Story 1228: In the Cult’s Grasp

They hadn’t gotten far.

Lena, Ward, and the girl—who still hadn’t said a word—had barely made it half a mile into the forest before the sky turned red.

At first, it looked like a chemical haze. But then the trees began to rot—leaves curling into ash midair. Birds fell from the branches. Insects skittered out of the soil, twitching and dying as they ran.

“They’re purging the whole zone,” Ward said, gripping his bleeding leg. “Not just the base.”

“They want no witnesses,” Lena murmured, scanning the trees. “Or escapees.”

Then came the humming.

Not machines this time—but voices. Whispering. Chanting. All around them, from the woods.

Lena raised her rifle, but it jammed. Grit and black fungus had already begun coating the barrel.

The girl—still clutching the piece of bone she’d taken from the altar—stopped. She turned slowly, her eyes locked on a figure emerging from the fog.

It was one of the cultists.

But something was different.