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The fog thickens. Mud and grime claw at you, resist every lift of your shoes. You sink with each step. The forest wants you to stay.
By your watch, Abel expected you back over three hours ago. Your headset gave out halfway through the forest, wouldn’t start up again. Now, no map, no Sam, barely the tepid light of the setting sun, the gloomy path stretches in front of you.
Your full pack thumps heavily against your back. Something in your legs pulls painfully with each pace and the ache became difficult to ignore several hours ago. The muggy air brings your breath to gasps.
What you want more than anything is to tumble into bed and into sleep, lulled by the click-clack of Jody's knitting needles in the bunk above. What you have is a never-ending spider’s web of boggy, slippery dirt in the gathering miasma, your clothes clinging to your skin as your sweat mingles with the sticky mist. Shouldn't you have found the border of the trees by now, travelling in a straight line? How big are these woods? Or maybe you've been going in a circle this whole time...
This is fine.
Of course it's fine.
Because, of course, forests have always held such pleasant things for you and your ilk.
(Let’s just talk like normal people, like… buddies, or something.)
(What happened to your face, Simon, what the hell happened to your face?)
(What the hell is that? How can it move so fast? Don’t slow down! Don’t slow down-)
You need to go home.
The light winding through the tangled branches pales. The lichen on the trees, grey and mottled as a zombie’s flesh, merge in the shadows with the dead, decaying logs. The murky shapes in the trees writhe. Your eyes strain into the forest around you for something, anything.
A flicker! A pale yellow light, small and warm as a candle, appears through the mist ahead. No other shapes, nothing to indicate the source of this beacon, but hell if you're not going to take it.
You bolt for the first sign of life in hours. (Because , your subconscious whispers, historically, you are known for your sanity while under mental duress. This just keeps getting better. Sara is rolling in her grave.) The trees pass in a blur, your legs scream.
It doesn't get closer.
It doesn't get closer.
It doesn't get closer.
You stagger to a halt as a cabin, bulky logs, materialises out of the fog. Rickety, mouldy planks loom over you, lifeless. The windows are boarded over. The candlelight has disappeared.
Your muscles aching and heart rattling, you approach the cabin’s door, black with rot and weather.
(Because, of course, people who live in the thick of the woods are always such nice people.)
(Our auras are so connected. You feel that, too, don’t you?)
You hesitate, but knock. It thumps damply.
No response, and if this place is abandoned you just might kick in the door to sleep for the night, it's near-rotten anyway. Not much protection, though...
Hang on, when was the last time you saw a zom? You outpaced a shambler on the forest’s outskirts, but nothing since.
You hunch your shoulders, resist the urge to eye the woods behind you.
The door swings open.
The person on the other side is obscured by oily darkness (Oh, wonderful, they live in a pitch black cabin in the woods!). The faint moonlight glints off of their eyes at least two feet above your own. They peer down at you.
"What do you want?"
You raise your hands to sign. "I'm very sorry to disturb you." This person could kill you. They could chop you up and eat you, and your blood would leak across the dingy floor unseen. And yet, it’s tough to hide your predicament. You just try not to slur your motions. "But do you happen to have a radio that I could use?"
"A radio?" Their voice creaks, like old wood made flesh. "No. Not here."
(Who doesn't have a radio these days?) You gesture to the device still on your head. The eyes follow your motion. "A spare battery that I could borrow, then, for my headset?" You can't help it. "Please?"
A pause. "Your headset?” You’re swaying where you stand. The eyes swirl as the stranger speaks. “Then the forest has spoken. Do not move."
A pair of wrinkled hands unfold out of the darkness towards you. Everything goes black.
...
I must say, you’re doing awfully well-
There you are, little mouse! Scurrying down that corridor! It’s no use running-
This man is very dangerous-
Tom’s a lot less insane than he appears.
Hello, sweetheart-
You left me! You always leave-
Are you doing something, Abel Township runner? Have you done something to my comms sys-
Mission completed! Begin stretching according to your usual-
Five always comes prepared.
Oh, hello, Abel runner. What’s that with you?
We run through deserted streets, the horde at our backs, the scent of blood filling the air-
The baby’s dead, though. I heard on the radio. They said this baby’s dead!
That is the fog of war, Runner Five. The difficulty in telling the innocent-
Nah, mate. That’s not-
Five-
Five-
Five-
.
.
.
Run, Five!
...
You convulse as a biting pain darts down your chest, thrusting you into consciousness. A sharp, splintered edge carves your cheek. You are on a chair, face down on a table. Your head spins.
The forest! Where are you?
You look up blearily. Your head pounds. It takes you a moment to register the scene in front of you.
A wooden table. A room bathed in shadow. Eyes peering down at you. Candlelight reflects off of them.
“Another challenger… It has been ages.”