A Breath Before the Storm

The faint glow of the dawn began to spread across the horizon, casting long shadows through the sparse trees that dotted the countryside. The silence of the morning was almost unbearable, broken only by the occasional snap of twigs beneath boots. The group trudged forward, their eyes heavy with exhaustion, their bodies aching from days of near-constant travel. Saint-Vincent was their only hope now a place they had heard rumors of, a haven from the undead, a sanctuary far from the chaos that had consumed the world.

Étienne Moreau kept his gaze fixed on the path ahead, though his mind often wandered back to the nightmarish image of the Bomber, its decayed body exploding in a violent eruption that sent them scattering in all directions. It had been too close. Each explosion, each clash, seemed to drain them a little more. Yet they kept moving, because they had no other choice.

Beside him, Marie Dubois moved with quiet efficiency, her hands deftly adjusting her pack and checking on their limited supplies. She was careful to ensure that each ration was accounted for food, water, medicines everything had to last for at least two more days if they were going to make it to the village. The way her fingers lingered on the last vial of tincture spoke volumes of her concern.

"How much do we have left?" Étienne asked, his voice low and hoarse from the constant strain.

Marie didn't need to check; she already knew. "Not enough," she said simply, her tone grim. "We're down to a handful of dried meat, and the water's barely enough for a day. The medical supplies are running out too."

Étienne nodded, his chest tightening at the realization. They had been lucky so far finding makeshift camps, a few abandoned houses to scavenge from but it wouldn't be long before their luck ran out.

"I'll make sure the others know," Marie added, turning to glance at the group behind them. Jean-Luc Renard and Heinrich Bauer were a few paces behind, their forms barely visible in the thickening mist. The smuggler was checking his pistol, as usual, while Heinrich kept a sharp lookout, scanning the woods with the discipline of a soldier trained for survival.

"Mathieu!" Étienne called, turning to look behind him. The young deserter was lagging, his face pale as he tried to catch up. His footfalls were heavy, the fatigue evident in the slump of his shoulders. He had been with them for days now, but the boy still hadn't found his rhythm.

Mathieu snapped to attention at the sound of his name, quick to put on a semblance of readiness. But it was clear to Étienne that something was off. The lad's face was drawn, eyes hollow he had been struggling to keep pace, both physically and mentally. They all had, but it seemed especially hard for him.

"Keep up, Mathieu," Étienne ordered, his tone firm but not unkind. "We need to stick together."

The young man nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line as he quickened his pace.

"Should've left him behind," Jean-Luc muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Étienne to hear. "He's dead weight."

Étienne glanced over at Jean-Luc, his expression hardening. "No one gets left behind. Not now."

The smuggler let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "We'll see how long that lasts."

Étienne didn't respond. Jean-Luc's cynicism was nothing new, and despite everything, the man had been more loyal than not. Still, there were days when Étienne wondered if the smuggler's belief in self-preservation was the only thing keeping him going.

He pushed those thoughts aside and refocused on the road ahead. Their destination was just beyond the next hill, according to the map they'd scavenged from a half-burned house a few days back. But nothing in this world was ever that simple.

As they crested the rise, a bitter wind swept through the trees, carrying with it the faintest scent of smoke. Étienne's stomach tightened.

"Stay sharp," he muttered to the group, his voice low. "We don't know what we'll find in Saint-Vincent. Keep your weapons ready."

Marie reached for the musket slung over her shoulder, her hand steady despite the unease in her gaze. Jean-Luc's fingers danced along the grip of his pistol, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. Heinrich adjusted his rifle with the quiet precision of a seasoned soldier. Only Mathieu seemed out of place, his eyes darting nervously around as he fumbled for his own weapon.

"Keep it together, Mathieu," Étienne ordered, his voice firm. "This isn't the time to freeze up."

The young man's eyes flicked to Étienne, the fear in them palpable. "I… I'm sorry," Mathieu muttered, barely audible.

Étienne didn't respond. Instead, he turned his attention to the village in the distance, now just a few miles away. Saint-Vincent. It didn't look like much from here small, its houses scattered in a disorganized manner that seemed to mirror the chaos of the land. Still, it was the only chance they had.

As they neared the outskirts of the village, the air thickened with tension. The smoke that had caught their attention earlier was heavier now, and there was a distinct, acrid odor that filled their nostrils.

"Something's wrong," Marie said quietly, looking toward the village with narrowed eyes.

Étienne scanned the horizon, his senses on high alert. There was no movement. No signs of life. Just the faint, unsteady columns of smoke rising from the heart of Saint-Vincent.

"Everyone, keep your distance," Étienne instructed. "Jean-Luc, scout ahead. Make sure there's no one or nothing waiting for us."

Jean-Luc grinned. "If there's anything worth stealing, you'll know." With that, he disappeared into the brush, moving with the stealth of someone who knew how to get in and out of dangerous places undetected.

The minutes dragged by, each second heavier than the last. The sound of the wind, the rustling of leaves, the distant call of birds everything seemed like an intrusion into the eerie silence that had settled over the group. Étienne kept his eyes trained on the village, every muscle in his body tense, ready for whatever might come next.

When Jean-Luc finally returned, his face was pale, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and caution.

"It's a trap," he said in a low voice. "The village is abandoned... but not in the way you'd expect. It's crawling with them."

The words struck Étienne like a blow to the chest. He clenched his fists, fighting the rage that threatened to bubble up. It was all a lie, wasn't it? The rumors of safety, the promises of refuge it had all been false. Saint-Vincent was just another graveyard.

He turned to the others, his jaw tight. "We need to move. Now."

But as they prepared to retreat, the ground beneath their feet trembled a low, guttural sound building to a deafening roar. The first undead appeared from the village's edge, shambling slowly forward. But these weren't the slow-moving, decaying husks they were used to. These were different. The air grew heavier, charged with the feeling of something terrible about to happen.

Behind them, more undead appeared. And more. They were being surrounded.

"Fall back to the trees!" Étienne shouted, his voice cutting through the panic.

It wasn't a moment too soon. The first wave of zombies reached them, clawing and groaning, their bodies broken and twisted in ways that made the survivors' blood run cold.

With no time to think, they began to retreat into the woods, the weight of their decisions hanging over them like a shadow. The promise of Saint-Vincent was no more.

The real fight was just beginning.