Embers in the Ashes

The rain had relented by morning, leaving the earth sodden and reeking of wet decay. The air hung thick and heavy, punctuated by the dull, sour stench of rotting flesh. The bodies the woman and the undead that had taken her lay sprawled near the estate's gate, twisted and motionless. The man who had survived knelt beside her, silent and staring, the skin around his eyes red and raw.

Étienne watched him from the doorway of the manor, fingers drumming absently against the wood of the frame. The group had made it through the night without further incident, barricading themselves inside the ruined estate. Now the morning light, fractured by broken glass and drooping curtains, painted the hall in a dreary, pallid glow.

Marie sat on the staircase, tending to her injured side, her hands deftly unwinding the stained bandage. Jean-Luc hovered near her, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his coat. Heinrich stood by the window, his eyes trained outward, his posture rigid the watchdog.

Étienne took a breath and stepped outside, his boots sinking into the soft, clinging mud. The thin man didn't react to his approach, his gaze fixed on the dead woman's face. Her eyes were half-open, staring into nothing.

"I'm sorry," Étienne said quietly, the words feeling hollow in his mouth.

The man didn't answer. He just sat there, shivering slightly, his knees pressed into the mud. Étienne knelt beside him, his coat brushing the wet earth.

"Who was she?" Étienne asked, his voice low.

The man swallowed, his throat working painfully. "My sister," he whispered. "Anna."

Étienne's jaw tightened. He understood the weight of that loss the helpless, gnawing ache of it. He had felt it every day since his own family had been lost to the plague, their faces reduced to memories too painful to revisit.

"Do you have a name?" Étienne pressed gently.

The man blinked, his eyes wet and glassy. "Mathieu. Mathieu Lacroix."

Étienne offered a slow nod, searching for any thread of reassurance he could offer. There was none. The world had been stripped of solace.

"We're heading south," Étienne said. "Away from the worst of it. You can come with us if you have nowhere else to go."

Mathieu's gaze finally shifted, his eyes meeting Étienne's. There was a vacancy there, a hollow emptiness. After a beat, he nodded a weary, defeated motion.

Back inside the manor, Mathieu sat numbly near the remnants of the grand fireplace, where Jean-Luc had managed to coax a fire to life. The warmth licked at the air, casting their faces in flickering orange light. Mathieu's hands hovered near the flames, fingers trembling.

Marie approached him carefully, carrying a tin cup of watered-down wine they had scavenged from a forgotten pantry. She knelt beside Mathieu, her face gentle and open.

"Drink this," she urged softly. "It will help."

Mathieu took it in both hands, staring down into the liquid as if it were a pool of blood. After a moment, he sipped it, wincing slightly.

"How long were you out there?" Marie asked, her voice still soft, unintrusive.

Mathieu's throat worked. "Weeks. Maybe more. We stayed in a village north of here. Hiding. But they came more and more each day. They broke through. We ran. Anna and I… we thought we could make it. Thought maybe someone would help."

He looked up, eyes haunted. "There's no one left, is there? Just the dead."

Marie glanced at Étienne, but he had no answer to give. She swallowed and rested a gentle hand on Mathieu's arm.

"There are still people fighting," she said quietly. "People trying to survive. We're trying."

Mathieu's gaze fell back to the fire. The silence that followed was suffocating, filled with the crackling of the flames and the distant, ghostly patter of rain.

That afternoon, they gathered in the grand hall to plan their next steps. The map Étienne had been using a crumpled, fraying thing marked with ink and mud lay spread across the floor.

"We need to keep moving south," Heinrich said firmly, his voice edged with Prussian discipline. "Staying here any longer is too risky."

Jean-Luc lounged against the frame of a shattered window, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "And where exactly do we go? South is a vague concept. If the dead are thinning out, it means others thought of it first. Any safe haven worth its name is either full or a graveyard."

Étienne traced a line along the map, his finger brushing over names that had lost their meaning in this hollow world. "Marseille," he said finally. "The port. If any ships still sail, they'll be there. If not, it's defensible. And far from Paris and its dead."

Mathieu, who had remained quiet, looked up sharply. "The port? You think the sea will save us?"

Étienne met his gaze. "I don't know. But it's a chance."

Jean-Luc let out a breath, the smirk fading. "Well, I've not seen the sea in years. Might as well die somewhere scenic."

Marie's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. Heinrich nodded curtly, his approval unspoken.

They left the manor at dusk, a reluctant exodus from a fragile reprieve. Mathieu walked with them, his steps heavy but willing. Étienne wondered if the man had any hope left or if he simply had nowhere else to go.

As they moved down the road, the air grew colder, the sky darkening to an ashen gray. The land stretched wide and desolate, the forest thinning to bleak fields of brittle grass. The wind carried the scent of damp soil and the sour tang of rot.

Étienne fell into step beside Mathieu, their silence an uneasy thread.

"If we reach the coast," Étienne ventured, "what will you do?"

Mathieu's expression was unreadable. "I don't know. Keep walking, I suppose. Until there's nowhere left to go."

Étienne nodded, the answer resonating in his own chest. That was all any of them could do keep moving, step by step, against a world that had already devoured the future.

Ahead of them, Heinrich raised a hand a signal to halt. The group stopped, tense and listening. The silence was brittle, expectant. A low, ragged moan rippled through the air the unmistakable sound of the dead. Somewhere ahead, hidden by the curve of the road, they lingered.

Étienne's hand gripped the hilt of his saber, the cold metal a grounding weight. He glanced back at the group, faces tight and watchful.

"Stay close. Quietly now," he whispered.

They pressed on, feet shuffling softly over the damp earth. The moaning grew louder, a chorus of hunger and decay. The world seemed to hold its breath.

Beyond the bend, a cluster of the dead shambled a handful of Shamblers, their limbs stiff and twisted, their faces gnawed by rot. They wandered aimlessly, jaws working soundlessly.

Étienne motioned for the others to stop. The dead had not seen them yet. The choice lay before them risk the fight or try to slip past unseen.

His heart hammered in his chest, the decision pressing against his ribs. Survival hung on a knife's edge a balance between courage and caution. In the bleak light of the dying day, Étienne made his choice.