Page 8 of When the Living Fall

I turn to Max. “Where did you find those tracks?”

With a nod, Max leads us into the brush, back toward the spot he’d scouted earlier. If this is from Emily, I could strangle him for not telling us sooner—we could have caught up to her by now. All this wasted time, when I could already have been getting answers from her. No. I let that thought go. What matters most right now is finding her. Everything else can wait.

Unable to contain my desire to find her again, I quicken my pace. The trail heads toward the smoke. If she stopped for the night like we did, we could catch up. We still have a chance.

I break into a run, seldom glancing at the ground for tracks. My gaze is fixed on the smoke. That’s the only compass I need. It’s her—I know it is. I can feel it.

The guttural groan of a rotter snaps my focus away from the smoke. A figure stumbles out from the shadows, its jaw hanging at an unnatural angle, one arm clinging to its bodywith half the flesh rotted off. It groans and snarls. I rush past it, unwilling to slow down for even a second.

Another rotter appears.

And then another.

More rotters shuffle into our path, and I hear Max’s triumphant yell when he cuts them down, each swing followed by his manic laugh.

I keep going. More rotters appear and William joins Max in taking them out, too, clearing the path.

Still, I keep going.

The deeper we go, the thicker they get, until the forest swarms with them. I’m forced to draw my knife and plunge forward, my frustration and anger fueling each strike. They’re slowing us down, blocking us from her, and I’m done with them. Every stab, every swing, carries the weight of my frustration, the pain of her leaving, the anger at how we left things. It fuels me.

The more rotters than present themselves as obstacles, the faster I move. I feel a twinge in my side, but I ignore it.

A cabin finally comes into view, a thin line of smoke curling from its chimney. My heart thuds painfully against my ribs. Is she in there, or did we follow the wrong trail, leading us straight into someone else’s home? I don’t think I can handle getting so far off her trail. My fist clenches at my side and I push away that doubt. I shouldn’t have stopped paying attention to the tracks. If I followed nothing but the smoke and I got this wrong…

“There, on the ground.” William points at a pair of footprints in the dirt, alongside the paw prints of a dog.

“She’s here.” The words hardly escape my mouth before I lunge forward and throw the door wide open. The unlocked door is reckless, but I’ll berate her about that later. Right now, I only need to see she’s alright. To hold her. Maybe chain her up so she can never escape again. Damn it, I should have kept those handcuffs.

I have to cover my mouth and cough. Smoke billows through the open door and I take a moment for my eyes to adjust.

Inside, darkness cloaks the room, save for the fire in the stone hearth. The flames blaze with life, threatening to overtake the cabin. It looks like someone overfed it, which is likely how we saw the smoke the way we did.

Once the smoke clears, the glow from the fire casts an eerie glow over a few pieces of rough furniture and shadowed photos on the mantle of a couple, smiling and carefree. Muffled sobs drift from another room. Following the sound, I run the short distance along the concrete floor until I reach the room she’s in. I need to know why she’s crying. I need to help her. Please, don’t let her be hurt.

I push through to the next room, feet scuffing against the rough floor. The first thing I find is the figure, bent over on the floor with shoulders shaking. Relief fills me and I rush forward, desperate to help, desperate to know she’s safe. “Em—” I start, but then the figure raises a tear-streaked weathered face, and I stumble back. “You’re not Emily.”

The crushing disappointment that washes over me is so strong it’s paralyzing. We came all this way for…what, this? Some random human I couldn’t care less about? Some guy crying alone in a dark cabin?

The tracks, though. They led us here. Emily has to be here. I try a new tactic.

“Hey, I say, stepping closer to the man huddled on the floor.”

“She needs help,” he quietly sobs, his voice thick with tears.

My spine goes rigid. “Who?” I scan the room, frantic, until my gaze lands on the figure lying in the bed—a human-shaped form, motionless and covered with a blanket. My stomach plummets.

The man sniffles, wiping his face, and he points. My gut clenches. No.

The only light in the room comes from a window above the bed. I take a step forward to get a better view in the light and I see he’s crying over…a rotter?

“Emily.” I sink to my knees. Agony courses through me like a free-flowing stream. We’re too late.

“Grif,” William chokes out, standing behind me. His legs shake against me, but somehow, he remains standing.

A decaying hand, complete with pink-painted nails that are chipped, stretches out toward me from beneath the covers, reaching for my face. Wait a minute. With a frown, I pull the blanket back to reveal a face that’s so decayed that the rot must have set in months ago. “What the fuck is this?”

The man’s tear-filled eyes flash with anger when he looks up at me. “Her name is Mae. She’s my wife. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

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