always came to the same conclusion. We’re being hunted.
As if to punctuate the thought, lightning and thunder, less than a blink a part, erupted so forcefully that the few tools still hanging upon the shed’s walls clanged against the interior adding to the chaotic din. Finally giving up the task, as his nerves were irreparably frayed for the night, Derrick returned the whetstone to its small leather pouch and the katana to its scabbard. Cramped muscles called out their disagreement as he rose to his feet. The shed’s roof allowed him to stand, yet the cramped space caused him to dip his head anyway. Shuffling carefully to the small window, he could see no further than the wet streaks that slid down the glass.
“You shouldn’t stand that close to the window,” Hicks admonished in the darkness.
Though he could not see him, Derrick turned from the panes to reply. “We’re standing in a metal shed. I don’t think the window is our biggest concern right now.” Though the floor was wood, the two men had to be quite vigilant in keeping their bodies away from the structure’s walls. When Hicks did not comment back, he turned his attention back to the world beyond the shed. The heavens flashed again.
“Shit!” Derrick shouted through the subsequent thunder. He refused to believe his mind could fool him twice with the same image. Three figures, heads cocked in a painful angle, had been standing but a few yards from the front of the shed. In the brief blue-white intensity of light he had seen their faces. The rain had washed away traces of blood and gore; if not for their necks and bestial stares, he might have taken them to be members of the Horde beginning their search early.
“Dammit, kid, it’s just a storm!”
“No, there are Tils. Three of them, right outside!” Derrick knew his voice was on the edge of panic but he could not bring himself to care what Hicks might think of him. He saw the faces of the infected, Tils just mere steps away. There was calculation, a primal intelligence, in their eyes, the likes of which he had never seen before.
“Are you sure?” Hicks asked, this time his voice coming from beside Derrick’s shoulder. There was no need to answer when thin tendrils of blue snaked across the sky, once again illuminating the darkness. They had not moved. The forms were grotesque statues seemingly sprouted from the muddied soil. Though their movement was inert, their wretchedness was innate.
Derrick could hear Hicks fumbling with the improvised bolt that locked the doors from inside. He almost laughed when he thought how quickly those doors could be ripped from their hinges, a poor defense against the determination he could all but feel emanating from the infected.
“Where are they?” Hicks called out.
Not waiting for more lightning, he pressed his flashlight against the glass and clicked it quickly on and off. There was no concern that the action would have any effect on the Tils. Something inside him told Derrick that the infected knew they had been spotted—knew and did not care.
“They haven’t moved,” he told Hicks, surprised that his voice sounded more level than a moment ago. “They’re just watching… waiting.”
“Waiting for what, though?”
“I don’t know.” Over the cacophony of rain pelting the roof, Derrick could hear one of the Tils shouting in a series of grunts and growls. A second voice responded, just as guttural, but softer, somehow meeker than the first.
“Well, I’m not much for waiting,” Hicks said as he pressed in beside him and peered out the window. “The thunder will cover our shots. I’ll take the two on the left, you do the one on the right. Shine some light on ‘em so we can get ready.”
Derrick again brought the flashlight up to the window and splashed a second of light to more accurately target their quarry. A moment later lightning broke the dark, but neither man fired his weapon. The statues had moved, vanished into the night, yet
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