Dawn crawled through the clouds, gray and unwilling. The rain had thinned to a mist, but the smell of blood refused to fade.
Cain sat on the steps of the ruined cathedral, his coat clinging to his shoulders in soaked folds. His sword leaned against his knee, its edge dulled from the last strike.
Across from him, Steve and Roselle worked to drag what supplies they could salvage from the wreckage. Every crate they opened held less than they hoped. Rations soaked. Ammo cooked by the blast. Nothing was clean. Nothing was whole.
Susan stood apart, her rifle still strapped to her back. Her eyes weren't on the ruin—they were on the horizon, where smoke rose in long, unbroken columns.
"That thing's death won't stop the others," she said. "If anything, they'll come faster."
Cain didn't argue. He just looked down at his hands. The cuts on his palms had begun to close, but the faint glow under his skin wouldn't fade. Remnants of what he'd killed. Remnants that didn't want to die.
