Drake lifted his charred, weeping stumps high above his head, letting the flickering firelight paint the blackened wounds in grotesque orange glow. His voice came out hoarse but vicious, carrying across the entire camp like a poison wind.
"Come with us!" he roared. "Grab every wooden log you can find—wrap rags around the ends, soak them in the last of our oil, and light them up! We'll use them as torches. We attack tonight—in the dark—when that bastard Dexter least expects it!"
A savage murmur swept through the survivors. Men scrambled for branches, tearing strips of cloth from their own filthy shirts, dipping them in the final dregs of lamp oil.
Torches burst to life one by one—ugly, crackling flames that lit their gaunt, desperate faces with hellish light. Children clung tighter to their mothers; Paul coughed wetly into his sleeve, eyes wide with fear and faint hope.
One of the older men—thin, bearded, voice rough from weeks of shouting—raised his newly lit torch.
