The Hollowed Saints that followed the General and his team of elite soldiers soared far ahead, gliding above the clouds.
Unseen.
Unheard.
Unchallenged.
They came to a halt above a small town, watching through the cloud cover as if it offered no obstruction at all. Below them, the people of the town moved cautiously. They were already on edge—the memories of the massacre caused by creatures from the breakouts were still fresh, still bleeding into everyday life. Yet they tried to live as peacefully as they could. Shops opened. Doors creaked. Voices carried, low and careful.
As the sky held the sun at its peak, a faint hum spread through the town.
It was soft. Almost soothing.
People paused mid-step. Conversations faltered. Heads tilted upward as hands stilled in place, eyes searching the sky for the source of the sound. For a brief moment, curiosity outweighed fear.
Then their eyes dulled.
Fingers loosened. Tools, bags, and cups slipped from lifeless hands and struck the ground. Thought drained away, leaving only hollow compliance. Their minds were taken—quietly, completely.
The two Saints descended.
They floated just above the ground, their forms angelic at first glance—until the details became clear. Dark cracks ran across their bodies like veins, pulsing faintly with crimson light. Their wings of corrupted radiance flickered in and out, as if they were phasing between worlds, never fully anchored in one.
They did not raze the town.
They did not burn it to the ground.
They did not need to.
With a flicker of intent, they broke it open.
The command was simple.
"Kill the ones who come."
Neighbors became soldiers.
Children became executioners.
Families became weapons.
Closing in on the town, Bastion—a six-wheeled military transport bristling with layered armor, reinforced plating, and mounted firepower—rumbled along the cracked highway toward the quiet settlement. Its engine growled low and constant, a mechanical heartbeat echoing off the surrounding hills.
Inside rode General Nathaniel Pierce and his ten elite soldiers, men and women hardened by years of combat, disaster zones, and things that didn't belong in the world. Ready for anything.
Or so they believed.
Warrant Officer Theo Marn gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles whitening beneath fingerless gloves as the town crested into view beyond the hills. Rows of houses sat untouched beneath the noon sun—too still, too orderly. His eyes narrowed.
On the roof, Sergeant Mira Lockwood manned the mounted gun, boots locked into place, her gloved hands steady on the controls. She swept the streets through her scope, slow and methodical. No movement. No heat signatures. No life. A chill crawled down her spine despite the heat.
"We've reached the town," she said into comms. "But something's off."
Pierce's voice crackled through her earpiece, calm and immediate. "Report."
"No movement. No patrols. No people," Mira replied, adjusting her scope, scanning doorways and windows. "It's… empty. Too empty."
Private Ezra Cole leaned forward between the front seats. The town passed by in silent frames—hanging signs swaying faintly in the breeze. "Last time we passed through," he said quietly, "the locals barely gave us a second glance. Like we didn't exist."
"They didn't," Theo muttered under his breath. "Something's wrong."
He eased the wheel, guiding Bastion onto the main road. The tires ground softly against cracked asphalt, the sound echoing louder than it should have in the stillness.
Mira turned slowly atop the gun mount, rotating a full circle. "Shops untouched. Lights still on. Doors open," she said, unease creeping into her voice. "No signs of struggle. No blood. No barricades." A pause. "It's like they vanished mid-sentence."
Theo's foot slammed the brake.
Bastion lurched to a halt.
"Shit!"
A man stumbled into the road—straight into their path.
He didn't flinch. Didn't move. He clutched a rusted iron rod like it was part of his body. Drool clung to his chin. His eyes were unfocused, unfathomable.
Private Alina Vos blinked. "He doesn't look right. Should we—?"
"No," Pierce cut in. "We don't have time. Drive past."
Theo pressed the gas—slow, cautious.
The man lifted the rod and slammed it against the side of Bastion.
"Jesus!" Mira hissed. "Why is he attacking us?!"
More figures spilled out from the alleyways like ants from a cracked nest. Dozens of them. Men. Women. Children.
All armed.
All silent.
All wrong.
"Mob incoming," Mira reported. Her voice was flat, trained—but a tremor lived just beneath it.
Theo slammed into reverse, barely missing the rod-wielder as Bastion roared backward. "They're swarming the street—cutting us off!"
Lieutenant Kellan Reeve tensed in his seat. "Did we do something to set them off?"
"No," Alina whispered, eyes wide, voice tight. "Look at them. They're not thinking. They're not here. They're moving like—"
"Zombies," Ezra finished. "But worse."
Pierce's tone didn't change. Calm. Cold. "Theo. Can you get us out without hurting anyone?"
"I can try." Theo's knuckles were white on the wheel. "But if they jump in front of us—?"
"Then go through them," Pierce ordered, face unreadable.
Bastion surged forward again, scraping past the growing mob. A woman shrieked and threw herself into the side of the vehicle, her body bouncing off the armor with a sickening thud. Another climbed onto the hood, nails screeching against reinforced glass as she screamed in tongues.
Alina climbed up through the hatch, gently nudging Mira aside. "I need eyes."
She looked. Really looked.
Some dragged their own injured behind them, faces blank. Some screamed without blinking. Some laughed as they bled. A child with a broken arm swung a brick like a club, missed, collapsed—and still tried to crawl forward.
Alina dropped back inside. Her voice was hollow. "They're gone."
Pierce didn't hesitate. "Staff Sergeant Jonah Keene. Neutralize them."
Jonah's jaw tightened. He nodded once. "Yes, sir."
He climbed up, steady and practiced, taking Mira's place behind the mounted gun. His hands closed around the grips. The cold metal met his skin like judgment.
The crowd swelled ahead.
Closer.
Closer.
The unforgiving noon sun cast stark shadows beneath the mob's frenzied forms, illuminating faces twisted by whatever had stolen their minds. They came—mindless, broken, human and not.
Keene stared down the barrel.
And he waited.