It was a nightmare.

From The Rooster came six of them, villagers just infected by the plague. They charged out into the evening streets and attacked everyone within reach. They did not discriminate. Male or female, old or young, none were safe from their insatiable hunger. For that was what they were after. Every person they attacked was torn apart, ingested in a feeding frenzy. And much to the terrified onlookers' surprise, the victims with relatively intact bodies got back up within minutes, covered in wounds that did not bleed. They joined their killers in the assault, screaming wildly for blood.

The guards were called. They responded quickly, attempting to subdue the attacking villagers. But they quickly realized their error. The town guard was only a militia, a ragtag group of volunteers mostly equipped with weapons that were old even during the Second War. Their armor was rusted chainmail supported by leather and cloth straps. The militia had no formal training, and was undisciplined. The most combat experience any of them had was chasing the occasional bear or cougar away from the village. They were unprepared for something of this magnitude. The situation quickly became a case of every man for himself. The slain guards quickly joined the ranks of their assailants, wielding their rusted weapons against their former comrades.

The attackers were everywhere. They chased the frightened villagers all around Hearthglen. Some just ran tirelessly until they caught up with their prey. Others took great bounding leaps, jumping onto low-story houses and tackling the villagers from above. They were rapidly changing. Their skin became grey and flaky, their teeth and nails grew longer and sharper. Their eyes receded back into their sockets and became balls of red or yellow flame. They spoke no coherent language, only feral snarls and moans. Their victims' cries for mercy went unheeded as the plagued villagers tore into their former friends and family. None were spared.

The terrified villagers ran. The overwhelmed guards soon joined them. They all ran to their homes, to their families, and boarded up their doors. The weeping children were silenced and watched over by their mothers, while the braver family members stood ready by their furniture barricades, armed with whatever makeshift weapons they could find. It was all they could do.

Bobby ran towards the screams, certain the Horde was attacking. He stopped momentarily to load his rifle and continued on. Villagers ran past him, creating somewhat of an obstacle for him. The villagers swarmed around him, fleeing from the danger. To Bobby's surprise, he could see members of the town militia with them. He scowled. The militia swears to protect the town, yet at the first sign of real danger they turn tail and flee. Bobby made a note to talk to the governor about that.

And just like that, the crowd was gone. He had made it through. The streets were almost deserted. But Bobby could see bodies, all torn apart. Damn, they breached the wall!

He brought his hunting rifle into a ready position and crept along the quiet road, hugging the house walls. He could hear movement inside the houses, which brought him some relief. The townspeople weren't all dead then, just hiding. Quietly he ran, peeking around every corner and down every alley. But he could not find any enemies.

He hoped Malles had listened to him and gone straight home. The boy was not ready for the rigors of a life-or-death battle. Bobby doubted Malles would be able to cope. He would need to go through formal military training before he was ready to be a soldier. Right now the best place for Malles was safe at home, watching over his mother and sister.

A sound made him stop. It was a soft scuffle, coming from just around the corner. The road intersected with another a couple yards ahead of him. Bobby slid up next to the nearest building, pressing his back to it. Old combat instincts begin to kick in as he crept along the wall. He waited for a moment, listening, before moving around it, weapon up and at the ready.

It was a woman, drenched in blood. She was kneeling and staring down at the ground, moaning quietly. Her clothes were hanging in tatters around her. She was holding her left arm to her side, trying to stop the blood that ran from it onto the stone pavement. Bobby shouldered his weapon and ran to her.

"What happened?" he asked her.

"Crazies," she muttered. Bobby wasn't sure if she knew he was there. "Drunks. Bit me."

"Crazies?" Bobby reached for her injured arm. Again, she did not acknowledge his presence. "Someone bit you? Where's the Horde?"

"Horde?" The woman finally looked at him. Her eyes were a sick shade of yellow. "Horde?"

Bobby stepped back. "Yes, the Horde! Orcs! Where did they go?"

She cackled. It was an insane and maniacal cackle. The hairs on the back of Bobby's neck stood up. "This was no horde! This was a scourge! The Master calls to me, he whispers to me, he whispers of things that have happened and things still to come. This is a scourge upon humanity, upon the humans who destroyed him years ago. Flee, mortal, flee with your family and survive as long as you can!"

Yep, Horde. Her injuries were obviously too much for her to handle. Bobby went back to her side and tried to lay her down. "Ma'am, you are hurt. Let me help you, I am an experienced medic –"

Her eyes bore into his, stunning him into silence. Bobby could not pull himself away from them. In her eyes, he could see no signs of humanity. No fear, no sadness, no pain, none of the emotions she should have been feeling. Her eyes were that of a wild beast. There was a dark look to them, a look full of rage and madness. And hunger.

Bobby saw evil things those eyes. He felt like he was watching this woman lose her very soul.

"This kingdom will fall. And every one of us will die with it."

And with that, she shuddered and lay still.

Bobby stared at her for a moment as she went limp in his arms. The he gently laid her against a nearby wall and moved on.

Malles checked the windows and door. All were securely latched and locked. There were no signs of danger out on the street or in the yard. Pleased with himself, he propped Bobby's hatchet next to the door and went to check on Marley and Jensine. They were sitting on Bobby and Marley's bed, with Jensine's head resting in Marley's lap. She wasn't sleeping, though, just staring up at the ceiling.

"When's Papa coming back?" she asked Marley.

Marley looked at Malles. "Soon," Malles told Jensine. "Just be patient."

"He needs to hurry," Jen said. "Our supper's getting cold."

Upon getting home Malles pulled Marley aside and told her the Horde was coming. Marley grabbed Jensine and took her into the master bedroom while Malles went around securing the house. He thought about barricading the door, but that would trap his father outside, something Malles was sure wasn't a good idea. He had no idea where his father was, or what was going on. Jensine didn't know either, for neither Marley nor Malles told her the town was under siege. Jensine was the kind of girl who would burst into tears over a bad hair day. Both Marley and Malles felt the news of an attacking army would terrify her.

Jensine knew something was happening, but wasn't sure what. She did know, however, that she didn't like being left in the dark. So she was very grumpy.

"I'm hungry."

"Hush, Jen." Marley looked at Malles. "Did you see anything coming back here?"

Malles shook his head. He did hear screams, though. "No."

Jensine sat up. "See what, Mama?"

"Hush, Jen." Marley stood up. "I'm going to get the food. We'll just eat in here tonight."

Jensine seemed excited about that. "You mean like a picnic?"

"Yes, a picnic." Marley turned away from them, but Malles could tell she was worried. "Malles, where's the axe?"

"By the door."

"Keep it with you at all times." Marley left to retrieve their dinner. "Oh, I wish your father would hurry up…"

Bobby was confused as all hell. Apart from the dead woman, he had not seen a single living thing in the streets. And there was still no sign of the orcs.

He was done with sneaking around. Bobby was walking out in the open. Night had already fallen, and the skies were clear. The streets were bathed in white moonlight. It would have been a beautiful night, if not for the dire situation.

"To arms! To arms!"

Bobby immediately broke into a sprint, following the call for battle. He rounded the corner and saw a group of militia charged straight into a crowd of…people?

Indeed, the militia men were hacking apart a crowd of other humans. Bobby could even recognize some of them. They were his loyal customers. Only they didn't quite look themselves. Their skin had gone gray and pale, and their nails were long and jagged. As Bobby watched, one of the gray people climbed over the top of one of his comrades and slashed a militiaman. The man dropped his sword and clenched his hands over his face as he screamed. A fireball soared past the man and hit his attacker square in the face, vaporizing him and burning another one of his friends. Bobby looked around and saw a robed man shouting out orders to the militia.

"Form up!"

The militia immediately backed away. Before their attackers could react the robed man launched another fireball into their midst. Flames engulfed them all. When the fires cleared, all that was left of them were blackened husks.

Bobby went to the robed man, who was obviously a mage. If the fire balls didn't give it away, the purple runes on his dark robe did. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Another volunteer. Good." The mage nodded at him. "Fall in with the rest, there's more undead out there."

Bobby's jaw dropped. "Undead?" The Horde had used undead against the Alliance in the Second War. Orcish death knights would go out after a victorious battle and raise the slain soldiers into undead monsters, who existed only to serve them. The death knights were the Horde's answer to the Alliance paladins, and they served their purpose all too well. Once Bobby had found himself alone on the battlefield fighting one. It had not been a pleasant experience.

"So the Horde is attacking, then?"

"Horde?" The mage looked at him. "You think the Horde is doing this?"

"They just appeared," a militiaman told Bobby. "They just appeared and started killing the townspeople."

"You fool!" Bobby motioned towards the husks. "Those were townspeople!"

"No, citizen," the mage said. "They are victims of the recent plague that has been running rampant through the northlands."

"Plague?" Bobby stared at him in shock. "There actually is a plague? I thought that was just a rumor."

"It's not." The mage looked around. "I was sent by the Kirin Tor from Dalaran to investigate this plague. The archmages believe the plague is magical in nature." The mage sighed. "Unfortunately, they were right."

Bobby was finding this all difficult to accept. A plague that killed people by turning them into undead? Impossible. Undead were created by death knights and necromancers, not by disease. "I don't believe this."

"Believe what you wish," the mage said. "But the fact remains, the town is in danger. And we need all the help we can get. For whenever one of our men falls, the undead gain a new soldier."

Bobby couldn't deny the mages logic. He respectfully saluted. "So you are leading the resistance, then?"

"I noticed that the militia seemed a little unorganized. Someone had to take charge." The mage motioned down the street. "Quickly, men! We must drive them out of Hearthglen! Move out!"

The small group of fighters ran down the street. The undead were just milling around aimlessly. But when they spotted the militia they let out loud moans and bound towards them. Bobby's only weapon was his rifle, so he stayed back with the mage. He aimed and fired at one undead, and watched as the bullet ripped through its chest. But the undead didn't fall over, or even falter. It continued its rapid run towards him. But before it got to him it was hit by a small fireball, which ignited its dead skin and brought it down.

"You must aim for their heads if you wish to shoot them!" The mage yelled. "Otherwise the shot won't have any effect!"

Bobby saw one of the militiamen fall, an undead ripping out his throat. He ran up to the undead and beat it back with the butt of his rifle. A quick jab caved in its rotting face, killing it. Bobby shouldered his rifle and picked up the dead soldier's sword. He leapt into the fray, slicing at any undead within reach. A couple minutes later, the undead were actually dead.

They had lost some men, though. Bobby could see their fallen bodies among the undead. Theirs were the only ones that bled. The mage ignited the bodies with his magic, burning them away. "We must press on!" he yelled out. Undead moans echoed around them.

They just kept coming. Everywhere the militia went they found more. Undead were in every alley, behind every house, around every corner. They were even on the roof tops, as one unlucky soldier found out. Three undead dropped down on him from a nearby building. His comrades were not quick enough to save him. After that, Bobby brought back out his rifle and began watching the roofs. His shots did not do much damage to the undead, but the impact did knock them from their posts, putting them within reach of the militia.

But they were losing. More and more times the party found themselves surrounded, only to be saved by the mage's magic. Often Bobby would just barely avoid an outreached hand or a snapping jaw. It came as no surprise to him when they came to the city square and found a solid wall of undead blocking their path.

"This is impossible!" A man yelled.

"Hold your ground!" the mage called out. "They are all that stand between us and victory! Attack!"

The militia charged. A little under twenty men versus dozens of undead. The mage's fireballs killed three or four at a time, but the undead pressed them. Bobby himself saw man after man after man dragged to the ground and slaughtered. Soon the undead had circled around them, just six soldiers, Bobby, and the Kirin Tor mage.

Bobby refused to die. If he went down, then there would be no one to protect his family. He gripped his sword and hacked away, cutting down any undead in front of him. But his arms were getting tired. No amount of spirit could fight fatigue and muscle failure. All it would take was one slip, one opening, and the undead would be upon him.

Suddenly, they were gone. One minute Bobby was preparing to remove a reaching arm, the next minute all the undead were running hell bent for the town gates. Bobby wearily watched as the undead moved down the road and disappeared into the woods, more confused than relieved.

"That's it, men!" the mage cried. "We've driven them off!"

Bobby wasn't so sure. He was certain he had seen the "dead" woman from before among their ranks. But he had no better explanation for it, so he just sat on the ground. The mage went around and burned all the bodies, filling the air with the stink of burning flesh.

Bobby looked at him. He was fairly certain that the mage had just saved the entire town. "What do you call yourself, mage?"

The mage didn't look up. "My name is Rak," he said, "and you're welcome."