The Ashwood was never quiet anymore. The trees whispered with the dry rasp of infected lungs, the ground crawled with the stink of rot, and the wind itself carried the echo of moans that no longer belonged to the living. Jonas Gray knew this place once—back when it was only a hunting ground, when deer roamed the creek beds and bears lumbered through the pines. He’d spent his life pulling meat from these woods, teaching his sons how to track, skin, gut. All that was gone now. The land belonged to the dead, and the ones who worshiped them.
He trudged through the undergrowth, boots thick with mud, rifle slung tight against his shoulder. His coat was a patchwork of blood and dirt, his hands calloused and blistered from days of fighting things that refused to stay down. A cigarette burned low between his lips, the ember a faint glow in the encroaching night. Jonas kept his pace steady, quiet, moving like the predator he’d always been. Only this time, it wasn’t elk or stag he hunted.
It was men.
Word had spread about the Ashwood Circle, a cult festering at the heart of these woods. They claimed the infection was holy, that the dead carried the marrow of a new world. They took children, bled them on stone, and offered their bones as gifts to the risen. Families whispered about them but didn’t dare fight back. Not when the woods themselves seemed cursed, haunted by half-dead shadows.
Three nights ago, they took a boy. Ten years old. His family had begged Jonas—on their knees, voices breaking—to bring him back. Jonas had told himself he didn’t care anymore. Not after losing his own family years ago. But something about the mother’s eyes, hollow and wet, pulled him in. He couldn’t leave it. Not this time.
The Ashwood opened before him, pale light cutting through broken trees. He dropped low, slid into the brush, and lifted his rifle scope.
The camp was alive with movement. A ring of fires spat sparks into the night, shadows of gaunt men and women moving like wraiths around them. They were smeared in ash, skin carved with crude symbols, their mouths muttering prayers as they fed scraps of meat to cages of snarling infected. The boy was there, tied to a post near the largest fire. His face was bruised, eyes swollen, tears streaking mud on his cheeks. He wasn’t crying anymore. Just staring. Empty.
A figure in tattered robes stood before him, knife in hand, the cult’s preacher. His voice carried above the hum, cracked and feverish: “Tonight the marrow speaks! Tonight the child bleeds new dawn!”
Jonas gritted his teeth. He checked his rifle. Twelve rounds. That was all. After that, it’d be knife and hatchet work.
He slipped from the brush, low as a shadow, and stalked the camp’s edge. A guard stumbled past, dragging a rusted machete, drunk on their madness. Jonas slid behind, clamped a hand over his mouth, and drove the hunting knife up under his ribs. The man’s body jerked once, then sagged. Jonas lowered him slow, wiped the blade on his sleeve.
But the blood. The smell.
The infected nailed to the trees stirred, their heads lifting, eyes snapping open with hunger. One moaned, low and guttural, and another joined. Soon the night filled with their howls.
A cultist spun, eyes widening. “He’s here!”
Jonas squeezed the trigger. The preacher’s skull burst red in the firelight, spraying the boy’s face with gore. For a second, silence. Then the woods exploded into chaos.
They rushed him—dozens of them, screaming prayers, swinging blades and sticks. Jonas fired fast, each shot finding its mark, dropping bodies into the dirt. But the rifle clicked empty too soon, and the wave didn’t stop. He dropped it, drew his hatchet, and met them head-on.
The first one split from crown to jaw, blood spraying hot across Jonas’s face. Another lunged, teeth filed to points, biting into his shoulder. He roared, drove the hatchet into her neck, twisting until her head tore free. His world narrowed to sound and blood—screams, shrieks, the wet crunch of bone breaking. His hands burned, muscles screaming, but he didn’t stop swinging.
The cages burst. The infected poured into the camp, rabid, tearing into cultists with clawed hands and gnashing teeth. The woods became a feeding ground, a storm of gore and thrashing limbs. Jonas ducked under a wild swing, buried his knife in a man’s belly, and kicked him into the waiting arms of the dead. They ripped him apart, intestines spilling like ropes in the firelight.
Jonas fought his way to the boy, cutting ropes with a quick slash. The kid stumbled into his arms, trembling.
“Quiet,” Jonas hissed, gripping his arm tight. “Stay close. Don’t let go.”
They ran. Through mud, through the ruin, through bodies both living and dead clawing at their heels. The fire spread, trees catching, sparks raining down. Shadows leapt everywhere, the cult shrieking their dying prayers as the infected ripped them to pieces.
One of the monsters slammed into Jonas, knocking him to the ground. Its jaw hung by strings of muscle, teeth snapping inches from his throat. The stench of rot gagged him. He grabbed a stone, smashed it into the thing’s skull again and again until it split open like a melon. Blood soaked his chest.
He shoved it off, dragged the boy up, and kept running.
Behind them, the camp burned. The screams dwindled to moans, then to silence, until only the crackle of fire followed. Jonas and the boy stumbled through the treeline, lungs tearing, bodies shaking. They didn’t stop until the glow of flames was gone.
At dawn, Jonas sat on a rock at the forest’s edge, cigarette trembling between his fingers. His coat was soaked with blood—some his, most not. The boy slept against him, breath hitching, face pale but alive.
Jonas stared back at the black smoke rising from the Ashwood. He’d torn the marrow from the Circle, burned their sickness down to cinders. But he knew the woods would never be clean. The infection was too deep.
The boy stirred, whispering in his sleep, clutching Jonas’s jacket tighter.
“You’re safe,” Jonas muttered, voice gravel, smoke curling from his lips. “Safe for now.”
He didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe anything anymore. But tonight, he’d stolen one life back from the jaws of hell.
And that was enough.
He trudged through the undergrowth, boots thick with mud, rifle slung tight against his shoulder. His coat was a patchwork of blood and dirt, his hands calloused and blistered from days of fighting things that refused to stay down. A cigarette burned low between his lips, the ember a faint glow in the encroaching night. Jonas kept his pace steady, quiet, moving like the predator he’d always been. Only this time, it wasn’t elk or stag he hunted.
It was men.
Word had spread about the Ashwood Circle, a cult festering at the heart of these woods. They claimed the infection was holy, that the dead carried the marrow of a new world. They took children, bled them on stone, and offered their bones as gifts to the risen. Families whispered about them but didn’t dare fight back. Not when the woods themselves seemed cursed, haunted by half-dead shadows.
Three nights ago, they took a boy. Ten years old. His family had begged Jonas—on their knees, voices breaking—to bring him back. Jonas had told himself he didn’t care anymore. Not after losing his own family years ago. But something about the mother’s eyes, hollow and wet, pulled him in. He couldn’t leave it. Not this time.
The Ashwood opened before him, pale light cutting through broken trees. He dropped low, slid into the brush, and lifted his rifle scope.
The camp was alive with movement. A ring of fires spat sparks into the night, shadows of gaunt men and women moving like wraiths around them. They were smeared in ash, skin carved with crude symbols, their mouths muttering prayers as they fed scraps of meat to cages of snarling infected. The boy was there, tied to a post near the largest fire. His face was bruised, eyes swollen, tears streaking mud on his cheeks. He wasn’t crying anymore. Just staring. Empty.
A figure in tattered robes stood before him, knife in hand, the cult’s preacher. His voice carried above the hum, cracked and feverish: “Tonight the marrow speaks! Tonight the child bleeds new dawn!”
Jonas gritted his teeth. He checked his rifle. Twelve rounds. That was all. After that, it’d be knife and hatchet work.
He slipped from the brush, low as a shadow, and stalked the camp’s edge. A guard stumbled past, dragging a rusted machete, drunk on their madness. Jonas slid behind, clamped a hand over his mouth, and drove the hunting knife up under his ribs. The man’s body jerked once, then sagged. Jonas lowered him slow, wiped the blade on his sleeve.
But the blood. The smell.
The infected nailed to the trees stirred, their heads lifting, eyes snapping open with hunger. One moaned, low and guttural, and another joined. Soon the night filled with their howls.
A cultist spun, eyes widening. “He’s here!”
Jonas squeezed the trigger. The preacher’s skull burst red in the firelight, spraying the boy’s face with gore. For a second, silence. Then the woods exploded into chaos.
They rushed him—dozens of them, screaming prayers, swinging blades and sticks. Jonas fired fast, each shot finding its mark, dropping bodies into the dirt. But the rifle clicked empty too soon, and the wave didn’t stop. He dropped it, drew his hatchet, and met them head-on.
The first one split from crown to jaw, blood spraying hot across Jonas’s face. Another lunged, teeth filed to points, biting into his shoulder. He roared, drove the hatchet into her neck, twisting until her head tore free. His world narrowed to sound and blood—screams, shrieks, the wet crunch of bone breaking. His hands burned, muscles screaming, but he didn’t stop swinging.
The cages burst. The infected poured into the camp, rabid, tearing into cultists with clawed hands and gnashing teeth. The woods became a feeding ground, a storm of gore and thrashing limbs. Jonas ducked under a wild swing, buried his knife in a man’s belly, and kicked him into the waiting arms of the dead. They ripped him apart, intestines spilling like ropes in the firelight.
Jonas fought his way to the boy, cutting ropes with a quick slash. The kid stumbled into his arms, trembling.
“Quiet,” Jonas hissed, gripping his arm tight. “Stay close. Don’t let go.”
They ran. Through mud, through the ruin, through bodies both living and dead clawing at their heels. The fire spread, trees catching, sparks raining down. Shadows leapt everywhere, the cult shrieking their dying prayers as the infected ripped them to pieces.
One of the monsters slammed into Jonas, knocking him to the ground. Its jaw hung by strings of muscle, teeth snapping inches from his throat. The stench of rot gagged him. He grabbed a stone, smashed it into the thing’s skull again and again until it split open like a melon. Blood soaked his chest.
He shoved it off, dragged the boy up, and kept running.
Behind them, the camp burned. The screams dwindled to moans, then to silence, until only the crackle of fire followed. Jonas and the boy stumbled through the treeline, lungs tearing, bodies shaking. They didn’t stop until the glow of flames was gone.
At dawn, Jonas sat on a rock at the forest’s edge, cigarette trembling between his fingers. His coat was soaked with blood—some his, most not. The boy slept against him, breath hitching, face pale but alive.
Jonas stared back at the black smoke rising from the Ashwood. He’d torn the marrow from the Circle, burned their sickness down to cinders. But he knew the woods would never be clean. The infection was too deep.
The boy stirred, whispering in his sleep, clutching Jonas’s jacket tighter.
“You’re safe,” Jonas muttered, voice gravel, smoke curling from his lips. “Safe for now.”
He didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe anything anymore. But tonight, he’d stolen one life back from the jaws of hell.
And that was enough.
