20 minutes into the ride, the grey sky still hung low over the hills. The rain had left the terrain slick, and the horses' hooves kicked up clumps of mud as they moved along the faint trail.
Josiah rode slightly ahead, his sharp eyes scanning the road. He spoke casually, though his tone had a low seriousness beneath it.
"So, Michael…" Josiah said, squinting through the mist, "you think we'll actually get the chance to kill Randal before things go completely to shit?"
Michael gave a quiet grunt. "I hope so. Long as Heart doesn't screw it up. Man's older than both of us and still acts like some dumbass eighteen-year-old trying to figure out what life is."
Josiah blinked. "Wait—how old are you, anyway?"
Michael shrugged. "Twenty-three. You?"
Josiah raised his brows, clearly surprised. "Shit—I'm twenty-four. And all this time knowing you? I never even thought about it."
Michael chuckled, shaking his head. "Damn, you didn't know how old I was?"
Josiah laughed. "Hell no, I didn't! Swear to God, I thought you were, like… thirty. Maybe thirty-six with the way you act."
Michael barked a laugh. "Man, you funny as hell."
Their laughter faded as Josiah suddenly slowed, tugging gently on his reins.
"Hold up," he muttered, pointing at the mud. "I see horse prints. Multiple. Heavy, spaced weird. Something spooked 'em."
Michael leaned down, narrowing his eyes at the trail. The indentations were fresh.
"You think Marcel really got chased by Randal's crew?"
Josiah stood in his stirrups for a better view. "Shit, yeah. I think they found him."
Before Michael could reply, a low, wet growling echoed through the woods.
Both horses snorted in fear.
"Hollower," Josiah said instantly, drawing his knife. "Shit—hold on."
He leapt off his horse with fluid motion. A twisted, skinless humanoid creature came sprinting out of the woods, its jaw unhinged and shrieking.
With precise brutality, Josiah plunged his blade into its face, driving it through the skull with a wet crack. More emerged from the trees—snarling, drooling, starving.
Michael swore and vaulted from his saddle, unsheathing his blade.
"More coming. Let's clean this up."
One of the hollowers lunged at Michael, but he sidestepped and buried his knife into its temple. Another tried to flank him, but he slashed across its throat, then shoved it back into a tree.
Meanwhile, Josiah was already tearing through them—his footwork sharp, movements exact. One slash. Another. Then a kick to the chest of a charging one before planting his knife clean into its spine.
Michael looked over mid-fight and blinked. "God damn—you already got four?"
Josiah didn't look back. "Yeah, I'm just fast."
Moments later, they both stood among twitching corpses. Their blades dripped black-red.
Josiah sheathed his knife and hopped back on his horse with a breath. "Let's keep going before more show up."
Michael wiped the blade on a dead hollower's ragged shirt and mounted. "Man… this shit is annoying."
Josiah looked over. "You mean the hollowers?"
Michael snorted. "No. Marcel. This dumb bastard just wandered off trying to be some kind of hero."
Josiah shrugged. "He's a kid. They all want to be legends until they get bit in the face."
"How old is he, anyway?" Josiah added.
Michael scowled. "I don't know—and I don't care."
They kept following the trail, the trees thinning ahead. Then, the scent of something foul hit the air. Rotting. Metallic.
Josiah pulled his reins.
"Whoa… shit." He pointed ahead.
A collapsed horse carcass lay across the road. Its ribs exposed, organs half-eaten. Buzzards circled above, and the mud was soaked in blood and fur.
"That's his horse," Josiah said grimly, dismounting. "Same saddle. That's Marcel's."
Michael climbed down, walking slowly toward the mess.
"So it was a hollower—or… wait…" He crouched down, inspecting the bite marks and torn flesh. His eyes narrowed.
"These teeth marks are big. Like… too big for a hollower."
Josiah moved beside him, running a gloved hand across the deepest wound.
"Nope. Not hollowers. This was a bear."
Michael blinked. "A bear?"
Josiah stood, scanning the nearby tree line. "Yep. Bite radius, claw rips, torn flanks. Looks like the poor horse panicked and got jumped."
Michael sighed. "Shit. So we got Randal's men and a bear out here?"
Josiah nodded, then frowned. "Thing is… I don't see a body."
They both stared at the blood-soaked trail.
"So either Marcel got away…" Michael said.
"…or he got dragged," Josiah finished.
Michael rubbed his face, already imagining Fiona's reaction.
"Man, Fiona is not gonna be happy about this."
Josiah looked ahead. "Let's keep moving. Either we find him alive… or we bring back what's left."
Michael didn't reply.
They mounted up and rode forward, deeper into the trees, where the fog rolled thick and the air smelled of blood.
They rode in tense silence for another mile. The river's distant babble grew louder as the terrain dipped slightly. Fog curled around the trees, drifting low and cold.
Josiah suddenly raised a hand.
"Shhh. Hold up."
Michael halted beside him, eyes narrowing.
"You hear that?"
Grunting. Ragged. Wet.
They nudged their horses forward slowly, weaving through thick brush until the river came into view—murky and fast-moving under the grey sky. And there, lying against a boulder with his back to the water, was a bloodied, broken shape.
Marcel.
He was hunched and pale, arms limp at his sides, one leg twisted awkwardly. He looked like hell—his hooded shirt torn to shreds, one sleeve soaked red. His dark skin was streaked with dirt and dried blood, and his dreads hung loose, clumped with mud. He looked up sluggishly when he heard them.
"Ah, great," he rasped, "here to clown on me?"
Michael's mouth twisted into a grin.
"Hell yeah, you dumb son of a bitch."
Josiah couldn't help it—he laughed at the sheer absurdity.
"Shit, man…"
Marcel gave a tired smirk that cracked into a wince.
"Yeah, I think I fucked up tryin' to help."
Michael dismounted slowly, still talking as he walked.
"You think? Man, you kids always know how to find the dumbest possible decision and commit to it with full confidence."
"I was trying to help you, jackass," Marcel muttered.
Michael knelt beside him.
"Well, clearly we didn't need it. And from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the one in need of help, my dear hero."
Josiah crouched nearby, inspecting Marcel's wounds.
"Were you being chased by Randal's gang?"
Marcel coughed violently—wet, red flecks spraying the rock.
"Yeah… lotta 'em. I was about to get shot, but then this big-ass bear came crashing in. Thing killed my horse. They scattered—thought I was dead. Then hollowers showed up, went at the bear. I ran, ended up here."
Michael raised an eyebrow.
"Well, Fiona's gonna be real happy to hear this heroic tale."
Marcel's head snapped up—defensive.
"Look—I ain't the father. We ain't a thing. It was one time. That's it."
Josiah gave him a deadpan stare.
"Still not accepting your kid, huh?"
"Like I said—ain't mine."
Michael waved a hand.
"Don't try arguing with him, Jo. He'll go in circles 'til the sun explodes."
Michael reached out and grabbed Marcel's arm to help him up.
Marcel screamed. Loud.
"AGH—SHIT! My arm! Don't—don't touch it!"
Josiah hissed, suddenly alert.
"Shh! You'll attract the hollowers, idiot!"
Marcel glared, teeth clenched through the pain.
"I GOT MAULED BY A FUCKING BEAR, I'M BLEEDING OUT, AND YOU EXPECT ME TO NOT FUCKING SCREAM!?"
"Yes," Michael said flatly. "That's exactly what I expect. Use your inside voice or we all die."
Before any more could be said, the horses shrieked—suddenly panicked. They reared up, eyes wild, nostrils flaring.
Then bolted.
"Shit," Josiah cursed, spinning around. "They found us."
From the treeline came a low chorus of growling—wet, bone-deep snarls.
Dark shapes began to crawl from the woods, half-shadow and bone, twitching and ravenous.
Michael clenched his knife.
"God damn it."