Kira “The Hexe” darted across the ruined art-deco rooftops like a shadow stitched to the wind.

The Cemetery lay cool and deep around her, wet rot thick, moss choking old facades, rainforest green reclaiming streets beneath a pulsing fungal under-canopy. Damp air clung. Rain-sputter beaded on her dirty pale skin. Dirty-blond braid—leather-banded into a plait—trailed behind. Faded moss-green tank top and dirt-stained leather tactical rig stuck to her in the humidity revealing her small breasted thin but curved frame. The 5’6″ woman skidded to the edge.

Boots bit wet gravel.

Dirt clung to her brown pull-on leather boots, hardened leather knee pads, once-grey thigh shorts now earth-dark, ending inches above the knee. Half-mask, molded leather, wax-coated—sat snug, wool-burlap-cotton filters tight inside four leather straps tying to her head under her plait.

She tightened the hard leather pauldrons on her tactical harness, adjusted the gauntlets joined to pleated sleeves, black-gloved fingers flexing inside. Kira kneeled.

Metal leaf-head spear laid flat on gravel—smooth steel ball pommel at the other end.

Jade-green eyes scanned the street below through worn road goggles.

Fiber-cotton utility pack jostled—three leather pouches thudding soft barely audible.

Eisenkrone Kurt 45 on left thigh caught stray sunlight off water-sheen.

Right thigh: hunting kukri—hand resting light on round pommel. Four days hunting fungal boars.

All for a Graveworkers contract. They’d attacked a Techport-bound caravan. The tracks looked easy at first. Then they led her deeper off the road, it didn’t bother her much she lived in this Cemetery anyway. However now they’ve led deeper into the Cemetery than she’d ever gone.

Buildings were climbing taller, roads becoming narrow canyons as buildings ahead scaled in ever increasing heights, skyscraper husks in the distance closing like jaws. Sighing soft through the mask.

Judging from how close the towers are… fifteen miles in. Fuck sake. Specials usually territorial. Pigs’ brains too rotted? She protested, across the street her eyes caught it, rooftop utility shed?

Concrete walls, patched sheet-metal roof and old tile.

Camp potential? She looked to the sky pulling her eyes up. Overcast heavy, rain threatening.

She pulled a small blurred glass square in an iron frame from her belt pouch—held it to the sky, Scanning.

Sun ghosted faint, caught the sun in the west through the glass—west. “Got you… ugh. Dark soon.” Spear in hand she walked a gothic arch bridging streets a few buildings down.

The sun kissed the western horizon. The City Darkening fast.

Infected growls threaded the night echoes. The utility shed door was ajar. Kira braced against the outside wall—listening.

Thumb pressed a rear stud on the spear handle, then pressed it against the wall.

Smooth iron ball pommel retracted to the handle—click click click click—rhythmic, precise.

Leaf tip now short hand spear. She waited. Nothing. She rounded to the door and pushed the door open of her spear leading tip-first.

The door stuck halfway.

Catching on gunk buildup on the floor. Thunder rumbled, her eyes turned distant west—An incoming haze rolling in from the west coast. She slipped Inside, Eyes scanning the room: mostly clean.

Pile broken wooden chairs and canopy scraps in one corner—moulding but dry.

Cinder blocks four-high, four-wide, eight-long. Bedroll spot.

Second stack two-high, four-wide, six-long. Work surface?.

In the center: A long rusted barrel drum ringed in bricks.

Back corner: small rusty metal table, a rotted crate, a rusted stiff-folding metal chair.

The walls carried long-weathered scorch marks and dead fungal veins signs of former rot once cleared. Micro nest once? It’ll do, Kira. She checked the door meticulously.

The front wood panel of the door was fragile—paint long gone only flakes remaining.

The back of the door A second wood panel? petrified hard.

Her eyes scan the door, then she noticed it. Central iron frame had been snapped once—grooves near the outer frame showed it had been bent open, then forced back and screwed tight.

“Table shelf replacement? Clever.” She kicked the gunk at the base of the door to clear it, something solid that refused to budge stubbing her toe through the leather boot “SON OF A BITCH!” She yelped, caught herself listened, confused rustles and growls down below in the street. She cleared the gunk, a solid steel block bolted to the floor prevented the door opening fully Oh…

She limped slightly to the back, grabbing wood scraps piled them into the barrel.

Reached a hand around her back pulling a metal vial from a belt pocket—unscrewing it.

She held it over the barrel and poured, black sticky ichor oozed dripping on the wood.

“Fuck, zombie blood stinks…” She complained, Reaching to the side of her belt she pulled wide tongs from the belt—examining the flint tips.

Began Squeezing rhythmically over the wood—click click—sparks.

The Ichor caught with a Whoosh.

Flames bloomed, the rot-stink thick but deliberate to mask her scent for anything that might smell her wondering upstairs from below, and it clings long and should last time morning. She pushed the door closed.

Son of a bitch. No lock.

Then she noticed: hinges on the inside frame—not attached to door. Oh. Smart. She tested the hinges with gloved hands—sturdy, just rusted.

She pushed the unattached ends across the door.

Reached around her belt and pulled a Screwdriver from the belt, dug into a tac pocket pulling four screws from her leather tac rig.

Quietly she screwed both sides into the door.

Giving it a tug.

Solid.

Her foot bumped something again she winced reflexively, the sound of metal jingling, Kira looked down, a small wooden box in a corner where the door open in, looked to be a jewelry box once.

Screwdriver beside laying beside ir.

Carved on the top: “Lock with” → arrow down. She picked it up and gave it a shake clinking echoed from the box.

She opened it: screws. Oh…

“It’s not like I wouldn’t have seen it,” she muttered aloud, half to ghosts.

Kira you’re going crazy at twenty-six stop talking to nothing. She sat on the four-high blocks. Tugged her mask down, goggles up.

Started rummaging through her backpack—pulled a meat tin.

Winced.

Opened it.

Grain mush, lamb & pork chunks, bone-broth “gravy” paste. “Ugh. I’d kill for red fire-roasted meat…”

She pulled the hunting kukri from its sheath—then carved the “food” into slabs.

Picking up the first slab up with tip of her kukri she took a second to look at it—popped it in her mouth—trying not to let it touch her tongue—she chewed—swallowed—spat.

And sighed heavily.

It smells like unwashed dick and tastes like wood and ass. She whined—popped another slab in her mouth—chewed. Her eyes caught a shadow on the far wall—carved deep into concrete above the two-high stack of cinder block—close to ceiling:

“Millions of them, soldiers, civilians, get me out!” Under it—another message, not carved as deep:

“Found his bones, buried him outside of Cem. Civic Duty. ‘ITP'” Kira tipped an imaginary hat to the message.

“Civic Duty, brother,” she whispered—feeling a little more at ease. She ate.

Checked her gear, changing her filter slits, washing the old laying them on the fire bricks around the barrel to dry.

Laid out her bedroll and lay down. While lying on her bedroll—again she noticed more writing on wall—above hers this time.

“Ivan ‘The Poltergeist’ 45R” “Well fuck?” she said aloud surprised.

Ivan the fucking Poltergeist found this place? 47 rotations man—he was an old bastard when he came through. Then second name:

“Reign 10R” Hold up? The fuck is a ten-year-old doing out here? She sat up. Then a line—other names.

“Helrick ‘Iron Nuts'”

Line.

“Jacobs ‘The Robber'”

Line.

“Mandri ‘The Draw'” It clicked—the only names without a line were Ivan’s and the kid’s.

Was that kid with Ivan the nightmare Poltergeist? Poor thing—bet that asshole used him as bait. She noticed the two-high stacked blocks again.

Not a work station… Small bed for a smaller human? Breathed in—smell of ichor still clinging—winced—breathed out—caught the after-smell of the meat tin.

“Wonderful—my breath smells like dick…sigh”

She pulled the screwdriver from her belt, carving a line, then started carving her own name in the wall.

Once finished she dusted off her bed roll, laid back down on bedroll.

Her eyes getting heavy.

Falling asleep to sounds of rain hitting the sheet metal and the fungal infected in the street below—gargling and moaning.

Kira came alert.

Garbled squeals and crashing in street below—followed by tell-tale humanoid fungal hissing and growls.

Upright and alert She scanned the room fire dimming but still burning.

She stood on the four high block bed, Looked through holes in the corner of the ceiling—still darkish—first shades of orange light kissing clouds—early morning?—dew smell.

She buckled her backpack to the back of her tac rig then pulled straps tight.

Picked up her spear, holding the metal stud down—flicked her arm out, extending the back of the spear with a quick click click click click. Strode to the door pulled the screwdriver from her belt—began unscrewing the door hinges. Sounds of infected-on-infected violence still echoed from streets below, moving away slowly. Kira slid out into the early morning and followed, staying on the rooftops, out of sight.

Here, piggy piggy piggy.

Kira came to a corner street, went low and peered over edge.

Jade-green eyes peering through road goggles, daylight creeping across sky, cloudy but not overcast the smell of dew and rot still strong. A fungal boar gave a loud angry garbled squeal hurled itself like a cannonball into Runner, knocking it flat.

Then lunged for the Runner’s head—tusks trying to hook into skull. Runners chased and lunged at other fungal boars—who in turn chased Runners.

Shufflers wading confused at chaotic sounds.

A Runner lunged, catching fungal boar—getting dragged across wet muck as it clawed and bit, fungal threads threaded through fur like natural armour, the boar trying to shake the Runner loose.

Kira lay watching—amused.

Get ’em piggies.

Tusks caught a downed Runner’s head, she heard wet snap from her bird’s-eye view—its head lolled, bobbed limply held by on by fungal threads—then it stopped moving.

Another boar cannon-balled into a Runner, slamming against a wall, the Runner falling. Trying to stand its legs now non-functional, the boar rounded and charged again—trying to gore its head with its tusks—squealing loudly spitting ichor.

Kira shimmied back, standing slowly as the fight ended. The four boars grew quiet, making their way inside a nearby ruined storefront. Kira scaled down the corner of the building, using the grooves carved into the old art deco stone like hand holds—spear tucked between her back and backpack, retracted at back.

Leather boots hit muddy ground.

Her spear came back out—extending it with the same arm flick and click click click click. Moving low, she moved to the building corner, peeling out checking the street.

Shufflers wading in muck, aimless.

She stepped out into the street a Shuffler turning toward her. Kira added drag to her steps—moving slow off-beat. The Shuffler lost interest, moving away. She crossed the street then, shuffling along opposite street wall and ruin storefronts—staying out of visual of the ruined storefront the boars had entered.

Piggies would not fall for same trick, much better vision than shufflers.

She came up on the storefront, pressed herself against a corner. The first dawn light lighting its interior, slowly, quietly, she peeked inside.

All four fungal boars sat inside, eating fungal nest growth, one eating a Slumper stuck to the floor by fungal growth it had been bloom a while, unable to move, but growning like it could still put up a fight—ichor bleeding from fungal vines on the walls. She sat her spear carefully against the wall, pushed the backpack to the side with one hand and pulled one of the pouches from backpack with the other. Grabbed her spear and took a breath and stepped in front of the storefront, loosing the pouch in same motion with three fingers. “A hex for you, kittens…” Her voice soft, silky—a sinister grin across her face.

Half Underarm-Half side toss, she lobbed the pouch, a stream of sparkling fine white powder trailing out.

In the same motion her hand grabbed flint tongs from belt, coming back around.

She bent her knees to catch end of the trail.

Click Click—WOOSH. Aluminum and cornstarch fine powder ignited—a stream of fire following the tral and the pouch exploded. Igniting ichor, nest caught and went up in blaze. Kira dove for the corner—rolled and stood. The boars squealing loud, running around mad inside the fire.

The slumper caught alight ichor mass in its body exploded—bone and fungal shards flying at velocity like a shrapnel bomb.
A fungal boar found its way outside, running, half on fire. Fur full of bone shards, seeping blood and ichor kept catching alight, it spun in place squealing loud echoing off the buildings, confused mad, trying to attack the fire. Kira ran forward—kicked it over with a grunt—Her spear’s leaf tip head found a new home in its eye socket, she gave it a twist.

The boar went limp.

Under the smell of burnt rot and fungal parasite her nose caught the scent of unrotted burnt boar and her stomach protested.

Shhh! she hissed.

A second boar charged from the storefront, spitting ichor, cannon-balling at her. Kira lent on her spear, thumbed the upper metal stud and kicked herself off the ground in a pirouette—front of spear collapsed inward as she spun out of way.

The boar tried to turn, skidding in the mud. Kira was already upright—right arm raised high in her right hand—she spun her spear around to the extended pommel end—used like mace, round pommel met skull with a dull wet crunch the boar squealed and stumbled.

Her left hand was already moving drawing the Kurt 45—two rounds barked, gas venting from the top of the barrel pushing her hand back down to steady each shot, .45 ACP finding fungal brain, ichor spattering the mud, she returned it to holster. Shufflers trying to break into jog toward the sounds, failed tripping in the mud.

Kira paid them no mind.

The other boars squealed and roared, unable to escape the fire.

She knelt putting the boar between herself and the boars still cooking, then cut the right ear off each boar outside with the tip of her spear. Thought of shooting the other boars, the ground shifted a little a rumble slightly underfoot.

The rhythm became noticeable, ever increasing intervals.

A roar echoed just up the road, fungal bear burst out of an alley. colliding with rust car, sending it rolling into a Shuffler.

“Oh piss off. Tank? Yeah. No.” she swore, Hand gripping around the stud on the handle back end, she retracted the pommel end against leg, sprinting for a corner of a building—tucking the retracted spear into a sling pouch on inside of her backpack and pulling the bottom straps tight to hold it. Hands met stone groves and she started scaling corner wall grooves like a spider on a mission Shit, shit, shit, shit, as she climbed. The bear charged, slow, then faster—building momentum. It crashed into building corner as Kira pulled herself up, one leg slipping, but already safe. She stood—looking over the side. The bear clawed at the concrete wall trying to climb after her, stripping chunks of stone.

Kira laughed.

One hand pushed her backpack to the side the other pulled a pouch that hung from her backpack, Three fingers loosed the opening, with her other hand. She pulled the tongs from her belt. “Sorry kitten, can’t have you tracking me home… I aim to get paid.” She tossed the pouch lazily up—loosening the powder inside, a steady stream trailing as it plummeted down.

The tongs came up—Click Click—Woosh.

Sparks caught powder, followed the trail down.

The pouch exploded just above the bear, thick fungal-threaded fur catching alight. It roared impossibly loud, swinging claws, biting, turning—trying to attack the sudden assault from all sides.

Kira made run for it across rooftops.

Two of four is fine—I’m not treading that mess. Time to head back to Techport. Get paid. Bathe. Drunk

Sun reached high into the sky as blue took over fully.

In the distance—a glint, Kira didn’t notice, it tracked her.

In a clock tower about a one hundred and fifty yards away, a man—another Deadlander, in a full-face rubber gasmask, he tracked her with his rifle scope from the old bell tower.

Hooded trench coat dirty and worn covering his head. He lead the shot—made a poof sound, smiling under the mask and shaking his head, Raised his head from the scope and shouldered the rifle. “Fucking, neighborhood kids!” he chuckled.

Tipped an invisible hat in her direction.

Turned and sat a tiny record player, disc spinning under the needle softly playing The Ghost Wolf Cometh quietly. As he went back to reading.

The Cemetery exhaled behind her—wet rot settling back into silence.

Quiet tracks in a world that never quite lets the dead stay buried.

Fin.