Clomp.
Clomp.
Their footsteps echoed dully against the stone as the cohort marched through the Canyon of Death. Their limbs moved without will, minds steeped in fog, eyes glassy and vacant. They were husks, strung together by some unseen thread, trailing along the river's edge as if reeled in by the current.
Damien led them—silent, and unreadable. Behind him followed the Grey Monk, then Jenna, Joseph, James, and finally... Blythe, or whatever force now wore her skin. Her mouth was stretched into an unnatural, crescent-shaped smile, far too wide to be real, and her pale blue eyes shimmered with something cruel and ancient. Nothing human remained in her gaze.
They marched without rest, without speech, without thought—for twenty-four hollow hours.
Suddenly,
Wheeeeeew!
The whistle returned, slicing through the air like a blade drawn from its sheath. But this time, it didn't come from Blythe.
