Disclaimer : This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or actual locations is purely coincidental.
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The air tasted like rust and rot. Kael Veyra crouched behind a crumbling concrete barrier, his breath fogging the cracked visor of his scavenged gas mask. Beyond the rubble, the fungal zombies—the Rot -shuffled in staggered circles, their bodies bloated with bulbous spores that pulsed like sick hearts. Their moans were wet, guttural, and wrong. Not human. Not alive. Not dead.
"They're not moving," hissed Rook, the Hollow's de facto leader, from a sniper perch atop a skeletal bus. Her voice crackled through Kael's earpiece, static-laced and sharp. "Your turn, Scarecrow."
Kael hated the nickname. Scarecrow . Because he was tall, thin, and twitchy? Because his mind wasn't wired right? Or because the others thought he'd scare off the Rot just by existing?
He adjusted the strap on his rifle—a jury-rigged thing with a bayonet welded to its end—and stepped into the open. The zombies turned, a dozen heads snapping toward him in unison. For a heartbeat, he froze. The voices in his head flared, overlapping like broken radio signals:
"You did this."
"Run. Run. Run."
"They'll eat your thoughts."
"Focus," he muttered, pressing his palm to his temple until the whispers dimmed. His schizophrenia had been quiet lately—too quiet—but now it clawed back, gnawing at his edges.
The Rot lunged.
Kael moved on instinct, slashing the nearest creature's throat. A thick black liquid sprayed his boots. The zombie crumpled, but the spores on its back erupted, scattering glittering dust into the air. He coughed, stumbling backward as the others closed in.
"Move , idiot!" Mara screamed from the bus. The girl was barely sixteen, all wiry muscle and wild hair, but her aim was deadly. A bullet shattered a zombie's skull, splattering Kael with gray matter.
By the time the last one fell, his hands were shaking. Not from fear—from the memory that flickered behind his eyes: A woman's face. Soft, familiar. Laughing. "You're safe, Kael."
Liar.
He blinked. Gone.
"Check the bodies," Rook ordered, descending the bus. "Look for tags. Anythin' worth selling."
Kael knelt beside a corpse, gloved hands trembling as he tore through tattered clothes. Nothing. Just roaches and mold.
"They're clean," he called.
"Of course they are," Rook spat. She stood over him, arms crossed, her scarred leather jacket creaking. "You bring us here, and there's nothing. Again."
"I told you," Kael said, rising slowly. "The drones marked this sector. There's something here."
"You heard the drones? Like you hear voices ?" A smirk twisted her lips.
The group snickered. Mara avoided his eyes.
Kael's jaw tightened. The Visitors' drones—silver, spider-like machines that hovered above the ruins—left behind cryptic symbols etched into walls. He'd followed one here, hours ago, but the others had doubted him. Again.
"They'll never believe you."
"You're broken."
"Enough," Mara whispered, touching his arm. The warmth of her palm grounded him. She was the only one who didn't flinch when his mind frayed. "Let's just go."
They retreated to the Hollow's base—a repurposed subway tunnel beneath what used to be a city. The walls were scribbled with maps, warnings, and desperate prayers: "The Rot cannot be stopped. Burn everything."
Inside, survivors huddled around a fire, their faces gaunt. A child coughed, phlegm rattling in their chest. Kael knew the signs. The infection spread slower in kids, but it always won.
"You're back," said a voice like gravel.
Elias, the group's medic, limped toward them, his left leg a prosthetic made of salvaged car parts. He handed Kael a syringe. "For the voices. Take it."
Kael hesitated. The drug dulled the schizophrenia but left him numb, a husk. He pocketed it instead.
"Bad day?" Elias asked.
"You could say that."
The medic studied him, eyes lingering on the tremor in Kael's fingers. "You ever think maybe the voices are right? Maybe you are cursed?"
Kael walked away before he could answer.
In his makeshift bunk—a mattress in a train car stripped to its bones—he stared at the ceiling. The whispers had grown louder since the drones appeared. Sometimes they felt like memories.
Flashback: A lab. A woman in a white coat. "We can fix you, Kael. Trust me."
"Liar," the voices hissed.
He grabbed his journal, flipping to a page crammed with sketches: the same woman, her face half-erased; a symbol he'd seen on a drone; a map of the city's underground tunnels.
A knock rattled the train car. Mara entered, holding a rusted thermos.
"Coffee," she said, handing it to him. "Stole it from Rook's stash."
He sipped. Bitter, burnt. Perfect.
"They don't trust you," Mara said softly. "But I do."
"Why?"
"Because you're like me. You see things. Things they don't." She touched the side of her head. "It's not all bad, right?"
Kael didn't answer.
Later, when she'd gone, he heard it—a faint, mechanical beep .
He followed the sound to the edge of the tunnel, where the tracks vanished into darkness. Half-buried in debris was a drone, its limbs twitching. It sparked, emitting a final burst of static before dying.
On its undercarriage, Kael found a map.
Not of the city.
Of a place he'd seen only in dreams: a university tower, overgrown with vines, its windows shattered.
"Project Echo," the voices chanted.
He didn't know what it meant.
But he'd find out.
Even if it killed him.
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