Arc Summary: Kyle Crane returns to Harran after his disappearance—a ruined city he once swore to save completely changed for the worse. Now the so-called Hero of Harran has become a mutated monster, tormented by the ghosts of his past and the fear of what may have happened to those he left behind.
He's not the only one feeling that way. Jack, too, has people she's searching for, family and friends. And every step into Harran brings her closer to confronting the past she had buried before 'The Wild Dog'.
Together, they must navigate a fractured Harran with every moment threatening to expose their secrets to each other. Crane will meet old allies and new lurking dangers. But he doesn't know that Jack is searching for the man with all the answers she needs. And unbeknownst to Jack, that man has always been with her all along; Kyle Crane.
ARC THREE: BACK TO HARRAN
Chapter Summary
- FULL CIRCLE
Four months... That's how long I've been gone. Feels like a lifetime ago, but..I'm back. I'm finally back... The Border looks just as bad as the Slums were. And there's still a long way to reach the Tower. But even if I meet someone I know...can I really face them looking like..this? - Kyle
TWENTY-FIVE: A HERO'S RETURN
The ride was quiet—tranquil, even—but uncanny.
Crane stood at the bow, watching the scenery drift by. After everything he'd seen—the horrors and deaths—the peace almost startled him. How long had it been since he heard birds chirping and insects humming?
Far too long.
Caroline's boat slipped from the channel into a riverbed untouched by the undead. Against his hardened skin beat the morning sun above and the cool breeze from the water below.
But Crane knew better than to let his guard down. The peace wouldn't last. Above them, the Strait's highway stretched over with its looming shadow. Somewhere up there, he spotted movement—slow, staggering shapes—and faint, incomprehensible groans carried on the wind.
Stragglers huddled in the shade, and deeper within nearby tunnels, the Volatiles waited for night.
"Here we are," Jack's voice broke the silence, and Crane followed her gaze. "Harran."
The edge of Harran, though.
Further down the canal, low-rise buildings crept over the tree line. The urban architecture looked no different from Scanderoon: pillars of smoke rising into the golden horizon, the dreary atmosphere, and the haunting wails in the distance.
It hit Crane like a slap to the face, returning to where it all began. Not in the same light as coming back 'home' but heading to Harran's Borderway from a very long road trip.
And his fears about the state of Harran were neither unfounded nor proven. He wasn't close to the Tower, the Slums, or Old Town—miles away from anyone familiar. The only relief was that, somehow, the city hadn't been nuked off the map.
Now he stood at the threshold. The truth was waiting ahead. The same, suffocating questions buzzed loudly inside his skull.
"The Outskirts aren't too far from here either," Jack pointed from the helm, shining her warm grin. "...We could take a detour."
Did he show his anxiety again without realizing it? Once more, she offered baffling options to him when Jack made it her goal to go to Harran.
"Your call, mate."
Crane hesitated, only realizing himself. Nearly standing from his seat, his neck stretched out like a bird's as he stared at the approaching skyline. He exhaled and propped himself down.
"...Stay the course."
Again, Crane was grounded. Again, Jack didn't pry on his anxiety and relief. And again, he did not attempt to deflect his behavior. She gave him space and waited—as she said, she had all the time in the world.
At his own pace. Yeah, right. He could barely organize his thoughts when it came to Harran.
The joking offer, however… helped lighten the weight on his chest. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea, either…
But Kyle Crane couldn't keep running forever.
The boat trip had stretched for hours, winding through channels, with the Strait guiding them. The advantage of having a boat was blissful: no trudging through roads or tunnels filled with nests.
If only he had managed to get his hands on one in the past. Of course, Harran's infrastructure had never allowed for such vehicles.
When they would reach land, the Border would be an entirely new territory for Crane.
"Bzzt-zt! You reached Harran yet, Jack?"
Miles from Scanderoon, the comms crackled with a voice they wouldn't hear again for a while. They'd already said their goodbyes before leaving the Junction, but the young runner's presence felt like a breath of fresh air in the heavy atmosphere.
"Just made it to the Border," Jack replied.
"Is it as bad as Scanderoon?" Siv asked.
"Can't say for certain until we dock."
One deep sigh escaped the comms. Dodging the question wasn't what Siv wanted to hear, but she'd been down that road before. So Siv never pushed further, for the best.
She likely shared the same kind of worries as Crane did. A local from Harran, worried about her mother, friends, and family.
How small his world had become since awakening as a sentient zombie. Then it stretched further, bit by bit. First from meeting Jack. Then from a kid named Siv.
"If you've got something on your mind, now's the time to spill it," Jack urged, pulling back on the throttle and slowing the boat to a crawl. "Reception's horrible out here."
"Geez. Thanks for putting my mind at ease."
"I don't sugarcoat things, Princess. This might be the last time you hear from us."
"Yeah… You found Peri. Do…do you think you can find my mom?"
Omph, what a way to put the Retrieval specialist on the spot—Crane could see it in her body language, despite Jack's attempt to hide it.
It was a tall order; after four months, was it even possible to find anyone still alive?
But Jack didn't know quits
"I can try."
"...'But it might not be what I want'."
Siv was smart; keeping her hopes low had become the norm.
"Give me the details," Jack pressed. "If she's out there, I'll find her for you."
A deep sigh came from the other end. "She's a nurse. Eva. Worked at Harran City Hospital."
"Got it."
"And Jack? Freakazoid?"
Crane recoiled in surprise. He never thought the young Runner would call him—yes, with that nickname but he wouldn't hold that on her. Regardless, it was a sign that she was warming to him, despite their past hiccups.
"Good luc-zzzt!"
And that was it—the last call with civilization. A final wish of good luck they'd hear.
It was nothing new to Jack—dropped signals had become routine since leaving the Outskirts. Holding a conversation for more than five minutes felt like a rare miracle these days.
And just like that, silence crept back as she steered the boat down the narrow concrete river.
"So," Freakazoid broke the quiet and counted each name with his talons. "We got Umit, that girl's mother, and your cousin."
Then gave a narrowed stare at Jack.
"You don't find this overkill?"
"I thought you liked playing the hero." A low blow. She heard his muffled grumble beneath the scarf. "I'm still on the clock, mate. Bad for business if a Retrieval Specialist doesn't do their job."
"Yeah," Freakazoid didn't buy anything she said one bit. "Mind explaining to me more about your job?"
"What's there to explain? Find the mark and bring it back to the client," Jack dodged the question.
"That's oversimplifying it and you know it."
She shrugged. "Yes, well, professionalism's overrated. There's been times I've gone off the books before. I even have my eye on one particular mark."
She pulled a crumpled photo out of her sling bag she'd lifted during a forced interrogation with the GRE's boss. It was a priceless little gift: the face of Kyle Crane.
Freakazoid raised a hairless eyebrow—a fourth, really? "Someone I need to know?"
"Personal." Instead of showing him, Jack slid the photo back into her bag. "Nothing I can't handle."
"Huh. Must've gotten under your skin."
"You could say that." Her smile softened for a moment, then vanished as she spotted something in the distance.
"What?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she twirled the boat sharply, letting it drift until it lined up with a checkpoint at the end of the canal.
"I was afraid of this."
Crane followed her gaze to the culprit: a large metal gate stood their way. The standard to control water flow, but most importantly, to prevent a virus from spreading through the waterways.
There was no easy way past for a boat. Everywhere he looked, as far as the eye could see, were high concrete banks.
The only option would be to abandon the boat and climb out of the canal. And Crane had absolute confidence the brunette wouldn't be too keen to leave Caroline a second time. And then there were the quarantine walls.
"Is there another way in?" he asked.
Jack shook her head. "It's either through there or we cut through the Countryside."
Crane stiffened. His head whipped toward her, wide-eyed, horror written across his face.
"That'll take a day or two. No telling how safe that route is…" Jack explained, unaware of his sudden demeanor.
The Countryside.
The place where everything had begun for Kyle Crane.
"What's the call, Freakazoid?" Jack rested her arms on the wheel, waiting.
"Not a chance in hell !"
All of a sudden, Freakazoid climbed up from his seat. Determined. As if some demon had taken over him.
"Freakazoid…? Hey," Jack's cry was in vain. The Day Hunter had already grabbed the gate's lock with his claws. "Hey-hey-HEY!"
CLANK!
The sharp metallic crack echoed down the canal as his talons sank deep into the gate and pulled. Imposing as ever to watch a sentient infected rip a lock open—the boat rocked violently beneath them, and Jack gripped the wheel tightly to stay upright.
With the lock destroyed, Crane began prying the heavy metal gate open. It ground slowly against rusted hinges, but it was nothing for someone with his strength—much easier than it would've been when he was human.
Whatever consequences came from opening a quarantine gate no longer mattered. The city beyond was already crawling with infected.
With the way open, he then sat back down on the boat.
"You really don't want to go to the Countryside."
What gave that away? But Crane pouted in his seat, resisting the urge to make a snarky comment.
Jack, however, didn't complain or probe. was behind them, and she focused on steering the boat further through the gate and down the canal. It didn't take long for the scenery to change from the claustrophobic walls to rural sights.
"Ten o'clock," Freakazoid warned. "Four incoming."
Jack searched beyond the banks but saw nothing, meaning Freakazoid's eyes had picked them up from so far away. She figured someone would notice them eventually; a boat on open water was hard to miss, especially with a few stragglers already lumbering toward the sound of the engine.
"Armed?"
"Yup. Police rifle, by the looks of it."
"That's bold of them. Is it possible to say we talk it over?"
"You can try," Crane welcomed.
"Decorum's dead these days, isn't it?" Jack groaned.
"Hey!"
The bark came from over the banks, where a man leveled a police rifle square at Jack. Today's enemies were rather new to her: not the usual shambling crowd or the escaped convicts in orange jumpsuits.
The yellow and black trademark stood out starkly against the dull landscape, along with their tactical rigs—they meant business. As angry as hornets, showing off their weapons in hand.
And Crane knew these hornets all too well.
"C'mon," the biggest, most brutish man twirled a machete lazily. "Bring the boat over, and maybe we'll let you walk away."
Down his right cheek were three jagged scars—a past disagreement gone violent or a badge of honor, earned under the ruthless regime of a certain bastard from the past. Regardless, he was just another one of Rais' vermin still crawling through the cracks of Harran, feeding off the weak, even after their boss's death.
Crane caught Jack's quick glance at him: they both had the same thought.
Follow through until they had an opening.
Jack did as she was told, watching one thug dash down the concrete slope and latch onto the port side. Giddy with excitement.
"I told you I wasn't imagining things!" he crowed.
The rest of the thugs closed in, tense and ready at the slightest provocation.
"Drop your weapons," the gunman demanded, hands twitchy. "And any firearms."
"I don't do guns," Jack tested the waters, watching the scarred leader smirk with sickening satisfaction.
"Ha…!" The thug clinging to the boat let out a triumphant laugh. "We can get out of this shithole, Grim!"
"Navy's not gonna let you leave."
Panic did root into two of the four, immediately searching Freakazoid's face for any sign of a lie.
"Shut your mouth, dipshit," the scarred thug threatened, acting all tough to someone who hadn't bothered to stand. "Government's already given up on this place."
"And where will you go?" Jack joined in the tag team of psyching their guests, bit by bit. "Scanderoon's already hit with the virus."
That hit a nerve on one bandit. "Wait—what did she say?"
"Stop listening to them!" the scarred leader snapped, his patience running thin. He turned to Jack, sneering. "I'd cut that tongue off if you weren't half-decent looking."
A threat, an insult, and a compliment all rolled up into one! The smiling ex-kickboxer didn't flinch.
"Both of you, get up and hand over the keys."
Although the tension was high, the advantage was in the bandits—or so they believed. The two Runners took their sweet time. Eventually, Jack pulled the keys from the ignition but made no move to toss them.
The scarred leader grew more impatient.
"Hey! He said move it!" The rifleman shuffled closer to Freakazoid as his eyes darted up and down, watching his footing on the uneven bank.
Freakazoid refused, even when the gun's muzzle pressed against his back.
"I'll shoot her!"
An expected move: use the woman as leverage. Not like Jack could see these meatheads be original in their tactics.
"Do that, and you'll bring the Virals," her passenger rebuked, calm as ever.
"You think I won't shoot?!"
"Shut up and move them!" Now the leader's patience was gone as he marched closer to Jack.
All he had to do was grab her by the hair, drag her out, and be done with it. They'd survived everything the city and their boss threw at them, and two nobodies weren't going to stop them from leaving the city.
But as he stepped into her space, he noticed something off—something not right with the way she stared at him.
What could she do? She was but a helpless woman.
"Turn around!" the gunman demanded the hooded man once again. Louder.
And Crane spun.
In a flash, he seized the man's hand on the trigger and pulled him forward. The thug's eyes widened—too late.
The bone blade plunged into his gut.
Tak-tak-tak! The rifle stuttered wildly as Crane hurled the dead man like a sandbag into the scarred leader, sending them both crashing to the ground.
First attack, now it was fair game to the thugs! One brute decided to grab the woman; as long as she was their hostage, the hooded man couldn't fight back-
Big mistake.
He found the very slender hand he reached to turn the tables around. A quick knee up his stomach and suddenly, she was on him with fierce right hooks.
The fourth then came at Crane, who sidestepped nimbly, dodging the wild slashes. A few struck the boat's port side with dull thuds, splintering wood.
"Don't scratch the paint!" Jack barked mid-fight. "Don't scratch the paint!"
Lenny would murder her if that were the case.
Tight quarters on the boat made every step a gamble for both sides, but the bandits quickly realized they'd picked the wrong pair to mess with.
A piercing scream cut through the skirmish. A Viral.
"Shit! Fall back! NOW!" the scarred leader yelled. They were bruised, beaten, and one man down. No point in staying.
Better to let the infected finish the job.
The Viral hurried towards the boat, snarling at Crane—the outcast—and hungered after Jack—the prey.
Crane met it head-on, slamming its skull into the concrete with one brutal motion. A few more did join their fallen brethren but they were taken care of without an issue.
Then came silence—a deceitful, fleeting moment of peace.
Crane scanned the surroundings, half-expecting more Virals. Was it because they wanted to avoid him like in Scanderoon? Or did the frantic goons make a better choice for the infected?
"Piss."
Crane glanced over his shoulder, seeing the brunette examine the engine with disappointment—smoke streaming from a bullet hole.
"Guess we're walking," he said.
Jack shot him a scowl. "Till we find a fixer. I'm not going back to HQ without Caroline."
"So what you're saying is you took that boat without asking," Crane folded his arms.
Jack's smirk returned, sly and unapologetic, hands raised. "I borrowed her. There's a difference."
"They're over here!"
Both of them turned toward the voice. As Crane suspected, their visit to Harran was going to be chaotic one way or another.
"Looks like they brought more friends," Jack said.
That wasn't right to Crane—the orange outlines were heading in their direction from two o'clock, opposite of Rais' men.
"Hey! Are you alright, lady-"
A young man sprinted toward them, eager to play the hero, but skidded to a stop at the sight of the carnage, Viral, and human corpses. His wide gaze darted to the two strangers, both calm and collected. Like dealing with crooks and infected was a daily chore to them.
"Right as rain," Jack sang, her smile appreciative at his attempt.
The young man caught his breath, lowering his weapon.
"Ivan, you idiot! I'm not saving your ass again if a Viral jumps on us."
A stocky man, irritation clear in his tone. "We saw your boat and heard the shots."
Crane's eyes narrowed, the more he looked at him. Then he flinched.
Buckshot?
He looked harder. That was Buckshot—one of the Tower's residents.
Four months had passed since Crane last saw anyone from the Tower. Four months. Buckshot's clean beard had grown thicker, his eyes heavier with exhaustion and his once laid-back attire was now replaced with armor cobbled together from scavenged gear.
The bells in Crane's head shrieked at him to run. Get away before anyone who would learn of his secret. But he stayed firm on the spot with all his might.
Nobody noticed him turn away, tugging his hood lower as two new faces came into the picture.
"We thought Rais' leftover boys got you," Ivan exclaimed. "But… Looks like your friend got that covered."
"And who's Rais?"
The three survivors gawked, dumbstruck by Jack's question.
"Have you been under a rock, lady?" Buckshot uttered. "Rais was a piece of shit that terrorized Harran for months."
"Oooh," Jack said, with a dramatic snap of her fingers but disingenuous to the name. "That Rais… If I recall, he's been dead for months now."
"Except his goons are still around," Ivan added. "Nothing but roaches."
"They've been eating each other up to take over what's left from Rais... And dragging the rest of us down with them" Buckshot rubbed his temple.
Crane clenched his jaw at the news. Even in death, Rais's influence festered. And now, the same filth was stirring up trouble again—as they did in the Countryside…after the same lead Crane was looking into.
Guess in the last four months, someone else decided to be leader. Again.
"Well," Jack started with her saleswoman-pitch-voice. "My services are on the table if they're causing problems for you."
Buckshot's brow shot up. "Ma'am. These aren't normal people. They are…were Rais' men."
"And I'm Mad Jack. I'm immortal."
"Mad Jack?" Ivan uttered, having to take a hard look at her. It finally clicked on the three men as he shouted, "You mean Scorpion's biggest rival?"
"Guilty as charged." She bowed down, enjoying the attention. "In the meantime, know anyone who can repair an engine?"
Jack then pointed to the boat with an exaggerated flourish.
"As you can see, we're kind of stranded here."
"Sure. We know-"
All of a sudden, the stocky man yanked Ivan back before he could finish that sentence. All three men huddled just out of earshot and into a private discussion.
Not that they were as discreet as they thought.
"We're already scraping by as it is," Buckshot reminded Ivan. "You can't go around helping every stranger you met."
"I know. But you can't be that heartless turning down a lady in need."
"You're really gonna pull that shit on me?"
"Look, I'm with Buckshot here," their third companion, Saud, chimed in. "Even if she's a washed-up boxer, we don't even know anything about them."
Buckshot always had a system—kept people in line.
Rookies were always the hardest to discipline on the first week, though. Seeing Ivan clench his jaw told him he was holding back to correct the other guy. That it wasn't 'boxer', it was 'kickboxer. But Saud was also right. At least about Jack's company.
The hooded man had been quiet the entire conversation without any eye contact.
He actually looked foreboding. Buckshot wondered if he was her hired muscle in case the rough and tumble was too much for the retired fighter…
"They handled those bandits like they were nothing," Ivan then argued, undeterred. "And she's offering help. What more can we ask for?"
Both men grumbled at his optimism.
"Look, we help them fix their engine, they go on their way. That's it," Ivan insisted. "We're all in this hellhole together."
Buckshot mulled it over, glancing toward the broken engine. It was a simple favor. They could do it and never see these two again. No strings, no attachments. Back to their 'normal'.
"Spike's gonna wanna know about them regardless," Saud said, directed at Buckshot.
The name hit Crane like a second lightning bolt.
Spike... He was alive.
But he should have known. If he saw Buckshot, then surely, Crane would see everyone else.
"...Fine," Buckshot huffed, irritated but resigned. "But I'm not helping if he changes his mind."
Ivan said nothing, acknowledging quietly. With the decision made, the group returned to the riverbank. Jack's grin widened to show she hadn't heard anything while waiting.
Sure, she hasn't ignored or forgotten that 'washed-up' comment. But semantics.
"We can take you to our base," Buckshot offered. "Someone there should know a thing or two about engines."
"Perfect," Jack replied, satisfied with their cooperation.
"Hey, is your friend alright?"
Crane unintentionally wheeled to Ivan and realized that all the attention went right on him. Did he stand out again like a sore thumb?
"You don't look so good."
Seeing the three men, most importantly, Buckshot, their lingering stares made Crane's stomach tighten. If he didn't respond fast enough, if he hesitated for even a second longer, the questions would pile up.
People would know his secret.
"...Long trip," he forced the words out—keeping his voice as low and changed as possible. He was treading a fine line between the Crane he used to be and the monster he'd become.
"No worries. You can relax once we're back at Spike's Refuge."
"After talking to Spike," Buckshot cut in sharply, shooting Ivan a look that shut down any premature friendliness. "Standard stuff."
"Yeah... Sure," was all Crane could muster.
That seemed to be enough, at face value. Everyone simply resumed moving forward rather than probing when they were out in the open.
Except Jack.
She was quiet again, throwing a furrowed glance at him.
Once more, Freakazoid did something against 'his norm', and her observant hazel eyes picked on it, faint or visible. Like spotting a slight crack in glass.
Still, she said nothing. As always, Jack gave him space, whether it was to respect his privacy or just to wait out for another slip-up.
"Lead the way." Jack climbed up the concrete riverbank, letting Buckshot take the lead back to their Safe Zone.
Crane had dodged a bullet, letting out the breath he held in for far too long. Relief washed over him, but it soured just as quickly. How much longer could he keep this up…?
"You can just leave," taunted the other side.
The voice—it had haunted him since Scanderoon, the day he'd regained his mind. Every time it hollered at him to run, he did it out of impulse. Out of fear. Taking over his body for a short burst at the given chance.
From thunder to seeing a ghost of his past, he bolted. As he stood there and then, his whole body wanted to go before anyone would see his horrid, mutated face.
And that cowardice…sickened him inside.
"Shut up." His talons dug into his palms as he clenched his claws, sharp enough to draw blood. No infected human, neither Jack, to hear his angry thought-speech.
He wouldn't let that monster win again.
Crane took a deep breath, forcing himself to move his feet—one foot, then the other—following after Jack and the others. He had to move forward and face whatever would be thrown at him, as he had done as Kyle Crane the GRE mercenary…
Not the greatest comparison because neither was great.
Whoever he would meet, old and new faces? With or without Jack as his front? He would face them, even if it meant lying through his teeth again and again. One stride at a time
Steeling himself, Crane quickened his pace, ready—or at least pretending to be—for whatever awaited him at this Refuge.
No more running, Kyle. No more running…
Harran Docks.
Like everywhere else in Harran—Slums, Old Town—they were overrun and desolate. Cargo containers stretched along the waterfront, surrounded by silent gantry cranes. The last day of work, frozen in time and marking the city's collapse.
Now a maze of twisted metal, abandoned vehicles, and scattered shipping crates told the four-month-old story of panic and desperation. Everyone had tried to escape—by boat, car, anything they could find. But no one could leave. Not when the city was under quarantine.
The place belonged to the seagulls circling above the ruins.
"This Spike person must've earned quite the reputation to have a Safe Zone named after him."
Crane hadn't fully been following the conversation Jack had started minutes ago. Until now anyway.
"He's done more than most," Buckshot explained, his voice full of respect. "If not for him, half of us wouldn't be here."
"He's even helped anyone in the Border," Ivan added, sidling a little too close to Jack in Crane's opinion.
Either she didn't care or was too focused on their surroundings to react.
"I held off a horde for nights before they found me," Ivan bragged.
"Kid, it wasn't just you. All the tenants in your apartment did the heavy lifting," Buckshot retorted, his tone dry but cutting.
"Y-Yeah, well…" he doubled down. "I did a pretty good job with the defenses, though. Nothing beats a good nail gun."
Crane soon saw the end of the Docks.
From the looks of it, it was a ferry terminal; one large ferry and a handful of smaller boats bobbed at the water's edge. That said, the terminal had been fortified, and transformed into a sanctuary.
A refuge for those in need.
"There's the place." Ivan spread his arms wide, almost proudly. "It's not much, but we've got running water and electricity."
"Just moved in?" Jack asked, gathering intel as always.
"More or less," Buckshot added. "We've been crawling through the Slum's sewers to get here for a whole month."
Which fit the timeline, Crane thought to himself.
It had been right after Rais' death—when everything spiraled into a madhouse.
Every small shelter would get raided by his men. Every survivor they came across would be tortured and left for dead to the infected. Enough was enough; Spike reached out to Crane.
He had a plan to get people out—but needed all the hands he could get.
Volunteers came—those strong and brave enough to fight back, doing whatever they could to help Crane during a time when Virals were at their worst.
Within a week, Spike got those people out of the Slums. The Tower kept in touch until the distance was too far for radio contact. Regardless, everyone had their own mission: Spike looked out for them, Camden worked on the cure, and Brecken guarded the Tower.
And Crane…?
He had gone after a lead in the Countryside.
The last thing Spike had said to him? Hope to see you on the other side…
That was never going to happen.
"One more hurdle and we're finally out of this hellhole," Ivan uttered.
"The quarantine walls?" Jack asked.
"No. GRE."
They walked on board the bow of a dismantled ship—part of their route to Spike's Refuge—where Crane halted at the mention of the organization. Buckshot moved closer to the edge, thumbing toward something in the distance.
Far beyond what the naked eye could see, but Jack pulled out her binoculars. At Harran's Checkpoint, she spied a mass of movement in familiar uniforms.
"They've been acting up these few weeks," Buckshot openly expressed his distraught for the organization. "But we keep our distance."
No brainer that 'acting up' meant suspicious activity, as GRE did in Scanderoon. Maybe Umit was being held down there or somewhere else. Perhaps because they had other things on their mind. Crane's glance at Jack confirmed she was thinking the same thing as he did.
"We already have enough scoundrels to deal with."
Buckshot walked onwards, Ivan and Saud following next. Jack caught up, putting her binoculars away.
Crane lingered. He couldn't tear his eyes off the Checkpoint...
Before he hurried after the group.
The Harran Bay Terminal was well-fortified, thanks to Spike. He always had a knack for turning everyday structures into safe havens. Going as as far to be creative and setting up effective traps for the infected.
Spike certainly modeled the place after the Ferry Harbor in the Slums, but the work here was more extensive—barriers stretched farther, and watchtowers stood at strategic points. Even the old ticket booths had become a third line of defense.
Anyone foolish enough to approach would end up dead. Including the zombies.
For one hooded mutant, he walked past those defenses, as safely as the four human survivors in front of him.
There were the UV lights, stacked right before the ticket booths.
Down his head, and tucked his arms close, bracing himself as they approached. He could feel the light burning his skin beneath his clothes. Like bracing against a UV storm. But the sensation went away almost immediately, too fast for anyone to notice the faint flakes disintegrating under the ultraviolet glow.
And just like that, as terrifying as the idea of an infected inside a Safe Zone was, he was inside.
One obstacle over. On to the next.
"Anyone know where Spike is?" Buckshot asked a passerby but only got a shake of the head. Saud then volunteered to find him.
There was a lot to do for the refuge, so one man couldn't always make time for anyone: stranger or old friend. Basics—electricity, supplies, water—were covered but they were far from getting settled. The growing influx of Border settlers strained their makeshift quarters to the limit.
The saltwater breeze offered little relief, barely masking the stench of decay. Somewhere in the distance, over the sound of waves, came the occasional faint scream.
"Cozy place," Jack sang lightly.
"You've got low standards, lady," Buckshot remarked dryly.
"Can't complain much with everything happening around us," she said her truth.
"Well, you're with the right company now," Ivan chimed in, stepping an inch closer to the brunette. "If you need a space to crash, I know someone who has a great view of the sea."
Jack paid no mind to Ivan's optimism and closeness towards her. Her focus was elsewhere.
The mood inside the Refuge shifted as she and Freakazoid had entered. Despite trying to hide it, many eyes lingered and many mouths whispered on their new guests longer than they should. However, none had yet confronted Jack to speak their mind.
Something had changed there recently, to make them unwelcoming to strangers. Jack knew she'd have to do some digging before things boiled over. Or they might have to leave.
That said, she couldn't ignore someone acting like a large skittish cat next to her.
Crane particularly spun around. Desperately looking at every face and reminding himself not to give it away.
He couldn't remember everyone's faces if it was a case of 'come and go'. But if Buckshot and Spike were there, then everyone from the Tower must be there too.
Brecken, Lena, even the quartermaster.
But no one stood out. Most faces were unfamiliar—or maybe he had saved too many to stop and remember them.
"Looking for someone, mate?"
He nearly froze up, wheeling back to Jack.
"Must be very important since you wanted to come here."
That calmed him down. Christ, how many times would he act like that?
"Something like that," he muttered. And it was more than one person.
"Gonna be a problem if they recognize you?"
Yeah—one hell of a problem. But he didn't say that.
"...I'll cross that bridge when it happens."
Jack nodded, awfully cooperative but level-headed as always. Probably for the better. An infected in disguise panicking in a human stronghold? Yeah, worst case scenario.
"Just remember, mate. I'm your wingmate."
He didn't need the reminder, but the nudge was appreciated nonetheless.
"Buckshot!"
A sharp voice cut through the air, drawing every eye in the terminal.
Crane's stomach dropped at the sight of the American, and leader of the Tower's guards, marching toward them—another ghost from his past.
Timur was there too.
And like Buckshot, Timur looked more weathered than the last time Crane saw him.
"What the hell are you thinking?" Timur had never minced his words and neither did this time, but with an extreme degree of caution.
Buckshot already anticipated this argument. "Calm down. Rais' men tried to ransack them."
"So you brought them here?" Timur shot back.
"Does it matter?" Ivan debated. "We couldn't leave them be-"
"This isn't a tourist spot, kid," Timur cut him off, forcing the poor lad to fall back.
Buckshot sighed, regretting every bit of patience he'd shown earlier. "Timur, go easy on him. He just wanted to help-"
"So it's ok to let him go playing hero? You know exactly the reason why we have rules. Or did you already forget about the Incident?!"
What Incident?
Crane's eyes darted between Timur and Buckshot, two people he knew from the Tower were at odds with each other.
His throat tightened with the questions clawing their way up. He wanted to ask—what the hell had happened while he was gone?
But words wouldn't come out. He stood there, hit with the realization that a lot had changed.
Too much.
He shouldn't have left Harran…
Then someone intervened in his stead.
"Boys, boys." Jack slid between the two with her usual flair. "I'm sure we can be sensible and talk this out—"
"Bite-free or not?"
She arched an eyebrow; what kind of question was that? "If it's about those allegations, then yes. I did bite the Cannon that one time-"
"Cut the act, lady." Timur stepped closer, his expression turning more aggressive. "Do you have bite marks or not?"
Although Jack's smile stayed on her face, her jaw tightened behind it. Now she knew exactly what kind of fire she was standing in—and this wasn't her first time.
"Is there going to be a problem?"
That was a stick beating the embers hard. Ivan's easygoing demeanor vanished as Buckshot's eyes widened with growing alarm. They both took a step back because it had never crossed their minds.
Timur's scowl hardened. "So you don't deny it?"
Jack said nothing. Or tried to stall. She tugged down her cowl scarf, showing off the scar on her collarbone—the freshest.
Lina's bite.
"Happy?"
The reaction was instant. Whispers spread like wildfire among the nearby onlookers.
"She's been bitten?"
"This is bad."
Without thinking, Crane stepped closer to Jack, baffled but ready if anyone tried to make a move on her. He had been preparing for the moment his infection was discovered, but Jack…? It all turned around on her instead, for being bitten.
He never considered it—a zombie would be more dangerous than an infected human, so what happened that the script got flipped?
But he should have, after his time in Scanderoon. Nazmi's condition, and the long months without Antizin—this was the likely scenario to end up with.
This was always a possibility. Jack must have known that, too because she absorbed the fearful gazes and rumblings with no complaint. The treatment wasn't something old to her and that wasn't important to her, if otherwise.
It was having all the attention on her. She was the distraction, after all.
Ivan stammered, trying to salvage the situation. "Timur, she hasn't turned—"
"So I should give them a pat on the back and call it a day?!" Timur shot back, his voice rising. "You weren't at the Tower!"
It was all spiraling out of control.
Timur turned his glare at the next person: Crane.
"What about him? Is he infected too?" he yelled.
Jack stepped forward, ready to talk their way out-
"Yes."
Her eyes flashed behind her shades as her head snapped to her Lifeline. Why did he say that—that was painting a big target on himself! And it was one Jack might not be able to cover for him if things went south.
"I got bitten last week," Freakazoid didn't retract his statement and continued with half a truth.
But she was met with his sidelong glance, telling her two things. That it was alright and this was always going to happen.
Perhaps, she thought. This was dangerous waters Freakazoid was walking into. She could be dragged along with him.
But he made his move, and she'd go along with it—for her client.
"Look," Crane started, fighting his regret and remorse. "We can leave. We're not here to cause trouble."
"What's going on here?"
It hit harder than expected, despite knowing the owner of the voice.
Crane's stomach clenched at seeing another familiar face emerging from the crowd. With the same guarded expression, he remembered the first time they met. That same distance Spike kept with anyone new—until Crane proved his worth and earned his trust months ago.
But that friendship? Back to square one, because Crane wasn't Kyle Crane. He was another stranger going by the name, 'Kevin White'.
He wasn't alone. That standoffishness was also to the brunette, strangely smiling at his arrival.
"They were just leaving," Timur was quick to interject.
"Oh, we are," Jack sang, seizing the moment. "But isn't it a bit rude to skip pleasantries after kicking us out like that?"
Spike was skeptical—probably assuming Jack was a just chatterbox than 'more unskilled labor'. But then his brow furrowed as something about her grin clicked.
"Mad Jack, by the way. But you," she pointed to Spike. "can call me Jack Brecken."
The name hit differently. To some in the crowd, her stage name rippled in waves. For Buckshot, Timur, and Spike, it was the last name that hit harder.
"Brecken?" Spike had to say it aloud to believe it.
"That's right. And you're Spike. My cousin told me all about you."
The second time didn't soften the impact; the three men took it harder than the first time.
"You're Harris's cousin?" Buckshot uttered, stunned.
"Surprising, isn't it? We don't look alike," she quipped, then added, "I'm sure you've also heard about the Ravens."
Another name that no one in the Refuge knew.
A mysterious group from the Outskirts, so of course, the crowd was unfamiliar with the name. But Crane caught Spike's eyes—recognition.
He knew the name.
"We talked to the Tower a few months ago," Jack pushed.
Although not a single budge, his silence said it all. Jack had pulled the right strings.
Spike exhaled, then motioned for the two Runners to follow. "Let's take this somewhere private. We need to talk."
Jack gave a satisfied nod, while Timur's head spun between her and Spike. Flabbergasted at this development! But he didn't object, throwing up his hands in surrender.
Spike led the way, cutting through the crowd now dispersing with a couple of mumbles and navigating through the ferry terminal. He built it after all, knowing every corner by heart—his capabilities were no joke to laugh at.
Crane stayed close, taking in his surroundings. Every now and then, he could have sworn he saw another familiar person in a room or down a hallway.
However, he never strayed away, walking close behind Jack. The further they went, the more curious glances followed them. A few would approach Spike, asking what was going on, to which he declined, "Not now."
Eventually, they reached the roof access stairs. The guards there, Crane recognized their faces but not their names—part of Spike's vigilant force tasked with building and protecting Safe Zones: from Dr. Irman's laboratory to the old Ferry Habor.
At the top of the stairs, Spike pushed open the heavy door. The rooftop stretched before them, offering a bleak view of the city below.
Crane could see far and wide but it didn't matter when it was the same nightmare that plagued the rest of Harran and half of Scanderoon. Including every nearby town outside the city limits.
The same sad, crushing scene weighed on his spirit. But Jack's presence, as her watchful gaze skirted over the landscape, gave him a comforting reminder that they weren't alone in all of this.
They could only move forward.
Spike strolled over to the railing, taking in the surroundings even though it wasn't the first time. With a guarded expression, he went straight to the point.
"What do you want?" he asked Jack.
"Not looking for trouble," Jack replied calmly. "We're only searching for missing people."
The explanation was ridiculous in a place like Harran. Anyone could tell her—whoever she sought was probably long gone.
"Harris as well?"
She nodded. "He's family."
A valid reason. But the tension thickened, which dug a serious frown on Jack's face. Was Spike not willing to trust her, Crane wondered. Or could he not talk about Brecken?
Spike exhaled slowly. "I understand what you're doing. But we can't give you aid."
Or even shelter. Temporary or not, being turned away Safe Zone was a death sentence. A person couldn't truly survive alone for long out there.
Jack expected that as much. If anything, Caroline had been the safest place on Earth for Jack before crashing into Scanderoon. Her reputation was one main reason that kept the doors open for her so far, whether at the Junction or any safe haven.
Crane, on the other hand, hadn't had the luxury of beds.
He missed the sleeping bags for the first couple of nights as a mutant Hunter, mainly because of the UV lights. Even after he couldn't feel the scorching, he didn't take to sleeping inside the Safe Houses.
Honestly, a monster sleeping in the same building as Jack just didn't sit right with him. The thought of one day waking up with her dead in his grasp?
No. He took to sleeping outside, on the Safe House's roof. One eye open. So far, no Volatile had dared pick a fight with him.
The conversation between the two reminded Crane of how Scanderoon's City Hall treated Jack the first time meeting. But Spike wasn't heartless, just practical. Spike, who had never turned down a plea, had to resist offering a hand to them
Things really had changed the last time Crane saw him.
"Because we're infected? Or because of this 'Incident'?"
Jack had to give that blunt blow, prompting Spike to rub the back of his neck, sheepish.
"You've heard?"
"Enough to know it's gotten you lot all hushed up."
"...It's not something we like to talk about," he defended.
"If my cousin was caught up in something terrible-" Jack's voice tilted in an emotional tone, soft but tugging at that metaphorical leash.
"No," Spike's answer came quickly. "Harris is alive."
That proverbial vice lightened from Jack's shoulders. She was relieved, so much that it reached Crane too, even with that small, lingering detail.
"That's good…" she exhaled.
"...I was out of the Slums when it went down," Spike admitted. "So I couldn't tell you anything even if I tried."
That made sense to Kyle. Spike and whoever he managed to get out had been long gone around the time Crane was at the Countryside. As for the Tower, the ones who really knew were people like Buckshot and Timur.
Crane wanted to ask, the question clawing at the back of his mind—but he resisted, clamping down on it with everything he had.
"Fair enough." Jack's tone shifted back to that of a playful saleswoman. "But that doesn't mean you need to turn down my offer."
"Offer?"
"Retrieval Specialist, mate. I can get whatever you need. Supplies, missing people, even a nasty Demolisher causing trouble for your Refuge. You name it, I'll retrieve it."
Crane found it hard to fathom her cool detachment at a time like this. Hearing that her cousin was alive was good enough, and yet instead of asking his whereabouts, she jumped straight into business.
Then again, Crane knew long enough that this was her way. Staying busy to keep herself from worrying; staying positive that Harris was alright. Because it was all she could do.
"And him?"
Crane froze at Spike's gaze shifting to him . Get a grip , he snapped. A quick glance at Jack—her steady eyes as a silent cue, telling him that she could cover him if needed.
"...Hired work," he answered.
The raspy voice Crane was cursed with had one good thing. Although it took Spike by surprise, he assumed it was a horrible sore throat before acknowledging his answer.
Relief and guilt churned inside Crane's chest. 'Kyle Crane' stood right in front of him, unrecognized.
Spike turned back to Jack. "What's the catch?"
"Information," she replied with a sly grin—the most valuable asset she would take above any wealth.
"To help you find those people."
"Exactly. Good to see we're on the same page."
Were they? Crane could see Spike mentally struggling, trying—he wasn't alone on that front.
After a long pause, Spike shook his head. "It's a generous offer. Would've benefited from someone like you...months ago."
Jack's grin faded, a mix of confusion and disappointment crossing her face. She honestly thought she had it in the bag.
"But we're not staying here much longer. In a few days, we're heading to Scanderoon."
Both Runners went rigid, alarm flashing through them at the mention of the city's name, the location they had departed.
"What do you mean, 'heading to Scanderoon'?" Jack uttered.
"Exactly what I said." Spike's gaze swung back and forth, spotting the tension in his two guests. And he did not like it. "Why?"
Jack's expression darkened as realization dawned. "You don't know."
"Know what?" he demanded, though his voice remained calm.
Crane pressed his charred lips together, knowing all too well what Spike was about to hear. Just as he was in the dark about what happened before he woke up in a new body, Spike and everyone in Harran were equally blind to what had unfolded beyond the quarantine.
An infected got out of Harran and brought the virus into Scanderoon.
Crane, the culprit.
This wasn't the time to tell Spike—not yet. He and everyone had gotten this far, out of the hellscape that was Harran, and to find out that leaving there was meaningless?
He tried to stop Jack.
But it was already too late.
"Mate, the Harran virus hit half of the city there."
Crane grimaced but sighed in defeat. Spike would find out sooner or later.
It took longer for Spike to react as he absorbed the news. Reeling from it. As if he half-suspected the worst. But even knowing, the gut punch felt like ass, forcing Spike to lean back on the railing.
"You…came from there?"
The damage was done, more than it should have given, and Jack was moderately penitent. But should she have kept it a secret? No, she couldn't be guilty of dropping the bombshell so abruptly.
"Had to cut along the Coast to reach the Slums," Jack explained. "We've seen a lot go down there."
"Like Harran… Damn…"
It hit deeper than a couple of punches he had gotten in his entire life. He slumped down, his voice quieter, almost resigned.
"I had a feeling. But…"
"I'm sorry, Spike."
He shook his head. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't anyone's fault.
But one thing was made clear to him.
They could build as many Safe Zones as possible. They could outlast as many days as they could. But once the last bullet was spent, the last ration was gone, then that was it.
There were no true safe havens for anyone in this world.
Spike opened his mouth to ask how bad things had gotten in Scanderoon—
BANG!
The roof access door slammed open, the noise stopping the tense conversation entirely.
"Spike!"
A wiry man rushed up the stairs, clutching a notebook tightly in one hand. Mateo—the radio operator on duty for the week—looked as if something had chased him all the way from the comms room.
"What's wrong?" Spike asked, bracing himself for another wave of bad news.
The messenger, panting and disheveled, fought to steady himself.
"The Terminus!"
The color in Spike's face drained.
In a heartbeat, he rushed to the eastern side of the terminal, leaving both Crane and Jack oblivious to the cause of Spike's alarm. But whatever it was, it was bad enough to check out that direction.
Because black smoke curled from one location in the distance…
"Shit! SHIT!"
Panic erupted in the Loading Bay. No one knew how or what had happened.
Where did those Volatiles come from?!
The engineers knew—they all knew—that there was no possible way that those monsters could get out of the tunnel. The government blocked the train tracks with a quarantine wall, made of solid concrete. Like they've done for every way out of Harran!
And yet, somehow, the monsters managed to get in. It didn't help that the lights inside the Terminus were somehow out. Their backup was the only hope of keeping the UV lights on.
"Did one of those things break through a maintenance door?!"
No one could answer that question. They had to fight back.
"Downed one!"
But for every Volatile they killed, another seemed to take its place. Their howls echoed through the Bay, drawing Biters from both the tunnel and outside the Terminus—forcing the residents to bunker down in the concourse.
Inside the dark Bay, something darted around them. The orange eyes swooshed like fireflies.
"There's still more!"
"Hold the line! We can't let them through!" shouted a lead engineer, reloading his crossbow.
"Why are the lights still off?! Someone get them back on!"
"No good. Main's been shredded!"
"What?!"
Since when could Volatiles teleport to their power source?
"Focus! Get everyone to safety now!" another engineer barked, his tone more urgent. "If we don't contain this, we'll lose the whole depot!"
"Forget that! If those things reach Hizli, we've already lost!"
"We need more UVs from the back!" someone else hollered.
"On it!" One of the junior engineers hurried off. Which met straying away from the group.
He tightened his hand on the wrench while clutching a UV flashlight in the other. The engineer's safest path to where they kept their equipment was where sunlight touched, streaming from the main entrance. A bad angle, however, and too far away to where he had to go.
Then he saw it.
It was bright and burning. But it shouldn't have been inside the Bay. A gut feeling nudged him to go check!
Because fire was at one of the freight trains.
Hizli.
"No, no, no!"
He veered off course, sprinting toward the train. Their golden ticket out of here was going up in flames!
"HEY!" he hollered at his friends while bolting to the train, hoping they would hear him. On the way, he snatched a fire extinguisher and yanked the pin free before he clambered into the operator's cab. "FIRE!"
The stench of diesel hit his nose—a rupture in the fuel lines? Mixed in that too, he could have sworn he smelled something else.
Wood and incense.
Then he stopped.
In front of him, the damage had already been done. The engine was torn open, its wires ripped and exposed, electrical sparks flying. The train would never move again.
The engineer's heart dropped—he wasn't alone.
The figure stood inside the car, no doubt the saboteur. All covered up in rugged garments, with yellow and red ribbons adorning their wrists.
"Hey!" the engineer shouted as he stepped forward, ready to confront the stranger.
The stranger remained unfazed as if admiring their destructive work. Admiring the flames dancing brighter and brighter.
Like the Sun.
"Who the hell are you?! And how did you get in?!"
An animalistic twitch in the stranger; like a Volatile locking on to prey. The stranger slowly turned around with a clicking sound.
Familiar. And terrifying.
The engineer had heard it a hundred times at night.
In the cab, he couldn't see the face—the firelight briefly illuminated a wooden mask under the rags. Two hollow, golden eyes gleamed at him like beautifully crafted daggers.
The figure took one step, then another, slow and deliberate: preparing a pounce.
Before the engineer could react, frozen on the spot, the hooded figure lunged at him.
It was over in seconds. Blood splattered the walls. The poor rookie's scream echoed through the cab, sharp and short-lived.
Before the fire reached the fuel lines, the hooded assailant was long gone…
BOOM!
The ground beneath the ferry terminal trembled with a low, ominous rumble.
Up on the rooftop, the four people stationed there felt that shockwave and saw it happen.
A deafening explosion tore through the atmosphere. Reds, oranges, and greys surged upwards, swallowing up the black plume of smoke. Loose metal panels along the overhang rattled with dust shaking off.
Everyone on the roof staggered.
Out of the four, Mateo instinctively ducked near the stairs, horrified at the sight. The two Runners stumbled back in absolute shock, trying to process the blast. What had just exploded? What was happening?
And Spike… He had to clutch the railing with white-knuckled hands.
"What…" For once in his life, Spike was fumbling for words. His mind went blank, too stunned after Mateo said the next thing before the blast.
Volatiles had breached the engineers' Safe Zone.
Spike's thoughts raced, every second stretching endlessly. How? Why did it happen?
He had made sure. He'd taken every precaution. The giant risk wasn't brushed away when the Border Station and Train Depot was built next to the Iron Ridge Tunnel—Harran's dated city planning for ease of access and transport in one area.
But there was a quarantine wall. It was there for a reason!
Everything was all falling apart-
"Spike!"
All of a sudden, he was spun on his heel.
He found himself face-to-face with Jack's friend, the stranger's hands gripping his shoulders and shaking him.
For a moment, Spike swore the guy's eyes were strangely blue, showing how frizzled his mind had become.
"Right… Right!" Spike stammered, snapping back to reality. How could he lose himself like that?
He wheeled to Mateo. "Call everyone! All hands on deck! Now!"
"Roger!" Mateo bolted down the stairs without a second glance.
"You two," Spike then turned to the Runners. "How fast can you get there?"
"I'm fast," Jack began, set to leave once Spike gave the word. "But he's faster-"
She didn't have a chance to finish. Her eyes widened behind her shades as Freakazoid took a couple of steps back and gave a running start.
"Mate!"
The man leaped off the rooftop like it was nothing. Vaulted over the ledge and dived outside the Safe Zone's protective area. For a heartbeat, Spike thought he had lost his mind—no experienced Runner would dare try that stunt. As high as three stories!
But instead of splattering across the asphalt, Freakazoid landed with perfect precision—knees bent, body low, absorbing the impact.
No broken bones. No stumble. Not even a grunt of pain.
He was up and running, making his way to the Terminus.
"Freak-!"
Jack clamped her mouth shut, finding herself side-eying Spike. Besides her partner's sudden and outrageous departure, why wouldn't he find the lady's reaction a bit strange?
But had she said out loud Freakazoid's pet name, he'd asked more questions than just why and how he could do something like that without breaking his legs.
"Kevin!"
She chased after him. By first taking the roof access stairs instead.
The urban landscape around Crane was a blur. Just as he rushed towards the source of the smoke and noises, so did every infected outside—Virals joining for the carnage.
As the train tracks came into view, he hit the corner of a kebab food outlet and vaulted off, catching the ledge of an old billboard frame.
The Terminus sprawled ahead. Only part of it was fortified—impractical to make the entire area a giant Safe Zone with limited resources. The only focus was the Loading Bay and the Border Station.
Where survivors were pinned between peril and panic while the zombies pounded relentlessly at their walls.
Some held their ground, fueled by liquid courage. Others retreated behind makeshift defenses. Dozens unfortunately were massacred during their fleeing.
So it was inevitable that a guard would mistake Crane as one of them, darting through the UV-lited gateway like a shadow in motion.
"Gaaaah!" The guard swung his bat hard with everything he had.
It never connected. It was snatched out of his hands.
In a moment of panic, the guard thought this was it. Until suddenly the person he mistook for an infected suddenly pushed past him and did the unexpected.
CLANK!
The guard gawked, baffled. His thief-turned-savior smashed open the head of a Viral. A Viral would have pounced at him from behind.
"Who-" he began, only to be cut off as a flash of red zipped into view.
"He's with me," Jack panted, before gathering her strength into one order at the guard. "What are you waiting for?! We can't lose this place!"
That was convincing enough for the guard: overload his brain to jolt him back into action. With his bat given back, the guard hurried over to a group of survivors at the station's turnstiles—the strongest forming a protective circle around the frightened and injured.
Everyone's eyes lit up at the two strangers they had never seen before. But any help was greatly welcomed.
"Anyone know where they're coming from?" Crane asked urgently.
"Yes!" An engineer with a crossbow stepped forward, pointing toward the far end of the Loading Bay. "It's gotta be from maintenance. End of the tunnel."
"If we clear the way, can you help shut them out?" Jack brought up a good point.
The lead engineer held up his crossbow for them to see how ready he was. "We've got your back, ma'am."
"Good." That brought a toothy grin to the brunette.
Without another word, the two strangers sprinted into the depths of the Loading Bay.
At first, the engineer could hardly believe what he was seeing. Those two had to be insane—but a glimmer of hope flickered back in his chest. Maybe they stood a chance.
He whirled around, barking orders. "Bring that forklift over!"
The two Runners followed the thick trail of smoke, billowing from a train in flames. Through the fumes and shifting shadows, Crane saw them prowling between the wreckage—common infected and Volatiles.
The unfortunate ones, slaughtered first for being too close to the source, became distractions for the lurkers. But the apex predators snapped towards the new top predator heading their way.
Sizing themselves up. Showing dominance at Crane. At the beast in him.
Get out.
This is ours.
You're not wanted.
But that beast showed only defiance, closing the distance between them. One Volatile revolted, claws flashing.
In the same blanket of smog where it was impossible could see a monster until it was too late, that also meant no one could see Crane shoot a tendril lasso out at the Volatile's neck and yank it forward.
Right into his waiting bone blade, stabbed between the eyes.
"Come get some!" Crane taunted, letting that beast in him seep into his voice. And that pissed some of Volatiles off.
At first, it looked as if there was no end to the Bay—at least the emergency lights helped in some way. With the smoke thinning as everyone pushed deeper, Jack spotted the large concrete wall slotted at the tunnel's entrance.
Standing solid and immovable as the first day the Ministry of Defense first installed for each exit and tunnel. No cracks in sight.
So her eyes followed after the last emergency lights to the maintenance access door. Smashed through.
The breach that turned the Safe Zone into a bloodbath from the inside. More and more walkers poured out of the maintenance hall, drawn by noises and the scent of blood.
Jack unleashed a fierce cry, catching the attention of a few. A meal on legs prepared for them! However, each small fry lacked such finesse to avoid being clobbered while Jack bolted towards the access door.
Everything had to be done one-handed, a dangerous handicap, but she had her priorities. Jack dug into her pockets and pulled out three UV flares, what she had on herself. In her one brisk, safe moment, she flung them in a single throw through the broken doorway.
Their violet light flooded the narrow hall. The infected, Volatiles and Night Walkers, shrieked and recoiled from the searing glow.
Most quickly retreated into the dark tunnel. One Volatile, however, stood its ground, locking eyes on Jack like a ravaged lion.
Fear twisted in her gut, but Jack planted her feet, preparing for the lunge, tightening her hands on her weapon-
Then she watched tendrils wrap around her opponent and wrench it into the dark. She spied Freakazoid pushing the Volatile forward for a one-to-one battle, which ended in seconds. The apex predator felled by the Day Hunter.
She wouldn't complain. A fight with a Volatile was more than Mad Jack wanted to handle, even on her best day.
No time to waste. She spotted a Night Walker staggering out of the hall, its skin blistered from the flares.
Thunk!
Its head swung a hard right, not from her pitch but a bolt through the skull.
"Coming through!"
Jack stepped aside to give the floor to the forklift. While the way was being cleared, one of the engineers took it upon themselves to pick up a cargo container and drive it forward. Now and then, the pests would try to attack the driver, only to be met by wheels and heavy metal.
Like blocking a rat's hole, the forklift rammed the cargo container into the breach. Walkers crawled out of the shrinking gaps, only to be put down by Jack and the other engineers.
"Almost there!" The driver slammed the container into place—something splattered underneath it.
But that did it. The breach was sealed.
"Bring that welding kit!" the lead engineer yelled, waving at the person carrying it.
The danger wasn't over. Everyone had their job: reinforce the container down and be completely sure another incident could never happen again.
The engineer with a welding helmet rushed to fuse the doors shut. Others tightened the box into place, fastening it with anything they could find. Hell, even the forklift was used as a wedge. Meanwhile, the Runners kept thinning the infected number, buying time.
Nothing would get out of that tunnel again.
But there was still one problem.
The stranger in rags lingered at the edge of the chaos. He had watched everything unfold—unaffected by death and destruction, indifferent to the swarming infected or the panicking humans.
But disappointment gnawed at him.
So why were they rejecting the blessing? Those fools couldn't continue defying everyone's fate.
There was no salvation without the disease.
No ascension.
Fine, he had to give them the blessing again. Everything was blessed by the Sun, everything was embraced by the Wind.
Back into her cradle once more.
The problem was one human he noticed among the others... Something was very wrong with her.
She was sick—she carried the blessing. But it was wrong, all wrong.
Why why why why?
It made no sense. Her very existence defiled the teachings.
Should he take her to his brothers? Or should he end her here?
Whatever the case was, it was made clear to him. The stranger drifted closer to the humans, unnoticed. Everyone was too preoccupied to notice, focused on their tasks at hand.
An engineer, wiping sweat from his brow, never saw the danger jumping from the shadows-
But a Day Hunter did.
Crane caught the stranger's wrist mid-jump, yanking them away from the unsuspecting engineer. For some reason, this one had more omph than he had originally thought but Kyle tossed them ten feet away, savage.
"Get back!" Jack barked at the others, planting herself in the middle—if ever the threat had a chance to worm out of Freakazoid's grasp.
The two fierce beasts rolled across the platform, the stranger lashing out. One swipe caught Crane off guard, digging into his hardened skin. Blood drew but Kyle refused to yield.
At the end of their tumble, Crane pinned the stranger beneath him, driving a knee into his chest. His bone blade unsheathed out of his arm, ready to put another poor soul to rest.
But he stopped, the blade held high.
Usually, Crane would see the face. Someone he once knew, twisted by the virus. Or someone unfamiliar with boils, fangs, claws, and orange-glowing eyes. A husk of humanity.
This infected person, however, had something covering their face.
It took Crane a moment to realize what it was—a wooden mask.
The design was familiar, disturbingly so.
No. It couldn't be.
He had to be imagining it.
The same could be said for the person below him. Through the two eyeholes, Crane saw a flicker of recognition in those golden eyes. A human reaction inside a monster.
The man in rags beneath him looked long and hard at Crane, as if confirming something.
"Kyle Crane."
Crane's stomach dropped and turned cold.
His grip on the man's collar faltered as panic and dread slowly consumed him.
He heard that wrong. Right? Had to be! There was no way anyone—especially an infected—could know his name!
He couldn't chalk this off as the incoherent babbling of a Viral pretending to beg for help.
Then one important question came to mind.
Who is the person behind the mask?!
"Mate! Snap out of it!"
Jack's voice yanked him back—just in time. Yellowed teeth glinted beneath the mask, reaching for his throat.
Crane jerked away, kicking the masked figure hard to widen the distance. Thanks to Jack, he was back in the game. Because his opponent wasn't the usual kind.
Terror still rooted in him—under those rags was someone like him. It could talk and think. It knew how to channel its primal strength in bursts of precision while tethering on the edge. But a monster was still a monster.
A second 'Freakazoid' was too dangerous to let live—he agreed with Jack on that matter.
The masked stranger had to go. Fuck getting any questions!
A blur of red flashed past him. Because she was his backup.
"Jack! Wait!"
It happened in a blink—too fast. If it wasn't for his warning, Jack's guard would've dropped a second too late. She held her weapon up on the defense, catching the stranger's swing.
Despite that, she felt the raw power behind it, nearly sending her stumbling. The swing continued, with talons grazing the skin of her neck. Something snapped—not bone or flesh, but the sound of string breaking.
She found herself being pulled to safety by Freakazoid in all of that.
Jack gasped, heart pounding. That thing was fast. They couldn't see him as another average infected Joe. A Volatile could speed right up to either of them and tear limbs off, human or mutant.
But the masked stranger didn't follow with the next attack.
He stared down at something in his grasp—a sort of necklace.
Then he turned to Jack with a burning, murderous gaze
"Heretic."
Jack reeled back, dumbfounded. Not by the word itself—for whatever reason, she was called that.
"It talks?"
Freakazoid didn't answer or point at the shocking discovery that they found another test subject for Jack's little project. He stood firmly in front of her, claw out as her shield. Jack couldn't be more thankful.
She actually felt afraid of this new revolution.
BOOM!
A second explosion pierced the air, from behind. Metal groaned as the platform shook under them.
Instinct took over for both of them. Crane threw himself over Jack as they hit the ground together, a claw covering her head. Shielding her from the blast. The brunette curled up in his grasp, hands over ears and bracing for the worst.
Only the crackle of fire and the creak of stressed metal came.
Cautiously, they looked up.
The masked stranger was gone.
Snuck out, a trail of blood vanishing into the haze.
The duo turned toward the source of the blast as they climbed back on their feet—another ruptured fuel line had erupted into flames. Now the freight train had blossomed into an inferno—the force having sent a heated metal beam into a a cargo hold of crates and luggage.
"Hurry! Get more extinguishers!" the lead engineer ordered.
"Hizli… Oh, god," another lead engineer, older, moaned.
"Focus, Tunc! We can get another one! But not another station!"
Everyone scrambled again, buoyed by a small silver lining. The breach was sealed and the last stragglers had been driven out. More people from outside ventured into the Bay—some gathering their courage and those from Spike's group.
Only two people remained still amidst the cleanup.
Crane's gaze swept the area, searching for the masked stranger. However, something glimmering caught his gaze, dropped by that guy.
He crouched to retrieve it, recognizing it instantly—Jack always wore the cord necklace. The trinket was a coin, worn with age, indented with a scratchy symbol.
The Ravens' icon—a bird with wings stretched towards the sky. Crane remembered it from the time Ender and Riza had painted this in Scanderoon.
Turning the coin over, he found two handwritten initials into the metal: J.B.
Nothing out of the ordinary. The cord had a white ribbon entangled and dirtied—he had seen something like that, in red and yellow. But it made that masked stranger uneasy.
Heretic, though…
He brought it back to Jack but stopped short, noticing her gaze on the sealed breach.
"Jack? You with me?"
At first, she didn't reply but looked at him nonetheless. Nothing seemed wrong with her, other than scratches.
But there was no trace of her usual smirk. She was on edge as he was.
"Did you see where that freak ran off?"
"No. But good riddance," he admitted. "We've closed off the hole. That's a win in my book if you ask me."
"Hm," Jack gave a small nod but was unconvinced. Something was on her mind.
So this time, he pried.
"What's wrong?"
"...Was the maintenance door broken in or out?"
Not what he thought he would get. A question to his question, rather than reassurance.
"Um…" Crane racked his brain. How could he remember something so miniscule?
"...In. It was broken in."
Jack didn't look at him, her gaze still burned on the breach. The longer Crane mulled over that small detail, the heavier the realization became.
Something walked into the Safe Zone and tore open the access door from the outside.
Both of them knew who the likely culprit was. And now, he was gone.
Gone with the wind…
22/10/2024 - Here we are finally. The Harran Arc.
There's two reasons why it's taken me this long. 1, the Harran Arc had a lot of brainstorming concepts on how what we know from Dying Light had changed over the four months. That meant a lot of characters and their fates. So I had to build a planner to plot everything out carefully, especially on important plot points.
2. I lost that planner to a tech issue months ago. And wallowed in self-pity for months. It wasn't a good feeling losing it but it's also not the first time that something tech tends to start a rebellion with me (metaphorically) It took me a while to get back my motivation and rebuild that planner and if it wasn't for the last intermission chapter, I might have taken longer.
I did not want to do you guys an injustice with this arc as it's the most anticipated arc ever, with a lot of the questions you have going to be answered. Hence heavily planning for this arc and the amount of time. I do apologise that it's taken this long and have lost some readers but despite that, I hope it'll be something you guys will look forward to it and be on the edge of your seat.
Enjoy the first chapter of the Harran Arc.
22/10/24 - First initial.
27/10/24 - Minor name change for Siv's mother's.
5/11/24 - Minor fixes.
17/3/25 - Changed Train Depot to Terminus because it sounds cooler. Minor fixes.