Reggie Anders looked up through broad-leaf trees.

Sun trickled in thin beams, fungal vines threading the canopy like a living lid—slow pulses of green-black rot. Faint scents of sap, underbrush, and wet decay filtered through his metal-and-leather half-mask: cold steel frame housing wool-cotton-burlap filter slots, leather rim and straps cinched tight to his face. His pale dirty hand lifted wide-brim ranch hat on his head—wiping his brow, slicked brown hair beneath, beads of sweat catching on the single glass visor goggle protecting amber eyes.

He leaned forward.

His palm patted the neck of his horse, calming her as she snorted soft, nostrils flaring at the infected scent drifting about three hundred meters out, wandering the forest. Thin metal bracers wrapped tight around the sleeves of his brown long trench coat glinting where light hit.

His chest itched fierce under the mail shirt inside his trench coat.

Ahh, fuck me!

He couldn’t reach through the mail layers—swearing silent. His hand drifted back over his shoulder, nearly closing on the curved grip of his Roma short-barrel lever-action rifle holstered across his spine like a sword ready to be drawn, as crows squawked overhead, flying east.

Relax, Reggie. Getting jumpy in this shit humidity. His eyes swept the surroundings.

Rest of the merc crew: Zoe and Angus loading a deer carcass into the open-top wagon with the others.

Terrick and Conner riding slow loops around the perimeter their eyes sharp, rifles low but ready. The itch migrated to his right leg—scratched hard through dirty black cotton long pants.

Oh gods, finally.

Sweet relief washed through him. Gave his horse a light kick with his dirty black boots.

She trotted forward.

Zoe climbed onto wagon seat creaking as she moved and picked up the reins.

Angus settled in the back—steadying the haul. Reggie admired how far they’d come in eight years, from mismatched junk gear to near-uniform: trench coats, mail underlayers, bracers, wide hats.

Family.

“Right’o, let’s GO HOME!” he called. The group fell into formation.

Reggie at front.

Wagon center.

Terrick and Conner rear and flanks. Silently they pressed north—toward the road, toward Castle Clanstead.

Nothing but fungal-canopy scent, distant infected moans, the occasional horse snort, and wagon creak.

Two hours later.

Reggie raised his right hand and the formation halted.

Right hand slipped into his coat, pulling a telescope.

He lifted his goggle visor temporarily—peering.

Terrick rode up beside him—big man, wide dirty-pale sun-tanned brown hands, big blue eyes, sweaty blond hair poking under his hat.

Voice gruff.

“What you got, Capi-tan?” Reggie smiled behind his mask.

“Big Boar. Not infected. Venison for dinner at the castle, bacon for breakfast?”

Terrick chuckled low.

“Sounds good to me, boss.” Reggie waved a hand to Conner—who pulled his scoped long-barrel lever-action from his back.

Reggie pointed in the direction of the boar—traced arm out—tracking sight line for him. “I got it!” Conner called. Reggie dropped his visor back down, quickly tucking his telescope—gripped the reins tighter.

Terrick mirrored.

Waiting.

Conner fired.

10mm round punched through rear leg at the hip.

The boar squealed, echo rolling through the forest, distant infected calls answered. A second boar skidded—bolted. Reggie and Terrick flicked reins—kicked hard—”Yah!”

Gave chase.

Zoe and Conner moved in to finish the wounded boar, still squealing, kicking circles in the undergrowth.

The boar’s heart hammered, legs pumping overtime.

Hurtled through forest planted centuries ago—trees perfectly aligned, allowing full gallop. Terrick pulled a .32 revolver from his hip—fired.

The bullet clipped a tree. Boar skidded right, closer to Reggie.

He drew his own .32—fired—missed. The boar halted, pivoted, tried the opposite direction—passed Reggie.

He fired—round caught front leg, it stumbled. Reggie yanked the reins with a “Whoa.” slowing the horse.

Terrick already riding hard, boar limping up—tried to run again. Terrick reached forward into a saddlebag—pulling a heavy metal dart, rope tied one end, he flicked down as he passed.

Dart buried in boar, squeal turned screech. Terrick grabbed the ropes end—hooked it to metal ring on his saddle. Reggie was off his horse, running, machete pulled from his hip.

The boar tugging on the rope pulled tight.

His arm came up, then down—one swift motion—severed the boars spine at neck behind the head and it went limp.

Reggie pulled the dart free.

Terrick let his horse stride over casually.

“Two boar, four deer. Three deer required for the Clanstead Graveworkers contract—we can sell a boar, turn a deer and boar into rations. I’d say we made out pretty well, Ter.”

Terrick huffed agreement—looked up canopy.

“Hey, boss. Ain’t looking kinda dark for this time of day?” Reggie craned his neck while tying the boar’s legs.

“Yeah…” He hefted the boar over horse—pulling damp cloth from his pants pocket, wiping his hands—arm out, fingers wide.

Cool air mixed humidity kissed skin.

“Rain or storms coming. Fortified stop by the main road where we come out—we stop there till it passes, if it’s a storm. But we need to go now. Lets get the others.” Terrick turned reins—no words needed.

Group met up.

Cool kiss of air now breeze under the under-canopy—leaves and fungal growth swaying. “WE RIDE HARD FOR THE FORTIFIED ROAD STOP! NO STOPPING!” Reggie shouted—yanked reins. Zoe flicked reins—”YAH!”—two horses pulling wagon surged.

Angus tied a fabric cover over the top, securing the haul—sat on it.

Unshouldered his Eisenkrone semi-auto. The group at full gallop, fifteen minutes—first lightning cracked the sky raw.

Rain started falling hard.

The Infected answered, forest alive with howls and roars. “DITCH THE WAGON! WE’LL COME BACK LATER!” Reggie bellowed. Zoe and Angus climbed forward onto the wagon horses, on a three count—cut the straps—The wagon swerved, pivoted, creaked loud and tipped.

Reggie leaned hard in the saddles.

“TWENTY MINUTES OUT!” Terrick shouted.

Connor fired—Reggie looked over.

Connor hand let the reins go, cocking his lever-action.

“RUNNERS! LEFT FLANK!” Connor Shouted.

“RIGHT FLANK!” Angus echoed.

“SHOOT ONLY IF NECESSARY! DON’T STOP!” Reggie called.

The under canopy began turning night-time dark with only low light breaching and the occasional lighting crack. Water ran off the fungal canopy lid like pipe had burst.

Infected appeared ahead, a horde frenzied with the storm, Shufflers heavy-footed jogging east following the sound—Runners began charging from all directions—drawn to the gunfire. Reggie shot a Runner that tried lunging at his horse, leaving claw marks in the beast—It rolled, tumbled—hit a tree with a “Hiiraak” sound and a thud.

White light pierced the canopy and Connor glanced up—flares distant along the main road.

Looks like we weren’t the only ones caught outside. Thought Connor.

“FIVE MINUTES FROM THE ROAD!” Reggie called.

Angus let the reins go of his horse—pulled a cartridge from his bicep bandoleer, pushed it home in the underside of his semi-auto.

A High-pitch screech jolted his attention—goblin spring-boarded off a tree—latching onto him, Shaking him, clawing pulling him the from saddle.

Terrick leaned back—about to turn reins.

“DON’T!” Reggie shouted.

Terrick was about to say something, then light caught the look on Reggie’s face.

Terrick kept riding.

Angus hit the ground hard, rolling—air rushing from lungs, almost blowing out his filters—dazed.

The world came back to his slow.

Everything hurt.

The tall thin man stumbled numb toward his rifle.

The goblin lay nearby—alive—head snapping at the air.

“Broke your back in the fall, eh? Stupid little shit.” Said Angus checking his rifle, he reached behind his coat, pulling metal spike with a cloth wrapped knob end that rattled—jammed into a tree.

The sounds of infected running in the dark, nearby, closing. He pulled fuse from the node—ran it against the rough underside of his metal bracers and sparks lit—fuse caught, burning quick.

The area lit bright.

He racked the semi-auto.

A Runners already on him, momentarily stunned by the light, he fired—30-06 turned a Runners head to goo on one side. Fired again, hit another Runners knee, it flopped forward—screeching trying to crawl.

He turned, fired, round hit a tree.

Second shot blew a hole in a Shuffler chest. He stepped behind a tree, a Runner ran fast—Face first into it with a loud thud.

Angus peeked, shot it in the face with his .32 revolver side arm. Re-holstered it.

He saw his horse coming.

More high-pitch screeches.

Goblins—child infected—ran low like four-legged ambush predators—leaping, squealing, bouncing off trees.

He fired, missed—fired, missed—fired, hit a goblin—30-06 blew its side out—ichor spraying, painting the tree it was on.

A Runner cannon-balled out of the dark into the back of his legs, knocked flat.

Climbing on his back, clawing at the mail shirt—biting at the mail hood his hat once concealed.

Goblins join in climbing, biting, tearing his legs to shreds.

Angus howled—pain ripping through his body. He rolled into a ball, noticed his horse,

Reached into his coat and pulled red stick with a fuse.

Rolled again to put it under him—ran the bracers together, sparks.

The fuse caught. Another Runner slammed into his side knocking him onto his back, he rolled again, tucked the red stick in his coat to protect the fuse from rain.

“You can fuck right off if you think I’ll be lunch!”

Reggie and others heard the explosion echo through the forest.

Some of the runners lagging behind made sudden turn heading for the sound.

Reggie winced—tipped his hat to a brother.

Kept riding.

Terrick howled a roar—kicked Runner in the face, reloading his revolvers. Reggie could see the low light of the treeline, the main road.

“WE’RE ALMOST THER—”

A tree branch hit Reggie in the chest, knocking the wind out of him, he rocked limp in saddle for a moment. Zoe was alongside, arm out pushing him upright.

Terrick on the other side.

“Grip the reins, man!” Terrick tried to bellow, lightning cracked and Reggie came alert—gripping the reins.

Zoe looked back—Connor’s horse ran beside, no rider.

Further back.

Connor hung limp from a tree, fingers twitching, a low grown followed by a choke escaped his mouth—bone fingers sharpened to claws gripped his face—palm pressed against his half mask and visor, fingers hooked under his chin, holding him in the air.

The grip tightened punching through from under his mouth.

The Hand let him fall, He hit the ground like a potato sack and a heavy thud.

Breath escaping his lungs and the holes in his mouth with a wheeze—choking on blood through the holes under his chin.

Infected ran past.

Not even caring he was there.

He couldn’t see in the dark.

Bone claws cradled his head—gingerly.

Rhythmic growl—low—curious. Bone claws on his visor.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Connor coughed, spitting blood into the filters, the hand grabbed his mail shirt dragging him deeper.

Reggie and others broke the tree line onto the main road, rain hitting them like a loud roaring wall of wet—They turned up road rain now pelting them in the face.

Flares still firing across the sky all along the road, gunfire in the distance from many directions, some close.

Infected broke the tree line, continued across the road into the forest—toward distant shots.

Reggie brought his horse to a trot, grip still white knuckle—He breathed, forcing calm easing his grip.

Zoe and Terrick, still shaken a white-knuckle grip on the reins, pulled alongside.

Zoe looked back, rain incredibly loud, bun that was tied in her now lost hat undone, long brown hair streaked across her pale skin neck and trench coat.

Fear still etched in her brown eyes.

“Reg, why aren’t they chasing?”

Reggie almost couldn’t hear her, he looked back, then to the sky.

“My guess? Heavy rain masked our scent and sound… just long enough.”

Terrick leaned forward—patted horse.

“You did good carrying my fat ass.”

Horse grunted. Moving slow—quiet—rain hiding scent and sound—they came to the old car garage shop no fortified as a resting site.

One roller door replaced with solid steel slabs, windows bricked up.

Firelight glow in cracks, smoke bellowing roof vents. Reggie slid off his saddle, scanned around them quickly—then banged the roller door with the butt of his revolver.

“CIVIC DUTY!” A young man answered.

“CIVIC DUTY, BROTHER!” Replied Reggie.

The roller door opened, six men in different armour stepped out—rifles shotguns ready watching the tree line, ushering them inside—quickly pulled door shut.

Zoe slumped against wall beside her horse, staring at her hands.

Terrick like Reggie, looked at everyone inside—solemn broken faces around fires, some crying, others—Just staring at the floor, their hands.

An older man approached, raised his hand, palm open in greeting.

“Ferron Klein, Kennel Hounds family.”

Reggie took his hand, firm—hands trying not to tremble, shook.

“Reginald Anders, Reggie’s Rangers family.”

Ferron’s eyes dropped.

“How many, Reginald?”

Reggie quiet moment—sighed heavy.

“Two. You?” Ferron’s gaze didn’t meet, Reggies.

“Seven out of eleven. Stephanie over there lost four of seven. Blake four of five. The caravans we guarded—shredded. Heavy casualties…” Ferron turned, sat wheat sack.

“Sixteen survivors out of forty-five.” Reggie put a hand on Terrick’s shoulder, noticing Zoe’s legs trembling.

“Check on Zoe.” He said. Terrick nodded, carefully went and sat beside her—gave her a gentle nudge offering his shoulder, she burst into tears—head on his shoulder, pulling on his coat.

Reggie sat next to Ferron, mask down, hat and goggles off.

Turned his hat over, pulling a tie thread, unrolled a strip of fabric. Fourteen other names etched on it. Reggie reached into his coat and pulled a quill from an inside pocket, then little metal vial from his belt—unscrewed the lid and dipped the quill in.

Added Angus and Conner’s names to the list with shaky hands.

Rain hammered roof.

Fires crackled low.

Lighting cracked and the dead answered

The forest exhaled outside—wet rot settling back into silence.

Quiet names etched in a world that never quite lets the living stay whole.

Fin