4338.210 · July 29, 2018 AD
Dropped from the Rocks
Nelson returns with a warning: they're being hunted. But there's no time to run, nowhere to hide, and Joel can't even stand. When figures drop from the rocks above—pale-skinned, coordinated, speaking words he doesn't understand—all he can do is drag himself toward cover that won't save him. Two metres. That's as far as he gets before the violence begins.
The overhang was supposed to be shelter. A place to rest while Nelson scouted ahead, while Joel lay paralysed on stone and waited to learn if he was worth keeping alive.
Nelson came back with different news. Fresh tracks. Multiple sets. Organised. Hunting.
Joel knows what's coming before the first shadow lands. Knows it from the tension in Nelson's shoulders, the blade already in his hand, the way he positions himself at the entrance like a man who's done this before. Many times before.
Crawl, Nelson tells him. Get out of view. Joel tries. Plants his forearms against stone and drags his dead legs behind him, pulling himself toward cover with everything he has left.
Two metres. That's all he manages.
Then they're everywhere—dropping from above, emerging from gaps in the rocks, converging on the overhang with the precision of people who've trained for exactly this. And Nelson steps forward to meet them.
Joel has never seen anyone move like that. Has never watched violence become a language someone speaks fluently.
He's about to learn how that language sounds when the numbers finally tell.
