The Midnight Reckoning,
We emerged from the shattered chapel into the pale dawn, but the battle was far from over. Ulzakar's defeat had broken his bastion of frozen bones, yet the forest itself remained a tomb of whispers and half-buried corpses. Our little band—Lena, Nika, Max, Coach Roberts, Nurse Clarke, Bradford, and I—huddled beside the ruined door, each of us wounded and ragged, breathing in ragged puffs of cold air.
I steadied myself on a fractured pew. My shoulder throbbed where bone fragments still pressed beneath my skin. Blood from my sliced palm stained my sleeve. Each heartbeat felt like a hammer blow to my chest. Bradford supported Nurse Clarke, who leaned heavily on his arm—her ribs still cracked, her face pale. Max cradled Lena in his jacket, her cheek streaming scarlet. Nika shivered, eyes wide with exhaustion and terror. Coach Roberts checked his shotgun one last time.
"I don't know what's left of this forest," Bradford said, voice hollow. "Ulzakar's presence twisted it. We must move south, toward the highway."
I nodded, swallowing bile at the memory of that cathedral. "We'll go. But first…" I looked back at the pile of broken bones and shattered pews. "We should bury them. Let them rest."
Lena stirred and nodded. "They deserve that."
We gathered shards of wood and the largest bone fragments we could carry. The chapel's ruins rumbled as if sighing in relief. Outside, the wind had died to a whisper. The forest lay hushed under snow-laden boughs. We heaped rubble into a shallow pit at the chapel steps. Bradford murmured a prayer, tears freezing on his cheeks. One by one, we laid broken bones, then covered them with splintered wood and snow. A single crow perched on a distant branch, its cry a mournful requiem.
By the time we finished, the sky had brightened to a cold gray. We trudged down the slope toward the forest edge, footprints trailing behind us like a path of ghosts. My legs ached, each step a reminder that I had willingly bled to free Bradford's soul. I glanced at my palm: the spiral brand had faded to a pale scar.
We followed an old logging road, half-buried, until we reached a clearing where the highway should have been. Nothing but white silence. No car lights, no tire tracks. The storm had apparently closed the road.
Coach Roberts consulted his map. "We take the old ranger trail east. It leads to a supply depot—abandoned, but may have fuel or radios."
We set off. The trail twisted through pines bent low with ice. Every so often we passed bodies—students, teachers, woodland creatures—frozen mid-stride, icicles in their hair, eyes locked on heaven. Each corpse was a portrait of agony or shock: a young girl's face twisted in silent scream, a man's outstretched hand clutching a snapped branch, a stag's antlers entwined with black vines. Horror twisted in my gut every time I looked, but I forced myself forward.
At midday, we reached the supply depot: a brick warehouse, half-collapsed. The door hung off its hinges. Inside, rows of lockers and workbenches coated in frost and rust. Empty fuel cans littered the floor. A battered radio sat on a shelf, the antenna bent.
Max kicked a broken locker. "Any idea how to fix it?" he asked.
Bradford knelt and inspected the radio. "If we can get power—maybe. There should be a generator in back."
We found the generator room. Cold air whooshed out as we opened the door. A diesel generator lay silent, fuel tank empty. A side cabinet held spare belts, filters, and an old logbook. No fuel. We scoured every locker and shelf—only a few cans of stale beans and frozen water bottles.
Nika's voice quavered: "What about food? We're starving."
Coach Roberts patted his coat pocket. "I have a ration bar left. I'll split it."
He broke the bar into uneven pieces. Nika took the larger, Lena the next, Bradford and Clarke small scraps. I took a single bite—a dry, chalky lump that tasted of iron and hope. We waited, gobbling in silence, the hunger gnawing at our guts.
Bradford closed the logbook. "There's a pond nearby, not frozen. We might catch fish—or trap rabbits. We need calories to keep moving."
We gathered sharpened metal rods and fishing line from the depot's supplies. Nurse Clarke tied rods to sticks. We left Max and Coach to stand guard while Lena, Nika, Bradford, and I slipped into the woods.
The pond lay a quarter-mile north—an open circle in the trees, water black and still. We crouched behind sterile birches. Bradford fished first: a splatter of gore as he skewered a fish through its gill and flipped it into the snow. Lena jury-rigged a snare from line and branches. Nika lined up to help. I sat on a log, shivering, watching the dark water.
As the sun dipped low, Lena whispered, "Over here." A rabbit sat huddled against a log stump, breath misting. Nika crept forward and snapped the snare around its neck. The rabbit thrashed, but its struggle ended quickly. We stared at it—soft fur matted with snow—and I felt tears burn behind my eyes. Bradford skinned it swiftly; we divided the meat into strips, sliding each into a freezing pocket.
Darkness fell. We retreated to the depot with our meager catch. Max heated the generator room with a small propane torch, melting snow for water. Nurse Clarke cooked fish and rabbit over a makeshift stove, the sizzling flesh promising warmth and strength.
As we ate, I gazed at their faces: Bradford's haunted relief, Lena's determined stare, Nika's wide, weary eyes, Clarke's gentle concern, Max's stoic grit, Coach's protective calm. We had survived horrors beyond reason, but each of us bore scars deeper than flesh.
Suddenly, the radio sputtered to life—a tentative spark of static. Coach rushed over, knob twisting. A crackled voice emerged:
> "—Highway is open… vehicles clearing path… keep heading east… rescue teams coming…"
We cheered, voices rough as gravel. Tears leaked from my eyes. Rescue was near.
But then another voice cut through, low and rasping:
> "…Ulzakar's hunger… feeds on hope… do not trust the dawn…"
Static roared, then silence.
My blood ran cold. The forest's hush felt ominous. The words—do not trust the dawn—lingered like poison in the air. Had Mom or Dad whispered that warning? Or was it Ulzakar's final taunt?
Coach slammed the radio down. "That's enough. We move at first light."
We laid out plans: Max and Coach would repair the generator and check for fuel caches in nearby sheds. Bradford and Nurse Clarke would tend wounds and rest. Lena and Nika would set more snares. I would keep watch, gauge the forest's whispers.
We slept fitfully—curled against frozen machinery, blankets thin. Dreams came: my parents' faces, twisted in blood; Ulzakar's grin leering in moonlight; the chained bodies calling my name. I woke shaking, stared at the chipped radio, and prayed dawn would not betray us.
At midnight, a distant howl rose—from the pond, from the woods, from the grave. My heart seized. I woke Bradford. "We have to move—now."
He grabbed the radio. The screens glowed dim red: static. But underneath, faint voices: follow the broken road… don't trust the dawn… The words tumbled like a final curse.
A flash of movement in the generator room. Coach and Max stirred. "Up," I hissed. "Night's not safe."
We gathered gear. Bradford strapped on his coat. Lena and Nika flexed shotguns. Nurse Clarke jammed bandages into her pack. Coach Roberts gathered ammunition. We crept into the woods, past the rodeo of frozen corpses, toward the highway.
The night air felt too still. The moon, full and pale, cast eerie light on the snow. Our footsteps sounded like a drumline in the hush. Then—the trees shook. Branches snapped. Shadows flickered.
A dozen forms burst from the woods: villagers once accused of witchcraft, bodies twisted with spirals carved deep, eyes black hollows. They carried torches, though the flames flickered with unnatural blue fire. Their faces contorted with hate and hunger. They marched single-file, chanting in an ancient tongue.
I froze. Those were innocent townsfolk—no, victims reborn by Ulzakar's power. They were the first sacrifices, the spark that unleashed the storm.
Lena raised her shotgun. "Wait!" I hissed. "They might be mindless…"
But one figure—a woman I recognized from my childhood—stepped forward. Her eyes had no spark of recognition. The spiral on her forehead glowed like embers. She pointed at me and cried, "Save us!"
Her voice split my heart. I lifted my hands. "We'll help you," I said, voice breaking. "Follow us to safety."
The chanting faltered. Their torches died. The horde paused, then turned on us. Eyes burned with cold fury. The night's stillness shattered.
Coach Roberts fired a warning shot. The echo yanked us from hesitation into action. Gunfire erupted. Bodies fell, melted into bone shards, only to rise again. The forest's edge was chaos—guns, crowbars, panic, smoke, and snow.
I pressed my back against a cedar trunk, anchoring myself. A torch barreled toward me. I dodged, then leapt to drive a crowbar into the figure's chest. The wood cracked. Blue blood sprayed the snow. The figure stumbled back, dissolving into icy mist.
Max roared and charged through their lines. Lena and Nika covered him. Nurse Clarke dragged Bradford backward. Coach fired round after round, keeping the wave at bay.
I fought side by side with them—crowbar, shotgun, staple gun—reviving nightmares in bone and frost. Each blow rang with desperation: the harvest of the dead feeding Ulzakar's return.
Then dawn broke—pale gold melting the eastern sky. The horde paused, as if bound by a spell. The chanting died. The tortured faces flickered uncertainly, then collapsed, bodies thawing into inert clay.
Silence reclaimed the forest. The torches guttered out. Sunlight touched the treetops, turning each branch to crystal. Warmth spread, chasing the last gasp of frost away.
We stood in the clearing—six survivors and one redeemed man—surrounded by the wreckage of a midnight slaughter. The highway lay ahead, distant but visible: a ribbon of black melting snow stretching toward the rising sun.
I sank to my knees, exhaustion burying me. I tasted blood and tears and hope. Bradford placed a hand on my shoulder. "You led us through hell," he said. "Thank you."
Coach Roberts nodded. "The road to rescue starts here. But remember—night can return."
Nurse Clarke gathered our wounded. Lena and Max scanned the clearing. Nika wrapped her arms around herself, shivering despite the sun.
I looked east, where the highway glimmered. My heart ached with relief—and dread. Ulzakar's hunger had been starved tonight, but the demon lived on in whispers and nightmares. We had survived, but at a terrible cost.