I’m more and more grateful I made it to the Arc. It offers some semblance of life, community. Without that, people get strange…
We were on patrol when we saw them—a small group of three, barely more than silhouettes in the mist. They moved like they’d been out here a while, shoulders hunched, cautious but purposeful.
I approached, hands up, keeping my rifle slung. Anton hung back, covering me.
I told them we were from the Arc, that we had shelter and medicine.
They turned to face us, their faces obscured by masks carved from wood or bone.
“We’re fine where we are,” the leader said. A woman, maybe? Her voice was low, calm. “The forest provides.”
I told them they were crazy, that they were going to die out here. But they couldn’t be convinced.
That night on the Arc, we heard singing. Low and guttural, like a chant, echoing through the forest. Nobody slept.