The Night of the Hollow Hunt

Chapter Thirteen: The Rotting Grip

Every step Antonio took was a battle. His leg felt like it had been chewed through by the forest itself—torn tendons, shattered bone, and slick, oozing blood soaking his pants. The forest had come alive in the worst possible way. The tendrils slithered under the ground, snapping at his heels, hungry for more flesh. He could hear them, the grotesque squelching sounds of the rot pulsing beneath the earth, searching, hunting.

Wren dragged him forward, her eyes wild with fear but determined, her own face splattered with black ichor from the tendrils she had hacked apart. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts, but she didn't stop moving. "We have to keep going!" she gasped, her voice raw. "Don't stop, Antonio!"

Antonio wanted to respond, to tell her he was trying, but his throat was tight with pain, and his body was beginning to fail him. His leg screamed with every step, sending hot needles of agony shooting up into his hip. The forest floor seemed to squirm underfoot, soft and pliant, like stepping on dead, bloated corpses that gave with a sickening squelch.

"Just a little further," Wren urged, though her voice sounded more desperate than confident.

Antonio's vision blurred, and the world around him spun, the trees warping into grotesque figures, twisted with rot and decay. The branches above twisted like gnarled fingers, some dripping with thick, black ooze, others snapping under their own weight. He could hear the creaking of wood, the slithering of tendrils, and the constant, unbearable hum of the forest itself—alive and hungry.

"We can't outrun this," Antonio rasped, his voice barely audible. "It's... it's everywhere."

Wren gritted her teeth, shaking her head as she dragged him forward. "We have to try. We have to keep moving!"

They stumbled deeper into the forest, the trees pressing in tighter around them. Antonio's heart pounded in his chest, each beat sending fresh waves of pain through his leg. The black ichor from the tendrils had soaked into his skin, burning like acid, and every movement felt like his muscles were being flayed apart from the inside.

The shadows moved with them, slipping through the trees like phantoms, their hollow, blackened eyes fixed on Antonio and Wren, their thin, skeletal bodies barely making a sound. They didn't rush. They didn't need to. The figures knew that no matter how far they ran, no matter how hard they fought, the rot would claim them.

Antonio's foot caught on something, and he fell forward, crashing into the soft, wet earth. His hands sunk deep into the muck, his fingers brushing against something slick and slimy. He recoiled, pulling his hands free only to find them coated in black tar-like sludge that clung to his skin, refusing to let go. It stank of death—like a corpse rotting in the summer heat.

"Antonio!" Wren screamed, grabbing his arm and yanking him to his feet. "Come on! Don't give up!"

But Antonio's body was shutting down. His leg gave way beneath him, and he stumbled again, barely able to stay upright. The rot was spreading. He could feel it now, crawling up his leg, winding through his veins, sinking into his flesh like tendrils of poison. It was more than just pain—it was an invasion. His body was being consumed from the inside out, and the longer he stayed on his feet, the more he could feel it eating him alive.

Wren's face was streaked with tears, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she half-dragged, half-carried Antonio. She glanced back, her eyes widening in horror as the shadows pressed closer, their movements deliberate, their skeletal hands reaching out from the darkness.

"They're... they're getting closer," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We can't keep running."

The ground beneath them shifted again, and another tendril shot up from the earth, wrapping around Antonio's ankle. He let out a strangled cry as it yanked him backward, pulling him down into the muck. His fingers clawed at the ground, but the soft, wet earth gave way beneath him, offering no purchase.