Harris slowly lowered himself to one knee, the weathered joints in his legs popping loudly in the oppressive quiet.
He didn’t touch the tracks right away. He just stared at them. They were massive, easily the size of dinner plates, driven deep into the soft, loamy earth. He finally ran a rough, calloused hand across the disturbed soil, feeling the jagged edges where heavy, unnatural claws had bitten into the mud.
“They’re fresh,” Harris murmured, his voice barely carrying over the damp decay of the forest floor. “Minutes ago. And they’re not moving like scavengers.”
Nobody spoke.
The forest had gone unnaturally, suffocatingly quiet. It wasn’t just a lack of noise; it was an active, heavy absence of life. No birds called from the canopy. No insects chittered in the dead leaves. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, terrified to draw attention.
Brian leaned toward Brice, his eyes scanning the dense wall of shadows. “I hate when the woods get quiet. It’s like the universe muting the TV right before a jump scare.”
Brice nodded, his knuckles turning white around the ash-wood shaft of his spear. “Means something bigger than us is making everything else stay quiet. Keep your head on a swivel.”
Then… the brush exploded.
A massive wild boar burst into the clearing with the concussive force of a derailed freight train. It looked nothing like the feral pigs Brice remembered hunting in the foothills as a kid. This was a nightmare forged in the aftermath of the Blue Wave. Its shoulders and heavy skull were wrapped in thick, jagged plates of calcified bone armor, fused together like tectonic ridges. Black bristles, stiff as iron wire, stood several inches long along its spine. Its tusks curved outward like serrated scimitars, and its eyes burned with a deep, unnatural crimson malice.
It didn’t just charge; it eradicated the space between them.
Lucas barely dove aside, hitting the dirt as the beast bulldozed past him. The boar smashed through a dead pine tree thick enough that Brice couldn’t have wrapped both arms around it. The trunk snapped with a deafening crack that sounded like artillery fire, raining heavy wooden shrapnel over the clearing.
“Spread out!” Harris shouted, dropping his veteran calm for sheer, panicked urgency.
The hunting party scattered.
Brian, however, stepped directly into the center of the clearing, placing himself right in the monster’s path. He rolled his broad shoulders, staring down four hundred pounds of armored fury.
“I don’t know who does your dental work, man,” Brian growled, raising his fists, “but you desperately need a mint.”
The boar slammed into him.
Steel Skin flared to life, a blinding, metallic shimmer cascading over Brian’s flesh the millisecond before impact. The collision sounded like a wrecking ball hitting a bank vault. Even with the skill activated, the sheer kinetic force launched Brian backward nearly ten feet. He skidded across the dirt, his boots carving deep trenches before he finally caught himself, spitting a mouthful of dust and pine needles.
Brice didn’t hesitate. He flanked the beast, driving his spear with everything he had into the creature’s exposed shoulder. The forged steel point struck the bone plating and showered the dirt in bright sparks, barely penetrating the thick hide beneath.
The boar shrieked—a high, metallic squeal of pure rage—and violently thrashed.
Then… another roar echoed from the left.
Brice’s stomach dropped into his boots. He looked over his shoulder, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck. “…Brian.”
Before either man could react, a second armored boar burst from the thick briars on their flank. Almost simultaneously, a third monster crashed through the deadfall on the opposite side, its glowing eyes locking onto the scattered, panicked hunters.
Tom’s face turned the color of old ash. “They’re hunting as a pack! Pigs don’t do that!”
“They do now!” Brian yelled, bracing himself for another impact. “Adapt or die, Tom!”
Chaos erupted. The clearing dissolved into a hyper-violent frenzy of blood, dust, and screaming steel.
Rebecca barely rolled beneath a snapping set of tusks, scrambling up a rocky incline in pure terror. Lucas thrust his spear in a panic, but the second boar merely jerked its massive head, ripping the weapon effortlessly from his hands and snapping the thick ash wood in two like a twig.
Harris was a blur of calculated, lethal motion. He dodged a wild charge and buried his spear deep into the neck of the second beast, finding a narrow gap in the bone armor. Black blood sprayed across his face, but the monster barely slowed, thrashing violently to dislodge the weapon.
Brian intercepted the largest one again. His fists, wrapped in the shimmering aura of his skill, hammered against the creature’s bone plating with concussive, echoing force. The monster answered by catching him with a glancing blow from its snout, throwing Brian bodily into a moss-covered boulder. The stone cracked, showering him in debris.
Brice sprinted toward Harris. The older hunter was losing ground, his heavy boots slipping in the blood-slicked mud.
The third boar hit Harris across the ribs like a battering ram. He stumbled, the breath blasted from his lungs in a hollow wheeze.
Tom screamed, “Harris!”
The beast lunged again before the old man could recover his footing. Its tusks drove straight through Harris’s chest with a sickening, wet crunch.
The old hunter was lifted completely off his feet. He looked toward Brice one last time, his pale eyes wide with shock. His lips moved, forming a faint, bubbling whisper.
“…Take… care…”
Then, he went limp, sliding off the crimson tusks into the dirt like a discarded rag.
A cold, absolute rage washed over Brice. The fear, the panic, the desperation—it all evaporated, replaced by a hyper-focused, lethal clarity he hadn’t felt since he was locked inside the Genesis facility.
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He ripped the broken, jagged shaft of Harris’s shattered spear off the ground. The boar spun toward him, blood dripping thickly from its jaw, and charged.
Five feet.
Four.
Three.
Brice didn’t flinch. He stepped off the center line at the last possible microsecond, letting the beast’s massive momentum carry it past him. As it blew by, he drove the splintered, jagged wood violently upward, directly beneath the creature’s armored jaw.
The sharpened wood punched through the soft tissue and drove deep into the monster’s brain pan. The boar let out one final, gurgling squeal before its legs gave out, collapsing into a twitching heap of bone and bristle.
Across the clearing, Brian had finally managed to wrap both of his shimmering, metallic arms around the thick neck of the largest beast. With a roar that tore his throat, he planted his feet, anchored himself into the earth, and twisted.
The boar’s thick neck snapped with a sound like an old oak branch breaking under heavy snow. The massive animal dropped like a stone.
Before Brian could even catch his breath, the last surviving boar—the one Harris had wounded—exploded from the brush directly behind him, mad with pain and fury.
Brian spun around. He was too late.
The metallic shimmer of Steel Skin flickered, buzzed like a dying neon sign, and abruptly vanished. He was out of juice. He had nothing left but fragile human bone and flesh.
Brian stared at the charging wall of muscle, his shoulders slumping slightly. “…Aw, hell. The devs really need to buff the stamina bar.”
The boar lowered its head.
Ten feet.
Eight.
Six.
Brice ran. Every muscle in his legs screamed in protest, his bad ankle shooting literal fire up his calf, but he ignored it. He scooped Harris’s fallen steel-tipped spear from the mud without breaking stride.
The boar was inches from Brian.
Brice planted his front foot, feeling the tendons pop dangerously, and threw everything he had—every ounce of grief, every drop of adrenaline—into the throw.
The spear left his hand like a javelin. It struck true, burying itself just behind the boar’s ear, the only unarmored spot on its heavy head. The forged steel point drove completely through the skull, exiting the other side in a shower of dark gore.
The beast collapsed in a cloud of choking dust, its massive momentum carrying it forward until it slid to a dead stop.
Its snout rested exactly two inches from the toe of Brian’s boot.
Silence rushed back into the clearing, deafening and heavy. The only sound was the ragged, desperate panting of the surviving hunters.
Brian stared down at the dead monster, then slowly lifted his eyes to Brice. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “…You just saved my life.”
Brice was bent double, his hands resting heavily on his knees, gasping for air as the adrenaline began to violently crash. He spat a wad of dirt and metallic-tasting saliva onto the ground. After several seconds, he finally looked up, wiping a thick smear of blood from his cheek.
A tired, jagged grin spread across his face. He pointed a shaking, dirt-caked finger at Brian.
“Mark that one off the list.”
Brian frowned, his chest heaving. “What list?”
“The one where I save your dumb ass from becoming exotic fertilizer.” Brice pushed himself upright, limping over to slap Brian hard on the shoulder. “One down… ninety-nine more saves this week, bro.”
Brian let out a breathless, booming laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. “This week? I’m setting ambitious goals for my near-death experiences.”
“You’ve always been an overachiever in the casualty department.”
Brian shook his head, leaning back against a shattered tree trunk. “You know, Mom would’ve told you to quit showing off with the spear throws. It’s unseemly.”
Brice pointed right back. “Mom also said quit getting yourself almost killed playing with wild animals.”
“I don’t remember her saying that.”
“That’s because you never listened to her.”
Even Tom, leaning heavily on his own spear with tears streaking his dust-covered face, let out a choked, wet laugh.
For just a few precious, surreal seconds, the apocalypse disappeared. The blood, the mutated monsters, the looming dread of the wasteland—it all vanished. They were just two lifelong friends, standing in the wreckage, giving each other a hard time to keep the dark away.
Then, Brice’s eyes drifted past Brian’s shoulder, landing on the crumpled, bloody form of Harris.
His smile evaporated instantly. The cold, brutal reality of their world crashed back down on him, suffocating the brief warmth.
“…Let’s take him home,” Brice said quietly.
The journey back to the settlement was agonizingly silent.
The three enormous boars were lashed to a makeshift drag-sled crafted from pine boughs and vines. Harris’s body rested across the top of the largest beast, covered respectfully with a woven blanket Lucas had carried in his pack. Blood slowly dripped a dark, morbid trail behind them.
No one spoke. The victory of the hunt was entirely eclipsed by the crushing cost.
The camp gathered as they hauled the sled through the heavy iron gates. Children immediately stopped playing, pulling back behind their parents’ legs. Conversations died in people’s throats, replaced by a collective, horrified gasp.
Father Elias stepped out of the crowd, his face a mask of profound, practiced sorrow. He quietly removed his wide-brimmed hat, pressing it to his chest as the sled passed, his eyes lingering on the blood-soaked blanket just a second too long.
That evening, the entire settlement attended the funeral. The gravesite was located on a small, grassy hill just inside the perimeter walls. Stories of Harris’s bravery were shared in hushed, reverent tones. Prayers were offered up to the smoggy, starless sky.
As the first shovelfuls of dirt hit the wooden coffin, Tom stepped forward, his face tight with unshed tears, and placed Harris’s old, battered hunting hat on top of the soil.
The grave was filled. The lanterns were slowly dimmed. People drifted away, seeking the hollow comfort of their cabins and the hot stew made from the very monsters that had killed their friend.
As Brice turned to leave the silent graveyard, something caught his eye. Half-buried in the loose dirt near the walking path lay Harris’s hunting knife—a beautiful, custom-forged blade with a polished bone handle. It must have slipped from the old man’s belt when they were moving his body.
Brice picked it up, wiping the soil from the cold steel.
“I’ll bring it to his cabin tomorrow,” he said quietly, slipping it into his belt.
Brian, standing like a stone sentinel beside him, nodded. “He’d appreciate that.”
The following morning, the camp was shrouded in a thick, chilling fog that clung to the cabins like spiderwebs.
Brice walked alone toward the cemetery, the bone-handled knife resting heavy in his palm. He wanted a quiet moment to pay his respects before the relentless daily grind of the settlement started.
Halfway up the hill… he stopped dead.
The fresh grave looked… wrong.
Brice had worked construction for years. He knew how earth settled. He knew how rain and time compressed loose soil. But this dirt had settled far more than it should have overnight. More than that, the neat mound Tom had lovingly patted down the night before was violently irregular.
One side had clearly been disturbed.
There were fresh, frantic shovel marks cutting deep into the damp earth. Clumps of soil were scattered outside the perimeter of the plot, as if someone had been digging in a panicked hurry and poorly attempted to cover their tracks.
Brice slowly knelt at the edge of the grave. He touched the soil.
Still loose. Still damp from being freshly overturned in the dead of night.
His expression hardened into a mask of pure ice. The muffled clang from the isolated warehouse echoed loudly in his memory, perfectly aligning with the sick, twisting dread knotting in his stomach.
Our meat stores are running dangerously low.
A few moments later, heavy boots crunched on the gravel path. Brian walked up, holding two steaming mugs of pine needle tea. “You coming? Breakfast is starting.”
Brice didn’t answer. He simply pointed at the dirt.
Brian stopped. The playful ease he usually carried vanished entirely. His eyes narrowed as he analyzed the scene with a soldier’s grim precision. “…That’s not right.”
Brice quietly slipped Harris’s knife back into his belt, his knuckles bone-white. His eyes never left the disturbed mound of dirt.
“No,” Brice whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, dangerous promise. “It isn’t.”
He slowly stood, casually looking around the fog-drenched camp to ensure no one was within earshot. He stepped close to Brian, lowering his voice until it was barely a breath in the mist.
“Tonight… we come back.”
Brian didn’t ask questions. He didn’t make a joke. He just stared at the violated grave, his jaw tight, and gave a single, rigid nod.
Neither man noticed the slight parting of the curtains in a cabin window thirty yards away, where someone was watching them in complete, calculating silence.