CHAPTER 6: AFTERMATH
856 Words
Dawn crept in slowly, shy and golden, filtering through the canopy like a whispered promise of survival. The once-threatening jungle now shimmered under morning light, the trees no longer looming monsters, but silent witnesses to the night’s horror.
They emerged from the forest like ghosts—bloodied, bruised, broken. Their steps were unsteady, their breaths shallow, but they moved, driven forward by the sheer instinct to live.
The highway stretched before them like salvation.
A distant rumble echoed through the haze. A lone tricycle, rust-specked and swaying under the weight of its passenger sidecar, appeared down the road. The driver squinted at the figures ahead—barefoot, disheveled, streaked with soot and blood.
Joe stepped forward into the middle of the road, waving one hand frantically while the other cradled Third, who hadn’t spoken a single word since the chaos began. The boy stared blankly at the horizon, his small hands clenched tightly into his father’s shirt.
Charo emerged next, clutching a makeshift sling that supported Gayle’s wounded arm, the bite now covered in Ronron’s poultice of leaves and crushed roots. Gayle leaned heavily on her, limping, her lips pressed tightly together to keep from crying out.
CJ, covered in ash and dried blood, followed quietly behind. Her eyes were dull, face expressionless, walking not just with grief—but with guilt. Her father, Janjan, had died saving her. She hadn’t let go of his shirt. Not even now. She clutched the tattered fabric to her chest, her silent tribute to a man who had shielded her from the unthinkable.
Behind them, Ronron walked in a daze, his face pale, hands twitching. He had seen too much. Done too much. But he stayed close, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds, as if something might still crawl out of the trees.
Nathan limped beside them, a long scratch across his temple and dried blood crusting the side of his neck. His shirt was torn, one sleeve missing. His face was stony, not from shock—but from trying to hold it together for his younger brothers and for the others who couldn’t. His jaw was clenched tight, like he didn’t trust his own voice not to c***k.
Beside him, Jaden moved slowly, arms scraped, one leg dragging slightly. He looked straight ahead, blinking hard against the light of morning. But his hands wouldn’t stop trembling. He kept rubbing his palms against his jeans, as if trying to scrub away the memory of the night.
“We made it,” he murmured.
No one replied.
A distant sound broke the silence—the sputtering engine of an old tricycle. Its rattle grew louder as it approached, slowing to a crawl when the driver saw the bloodied group staggering from the forest’s edge.
Joe stepped into the road, waving one arm frantically. The other still held Third, who clung to him silently. The tricycle stopped. The driver’s eyes widened, flicking from face to face, trying to make sense of the horror in front of him.
“Please,” Joe said hoarsely. “We need help.”
They piled into the sidecar and back seat, bodies pressed close, warmth shared not from comfort—but necessity.
No one spoke.
The engine groaned and carried them away from the trees. Away from the ashes of a house that no longer stood. Away from a night that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.
They never reached the beach.
They never saw the resort.
But they survived.
Most of them.
EPILOGUE
One Month Later:
In a Manila school cafeteria, lunchtime buzzed with ordinary noise—laughter, forks scraping plates, students trading snacks and gossip.
Above it all, a television droned from its place in the corner.
“...charred ruins discovered outside a small town near Batangas. No known survivors. Authorities confirmed that a van registered to a missing family was found abandoned nearby. Investigators suspect arson, with unusual elements found at the scene—including rusted nails scattered intentionally across the road...”
No one paid attention. The world had moved on.
Outside in the hallway, students milled about, alive in their teenage dramas.
One girl stood alone, leaning against a row of lockers. Her uniform was neat. Her long black hair hung loose. Her expression was unreadable.
Her name tag read: Jenny D.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze scanning the passing crowd.
And then—she smiled. A soft, knowing curve of her lips. Almost kind. But not quite.
A gust of wind rolled through the open windows, warm and strange. Somewhere, far beyond the school walls, beyond the city noise and smog and concrete—
Something stirred. A whisper carried on that wind, rustling leaves, crawling through dreams.
The festival would return.
The blood moon would rise again.
And next time, it would be hungry.
Weeks later, Nathan receives a package with no return address. Inside is a school notebook belonging to Jenny — filled with drawings of creatures, their weaknesses, and a note that says:
"The festival never ends. They’re always watching."
"Trust no one who lives beyond the last turn of the road."
- Writer
