The trees split open—not literally, but the feeling was the same.
From the swaying forest line came creatures that were once human… or close. Their torsos bulged like fungus-filled logs. Faces sagged in half-melted expressions. Their skin bore bark-like patches. Eyes glowed faintly gold, like trapped sunlight trying to scream.
They didn't rush.
They listened.
One stepped forward, cocked its head, and mimicked a cry it had probably once heard from a dying woman. The sound bounced through the clearing like a memory gone wrong.
Chen Yu was the first to laugh.
"Holy hell," he said, drawing his blade. "They're ugly cousins of zombies and trees. Call 'em treebies!"
No one responded.
He sighed. "Tough crowd."
Then he moved—fast, low, sharp. His blade slashed across the legs of the nearest creature. It fell, vines bursting from its throat. Another one stepped over it, unbothered.
"These ones don't scream," Rui muttered, backing the children toward the truck. "They just multiply."
Li Wei stepped beside her. "Fire?"
Rui nodded. "Always."
He pulled the flare gun from his bag.
Meanwhile, Chen Yu danced.
He weaved between the monsters, blade flashing in arcs. He twirled with each dodge, laughed with each slice, and insulted their mothers in broken haiku:
"You were born in dirt—
Not even your tree-father
Loved your barky face."
One lunged at him. He ducked under it and stabbed upward—right through its throat.
Then he leaned close to its dying eye and whispered, "Shh. No crying."
The flare hit a tree and burst. Flames hissed along the branches, but the creatures didn't flinch.
"They don't fear fire," Rui said, dragging a child into the truck. "They're wood. Fire might birth them."
Li Wei cursed softly.
Chen Yu kicked a fallen one in the head. "So what now, genius?"
"We lead them away."
Li Wei turned to Chen Yu, his expression unreadable. "Make noise. Be stupid. Be you. But draw them out."
Chen Yu's smile widened. "God, I love when you beg."
And then he ran—straight into the woods—shouting profanity-laced nursery rhymes, mocking their slow movements, yelling insults at trees like a man born mad.
The creatures followed.
Every. Single. One.
Rui watched from the truck roof, heart pounding.
"They're actually following him," she said.
Li Wei checked the map. "There's a cliff edge northeast of here. If he can get them near it—"
"We can trap them," Rui finished.
The air shifted again.
No, not the air.
The silence.
It broke.
Chen Yu's laughter echoed back—then suddenly stopped.
Rui stood straight.
"Li Wei—"
He was already running.
They found him at the edge of a shallow gorge, standing with his arms spread like wings, facing a sea of walking trees.
"I said, come at me, bark-boys!" he screamed.
And they did.
They surrounded him—dozens of them—writhing, clicking, groaning like a choir of rotten wood.
But they didn't attack.
They just stood.
Li Wei stepped into view.
"Chen Yu!"
Chen Yu turned slowly.
His face was blank.
And then he said something that wasn't his voice:
"The trees remember
what the fire tried to burn out.
We are roots, reborn."
Rui arrived, panting.
She raised her weapon.
"Back away from him."
But Chen Yu just smiled—cold, empty.
"Too late."
Then he blinked—and the voice was gone. The real Chen Yu returned, staggered, dropped to one knee, eyes wide with terror.
"Something… was inside me," he whispered. "It knew me."
Rui pulled him up. "We're getting out. Now."
Li Wei didn't move. His gaze was on the creatures.
They weren't advancing.
They were watching.
Waiting.
Back at the clearing, they sealed the truck and drove until the sun looked like a blood blister in the sky.
Chen Yu sat quietly for the first time in days.
He didn't joke.
Didn't hum.
Didn't blink much.
Only when Rui reached back to check on him did he whisper, "It touched me. I don't know how deep."
Li Wei didn't look back. He just drove.
In the distance, lightning split the clouds.
And the forest behind them sighed.