Josiah didn't hesitate. He darted forward, blade flashing in a clean arc—steel meeting rot as he buried it deep in a hollower's skull. The creature shrieked and twitched, collapsing. Josiah pivoted mid-step, slicing through another that lunged from the left.
Behind him, Marcel's voice cracked, "M-Michael—please don't leave me out here to die by those things!"
Michael clenched his jaw.
"Quit your whining, no one's dying today."
A hollower lunged from the brush, jaws wide, teeth jagged with decay.
Michael's reflex was ruthless—he drove his knife up through the monster's jaw, twisting hard before yanking it free. Another came, and he kicked it square in the chest before stabbing it clean through the neck.
Another came. Another kill.
Josiah glanced sideways, panting.
"Shit—there's a bunch more coming!"
Michael scanned the treeline—shapes kept emerging from the mist, drawn by blood, by noise.
"Ah, for fuck's sake."
He rushed to Marcel, who was trying and failing to sit up.
"Alright, come on—up."
"Wait—wait—AAGH!" Marcel screamed as Michael hoisted him off the rock. His leg buckled and he nearly collapsed again.
"Yeah, yeah, I know it hurts. Shut up and hold on."
Michael practically dragged him into the rushing water. The cold river bit into their skin, soaking boots, pants, everything—but they waded across, Marcel limping, stumbling, biting down on curses the whole way.
Josiah followed last, backing into the current with his knife drawn, eyes sharp for movement. When they hit the far bank, they sprinted into the trees, lungs burning, until the growling faded into the distance.
They finally stopped beneath a slanted tree, gasping for air.
Josiah leaned against it, doubled over.
"Shit… our horses…"
Michael wiped blood and water from his brow.
"Don't worry. All we gotta do is loop around—head west, then cut back to the original trail. Different side, same path."
Marcel groaned on the forest floor, one hand clutching his ribs.
"Could you hurry? My body… i-it hurts."
Michael shot him a look.
"We just saved your fucking life. Maybe hold off on the complaining."
Marcel rolled his eyes, slouching back against a mossy tree, breathing hard.
Then—
a snap.
A creak.
Something shifted in the canopy above them.
Josiah's body froze. He tilted his head up slowly.
"…Do you hear that?"
They all looked up.
Perched upside-down on a tree branch, no more than fifteen feet above, was a hollower.
Its body twisted and wrong, knees bending backward like an animal's. Its arms hung limp, swaying with each subtle breath. Its rotted head slowly turned, unnatural and jerky, locking blue-glazed eyes onto them.
It didn't move. It just watched.
"How the fuck is a hollower on that tree…?" Josiah whispered.
Michael's eyes narrowed.
"I don't know. That ain't normal."
"I-Is it gonna attack us?" Marcel asked, voice trembling.
Josiah didn't answer. He slowly reached for his pistol, not breaking eye contact with the creature.
And then—
the hollower smiled.
A blur of rot and sinew slammed into Josiah, sending him crashing onto his back with a grunt. The creature screeched, jaws snapping inches from his face, hot, sour breath flooding his nose.
"Get off me—!" Josiah's arms locked around its throat, struggling to keep those fangs away. The thing's weight was immense, muscles twitching beneath decaying flesh. Its hands clawed at his chest, trying to dig through his clothes.
Michael didn't hesitate. He grabbed Josiah's pistol off the ground, took aim, and—
BANG!
The shot rang out through the forest.
The hollower's head jerked sideways, a chunk of skull bursting apart like wet wood. It went limp.
Josiah shoved it off and rolled to the side, panting.
"God damn…" he muttered, climbing to his feet. He looked at Michael and managed a small nod.
"Thanks, man."
Michael tossed the pistol back into Josiah's hands.
"Next time, don't let it hug you."
Josiah smirked wearily.
Marcel sat nearby, eyes wide with alarm.
"What the hell was that? That one was different…"
Josiah reloaded the pistol.
"I don't know. But it moved weird, thought weird. Didn't lunge like the rest. I think there might be… variants."
Michael looked around—trees, shadows, and the faint sound of birds retaking the silence.
"Well, we'll deal with that later. Right now—" he turned to Marcel, who winced as he tried to stand,
"—we need to get back to the others before we have more surprises."
He knelt down and hoisted Marcel onto his back, gripping his legs firmly. Marcel groaned in pain but stayed silent this time.
"Try not to bleed on me, dumbass."
Hours passed. The gray sky dimmed, brushing the canopy with pale gold. Eventually, they spotted movement ahead—their horses, grazing near a fallen log.
"Hah, finally," Josiah muttered, limping toward his.
They mounted up and rode hard toward the chapel.
---
By the time they returned, the sun had dipped below the trees, casting long shadows over the clearing. The chapel loomed, its broken stained-glass window gleaming faintly.
Inside, the others stirred at their return.
Dr. Luther—a tall, wiry man with silver hair and circular spectacles—was crouched beside a cot. He looked up as they entered.
"Michael. Josiah. Good—you found him."
Marcel was gently pulled down and laid on a wooden bench.
Luther immediately began examining his wounds, pulling bandages tight around his abdomen and arm.
"He was mauled by a bear. Minor infections already setting in. He's lucky to be alive."
Marcel groaned.
"Yeah, yeah, everyone keeps saying that."
Michael crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
"You're alive 'cause we dragged your sorry ass outta there. Try remembering that."
Dr. Luther smirked faintly without looking up.
"Same old Michael. Always warm and fuzzy."
Josiah slumped into a chair.
"We also ran into a hollower… on a tree. Ambushed us. Thing was faster. Smarter."
That got Luther's attention. He looked up, brows furrowing.
"On a tree?"
Michael nodded grimly.
"Hung upside-down. Watched us. Waited. Like it knew."
The air in the chapel thickened. The fire crackled.
Mago, standing in the corner, finally stepped forward.
"Then we've got a problem."
Meanwhile, across the chapel, Fiona knelt beside Marcus's cot. The boy clutched her hand as she brushed hair away from his forehead.
Marcus looked pale—bandages wrapped around his chest, his breathing steady but shallow. He turned his head slightly and groaned, catching sight of her.
"What do you want, Fiona?" he muttered, his voice dry and sharp.
Fiona, unfazed, gave him a flat look. "We came to check on you, asshole. Or do you not want people to give a damn?"
Marcus scoffed and shifted in the cot. "Well, look at me. All patched up and perfect, right?" His sarcasm tried to mask the pain, both physical and emotional.
The little boy by Fiona's side—dark curls, tired eyes—peeked over the edge of the cot, unsure.
"What was the kid's name again?" Marcus said, waving a lazy hand toward the child.
Fiona's face darkened. Her voice dropped into a mother's sharp warning tone.
"Marcus… how the hell do you forget your own child's name?"
Before Marcus could answer, Marcel—leaning against a wooden beam across the room, bandaged and bitter—spoke up.
"Like I said, he ain't my kid."
The words echoed in the chapel. Cold. Final.
Fiona slowly turned toward Marcel. Her eyes were fire.
SMACK!
The sound cracked louder than a gunshot.
Everyone in the chapel turned. Marcel's head snapped sideways, his cheek red and stinging.
"You son of a bitch," Fiona said through clenched teeth, trembling with anger. "Don't you ever speak like that again. He's your son, Marcel. Your blood. And he looks at you like you're his whole damn world. Like you're someone worth trusting. And that means something. Or at least it should."
She gently took the boy's hand.
"Come on, Marcus. We don't need to waste time on people who've made their choice."
As they walked away, the boy glanced back once at Marcel. Hurt. Confused.
Michael, sitting near the doorway with a knife in his hand, chuckled under his breath.
"Karma's a bitch, huh Marcel?"
Marcel grumbled and flipped him the middle finger.
"Eat shit."
Just then, a voice broke the tension.
A young woman—Tali, African-American, dark hair pulled back into tight braids, brown eyes alert—walked up, her arms crossed.
"Mr. Mago," she said, addressing the group leader nearby. "We're low on food. Rations won't last another three days at this rate."
Another woman followed. Jennifer, tall and slender with dirty blonde hair and sharp green eyes, stood with her arms folded over a ledger.
"And we're low on ammo too. We're down to a handful of magazines and some loose shells."
Before Mago could respond, Heart pushed through the chapel's rear doors, brushing off dust. He was dirty from patrol and looked annoyed.
"This place is a goddamn mess," he said. "No proper defenses, barely any tools, and I saw three holes in the outer wall. One decent storm or a small herd, and we're toast."
The air grew heavy.
Mago stood at the center of them all—composed, dressed in a black duster coat, his hands behind his back.
"Alright. One problem at a time," he said coolly. "We'll set up proper guard shifts, start organizing scavenging runs at first light."
He turned, making sure to meet every eye in the room.
"Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we rebuild. It's going to be a long day."