The trees closed over them like a ribcage, pine needles whispering under boots, air sharp with resin. The reservoir's last word—"Come"—still trembled in Gavin's skull like a concussion. They didn't speak. Speech was meat left on a hook. They carried the jerrycans in bruised hands, shoulders burning, every footstep a prayer they didn't dare say aloud.
The forest floor sloped upward. Roots clutched at their ankles. Shafts of pale light speared through branches, catching Riley's face in shards—eyes wide, lips cracked, jaw clenched so tight Gavin could hear her teeth grind. Madison moved behind her, knife low, his breath ragged but disciplined. Margo led, palm open, ear inked faint on her skin, reminding them all what the silence was for.
They climbed until the reservoir fell behind and only the rustle of branches and the dry croak of a crow carried. For a moment, Gavin almost believed distance worked.
Then came the singing.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't even tuneful. But it was singing—voices lifted, wavering, catching at notes they couldn't hold. The sound drifted through the pines from ahead, weaving around trunks, carried on currents of air.
Riley froze. "That's not—"
"It is," Margo said, voice sharp. "And it isn't ours."
Madison's knuckles whitened on the knife hilt. "They learned songs now?"
"No," Gavin said, though his stomach knotted. "Someone taught them."
They edged forward, cautious, hugging shadows. The singing grew clearer. A dozen voices. Two dozen. Male and female tones interlaced, childish treble threading through adult bass. Words blurred, broken syllables repeated until they became rhythm. Not meaning. Not prayer. Rhythm.
They reached a clearing.
In the center stood a burned-out church, its steeple collapsed, its windows black holes. The pews had been dragged outside and arranged in rows. On those benches sat figures—dozens of them—pale, broken, jaws slack, swaying. They sang, mouths opening and closing in ragged unison. At the front, where an altar once stood, a man in a dark coat waved his arms like a conductor.
"Holy hell," Madison whispered.
The man was alive. Flesh healthy, eyes bright. His voice rose above the others, shaping syllables, forcing rhythm. And the creatures obeyed. They sang when he gestured, hushed when he dropped his hands. A choir built from the dead, conducted by the living.
Margo's face turned stone. "A shepherd."
Riley's hand crept to Gavin's sleeve. "Why would he—?"
"To keep them," Margo said. "To pretend they're his flock. To make sense of noise."
The conductor turned suddenly, as if hearing her thought across the clearing. His gaze swept the tree line, sharp, human, calculating. He smiled. The choir followed his motion, heads turning in eerie unison, mouths still moving soundless syllables.
"We're seen," Gavin hissed.
The conductor raised one arm. The singing stopped mid-note. Silence dropped heavy, crushing. Then his voice rang out, clear as a bell.
"Visitors," he called. "Come closer. Hear the hymn."
Riley trembled. "Don't answer—"
But the creatures were already rising from the pews, dozens of them, heads cocked, waiting. One by one, their mouths opened. The word spilled out like a tide.
"Come."
The same word the reservoir had spoken. The same command, borrowed, perfected.
Margo raised her palm, ear inked, and hissed, "Back."
They staggered into the trees, cans sloshing. The choir followed—not running, not lunging, but walking steady, keeping rhythm, as if the forest itself had become their chapel.
The conductor's voice carried after them, smooth, persuasive. "Don't fear them. They're learning! They're becoming better than we were. Stay. Sing. Join the liturgy of the next world!"
Gavin shoved through undergrowth, branches whipping his face. The words clung to his skin, sticky, wrong. Madison roared once, a primal sound that was all defiance, then clamped his mouth shut before the roar could teach. Riley tripped, nearly dropped her brick bag, caught it, and sprinted.
Behind them, the choir sang again. Louder. Stronger. The syllables sharpened. Not just "come" now. New words, practiced.
"Stay.""Wait.""Sing."
Each command slapped the trees and bounced back, chasing them.
They broke into another clearing. At its center rose the husk of an old water tower, rust streaking its sides, ladder half collapsed. Margo pointed up. "High ground."
Madison cursed but obeyed. He shoved cans onto the lowest rung, boosted Riley, then scrambled after her. Gavin followed, every muscle burning. Margo brought up the rear, her cleaver flashing in the weak light as she hacked at branches to delay pursuit.
The ladder groaned under their weight. The choir's voices swelled below, circling the tower like a tide. The conductor stepped into view, arms spread, smiling.
"Higher," Margo hissed.
They reached the platform halfway up. The tower creaked but held. From there, they could see the clearing full of faces lifted, mouths wide, syllables rising like smoke. The sound vibrated the metal beneath their boots, a hymn meant to collapse will.
Riley clutched the brick bag to her chest. "Static?"
Margo shook her head. "Not yet. They're too many. Hiss will only teach them harmony."
"Then what?" Gavin demanded.
Margo looked at the cans, at the rust, at the old tower. Her mouth hardened.
"We light the hymn on fire."