Story 916: The Rotting Process

The stench of decay clung to the air like an omen. The city ahead was nothing but a skeleton—its streets littered with corpses that refused to rest. The infected lurked in the shadows, their twisted forms barely human anymore.

Draven, Mira, and Elias moved cautiously through the ruins. Every step felt like walking on graves.

“We need supplies,” Mira whispered, scanning the hollowed-out buildings. “And answers.”

Elias grunted. “Answers? Look around, lady. The only answers here come with teeth.”

Draven ignored them both. His eyes were on the mass of shambling figures ahead. These weren’t ordinary undead. Their flesh was stretched too thin, their bones jutted at odd angles, and their mouths gaped unnaturally wide.

“These things…” Draven muttered. “They’re different.”

One of them turned its head—cracking like splintered wood—and let out a guttural moan.

Then they all did.

The horde lurched forward.