end to end, brushing off grime. “This could work.” Thane let out a low whistle. “Remind me to never doubt your luck again.” Flynn smirked. “Let’s just hope the bus is feeling cooperative.” Then a noise—a scraping, dragging sound—from somewhere behind them. Both froze. It came again. Thane spun toward the shop’s office door. The cracked glass in the upper pane had been smeared with something dark—oil or blood, he couldn’t tell. A shadow shifted behind it. Flynn handed the part over to Thane and raised her rifle again. “Get ready. We’re not alone.” Behind the door, another cult like person—but this one was different. Unlike the others, this one speaks—slowly, deliberately, and without the wild eyes or erratic behavior. He’s older, with pale, almost colorless eyes and ceremonial markings burned into his skin. He’s clearly drugged like the rest, but functional… aware. He’s not a mindless watchdog—he’s a leader: “You’re late,” he says. Thane stiffens. “What the heck does that mean?” The man smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “They’re already here. The phantoms. Walking through the walls of Wells. They see everything. They know you.” Flynn keeps her rifle trained. “What are these phantoms?” The man doesn’t answer directly. He just looks up through the cracked ceiling. “There’s no saving this place,” he whispers. “Redglen. Wells. All of it. You’ll see.” Flynn glances at Thane. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.” As they back out of the office, the man doesn’t follow—he just stands there, smiling. When they leave the garage and look back, he’s gone. The part was secured—clutched in Thane’s hands like some sacred artifact—but the unease didn’t leave him. If anything, it grew heavier the closer they got to the bus. Flynn walked beside him, rifle still raised, scanning every rooftop and alley they passed. “Feel that?” she muttered. “Yeah,” Thane said, not looking up. “Like we’re not alone.” Halfway down the street, a figure stood motionless. Shirtless, filthy, swaying just slightly in the wind. Another watcher. Then another appeared behind him. Then two more across the street. Silent. Staring. “Eyes up,” Flynn said through gritted teeth. “They’re not attacking. Yet.” Thane’s heart pounded as he realized the alley they had just passed now had someone in it. Then a rooftop. A shattered window. It was like Redglen had opened its eyes. “They’re everywhere…” Thane breathed. Flynn took a step forward, slow and steady. “We don’t run. We don’t show fear. We just walk.” “Easy for you to say,” Thane muttered, gripping the part tighter. “You’ve got the gun.” “Don’t make me say it again, Captain.” They started walking. The watchers didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched. By the time they saw the bus in the distance, the streets around them were filled with quiet shapes—some on porches, some behind cracked glass, some crouched on rooftops like gargoyles. All of them silent. All of them still. Thane didn’t breathe until he was close enough to see Dorn’s face peering out from behind the bus door. He waved once—hurry—then vanished back inside. Flynn and Thane broke into a jog. “They’re closing in,” Flynn muttered. Thane nodded, not looking back. Whatever was happening in Redglen… it wasn’t finished with them yet. Thane sprinted to the back of the bus, yanking open the rust-caked engine panel. Flynn followed, keeping her rifle trained on the shadowy figures slowly gathering in the street. They hadn’t moved in to attack—not yet—but they were getting closer. Thane worked fast, sliding the replacement part into place with shaking hands. “Come on, come on…" “How bad?” Flynn asked without turning. “Cables are cooked. I can bypass most of it, but if I mess this up, the whole thing might catch fire.” “Do it anyway.” He didn’t argue. With a final twist, the part locked into place. “Try it!” he shouted, slamming the panel shut and darting back around the bus. Inside, Rika turned the key. The engine stuttered. Choked. Then roared to life. A howl rang out somewhere behind them—low and broken, like it came from something not used to having lungs. Flynn and Thane dove aboard, slamming the doors shut as the cultists began to move. “Drive!” Flynn yelled. The bus groaned as it pulled away, tires crunching over gravel and broken glass. The watchers didn’t run. They followed. Slow at first. Then faster. Then they were gone—vanishing into the streets of Redglen like they’d never been there at all. Thane collapsed into a seat, panting. “What the heck was that?” Flynn didn’t answer right away. She watched the rear window as the town moved around them, jaw tight. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I’m starting to think Bloom wasn’t so bad.” Thane turned to look out the side window, eyes scanning the passing ruins of Redglen. Buildings blurred by, skeletal and silent. Then something caught his eye. A shape, standing half-shrouded in the doorway of a collapsed mining shack. It looked like a Rean—ashen skin, twisted frame, the unmistakable deadness in its face. But it wasn’t charging. Wasn’t screeching. It was just standing there. Watching them. And in its hands, it held a rifle. Thane blinked. Looked again. But the figure was gone. He sat back, swallowing hard. “Flynn…” “Yeah?” “Have the Rean ever used weapons?” Flynn frowned. “No. Why?” Thane hesitated. “No reason,” he lied. “Let’s…. Just keep going” Outside, the wind howled through the dead town of Redglen, carrying whispers too soft to understand.