CW: electrocution of living beings
You gather for your task. The hush that's fallen over the Bastion crackles with fear, punctuated by the sounds of preparation: fences fortified, weapons drawn, loved ones held close.
Raindrop is with you, and she's brought The Saint along, too. You're not sure what to make of that suit of armour with a voice, but there's safety in numbers, you suppose. While they finish their own preparations, gathering tools for traps they plan to set up, you keep close to Raindrop, trying to tread the line between preaching and pleading. 'If we find one away from the pack, we should talk to it, Raindrop. I know you don't want to hear it, but Lottie wasn't dead until we killed her. We can't do that again. I can't see that again.'
Raindrop doesn't respond. You hope it's regret rather than ignorance that causes her silence.
You are suddenly aware of a pain at the top of your back, between your shoulder blades. You reach back to touch it, and the pressure of your hand against the coarse skin is enough to dispel the ache.
Few words are exchanged between you on your travels. Raindrop takes the lead, eyes darting back and forth; The Saint follows from behind, metal-clad figure seeming to absorb all light.
This gives you the chance to do your own scouting. With no signs of infected for a while, you allow your focus to drift to your other search - and catch the sight of a tiny piece of canvas, wrapped around a branch off your path. And as you do, Raindrop and The Saint notice something too. Without a word, they flit away in the opposite direction to your discovery, leaving you free to follow the fabric's directions into an obscured clearing.
An empty tent.
A broken promise.
A dead dream.
The canvas ripples with the leaves as a coarse breeze sweeps through it. It is pure chance that you found it, hidden as it is amongst the brush and bristles. Chance, or a deserved reprieve amongst all the tragedy.
It was too late for Lottie, already entrapped in a bloodthirsty den. Too late for Mars’s frantic searching - for this must be Mars' tent, left behind from their own search for an answer - useless expeditions towards a solution which was never there. It might yet be too late for you.
The tent will fit two, just about. Not comfortably. Certainly not safely, though you’re long past that point of concern.
Out of Mars and Lottie’s failure, perhaps you can find some… hope. Out of Decay shall come Rebirth.
For now, though, your attention is ripped away by the sound of your co-scouters' shouting. You hurry back through the branches, trying to ignore that odd pain rising on your back again, nearly stumbling when a gunshot suddenly sounds out. You reach them, and the commotion seems to be over, but - they look at you, confused and relieved and annoyed for your absence - there's a body on the ground, gunshot to the forehead - Raindrop looks sorry (or do you just wish she did?) - and there's no time to talk about any of this because your heads snap in the direction of far-too-close, far-too-fast, far-too-many footsteps.
'Run.' You're not sure who says it, but they're right, so you do. Your footsteps are so much louder than the infected's, and turning a sharp corner, you see why: they've wrapped leaves to the soles of their feet, cushioning their footsteps. And even with this strange tool, they're fast, unimpeded by the pain of scratching brambles and sharp stones that delay your own pace.
The Bastion's fence draws closer as your legs begin to burn. You don't dare look behind you, afraid that you'll see an infected's hungry grasping fingers inches away from your neck, so you focus on the barbed wire instead. You shout warnings once you're close enough to be heard, and the Bastion springs into action, a mass of frenetic bodies making their last stand.
You slip through the fence seconds before it is alive with electricity. You cover your ears, trying to escape the half-human screeches of pain and something that could be fear. Then, you cover your nose, overcome with the smell of burning bodies.
So much for scouting out the pack, you think. If you hadn't disappeared on your own search, maybe…
In the lull after the tempest, all you can think of is Martya. You’re sure she survived – she must have. You would feel it otherwise.
The Bastion survived, but nothing more. Even a flimsy tent built on hopes seems more alive than this threadbare encampment, clinging onto an existence almost worth persisting. It is ugly in its starkness, no room for anything but function. No time to find beauty in even that meagre continuation.
Your hand delves into your pocket to find your Rochaithe as you bow your head. The tent would be a start, at least, a base camp. The stone warms in your hand to the idea.
A snapshot, piercing eyes blurred red, the scent making up for lack of vision. A snarl, but the thick thorns match its determination. Deterrence enough, for now.
A map, laid out, the path marked clear, boldly scrawled in crimson. Away, is the most important part, from this stifling cul-de-sac.
The red seems to bleed, soaking through the paper till it begins to drip, then trickle, onto the grimy floor. It becomes a stream, echoed by a roar outside, and as you venture your head beyond the confines of the shelter, you see a deluge, stained incarnadine. It barrels through the trees, frothing and splattering, and it is coming for you. You raise a hand to your face and your fingers come away bloody. Nothing out here can save you. You close your eyes as the tidal wave collides–
And open them back to that chain-link fence and a pile of corpses.
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