Through The Ashes

13

The atmosphere shifted—less frantic but lingering with tension. The streets seem quieter now, though that uneasy silence feels like the calm before another storm. Jorn leads the group, ready for the next potential threat.

They wind through back alleys, weaving between buildings, their footsteps muffled on the cracked pavement. The faint groans of the Rot grow more distant as they put space between themselves and the recent battle, but the danger lingers, always present just out of sight.

Mara sidles up beside Jorn as they walk, her voice low. "You think we'll make it back before dark?"

"I think so. If we keep this pace up, I don't see why not," Jorn replied.

They round a corner, and just as they enter a narrow alley, a sudden noise—like metal scraping against concrete—freezes them in their tracks. Jorn instantly raises her rifle, motioning for the others to stop.

From the shadows, a figure emerges—a man, but disheveled, wild-eyed, and unsteady on his feet. His clothes are torn, and blood streaks down his arms. He staggers toward them, holding his hands up in a desperate, pleading gesture.

"Wait... wait!" the man rasps, his voice hoarse. "Don't shoot!"

Brady narrowed his eyes, not lowering his gun. "Who the hell are you?"

The man stumbles, nearly collapsing before catching himself on the side of a building. "I... I was with a group. We got separated. They're all dead. Please... help me." His voice breaks as he pleads, desperation clear in his eyes.

Jorn looks him over, her instincts telling her what needs to be done. "How long have you been out here?" she asks, her tone commanding.

The man shivers, wiping sweat from his brow. "Days... I think. I lost track. Please, I—"

"Check him for bites," Harrem cuts in coldly.

The man's face drains of color. He takes a shaky step back, his eyes wide with fear. "N-No, I'm clean! I swear!" But as he moves, the edge of his sleeve pulls back, revealing a dark, festering wound on his wrist. A fresh bite.

The infection had already traveled up his arm, flesh peeling away. His skin changing into unnatural colors.

Mara took a step back, bumping into Jorn's side. Harrem cursed under his breath.

"You're rotting," Brady growls, his gun still trained on the man.

The man looked down at the wound, his face contorting in terror. "No... no, I can fight it! Please! I don't want to die!"

Jorn's heart hardens. She's seen this before—too many times to hold out hope for him. The virus is already working its way through his system, and there's no saving him now.

"We don't have time for this," she says flatly, swiftly taking out her pistol and aiming it.

The man takes another step back, stumbling into the wall. "Please... don't..."

Jorn's finger hovers over the trigger, her eyes cold as she makes her decision. She knows she has to be the one to shoulder the guilt.

She pulls the trigger. The sound is swift and merciless, echoing in the alley. The man falls, his body going limp. She holsters her pistol.

The group stands in heavy silence, the echo of the gunshot fading into the uneasy quiet of the alley. The reality of their situation settles over them like a shroud, the grim necessity of their choices resting on their shoulders.

Jorn scans the surroundings, her heart pounding as she tries to shake off the lingering image of the man's final moments. The way it was all too similar to the tragedy she experienced time and time again with those she loved.