“Swift!”

  Voss’s voice cut through the haze like a rifle crack.

  Swift didn’t move.

  Voss rounded the corner of the wagon, boots slamming into the mud. “Get in the damn wagon—we’re leaving now!”

  He skidded to a halt beside Swift—and stopped cold.

  Voss stared for a second, jaw tightening, then dropped to a crouch.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Swift didn’t look at him. His hands trembled at his sides. Excalibur rested against his knee, its barrel streaked with gore and rain.

  “We’ve got to move,” Voss said, softer now. “If we stay, we’re just inviting another wave.”

  Swift’s voice was low and bitter. “He didn’t have to die. They just kept coming.”

  “I know,” Voss said. “But more will come. And we can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

  Swift’s shoulders stiffened. His teeth clenched.

  “Then let them come.”

  Voss exhaled and placed a hand on Swift’s shoulder—not forceful, but solid. “No one’s saying to forget. But honor him by surviving. You know he’d do the same for you.”

  Swift nodded.

  “Grab his rifle. Let’s pick him up.” Voss moved to lift Carlos’s legs.

  Together, they lifted Carlos’s body and eased it into the back of the wagon, careful not to let the head loll or the limbs bend wrong. Voss covered him with a tarp and clapped Swift once on the shoulder before turning away.

  “Mount up,” he barked to the others. “We are rolling out.”

  Swift stayed by the wagon. His eyes locked on the bloodied tarp. The bullet Carlos had given him pressed in his palm.

  He jumped in.

  The wagon rocked gently as it moved. The road ahead was slick from rain, muffling the wagon’s movements.

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  Swift sat beside Carlos’s body, legs pulled in close. The M21 rifle rested near the tarp. Excalibur leaned against his leg, heavier than usual. He didn’t know if it was the rain or just the adrenaline fading.

  The bullet still clenched in Swift’s hand, knuckles white in cold comfort.

  He kept his eyes on the tarp. Every bump in the road made him tense, every shadow another fear whispering—what if he turns?

  He didn’t want to believe it could happen. But the idea had nested in his mind and refused to leave.

  Exhaustion dragged his eyelids down. His head dropped forward.

  “Keep fighting.”

  Carlos’s voice rang clear—calm and certain.

  In the dream, they sat near a fire. Not in this world. Not in any he recognized. Just shadow and warmth.

  Carlos wasn’t facing him, but Swift knew it was him. Like knowing a melody without hearing the words.

  The scene dusted away.

  Now Swift was lying on his back.

  Paralyzed.

  He couldn’t move. Couldn’t see clearly.

  But he could feel.

  Someone was there. Crying. Whispering his name, again and again. Their hands were trembling. The grief felt heavy, real, like a weight on his chest.

  He tried to reach for them, to speak—but then the dream shattered with bright light.

  Swift woke with a start, breath shallow.

  It was still dark. Still raining.

  He blinked, disoriented, then looked down.

  Excalibur was glowing faintly. Warm metal shimmered beneath the drizzle.

  He touched it.

  The barrel—shorter now.

  The bayonet—longer, bigger, reforged as if the excess metal from the barrel had reformed into the dangerous blade.

  The flintlock mechanism was gone. In its place was a percussion lock—crude, but faster, more reliable.

  He checked the inside of the barrel.

  Rifling.

  His breath caught. It was evolving again. Bit by bit. Step by brutal step.

  He ran a thumb along the barrel and exhaled.

  “You’re changing too.”

  They reached the next camp at dusk.

  Sparse. Quiet. Defensive positions dug shallow and quick. Nothing like the checkpoint. Just enough cover to survive the night.

  Swift and Voss carried Carlos’s body from the wagon. They walked in silence, and together they found a quiet patch under a crooked tree near the edge of camp. The soil was soft enough to dig.

  They worked side by side, no words exchanged, just the steady rhythm of shovels biting into earth.

  It took longer than it should have. Swift’s arms were sore. Voss’s cigarette kept going out in the rain. When they finished, they lowered Carlos’s body down gently, his M21 laid against the tree.

  Swift stared down into the grave, heart like lead. He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come.

  Voss cleared his throat. “You want to say something?”

  Swift gave a small nod and knelt at the edge. “He taught me a lot in a short time. More than some people learn in years. He didn’t ask for much. Didn’t talk about himself much either. But he cared. He kept fighting.”

  He paused, voice tightening.

  “The Corrosion ends with me.”

  A long silence passed.

  Funeral ceremony, ceremony…

  He glanced at Voss. “The priest. Where is he?”

  Voss didn’t look at him. He took a slow drag from a fresh cigarette.

  “Maybe he had somewhere else to be.”

  Swift looked back down at Carlos.

  Voss spoke again. Quiet. Heavy.

  “Swift.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Prepare yourself. This part’s going to be uncomfortable.”

  Swift’s brows furrowed. “What do you—”

  BANG.