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CHAPTER FOURTEEN- BATTLE OF ENDECOTT: PART 1

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN- BATTLE OF ENDECOTT: PART 1

  Friday 11th May, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  (11:37 PM)

  The vaulted ceilings of St. Louis Cathedral loomed like a colossal skeletal hand reaching toward the heavens, its intricate stained-glass windows casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the cold stone floor. Outside, the bustle of pedestrians and cars faded into a low hum, but within these hallowed walls, a more sinister rhythm pulsed. A heartbeat echoing through the shadows that clung to the corners of the nave. The grandeur of the cathedral, with its towering spires and ornate fa?ade, served as the perfect cover for the self-righteous machinations of The Order of Dawn, a sanctuary for those who sought to eradicate all Magickal Beings and Creatures.

  Lilly Lou crawled silently through the somewhat spacious vents above a corridor, the smell of aged wood and incense mingling with the stifling air. She was careful not to jostle the red vacuum flask tucked securely against her chest. Inside, the nearly transparent blue liquid sloshed gently, a potent Truth Serum that could unravel secrets hidden beneath layers of deception. Its weight reminded her of the gravity of the task ahead. She could almost hear the murmurs of The Order below, snippets of conversation drifting up like whispers from the grave.

  Two hours before, she had texted The Artist, hoping to coordinate their efforts. Asking if they were also sneaking into the cathedral with her. The Artist’s response was cryptic, a promise of a meeting with someone, but silence followed.

  “I hope you’re alright. I also don’t want to go looking for you to”, she thought, her inner voice filled with anxiety. The mission felt more daunting without the comfort of her friend’s presence.

  Matt’s ingenuity and Rei Hajime’s connections had led her here, to this labyrinth of secrets beneath the cathedral. The Dissidents had spoken of hidden chambers and twisting tunnels, vast structures buried deeper than St. Louis itself. Those who ventured in without permission rarely emerged. She couldn’t shake the chill that crept down her spine, fueled by the unease of being watched in a place that masqueraded as a sanctuary.

  With the blueprints she had unearthed from the city council’s architectural preservation office, she had studied the discrepancies between the official documents and the thermal scans from Matt’s daylight reconnaissance.

  Vents ran alongside hidden rooms that weren’t meant to be found, pathways that promised entry into the heart of The Order’s operations. Lilly pushed on, heart racing, her resolve steeling as she prepared to delve into the unknown.

  As the murmurs of The Order grew louder beneath her, Lilly felt the weight of her mission on her shoulders. She wasn’t just infiltrating a cathedral; she was diving into the abyss, seeking the truth that could shatter the world— and perhaps her own.

  (12:00 AM)

  Lilly continued her slow methodical crawl through the vents, the thin metal creaking softly beneath her weight. The air grew thicker as she ventured deeper into the bowels of St. Louis Cathedral, and she strained her ears to catch the faint sounds ahead— voices, muffled at first, but growing clearer with each inch forward.

  She adjusted the Beretta 92FS at her thigh, the smooth silver barrel brushing against her left leg through the holster. Dan Russell had given it to her as an extra precaution, a gift she hadn’t expected but was grateful for. It provided a small measure of comfort in a place like this, a symbol of control in an environment built to suffocate it.

  The voices became distinct now. Both male. One French, one Welsh. Lilly focused on them, letting their conversation guide her through the maze of vents, careful not to make a sound. The Welshman’s tone carried a slight reverence, almost as if he were in awe of something or someone.

  “How it will be an honor to work with Commander de La Salle,” he said, his voice echoing faintly, “Father Chapelle says that her family has done great things for The Order in times past, and that she…”

  The Frenchman cut him off with a low annoyed grunt. “I already know everything about her. No need to keep yapping about her every five minutes”, he said, there was a bitter edge to his words, “What concerns me is whether we’ll be as successful as Operation: Reclamation in Austria-Hungary. I hope Father Chapelle sends in The Beast of Budapest. Blair has grown bold these past few months. Too bold”.

  The Welshman responded casually, as if unfazed by the potential dangers ahead. “Nay bother”, he replied, “At least we’ll get more field experience than we did in Austria-Hungary. Operation: Whisper Forest will be something special, now that Commander de La Salle has given us the go ahead to scout Endecott Forest”.

  Lilly edged closer, catching glimpses of the two men through the narrow slits in the vent. Their faces were obscured by shadows, but she could make out the subtle glint of armor beneath their cloaks. Knights of The Order, no doubt. She wiggled her body carefully, moving inch by inch, keeping her movements slow and deliberate to avoid making any noise.

  Her mind briefly drifted to The Artist, wondering where they were now and if they were safe. Their absence left an unsettling void in the mission, a vulnerability that made her stomach twist. She had hoped for their support tonight, especially with the stakes as high as they were. “Wherever you are”, she thought, “I hope you’re safe”. But even as she thought it, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

  Saturday 12th May, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  (9:37 AM)

  The Artist woke up with a jolt. Their heart pounded in their chest as their eyes blinked open to the dim glow of the sunlight that filtered through the thin curtains of their bedroom. They glanced around, disoriented, trying to shake the remnants of a strange dream. The room was familiar— every detail etched in their memory. The faded posters on the walls, the half-finished sketches strewn across the floor, the lingering scent of paint and ink.

  Before they could process their surroundings, a hand gently shook their shoulder. “Get up”, Claire’s voice pierced through the fog of sleep. Her tone was urgent, her breath quick, “We need to leave now”.

  The Artist groaned, sitting up and rubbing their eyes. “What?”, they blinked at her, still dazed and groggy, “Claire…it’s been, what? How many hours since you dropped me off?”. The Artist grabbed their phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen, “Two…it’s only 9:37 AM. What’s going on?”.

  “There’s no time to explain”, Claire insisted, pacing the small room, her crimson leather jacket brushing against the doorframe. Her voice was tight with anxiety. “Something happened at Endecott, and people back at Oak Wood are losing their minds. We need to move. Now”, she said, looking back at the Artist, her eyes filled with an intensity that made The Artist’s blood run cold.

  The Artist felt the last remnants of sleep fade from their mind. “Endecott?”, they asked, pulling on their jacket and scrambling to their feet, “What’s happening?”.

  “I’ll explain on the way”, Claire replied, already heading toward the door, “My car’s packed outside. James is coming with us”.

  The Artist nodded, their heart racing as they hurried after her. Thoughts swirled in their mind as they descended the stairs and stepped out into the cool night air. The familiar sight of Claire’s crimson red sedan, the Fukushima American Model-B110, sat idling at the curb. Its polished surface gleamed under the sunlight.

  As they approached, they noticed James Sanchez seated in the front passenger seat, his face illuminated by the dim glow of the dashboard lights. His green-hazel eyes flicked up, and a slight nod of acknowledgment passed between them.

  “Hey”, The Artist greeted, sliding into the backseat, “Do you know what’s going on?”.

  James shook his head, his expression as tense as Claire’s, “Not much. Claire gave me a brief rundown, said something happened between you, Lucius and Elizabeth at Oak Wood, but no real details. I’m guessing it’s bad”.

  “It must be worse than bad”, The Artist muttered, glancing out the window as Claire climbed into the driver’s seat. The moment her door clicked shut, she slammed her foot on the gas, sending the car speeding down Fleuve Street.

  The compact sedan hummed as Claire navigated the narrow roads of the French Quarter with remarkable precision. The city’s historic architecture blurred past them as she cut corners, weaving in and out of the sparse early-morning traffic. Despite the car’s modest size, its engine roared with surprising power as Claire pushed it toward its limits.

  “Claire, slow down”, James urged, gripping the armrest as they narrowly avoided a parked truck.

  “No time”, Claire shot back, her voice cold but focused, “We have to get to Endecott. The Cult is moving faster than we thought. If we’re not there soon, then we are done for”.

  The Artist’s mind raced, pieces of the puzzle slowly beginning to fit together. Endecott. Oak Wood. The Cult. Their parents. The weight of everything began to press down on them again, heavier than ever. They leaned forward, gripping the back of the front seat.

  Saturday 12th May, 2018- INTERSTATE HIGHWAY 47, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  (10:35 AM)

  “You said something happened at Endecott?”, The Artist asked, their voice tight.

  “Hmm, you were right to wanting to hit the place, I think I should have taken you there in the first place”, Claire replied, “Because apparently the captives that The Cult have been getting escaped, and not only that but their fighting back, although I hear The Cult has managed to kill plenty of them. Its only a matter of time till its over for them”.

  “What happened?”, The Artist asked as Claire sped across Highway 47 towards Jacksonville.

  “I don’t know, but we’ll find out when we get there, and please don’t let the Red Society know about this, their more trouble than their worth”, Claire replied.

  James shifted in his seat, leaning forward as he turned to Claire, concern etched into his features. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call Haggins about this? What about Blair? If Oak Woods is going crazy, who knows what they’ve sent to Endecott”, he replied.

  Claire’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles whitening. Her eyes stayed focused on the road as she weaved through the morning traffic, heading towards Interstate Highway 47. “Trust me, James”, she said, “We are better off this way”.

  “Trust you, when you’re part of The Cult?! Trust you, when you convinced me to kill a man in cold blood?!”, The Artist’s voice rose sharply from the backseat, “Claire, enough beating around the bush. Are you with Blair or not?! Are you a Mage or a Hollow?”.

  The tension in the car thickened. Claire’s jaw clenched as she sped onto the highway, the sound of the engine roaring filling the uneasy silence that followed. Her gaze flicked briefly toward James, who was staring straight ahead, avoiding her eyes.

  Finally, she spoke, her voice low but steady. “I’m neither with The Cult nor any other society in Willow. Not the Trader’s Guild, not the Baltimorean Alchemists. I’m part of something larger than myself, something none of you would understand right now”, she paused, letting out a heavy breath, “And no, I’m not a Hollow. I’m a Human-Mage Hybrid, just like you. You two are my best friends, and that’s all you’ve ever been to me”.

  The Artist was taken aback. The harshness of their accusation now seemed like an overreach, and they sank back into the seat. The weight of their words had clearly stung Claire, though she didn’t show it much. James, who had been silent throughout, shifted uncomfortably.

  James glanced at Claire, trying to gauge her emotions. “I’m sorry, Claire. It’s just tha…that none of this makes any sense”, James said, “We’re out of our depth here”.

  Claire nodded slightly, her eyes focused on the road. “I get it. This is bigger than all of us. I’ll explain more when we get to Endecott. Right now, we just need to focus on getting there”, she replied.

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  The Artist leaned forward, their tone softening, “We didn’t mean to push you like that, Claire. It’s just well…everything’s happening so fast”.

  Claire nodded again, but her expression remained hard. She didn’t say anything for a moment, focusing on navigating the highway.

  James, trying to break the lingering tension, pointed out the window towards a narrow exit. “Claire, take that detour on the left. I’ve used that route before when heading to Endecott Forest. It’s quicker, and we’ll avoid driving through Jacksonville altogether”, he said.

  Claire looked at the turn James was referring to, then nodded and swerved toward the exit. The car bumped slightly as they left the main highway, heading down a winding country road that cut through the thickening forest. The morning sun streamed through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the road.

  The silence in the car was palpable. The Artist gazed out of the window, watching the blur of trees and wondering what awaited them at Endecott. In the front, James kept his eyes on the road ahead, tension still buzzing beneath the surface.

  Finally, Claire broke the silence, “Look, I’m sorry for what happened back there at Oak Wood. I didn’t expect things to go the way they did. But you have to trust me now that we’re walking into something dangerous. Whatever happened at Endecott…it’s not going to be good. And if we’re not careful, we could be walking into a trap”.

  The Artist exchanged a glance with James, who nodded slightly. They had no choice now but to trust Claire. Whatever was happening at Endecott, they were about to find out— and they had to be ready for anything.

  Saturday 12th May, 2018- ENDECOTT FOREST STATE PARK, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  (12:37 PM)

  The towering trees of Endecott Forest stretched into the sky, their thick canopies almost blocking out what light the sun offered. A cold mist hung in the air, swirling around the trio as they pulled off the narrow dirt road and parked beside a stone monument. Claire killed the engine, and the soft hum of the car faded, leaving only the eerie quiet of the forest. The Stone Tower loomed ahead of them— a massive structure that had stood for over 80 years, its weathered stone walls rising 48 feet high into the sky.

  The three of them stepped out of the car, their footsteps crunching softly on the gravel as they made their way to the trunk. The silence of the forest felt oppressive, like it was waiting for something to happen. Claire popped the trunk open, revealing an arsenal of weaponry neatly laid out beneath a false bottom.

  “Dan Russell really hooked us up”, Claire said, her voice low as she handed James a sleek, black rifle, “Here, James. A little something from JayJay’s. AR-15 chambered in 5.56 NATO. Should handle just about anything we run into”.

  James took the rifle with a grin, running his hand along its matte-black frame, appreciating the weight and feel of the weapon. “Man, Dan’s cooler than I thought”, he said, “You know, I’ve had my gun license for two years, but I actually took a few lessons from him a while back. Learned a lot of tricks”.

  Claire nodded, then turned to The Artist, who was watching the exchange quietly. “And for you”, she said, pulling out a polished M1897 shotgun, the steel glinting faintly in the sunlight, “Something special from Dan. Incendiary shells. These should light up any Hollow we come across”.

  The Artist inspected the shotgun carefully, checking the action, making sure the old but reliable weapon was in working order. After a quick once-over, they pumped the action and nodded, satisfied. “Not bad”, they said quietly.

  Claire tossed them both a couple of pouches, each filled with specially marked rounds. “Remember”, she said, her tone more serious now, “Holy bullets burn Hollows. Occulirium rounds? They block all magick. Don’t waste ‘em”.

  James nodded, fastening the pouch of ammunition to his belt, while The Artist did the same. The forest felt like it was closing in around them, the dense foliage shifting in the breeze, but not quite enough to break the uneasy stillness.

  “You good, Claire?”, James asked, glancing over as she secured the last of the gear.

  Claire grinned and pulled a couple of grenades from the trunk, attaching them to her belt. “I’ll just take these”, she said, her voice tinged with confidence, “Magick is still my go-to”. With a casual flick of her wrist, an arc of red lightning crackled from her fingertips, sparking in the air just inches from James’s face.

  “Damn, Claire!”, James jumped back, startled as The Artist snorted a laugh from behind her, “Mamacita, chill with the magick! You really know how to light up my life. But next time, maybe just a hug?”.

  Claire smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement as she stepped past him. “As long as you don’t shoot me in the back, I’ll consider it”, she said, tossing a glance over her shoulder.

  James rolled his eyes, shouldering the AR-15 and shaking his head. “Noted”.

  Now fully geared, the trio stepped away from the car and into the forest. The mist grew thicker as they moved deeper into the woods, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the damp ground beneath them. Branches creaked in the distance, and the air felt colder the farther they ventured.

  Claire led the way, her sharp eyes scanning the path ahead. “We’re heading for the outpost”, she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft rustle of the wind through the trees, “If anything’s still alive out there, we’ll find out soon enough”.

  The Artist tightened their grip on the shotgun, eyes narrowing as they scanned the shadows between the trees. Whatever waited for them in the heart of Endecott Forest, they were ready for it— armed and prepared for a fight.

  As they continued down the narrow trail, the Stone Tower disappeared into the fog behind them, swallowed by the mist and trees. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the occasional distant sound— a snap of a twig, a rustle in the undergrowth.

  “Stay close”, Claire warned, her voice steady despite the tension in the air, “We’re not alone out here”.

  (12:57 PM)

  The trio moved cautiously through the dense undergrowth, the mist curling around them like tendrils. Claire led the way, eyes sharp as she scanned the tree line. The forest felt thicker here, the air heavier, like it was trying to keep something hidden. They reached a clearing where the outpost stood— an old rundown building barely discernible in the sunlight.

  It seemed to blend unnaturally with the landscape, the structure itself almost invisible as if woven into the earth. A camouflage spell. Claire stopped and turned toward the others, her face impassive but her eyes betraying the tension she felt. She raised her hand toward the empty space where the outpost should have been.

  “Jokslla”, she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  The air shimmered and then dissipated as the spell broke, revealing the hidden building. The Artist, who had been watching closely, recognized the word immediately. “Sinok”, they thought, a simplified form of Mystic Arts, specifically for dispelling. It functioned similarly to Tadice but was single-purposed, meant only for disillusionment.

  The building now revealed was made of gray concrete, but something about it was off. It appeared almost misshapen, its structure warped unnaturally, as though the earth itself had been molded around it. The entrance, two large metal doors, stood wide open. Blood trailed from the threshold, leading inside like a grotesque invitation.

  “Shit”, James muttered, eyeing the bloodstains as he readied his rifle. Claire shot him a look but said nothing. The Artist silently loaded their shotgun with the incendiary shells.

  “Stay alert”, Claire said, her voice low but firm as they stepped inside.

  The hallway was dimly lit, the lights flickering sporadically. The blood trail continued deeper into the building. The stench of decay and dampness filled the air, but beyond that, there was something else— a sound. It was faint at first, almost drowned out by the buzz of the dying lights, but then it grew louder. Wheezing. Raspy and labored, like someone struggling for breath.

  They followed the sound through the narrow corridor, weapons raised, until they reached what appeared to be the main hub. The room had a large window that overlooked the forest, though it was cracked and dirtied, the view obscured by fog. Lying on the ground by a broken wall was an African-American woman, her chest rising and falling with strained effort. She wore a park ranger uniform, her caramel brown skin pallid under the weak lighting, and her dark brown eyes darted wildly around the room, unfocused, as if her mind was elsewhere.

  Suddenly, she noticed the trio standing before her. Panic flashed in her eyes, and with a frantic gasp, she reached for a pistol, a M1911, lying beside her. Before any of them could react, she fired a warning shot into the air, the gun’s report echoing through the room.

  “Who are you?”, she rasped, the gun trembling in her hand as she kept it trained on them.

  James took a cautious step forward, hands raised in a show of non-aggression. “Whoa, whoa, we’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to help”, he said moving closer, but Claire quickly grabbed his arm pulling him back.

  “James, hold on”, she warned, her eyes on the woman, her hands subtly poised, ready to cast a spell if needed, “We don’t know who she is”.

  “Claire!”, James snapped, looking back at her with frustration, “She’s hurt. We have to help”.

  He turned back to the woman, softening his tone, “My name is James Sanchez, and we’re here to deal with the pendejos who did this to you. These are my friends. What’s your name?”.

  The woman hesitated, her breath still shallow, but something in James’s voice seemed to ease her tension. If they had wanted to harm her, they would have done it by now. She slowly lowered the gun, her voice strained as she spoke, “Kaitlyn…Park. My name is Kaitlyn Park. Are you with the police? Government?”.

  James knelt beside her, shaking his head. “No, Kaitlyn”, he replied, “We’re not with any agency, but we’re here to take care of this mess just like you. Let us help you”.

  Her gaze flickered to her left arm, which was pinned against the concrete wall by two jagged pieces of rebar. Blood seeped from the wound, staining her uniform a deep crimson. “My arm…It’s stuck…”

  James winced at the sight. He reached into his backpack, pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and handed it to her. “I’m no doctor but drink this”, he said, “For the pain. It’s gonna hurt when I pull that rebar out”.

  Kaitlyn stared at the bottle, then took it, downing a long swig before nodding, bracing herself for what was coming. “Do it”, she whispered, her teeth gritted.

  James placed his hands around the rebar. “Okay, Kaitlyn. Stay calm, and whatever you do, keep your mouth clenched tight”, James said, as he gave a quick look to Claire and The Artist before yanking the rebar free in one swift motion.

  “Son of a bitch!”, Kaitlyn screamed, swinging her good arm and punching James squarely in the chest, “I thought we were supposed to count to three!”.

  James grimaced but managed a chuckle, “Like I said, I’m no doctor, but I’m sorry for the pain. Guys, any magick or something to help the Mrs.”

  The Artist tossed James a small transparent glass flask filled with a bright red liquid. “Healing potion”, they said simply, “It will stop the bleeding and seal up any wounds”.

  Kaitlyn took the flask, wincing as she held it in her good hand, and downed the contents. She coughed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Tastes like cherry”, she muttered.

  The Artist grinned, though it didn’t quite reach their eyes. “I brewed it myself. High-Father Anderson taught me how”.

  Claire raised an eyebrow, impressed and proud of her friend. “High-Father Anderson?”, she whispered to herself, just loud enough for The Artist to hear, though she made no further comment.

  Kaitlyn slowly stood, getting her bearings as she holstered the M1911 at her right hip holster. Her left arm still ached, but the healing potion had already begun working its magick, closing the wound. She extended her right hand to each of them in turn. “Thanks”, she said, shaking their hands. “Now, since you guys seem prepared for this, can someone tell me…what the hell is going on?”.

  (1:04 PM)

  “So you mean to tell me that those things I fought, Hollows, eat people?”, Kate asked, “And this Cult of Blair is like their…organization. That’s insane but at this point I don’t care, and I want to help you stop them”.

  “Yes. But are you sure”, The Artist asked, “We don’t want your death to be on our hands”.

  “Its okay. It’s the reason I was here in the first place, those things dragged me in here, when I was investigating the woods for noise complaints, I thought it was just a bunch of critters making a ruckus for campers but when I found this place they got the jump on me before I could anything. I’ve been trapped here since last night”, Kaitlyn explained.

  James leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath as the tension in the room began to ease. Kaitlyn, now more composed after the healing potion had fully closed her wounds, let out a sigh of relief. Her left arm felt like new, though the trauma of what she had been through was still evident in her eyes.

  “While I was stuck here”, Kaitlyn began again, while tying her long ebony black hair into a bun, “I could hear other people being dragged in. Screaming, crying…I didn’t see them, but I could hear them. Every now and then, someone would let out a bloodcurdling scream, and I’d know another one of us had been taken by those…Hollows”.

  James, Claire and The Artist exchanged grim looks. They had seen the aftermath of these creatures’ attacks before, but it never got any easier to hear about the terror they inflicted on others.

  “At one point…”, Kaitlyn continued, “…there was this loud gunshot, a bang that echoed through the whole place. After that, it was chaos. People started running around, some of them completely naked, heads shaved…others still had their clothes on, probably snatched up recently. I couldn’t do anything before one of those monsters, those Hollows, slammed me into that wall and impaled my arm on the rebar”.

  Her face darkened as she recounted the next part. “It licked the blood off my arm, like it was savoring it. I tried shooting it, emptied my whole clip right into the thing’s chest, but the bullets didn’t do a damn thing. It was like I was shooting at a pile of rotting plants”, she shook her head, “It just walked away, completely unfazed”.

  Claire knelt beside her, placing a hand on Kaitlyn’s shoulder. “Ordinary weapons won’t hurt them”, Claire explained, “You need something more potent for Dark Magickal Beings like Hollows. Here”, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small bag of ammunition, its contents gleaming faintly with a golden hue, “Holy rounds and Occulirium-infused bullets. These will work. Take them”.

  Kaitlyn looked at the bullets, then back at Claire. “You sure about this?”, she asked, still processing the idea of using magickal ammunition.

  James smiled, patting her on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, Claire and our little artista here will show you how to use them”.

  Kaitlyn nodded, her strength returning, bolstered by the potion and the renewed sense of purpose. She looked out the cracked window, catching a glimpse of the stream flowing nearby.

  “Listen, if we’re gonna try and regroup with any survivors, we need to head downstream. Below that cliffside, there’s a ranger station, Echo Park Ranger Station. It’s mostly used for emergencies, forest fires, stuff like that. If anyone escaped, especially campers who know the area, they would’ve gone that way. There’s no way they’d stick around here, not after what happened”, Kaitlyn explained.

  The Artist stepped forward, brow furrowed, “You’re right about one thing. Those who escaped probably went downstream. But don’t get your hopes up. Hollows…they’re more than just fast and strong. They can smell fear. Hear a heartbeat from hundreds of feet away. If anyone’s separated from the group, they’re likely already dead or worse”.

  Kaitlyn clenched her jaw, the thought sending a shiver down her spine. “But there could still be people alive at the station”, she insisted, “We have to at least try to get there”.

  Claire nodded, standing up and adjusting her jacket, “She’s right. Whether anyone’s still there or not, we need to move. It’s too dangerous to stay here, and the Hollows might already be on their way back”.

  James, now fully geared up, slung his AR-15 over his shoulder, “Agreed. Let’s not give those bastards a chance to regroup. We head to Echo Station now”.

  The group quickly gathered their belongings, readying themselves for the journey ahead. Kaitlyn holstered her M1911, now loaded with the Holy and Occulirium-infused rounds chambered in .45 ACP, as they began to move, The Artist paused, glancing back at the bloodstains on the floor and the decaying smell still lingering in the air.

  “I’m worried”, they said quietly, “Even with everything we have, we might not last long if we come up against them again. These things...they don’t just fight with brute force. They break you down, bit by bit”.

  James gave a reassuring nod, “We’ll make it through. We’ve come too far to die here”.

  The Artist gave James back a reluctant nod, and with that, the group stepped out of the rundown building, the weight of the unknown pressing heavily upon them. They followed the stream, heading toward Echo Ranger Station, unsure of what awaited them but knowing one thing for sure— they were heading into the heart of danger.

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