The Bell Tolls

The village of Saint-Étienne lay in ruins, a corpse of its former self. Its narrow cobblestone streets were littered with shattered glass, scattered belongings, and the unburied dead. Where once the clang of the blacksmith's hammer had echoed alongside the laughter of children, there was now only silence a silence so thick it seemed to seep into the bones.

Captain Étienne Moreau crouched behind the crumbling altar of the village church, his eyes fixed on the splintered doors. The oak beams had been hastily barred with a tangle of benches and pews, a fragile shield against the inevitable. Outside, a low, guttural moaning carried on the wind, a sound that had become a harbinger of doom across France.

"Moreau," a voice hissed. Jean-Luc Renard's face appeared at his side, grimy and taut. "They're gathering. Runners among them I saw at least two."

Étienne's jaw tightened. Runners complicated things. They weren't like the shambling masses that could be managed with disciplined volleys of musket fire. Runners were faster, rabid with a twisted hunger, and if even one broke through their defenses, the others would follow like a flood.

"How many?" Étienne asked quietly.

"Thirty... maybe more," Jean-Luc muttered, his fingers tapping nervously at the hilt of his dagger. "Enough to make it a bloody mess."

Étienne nodded, his eyes drifting to the others. Marie Dubois knelt by a broken statue of Saint Mary, her lips moving in whispered prayer. Her rosary hung loosely around her wrist, a talisman against a God who seemed to have turned away. Sergeant Heinrich Bauer stood near a narrow stained-glass window, musket at the ready, his posture a testament to years of drilled discipline. There was a stillness to him, a calm forged in battlefields before the dead had begun to rise.

Étienne exhaled, the breath heavy. They had holed up in the church out of desperation, its thick stone walls promising a respite from the chaos outside. Now those walls threatened to become a tomb.

He stood, the weight of his battered saber pressing against his hip. "Heinrich," he called softly. The Prussian turned, sharp blue eyes meeting his. "We can't stay. If the Runners breach, we won't hold them."

Bauer's gaze shifted to the barred doors. "We have ammunition. Enough for a fight."

"Not a fight," Étienne corrected. "A massacre. We've nowhere to fall back to."

The logic hung heavy in the air. The choice was bleak a desperate retreat into the open, or the certainty of being torn apart by the horde. The weight of command sat heavy on Étienne's shoulders, the burden of leading when no path promised salvation.

Jean-Luc's voice cut through the silence. "There's a cellar. Found it while searching for supplies. Could be a way out, or at least a place to hide."

Étienne's gaze snapped to him. "And you're telling me this now?"

The smuggler's smirk was a shadow of his usual bravado. "Didn't seem the right time. And it smells like rats."

"Rats are a better fate than what's outside," Bauer grumbled.

Étienne weighed the options. The cellar could be a death trap if it had no exit, they'd be cornered. But remaining here was certain death. His eyes caught Marie's, her expression pleading but resigned. The group had seen so much, survived so much, yet the specter of defeat lingered constantly at their heels.

"We try the cellar," Étienne decided. "If it leads nowhere, we double back and fight through. Better to die on our feet."

Jean-Luc led the way, his steps light and quick as he moved to the back of the church. The heavy scent of mildew thickened as they descended a narrow stone staircase, the steps worn smooth by centuries of use. The cellar door was crooked on its hinges, a testament to the hasty searches of looters or desperate survivors before them.

The darkness inside was near-total. Étienne's heart thudded loudly as he struck flint to tinder, the small spark catching the edge of a torch. The light flickered, casting elongated shadows against the walls. The air was damp and carried the acrid stench of rot.

Bauer stepped past him, musket at the ready. The Prussian's face was a mask of focus, his eyes searching for any movement beyond the torch's reach. The cellar stretched deeper than expected, lined with ancient barrels of wine and stacks of dusty crates. Étienne's mind raced a tunnel, an exit. There had to be something.

"Over here," Jean-Luc whispered, his voice barely audible. He stood before a small grate, rusted and half-hidden behind a collapsed stack of barrels. Bauer approached, gripping the iron bars and pulling hard. The metal groaned, flakes of rust crumbling beneath his grip.

"It's narrow," Marie noted, her voice uncertain. "We'll have to go one at a time."

Étienne nodded. "Jean-Luc, you first. Make sure it's clear. Then Marie, Heinrich, I'll follow."

Jean-Luc slipped through the gap, his wiry frame navigating the rusted grate. A few tense moments passed, the silence interrupted only by the moaning that seeped through the church above. Finally, his voice came, a muffled whisper. "It opens to the street clear for now."

Marie followed, her steps hesitant but determined. Bauer moved next, his musket slung across his back. Étienne's heart hammered as he prepared to follow. The sounds of the undead had grown louder, insistent. Then, a splintering crash echoed from above the church doors shattering beneath the weight of the horde.

"Move!" Étienne hissed, forcing himself through the narrow grate just as the first wails of the Runners tore through the church. His shoulders scraped against the rusted metal, the skin splitting as he pushed himself through. The stench of decay wafted through the gap, a grotesque perfume of death.

As he pulled himself free, the others were already moving, their faces pale and strained. The village square lay before them, silent and empty, but the moans from the church behind swelled, a tide of inevitable death.

"Which way?" Bauer demanded, his eyes scanning the streets.

Jean-Luc's gaze darted, a smuggler's instinct calculating routes and risks. "East. The woods. They won't follow deep into the forest."

Étienne glanced back. The horde was spilling from the church doors, a tide of shambling corpses and Runners with eyes wild and ravenous. No time. No room for error.

"Run! " Étienne commanded, and they fled feet pounding against the cobblestones, hearts thundering in their chests, a desperate dash against a fate that refused to stay buried.