Barrett woke with the stiffness of a man who’d slept like a corpse.

  The cave smelled of iron and wet fur. The goblins lay where they’d fallen, little green corpses folded over each other like messy laundry. Sunlight knifed in through the entrance, painting the mess in cold silver.

  He checked Grimm first. The little black fluff blinked up at him from the creatine tub, eyes like polished beads. The bird gave a soft chirp and ruffled itself. Barrett let out a relieved sound, something between a grunt and a sigh.

  Breakfast was a river away. He shoved his feet into boots and stepped outside, the world was bright, sharp, and entirely his problem again. The water ran cold enough to steal the sleep from him; he cupped his hands, drank, and splashed his face until the groggy cobwebs thinned.

  Back at the cave, he cut into the bear. The meat was gamey and still warm, bleeding dark into the stone. He tore off chunks, heaved them onto a spit, and stowed the rest in the cave’s coolest crevice. He’d wanted the hide, but the skin had gone stiff, and his short window of opportunity had closed. Shame.

  He pictured himself in a bear-pelt cloak, biceps gleaming like some primal warlord. The thought made him grin and shiver all at once.

  “We need a wall,” he muttered at the dead goblins and empty sky. “So this crap doesn’t happen again.”

  Grimm tilted his head as Barrett stripped the axes from a nearby goblin. Then, he went to work.

  The forest smelled of sap and wet earth as he dragged down a young tree. Chop. Drag. Chop. Sweat hit the dirt like rain.

  The rhythm took him. Swing, breathe, swing, and his thoughts drifted to the life he’d left behind. He clenched his jaw and hit harder, burying his memories with motion.

  Chirp.

  “I’ll feed you later,” he said between swings. “Gotta get this up before night if we want any shut-eye.”

  The thought of building a shelter for Grimm lit a fuse in him. Despite the mountain chill, sweat streamed down his back. Each stroke threw droplets into the air. His eyes stung; he wiped them clear and kept cutting.

  He’d ditched his shirt by now. His torso gleamed bronze and corded in the sun.

  “Hell yeah,” he said, admiring the faint steam rising from his skin.

  “Damn, I wish I had a mirror. I just know I look juicy.”

  Chirp

  Barrett laughed. “Believe me, Grimm, nothing worse in life than having this much man and not a single woman around to appreciate it.”

  He sharpened the tips of the logs and planted them upright in a semicircle around the cave mouth. The stakes rose like crude teeth.

  At the far side, he carved a ladder from a felled trunk. A simple creation of rough rungs lashed with goblin leather. He hauled it into place, climbed, tested each step, then pulled it up behind him and hopped down on the far side.

  The river murmured beyond the trees, a sound that loosened the knots in his chest. He studied his new wall, a proud grin spreading under his shades.

  “Damn,” he told Grimm, the little bird perched on the crate, “nothing a real man loves more than fortifications.”

  Chirp.

  He built a fire in a shallow pit, coaxed the flame to life, skewered worms on a wet stick, and roasted them. They hissed and curled in the heat. He chewed without complaint. Protein was protein. Grimm pecked happily at his share of raw, pre-chewed worm. For a moment, life was simple: two survivors and a meal.

  Around the cave entrance, his spoils clustered: broken leather, straps, a handful of rusted knives wired to his belt so that if his machete ever went flying, he still had some bite in his hands.

  When the work was done, he lay back on his pack, eyes tracing the shadow veins along the cave ceiling. The fire’s warmth seeped into him. Outside, the river whispered. Grimm’s tiny sleep-trills filled the gaps.

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  He thought of his team. Arthur, Lance, Granny, and Pippy.

  “Hold on, guys, I’m coming,” he said into the quiet. “Soon. After I get a little stronger.”

  He thought of Tanya and her steel legs, wondering if she had ever thought about him and his biceps. A woman with quads like that had to respect power like his. And she hadn’t been among the traitors…which meant there was still a chance she’d stand with him. Not romantically, of course; she’d already clarified that for technical reasons. But there was something there. He’d find out.

  Grimm was already asleep, tucked in his coat-nest. Barrett watched the little creature for a long moment, then let his eyes close.

  The cave wasn’t a castle. Not yet. But behind those stakes and that ladder for the first time in a long while Barrett felt like the boss of something small and real. That felt like enough for now.

  —

  The next morning, Barrett rose early, fed Grimm, and strapped the bird into a sling made from his ruined coat.

  The dawn light cut through the fog like a blade. His new fire pit smoldered within the walls.

  “Time to go,” he said, slinging the machete over his shoulder.

  He leaned the ladder against the logs, climbed up, then hauled it after him, setting it down on the far side. He hid it beneath the brush, not that anyone had much to steal if they broke into his cave.

  The forest greeted him with silence and dew. This was Goblin country. Barrett reminded himself he wasn’t trapped in here with them. They were trapped in here with him. A wolf in the henhouse.

  He moved carefully, hand brushing the machete’s grip.

  “I’ll teach these bastards to come at a man while he’s sleeping,” Barrett muttered.

  Chirp-chirp.

  “You are one sick bird,” Barrett said, smiling. “But I like it.”

  They moved deeper into the trees.

  Step by slow step.

  Fog parted around him as he walked through. Branches creaked overhead. Somewhere far off, a drop of water fell from a leaf with a quiet plink, loud enough to make his shoulders tense.

  “I’m not scared; you’re scared.”

  Chirp-chirp.

  Barrett chuckled, “Okay, you got me, I’m a little on edge.”

  Then—

  A smell hit him.

  It was sharp and metallic.

  Similar to a monkey smelling its fingers after scratching itself. Barrett, cursed with a morbid sense of curiosity, couldn’t help but inhale again, deeper this time, until he pinned the scent.

  He pushed past a cluster of ferns and halted.

  A clearing opened before him. It was small, circular, damp with morning mist — and littered with bodies.

  Goblin bodies.

  Eight of them? Nine? Hard to tell. They’d been reduced to heaps of hacked limbs and torn torsos, green blood soaking the dirt. Flies buzzed lazily over the carnage.

  At first glance, it was chaos.

  Barrett blinked before his face relaxed again.

  No, it wasn’t chaos.

  It was arranged.

  Arms. Legs. Bits of torso.

  Laid out in jagged shapes.

  He stepped closer, squinting.

  A message.

  Spelled out in goblin parts.

  UR NEXT

  Barrett stared at it for a long moment, rain dripping off the brim of his makeshift sling.

  “…Was that meant for me?”

  Grimm chirped once.

  Barrett rubbed his jaw. “That is…seriously messed up.”

  Another chirp.

  “Yeah, I know,” he sighed. “Worse part is, I don’t even know whether to be flattered or scared.”

  He took one last look at the grotesque message, shook his head, and continued on, mist swallowing the clearing behind him.

  —

  The day passed slowly. He hunted a few stragglers, but nothing to level him up. The woods felt heavier than usual. It was a deep quiet that pressed on the back of your neck.

  When he returned, the sun was low. The first thing he saw was the ladder.

  Leaning against his wall.

  He froze. Grimm shifted in the sling, uneasy.

  Barrett set the bird down behind a rock and drew his machete. Every instinct screamed.

  He moved low and silently along the wall, eyes scanning for motion.

  Nothing outside.

  He climbed in.

  The air inside smelled wrong. Old smoke, blood, and something else. His gear was scattered, packs gutted, ropes and hides thrown across the floor.

  But it was the writing that stopped him cold.

  Goblin blood streaked the walls and the logs:

  DEATH. KILL. DEATH. KILL.

  “What in the name of liberty…” he whispered, lowering his shades.

  The cave seemed to breathe around him. The river sounded far away. A prickle crept up his neck.

  He turned.

  At the tree line, half-hidden in the shadows, stood a figure. Tall. Still. Watching.

  A flash of reflected light, was that his eyes? Glass? Then, the shape vanished.

  Barrett’s grip tightened on the machete until his knuckles went white.

  “Well,” he muttered, breath slow and even. “Looks like we’ve got company.”