The year is 880GD, six months after the bombs fell. The sun hung high over Bloom, casting waves of shimmering heat across the cracked asphalt streets. The town, once a quiet stop along the southern trade routes, had been transformed into a war zone. Military transports lined the main road, engines idling as desperate civilians rushed to board. The smell of sweat and scorched metal hung thick in the air. A child cried somewhere in the crowd. A mother clutched her toddler close as a soldier guided her up the ramp of a waiting dropship. Others weren’t as fortunate—old men and women, sickly and slow, struggled to keep up as they were herded toward the evacuation zone. Some carried bags stuffed with whatever belongings they could grab before the order to flee had come. Most had left everything behind. On the outskirts of town, Bloom’s once-bustling market stood in eerie silence. Stalls had been abandoned mid-sale, fruits left to rot in the sun. A toppled cart lay near the entrance of a general store, its contents scattered across the ground. The town had already been gutted—only its people remained. Beyond the perimeter, the land stretched into endless forest, dotted with patches of dry grass and low hills. Somewhere past the horizon, beyond sight but not beyond knowing, they were coming. Thane moved through the crowd, sweat dripping down his back beneath his body armor. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and a tired face that looked like it hadn’t seen sleep—or a mirror—in days. His dark hair was buzzed close to the scalp, already damp with sweat. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, untouched. He had barely fired a shot in weeks, and he preferred to keep it that way. “Move up! Stay together!” His voice strained over the noise. A group of civilians hesitated near a stopped transport, fear in their eyes. “Come on, now! Keep moving!” A woman grabbed his arm, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform. “My husband—he ran back to our house! He said he needed his medicine. Please, you have to make sure he gets back in time.” Thane’s gut twisted. He turned to Flynn, who stood a few steps away, barking orders at a squad of soldiers. She was tall and wiry, all edges and intensity, with a sun-scorched face and pale blond hair pulled back into a tight knot. Her armor looked almost too pristine, a testament to her dedication. “We stick to the plan, or we risk everything,” she snapped. A shrill scream tore through the air. Thane whipped around. A little girl, maybe six, had tripped near the edge of the street. Her mother was already climbing into a dropship, unaware. The girl pushed herself up, her hands scraped and bleeding, but she wasn’t crying. Just frozen. Staring at him. Sarah? The heat around him vanished. The street blurred. For a moment, he wasn’t in Bloom anymore—he was somewhere else, somewhere dark, the echoes of gunfire and a child’s last breath ringing in his ears— “Thane!” He blinked. Flynn’s voice. The girl was still there. Not Sarah. Not her. Thane exhaled sharply and sprinted forward. He reached the girl in seconds, skidding to a stop beside her. “Hey, you okay?” His voice was softer now, not the commanding bark he used with the others. The girl nodded hesitantly. Her scraped hands trembled. “Come on,” Thane said, lifting her carefully. She was light—too light. He carried her back toward the dropship as her mother spotted them, relief washing over her face. The woman nearly collapsed as she took her daughter into her arms. “Thank you, thank you—” Thane nodded but said nothing. He turned, only to meet Flynn’s sharp gaze. “Something wrong, Captain?” she asked, her voice level. Thane hesitated. His pulse was still racing. He forced himself to shake his head. “No, ma’am.” Flynn’s expression didn’t change. She had seen him freeze before and he knew it. The woman from before—the one who had grabbed him—was still standing there, her face tight with desperation. “Please, Captain. Just a few minutes. He needs help.” Thane clenched his jaw. He glanced toward Flynn. The unspoken answer was already in her eyes. “We’re on a schedule,” Flynn said. “You’ve got two minutes. Then we leave.” Thane looked back at the woman. Two minutes. Not enough time. But still, he hoped. Flynn watched as Thane jogged off toward the woman’s house. A waste of time. Two minutes wouldn’t change a thing, but if it kept him from freezing up when the real fight started, she’d allow it. She tapped her Circl, checking the evacuation status. The last civilian transport was at 85% capacity. They needed it airborne before the bombers arrived. A nearby corporal approached, his face tight with concern. “Ma’am, some civilians are refusing to leave their homes. They think they’ll be safer here.” Flynn barely suppressed a sigh. “Put out another announcement—mandatory evacuation. If they won’t listen, escort them.” The corporal hesitated. “And if they still won’t listen?” Flynn’s voice was flat. “Leave them.” The corporal swallowed hard but nodded. He knew better than to argue. Flynn moved through the street, scanning the thinning crowd. Most had already boarded the dropships, but a few stragglers remained. An old woman arguing with a soldier about leaving her cat. A man trying to carry too many bags. A child clinging to a broken toy, crying for a mother who wasn’t there. Flynn exhaled sharply. She’d seen this too many times before. People always thought they had more time than they did. She checked her Circl. Seven minutes had passed. Her gaze snapped to the rooftops. A flock of birds scattered from the treetops beyond the town’s edge, disturbed by something unseen. She turned back toward the house. “Thane, your time’s up.” — Sergeant Hallow crouched low behind a fallen tree, Circl strapped tight to his arm as he tracked the movement ahead. The rean were coming in slow, following the usual patterns—staggering, shuffling, drawn forward by distant noise or movement. Through the haze, Hallow could see that many of the creatures still wore tattered Kalv uniforms, the dark green and gray shredded but unmistakable in the daylight. Some even clutched rusted rifles, dragging them uselessly through the dirt. Corporal Vance swore under his breath beside him. “Dead jerks are still marching,” he muttered. Another soldier, Reed, crossed himself. “They don’t even know the war’s over,” he said, voice low and shaken. Hallow didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just tightened his grip on his rifle and kept his eyes forward. His team had been keeping the horde at a manageable distance, using small distractions—flare rounds, distant gunfire, anything to keep them from surging too quickly toward Bloom. But the sight of enemy soldiers, dead and rotting, still advancing like they had never fallen… it rattled something deep in him. But something had changed. Hallow’s second-in-command, a scout named Oren, slid in beside him. His voice was hushed but tense. “We’ve got a problem.” Hallow already knew. The forest had gone quiet, save for the distant groans and shuffling footsteps that were growing heavier. He adjusted his binoculars, sweeping over the treeline. Then he saw it. The Rean weren’t just advancing anymore. They were growing in numbers—fast. A second horde had emerged from the northern valley, silent until now, blending into the first group seamlessly. Hallow clenched his jaw. “Shoot.” “How the heck did we miss an entire group?” Oren muttered. “They must’ve been dormant,” Hallow said. “Something woke them up.” Dormant Rean were unpredictable. Sometimes they stood in place for days, unmoving until triggered by sound, scent, or some unknown instinct. If another horde moved close enough, the reaction could be immediate. And now, that reaction was happening right in front of them. “We need to move,” Hallow said, activating his Circl. “Colonel, this is Outpost Echo. We have a situation. The horde just doubled in size.” A brief pause, then Flynn’s voice came through, sharp and controlled. “Confirm that.” Hallow kept his eyes on the growing mass. More bodies shifting in the trees. More heads snapping toward the direction of Bloom. The pace was changing. “Confirmed.” A beat of silence. Then Flynn’s voice again—colder this time. “Try and slow them down as best you can. The last of the evacuees are boarding now.” — Thane pushed through the door, his pulse hammering. The house smelled of dust and stale air, as if it had already been abandoned for weeks. Sunlight cut through the half-closed blinds, casting long slashes of gold across the floor. “Hello?” he called, stepping forward carefully. The silence inside felt wrong. Outside, the world was chaos—shouting, engines roaring, the distant thump of gunfire. But here, it was still. Too still. He moved through the main room, past a couch with cushions askew, a coffee table littered with empty ration packets. The kitchen drawers hung open, their contents spilled across the counter. Thane’s hand hovered near the rifle on his back, fingers twitching. He hated the weight of it, but something about this felt off. Then—a sound. A slow, dragging shuffle. His breath hitched. He turned toward the hallway, muscles tensing. A door at the end stood ajar, shadows pooling beyond it. Something shifted inside. Thane took a step closer, fingers grazing the rifle’s grip. “Hello?” he called again, voice low. A figure lurched into view, and for a split second, Thane’s stomach clenched. Pale skin. Shaky movements. Bloodshot eyes. But then the man gasped, clutching something tight to his chest. A small medical pouch. “I found it,” He wheezed, bracing himself against the doorway. Sweat slicked his forehead, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “Let’s go.” Thane exhaled, nodding. “Come on.” They moved quickly. Thane led the way, his boots scraping over tile as they neared the front door. He was reaching for the handle when his Circl buzzed. “Thane, get back now,” Flynn’s voice snapped through the speaker. Something about the way she said it made Thane’s hand freeze. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t annoyance. It was fear. The air felt heavy. There was controlled chaos outside but inside the silence pressed against the walls like a held breath. Somewhere, far off, there was a sound—a wet shuffle, a distant metallic clatter—but it was hard to tell what was real anymore. He backed away from the door without thinking, a knot tightening in his gut. — Hallow watched from his position, gripping his rifle so tightly his knuckles turned white. The others in his squad were shifting uneasily, fingers hovering near triggers. “Steady,” he murmured over the Circl. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen them up close, but it never got easier. What was left of them. Torn Kalv uniforms, civilian clothes in tatters, faces warped by infectious tumors. Their eyes—if they still had them—were empty. But this wasn’t what worried him. The horde wasn’t shambling like the usual packs they’d encountered. They moved with eerie coordination, not like individuals but a singular entity, rolling forward without hesitation. And there were so many. “This isn’t just the one group we were tracking now,” Oren whispered. “There’s more. A lot more. We can’t hold them.” Hallow clenched his jaw. The reports said the Rean had some instincts left. That was how they followed sound, how they hunted. But this? This looked like they had direction. His Circl buzzed—Flynn requesting a status update. He hesitated a half-second before responding. “Horde has reached Bloom’s perimeter. We’re pulling back.” A response came through almost immediately. “Negative. Maintain suppression.” Hallow stared at the Circl. “Sir?” Oren’s voice was tight. More Rean spilled from the trees. Their bodies twisted unnaturally, movements erratic but deliberate. Hallow didn’t have time to argue with Flynn. “Light them up,” he ordered. The first shots rang out. Flames erupted along the tree line. The underbrush caught, fire crackling hungrily up the branches. And the Rean did not stop. They surged forward, moving faster now, driven by some unseen force. Oren swore. “They don’t even feel it.” Hallow’s head snapped toward town—toward the evacuation site. The Rean weren’t stopping. They were heading straight for the civilians. Hallow didn’t waste another second. “Fall back. Get to Bloom, now.” — Thane barely made it back before the engines roared to life. The drop ship trembled beneath his boots as he ran up the ramp, dragging the man behind him. The moment they were inside, Flynn barked the order. “Go! Now!” The engines flared. Soldiers pulled the ramp shut, sealing them in. Outside, the dust and heat churned as the ship lifted, the town of Bloom shrinking beneath them. Thane exhaled hard, pressing a hand to his chest. The inside of the drop ship was packed—civilians huddled together, wide-eyed and silent, the tension thick as smoke. Children clung to their parents. A woman whispered prayers under her breath. Flynn stood near the cockpit, speaking into her Circl. “Last ship airborne. ETA to Stonewall, twenty minutes.” Thane slumped against the bulkhead. His muscles ached, sweat dripping down his temple. The husband joined his wife, clutching the small bottle of pills like it was the most valuable thing in the world. He hadn’t said a word since they’d boarded. Thane wanted to say something—to tell him it was going to be okay. But before he could, the Circl on Flynn’s wrist crackled. A voice came through, sharp and panicked. “The Rean have broken through. They’re headed your way!” The transmission cut out. The gunfire grew louder, closer. Thane turned, staring out the small viewport. Dark shapes flooded the streets of Bloom. Moving fast. Too fast. Then—impact. The whole ship shuddered as something slammed into the hull. Then another. The Rean were jumping. Hundreds, maybe thousands, hurling themselves at the ship. Clawing at the metal, piling onto each other, forming a writhing mass of dead flesh desperately trying to pull them down. The ship bucked. The engines strained. “Hold on!” Flynn shouted Then—the left engine blew. The explosion rocked the entire dropship. Thane barely had time to brace before the left engine detonated in a blinding burst of fire and shrapnel. The force ripped through the cabin, sending civilians screaming as the ship lurched sideways. Flynn’s voice cut through the chaos. “We’re going down! Brace! Brace!” The dropship spun. The world outside the viewport tilted violently—sky, ground, sky, ground—before the second engine sputtered out. Gravity seized them. A deafening howl of wind and screeching metal filled the cabin as the dropship plummeted. Thane grabbed onto the nearest seat, holding tight as bodies slammed against the walls. A woman’s scream was cut short as she was yanked from her seat and thrown against the bulkhead. Sparks erupted from the ceiling. A child wailed. Thane saw the ground rushing up to meet them. The ship slammed into the ground like a fist hitting stone. The sound of crushing metal, shattering glass, and rupturing fuel lines erupted as the entire hull crumpled. The force whipped Thane forward. His head cracked against something hard. For a moment, there was only silence. Then came the groaning of metal. Thane’s vision blurred as he forced his eyes open. His whole body ached. Blood trickled down his forehead. Smoke choked the air. The ship had landed on its side, half-buried in the dirt. Fires flickered along the ruptured hull, the smell of burning fuel was thick. Someone was moaning. A child was crying. Flynn’s voice—sharp and urgent—cut through the haze. “Status check! Who’s alive? Speak up!” Thane tried to move. Pain lanced through his ribs, but he pushed himself up anyway. Smoke. Heat. The stink of burning fuel. Thane’s breath came in short gasps as he pushed himself onto his elbows. His ribs screamed in protest, a sharp, deep ache that made it hard to breathe. Around him, the wreckage of the dropship groaned, settling into its grave of twisted metal and broken bodies. Someone coughed. Scattered voices responded, weak, disoriented. A child’s wail cut through the smoke. Thane turned his head, his vision swimming. The interior was barely lit—emergency strips flickering along the walls, casting erratic shadows over the crumpled bodies of soldiers and civilians. The ship had come down hard, but it had held together. That meant they were lucky. Luckier than they should’ve been. Thane twisted, fighting the pain in his ribs, and saw the cockpit. Or what was left of it. The nose of the dropship had caved in, metal curled like melted wax. The pilot slumped forward, helmet cracked, blood trailing down his visor. Thane crawled forward, hands shaking. He reached out—checked for a pulse. Nothing. “Darn it,” he muttered. The Circl on his wrist flickered, struggling to connect. He could hear voices crackling in the static, but nothing clear. He turned back toward the survivors. Flynn had already forced herself to her feet. Blood ran down the side of her face, but she was moving. She grabbed the nearest soldier—a corporal named Dorn—and shook him. “We need to get out of here, now.” Dorn swayed, groggy but breathing. Around them, civilians were stirring. A mother clutched her son, rocking him as she whispered assurances he probably didn’t believe. Flynn pressed her Circl, flipping through channels until she found the one she wanted. The static cleared. “Stonewall, this is Colonel Flynn. Dropship is down. Survivors on board. Requesting immediate extraction.” The response came a second later, harsh and urgent. “Colonel, the bombers are seconds away. You need to find cover, now.” Thane’s stomach dropped, “Oh, heck.” The realization hit all at once. The Rean were right outside, closing in. The dropship had crashed in the worst possible place—a shallow depression just outside the evacuation zone. No high ground, no clear escape routes. And now, fire was coming. The pilot’s voice cut in over the Circl. “Colonel, I need orders. Do I proceed with the drop?” There was hesitation there, uncertainty. Even though scorchers weren’t explosive, they would consume everything in an instant. Flynn didn’t hesitate. “Stay the course.” A pause. Then—“Copy that.” Thane’s chest tightened. They were going to be incinerated. Flynn turned to him, her expression unreadable. “Find cover.” “Where?” Thane gestured around them. “We’re in a wrecked ship surrounded by Rean, Flynn. There’s no cover.” “This is the best we got.” She was already moving, grabbing a stunned civilian by the arm and hauling them toward the intact section of the dropship. “It’s thick enough to give us a chance.” The civilians were moving now, some on their feet, some being dragged by the stronger soldiers. A man limped forward, clutching a bloody leg, his wife supporting him. The child still wailed. Thane grabbed an older man—his arm was bent at an unnatural angle, but he was alive—and helped him toward the others. Above them, the sky roared. The bombers were here. Thane looked up, past the torn hull of the dropship. They were flying low and fast. The sun glinted off their metal underbellies as the payload doors slid open. “Move!” Flynn shouted. Thane shoved the old man forward and threw himself deeper in the fuselage just as the first scorcher pod hit the ground. For half a second, nothing happened. Then hell erupted. Flames raced across the landscape, swallowing everything. The heat slammed into the dropship’s shell, turning metal red-hot. The force of the firestorm rattled through the wreckage, filling the cabin with a deafening roar. Thane hit the ground and covered his head as heat washed over them. People screamed. A soldier’s armor melted against his skin, and he collapsed, writhing. A woman near the open part of the hull burst into flames, her clothes igniting before she could move. She stumbled backward, fell, and never got up. Outside, the world was nothing but fire. The Rean kept shuffling as the flames engulfed them, their bodies burned, blackening. But they didn’t die like normal things. They burned, but they kept coming. They didn’t stop. Didn’t scream like people. They just kept moving, dragging themselves through the inferno, flesh melting from their bones. Some collapsed, their bodies turning to ash. Others—the stronger ones—pushed forward. Thane’s heart pounded. This wasn’t enough. The fire wasn’t enough. The Circl on Flynn’s arm crackled. “Colonel, we’re sending another dropship. ETA five minutes.” Thane looked at Flynn. She met his gaze, understanding the unspoken question. Could they survive five minutes? Five minutes had come and gone and the storm of fire had passed, leaving nothing but scorched ground and smoldering corpses. Smoke curled from the blackened wreckage of the dropship, its metal shell glowing dull red in the dying heat. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burned flesh—Rean flesh. Thane forced himself to move. Every muscle in his body screamed as he uncurled from where he had taken cover, his uniform damp with sweat, his skin hot to the touch. The world outside was painted in ash and ruin. He coughed, blinking against the haze. A groan came from his right. He turned and saw a soldier, Dorn, struggling to push himself up, his hands trembling against the scorched floor. His armor was warped from the heat, his face streaked with soot and blood. Flynn was already on her feet. She was checking bodies. The ones that had made it to the thicker part of the ship and the ones that hadn’t. A pile of charred remains lay near the openings—civilians and soldiers alike who hadn’t made it in time. Their bodies were little more than twisted skeletons fused to the metal. Thane swallowed hard and turned away. The mother and child were alive. They were huddled together, shaking, but breathing. The old man he had helped earlier sat with his back against the wall, dazed but conscious. A handful of others stirred, coughing, groaning. Flynn activated her Circl. “Stonewall, this is Colonel Flynn. Where’s that dropship?” Static. She tried again. “Stonewall, do you read?” Nothing. Flynn’s jaw tightened. She adjusted the signal, flipped through different channels. The Circl gave her nothing but dead air. She exhaled slowly, then turned to the survivors. “Get up.” Her voice was firm, but not unkind. “We can’t stay in this wreck.” The civilians hesitated, looking at each other, then at the wreckage. The crash. The fire. The dead. They weren’t ready. But there was no time to not be ready. Flynn stepped closer, eyes sharp. “Get. Up.” This time, they listened. Thane helped the old man to his feet. Dorn pulled a wounded soldier up by the arm. Flynn gathered the rest, moving quickly through the cabin. As they stepped outside, the full devastation of the scorcher strike hit them. Where once there had been streets and homes, shops and alleyways, there was only ruin. The flames had wiped the town from existence. All that remained was charcoal and melted debris, broken bones and lingering smoke. And the Rean. Hundreds of burned corpses littered the ground, their bodies curled in unnatural ways, their flesh cracked and blackened. Some were still smoldering, faint wisps of smoke rising from their husks. The scorcher pods had done what bullets couldn’t. The Rean were dead. Truly dead. He exhaled, slow and shaky. They had a chance. Flynn surveyed the destruction, her face unreadable. She lifted her Circl, trying again. “Stonewall, this is Colonel Flynn. We need immediate extraction. Do you copy?” Nothing. She clenched her jaw. “We stay put,” she said finally. “Rescue will come.” Thane looked up at her, then at the others. They were exhausted, battered, barely standing. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken doubt. Rescue wasn’t coming. But no one challenged her. With one last look at the graveyard that had once been Bloom, they settled in to wait.

They’d moved into the church. The roof was cracked open and the stained-glass windows shattered, but it was the only structure left in Bloom with four standing walls and a place to gather. Now it was a shelter, a clinic, a mess hall, and a holding pen for whatever hope people still had left. Maxton Thane sat on the back steps, helmet off, sweating through his undershirt in the unrelenting heat. His rifle leaned against the railing. It hadn’t left his side in two days. Flynn was inside with the civvies, doing her best to keep order. She still wore her full uniform—cleaned, pressed, every button secured like it mattered. Like any of this still mattered. Thane ran a hand down his face and looked out at the ruins. Bloom was dust and cinders. The Rean hadn’t come back, but the flies had. The smell of scorched meat still clung to the breeze, and people were starting to whisper about what came next. The Circl was still down. No messages. No orders. No updates. The evac ship was gone, and the ships that had taken the first waves of civilians hadn’t returned. No one knew what was happening outside Bloom. No one even knew if the war was still happening. Footsteps approached. He didn’t have to look. “You’re still sitting out here,” Flynn said. “You’re still pretending this place isn’t done.” She stepped into his peripheral vision, arms crossed. “We wait for orders. That’s the protocol.” “The protocol got half our squad killed.” Flynn flinched, just slightly. Thane stood up, dusting off the back of his pants. “Look around, Colonel. These people have nothing. No homes, no food, no transport, and no comms. They’re looking at us like we have a plan.” “We do have a plan. We hold position until command reestablishes contact.” He scoffed. “That’s not a plan. That’s a prayer.” She stepped closer, voice low. “And you think wandering into the Wastes is better?” He met her gaze. “I think staying here waiting to die is worse.” They stared at each other, both too tired to yell. The back door opened behind them, and a girl stepped out—maybe ten, maybe younger. She clutched a plastic canteen in both hands. “Captain Thane?” she asked softly. He turned to her. “Yeah?” “Is it true you used to live in Stonewall?” Thane hesitated, then nodded. The girl looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. “Do you think we’ll get to go there?” He didn’t answer. The girl's mother called and Thane watched as she retreated back inside, canteen still clutched tight. Flynn didn’t say another word. She just went back to the people—her people, now—and Thane stood there a moment longer, listening to the wind whistle through Bloom’s broken bones. He finally stepped inside the church. The makeshift shelter smelled of sweat, ash, and old wood. A few candles burned near the altar, and someone had hung bedsheets between the pews for privacy. A pair of unfamiliar voices carried from the far side of the room, low and accented. Not from around here. Thane narrowed his eyes. Two men stood by the shattered stained-glass window. One was older, cloaked in flowing earth-tone robes that looked far too clean for this place. His hair was a shock of white tied back into a neat knot, and he spoke with a rich, rolling accent that didn’t belong to Alister. “…I’m telling you, Liam, it was a Vesper Lynx 720, maybe older. No one from here would be driving that unless it had meaning.” His companion—early twenties, maybe—shifted nervously. He had sharp features and a mop of blonde hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in days. His coat was too big for him, borrowed or salvaged, and his eyes—wide, alert—kept scanning the room like he expected trouble to round the corner any second. There was something about him—too clean, too hopeful—that didn’t belong in a place like this. “Will you keep your voice down? Someone could be listening.” “What? We’re just a couple of guys talking about cars.” The older man smiled faintly, though his eyes never softened. “What’s the harm in that?” Thane cleared his throat. The younger man—Liam—straightened instantly. The elder turned, unbothered. “Captain Thane,” Liam said quickly, offering a nod. “Sorry. We didn’t mean to cause concern.” Thane folded his arms. “I don’t recognize either of you.” “We came in with the last evac wave,” Liam offered. “From the north end. Found the church yesterday morning.” The elder man gave a formal bow. “High Priest Elijah Stone. From Eldridge.” Thane raised a brow. “That’s a long way from home.” “Too long,” Elijah agreed. “But Alister is my home now.” “You looking for someone?” Elijah’s smile returned, but thinner this time. “Everyone’s looking for someone, Captain.” Thane didn’t like the way that sounded. But he didn’t have the time or energy to press. Not today. “Just stay out of trouble,” he said, turning away. “We’ve got enough of that already.” “Yes,” Elijah murmured. “I imagine you do.” In the early hours of the next morning, the first rays of light just starting to shine, Thane sat by the shattered doorway, elbows on knees, staring into the darkness. The silence was heavy, the kind that wrapped around your lungs and made it hard to breathe. Flynn was already up somewhere, probably sharpening her conviction like a blade. Then he heard it—soft at first, like wind sliding through ruins. But it wasn’t wind. A low, wet hiss. The kind of sound he’d only heard once before: pressure being released. Liquid flowing. Thane stood up slowly, eyes narrowing as he scanned the night. Somewhere close—too close—something was leaking. He grabbed his rifle, slung his Circl across his arm even though it was still dead, and stepped out into the street without a word. The further he walked, the stronger the smell got—sharp, synthetic, unmistakable. Turbo fuel. The good kind, the dangerous kind. His boots crunched over broken glass and scattered gravel as he turned a corner and froze. There it was. A Talenstar fuel hauler lay on its side, its massive tank cracked open like a crushed tin can. Steel groaned as it settled against a collapsed wall, and thick rivulets of neon-blue fuel poured from the breach, running downhill toward the lower blocks of Bloom—toward the church. Thane swallowed hard. The leaking fluid shimmered under the moonlight, beautiful and deadly, coating the cracked pavement like paint on a bomb. He took a cautious step closer. Heat radiated off the metal. One wrong move, one spark, and— No. He couldn’t let that happen. He backed away quickly, retreating behind a rusted-out vehicle and pulling a rag from his belt to cover his mouth. The fumes were already starting to burn in his chest. He needed to get back. He needed Flynn. But then something shifted behind the tanker. Thane dropped to a crouch. He heard it—shuffling. Deliberate. Not the wind. Not debris. Someone—or something—was moving. He gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip on the rifle. If the Rean were here, and they slipped through the cracks… He glanced at the fuel again. Still pouring. Time wasn’t on his side. Thane’s pulse quickened as he peered around the rusted vehicle, eyes locking onto the source of the movement. Emerging from the shadows behind the toppled tanker were two figures—Rean, probably Kalv soldiers. Their form, charred and smoldering. Their armor was fused to their flesh, and their bodies emitted a faint, eerie glow, like embers clinging to life after a fire’s rage. The Rean moved with a slow, deliberate gait, their eyes vacant yet somehow aware. Each step they took left behind faint scorch marks on the pavement, the residual heat from their bodies igniting small wisps of smoke. The air around them shimmered, distorted by the intense heat they radiated. Thane tightened his grip on his rifle, beads of sweat forming on his brow—not solely from fear, but from the oppressive heat emanating from the Rean. He knew that engaging them here was a perilous gamble; a single stray shot or sudden movement could ignite the volatile fuel, spelling doom for everyone in the church. He weighed his options, the seconds stretching into an eternity. Retreating to the church to rally support risked losing sight of the Rean and leaving the tanker unguarded. Confronting them alone was equally treacherous. Yet, the thought of these incendiary figures advancing toward the church, toward the unsuspecting survivors, was untenable. Drawing a slow, steadying breath, Thane made his decision. He would need to divert the Rean away from the tanker and the fuel spill, leading them to a location where their combustion wouldn’t spell disaster for the entire encampment. It was a dangerous gambit, but one he was willing to take. With deliberate care, he reached down, picking up a small piece of debris. He hurled it toward a nearby alleyway, the clatter echoing through the night. The Rean’s heads snapped toward the sound, their movements jerky yet purposeful. They began to shuffle in the direction of the noise, drawn away from the precarious scene. Thane waited until they were a safe distance from the fuel spill before he began to move, shadowing them from a distance, ensuring they didn’t double back. His mind raced with plans to neutralize the threat they posed without igniting a catastrophe. The night was far from over, and the line between survival and annihilation was razor-thin. Thane crept through the alley, keeping low, eyes locked on the two glowing Rean ahead. Their skin pulsed like hot coals, still smoldering from the scorcher blast—yet somehow alive. Barely. Their movements were sluggish but deliberate, dragging molten limbs along cracked pavement. He tightened his grip on the rifle. Just keep them moving away from the tanker. Keep them moving away from the— The ground shuddered beneath his boots. A low rumble rolled through the alley. “What the hell—?” He turned just in time to see one of the buildings behind him groan and buckle. Cracks split the scorched concrete. Windows blew outward in a hail of glass. Then—collapse. The building caved in with a thunderous roar, and a wall of dust and smoke exploded down the alley. Thane ducked, coughing as ash rained down over him. When it finally settled, his way back was gone—buried under a mound of debris and shattered stone. “Perfect,” he muttered. He looked ahead. The two Rean had stopped. They stood at the far end of the alley, not moving—but not shambling anymore either. One turned slightly, its eyes fixed on the fresh wreckage behind him. The other twitched its head like it was listening. For a moment, none of them moved. One of the Rean let out a slow, guttural hiss and started walking again, the other followed. Thane had no choice. He couldn’t go back. He exhaled through gritted teeth and followed the Rean into the destruction that was once Bloom. The streets beyond the alley were barely recognizable. Bloom had been bombed, burned, and left to rot, and it showed. Buildings stood at crooked angles, windows shattered, storefronts buried beneath rubble. A rusted delivery van lay flipped in the middle of the road, wheels spinning in the breeze like it had only just crashed. But there was no one left to scream. The Rean were gone now—swallowed by the maze of Bloom. He didn’t care. He wasn’t following them anymore. He just needed a way back. But even that wasn’t so simple. The further he walked, the more unstable the ground felt. Beneath the concrete, the scorcher strike had cracked the foundations. Water mains had ruptured and dried. Gas lines exposed. The whole district felt ready to fall in on itself. Thane ducked beneath a fallen streetlight and stepped into what used to be a small plaza. A dried-up fountain stood in the center, spray-painted with messages begging for rescue that never came. Around it were signs of recent movement—footprints, maybe. But no people. He adjusted the strap on his rifle. The heat was rising. The fuel tanker was still leaking, somewhere behind him, and if it ignited… He picked up the pace, rounded a corner and nearly tripped over her. She was slumped against a crumbling wall, barely visible in the shadow of a half-collapsed awning. Her clothes were all wrong for the heat—a thick hoodie with the hood pulled tight, oversized sunglasses, and a surgical mask that clung to her face with sweat. One sleeve was missing entirely, the other pinned up with a rusted clasp. What was left of her arm was wrapped in dirty gauze, the bleeding slowed but not stopped. She flinched at the sight of him. Tried to stand but failed. “Hey—” Thane moved toward her. “Back off.” Her voice was raw, dry. She didn’t look up. “Don’t come near me.” He raised both hands. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” “Good. Then go.” There was blood on the ground beneath her. Not fresh, but not old either. A trail led to where she’d collapsed, and Thane could see now—she’d crawled here. Dragged herself through the ruins to die in peace, or hide from something worse. “I’m with the military,” he said gently. “We’ve got shelter. Medicine.” She turned her head slightly, just enough for the light to catch her glasses. “Don’t care. Not going with you.” Her voice was trembling. Not just from pain. From fear. Thane hesitated. She wasn’t infected—at least not visibly. But the way she kept herself hidden, the way she refused help… there was something else going on. “I can’t leave you here,” he said. “You can. And you will.” She started coughing. Each breath was a fight. “You don’t know who I am.” He crouched a few steps away, trying not to spook her further. “No. But maybe you should tell me.” She didn’t answer. Just pulled her hood lower and turned her face to the wall. Thane edged closer, slow and steady. “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything. But if you stay out here, you’re going to bleed out or get yourself killed. Let me help you.” “I told you no.” She shifted suddenly—too fast for someone in her condition. He lunged forward to stop her, but she was already scrambling to her feet, using the wall for support. Her movements were clumsy but determined. “Wait!” She took off down the alley, limping hard, using her one good arm to brace against the ruins. Thane chased after her, but the moment he rounded the corner, he stumbled. The scorchers had weakened more than just the building he’d seen earlier. The cracked pavement gave way beneath his boots, one leg plunging into a jagged hole lined with exposed piping. He hit hard, teeth clenching against the pain. By the time he pulled himself free and scrambled back to his feet, she was gone. He stood there, breathing hard, staring into the maze of crumbling streets. Nothing. Just the wind. And the heat. And the faint trail of blood already drying on the stone. She was gone. Thane stood there for a moment longer, catching his breath. His leg ached, scraped and bruised, but nothing felt broken. He pressed his hand to the wall and took one last glance down the alley. Then he moved on. The city opened up into a sun-scorched intersection where the wind carried the scent of fuel and ash. Ahead, half-buried beneath a fallen streetlight and a few sagging power lines, sat a bus—still upright, surprisingly intact. Thane jogged over, squinting through the dusty windows. The inside was a mess: torn seats, scattered debris, a cracked windshield—but nothing fatal. The tires looked serviceable. The engine… well, he’d have to check, but his gut told him it wasn’t dead. He climbed aboard and dropped into the driver’s seat. A few flicks of switches, a hesitant turn of the key—then a cough, a sputter, and a low mechanical growl. It was running. He sat there for a second, letting the vibration hum through the floorboards. A slow grin formed. This changed everything. Now they had a way out. A real way out. No more excuses. No more standing still. He leaned back in the seat, already picturing Flynn’s reaction. No more waiting for orders that weren’t coming. Thane had just started his slow return, weaving the bus through cracked streets and half-toppled signs, when a low rumble echoed from the distance. At first, he thought it was another building collapsing. But the sound sharpened—engines. Several of them. Fast. He brought the bus to a halt at the edge of an overpass and leaned forward, eyes narrowing. Below, a convoy of black assault trucks tore down the main road, tires screaming against broken pavement. Sleek, armored, and unmistakable—each vehicle bore the sharp silver Talenstar emblem stamped boldly on the side. Eight of them. Maybe more. None of them slowed. None acknowledged him. They sped past without hesitation, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. A blur of tinted windows and turret mounts. Thane watched them disappear into the city, heart thudding in his chest. He stayed still for a long moment. Then he gunned the engine, cutting corners, bouncing over curbs. His knuckles white on the wheel. When the steeple finally came into view, so did the truck—parked right out front. Different make, different build. It was a hunk of junk, honestly. The engine was off. Dust still clung to the tires. He recognized the markings. It was a freight hauler. Thane slammed the brakes, stepped out, and jogged up the cracked stairs. Inside, the church was dim. Stained glass filtered sunlight in slivers of crimson and gold. Flynn stood by the pulpit, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Across from her, two soldiers stood at parade rest—young, clean, and carrying themselves like messengers more than warriors. Thane’s boots echoed as he approached. Flynn didn’t turn. “You finally decide to come back?” she muttered. “Fuel tanker. Scorcher-damaged Rean. Collapsing buildings.” Thane’s voice was low. “It was a long morning. Did I miss anything?” Flynn nodded toward the two soldiers waiting near the altar. “Only Dalmore’s version of a rescue mission.” One of them cleared his throat. “We’ve been sent to deliver new orders.” Thane stepped beside Flynn. “Let’s hear them.” “Evacuate Bloom. Immediately. All civilians are to make for Dalmore.” Flynn frowned. “Dalmore? We're supposed to be evacuating to Stonewall.” the soldier replied. “Change in route. New intel.” Thane narrowed his eyes. “What kind of intel?” The second soldier hesitated. “Stonewall was hit. Hard. Rean breach. We don’t know if anyone survived.” Flynn went rigid. “What? How did this happen?” “No ships?” Thane asked. “No, sir. Nothing available.” “Escort?” “Negative. Our orders are to return immediately. You’re on your own.” Flynn stared at the floor, jaw tight. “We’ve got injured. No transports. No Circl. No supply lines. And you want us to march through rean territory seven hundred miles to Dalmore?” The soldier didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Thane glanced toward the shattered windows. “You might want to get going then if you're no further help to us.” The soldiers gave a stiff, uncomfortable nod, turned, and left. Flynn didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Thane watched the church doors swing shut behind the two soldiers. Dust motes spiraled in the stained light. The air still hummed with their message, but no one moved. “They’re not coming,” Flynn said softly. “Dalmore sent a message, not a rescue.” Thane took a breath, then gestured toward the exit. “I found a bus. It runs. Needs a little coaxing, but it’s better than walking.” Flynn finally turned to face him. Her eyes scanned his face. “A bus?” “School type. Looks rough, but the engine held together. Enough room for everyone left. We load what we can, keep it light. Supplies, wounded, people who can’t move fast—we take them first.” Flynn exhaled. Her posture loosened. “Where were you?” “Few blocks west. Had to circle when a building came down. Rean were in the area—some kind of scorcher survivors. Glowing like embers. I got clear, but—” “Scorcher survivors?” Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “You serious?” “Yeah,” Thane said. “And that’s not even the worst part.” He glanced around the church, then lowered his voice. “There’s a crashed Talenstar tanker a few blocks out. Big one. Turbo-fuel. Tank’s cracked and leaking—fuel’s just pouring out. If it ignites, this whole place will go up.” Flynn’s expression hardened. “How long do we have?” she asked. Thane shrugged. “Could be minutes. Could be hours. Depends on the wind, heat… dumb luck.” That was enough. Flynn clapped her hands, her voice cutting through the hall like a whip. “Alright, listen up! Everyone who can walk, start packing. Any gear, any food, any medical. We’re moving out!” A handful of soldiers snapped into action. Civilians stirred from their makeshift shelters, wide-eyed and confused. An older woman grabbed a child’s hand. A wounded man tried to sit up. Elijah Stone emerged from the back hall, Liam Bright a few steps behind. The high priest’s flowing robes were out of place among the ash and grime, but his voice carried with unshaken calm. “What’s happening?” he asked. Flynn didn’t slow down. “Evacuation. We have a bus. It’s not safe here.” Thane approached them. “Elijah, you and Liam need to come with us. There’s a fuel tanker nearby—if it blows, no one’s walking away from this place.” Elijah’s gaze didn’t flinch. “We are grateful, Captain. Truly. But we must decline.” Thane blinked. “Decline?” “We still have work to do here,” Elijah said, glancing at Liam, who gave a small nod. “There is someone in Bloom we must find. We cannot leave until we do.” “You don’t even know if they’re alive.” “We have faith,” Elijah replied. “Faith doesn’t survive an explosion,” Thane snapped, louder than intended. “You don’t understand. This isn’t a sermon. If that tanker goes—” “Then it goes,” Elijah said, quietly. Thane looked to Liam, but the boy said nothing. “You won’t even tell us who you’re looking for,” Flynn said, walking up. “You won’t let us help, won’t take protection, won’t follow orders. What exactly do you think is going to happen if you stay here?” Elijah turned to her. “I think the will of the God is beyond any of us to predict. We must walk our path.” Flynn rolled her eyes. “Fanatics.” “We’re not fanatics,” Liam said softly. “Just careful.” Flynn opened her mouth to fire back, but Thane raised a hand. “Let it go,” he said. “They’ve made their choice.” Flynn hesitated, then nodded. “Come on,” she barked to the others. “Let’s get this place moving!” Within minutes, the church filled with motion. Supplies were gathered in bundles. Soldiers slung rifles over their shoulders. Flynn organized them with mechanical precision—every able-bodied person assigned a role, every item double-checked. Thane walked the length of the nave, passing pews full of the wounded and weary. One little girl clutched a stuffed bear. An older man coughed into a stained rag. Some people didn’t even look up. He paused beside Flynn as she strapped a pack to her back. “Still think we should’ve stayed?” he asked. Flynn sighed. “I think I don’t like options that start with ‘get on the bus or explode.’ But yeah. It’s time.” Together, they pushed open the church doors. The morning sun stabbed down from a high, merciless sky. Heat rolled off the pavement. The beat-up bus idled nearby, Dorn was smoking beside the hood. A soldier helped a limping woman up the steps. Flynn climbed aboard, shouting orders. Thane lingered at the bottom step. He looked back at the church—Elijah and Liam watching from the threshold. Neither waved. And Thane didn’t either. He climbed in, shut the door, and got in the driver seat. The bus rumbled. It wasn’t much. But it was moving. And for now, that was enough. The last wheel thudded over broken asphalt as the bus cleared the final barricade. Bloom faded behind them, shrinking in the side mirrors until it was little more than crumbling rooftops and dying smoke. The engine groaned, gears grinding as Thane pushed the bus faster. They didn’t speak—none of them. The only sounds were the wind through the cracked windows and the occasional cough or whimper from the rows of passengers behind. Flynn sat up front, one hand gripping the metal rail, the other resting on her sidearm. Her eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, but she was thinking—Thane could tell. Probably about Elijah and Liam. About the people they’d left behind. He wasn’t thinking about them. Not anymore. He was thinking about the tanker. They crested a hill, tires screeching slightly as the suspension struggled to keep up. Thane’s hands tightened on the wheel. Then— A flash. White. Blinding. A split second of daylight that seemed to tear the world open. Then came the sound. A thunderclap so deep it punched the air from their lungs. Windows rattled. The bus shuddered. The sky lit orange in the mirrors. Bloom was no longer fading—it was blooming, fire blooming, a great orange blossom of heat and fuel and fury, rising into the sky behind them. Someone screamed. Flynn turned, staring out the rear window. Her jaw clenched. “Keep driving,” she said. Thane didn’t reply. He just shifted gears and hit the gas. The fireball rolled higher. A second boom hit them—smaller, delayed—but still enough to rattle the bolts. Smoke billowed into the clouds. A thick black tower swallowing the sun. Inside the bus, no one spoke. Even the children went quiet. Because they knew. Whatever was left of Bloom… was gone. Flynn slumped slightly, just for a moment. Just long enough for Thane to see past the uniform. Past the command. And see the weight. He didn’t say anything. Just kept driving. And behind them, Bloom burned.

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.