Chapter 9 Rowans POV
884 Words
I don’t tell the others about the answering howl.
Not yet.
Panic is a disease. Spreads quicker than any infection we’ve seen.
Instead, I head straight for the operations room—an old shipping office we converted into a command center. Maps cover the walls. Real paper ones. Updated by hand. Patrol routes marked in grease pencil. Red X’s where herds were cleared. Black circles where we lost people.
The north ridge has three marks already.
Now I add a fourth.
Dad steps in behind me without knocking.
“You heard more,” he says.
Not a question.
“Yeah.” I cap the pencil. “They’re responding to each other.”
Silence stretches.
“That’s not possible,” one of the night scouts mutters from the corner.
I look at him. Calm. Measured.
“Seven years ago none of this was possible.”
He shuts up.
Dad folds his arms. “How many?”
“Couldn’t count exact. Echo distortion. But not one. Not two.” I meet his eyes. “Enough.”
His jaw tightens.
We both know what that means.
Clusters.
Coordination.
Maybe even territory.
“Rail depot mission moves up,” I say. “We don’t wait a week.”
Dad studies me for a long second. He hates accelerating timelines without intel.
But he trusts my instincts.
“Dawn,” he agrees. “Small team.”
“I’ll lead.”
“You always do.”
—
I find her sharpening that katana under a low work light near the inner wall.
Death.
Up close, the nickname feels less dramatic and more… accurate.
She looks up as my boots scrape concrete.
“We move at dawn,” I tell her. “Mission’s no longer optional.”
“Good,” she says simply.
No theatrics. No questions.
I appreciate that.
“You’ve heard unusual vocalizations before?” I ask.
She wipes the blade clean before answering. “Twice. Both northbound. Both near enclosed spaces.”
“Tunnels,” I say.
She nods once.
That confirms my suspicion.
Enclosed structures amplify sound. Contain herds. Force proximity.
If something’s changing behaviorally, tunnels would accelerate it.
“They weren’t random,” she adds quietly. “They were… signaling.”
I don’t react outwardly.
Inside, something sharp clicks into place.
“Then we cut it off before it spreads,” I say.
Her eyes narrow slightly. Assessing me.
“You always this eager?” she asks.
“I’m not eager,” I reply. “I’m preventative.”
That earns the faintest ghost of approval.
—
Dawn breaks gray and cold.
We move light—five total.
Me. Death. Mara from the west wall—best shot we’ve got. Jensen—quiet, steady with a spear. And Kade—tracker.
No vehicles. Too loud.
The forest north of the settlement is denser than it looks from the walls. Pines choked with underbrush. Fallen trunks forming natural barriers. Good terrain for ambushes.
We move in staggered formation.
I take point.
Not because I have to.
Because I want to.
Half a mile in, Kade signals halt.
Tracks.
Not walker shamble patterns.
Clusters. Repeated pacing. Circular wear in the dirt.
“They’ve been here a while,” he whispers.
I crouch, running fingers over the disturbed soil.
He’s right.
This isn’t a wandering herd.
This is a gathering point.
A low sound drifts through the trees.
Not quite a howl.
More like a layered hum of distant throats.
Death’s hand shifts slightly toward her blade.
“You feel that?” Mara breathes.
Yeah.
Pressure in the air. Like before a storm.
We crest the ridge slowly.
And there it is.
The rail depot.
Rusting train cars line the tracks. Several have derailed, creating a twisted barricade of steel. The main tunnel entrance yawns black in the hillside beyond.
And in the clearing before it—
Walkers.
Dozens.
Not roaming.
Standing.
Facing outward in loose arcs like sentries.
Not bumping into each other.
Not wandering.
Waiting.
My pulse doesn’t spike.
It sharpens.
“Tell me you see that,” Jensen murmurs.
“I see it,” I say.
One of the fresher walkers near the front lifts its head.
Not toward us.
Toward the tunnel.
And then it lets out that same long, resonant howl.
The forest seems to hold its breath.
From inside the tunnel—
Something answers.
Closer.
Stronger.
And then a figure steps into the mouth of the darkness.
Not faster.
Not bigger.
But intact.
Flesh not fully rotted. Movements smoother. Eyes tracking across the clearing with unnerving precision.
It doesn’t stumble.
It surveys.
And the others subtly shift around it.
Not randomly.
Positioning.
My grip tightens on my rifle.
Death exhales beside me, low and steady.
“That one’s different,” Mara whispers.
Yeah.
It is.
The intact walker tilts its head slightly—
And looks directly at our ridge.
It shouldn’t see us.
We’re downwind. Covered. Silent.
But its gaze fixes.
Unblinking.
Intent.
The sentry walkers begin to turn.
Slowly.
Toward us.
I don’t hesitate.
“Fall back,” I say calmly. “Controlled retreat. Now.”
Because this isn’t a random evolution.
This isn’t scattered mutation.
This is the beginning of something organized.
And if that thing just marked our position—
Then the war just changed.
And I plan to win it.
- Writer
