The sight before Ben was sickening.

He had stumbled upon the remnants of a camp, ravaged by raiders. It was a scene he had come across too many times, yet it still turned his stomach every time. He stood in the midst of the carnage, staring at the destruction, and wondered how people could have devolved into this kind of brutality. In the face of something as catastrophic as the plague—How could they turn on each other like animals? To him, it was incomprehensible.

Two bodies lay sprawled on the ground, or what was left of them. From the tattered clothes and the faint recognition in their disfigured faces, Ben realized he had seen them before—traders who frequented the outposts. A couple, always together, always friendly, but now gone.

Ben knelt beside their broken forms, gently placing their bodies together, as if it might offer them some dignity in death. He clasped his hands and murmured a prayer over them. He was no priest, but priests were hard to come by these days—at least, ones that hadn’t been corrupted by the horrors of this new world. His voice was low, almost a whisper, the words more for himself than for anyone listening. It was his way of giving the dead some semblance of peace, even if it was fleeting.

As he stood to leave, a noise stopped him. The faint sound of shuffling came from within the wrecked tent, behind a half-broken crate. Ben’s instincts kicked in immediately. He drew his weapon, his grip steady, and took slow, deliberate steps toward the noise. His eyes scanned the debris, every nerve in his body on edge.

But as he nudged the crate aside, his heart sank.

It wasn’t a Thawed, nor some animal scavenging through the remains. It was a child.