Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 11: The Shepherd

​Marcus was accidentally brilliant. Grouping up strangers doesn’t help them fight, but it drastically improves the probability of survival for the majority.

​It’s Russian Roulette with better odds.

​I look at the big man. He swings a useless stick at the fog like a blind aircraft marshaller signaling to the void. Every few seconds, he stops to violently tap the glass of his digital watch, as if trying to wake it up, before swinging again.

​I need him to keep doing that, I realize. His plan is garbage for the victims, but it’s perfect for me.

​I crawl closer to him, keeping my voice low but firm.

​"Marcus!" I hiss. "You’re doing great. Don’t stop."

​He looks at me, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes wild. "Kid? They’re dying! It’s not working!"

​"It is working," I lie, putting a hand on his arm. "You’re saving the strong ones. They need a leader, Marcus. Don’t let them scatter. Keep them grouped. It’s the only way."

He swallows hard, nodding. You can almost see the relief flooding back into his face. He needed someone to tell him he wasn’t failing. I just gave him that, and it cost me nothing.

​"Right. The only way. Okay."

​I look at the path ahead. It’s still a slaughterhouse. Bodies dangle in the air, bones snapping in a grotesque rhythm. But their deaths are paving a safe highway.

Every screaming victim means one less threat. And once a tree is busy feeding, it can’t touch you. That’s the math. Ugly, but accurate.

​"Time to move," I whisper.

​I don’t join a group. I have no intention of linking arms with dead men. I just need to shadow them.

​I spot a cluster of men sprinting toward a dense thicket. I trail ten paces behind them, trying to move like a ghost, but this Level 1 body is clumsy. It doesn’t matter, though. They are too panicked to notice me.

​They just trigger the traps.

​Two vines whip down from separate trees. Two men are hoisted up, thrashing. The third man hits the dirt, crawling through the mud in a panic.

​"Please, help! I want to go home!"

​He screams into the fog as I leave him behind. His silhouette fades into the gray, swallowed by the mist until only his screams remain.

​He wasted his window. The cooldown probably reset in his direction.

​I don’t look back. I push forward.

​The path is clear. But as I run, I feel the drain. My OXI is leaking. My legs burn with lactic acid, and my breath comes in ragged gasps. Without my HUD, I’m flying blind on fuel.

It’s a feeling that only divers know. Not just tiredness, but an emptiness deeper than fatigue. It feels like the air is sucking my soul right out of my pores. My Lower Rank heart pounds against my ribs like a panicked bird trapped in a cage of bone, struggling to pull in oxygen that feels too thin, too heavy. Every step costs me minutes of life.

​I pass directly under the swaying, dying bodies of his temporary allies. Warm blood drips onto my shoulder, but the vines hang limp, sated.

​I move with purpose, but then—mistake.

​My boot lands on a root. I feel the pressure shift under my sole. It doesn’t snap, but I feel the vibration travel.

​I freeze.

​I don’t trigger the trap, but I know: if I lift my foot, or if I press harder, I’m dead.

​Marcus is thirty feet ahead. He looks back at me.

​"Kid! Come on!"

​"I’m fine!" I yell back, my voice trembling. "Just... checking the perimeter! This spot is safe!"

​Cold sweat runs down my spine. My legs are shaking from the tension of holding the pose. A muscle spasm, violent and involuntary, shoots up my calf. It’s the rebellion of unconditioned flesh against a veteran’s will.

​I take a ragged breath, feeling my body turn to lead. The taste of adrenaline floods my mouth.

​I have a feeling I’ll probably taste my own blood today.

​Marcus nods, believing my words, and turns back to the stragglers.

​"Everyone! Move to the kid! His spot is clear! Regroup on him!"

​Perfect.

​The crowd slows down. The screams become sporadic as people hesitate.

​The terrifying atmosphere worsens as the groups dwindle. Nobody wants to take any risks.

​The mist seems to thicken, swirling with the faces of the freshly dead. The trees aren’t just eating; they are broadcasting. The screams of the consumed don’t end when their throats are crushed; they echo back from the wood itself, a looping chorus of agony that shreds the sanity of anyone lingering too long.

​To my left, a young girl is being absorbed, her legs kicking wildly. I’m close to her tree; I could use its gluttony as my shield, but I’m pinned.

​To my right, minutes later, a tree is crushing a heavyset man. Maybe I could use it, I think. But I can’t move.

​I need a distraction. I need a trigger behind me to overload the sensor I’m standing on.

​"Hey!" I shout to two men cowering behind a bush. "You two! Get over here! Marcus said it’s safe!"

​They hesitate, looking at the vines, their eyes darting between the safety of the bush and the promise of a leader.

​"I said move!" I bark, channeling every ounce of veteran authority I have left. "Or stay there and die! Do you want to end up like them? Run! Now!"

Fear gets people moving. But hope? Hope makes them run exactly where you want them to. It’s a leash they put on themselves. They see my confidence, not my foot trapping the trigger.

​The men look at each other, then break cover. They run toward me, boots slamming into the mud.

​Come on. Come closer.

​But their heavy footsteps do more than overload the network. They shake the ground.

​My exhausted leg, trembling from holding the pose, finally betrays me.

​I slip.

​My boot presses down hard on the root.

​Click.

​The sound was faint, but it deafened me. I didn’t just overload the sensor; I triggered the kill switch.

​The air above me whistles.

​I look up. The irony tastes like bitter coffee and the stale biscuits of regret.

​I thought I was the shepherd leading the flock to their deaths.

​But as the shadow descends, I realize my mistake.

I’m not the shepherd anymore.

I’m what’s on the menu.

And the blade is already falling..