Chapter 12 Rowans POV
944 Words
The drums don’t stop.
They roll through the night in staggered waves—north ridge, south slope, somewhere near the dried riverbed east of our outer markers.
They’re not just surrounding us.
They’re syncing.
I stand in the operations room with the map lit by lantern light while runners cycle in and out with perimeter updates.
“South patrol saw movement at Marker Six,” one reports. “Not advancing. Just… present.”
“Eyeshine?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Hard to count. At least twenty.”
Too many to be coincidence. Too few to be the full force.
Harassment units.
Pressure.
Dad watches me process it all without interrupting.
Seven years ago, I would’ve looked to him for the call.
Now he waits for mine.
“Collapse outer patrols to secondary ring,” I say evenly. “No one beyond the creek line. Rotate every forty minutes. No static positions.”
One of the guards hesitates. “If we pull back, they’ll gain ground.”
“They already have ground,” I reply. “I’m not feeding them bodies to prove a point.”
He nods and moves.
Dad steps closer once we’re alone.
“You’re thinking siege doctrine,” he says.
“I’m thinking containment,” I answer. “They’re mapping reaction time. We shorten our perimeter and deny variables.”
He studies me for a long second.
“You sound like her.”
I don’t ask who.
I know.
Death.
“She’s not wrong,” I say.
“No,” he agrees quietly. “She’s not.”
Another howl slices across the dark—closer now. West wall.
A horn answers immediately from the tower.
Signal pattern Delta.
Contact confirmed, no breach.
I grab my rifle and head for the stairs.
The west wall is tense but holding. Below, in the moon-washed clearing, I see them.
They’re not pressing the barricade.
They’re standing just beyond arrow range.
Watching.
The intact one isn’t visible—but I know it’s there somewhere.
The formation shifts subtly as if adjusting to our elevation.
They’re measuring line-of-sight angles.
I raise my rifle and fire one clean shot into the front rank.
Head explodes backward.
The rest don’t flinch.
No scatter.
No feeding frenzy.
They close ranks.
I feel it then—clear and cold.
This isn’t hunger.
This is strategy.
Death steps up beside me without a word.
“You shouldn’t waste ammo,” she murmurs.
“I wasn’t trying to thin them.”
Her eyes flick to me.
“I was sending a message.”
Understanding settles in her expression.
We won’t just sit and be observed.
Below, a fresher variant steps forward slightly.
Its posture almost mimics confidence.
It opens its mouth—
And releases a shorter, sharper call.
From the south ridge, an answering tone.
From the east, another.
Triangulation.
They’re checking spacing.
“Three flanks minimum,” I say under my breath.
“Yes.”
“And the tunnel nest we saw today?”
“Primary command point,” she replies. “Or breeding ground for this behavior.”
Breeding.
The word sits wrong.
But evolution doesn’t need birth.
It just needs selection pressure.
Seven years of us killing the dumbest first.
Leaving the ones that adapt.
The realization hits hard.
We made them better.
I lower the rifle slightly.
“Tomorrow night,” I say.
She glances at me. “That’s fast.”
“They’re not fully positioned yet. Their arcs are still widening. If we wait, they compress.”
“You want to strike.”
“Yes.”
“High risk.”
“Yes.”
She watches the shifting formation below.
Then nods once.
“Then we cut the head.”
Exactly.
If the intact one is directing, remove it.
Disrupt coordination.
Force them back to instinct.
Dad joins us on the wall.
“I heard that tone shift,” he says. “They’re increasing frequency.”
“They’re syncing perimeter pressure,” I reply. “We don’t wait for full encirclement.”
He looks between me and Death.
“You have a plan.”
“Yes.”
I outline it quickly.
Small strike unit. Night movement. Silent approach through the creek bed to mask sound. Hit the rail depot tunnel. Kill the intact variant. Collapse entrance with charges we’ve been saving from the quarry run last spring.
High risk.
High reward.
When I finish, the only sound for a moment is the distant layered howls.
Dad studies me carefully.
“If you’re wrong,” he says quietly, “you lose our best fighters in one move.”
“If I’m right,” I answer, “we prevent a siege we might not survive.”
His gaze shifts to the walkers below.
They haven’t advanced.
They haven’t retreated.
They’re waiting.
Like soldiers awaiting command.
Dad nods once.
“Twenty-four hours,” he says. “We prepare quietly.”
Relief doesn’t hit me.
Resolve does.
Below, the formation begins to withdraw slowly into the treeline.
Not scattered.
Ordered.
Testing complete for tonight.
Death watches them disappear.
“You’re not reckless,” she says quietly.
“No.”
“But you are willing to gamble.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes meet mine.
“So am I.”
The forest swallows the last of the moving shapes.
The drums fade to low murmurs in the distance.
Temporary quiet.
But not peace.
I rest my hands on the cold metal of the wall and look north.
They think they’re surrounding prey.
They think they’ve found something to break down slowly.
What they don’t understand yet—
Is that we adapt too.
And tomorrow night,
We hunt.
- Writer
