Towards Safety. Towards Hope.

The gunshot cracks through the clearing, and Dane drops hard into the mud. The scavengers flinch, then bolt for the trees as groans swell from the treeline.

Benjamin stands with his rifle still raised. The mist swallows the fleeing shapes, and the undead noise presses closer from both sides.

The Raider With The Red Scarf stumbles once, then keeps running, one hand clutching their weapon. The Scarred Scavenger pushes ahead, head low, choosing escape over another second here.

Dane lies motionless in the mud. The clearing suddenly feels too open, too quiet, with the woods tightening around Benjamin like a trap.

The undead groans rise again from the pines, nearer now. If Benjamin chases the scavengers, he risks losing the moment to move, regroup, or save what is left.

If he turns back, he can still protect the others and the route home. The question hangs in the wet air, chase the men who killed Dane, or hold the line against what is coming next.

Benjamin moves fast, cutting hard through the fog where the runners vanished. Mud sprays under his boots, and the rifle stays steady in his hands.

The Raider With The Red Scarf hears him coming first. They twist at the edge of the brush, too late, and Benjamin closes the gap without breaking stride.

The Scarred Scavenger stumbles on a root, and Benjamin drives past the open ground they meant to use against him. The treeline is no shelter now.

A gun clatters into the leaves as one of them loses their footing. Benjamin does not stop for it, but he sees the drop, sees the panic that caused it.

The undead groans swell behind him, but the chase has already split the scavengers apart. Benjamin forces them deeper into the pines, where their trail narrows and their confidence dies.

He catches the edge of their path and the last one looks back, stunned to find him still there. Benjamin has driven them off the clearing and into a bad retreat, with one discarded weapon left in the mud behind.

The woods answer with another chorus of moans, closer than before. Benjamin stands alone at the break in the trees, the scavengers ahead, the dead behind, and no time to waste.

Benjamin snatches the dropped gun from the mud in one smooth motion, fingers closing on the grip before it sinks deeper into the leaves.

He plants his feet, swings the barrel up, and takes the fleeing scavengers in his sights through the fog.

The Raider With The Red Scarf jerks around at the sudden threat, shoulders snapping tight as they scramble for cover.

The Scarred Scavenger freezes half a step deeper in the brush, head turning back toward Benjamin and the rifle aimed straight at them.

Behind Benjamin, the groans from the treeline press closer, folding the clearing in on itself.

Benjamin glances down at the weapon in his grip, his thumb brushing the heavy, cold steel of a bolt action rifle mechanism rather than a pistol slide.

Benjamin snaps the rifle up from the mud and fires. The shot cracks through the mist, and the raider in the red scarf jerks backward as the round takes him in the chest.

He collapses hard among the pine needles, his rifle slipping from numb fingers. The scarf flutters once, then hangs still against the wet ground.

The Scarred Scavenger flinches and staggers away from the body, turning their head toward the treeline as if the undead sound is already inside the clearing.

The Third Scavenger stares at the fallen raider, then whips around with a sharp, hunted look, scanning the mist for the shape of the approaching dead.

The clearing goes tight and silent for half a heartbeat, broken only by wet breathing and the distant, ugly shuffle beyond the trees. Benjamin has the rifle, the scavengers have lost their nerve, and the red scarf lies motionless in the mud.

Benjamin shifts the rifle a fraction and fires again. The shot snaps through the mist, and the Scarred Scavenger crumples sideways into the brush without a sound.

The Third Scavenger jerks toward the report, too late. Benjamin tracks them through the drifting fog and squeezes off a second round.

The bullet hits, and the Third Scavenger folds to the ground near the edge of the clearing, their panic cutting off in a wet tumble of pine needles.

For a beat, the clearing holds only the hiss of mist and Benjamin's steady breathing. Three scavengers lie still, and the fallen rifle is lost in the mud beside the red scarf.

Then the distant shuffling from the treeline grows louder, scraping closer through the pines.

The dead have heard the shots.