The convoy had just started creaking back to life.

  Gunfighters yawned and adjusted their gear, shaking off sleep. Voss walked past, muttering instructions to the younger mercs, motioning them to pick up their strung about gear.

  Swift stood off to the side. His eyes and mind drifted into the treeline. He thought again about what he saw last night—the priest slipping into the woods, silent and sure, vanishing under the boughs like a ghost. The casual return.

  Maybe it was nothing.

  GRIEEEEEEE

  The woods screamed.

  It tore through like nails on a chalkboard.

  Dozens of creatures charged out of the woods—crawling, running, slashing. These weren’t shambling undead. These were faster, leaner. Arms too long, torsos twisted, and their mouths hung open with rows of misshapen teeth, as if trying to yawn.

  One of the gunfighters shouted. Another dropped their gear in pure panic.

  Swift’s took off his backpack to grab his helmet—then froze.

  The priest might still be nearby. Watching.

  He couldn’t risk it.

  His grip shifted to Excalibur instead.

  Guess it wasn’t a shit after all

  “Hold the line!” Voss bellowed from the center of the formation.

  Gunfighters scrambled to their wagons, rifles raised. Shots rang out, crisp and controlled, but the enemy kept coming.

  Swift stood shoulder to shoulder with Carlos, their backs to a half-loaded supply wagon. The other gunfighters were scattered and out of sync, still adjusting to the shock.

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  Excalibur pierced through skulls like tofu. Swift moved deliberately, waiting for opportunities to strike without wasting shots. He glanced at Carlos—steady, focused, but slower than usual.

  A creature lunged over the wagon. Swift impaled it mid-air, spun the weapon free with practiced grace.

  “Check your angles!” Carlos shouted at the other wagon gunfighters.

  The wave thinned. Bodies twitched on the ground. The air reeked of sulfur and decay.

  Someone shouted: “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  The last of the Corrosion dropped, riddled with bullets. For a heartbeat, the world was quiet again.

  Another shriek rose—and the second wave hit.

  More of them. Crawling over the dead like insects pouring from a cracked hive.

  Swift felt something in him twist.

  He saw a wagon driver screaming as two creatures dragged him by the ankle. A gunfighter fired wildly, his aim shaking with fear but managing to free the driver.

  A pair of claws lunged toward Carlos.

  Swift surged forward, running the creature through and carrying it into the next target.

  Rage.

  A red lens fell over his eyes.

  Carlos shouted.

  But Swift wasn’t listening anymore.

  The world narrowed.

  He charged further into chaos, Excalibur swinging wide. He slammed the buttstock into jaws, crushed rib cages, spun the musket like a quarterstaff and brought it down again and again.

  Stab… slash… spin, sprint.

  Repeat

  He didn’t notice how far he’d gotten from the convoy.

  The second wave broke—shattered by a frenzy of resistance. The ground was soaked with blood. A few corroded twitched, dragging themselves away before collapsing.

  Swift stood panting, Excalibur dripping.

  He turned around.

  Carlos.

  Swift sprinted back toward the wagon line, stepping over bodies, boots crunching blood-soaked gravel.

  He found Carlos slumped beside a wheel; one hand pressed hard against his ribs. Blood poured through his fingers.

  A jagged, spike-like projectile lodged deep in Carlos’s side.

  The same kind of twisted weapon that had ruined his leg all those years ago... black veins radiated outward from his wound.

  “Carlos!” Swift dropped to his knees, grabbing his shoulder.

  Carlos blinked slowly, pain dulling the edges of his voice.

  “Hey, Swift.”

  “You’re okay,” Swift said, even though it was a lie. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

  Carlos chuckled weakly, “Don’t… I know what this is.”

  Swift’s hand dove into his pouch. He pulled out the bullet—the one Carlos once twirled between his fingers like a cigarette.

  He held it out.

  “Here. Take it back.”

  Carlos’s hand came up… and gently pushed Swift’s away.

  “No… You keep it. My choice...”

  Swift’s jaw clenched. The world blurred around him, the sounds of others checking for wounded distant.

  Carlos’s eyes met his one last time.

  “Remember... Swift…”

  “Keep… fighting.”

  He exhaled—and didn’t inhale again.

  Swift knelt there, hands coated in red, the bullet clenched tightly in his fist.

  Rain began to fall.