Friday began with Rebecca on autopilot. She dressed in the dim light of her apartment and counted her breaths as she laced her boots, because the busy work was easier than thinking about Danny. Staring into the mirror had given her no great insights, no deeper thoughts than the simmering worry that seemed to seep into her eyes. She pushed it down, though, and fixed the lay of her jacket, then made for the hall with a notebook under her arm. She told herself she had a full day and that it would keep her focused. The lie held for the whole stairwell.
The STARS office at RPD HQ smelled like paper, gun oil, and old coffee. Barry’s voice carried down the hall, boisterous and loud as he recanted one old anecdote or another. Rebecca edged past the cramped desks, checked the day board pinned to the corkboard above the radio rack, and moved through the schedule she knew by memory. Morning field medic refreshers. Brief stop at the RPD armory window for a med kit check. Afternoon practical at the basement range to assist with trauma drills. She charted it all in quick notes, then stared at a line where she had written Danny’s name without meaning to. She scratched it out and felt ridiculous for doing it.
She tried to focus on what she needed to do today, but despite that, her mind drifted back to her boyfriend whenever she was distracted. She could see him in her mind where he had been that morning, pacing the length of his apartment with that restless energy that made her want to hold him and tell him it was okay. He was always controlled, even when he was tired or hurting, but that control had felt frayed at the edges in a way she hadn't ever seen in him. Not angry, not... hot, but cold. So very cold and distant, and it had worried her. He had still greeted her with a smile when he saw her, and hugged her and kissed her and wished her a good day, in that way that he did that usually made her heart flutter, but this time... this time it felt... different, and she didn't know how.
They hadn't spent the night together. She had a lot to do today and needed her sleep, and he was many things, but a peaceful sleeper he was not. She'd told herself that was fine, that she had a packed schedule, and he'd always respected that boundary. Then she'd found him awake earlier than usual, drinking that weird coffee he'd found that had enough caffeine to keep her awake for days and that dark, frigid glint in his eye as he stared at nothing. Then he'd smiled at her and told her he had to be out of town for a bit, and he had done it with that careful tone he used when he wasn't saying everything he should have. The way he phrased it seemed innocuous enough, but she could tell. She could always tell, even when she couldn't find the words to ask the questions that she wanted to. But she'd tried anyway.
She had tried to frame it like a favor. 'If I know where, I can help,' she had meant to say. 'If I know what, I can prepare something for when you get back.' The words never left her mouth. She had frozen up in the light of that smile and second-guessed herself into inaction, and now, standing in the office, she hated herself for faltering like that. She really did, and it... it wasn't okay. Not for him to obfuscate, not for her to pry, and so they both wound up circling one another until it was too late to try again. Then she'd gone back to her apartment to get dressed, and his SUV was gone before she got back out to the street.
Rebecca moved through the hallway and took the stairs down to the range annex. The soundproofing did its job. Distant reports reached her as hard thuds, regular and safe. Barry stood at the line with Forest and Chris, the two competing for best shot again. He glanced over his shoulder and gave her a nod before turning back to the two men, as she slipped her cans on, and let herself drift into her thoughts as she found a booth away from the other three. There was a kind of peace to the constant, careful drum of her pistol against the backdrop of the range.
She knew she was asking a lot of Danny, and she knew it wasn’t fair to expect answers he wasn’t ready to give. They hadn’t been in each other’s lives that long, not really, and she had no claim to the years he kept locked down. But it still gnawed at her. The last few months had felt easy. Natural. That one perfect month, where everything had just clicked, had fooled her into thinking the past didn’t matter. But it did. It always did. And Danny didn’t share it. Not the pieces that might’ve explained why he did what he did, and more than that, why it kept coming back to him.
He was open, sure, about the here and now. He’d tell her what he thought about a stupid movie, or how he liked his coffee, or why he hated a particular brand of socks over another. He let her see him tired, let her see him stressed, even let her see him afraid once or twice. He let her hold him when the weight got too much. But when it came to what shaped him, what cut those quiet scars into the way he spoke or stayed quiet, he shut down. He didn’t lie. He just... deflected. Changed the subject. Gave her nothing to dig into. It wasn’t mean, or cold, but it was practiced. That was what worried her, scared her even. What could do something like that to a man who was so happy and open and full of life?
She had theories, but none of them felt right. Maybe it was a sibling, or someone close to him who kept making bad calls, digging themself into a hole they needed him to help them get out of. Maybe he owed something to people he couldn't walk away from, from before his time in Raccoon. Maybe it was something more complicated than the Hollywood plot she was writing in her head, a tangled web that he just couldn't get free of. Whatever it was, it kept pulling him back in, and it was eating at him.
She knew her status as a police officer, as nominal as that was, made it harder. She knew what it would mean if he told her something... bad. That he'd been involved in something illegal, or dangerous, or... or violent. Because he knew the position it would put her in, and part of her, some ugly, tiny part of her that she wished wasn't there, was grateful for it. Because she didn't know what she would do if it came out that he had done something. She always thought of herself as an upstanding, dutiful person, and she believed in what she did for a living, but if it came down to what was right for her, or right by the law... it wasn't a question she had an answer to.
but then, she’d grown up around secrets, around people who thought silence was protection. She'd watched her father wither away as his secrets consumed him, right up until they found him in his car with a barrel in his mouth, and she knew what that kind of quiet could do to a person. She told herself she wouldn’t make the same mistake. But when Danny shut her out, she let it happen. Not because she didn’t care, because she cared too much, and didn’t know how to make him let her in.
Barry’s voice startled her before the ceasefire was even called. “You’re chewing through ammo like it owes you money,” he said, somewhere just behind her booth.
She lowered her pistol, thumbed the mag release, and let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The pause gave her a second to check the time. She hadn't realized that both Forest and Chris were long since gone, and that she'd somehow lost an hour inbetween.
Barry leaned against the divider wall with his arms crossed, watching her with that same patient, knowing look he always had when he saw something in her eyes that even she wasn't sure was there.
“You look like you left part of your head somewhere,” he said. His tone was casual, probing in that way that he did when he read someone like a book.
Rebecca took off her earmuffs and shrugged. “I’m fine. Just burning through the last mag. Bravo has a shoot house run this afternoon. Figured I’d stay loose.”
He nodded but didn’t move. “That why you’ve got that deep-in-the-weeds stare going on?”
“I said I’m fine, Barry.” Her voice came out sharper than she meant. Barry raised an eyebrow at her tone and she winced, breathing out heavily. She softened it with a quieter, “Just... a lot on my mind.”
He studied her for another beat, then pushed off the wall. “Alright, if you say so Rebecca. Just know my door's open if you ever want to talk, alright?”
She gave him a complicated look. “I will, I just need to chew on some things, you know?”
He grinned sympathetically. "Just don't choke on it, okay? No good comes from it.”
And with that, he walked back toward the front of the range, leaving her alone with the smell of cordite and the quiet frustration that she hadn't quite managed to burn off.
She left the annex and cut through the quiet hall toward the break room. The vending machine hummed faintly in the background as she passed the corkboard pinned with old postings and uneven push-pins. One flyer for a weekend hike looked freshly taped. Below it, the notice about the missing girl was still there, the edges curled. No one had taken it down despite the age. Her eyes caught it for a beat longer than she meant before she moved past it. She bought a sandwich she didn’t want and a small orange juice and sat alone in the corner.
She ran through what she wanted to say when Danny came back. She would ask without dancing around it. Not accuse, not corner... just be straight. Ask where he went. Ask why it kept happening. Ask why she wasn’t allowed to help. It sounded simple in her head, but none of it would come out that clean. She didn’t want to push him away, didn’t want to break the careful thing they had built. But she couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t eat at her when he shut her out. If he didn’t want to let her in, that was a choice she could live with, she told herself, but... dancing around it... she didn't know how well she could handle it.
She stared down at the tray. The sandwich tasted like nothing and the juice didn’t help. She forced down a few more bites anyway. She needed to get her head on straight before Bravo’s shoot house rotation. They’d need her sharp. She tried to run through the drill sequence in her head, how she’d fit into the run, what angles to check, but the whole thing felt off. Like going through the motions. It was a bitter realization. She tossed the rest of the sandwich, wiped her hands on a napkin, and stood.
He would come back. She had to believe that. Not because he promised; he hadn’t, but because anything else felt impossible. He'd had that air about him, the one he had when something serious was brewing, and that look in his eyes hadn’t left her since. She didn’t know what was waiting for him, didn’t know what kind of trouble had dug its claws in this time, but it scared her. Because it did something to him, changed him, made him... she didn't have the words. Just a gut-deep fear that whatever it was, it was bad.
But when he came back, and it was when, not if, she’d be there. She wouldn’t dance around it anymore. No more guessing, no more letting the silence stretch between them. She’d ask him to trust her, even if it hurt. Because she cared about him, more than she could admit out loud, and she wanted to protect him, as much as he tried to protect her. So she’d be waiting. For better or worse.
000
The drive into the mountains had gone smoother than expected. The air was cool, the sky overcast, and the roads were empty, not surprising given how hard the effort had been to all but erase this place from the map. The USB stick the Survivalist had given him was still in his pocket, though he'd already scoured everything on it twice over. Sparse notes with pictures that had been taking from an extreme distance. Satellite images with suspicious patches missing or blacked out. Coordinates that seemed to lead to nowhere. Even the dossiers were lean, containing little of value beyond the basics. It was all incredibly frustrating in how sparse it all was. It was enough to get him here, though.
The campground wasn’t on any modern map. The access road narrowed to little more than a scar in the dirt, with roots breaking through cracked pavement and weeds rising waist-high in places. The entire lot was a ruin. Buildings once meant for check-ins and maintenance were barely standing, their roofs caved in and walls sagging under the weight of moss and rot. Collapsed porches and shattered windows stared out from cabins overtaken by ivy and fungus. What had once been a check-in office looked like a fire had taken it at some point, but hadn't spread, the sign hanging off one rusted chain.
Rusting vehicle frames littered the open space ahead, choked by thorn bushes and creeping vines. Windshields were blown out, tires rotted, and entire car bodies had sunk into the dirt from what looked like years of disuse. Moss blanketed the tops, and more than a few small trees had grown up directly through the chassis. It was an odd thing to see, especially the old cars. Why leave them behind?
He let the SUV roll the last few feet beneath the remains of a collapsed pavilion and cut the engine. The structure leaned heavily to one side, its wooden supports bowed with age and rot, one of them snapped entirely and resting at an angle in the dirt. The roof was mostly gone, leaving a ribcage of support beams draped in vines and old bird nests. Moss coated the shaded concrete beneath him, slick and soft under his boots.
He circled to the rear and popped the hatch, dragging out the camo netting from where he had stashed it beneath his pack, and pulled it up and over the SUV, hooking it against the edge of a rusted beam and pulling it tight around the wheel wells. Fallen branches and rotted lumber helped anchor the sides. He took a step back and gave it a look. The vehicle blended in well enough under the debris and moss. Not invisible, but it wouldn’t draw attention. Not unless someone was really looking, and out here, who would be? He had sense enough not to say it out loud.
The familiar weight of the Phalanx vest sat heavy across his shoulders as he locked in the cowl around his neck, the helmet and mask a relatively new addition as they latched in, sealing his face away and bathing his sight in muted green. With that connected, he was able to plug in the armored data cable that lead to the Gridlink, securely held under his backplate. The wires linking the haptic gloves came next, snapping in under the armored gauntlets that ran the length of his forearms, and under his elbow pads. Then, with a flick of his finger, the system came alive, his monolense filled with scrolling information as the minimap and compass populated, as well as the dozen other readouts that seemed to come as part of the package. Weather, temperature, oxygen, filter condition, all of it, giving him an almost unprecedented amount of data.
The exoframe came online with a soft hydraulic hum, another cable linking into it feeding him power levels, assist strain, and weight reduction. He felt it bracing along his shins and thighs as it locked into motion assist mode, the system silently whirring as the unsettling sensation of the weight on his body seemed to redistribute itself.. He felt the heft of his pack lessen instantly, the pressure of his armor and the pull of his weapons cut nearly in half under the support.
The readouts all read green, power was good, strain was well within margins, and while he hadn't had near enough time to acclimate to the system, the exoframe seemed to be everything the Survivalist had promised it to be. The helmet's internal cooling kicked in and he almost felt the breeze from outside despite the enclosed unit from the rush of temperate air that washed over him, and it still threw him how strange it was to see his hands tracked across his helmet from the haptic feedback.
He felt ready. He was ready, this time. He'd packed everything he could, from spare shells and bullets, to four dried green herbs stashed in secured vials in his medical pouch, he wouldn't be caught off guard again. He racked the charging handle of his P90 and let it hang across his chest, and slammed shut the trunk of his car.
The hike started slow. The first stretch was almost pleasant, the trail mostly intact, dirt and gravel winding through the trees in long curves. It didn’t last, of course, because nothing could ever be easy. Within the first mile, the forest started closing in, and by the second, the trail was barely more than a memory. Thick underbrush and fallen limbs forced him off-course more than once, and roots clawed through every step of dirt like tripwires. Branches snagged on his sleeves and helmet, and the slope started to climb harder than it had looked on the map. He'd had to hack away at more than a few tangles with his tomahawk, the wide flat blade large enough to shear through the worst of the grasping branches and vines.
The exoframe helped, but it wasn’t magic. After several hours of uphill slogging and brush-clearing, the muscles in his legs burned deep, and the backs of his shoulders were tight from hauling the pack. By the end of the third mile, he’d had to stop twice just to catch his breath. The internal cooling in the helmet wasn’t enough; the airflow kept the lenses clear, but breathing inside the enclosed system was still hot and thick. He finally popped the seals just long enough to get some proper air, gulping down the sharp tang of pine and damp soil before closing it back up.
He hated how involved the helmet system was. Between the power cables, the audio feed, and the Gridlink tether, taking it off and putting it back on was a chore. If it were just about comfort, he would’ve left it packed. But out here, alone, protection came first. Getting clocked or blinded by a stray branch or worse wasn’t an option. So he dealt with it, breathing hard and sweating under full kit, with four hours of uphill hiking behind him and more still to go.
He checked the HUD. The compass pointed northwest, the waypoint marker pulsing faintly. The ranger station was close, maybe another half mile. That would be the first stop before heading deeper toward the hospital ruins. The Survivalist’s notes said it had been abandoned years ago, but it might still be standing. Shelter was shelter. He pressed forward, boots crunching on loose rock until the tree line thinned, revealing the structure ahead.
It wasn’t much. The roof had collapsed on one side, and what remained leaned like it was about to give. The door was gone, ripped from its hinges, and moss covered most of the siding. He paused just short of the steps and listened. The forest had gone still. No wind, no birds. Just the hum of the Gridlink in his ear. He gripped the P90 a little tighter and stepped inside.
The interior smelled of mold and wet wood, even through his filters. Piles of old paper and broken furniture filled the corners. A desk sat near the center of the room, its surface buried under yellowed folders. Water dripped from the damaged ceiling, each drop echoing faintly in the quiet. He could see where the roof had caved in, light pushing through the cracks in dull shafts. The place had clearly been left in a hurry. Cabinets stood open, drawers half-pulled, and scattered across the floor were remnants of what might have once been reports or logs. None of it meant much now. The building was secure, far as he could see.
He found a stool that still looked sturdy and took a seat, the wood groaning under his weight. For the first time since he had left the SUV, he let himself rest. Sipping from the camelback, the warm water welcome as the pressure lifted off his legs and for a moment he just sighed at the relief. The silence... it bothered him, at least a bit. He was no outdoorsman, and didn't know if that was just... something that happened in the woods or if something caused it, but he kept his eyes peeled regardless. He was on edge, too, even as he tried to get his breath back.
A faint scrape cut through the quiet like metal on wood, slow, deliberate. Daniel was on his feet before the second sound came, the stool sliding back behind him with a low groan. The weight of his P90 steadied in his hands, barrel tracking the far wall. Another sound. Something small. Movement, just outside his field of view. The silence that followed felt too complete, like the whole world had stopped breathing.
He moved toward the hallway with slow, measured steps. The beam of his weapon light pushed forward but didn’t do much against the shadows. The hallway walls were lined with rotting wood, patches of moss and black mildew creeping down from the corners. Daylight speared in through the holes in the roof, sharp beams that caught on floating dust, but the deeper he went, the dimmer it got. There was only one door still closed. He eyed it, the only intact structure in a place otherwise gutted.
He stepped close and pressed his ear to the door, pulse ticking steadily in his throat. Nothing. No breath, no movement. Just dead silence. He exhaled through his nose and shifted his stance, hand reaching for the knob. The hinges didn’t even creak when he opened it. Just a soft sway of old wood into a room that hadn’t seen movement in years.
The room beyond was small, stripped bare. No furniture except for a broken chair and an overturned filing cabinet. A window looked out into the trees, the glass long gone. He swept the corners once, twice, then lowered his weapon slightly. Whatever had made the sound wasn’t here. He started to turn, then stopped. A planter sat under the window, and something was growing from it. Not weeds. Not any plant he recognized. The stalk was thick, almost swollen, the petals broad and glossy with colors that didn’t belong in nature. The reds were too deep, the yellows too sharp. Veins ran through it in patterns that looked wrong, the petals fleshy and throbbing. He leaned closer, and the head almost seemed to follow him, but... no, his mind was playing tricks on him.
Above the plant hung something caught in a tangle of branches fused together with a hardened amber resin. A necklace, glinting faintly in the light. The chain was gold, the pendant silver, simple and small. He hesitated before reaching up, tugging it free. The branches cracked as it came loose. The pendant fell into his hand with more weight than it looked like it should have. He turned it over once, studying the faint engraving on its surface, then pocketed it. He had no idea who 'DL' was, but it didn't really matter.
The strange plant altar, though, that had his attention. It was... strange, and disconcerting to say the least. He knew that something was happening up here, and that was just one more indicator that things were more complicated than he might have thought, originally. Zombies didn't build altars. That took a thinking mind, one obsessed enough to make an arts and crafts project out of a fucked up flower and a bunch of debris. The last thing he wanted to deal with was something with enough wits left to be clever.
He left the room as quiet as he had entered. Back in the main area, he let out a slow breath, scanning the corners again. Nothing had moved. But as he glanced at the corkboard by the wall, something caught his attention. Most of the papers were faded to near-white, but not all. A few looked newer, still legible. He stepped closer, brushing the dust aside with his glove. They weren’t memos or park updates. They were missing persons reports. Dozens of them, maybe more. The photos showed men, women, kids. The earliest he could read was dated in the early 90s. The most recent was from last year. But... this place looked like it had been left to rot for years. It was then that the little details started to stick out. The blown out radio that rested against the wall, the sheer amount of abandoned paperwork that seemed to be everywhere, the window glass that was scattered inside the building, and the small bits of decor that had been left to rot on the walls, from posters to paintings to a stuffed elk head, proudly displayed over an overgrown fireplace.
Daniel began to suspect that this place hadn't been abandoned naturally, that something had come for it. Something had come, and taken anyone here in the process, willing or not.
000
The hike from the station started quietly. Too quietly. Daniel had thought he'd grow used to the hanging silence, but the dead air haunted him. The woods here sounded hollow, like the air itself had been drained of life. Every step he took sank into the wet underbrush with a dull thud, echoing faintly against the trees. No insects chirped. No birds startled at his movement. Even the occasional breeze seemed to die before reaching the forest floor. The longer he climbed, the heavier it felt, the stillness pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake. His own breathing was the only constant, muffled by the mask, punctuated by the soft hiss of the exoframe’s servos.
The climb became grueling fast. He wove through fallen gullies and stepped over slick roots that tangled together like veins underfoot. Twice, he had to stop and check the Gridlink to make sure he hadn’t veered off course. The readings confirmed he was still on the right heading, but it didn’t help the fatigue creeping into his legs. Sweat built under the armor despite the cold, pooling at his collar and trickling down his back. He could smell the forest through the filters, the wet soil, rot, and dampness thick in the air. The walls of trees seemed to close around him, trapping him, the claustrophobic crush choking. He pushed forward, telling himself to just keep moving, knowing that the only way to go was forward.
An hour passed. Then another. The trees began to change, thinning little by little until the first traces of sunlight broke through. The light was weak, pale through the canopy, the dying light of evening fast approaching. The golden rays seemed muted, sterile, catching flickers of something in the air that vanished as quickly as it came. The ground evened out, the steep incline softening as his boots found purchase on the clumped earth, and then, as if breaching an unseen barrier, he passed through the deep woods.
He froze. The ground before him rolled out into a wide field, stretching far into the slope above. At first glance, it looked almost beautiful, a carpet of flowers moving gently with the wind. But the longer he stared, the more wrong it seemed. The stems were too thick, the petals too glossy, almost wet, as the colors blended together in diseased hues. The plants pulsed faintly, slow and rhythmic, like breathing. He realized too late that he had stepped on a few of them. The blooms popped wetly under his boots, releasing clouds of yellow powder that clung to his visor in a fine film.
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The HUD lit up instantly with an air quality warning. Toxin unknown, strength unknown, effects unknown, but thick enough to be almost blinding in the air. He swore under his breath, moving quick to wipe away the pollen with his gloved hand. The air shimmered faintly in the sunlight, a haze of drifting spores that thickened with every step he took. The scent that managed to leak through stank of rotting fruit and pungent meat. He moved faster, his breath ragged in the mask as the ground squelched beneath him. His system registered increasing toxicity, and the readouts pulsed red in warning. Every few steps another burst of pollen shot up, and his chest tightened. He kept going, forcing himself through the field until the first trees came back into view. Only when the green light on his HUD returned to stable did he stop and take a long, careful breath.
The path ahead wasn’t natural. The dirt was packed down from use, cutting through the forest like a scar. He crouched and ran his hand over the surface. Boot prints. Not old ones, either. A few had sharp edges, the soil still slightly soft. His stomach sank. Someone had been through here recently, or was still nearby. He rose slowly, scanning the tree line, finger tight on the trigger. The wind picked up again, whistling faintly through the branches. For a second, he thought that was all it was.
Then the sound came. Fast. Heavy. Something crashing through the undergrowth to his left. He barely had time to move before it lunged from the brush. A flash of gray and brown slammed against his arm, jaws snapping with wet force. He caught it midair with a swing of his forearm, sending it tumbling. The creature hit the ground with a strangled yelp, and he saw its shape clearly for the first time. A wolf, or what was left of one. Patches of bark and twisted plant matter grew from its body. The eyes were milky, the mouth foaming. Vines twitched along its neck where muscle should have been.
Another hit him from behind, jaws clamping onto the shoulder plate and scraping against the armor. He twisted, grabbing it by the skull and feeling the bone give under his grip. The head split open, soft and wet like rotted wood. His glove came away slick with black-green pulp. He flung the carcass aside just as something yanked his weapon arm backward. He turned and saw thick vines coiled around his wrist, leading back to a third wolf long tentacles emerging from it’s spine, dragging against him with all its might.
The exoframe strained as he fought the tension. The motors whined. He pulled hard, jerking the creature off its feet, then stomped down with all his weight. The crunch was sharp, followed by a spray of resin that splattered across his boots. He barely had time to pivot before another charged from the trees. He squeezed the trigger, the P90 barking in short bursts. The rounds tore through it, the bullets punching holes in flesh and vine alike until the animal went down in a shuddering heap. Silence followed, deep and sudden.
Then came the howls. Four, maybe five. Distant, then closer. They were circling. He didn’t stop to think. He ran. The exoframe’s assist kicked in, propelling him forward faster than his legs alone could manage. The ground was uneven, roots snagging at his boots, branches clawing at his armor, but he didn’t stop. The growls were behind him, the sound of claws tearing through dirt. He turned once to fire, catching two more shapes mid-sprint before the magazine ran dry. He didn’t bother reloading.
The trees broke open ahead, revealing the outline of a cabin. The structure leaned to one side, weathered and windowless. The door hung crooked on a single hinge. He sprinted harder, the exoframe’s servos whining under the strain. He could feel the air shift behind him, the press of movement too close for comfort. He drew his pistol, and fired blindly over his shoulder, hearing a yelp of pain but not daring to look back. More had burst from the woods, nearly a dozen at a glance. Then he was through the door, slamming it shut with both hands. The latch bar came down with a metallic thud just as something hit the other side hard enough to rattle the frame. Another blow followed. Then silence.
He waited, breath steady but quick, eyes on the door. The scratching faded, followed by the soft rustle of something moving away through the leaves. He held still for a long moment before lowering the weapon. Taking a moment to swap the magazine of his P90, he took in the tiny cabin that had been his bastion.
The first thing he noticed was the mess. The cot in the corner was drenched dark red, stained with streaks of yellow resin. The cabinets stood open, their shelves bare or broken. Papers lay scattered across the floor, some waterlogged, others torn. The smell hit him next, thick and foul, a mix of iron and decay. The air inside the cabin was worse than the field. It reeked of death.
He moved slowly, muzzle tracking each corner. When he was sure the place was empty, he slung the weapon across his chest and knelt beside the broken table. Pinned across the walls were photos and newspaper clippings, curling from age. Strings connected them in jagged lines across the boards. Most were too faded to make out, but some were clear enough; shots of the old hospital, group portraits of staff, names underlined in red ink. The faces of missing people he’d seen back at the ranger station were there too. Dozens of them.
On the table sat a notebook, its cover warped from water damage. He brushed it off and opened it. The handwriting was erratic, the pages filled with overlapping sentences. He read what little he could: “They’re watching. They know I tried to stop it.” Several pages talked about experiments, using terms and codes that Daniel couldn't begin to guess at, before rolling back into a string of incoherent apologies and rambling accusations. It was clear whoever had written the journal had been unraveling, and badly at that. The name inside was scrawled on the back cover, of one Dr. Harold Collins, though the name meant nothing to Daniel.
Worse yet, he found another of those strange altars, this one a planter with three withered flowers, their blooms crushed. The same strange wooden effigy of resin and branches sat above it though, this time with a rough cut gemstone, hued green, pressed into the sticky material. Daniel pried it out, and shoved it into his treasure pocket, he was starting to call it, but made note of the presence of the strange and almost lovingly assembled icon. This one was more complex than the last, looking almost like some kind of great tree, but the similarity ended there.
He closed the book, the pages crackling as they settled, and shoved it into his pack. Outside, the woods had gone quiet again, but it didn’t feel empty. Daniel waited a long time before moving again, long enough that his heartbeat slowed and the tension in his arms began to fade. He stepped closer to the boarded window, careful not to make noise, and peered through a narrow gap. The field behind the cabin was half?consumed by those same fleshy blooms, their stems bending gently with the wind. Even from where he hid, he could tell the plants had slowly begun overtaking the mountainside, growing up trees and strangling the undergrowth, killing it and turning it into more fertilizer for the seemingly unending field of blooms.
There was little else to find, but he took the time to reload his spent magazine, and replace the few lost pistol rounds. He had a feeling he would have precious few chances to do so again. He knew the dogs were still out there, the undead, infected things just waiting for him, but he had a plan.
Drawing a flashbang from his belt, he pulled the pin, and readied himself. The firing switch on the P90 was set to a three round burst, and he knew he needed to be careful not to burn out this magazine like he had the last. Focus, and patience. John's lesson on it sat in his mind as he slowly lifted the latch, and as the metal scraped the wood, he could hear the soft patter of paws against the ground.
The door cracked, just enough, for his hand to flash out, and as soon as he did, the howl of the wolves met him, a heavy weight slamming against the thin barricade moments before the sharp crack and blinding flash overtook the pack. he threw the door open as soon as the pained yelps reached his ears, and the hiss-crack of the P90 filled the air as he duped half a dozen rounds into one flailing wolf, and then another, and another, four dying before they began to recover, only for Daniel to toss a second flashbang, slamming shut the door and stunning the wolves again. The rapid fire of his SMG filled the air, and he counted ten of the creatures still on the ground when he finished.
He swapped his near-empty magazine for a fresh one in the silence of the woods, listening for more howls, more patters of paws on the packed dirt, but there was nothing. By now the sun had climbed lower, touching the tips of the trees, the red-gold orb bathing everything in ethereal light, as Daniel took stock of the creatures. They had been wolves, he was right about that, but whatever had happened to them, it had changed them in ways that were both haunting and terrible. Their skulls had become host to some sort of parasitic plant, that had tun it's vines through their bodies, controlling them like puppets. The effect seemed to feed on their bones and organs, or what was left of them, filling their guts with a viscous sap, and despite their aggression, their bodies were soft, rotting... being consumed.
Daniel gave a soft shudder as he realized what had likely happened to all those missing people, even as he stood, the pinging of his next waypoint hovering in the corner of his eye as he spotted the edge of the Arklay Hospital's roof in the distance, and with it, the source of whatever this nightmare seemed to be.
000
The approach to the hospital gates had been worse than Daniel expected. The woods were a mess of ruined trails, thick patches of those same toxic flowers, and scattered remnants of the dogs he hadn’t managed to kill. Finding the old road that had lead to the hospital proper had felt like a win when he first found it, but all that did was make it easier for things to find him in turn. He’d already taken down three more of the infected wolves along the last stretch, each one more twisted and aggressive than the last, before they'd stopped coming from the thick underbrush, and even then he could still hear howls and scrabbling paws in the distance every so often. The road itself was a ruin of potholes hidden by soft mossy overgrowth and cracked, uneven concrete slabs, many of which hid blooms of those toxic flowers, just waiting for him to bumble over.
Still, he'd managed to make it before the sun fully set, as the gate loomed over him, half-swallowed by vines and rusted shut. The metal fencing had long since buckled under the weight of the growth, and the concrete pillars that held it were cracked and leaning. It was nearly impossible to shift, and he'd given up on the effort. There was no way it was going to go anywhere, so he needed a new angle.
The perimeter of the hospital was no better. Thick concrete walls with rusted security barbs lined the campus proper, and much of it was covered in slick moss that made climbing a fool's errand, at least at first. He did find a solution eventually, with another half hour of searching and another encounter with a set of those damn dogs, but it was far from perfect. A deadfall had landed across the barricade, a thick, old tree that had been severed at the base and hung precariously over the wall.
Scaling it would be a challenge, Daniel knew, but the real issue came once he was over, because there wouldn't be a way back once he dropped down. There was no going back, not really. He hadn't thought to bring rope, another oversight, so if he went this way, he was committed. The other option meant wandering the woods in increasingly dark conditions hoping to find some other way through, which had it's own risks. Neither were great options.
Which was how he found himself shimmying up the deadfall, the bark rough and bristling under his weight and he worked his way up. He'd had more than a few heartstopping moments getting up there, with every shift of the tree's weight sending it shivering or tilting. It wasn't nearly as solid as he'd hoped, and as he crossed the broken security spikes, he was finally able to grab a look at the campus proper.
The hospital sat beyond, towering above the trees like a monument to something that had long since been consumed. Its once-white stone was streaked with mold and years of water damage, pockmarked by cracked windows and jagged holes where the structure had begun to collapse. The sleek lines of its neo-modern design were barely visible beneath the layers of filth and decay, with entire sections of the facade overtaken by strangling walls of vine-thick growth. The eastern wing looked like it had been swallowed whole, its windows punched out and filled with root bundles that pulsed like arteries. The plant matter wasn't just wrapped around the building, it had become part of it, fused into its walls, slithering in and out of shattered concrete like a living parasite.
From the roof rose a bloom so massive it swallowed the dying sunlight. Easily the size of an aircraft, the flower sat in full, obscene bloom, its petals wet and glistening with some kind of viscous resin that shone even in the overcast light. It loomed like a crown over the hospital, tilting just slightly as if it were searching, or hunting. The sight of it churned something deep in Daniel’s gut. This wasn't just random overgrowth, it had been allowed to reach this overlarge and all-consuming cancer. Whatever had taken root here hadn’t just corrupted the structure. It had claimed it, body and soul.
He'd hesitated for a moment, as he took in the infected building, for there was no other way to describe it, when he heard the ominous sound of the tree under him beginning to give way. Sounds like sharp gunshots began filling the air as the wood under him splintered, and the choice of staying or going was stolen from him. He dropped, not willing to wait for the tree to splinter, but it was barely enough as he was forced to scrabble away, the log finally giving way under it's own weight, nearly crushing him under a hundred pounds of deadwood as it fell.
On the other side, the smell hit him full force. The ground was covered in bodies, some barely recognizable as human, others half-consumed by roots. Thick, pulsing cords ran through their skin, connecting them to the earth. Their faces were pale and stretched, their eyes glazed over with sap leaking from the corners. He could see movement beneath the skin, small bulges shifting like worms. The sickly yellow resin that oozed from their mouths and noses glistened in the low light.
At first, he thought they were corpses. Then one twitched. Then another. The sound of cracking joints filled the air as several began to rise, jerking upright like puppets yanked by invisible strings. The vines that bound them flexed and curled, lifting them halfway off the ground. One by one, they turned toward him. There was no sound, no groaning, no snarling. Just that awful, deliberate movement as they stared at him with hollow, sap-filled eyes.
Daniel brought the P90 up, sighted it's head, and fired. The three-round burst tore into the nearest creature, splitting through the strange, wooden growth that sprouted from it's skull in a spray of resin. It didn’t even notice. He fired again, then again, the rounds punching through and tearing chunks free, but the thing kept coming. It lurched forward, dragging itself across the ground, its arm splitting apart into writhing vines that shot toward him. One lashed around his leg, pulling tight before he could move. He hit the ground hard, armor scraping against the concrete, as the thing dragged him in with surprising force.
He switched to full-auto, squeezing the trigger until the weapon clicked dry. The rounds shredded the plant-man, bursting chunks of tissue and spraying sap across his visor, but it still moved, twitching like something refusing to die. He dropped the gun, letting it hang, and tore at the vine, grabbing his tomahawk from his belt and hacking until the grip loosened. When the last strand snapped, he stumbled back to his feet, panting, heart hammering against his chest.
There were more. Six at least, maybe seven. The one he’d torn free from was still writhing, limbs jerking as it tried to rise again. The others shuffled closer, some dragging what was left of their bodies, others standing crooked on half-grown limbs of hardened resin. He could hear the creak of the roots under their skin with every step. He reached for the Saiga slung across his back, snapping the stock into place. The first slug hit the already wounded creature square in the chest, blasting it off its feet. It landed hard and tried to push itself up again. The second shot caught it in the head. The bloom sprouting from its skull exploded into fragments, spraying wet pulp across the dirt. This time, it stayed down.
He barely had a second before the others reached him. The vines lashed out again, quick and sharp, slapping against the armor and leaving wet streaks. He fired, the shotgun’s roar echoing through the courtyard. The slugs hit hard, knocking two back, but they didn’t stay down. The last slug roared into the air, hitting another in it's head, but the damage just wasn't enough. Resin and sap splattered the walls, but the things just kept coming. When his magazine ran dry, he could already see more shapes crawling free from the growths around the bodies on the ground.
He didn’t wait. Slinging the Saiga, he turned and ran, weaving between rusted vehicles and overgrown debris. His boots splashed through puddles of stagnant water and resin as he hunted for any kind of escape, any sort of barricade to put between him and the creatures. Salvation came in the form of a one-way metal security door. It sat shut, but he knew just the trick to get it open, and time was running out. He reached it in three strides, drawing his crowbar from the side pouch and jamming it into the gap. The metal groaned, bending just enough for him to pull the latch from it's strike plate. He had to heave, hard, as the creatures shambled closer, once, twice- the third time was the charm as the door opened inwards, the old metal finally giving enough to let him in.
He stumbled through and spun on his heel, slamming his shoulder into the now-open door, forcing it shut just as the first vines started to curl around the frame. The latch was loose, but the door still had a deadbolt, and Daniel twisted it shut, slamming the rod into place.
Something hit the other side almost immediately, hard enough to rattle the hinges. He stepped back, pulling his pistol, as scraping sounds filled the air. The noise of claws, or vines, dragged across the door, searching for purchase, but none came. After a long minute, it went still. The only sound left was the soft drip of water from a broken pipe somewhere above him.
He glanced around. The room was small, a janitor’s closet or maintenance office by the look of it. Old lockers lined one wall, and a desk sat half-collapsed in the corner. Everything was covered in overgrowth and dust, the air thick with the smell of mildew and rust. It wasn’t much, but it was safe, for now. Daniel took a slow breath and lowered his weapon, the weight of exhaustion setting in. He knew the noise would draw more of them soon, but for the moment, all he could do was breathe and plan his next move.
000
Alyssa Ashcroft had regrets. That was a mild statement, really, but also incredibly, depressingly accurate. The plan had seemed so simple on paper. Drive up the mountain, hike to the ruins of an old hospital, look around long enough to prove to herself that the dreams weren’t real, and finally put them to rest. It was supposed to be cathartic, maybe even healing. Instead, the plan had functionally fallen apart almost as soon as she set out and she hadn't realized it. The closer she came to the place, the more wrong it all felt. The deeper she went, the worse her feelings, her gut, that she had once trusted implicitly, had started screaming at her more and more.
Seven hours and five miles of climbing had chewed through her optimism and spit it out somewhere along the way. She’d started the hike with her head up and shoulders squared, confident that this was going to be the trip that finally let her bury the ghosts. Her goals had felt clear. She was going to face the dreams, stare them down in broad daylight, and prove to herself they were nothing but delusions. That certainty didn’t survive the first few hours. What had once been her old adventure trails had been consumed by the woods, nature taking back the once well-maintained paths, the roads swallowed by the underbrush. They were barely recognizable even when she tried to follow her old maps, the signs and clear-cut sections hidden by moss and branches. She’d forgotten how long hikes like this could break you down. Her mood had crumbled fast, along with her pace, until she found herself more focused on just putting one foot in front of the other than anything else.
The chill in the air should’ve helped, but it didn’t. The exertion left her soaked, sweat clinging to her undershirt, while the cold still managed to cut through the heavier layers. Her hiking boots were new and well made, but her feet had lost their calluses. Now they ached and throbbed with every step, her toes jammed tight in the stiff soles, her socks damp and already starting to rub in places that would blister later. She’d worn a proper trail pack, and it wasn’t even heavy, but the shoulder holster underneath her jacket threw her balance off just enough that she found herself drifting side to side as she trudged uphill. The pistol felt foreign on her body, not heavy, but present in a way that tugged at her awareness constantly. It was supposed to be a safety blanket. Instead, it just reminded her that she hadn’t done this kind of thing in years, and that she was getting in way over her head.
Things had gone downhill after the first ridge. The deeper she pushed into the woods, the more unnatural it became. The sounds of life had faded completely. The chirp of birds, the buzz of insects, the rustling of small animals, all gone. Even the wind had disappeared, leaving the trees stock still and silent. It was like the forest had stopped breathing, afraid to garner the attention of some great, unknowable thing. The silence didn’t feel peaceful. It pressed in on her, dense and stifling, until even the crunch of her boots against the trail felt invasive, too loud, like she was intruding on a place that didn’t want her there. She’d pause often, holding her breath and straining to hear anything else. Every time, there was nothing.
And yet, the sense of being watched never left her. It wasn’t just paranoia. It dug into something deeper, something ancient and instinctual. Her body felt it before her brain did. That uneasy tension in her shoulders. The subtle quickening of her pulse. The way her eyes kept darting to shadows just outside her line of sight. Every crooked tree seemed to loom closer, leaning just a little too far into the path. The vegetation pressed in, the transition from the sparse and manicured copses she'd once known to true and real Deep Woods, forcing her to pick her way through thickets and gullies, the loose, thorny brush pulling at her clothing like hungry, grasping claws. Every branch that snapped underfoot made her flinch. Every brush of leaves against her jacket sent a jolt through her chest. She hadn’t seen anything, but she felt it. Something was there. Something was waiting.
She’d tried to stay on what was left of the trail, but it had been almost completely erased, what remained barely a suggestion of a path beneath the tangled roots, clinging ferns, and decaying underbrush. When the trail vanished outright, she relied on fragmented memory, navigating by old instincts as she hacked her way through gullies choked with brambles and brush that clawed at her legs and sleeves. The terrain turned wild and aimless, trees leaning too close together, their branches knitted with vines and rot.
Once or twice, she stumbled into patches of flowers, blood red and sickly yellow things with ugly wide-petaled blooms that stank like decaying meat, with a sheen that made them look wet and overripe. They looked wrong, too fleshy somehow, their pulpy stems twitching in the corners of her vision. Instinct screamed at her to avoid them, and she obeyed without hesitation, giving each growth a wide berth as she pushed onward. It wasn’t until later that she noticed the ground beneath them always dipped inward, soft and damp, sunken like something had been buried there. Like something had fed them.
By the fifth hour, her nerves were raw. That was when she started hearing the sounds. Pops, sharp and distant, echoing off the mountains. Her first thought was that they were fireworks, an innocent, instinctual thing, but they came again, in groups of three, a pause, then again. Controlled bursts. Gunfire. She knew the sound too well to mistake it from her years reporting in some of the most dangerous places in the country. Whoever was shooting was far away, but not far enough, and she feared running into them. For the first time, she thought about turning back. She stood on the trail, clutching her pack strap and staring down the slope. The forest behind her looked darker than before. She almost took that first step down. Almost.
Then she saw him.
At first, he was just movement between the trees, a shape shifting behind the trunks. Too far to see clearly. She thought maybe it was a figment of her imagination, a trick of the light, until he came closer. The figure moved with slow, deliberate strides, and she caught flashes of bare skin strangely colored, even in the dim light, and mottled, like the figure had some kind of mange. They wore no shirt, no jacket, but seemed unbothered by the brisk cold the the November evening. They wore a black hood, one that reminded her of some kind of last-century executioner, pulled tight around their head, and in his right hand he carried what she thought was a staff until the light caught the edge of metal. It was an axe. A logging axe, long-handled, with a broad, dark blade that looked like it had been dipped in tar.
Her stomach turned to ice. She froze in place, unable to will her legs to move as the figure continued forward, one slow step after another. Each scrape of the axe through dead leaves sent a jolt through her. Her hands trembled, her voice cracking despite the effort to sound firm. "Hey!" she called out, trying to make herself sound bigger, braver than she felt. "Stop right there!" The man didn’t so much as flinch. He just kept walking, his gait even, his face unreadable beneath the hood.
Her heart pounded in her ears. The distance between them closed inch by inch, the crunch of underbrush beneath his boots like a drumbeat to her panic. She raised her voice again, louder this time. "I said stop! I mean it!" He didn’t. The axe lifted slightly, raising it, readying it, as he stalked forward. That was all it took to snap the last thread of her nerves. She drew the pistol, hands shaking so badly that she had to steady one with the other. The barrel bobbed as she aimed. "I’m warning you! Don’t come any closer!"
He didn’t answer. He didn’t blink. He didn’t hesitate. She squeezed the trigger. The first shot rang out, loud and sharp. It caught him in the shoulder, knocking him back a half step... but he didn’t fall. Her second shot hit him dead center in the chest. He staggered again, only slightly. The wounds didn’t bleed. Instead, a thick, yellowish fluid oozed out of him, sluggish and sticky like resin or sap. It dripped down the front of his chest in slow trails that glistened in the dying light.
And still, he kept coming. No sound. No cry of pain. Just that steady, relentless walk. Alyssa’s stomach dropped as the truth hit her in full. Her gun might as well have been a toy. Whatever this thing was, it didn’t feel pain. It didn’t bleed. But it was coming, coming for her, the massive figure growing larger with every footfall, and she guessed him to be nearly seven feet tall, to her paltry five foot nine. His hand reached for her, it's massive, thick fingers grasping for her, and she didn't want to know what would happen if he caught her.
Panic took over. She turned and ran, the trail blurring under her feet as branches whipped across her face and arms. Her pack bounced wildly against her spine, and the pistol felt useless in her hand. She fired again without aiming, the noise deafening in the confined space of the trees, but it didn’t matter. She could hear him behind her, steady as ever. Each footfall coming down the like thundering of a giant, and no matter how fast she ran he always seemed to be right on her tail. That steady rhythm of footsteps and the occasional scrape of metal on stone were whispering all the most terrible fates to her fear-stricken mind.
The wall appeared out of nowhere. Ten feet of weather-stained concrete covered in thick overgrowth, circling what remained of the hospital grounds. She didn’t slow, even as she forced herself through the brambles. She followed the wall, searching for a way through. Her lungs burned. Her throat tasted like iron. Then she saw it; a section that had collapsed, leaving a hole just barely wide enough for her to force herself through if she were just fast enough! She sprinted for it, shoving herself in, the stone rubbing her raw and digging into her, but she wasn't quite fast enough to get through before his hand caught her sleeve. The grip was iron-hard, yanking her backward so hard that she was almost pulled through the crack again. She screamed, twisting, and the fabric tore, her struggling ripping her coat in two as the man yanked it through. She fell, scraping her palms bloody against the rocky ground, but the thundering adrenaline that pumped through her numbed the pain. She had escaped, for now.
Cold air hit her skin like a lash, as she dropped the other half of her ruined jacket on the ground. The November chill sank in immediately, but she didn’t care. She pushed herself up and ran again, cutting across the overgrown lot toward the looming shadow of the hospital itself. The building towered above her, an effigy consumed by the forest, and the roof…
Somewhere in the distance, a deep, heavy gunshot cracked the air, then another, and another, a different weapon this time, something with a large bore. She turned toward the sound. Someone else was here? It had to be the person she'd heard before! It was a long shot, but if she could find them, maybe... maybe they could help her? Maybe she could help them? If nothing else, maybe they could help scare off the strange, hooded Axeman that had chased her here.
She didn’t think. She just moved. Her muscles screamed in protest, but adrenaline kept her upright. She stumbled over a rusted handrail, nearly falling before catching herself against a wall. The hospital loomed closer with each step, its entrance half buried by tangled vines. A side door hung crooked on its hinges, swaying slightly in the wind. Alyssa grabbed the handle, shoved it open, and slipped inside, her breath ragged and her pulse hammering in her ears. The door slammed shut behind her with a hollow echo, cutting off the sound of the forest. She leaned against it for a long second, forcing herself to breathe.
Outside, the mountain was silent again. The Axeman was gone, hopefully for good, and she had other things she wanted to get done in this nightmarish place that felt all too familiar. But in that silence, she could almost swear she still heard him moving beyond the wall, seeking a way in, seeking her... no, she wasn't going to think about that, she swore, but as the dark halls of the decrepit building stretched before her, she couldn't help but ask herself, 'What now?'
