Blood and Thunder

The rain came first, a cold, needling drizzle that seeped through threadbare coats and chilled them to the bone. Étienne had hoped it would mask their passage, muffle their steps through the brush as they marched southward from Saint-Armand. The gray sky hung low and oppressive, and the forest seemed to hunch beneath its weight, branches sagging with wet leaves.

Marie walked just behind him, her steps steady despite the ache in her side. Her face was pale, but she hadn't complained once since they left the village. Heinrich took the rear, his gaze a vigilant sweep of the trees. Jean-Luc moved with the restlessness of a stray dog, checking their flanks, eyes flicking nervously to the shadows.

The hours dragged, each one burdened by the cold, the damp, and the unyielding sense of being pursued. Étienne kept his focus sharp, his hand never far from the hilt of his saber. Every sound seemed sharper, every gust of wind a possible warning.

They reached the edge of the forest just as dusk began to bleed into the sky, the horizon a smear of rust and ash. Before them stretched a narrow road, choked with mud and bordered by hedges gone wild. In the distance, the skeletal remains of a manor house loomed crumbled walls and blackened timbers, the bones of something that had once been proud. Étienne knew they needed shelter, a place to rest and reassess their course.

"We camp there for the night," Étienne said, nodding toward the manor. "If it's empty."

Jean-Luc snorted softly. "If it's not, we'll have company for supper."

Heinrich shot the smuggler a glare, but Étienne didn't bother rebuking him. Jean-Luc's grim humor was as much a defense as any weapon. Better a man who joked than one who broke.

They approached the manor cautiously, weapons ready. The estate's gates were twisted, the iron bent and rusted. Weeds choked the gravel path that wound through a neglected garden, its statues streaked with moss and grime. The windows of the house were black pits, the doors torn from their hinges.

Étienne signaled for silence and led the way inside. The air was stale and thick with dust. The grand hall, once adorned with portraits and polished wood, lay ravaged shattered furniture, tapestries clawed from the walls, debris scattered across the floor. An air of violence lingered, a memory of a final, desperate stand.

"Search it," Étienne ordered softly. "If anything moves, call out."

They split up. Jean-Luc slunk toward a side corridor, his movements quick and silent. Heinrich took the stairs, each step deliberate. Marie lingered close to Étienne, her eyes wary.

The exploration yielded little: broken porcelain, torn upholstery, a few rat-chewed books in what remained of a library. A bedroom upstairs had been turned into a barricade overturned wardrobes, a bedframe against the door. Heinrich found a child's skeleton beneath the bed, curled and cradled, a tiny hand still clutching a wooden doll. He said nothing as they left the room, but the tightness of his jaw betrayed the weight of it.

Étienne found himself in what had been a dining room. The long table had collapsed, chairs scattered and splintered. A tapestry of a hunting scene hung on one wall, torn but intact. Beneath it, the plaster had crumbled, revealing a hollow behind. Curious, he pushed the fabric aside, his fingers scraping against brickwork a hidden alcove, likely for valuables. But whatever had been hidden there was long gone.

"Anything?" Marie's voice broke the quiet.

"Just ghosts," Étienne muttered, letting the tapestry fall back. "We'll take the ground floor. Easier to defend."

They gathered in the grand hall, arranging themselves in the shadow of the broken staircase. The air hung heavy with exhaustion. Heinrich cleaned his bayonet with the precision of habit. Jean-Luc rifled through his satchel, producing a small bundle of hardtack and dried meat.

"It's a feast," he said dryly, dividing the rations. "Try not to gorge yourselves."

Marie took her share with a nod of thanks. Étienne ate slowly, his eyes unfocused. Outside, the rain had become a steady drumming, a relentless, dull roar that seemed to smother all else.

"How long do we keep this up?" Jean-Luc asked, his voice low. "Wandering from ruin to ruin, running from corpses. What's the end of it, Étienne? There's no safe haven. Not anymore."

Étienne didn't answer at first. The question hung between them like a noose, tightening with each heartbeat. He looked at their faces hollow-eyed, worn, clinging to some shred of hope he could not name.

"We survive," Étienne said quietly. "We keep going. Until we can't."

Jean-Luc opened his mouth to speak, but a sound cut through the rain a shout, raw and desperate. Everyone froze, eyes snapping to the broken windows. Étienne's hand went to his saber.

Another shout, closer panicked, pleading. Then a gunshot, sharp and echoing.

"Up," Étienne ordered, rising to his feet. "Heinrich, with me. Jean-Luc, watch the side entrance. Marie, stay behind cover."

They slipped through the splintered doorway, weapons drawn. The rain was a cold sheet that clung to their faces, the mud sucking at their boots. Étienne's eyes scanned the edge of the estate movement near the outer gates, figures stumbling through the downpour.

"Help! Please!" a voice cried, a man's, strained and cracking.

Three figures two struggling to run, the third dragging behind. The last was limping, her head hanging, arm dangling uselessly. The others a man and a woman turned, faces wild with terror. The woman fired a musket into the air, the sound cracking the air like thunder.

A shadow burst from the treeline a Runner, limbs thrashing, teeth bared. It closed the distance in seconds, leaping at the woman. She screamed, swinging the musket like a club, but it was too late. The creature's jaws found her neck, teeth sinking deep. Blood spattered the mud.

Étienne's pistol roared, the shot catching the Runner in the back of the skull. It fell atop its prey, twitching, gnawing. The man still standing a thin, ragged figure turned wild eyes toward them.

"Help us!" he screamed, the plea drowned by the rain and terror.

Another figure emerged from the woods a Tank, massive and lumbering, its rotting flesh thick with layers of decay. Étienne's pulse hammered.

"Heinrich! Take it down!" he barked, raising his pistol.

Heinrich's musket barked, the shot striking the Tank's shoulder, but it barely faltered. Étienne fired again, the bullet tearing into its chest. The creature groaned, a sound like a collapsing bellows, and took another step.

Jean-Luc's dagger flew from a shadow, sinking into the Tank's exposed throat. It gurgled, staggering, and finally collapsed, the ground shuddering beneath it.

The thin man stumbled to his knees, gasping, his face a mask of rain and tears. The woman lay still, the Runner's jaws locked on her ruined throat.

Étienne lowered his pistol, his breath ragged. The rain beat down, relentless. The world was gray and cold, and the dead did not rest.