It all started with greed and a false sense of security. As always.

  We had contracted to escort a "Traveling Menagerie" to the capital city of Tiefen. The caravan owner, a corpulent burgher who loved his money more than his life, was transporting his catch for the nobility's amusement. Our wagon, Greta, and a small group of fighters stayed behind in the village to buy cheap provisions, while the rest set off to escort the caravan according to the contract.

  Behind our squad creaked three heavy wagons. In the first sat wolves, in the second a bear growled dully, and in the third, the most heavily reinforced, sat a Man. A Wildman. He didn't growl. He gnawed on the iron bars with the methodical persistence of the doomed.

  "450 crowns," Gunther said, rubbing his hands together. "A walk in the park. We have a full roster. We are a force!"

  Our new recruits marched proudly. Quantity created an illusion of invulnerability.

  Gunt, the veteran sniper, kept to himself, wincing at every loud sound.

  Vol-Casanova smiled, glad to have escaped jealous husbands.

  Huner hid behind Dieter's broad back, feeling like he was in a "bunker."

  They did not yet know the main rule of war: A crowd of frightened idiots runs faster than any brave man.

  It all happened at sunset.

  Fog crept out of the lowlands, thick as sour milk. The birds fell silent. The draft horses began to twitch their ears and snort, sensing what we could not yet see.

  Out of the fog, they emerged.

  Slow, shuffling figures in rusted iron. There were many of them, but that was only half the trouble. Zombies can be killed. Zombies are just meat past its expiration date.

  The real trouble came next.

  Above the formation of the dead, three white, translucent figures soared into the air.

  Ghosts of the fallen, woven from pure malice and madness.

  They opened their mouths, and the world exploded inside our skulls.

  It wasn't just a scream. It was an ice hammer striking straight into the brain. A mental attack, ignoring armor.

  "AAAAAEEEEEEEE!!!"

  The effect was instantaneous.

  The caravan horses went mad. Animals cannot stand the smell of the undead and the sound of death. The lead team reared up, snapping their traces. The wagon tilted, a wheel burst with a crack, and the heavy van crashed onto its side, crushing a hesitating guard under its weight.

  Cages flew open. Wolves, crazed with terror, bolted into the forest, biting everything in their path.

  "Form up!!!" roared the Sergeant. "Gisel! RALLY! BLOW THE HORN! WAVE THE RAG!"

  Gisel, our reluctant Standard-Bearer, tried. Honestly.

  He raised the banner. He drew breath into his chest to shout something inspiring...

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  "Uhh... Lads? According to safety regulations, we should..."

  His voice cracked into a squeal. The Ghost's scream crushed his will. Gisel's hands went limp, and he dropped the banner.

  Our new recruits broke first.

  Huner, our "artilleryman," dropped his darts with a wail and threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his hands.

  Vol-Casanova, accustomed to fleeing, did what he did best — bolted into the bushes faster than a deer.

  Gunt, the veteran sniper, drew his bow. His hands weren't shaking — muscle memory took over. He picked a target.

  Twang.

  The arrow flew dead center into the white figure. But at the last moment, the Ghost twitched, shifted, as if painted on water that had been struck by a stick. The arrow passed a micrometer from its "head" into thin air.

  "Impossible to aim..." Gunt whispered. "It flickers... It's not where I see it!"

  Panic overtook the sniper. He dropped his bow.

  "Hit them with the whip!" Gunther squealed. "Djamil, use the whip! They have low HP!"

  Djamil the Eunuch swung. He was the only one of the newbies who retained a drop of composure thanks to his professional malice.

  Crack!

  The strike was good. But the enemy moved faster than thought. It glided aside, ignoring the inertia of a living body. The tip of the whip cut the air where the ghost had been a fraction of a second ago.

  "Miss!" Djamil yelled. "They dodge! You can't hit them!"

  And in the center of this bedlam, the main drama unfolded.

  The third wagon, where the Wildman sat, had also overturned. The cage, rickety and old, couldn't withstand the impact. The bars parted.

  The Menagerie Owner, seeing his capital crumbling, rushed to the breach with a riding crop.

  "Back, you beast!" he yelled, trying to drive the captive back inside. "You're worth two hundred crowns!"

  The Wildman climbed out.

  He paid attention neither to the zombies nor to the ghosts. In his primal brain, there was no room for mystical fear, only room for rage.

  He saw the man who had starved him.

  The strike was short. The Wildman didn't even use a weapon. He simply grabbed the Burgher's head with both hands and yanked.

  CRUNCH.

  The sound of breaking cervical vertebrae echoed louder than the wails of the dead.

  The headless body of the owner collapsed into the mud, right at the feet of the advancing zombies.

  The Wildman roared — a sound that made even the ghosts shut up for a second. And then he simply vaulted over the overturned wagon and vanished into the night forest, taking his freedom with him.

  "Contract failed!" Gunther stated. "Client dead! No money!"

  "RUN!" the Captain's voice snapped the remnants of the squad out of their stupor. "Drop everything! Save your souls!"

  It wasn't a retreat. It was a panicked rout.

  We ran, tripping over roots, falling into the mud, losing helmets and the last shreds of our pride.

  Talah ran, clanking with gold like a walking cash register.

  Gisel only picked up the banner because the Sergeant kicked him.

  We stopped only three miles later. The forest was quiet, but that Scream still echoed in our ears.

  Gunther surveyed our "Golden Roster."

  Gunt sat hugging his knees, rocking from side to side.

  Djamil was quietly coiling his now-useless whip.

  Huner was crying.

  "Contract failed," the Accountant said dully. "Cargo destroyed. Reputation in the negative. We won't get a single crown."

  "Be thankful we're alive ourselves," the Sergeant spat. "Did you see that? Ghosts... They don't break bodies. They break ranks."

  Gunther took out his ledger. His hands were shaking.

  "Conclusion: We need a Sergeant. A real one. With a voice louder than death. Gisel isn't cutting it. Gisel is a decoration."

  "And we need silver," Jem added. "Or something that hits spirits."

  We sat by a small fire, afraid to build it up.

  We realized: numbers meant nothing. Armor meant nothing.

  Until we have Resolve — we are just food.

  And somewhere in the thicket, among the wreckage of the caravan, the dead were feasting. And somewhere out there roamed a free Wildman, who now knew that civilized people break very easily if you just yell at them loud enough.