The Sound of Silence

The clearing stretched out before Étienne like an open wound, the earth barren and scorched in places where the undead had clawed their way through. The air was thick, oppressive, filled with the scent of burnt wood and the stench of decay that clung to the land like a fevered sickness. Even though the Tank had fallen, it had left its mark on the landscape, a broken mass of rotting flesh that seemed to scream of death's inevitability. But the group could not afford to linger.

The undead horde was still out there. They were out there *waiting*.

"Keep moving," Étienne ordered, his voice low but firm, his eyes scanning the horizon. He could feel the tension gnawing at his chest, a cold weight pressing down on him. The day had grown thick with the stench of smoke and rot, and the sky was an iron-grey canopy overhead. The sun, once bright, now seemed to bleed its light through a shroud of ash. It was the kind of day where you didn't know whether the world was ending, or if it had already ended and they had simply not realized it.

Marie limped beside him, her face pale, her hand gripping the makeshift bandage wrapped around her side. Despite her strength, it was clear that she was pushing herself beyond her limits, her breaths shallow and strained. Yet there was no room for weakness now. Not when survival meant pressing onward.

Jean-Luc's eyes flickered nervously between the treeline and the group, his usual cocky grin replaced with an edge of something like unease. The flare had done its job, distracting the Tank long enough to bring it down, but now there was silence a terrifying, stretching silence that made his every movement feel louder than it should have been. He tugged at the collar of his jacket, glancing back toward the distant remnants of the burning village they had left behind.

"Are we sure we're heading in the right direction?" Jean-Luc's voice was barely a whisper, and it held a note of genuine doubt. "That place... it was crawling with them. Whatever's out here, I've got a feeling we're being led straight into the lion's den."

Étienne glanced at him, his brow furrowed. The smuggler was right to be worried. The map they had taken from the charred remains of the alchemist's hideout was faded, and most of the paths marked on it were uncertain at best. But there was a chance a slim one, to be sure that they might find sanctuary in the abandoned military garrison rumored to be somewhere ahead. It had been a fortress before the war, and with any luck, it might still offer some protection against the endless flood of the undead.

"Fortress or death," Étienne muttered under his breath, mostly to himself. The words were both a reminder of their purpose and a dark joke, because in this world, it was hard to tell which would be the more merciful fate.

Behind him, Sergeant Heinrich's boots crunched across the brittle underbrush, his face unreadable. There was no time for hesitation. The Prussian soldier had become the backbone of their group, a quiet, unyielding presence. His tactical mind, cold and disciplined, was a lifeline in moments of chaos. If they were going to survive the madness that was spreading through France, it was going to be because of men like Heinrich.

And yet, there was something in the way Heinrich held his musket his fingers too tight on the barrel that betrayed a faint unease. Like the soldier knew something they didn't.

"We're not far now," Heinrich said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "I've been through these woods before. It's a narrow pass up ahead. If we can make it through without being spotted..."

"Spotted?" Marie's voice was sharp, her brow creased as she looked up at him, her face pale but her resolve stronger than ever. "You mean by the undead?"

"Not just them," Heinrich said, his lips tightening. "There are more than just the horde out here. Men who think the plague is a sign from God. They don't take kindly to outsiders."

Étienne's mind raced. The Church Militant had grown bolder in recent months, their fanatical purge of the undead leaving no room for those who still clung to some shred of humanity. The self-proclaimed "holy warriors" roamed the countryside, burning entire villages in their wake. They had been known to mistake anyone who wasn't part of their twisted cause for a sinner or, worse, a "contaminated soul."

"I thought we were beyond such superstition," Jean-Luc muttered under his breath, his tone laced with cynicism.

"We are," Étienne said, his voice low but firm, "but they aren't. And if they find us, we'll be nothing but another pile of ash and bones. We'll have to keep to the trees. Move quickly, and above all, stay quiet."

It was then that the distant sound of movement reached them a low, unnatural moaning, muffled by the heavy air. The hairs on the back of Étienne's neck stood on end. He turned to face the others, his eyes narrowing in the dimming light. "Stay low."

Heinrich had already moved into position, his musket cradled in his arms, eyes trained on the movement ahead. They could hear the faint scraping of bones, the slow shuffle of feet against the earth. And then, the unmistakable Screamer's wail cut through the trees.

The noise was chilling, like the scream of a damned soul, sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air. It was a sound that made the blood freeze in your veins and the heart race with terror. It was a signal. A signal that the horde was close far too close for comfort.

"Damn it," Étienne muttered, his pulse quickening. He motioned for the others to get low. "We can't afford to engage them. We need to get through the pass, now."

Jean-Luc's face was pale, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. "Do you hear that? It's getting louder…"

Étienne held up a hand, signaling for silence. The noise was unmistakable now — the scraping, the groaning, the hollow cries of the Shamblers, the slow-moving corpses, and the wails of the Screamers. The sound of death itself closing in.

The pass ahead was narrow, barely wide enough for two men to walk side by side. But in the shadows, it offered a possible way through. It was a risk, but it was their only hope. They couldn't afford to wait any longer.

"Move!" Étienne hissed, his voice barely a whisper as he crouched and began to move toward the pass.

The others followed, their steps light but hurried. They moved like shadows, slipping through the underbrush, hearts pounding in their chests.

The distant wails of the Screamers grew louder as they made their way into the pass, their footsteps quickening as they entered the narrow gap. The rocks above them felt like a prison, and the choking, oppressive air seemed to close in with every step.

And then, as they passed through the choke point, a sharp crack echoed from behind them.

Jean-Luc froze, his face paling. "They've seen us."

In an instant, Étienne spun around, reaching for his pistol. "Run!" he shouted. "Don't stop!"

The sound of the horde was deafening now a crushing, overwhelming wave of undead hunger. It was too late to hide. The battle for their lives had begun again.