Chapter 28
MAUG
I’ve never come this close to the camp before.
Not since the first weeks. Not since the domes went up and the humans brought their blinking towers and silver crates and voices too loud for a planet that whispers. I kept my distance. Watched from the cliffs. Listened. Learned.
But now, I slip past the outer ridge, feet quiet, breath buried in my chest, and the ground damp beneath me from last night’s moisture. I stay low, cloaked in shadows and downwind. Even the drones, old and twitchy as they are, can still catch a scent if it rides the wrong gust.
And I can’t risk that. Not now. Not when she’s still in there.
The sensors blink in their steady, lazy rhythm—still powered, still scanning. I duck beneath the arc of one, time my steps between sweeps. I’ve studied the patterns. I know where they blind-spot.
What I didn’t plan for is the sound.
It’s louder now.
The song.
That awful keening hum that slides into the back of my skull and scrapes there like a dull knife. It doesn’t stop. Doesn’t change. It’s constant. Steady. Like breath—but not alive. Mechanical. Organic. Something in between.
It’s coming from the heart of the fungal bloom.
The dome closest to the main lab pulses with light—subtle, red-orange, like the glow of embers buried in ash. I see the edges of it bleeding through the cracks. And I see them.
The humans.
Standing.
Facing it.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
Just listening.
The fungus sings and they respond with silence.
Almost all of them.
But not her.
She stands to the side. Half a pace off. Arms folded, one foot turned slightly away. Her shoulders are tense. Jaw locked. I can’t see her eyes from here, but I know. I know that look. That set of her spine. That rhythm in her breathing.
She’s trying to blend.
But she’s not one of them.
She knows.
I crouch on the overlook just outside the west storage unit and study the pattern of her steps. She’s pretending to follow. Nodding when they nod. Drinking only when they watch. Her timing is perfect—almost.
But I know her tells.
She swallows hard when she lies. Her breath catches, just once, just enough. Her fingers twitch toward her waistband like she’s reaching for something that’s no longer there.
She’s scared.
But she’s acting.
Gods, she’s brilliant.
I don’t dare approach. Too many eyes. Too many risks. But I have to get a message to her. A warning.
A way out.
I slink back, deeper into the shadows behind the west dome, toward the cluster of wreckage where the humans store obsolete comms tech. Rusted parts. Dismantled gear. Things they don’t check often.
That’s where I find it.
A broken satellite dish, flipped on its side, half-covered in moss and rain debris. She passes this spot every time she makes her rounds to the filtration tanks.
Perfect.
I take out my blade.
Not the one I use for fighting—the one I use for carving. The one with the fine edge I’ve sharpened since I was old enough to hold metal.
I kneel beneath the dish and carve on its underside—slow, deep, angled so it won’t catch light.
GO TO THE CAVE
She’ll understand.
The cave isn’t just where we made love. It’s more than that. Years before she arrived, before any of this started, I reinforced that cave. Stocked it with supplies, reinforced the inner wall with metal mesh and native stone. A place I thought I might die in.
Now it might be the only place we survive.
When I’m done, I slide back into the hills, climb to my perch. And wait.
Night falls slow.
Jillian’s the last one to return to the sleeping quarters. She moves with purpose. Unhurried. Practiced. The game she’s playing—she’s winning it.
I watch as she checks over her shoulder once, then again. She’s counting steps. Calculating distance. Planning.
She walks toward the filtration units.
Stops.
Looks down.
Kneels.
She sees it.
She reads it.
And she doesn’t react.
Gods, she’s good.
She rises, glances once around, and continues on like nothing’s changed. Like her whole life didn’t just shift again.
Another hour passes.
Then she slips out.
Not a run.
A walk.
Steady.
Measured.
But she’s carrying a pack now. Her gait’s a little different—weighted. She’s playing it safe, acting the part until the edge of the shadows kisses her boots.
And then—
She bolts.
Fast. Clean. Silent.
I launch from my perch, circling wide, keeping her in my sights but never letting the wind shift toward her. She knows the path. Knows where the drones sweep. I taught her.
She’s almost out of range when I catch the scent.
Foul. Copper. Chemical.
Not her.
Ciampa.
He knows.
And he’s sent something after her.
I smell the oil first. Then the ozone. Then the sulfuric tang of synthesized tissue.
Not human.
Not fungal.
Something in-between.
A drone?
No.
Worse.
A hybrid.
The fungus has been building. And it’s reached something.
I pick up speed.
She can’t face this alone.
She’s smart. She’s fierce. But this?
This is war.
And I’m going to meet it head-on.