The platform groaned under their boots, old bolts straining like teeth in rotten gums. The water tower had been drained years ago, but its bones still held weight—barely. Gavin braced one shoulder against the railing and watched the clearing below fill with bodies.
The choir raised their faces like sunflowers. Pale throats opened. The sound that came out wasn't music, not really—it was noise bent toward music. Notes stumbled, found footing, stumbled again. The repetition was worse than a scream. Scream meant panic. Repetition meant practice.
And at the center, arms spread like a conductor at symphony's end, stood the shepherd. His dark coat swayed in rhythm, his grin wide, as if the world burning down had delivered him the role of maestro.
"Sing!" he commanded.
They obeyed.
The syllables drilled upward, battering the tower's ribs, rattling bolts loose. Margo gripped the railing with one hand, cleaver in the other, her jaw hard. Madison crouched by the cans, muscles coiled, waiting. Riley clutched the brick bag tight, trembling.
"They're not human anymore," Madison said, voice raw. "Light it."
Riley shook her head. "No. No, some of them—look at their faces. Some still blink. Some still—"
"Blinking isn't living," Margo snapped. "Blinking is electricity."
"They're gone," Madison agreed. His big hand flexed on the can's handle. "We've killed worse with less reason."
Riley's voice cracked. "They're singing. They're trying."
"Trying what?" Gavin asked, stepping closer, his eyes locked on hers. "Trying to be us? Or trying to be better at hunting us? You heard them at the reservoir. You saw the code on that screen. This isn't saving. This is practice."
The words struck her. She staggered back, hit the railing, stared at the faces below—white, gray, hungry. Their mouths stretched wide as syllables bled upward.
"Stay.""Sing.""Come."
The shepherd raised both hands, eyes finding Riley like a spotlight. "You understand," he called. "You hear the promise. They're not monsters—they're disciples. We're building the first choir of the new world!"
"Shut up," Madison growled, but the man's words wormed into Riley anyway.
"They obey rhythm," the shepherd went on, voice ringing clear. "They obey order. They obey me. No hunger, no war, no chaos. Only harmony." He lifted his chin. "Do you know what that makes me?"
"A lunatic," Madison spat.
But Riley's lips parted. She whispered: "A leader."
Margo turned on her so fast Riley flinched. "Don't you dare." Her voice was a blade. "Don't you dare put a crown on madness. You put a crown on this, you give them a throne, and then we all kneel."
Riley's eyes filled with tears. "If we burn them, what's left? Just us. Just silence. Is that better?"
"Yes," Margo said. No hesitation. "Silence is ours. This isn't."
Gavin grabbed a can, hefted it, sloshed it. "We don't have time for philosophy. They're climbing."
And they were. Hands scrabbled at the tower's legs, pale fingers curling into rust holes, pulling bodies upward. The choir wasn't just singing anymore—it was ascending.
Madison yanked the cap off a can with his teeth, spat metal, and poured gasoline through the gaps in the grating. The liquid rained down in shining threads. The choir lifted faces, mouths still chanting, eyes rolling white as the fuel pattered onto them. Some licked at the air as if mist were sacrament.
"Matches," Madison barked.
Riley shook her head violently. "No. Don't. Please."
Margo slapped the cleaver's flat side against Riley's arm. "Help us or get off the platform."
Riley froze, caught between horror and command.
Gavin found a box of matches in his pack—stolen from the farmhouse days ago. He struck one. The sulfur flared. Heat kissed his knuckles. Below, the shepherd's smile widened.
"Do it," Madison said.
"Don't," Riley whispered.
Margo locked eyes with Gavin. "Your call."
The match trembled in his fingers. For a second, the sound of the choir swallowed everything, even thought. And in that second, he saw himself years ago on a field—crowd roaring, team waiting, the ball in his hand. A choice. Always a choice.
He let the match fall.
Flame ran the gasoline veins like veins had been waiting for blood. It leapt downward, kissed fabric, hair, skin. The choir became a bonfire, their syllables twisting into shrieks that weren't practice anymore. Fire taught them a different hymn, one they didn't want to learn.
The shepherd screamed, not in pain, but in fury. "Blasphemy! They were perfect!" He lunged toward the tower, arms out, as if he could conduct the flames. His coat caught. He didn't flinch. He burned standing, mouth open, singing until smoke swallowed him.
The platform shuddered as heat rose. Bolts groaned. Smoke wrapped them in choking arms.
"Go!" Margo shouted.
They scrambled down the far ladder, boots slipping, hands blistering on hot rungs. They hit the ground running, coughing, eyes streaming. Behind them, the tower blazed like a funeral pyre, flames painting the sky.
The choir burned. Their song died. Silence took the clearing.
Riley stumbled to her knees, sobbing. "We killed them. We killed them all."
Margo pulled her up by the arm, hard, unforgiving. "No. We killed the song."
Gavin looked back once. The shepherd's silhouette writhed in the flames, arms still raised. Conducting. Always conducting. Then the tower collapsed inward with a roar, sparks raining down like false stars.
He turned away, gripping his cleaver tight. "North," he said. His voice was raw, stripped bare. "We keep north."
And they walked, leaving the fire behind, carrying silence like a burden they had chosen.