Chapter 8 Rowans POV
801 Words
Outside the walls, the wind shifted again.
And somewhere in the distance, deeper than the usual wandering groans
Something howled.
—
I heard it from the north tower.
It wasn’t a walker sound. I’ve catalogued those in my head for years—the wet gurgle, the hollow moan, the teeth-on-bone chatter when they get close. This was different.
Longer.
Controlled.
Almost… deliberate.
The guards beside me shifted uneasily, scanning the tree line beyond the outer barricades.
“You hear that?” one of them muttered.
“I heard it,” I said.
And I didn’t like it.
Name’s Rowan Hale. Twenty-six. Son of the man who “coordinates.” That’s what he calls it. Not leader. Not commander.
But everyone knows who built this place from a gutted warehouse and a handful of starving survivors.
Everyone knows who people look at when things go wrong.
I rest my rifle against the tower railing and adjust the strap across my shoulder. Custom piece—salvaged parts, tuned trigger, suppressor modified from an old oil filter. Quiet when it needs to be. Loud when it has to be.
Below, the courtyard’s returning to motion after the breach. Cleanup crews dragging bodies. The new woman—the one they call Death—walking like nothing rattles her.
I watched her fight.
Efficient. No wasted motion. No panic spike.
She didn’t move like someone trying to survive.
She moved like someone who already decided she would.
Dad shook her hand.
That alone makes her important.
The howl comes again. Fainter. Farther north this time.
But not random.
I scan the treeline through my scope. No visible movement. No herd massing. No crows lifting.
“Sounded almost human,” the guard says.
“No,” I reply quietly. “It didn’t.”
Human howls break. Crack. Carry fear.
That one carried intent.
I sling the rifle and head down the ladder without another word.
Dad’s near the water station, speaking low with Death. I catch the tail end of it—“rail depot… next week.”
She nods once.
Good.
We’ll need her.
Dad spots me approaching. Reads my face instantly.
“You heard it,” he says.
“North ridge,” I confirm. “Twice. Traveling.”
His jaw tightens slightly. He masks it well. Most people wouldn’t notice.
I always do.
“We’ve had reports,” he says carefully. “Scouts mentioned unusual vocalizations.”
“Walkers don’t howl.”
“They also didn’t hold spears six months ago.”
Fair point.
My gaze shifts to her—the bandannaed woman. Up close, I can see the details most probably miss. Smaller frame than the rumors suggest. Balanced stance. Hands that don’t twitch. Eyes that calculate.
She’s studying me too.
Good.
“I’ll take a team north at first light,” I say.
Dad doesn’t answer immediately.
“You’re not going alone,” he says finally.
“I wouldn’t,” I reply. “I’m not stupid.”
His eyes flick to Death. Then back to me.
“You’ll take her.”
Ah.
So that’s the play.
I don’t bristle. I don’t argue.
But I measure her again.
“You climb?” I ask her.
“Yes.”
“Run quiet?”
“Yes.”
“Freeze when things get weird?”
A slight tilt of her head. “No.”
Good answer.
The howl echoes again—closer this time. Or maybe the wind’s just carrying it better.
People in the courtyard are starting to notice.
Fear spreads faster than infection.
I raise my voice just enough to cut through the murmurs. “Perimeter holds. It’s distant. No breach.”
Calm. Controlled.
They settle.
Dad watches me do it.
He taught me how.
Later, as dusk bleeds across the sky, I walk the inner wall alone.
I didn’t grow up before the world ended. I was nineteen when the first cities fell. Old enough to remember traffic. Electricity. Music streaming through open car windows.
Young enough to adapt fast.
I buried my mother three years in. Fever. Infection we couldn’t treat.
Since then, I’ve made one promise.
Nothing gets through these walls if I can stop it.
Another howl splits the dark.
Closer now.
And underneath it—faint but unmistakable—
An answering sound.
Not from one throat.
From several.
I stop walking.
Listen carefully.
They’re not random.
They’re responding.
A cold, steady understanding settles into my bones.
Whatever’s out there
It’s organizing.
I rest my hand on the hilt of the combat blade at my hip and look north into the black treeline.
Behind me, this place breathes. Laughs. Sleeps.
Ahead of me, something new is waking up.
And if it thinks it’s going to test these walls—
It’s going to meet something just as ruthless waiting on this side.
- Writer
