The farmlands stretched wide, empty, and cruel. Fields of dead corn rattled in the wind like bones, and every fencepost looked like a gravestone. John Van Reap moved slow, revolver low at his hip, boots crunching on gravel that echoed far too loud.
His journal pressed against his ribs in his pack. He hadn't written today. He wasn't ready.
The barn ahead looked abandoned—roof sagging, boards splitting, a lonely silo leaning against the sky like it wanted to fall. John slipped inside, revolver first. Dust swirled in the sunbeams. Hay rotted in heaps. The place was dead quiet. For once, luck was on his side. He scavenged: half a can of beans, some rusted tools, a rope.
Then came the moan. Low. Dragging.
John froze.
Another voice joined it. Then another.
He stepped to the barn door, peered out. Across the fields, shadows stumbled between the rows of corn—twenty, thirty, maybe more. Shamblers. A horde.
He'd fought single strays before. Pathetic alone, easy targets. But in a group? They weren't clumsy anymore. Their feet fell together, their sway synced up, their moans became a rhythm. It was like watching a single beast made of dozens of bodies.
John pulled back inside, heart pounding. His revolver only had five rounds. Not enough. Never enough.
He looked up at the silo. An idea. A stupid one, but it was all he had.
He climbed, every rung of the ladder screaming under his weight. The horde drew closer, their syncopated shuffle thudding against the dirt. From the top of the silo, John looked down at the wave of red-stained mouths and gray faces spilling into the yard. He lit a match.
The dry grain inside reeked of rot. He struck another match, dropped it in. Flames roared, racing upward. The silo became a torch, screaming fire into the night sky.
The horde turned. Eyes found him. Arms lifted. And then the heat blew the silo apart.
The explosion thundered across the farmland. Grain, ash, and fire rained down. Bodies were torn apart, flung like rag dolls. The horde burned and shrieked, scattering into the fields, some still aflame, stumbling until they collapsed.
John clung to the ladder, deafened, chest heaving. His revolver stayed at his side. His eyes stayed cold.
The smoke rose high, black against the moon. Too high. Too loud. Too obvious.
Somebody else would have seen it.
John climbed down, boots hitting dirt. He walked away from the blaze without looking back, journal heavy in his pack.
No destination. No rest. Just shadows in the farmland.