Against the Tide

Étienne's shout cut through the air like a whip crack. The narrow pass they had tried to slip through undetected was no longer a sanctuary but a trap — a stone throat ready to choke them. The first Shamblers appeared at the entrance, their slack jaws and sunken eyes drawn to the noise, to the scent of the living. A few at first, and then more, a relentless tide of decay and death.

"Run! Now!" Étienne barked, his voice sharp with urgency. His pistol was in his hand before he had even realized, the iron cold and unforgiving. He leveled it at the first of the Shamblers, a woman whose face was a ruin of flesh and exposed bone. Her eyes, milky and unfocused, locked onto him. He squeezed the trigger.

The musket ball punched through her skull, sending a spray of rotted matter across the stone. She collapsed, but the others kept coming unthinking, unrelenting.

Jean-Luc bolted ahead, his lithe frame slipping through the undergrowth. Marie followed, her wounded side slowing her, but the fear of the horde pushed her onward. Heinrich held back, his musket braced against his shoulder, eyes narrowing as he took a steady aim. The crack of his shot echoed against the walls, a measured, precise sound. Another corpse fell, but there were too many.

"Move, Heinrich!" Étienne shouted, his voice raw. The Prussian lowered his musket and turned, his face set with grim determination. They ran, feet pounding against the uneven earth, hearts hammering like war drums. The passage ahead opened into a broader clearing, the trees clawing upward like skeletal fingers.

Étienne's mind raced. They had been careful careful enough, at least. The Screamer's wail must have reached them sooner than expected, or worse, there were more of them nearby. The thought sent a chill up his spine.

"Keep moving!" Étienne ordered, his eyes darting between the trees, searching for any path that might give them a chance. The sound of the horde behind them swelled, a terrible symphony of death and hunger. The screeching wails of Screamers cut through the groans of the Shamblers, urging them forward.

"Damn it!" Jean-Luc cursed, his breath ragged. "We can't outrun them not like this!"

Étienne knew he was right. The forest was dense, the ground treacherous. Marie was struggling, her breath sharp and strained, her face pinched with pain. Heinrich glanced back, his musket empty, no time to reload. The relentless approach of the undead pressed against them, a wall of decay and violence.

"We make a stand," Étienne decided, his voice heavy but resolute. "Here. Marie, with me. Heinrich, Jean-Luc — cover the flanks."

Jean-Luc's eyes widened. "A stand? Are you mad?"

"Would you rather be torn apart running?" Étienne snapped. "We stop them here, or we die running."

The words settled like a cold weight. Jean-Luc's gaze flickered to the advancing horde, then to the narrow bottleneck of trees they had just emerged from. His jaw tightened, but he nodded, drawing his pistol and dagger. Heinrich was already in position, his musket discarded for the long bayonet he kept strapped to his belt.

Étienne positioned himself beside Marie, her face tight with determination. Her hands trembled slightly as she drew a flintlock from her belt, the weapon small but lethal at close range. She muttered a prayer under her breath, the whispered words lost to the cacophony of the advancing dead.

The first of the Shamblers broke through the treeline, a stumbling, mindless thing with tattered remnants of a soldier's uniform hanging from its skeletal frame. Étienne took a breath, steadied his aim, and fired. The shot rang out, splitting the skull of the Shambler and dropping it into the undergrowth.

"Hold!" Étienne commanded, his voice firm. "Pick your shots!"

Heinrich's bayonet caught the next Shambler in the throat, skewering rotted flesh and snapping sinew. With a brutal twist, he yanked the weapon free, kicking the corpse aside. Jean-Luc's pistol cracked, a ball of lead ripping through the chest of another corpse. The horde pressed on, relentless, undeterred.

"Reloading!" Jean-Luc called, his voice strained. He fumbled with his powder horn, fingers slick with sweat.

Étienne's pistol clicked empty, and there was no time to reload. He drew his saber, the blade worn but still sharp, its weight familiar in his grasp. A Shambler lunged, its teeth bared, fingers like claws. Étienne slashed, the saber cleaving through its neck, sending its head rolling into the brush.

Marie's flintlock discharged with a harsh crack, the recoil jarring her already pained side. She cursed, dropping the weapon and drawing a rusted dagger, her eyes wide but unflinching. A Shambler staggered toward her, half its face missing, one arm hanging uselessly from a mangled socket. She drove the dagger into its temple, a grunt of effort escaping her lips as she twisted the blade.

"On your left!" Heinrich shouted.

Étienne turned, his saber catching a corpse mid-lunge, the force of the blow jarring his arm. The weight of the dead pressed upon them, an unending tide. Étienne's breath burned in his lungs, his muscles screamed with exertion.

"Jean-Luc!" Étienne barked. "Fall back to the center don't get cut off!"

The smuggler obeyed, his pistol now reloaded, his dagger glistening with dark, clotted gore. The horde was relentless, each fallen corpse replaced by another, clawing, snarling, mindless.

"We can't hold them!" Marie gasped, her voice ragged, desperation clawing at her words.

Étienne knew she was right. The horde was a wave that could not be halted, only survived. He gritted his teeth, slashing through a Shambler that had broken too close. The air was thick with the stench of decay, the cries of the damned, and the raw, desperate breaths of the living.

"Back!" Étienne shouted, his voice hoarse. "We fall back break through!"

They moved as one, pushing through the thinning line of the dead, cutting and smashing their way through. The clearing opened before them, the horde still clamoring behind, but the distance was widening. Étienne's heart hammered, his blood roaring in his ears.

The clearing broke into a downward slope, and they stumbled through it, half-falling, half-running, the cries of the dead echoing behind them. When they finally broke through the trees, the world seemed to open, vast and empty, the sounds of the horde fading into the dense forest.

Étienne staggered to a stop, his breath ragged, his arms heavy with exhaustion. The others collapsed nearby, their faces pale, their eyes wide with the aftershock of terror. Silence fell, broken only by their desperate, gasping breaths.

Étienne's gaze turned back to the trees, the shadows shifting and writhing. The horde had been delayed, but they were far from safe. Far from salvation.

Yet, in this brief, fragile silence, they were alive. And for now, that was enough.