The silence between us was thick enough to touch.
The woman kept the iron bar resting on her shoulder; her eyes were cold, watching me but clearly more concerned with every movement around us.
Behind her, the other three spread out in a half-circle. One of them coughed, a harsh, animal sound. I flinched, startled.
"I asked who you are," she repeated, not raising her voice, yet somehow sounding even colder.Her tone scraped against my ears like metal dragged across concrete, steady and dangerous.I swallowed hard. The taste in my mouth was still bile and rust.
I tried to remember something, a name, a face, anything, but there was nothing. It felt as if something had been carved out of me.
The only memory left was from the moment I arrived at that church: the sound of wind, the stench of burnt flesh, and the violet flash.
"I…" My voice trembled. "I don't know."
The woman frowned.
The others exchanged quick looks and, as if synchronized, raised their weapons and stared at me with growing hostility.
"Amnesia," muttered one, a gaunt man with sunken eyes and a torn mask. He looked about forty, thin as a stick, fragile even, yet he was the fastest to draw his weapon.
"Or trauma," said another. "Maybe another of the Marked."
That word seemed to ignite something. The whispers and muttering grew louder, nervous.
The woman gestured sharply for silence and stepped closer.The floor creaked under her boots, the sound echoing among the hollow buildings.
"Look at me."
The command carried no emotion, yet I noticed how her grip on the iron bar tightened.
My heart was pounding in my throat. The panic of knowing nothing, of remembering nothing, burned through me, and her lifeless stare, that devouring, dissecting look, only made it worse.
It felt eternal, though only seconds passed.
She seemed to notice something in my eyes, because she gave a slight nod and stepped back.
"So it's true," she murmured.
The others relaxed, exhaling in relief, except the thin old man.
"But if you're lying," she continued, raising the iron bar and pressing its cold tip to my chest, "you'll wish you weren't."
The metal was freezing against my skin.
I shut my eyes for a second. Images flashed, the altar covered in dust, cracked columns, the bodies, and that monstrous roar.
"A church," I whispered. "I was in a church."
She hesitated, pressing the bar to my chin and tilting my face upward.
"A church…" she repeated under her breath, then looked to the others. "Was there any church nearby?"
They shook their heads, as lost as she was.
The iron bar pressed harder into my throat.
"Don't play with me," she said, anger surfacing.
"What?" My voice cracked like a crow's cry. "I'm not, I swear."
"I'm not in the mood," she snapped. "Tell me the truth."
Panic seized me; my legs felt locked in place.
"I'm not lying," I stammered. "I was there and suddenly I was just here. There was this thing, a monster, bigger than this building!"
I spoke fast, breathless, terrified, and as I spoke, their faces changed.
The old man paled, and the others began scanning the mist in panic.
Their whispers grew into frantic murmurs.
"Quiet," the woman hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut through the air.
Her gaze snapped back to me.
"So, you saw a Rizonte and lived? You expect me to believe that?"
"Rizonte," I echoed under my breath. So the creature had a name.
She must've noticed my muttering, because the bar pressed harder into my neck, jolting me.
"It's true, I swear," I said quickly, voice trembling. "There were… there were also bodies, those bodies…"
My voice weakened.
"Echoes?" one of them asked, with a strange, almost sorrowful tone.
I didn't know what that meant, but the word carried weight.
"Captain," the heavy-set man behind her murmured, "if they were really Echoes, we can't just leave them."
"Shut up, Ian." She turned back to me. "Did you see anything else?"
I thought of the living mass rising between skyscrapers, that scream that felt capable of awakening the dead.
And then the yellow mist, thick and reeking of decay.
"I did," I whispered. "I saw a yellow fog after the monster screamed."
Her expression shifted, a flicker of fear.
The others shared the same look. Restless now. Uneasy. Some looked ready to run.
For a brief moment she looked at me, terrified, then turned away, masking it.
"The Rizonte is moving again," she muttered to her group. "And you saw it."
The wind howled through the ruins, swirling the gray mist around us.
As if making a grim decision, she sheathed the iron bar across her back and gestured sharply.
"Take him."
That made my stomach drop.
"Wait, where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere safe. It's getting dark, and trust me, you don't want to be out here."
Before walking away, she glanced over her shoulder, giving me a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Come on. I'm not a monster."
She headed back the way they came. Two of them grabbed me by the arms, their touch cold and far from comforting.
We walked in silence through what must once have been a busy avenue.
I couldn't stop glancing around, tense. As the darkness thickened, the fog devoured the street signs, the cars, even the sky.
Above, between the clouds, the last rays of sunlight faded fast, as if retreating from something dreadful.
As we went deeper into the city, I began to notice scorched markings on the walls, symbols, phrases, some in English, others in a language I didn't recognize.
But one message kept repeating, painted in dark red:
RETURN TO THE ARMS OF THE FLESH.
My stomach turned again.
"What is that?" I asked.
The woman replied without looking back.
"Nothing. Just another bunch of lunatics."
That drew a few mocking laughs from the group.
That's when I noticed one of my captors was a woman, muscular, rough, but her laugh was surprisingly melodic.
She must've noticed my awkward glance, because she spoke up.
"That was the Church's promise, in the early days. They thought salvation had a shape."
"And did it?" I asked.
That earned me a round of derisive chuckles.
She smirked at the symbols with disgust.
"Take a guess."
The captain stopped.
When she turned, her eyes reflected the faint light slicing through the fog.
"For someone claiming to come from a church," she said, "you don't seem to know much."
I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could speak, she started walking again.The others followed, steady and silent.
Only the echo of our footsteps on the wet asphalt remained.
Then the fog seemed to vibrate. And we all heard it.Behind us, the distant cry of that thing again.Like a whale song, but twisted, deeper, wrong.
Everyone froze.
The sound came from everywhere.Almost imperceptibly, the ground trembled beneath our feet.Then, absolute silence.
The captain's eyes hardened. She raised her hand and whispered between clenched teeth,"Run. Now."
No one questioned her.The four of them moved as one, and I was dragged along, stumbling, trying to keep up.Our boots slammed against the damp asphalt, the sound sharp and rhythmic, too loud, too human.
Then the sound returned.Louder. Closer.
One of the men behind us tripped and fell.
"Get up, Malik!" the woman beside me shouted, panic creeping into her voice. But it was no use.
His body arched backward grotesquely. His hands clawed at his skin in frantic desperation.The man holding me let go for a moment, rushing to help him, but froze when he saw what was happening.
The captain, now beside us, clenched her fists around the iron bar.
"Damn it… damn it!"
From Malik came the sickening sound of bones snapping.He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a guttural wail.
Then he began to change.
He tried to rise, bracing his hands on the ground, but his fingers began to fuse, melting together like wax.
The flesh bubbled and twisted.
Malik's eyes rolled back, the whites turning a diseased yellow. His neck stretched, his jaw cracked, and a sound too horrible to be human tore through the street.
I couldn't understand why no one ran.The crushing grip of those holding me kept me still, but I could hear their ragged breathing.
The heap of flesh that had once been human gave one last shudder and turned its hollow gaze toward us, frozen forever in a look of silent terror, as if caught mid-scream.
Silence fell again.
The horror of what I'd just seen drained the strength from my body; if not for the two holding me, I would've collapsed.
"Echo," the captain murmured, lowering her head. "He turned into one of the Echoes."
The others looked stricken, but somehow relieved.Sighing, the captain turned to the woman beside me.
"It's getting dark. Do it."
The strong woman just stood there, blank-eyed, staring at what was left of Malik.
The captain exhaled, weary, and signaled to the thin old man.He pulled a small glass bottle from his coat, filled with yellowish liquid, and poured it over the corpse.
Kerosene. I knew the smell instantly.
Before I could react, he struck a match and tossed it.The hiss of burning flesh filled the air, and the stench hit like a wave.I gagged.
The others barely flinched, just a brief silence, a moment of mourning, before turning back to their leader.
"Let's go," she said flatly.
This time, the march was wordless.
We didn't hear that monstrous cry again, but the image of Malik burning, that stench, clung to me like a shadow.
By the time darkness had settled, we reached a sloping street. Ahead, half-buried in ash and moss, lay a fallen sign. The letters were still legible beneath the rust: CENTRAL STATION – LINE 3.
Without a word, the woman leapt over the sign, pushing aside a thick layer of overgrowth that hid the entrance. The smell from below was damp iron and mold.
Dim lanterns flickered down the stairway.It looked like the open mouth of a beast.
Without glancing back, the captain spoke before stepping inside,
"Home at last."