CHAPTER FOURTEEN- BATTLE OF ENDECOTT: PART 1
Friday 11th May, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
(11:37 PM)
The vaulted ceilings of St. Louis Cathedral loomed like a colossal skeletal hand reaching toward the heavens, its intricate stained-glass windows casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the cold stone floor. Outside, the bustle of pedestrians and cars faded into a low hum, but within these hallowed walls, a more sinister rhythm pulsed. A heartbeat echoing through the shadows that clung to the corners of the nave. The grandeur of the cathedral, with its towering spires and ornate façade, served as the perfect cover for the self-righteous machinations of The Order of Dawn, a sanctuary for those who sought to eradicate all Magickal Beings and Creatures.
Lilly Lou crawled silently through the somewhat spacious vents above a corridor, the smell of aged wood and incense mingling with the stifling air. She was careful not to jostle the red vacuum flask tucked securely against her chest. Inside, the nearly transparent blue liquid sloshed gently, a potent Truth Serum that could unravel secrets hidden beneath layers of deception. Its weight reminded her of the gravity of the task ahead. She could almost hear the murmurs of The Order below, snippets of conversation drifting up like whispers from the grave.
Two hours before, she had texted The Artist, hoping to coordinate their efforts. Asking if they were also sneaking into the cathedral with her. The Artistâs response was cryptic, a promise of a meeting with someone, but silence followed.
âI hope youâre alright. I also donât want to go looking for you toâ, she thought, her inner voice filled with anxiety. The mission felt more daunting without the comfort of her friendâs presence.
Mattâs ingenuity and Rei Hajimeâs connections had led her here, to this labyrinth of secrets beneath the cathedral. The Dissidents had spoken of hidden chambers and twisting tunnels, vast structures buried deeper than St. Louis itself. Those who ventured in without permission rarely emerged. She couldnât shake the chill that crept down her spine, fueled by the unease of being watched in a place that masqueraded as a sanctuary.
With the blueprints she had unearthed from the city councilâs architectural preservation office, she had studied the discrepancies between the official documents and the thermal scans from Mattâs daylight reconnaissance.
Vents ran alongside hidden rooms that werenât meant to be found, pathways that promised entry into the heart of The Orderâs operations. Lilly pushed on, heart racing, her resolve steeling as she prepared to delve into the unknown.
As the murmurs of The Order grew louder beneath her, Lilly felt the weight of her mission on her shoulders. She wasnât just infiltrating a cathedral; she was diving into the abyss, seeking the truth that could shatter the worldâ and perhaps her own.
(12:00 AM)
Lilly continued her slow methodical crawl through the vents, the thin metal creaking softly beneath her weight. The air grew thicker as she ventured deeper into the bowels of St. Louis Cathedral, and she strained her ears to catch the faint sounds aheadâ voices, muffled at first, but growing clearer with each inch forward.
She adjusted the Beretta 92FS at her thigh, the smooth silver barrel brushing against her left leg through the holster. Dan Russell had given it to her as an extra precaution, a gift she hadnât expected but was grateful for. It provided a small measure of comfort in a place like this, a symbol of control in an environment built to suffocate it.
The voices became distinct now. Both male. One French, one Welsh. Lilly focused on them, letting their conversation guide her through the maze of vents, careful not to make a sound. The Welshmanâs tone carried a slight reverence, almost as if he were in awe of something or someone.
âHow it will be an honor to work with Commander de La Salle,â he said, his voice echoing faintly, âFather Chapelle says that her family has done great things for The Order in times past, and that sheâ¦â
The Frenchman cut him off with a low annoyed grunt. âI already know everything about her. No need to keep yapping about her every five minutesâ, he said, there was a bitter edge to his words, âWhat concerns me is whether weâll be as successful as Operation: Reclamation in Austria-Hungary. I hope Father Chapelle sends in The Beast of Budapest. Blair has grown bold these past few months. Too boldâ.
The Welshman responded casually, as if unfazed by the potential dangers ahead. âNay botherâ, he replied, âAt least weâll get more field experience than we did in Austria-Hungary. Operation: Whisper Forest will be something special, now that Commander de La Salle has given us the go ahead to scout Endecott Forestâ.
Lilly edged closer, catching glimpses of the two men through the narrow slits in the vent. Their faces were obscured by shadows, but she could make out the subtle glint of armor beneath their cloaks. Knights of The Order, no doubt. She wiggled her body carefully, moving inch by inch, keeping her movements slow and deliberate to avoid making any noise.
Her mind briefly drifted to The Artist, wondering where they were now and if they were safe. Their absence left an unsettling void in the mission, a vulnerability that made her stomach twist. She had hoped for their support tonight, especially with the stakes as high as they were. âWherever you areâ, she thought, âI hope youâre safeâ. But even as she thought it, she couldnât shake the feeling that something was off.
Saturday 12th May, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
(9:37 AM)
The Artist woke up with a jolt. Their heart pounded in their chest as their eyes blinked open to the dim glow of the sunlight that filtered through the thin curtains of their bedroom. They glanced around, disoriented, trying to shake the remnants of a strange dream. The room was familiarâ every detail etched in their memory. The faded posters on the walls, the half-finished sketches strewn across the floor, the lingering scent of paint and ink.
Before they could process their surroundings, a hand gently shook their shoulder. âGet upâ, Claireâs voice pierced through the fog of sleep. Her tone was urgent, her breath quick, âWe need to leave nowâ.
The Artist groaned, sitting up and rubbing their eyes. âWhat?â, they blinked at her, still dazed and groggy, âClaireâ¦itâs been, what? How many hours since you dropped me off?â. The Artist grabbed their phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen, âTwoâ¦itâs only 9:37 AM. Whatâs going on?â.
âThereâs no time to explainâ, Claire insisted, pacing the small room, her crimson leather jacket brushing against the doorframe. Her voice was tight with anxiety. âSomething happened at Endecott, and people back at Oak Wood are losing their minds. We need to move. Nowâ, she said, looking back at the Artist, her eyes filled with an intensity that made The Artistâs blood run cold.
The Artist felt the last remnants of sleep fade from their mind. âEndecott?â, they asked, pulling on their jacket and scrambling to their feet, âWhatâs happening?â.
âIâll explain on the wayâ, Claire replied, already heading toward the door, âMy carâs packed outside. James is coming with usâ.
The Artist nodded, their heart racing as they hurried after her. Thoughts swirled in their mind as they descended the stairs and stepped out into the cool night air. The familiar sight of Claireâs crimson red sedan, the Fukushima American Model-B110, sat idling at the curb. Its polished surface gleamed under the sunlight.
As they approached, they noticed James Sanchez seated in the front passenger seat, his face illuminated by the dim glow of the dashboard lights. His green-hazel eyes flicked up, and a slight nod of acknowledgment passed between them.
âHeyâ, The Artist greeted, sliding into the backseat, âDo you know whatâs going on?â.
James shook his head, his expression as tense as Claireâs, âNot much. Claire gave me a brief rundown, said something happened between you, Lucius and Elizabeth at Oak Wood, but no real details. Iâm guessing itâs badâ.
âIt must be worse than badâ, The Artist muttered, glancing out the window as Claire climbed into the driverâs seat. The moment her door clicked shut, she slammed her foot on the gas, sending the car speeding down Fleuve Street.
The compact sedan hummed as Claire navigated the narrow roads of the French Quarter with remarkable precision. The cityâs historic architecture blurred past them as she cut corners, weaving in and out of the sparse early-morning traffic. Despite the carâs modest size, its engine roared with surprising power as Claire pushed it toward its limits.
âClaire, slow downâ, James urged, gripping the armrest as they narrowly avoided a parked truck.
âNo timeâ, Claire shot back, her voice cold but focused, âWe have to get to Endecott. The Cult is moving faster than we thought. If weâre not there soon, then we are done forâ.
The Artistâs mind raced, pieces of the puzzle slowly beginning to fit together. Endecott. Oak Wood. The Cult. Their parents. The weight of everything began to press down on them again, heavier than ever. They leaned forward, gripping the back of the front seat.
Saturday 12th May, 2018- INTERSTATE HIGHWAY 47, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
(10:35 AM)
âYou said something happened at Endecott?â, The Artist asked, their voice tight.
âHmm, you were right to wanting to hit the place, I think I should have taken you there in the first placeâ, Claire replied, âBecause apparently the captives that The Cult have been getting escaped, and not only that but their fighting back, although I hear The Cult has managed to kill plenty of them. Its only a matter of time till its over for themâ.
âWhat happened?â, The Artist asked as Claire sped across Highway 47 towards Jacksonville.
âI donât know, but weâll find out when we get there, and please donât let the Red Society know about this, their more trouble than their worthâ, Claire replied.
James shifted in his seat, leaning forward as he turned to Claire, concern etched into his features. âAre you sure we shouldnât call Haggins about this? What about Blair? If Oak Woods is going crazy, who knows what theyâve sent to Endecottâ, he replied.
Claireâs hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles whitening. Her eyes stayed focused on the road as she weaved through the morning traffic, heading towards Interstate Highway 47. âTrust me, Jamesâ, she said, âWe are better off this wayâ.
âTrust you, when youâre part of The Cult?! Trust you, when you convinced me to kill a man in cold blood?!â, The Artistâs voice rose sharply from the backseat, âClaire, enough beating around the bush. Are you with Blair or not?! Are you a Mage or a Hollow?â.
The tension in the car thickened. Claireâs jaw clenched as she sped onto the highway, the sound of the engine roaring filling the uneasy silence that followed. Her gaze flicked briefly toward James, who was staring straight ahead, avoiding her eyes.
Finally, she spoke, her voice low but steady. âIâm neither with The Cult nor any other society in Willow. Not the Traderâs Guild, not the Baltimorean Alchemists. Iâm part of something larger than myself, something none of you would understand right nowâ, she paused, letting out a heavy breath, âAnd no, Iâm not a Hollow. Iâm a Human-Mage Hybrid, just like you. You two are my best friends, and thatâs all youâve ever been to meâ.
The Artist was taken aback. The harshness of their accusation now seemed like an overreach, and they sank back into the seat. The weight of their words had clearly stung Claire, though she didnât show it much. James, who had been silent throughout, shifted uncomfortably.
James glanced at Claire, trying to gauge her emotions. âIâm sorry, Claire. Itâs just thaâ¦that none of this makes any senseâ, James said, âWeâre out of our depth hereâ.
Claire nodded slightly, her eyes focused on the road. âI get it. This is bigger than all of us. Iâll explain more when we get to Endecott. Right now, we just need to focus on getting thereâ, she replied.
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The Artist leaned forward, their tone softening, âWe didnât mean to push you like that, Claire. Itâs just wellâ¦everythingâs happening so fastâ.
Claire nodded again, but her expression remained hard. She didnât say anything for a moment, focusing on navigating the highway.
James, trying to break the lingering tension, pointed out the window towards a narrow exit. âClaire, take that detour on the left. Iâve used that route before when heading to Endecott Forest. Itâs quicker, and weâll avoid driving through Jacksonville altogetherâ, he said.
Claire looked at the turn James was referring to, then nodded and swerved toward the exit. The car bumped slightly as they left the main highway, heading down a winding country road that cut through the thickening forest. The morning sun streamed through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the road.
The silence in the car was palpable. The Artist gazed out of the window, watching the blur of trees and wondering what awaited them at Endecott. In the front, James kept his eyes on the road ahead, tension still buzzing beneath the surface.
Finally, Claire broke the silence, âLook, Iâm sorry for what happened back there at Oak Wood. I didnât expect things to go the way they did. But you have to trust me now that weâre walking into something dangerous. Whatever happened at Endecottâ¦itâs not going to be good. And if weâre not careful, we could be walking into a trapâ.
The Artist exchanged a glance with James, who nodded slightly. They had no choice now but to trust Claire. Whatever was happening at Endecott, they were about to find outâ and they had to be ready for anything.
Saturday 12th May, 2018- ENDECOTT FOREST STATE PARK, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
(12:37 PM)
The towering trees of Endecott Forest stretched into the sky, their thick canopies almost blocking out what light the sun offered. A cold mist hung in the air, swirling around the trio as they pulled off the narrow dirt road and parked beside a stone monument. Claire killed the engine, and the soft hum of the car faded, leaving only the eerie quiet of the forest. The Stone Tower loomed ahead of themâ a massive structure that had stood for over 80 years, its weathered stone walls rising 48 feet high into the sky.
The three of them stepped out of the car, their footsteps crunching softly on the gravel as they made their way to the trunk. The silence of the forest felt oppressive, like it was waiting for something to happen. Claire popped the trunk open, revealing an arsenal of weaponry neatly laid out beneath a false bottom.
âDan Russell really hooked us upâ, Claire said, her voice low as she handed James a sleek, black rifle, âHere, James. A little something from JayJayâs. AR-15 chambered in 5.56 NATO. Should handle just about anything we run intoâ.
James took the rifle with a grin, running his hand along its matte-black frame, appreciating the weight and feel of the weapon. âMan, Danâs cooler than I thoughtâ, he said, âYou know, Iâve had my gun license for two years, but I actually took a few lessons from him a while back. Learned a lot of tricksâ.
Claire nodded, then turned to The Artist, who was watching the exchange quietly. âAnd for youâ, she said, pulling out a polished M1897 shotgun, the steel glinting faintly in the sunlight, âSomething special from Dan. Incendiary shells. These should light up any Hollow we come acrossâ.
The Artist inspected the shotgun carefully, checking the action, making sure the old but reliable weapon was in working order. After a quick once-over, they pumped the action and nodded, satisfied. âNot badâ, they said quietly.
Claire tossed them both a couple of pouches, each filled with specially marked rounds. âRememberâ, she said, her tone more serious now, âHoly bullets burn Hollows. Occulirium rounds? They block all magick. Donât waste âemâ.
James nodded, fastening the pouch of ammunition to his belt, while The Artist did the same. The forest felt like it was closing in around them, the dense foliage shifting in the breeze, but not quite enough to break the uneasy stillness.
âYou good, Claire?â, James asked, glancing over as she secured the last of the gear.
Claire grinned and pulled a couple of grenades from the trunk, attaching them to her belt. âIâll just take theseâ, she said, her voice tinged with confidence, âMagick is still my go-toâ. With a casual flick of her wrist, an arc of red lightning crackled from her fingertips, sparking in the air just inches from Jamesâs face.
âDamn, Claire!â, James jumped back, startled as The Artist snorted a laugh from behind her, âMamacita, chill with the magick! You really know how to light up my life. But next time, maybe just a hug?â.
Claire smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement as she stepped past him. âAs long as you donât shoot me in the back, Iâll consider itâ, she said, tossing a glance over her shoulder.
James rolled his eyes, shouldering the AR-15 and shaking his head. âNotedâ.
Now fully geared, the trio stepped away from the car and into the forest. The mist grew thicker as they moved deeper into the woods, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the damp ground beneath them. Branches creaked in the distance, and the air felt colder the farther they ventured.
Claire led the way, her sharp eyes scanning the path ahead. âWeâre heading for the outpostâ, she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft rustle of the wind through the trees, âIf anythingâs still alive out there, weâll find out soon enoughâ.
The Artist tightened their grip on the shotgun, eyes narrowing as they scanned the shadows between the trees. Whatever waited for them in the heart of Endecott Forest, they were ready for itâ armed and prepared for a fight.
As they continued down the narrow trail, the Stone Tower disappeared into the fog behind them, swallowed by the mist and trees. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the occasional distant soundâ a snap of a twig, a rustle in the undergrowth.
âStay closeâ, Claire warned, her voice steady despite the tension in the air, âWeâre not alone out hereâ.
(12:57 PM)
The trio moved cautiously through the dense undergrowth, the mist curling around them like tendrils. Claire led the way, eyes sharp as she scanned the tree line. The forest felt thicker here, the air heavier, like it was trying to keep something hidden. They reached a clearing where the outpost stoodâ an old rundown building barely discernible in the sunlight.
It seemed to blend unnaturally with the landscape, the structure itself almost invisible as if woven into the earth. A camouflage spell. Claire stopped and turned toward the others, her face impassive but her eyes betraying the tension she felt. She raised her hand toward the empty space where the outpost should have been.
âJoksllaâ, she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The air shimmered and then dissipated as the spell broke, revealing the hidden building. The Artist, who had been watching closely, recognized the word immediately. âSinokâ, they thought, a simplified form of Mystic Arts, specifically for dispelling. It functioned similarly to Tadice but was single-purposed, meant only for disillusionment.
The building now revealed was made of gray concrete, but something about it was off. It appeared almost misshapen, its structure warped unnaturally, as though the earth itself had been molded around it. The entrance, two large metal doors, stood wide open. Blood trailed from the threshold, leading inside like a grotesque invitation.
âShitâ, James muttered, eyeing the bloodstains as he readied his rifle. Claire shot him a look but said nothing. The Artist silently loaded their shotgun with the incendiary shells.
âStay alertâ, Claire said, her voice low but firm as they stepped inside.
The hallway was dimly lit, the lights flickering sporadically. The blood trail continued deeper into the building. The stench of decay and dampness filled the air, but beyond that, there was something elseâ a sound. It was faint at first, almost drowned out by the buzz of the dying lights, but then it grew louder. Wheezing. Raspy and labored, like someone struggling for breath.
They followed the sound through the narrow corridor, weapons raised, until they reached what appeared to be the main hub. The room had a large window that overlooked the forest, though it was cracked and dirtied, the view obscured by fog. Lying on the ground by a broken wall was an African-American woman, her chest rising and falling with strained effort. She wore a park ranger uniform, her caramel brown skin pallid under the weak lighting, and her dark brown eyes darted wildly around the room, unfocused, as if her mind was elsewhere.
Suddenly, she noticed the trio standing before her. Panic flashed in her eyes, and with a frantic gasp, she reached for a pistol, a M1911, lying beside her. Before any of them could react, she fired a warning shot into the air, the gunâs report echoing through the room.
âWho are you?â, she rasped, the gun trembling in her hand as she kept it trained on them.
James took a cautious step forward, hands raised in a show of non-aggression. âWhoa, whoa, weâre not here to hurt you. Weâre here to helpâ, he said moving closer, but Claire quickly grabbed his arm pulling him back.
âJames, hold onâ, she warned, her eyes on the woman, her hands subtly poised, ready to cast a spell if needed, âWe donât know who she isâ.
âClaire!â, James snapped, looking back at her with frustration, âSheâs hurt. We have to helpâ.
He turned back to the woman, softening his tone, âMy name is James Sanchez, and weâre here to deal with the pendejos who did this to you. These are my friends. Whatâs your name?â.
The woman hesitated, her breath still shallow, but something in Jamesâs voice seemed to ease her tension. If they had wanted to harm her, they would have done it by now. She slowly lowered the gun, her voice strained as she spoke, âKaitlynâ¦Park. My name is Kaitlyn Park. Are you with the police? Government?â.
James knelt beside her, shaking his head. âNo, Kaitlynâ, he replied, âWeâre not with any agency, but weâre here to take care of this mess just like you. Let us help youâ.
Her gaze flickered to her left arm, which was pinned against the concrete wall by two jagged pieces of rebar. Blood seeped from the wound, staining her uniform a deep crimson. âMy armâ¦Itâs stuckâ¦â
James winced at the sight. He reached into his backpack, pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and handed it to her. âIâm no doctor but drink thisâ, he said, âFor the pain. Itâs gonna hurt when I pull that rebar outâ.
Kaitlyn stared at the bottle, then took it, downing a long swig before nodding, bracing herself for what was coming. âDo itâ, she whispered, her teeth gritted.
James placed his hands around the rebar. âOkay, Kaitlyn. Stay calm, and whatever you do, keep your mouth clenched tightâ, James said, as he gave a quick look to Claire and The Artist before yanking the rebar free in one swift motion.
âSon of a bitch!â, Kaitlyn screamed, swinging her good arm and punching James squarely in the chest, âI thought we were supposed to count to three!â.
James grimaced but managed a chuckle, âLike I said, Iâm no doctor, but Iâm sorry for the pain. Guys, any magick or something to help the Mrs.â
The Artist tossed James a small transparent glass flask filled with a bright red liquid. âHealing potionâ, they said simply, âIt will stop the bleeding and seal up any woundsâ.
Kaitlyn took the flask, wincing as she held it in her good hand, and downed the contents. She coughed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. âTastes like cherryâ, she muttered.
The Artist grinned, though it didnât quite reach their eyes. âI brewed it myself. High-Father Anderson taught me howâ.
Claire raised an eyebrow, impressed and proud of her friend. âHigh-Father Anderson?â, she whispered to herself, just loud enough for The Artist to hear, though she made no further comment.
Kaitlyn slowly stood, getting her bearings as she holstered the M1911 at her right hip holster. Her left arm still ached, but the healing potion had already begun working its magick, closing the wound. She extended her right hand to each of them in turn. âThanksâ, she said, shaking their hands. âNow, since you guys seem prepared for this, can someone tell meâ¦what the hell is going on?â.
(1:04 PM)
âSo you mean to tell me that those things I fought, Hollows, eat people?â, Kate asked, âAnd this Cult of Blair is like theirâ¦organization. Thatâs insane but at this point I donât care, and I want to help you stop themâ.
âYes. But are you sureâ, The Artist asked, âWe donât want your death to be on our handsâ.
âIts okay. Itâs the reason I was here in the first place, those things dragged me in here, when I was investigating the woods for noise complaints, I thought it was just a bunch of critters making a ruckus for campers but when I found this place they got the jump on me before I could anything. Iâve been trapped here since last nightâ, Kaitlyn explained.
James leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath as the tension in the room began to ease. Kaitlyn, now more composed after the healing potion had fully closed her wounds, let out a sigh of relief. Her left arm felt like new, though the trauma of what she had been through was still evident in her eyes.
âWhile I was stuck hereâ, Kaitlyn began again, while tying her long ebony black hair into a bun, âI could hear other people being dragged in. Screaming, cryingâ¦I didnât see them, but I could hear them. Every now and then, someone would let out a bloodcurdling scream, and Iâd know another one of us had been taken by thoseâ¦Hollowsâ.
James, Claire and The Artist exchanged grim looks. They had seen the aftermath of these creaturesâ attacks before, but it never got any easier to hear about the terror they inflicted on others.
âAt one pointâ¦â, Kaitlyn continued, ââ¦there was this loud gunshot, a bang that echoed through the whole place. After that, it was chaos. People started running around, some of them completely naked, heads shavedâ¦others still had their clothes on, probably snatched up recently. I couldnât do anything before one of those monsters, those Hollows, slammed me into that wall and impaled my arm on the rebarâ.
Her face darkened as she recounted the next part. âIt licked the blood off my arm, like it was savoring it. I tried shooting it, emptied my whole clip right into the thingâs chest, but the bullets didnât do a damn thing. It was like I was shooting at a pile of rotting plantsâ, she shook her head, âIt just walked away, completely unfazedâ.
Claire knelt beside her, placing a hand on Kaitlynâs shoulder. âOrdinary weapons wonât hurt themâ, Claire explained, âYou need something more potent for Dark Magickal Beings like Hollows. Hereâ, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small bag of ammunition, its contents gleaming faintly with a golden hue, âHoly rounds and Occulirium-infused bullets. These will work. Take themâ.
Kaitlyn looked at the bullets, then back at Claire. âYou sure about this?â, she asked, still processing the idea of using magickal ammunition.
James smiled, patting her on the shoulder, âDonât worry, Claire and our little artista here will show you how to use themâ.
Kaitlyn nodded, her strength returning, bolstered by the potion and the renewed sense of purpose. She looked out the cracked window, catching a glimpse of the stream flowing nearby.
âListen, if weâre gonna try and regroup with any survivors, we need to head downstream. Below that cliffside, thereâs a ranger station, Echo Park Ranger Station. Itâs mostly used for emergencies, forest fires, stuff like that. If anyone escaped, especially campers who know the area, they wouldâve gone that way. Thereâs no way theyâd stick around here, not after what happenedâ, Kaitlyn explained.
The Artist stepped forward, brow furrowed, âYouâre right about one thing. Those who escaped probably went downstream. But donât get your hopes up. Hollowsâ¦theyâre more than just fast and strong. They can smell fear. Hear a heartbeat from hundreds of feet away. If anyoneâs separated from the group, theyâre likely already dead or worseâ.
Kaitlyn clenched her jaw, the thought sending a shiver down her spine. âBut there could still be people alive at the stationâ, she insisted, âWe have to at least try to get thereâ.
Claire nodded, standing up and adjusting her jacket, âSheâs right. Whether anyoneâs still there or not, we need to move. Itâs too dangerous to stay here, and the Hollows might already be on their way backâ.
James, now fully geared up, slung his AR-15 over his shoulder, âAgreed. Letâs not give those bastards a chance to regroup. We head to Echo Station nowâ.
The group quickly gathered their belongings, readying themselves for the journey ahead. Kaitlyn holstered her M1911, now loaded with the Holy and Occulirium-infused rounds chambered in .45 ACP, as they began to move, The Artist paused, glancing back at the bloodstains on the floor and the decaying smell still lingering in the air.
âIâm worriedâ, they said quietly, âEven with everything we have, we might not last long if we come up against them again. These things...they donât just fight with brute force. They break you down, bit by bitâ.
James gave a reassuring nod, âWeâll make it through. Weâve come too far to die hereâ.
The Artist gave James back a reluctant nod, and with that, the group stepped out of the rundown building, the weight of the unknown pressing heavily upon them. They followed the stream, heading toward Echo Ranger Station, unsure of what awaited them but knowing one thing for sureâ they were heading into the heart of danger.