A low, unfamiliar buzzing jolted Christofer from the edge of sleep. He flinched, his shoulder protested, ribs too. The mechanical buzz cut through everything. It was inside his coat. He reached into the pocket, rummaging to grip the object. He grabbed after it, feeling it vibrate in his hand. He held it in front of his face and poked it. It lit up. He flicked the screen, entered the password.

  ‘What prompted the buzzing?’ Christofer thought.

  He stared at the battery: 51%. It was not the power that caused it. He looked at the date to see if some kind of notification there was related to it.

  ‘11:03 on SAT, AUG 5? Might be noteworthy?’ he thought.

  Then he noted a change on one of the icons. A new one hovering over an icon. He realized he had a new text.

  ‘Do I have a signal?’

  His eye glanced to the connectivity icon, which held a single flickering bar—one that promptly disappeared.

  “Nupe,” the gecko said.

  The wagon rocked slightly beneath him. The wood groaned. Christofer’s boots shifted, heels thudding against the floorboards. The rhythm of hooves had changed—softer now, almost smothered. One of the wheels hit something wet and heavy with a slurp, and he felt a lurch run through the frame.

  He tapped the message. The screen flashed once, then loaded:

  “Your residence at —— has been barred entry due to having been found to be within the sphere of the newly classified Swedish R-1 Red Zone with the center a few kilometers due northwest of your residence. Sensitive information has been censored in following the SIV directive.”

  Christofer narrowed his eyes and held the phone closer.

  ‘Red... zone? That sounds familiar. Have I heard that before?’

  “You have. Sixty-three days ago, at 12:14, you watched a news report featuring an interview with the Prime Minister of Sweden, who openly declared the existence of Red Zones as fake news,” the gecko replied, matter-of-fact.

  ‘That’s… oddly specific. How do I know that?’

  “You know more than you see, and you see more than you know. Every experience you've ever had, every idea that came to you in the shower and then slipped away while you were brushing your teeth. It never left and is ripe for the taking, if requested.”

  Christofer stared blankly for a moment, then looked back down.

  “With rising radiation levels, containment procedures have been initiated. Please vacate the premises post-haste. This has been an automated message. Kind regards, Swedish Containment Security Services.”

  A flicker of something caught his eye—movement beneath his boots. Beyond the end of the wagon, through the gap in the leather, the landscape had changed. He saw water. Murky, rippling, shallow—sliding over the road in a thin sheet. Leaves floated like dead skin.

  The wagon bumped again. Louder. Slower.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he thought.

  The imagery retreated behind a landscape of gnarled roots, towering trees, with empty branches reaching for the skies. Only a few discolored leaves still clung to the branches. Scorching-yellows, lava-reds and burnished-brown leaves laid like a carpet over roots and coarser rocks which introduced the shaking that became the new constant as the carriage moved through the forest.

  The leaves behind the carriage were launched into the air as they moved through the forest, dancing for a mere instant before hitting the riders following the carriage in the face. The mournful cry of a lonely fox echoed through the vault-still silence of the trees. A huffing wind rose up then, tugging in the fabric that had shielded him from the rain a day earlier. Roughly half an hour later, the carriage jumped off the path with a wet splash of mud.

  “We’re almost by the first stop, men. We just have to cross this-” the captain started before blurting out, “What the hell happened here?”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The wagon and the soldiers following it screeched to a halt.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  The gecko’s tiny feet climbed across from his shoulder, across his neck and forehead, then onto the wooden boards, it’s feet slapping against the wood soundlessly as it made its way on top of the canopy stretched over the wagon. Christofer instinctually closed his eyes. The gecko’s big eyes looked at the scene and relayed an image to Christofer as he laid there.

  ‘How am I doing this?’

  “Instinctually. With practice you may do it consciously.” the gecko replied.

  The area in front of the wagon looked like a wetland. Patches of semi-dry land with ruins of civilization amidst knee high water. This landscape felt strangely familiar. The air was abundant with the smell of expired bacon. ‘Rot.’ The Gecko corrected in his mind.

  “Where are we?” Christofer asked out loud, into the air, hoping for an answer.

  A voice answered.

  “We’re at the Iskandar Plains... Seasonally the place gets flooded. However, this is out of season, and the level of water is unprecedented. At this rate, It’ll be a lake before long.” The captain sighed. “It’s not ideal, but we just have to cross this wetland to get to Hvalberg.”

  “So, we’re supposed to cross this?” Ike replied, “What about the rot wyrms?”

  “Pick your poison,” the Captain shrugged, “Templar platoons are after us in the rear and we’re approaching ever more restless allies. We’ll take losses, but we should be relatively fine if we cut through the middle, the shallow parts even if we lack the proper tools.”

  “It’s going to be hard on our horses, but at least now we don’t need to worry about the depth. We can also see our surroundings, so we can watch the behavior of the animals. At any rate, we must get to land before the sun sets.”

  “Why?” Christofer asked curiously, “Wait, we’re being followed by enemies?”

  “Because this is the Iskandar plains. The dead walk the area during the night." Ike added.

  "Well, if you believe the legends. Regardless, most of the dangerous animals in these wetlands are nocturnal. We’re not going to gain anything from waiting,” the captain interjected,

  “Also—yes. We are,” the Captain added, glancing back at Christofer.

  He turned his horse around and looked towards his men that had approached him.

  “You, You and You,” the Captain pointed at three men. “Cover the left side. Keep your spears at the ready to defend from the water if something gets close to the horses. Focus on any spilled blood, yours and theirs.”

  “You three, you take care of the right side.” The captain sighed, “For anyone else that I haven’t pointed toward or haven’t gestured in your general direction, cover our rear; and if need be, help push the wagon.”

  The horses neighed as they stepped into the cold water. The wagon rolled after them and splashed into the murky brown water. Time passed as they carefully cut through the wetlands, with all men on edge. Darkening clouds began to gather in the sky and shift into a shade of tar-black. Christofer felt an air pressure shift. It began as a whispering in the air. He felt a sense of urgency he couldn’t quite explain, goosebumps joined the raised hairs and prickly sensation. ‘It’s going to rain soon,’ he thought.

  Halfway through the wetlands, the wagon suddenly stopped. The reins to the horses pulling it became taut and made the horse neigh in panic. The temporary roof of the wagon danced with spray and splatter of rain. A wall of rain moved over the wetlands and the drops were drumming against the canopy. So much rain was falling that the sound blurred into one long, whirring noise. It felt familiar.

  “We’re stuck!” one of the soldiers exclaimed.

  What followed was a tapping on the stretched fabric over the wagon which then became a pitter-patter. Rain was once again falling from the sky. Christofer swung his legs over and dropped from the wagon. He hit the water with a deep splash. The ground gave a muted thud beneath him as tremors of pain rattled up through his ribs. One of the soldiers flinched at the sound. Another took a step back.

  “H-hey! Norseman!” one of the soldiers behind the wagon exclaimed nervously.

  He said nothing. The water stirred around his knees as he turned. Movements stiff, uneven. Bandages stretched. Flesh tugged at the seams. His fingers curled around the frame. He leaned in, boots sinking into the muck. The wood groaned. Bandages pulled, something in his back twinged, but he kept moving. He pushed the wagon loose from the mud in one slow stride forward, pulling the wagon loose in one dragging lurch.

  The sudden give pulled him forward. He caught himself, one hand slapping hard into the water as his knees dipped. Pain stitched upward through his ribs. Puddles began plinking around them as the rainfall became heavier. Countless crows cried out over their heads.

  “Wh-what’s with the birds?” a soldier exclaimed, “There’s so many of them… why?”

  The birds swooped down and gulped down the insects that had become active due to the humidity caused by the rain.

  “It’s bugs! the birds came to feed on the bugs!”

  A large sleek gray blur of something serpentine snatched and broke the neck of one of the birds close to the surface, leaving a few black feathers dancing in the air as the water below dyed deep red.

  “Oh shit! Men!” the captain roared, “Move!”