Night swallowed the forest as the teams moved into position.
No one spoke.
The only sounds were the crunch of leaves under careful boots and the distant hum of generators inside the factory.
At the front perimeter, Victor crouched beside Duncan behind a fallen pine. He pointed through the fence toward a gray metal box mounted to the outer wall.
"There," Victor whispered. "Main fuse box."
Duncan narrowed his eyes. "Understood."
He drew his sword in one smooth motion. Moonlight reflected along the blade. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning through the darkness.
The weapon cut through the night without a sound.
A second later—
Sparks erupted. The blade struck the fuse box dead center.
The entire factory went black.
At the eastern treeline, Ysa raised her bow. As she drew the string, a luminous arrow formed between her fingers, humming softly with contained energy.
She exhaled.
Released.
The arrow crossed the darkness in a streak of pale light and buried itself in the skull of the sentry atop the east tower.
The guard dropped without a sound.
Dylan was already moving. "Go."
Low and sharp.
He slipped through the brush with Ysa, Maurice, and Derek close behind, circling toward the east tower.
At the same time, Lucas led the second assault team along the rear of the factory.
With him were David, Ethan, and Harry, moving in silence toward the loading dock entrance.
At the front gate, Duncan and Victor stepped into view riding on one of the reinforced trucks. "Hey!" Victor shouted at the compound. "Miss us?"
The distraction worked instantly. Flashlights snapped on. Shouts erupted from the walls.
On a nearby ridge, Ava, Joan, and Jordan were already prone in the dirt. Their modified rifles rested against their shoulders.
Three muted bursts.
Three guards dropped.
A survivor on the east tower lunged for the mounted alarm and slammed his hand down on the switch.
The warning siren gave a single sharp wail—
Then Ava's shot tore through the mechanism. The alarm died in a shower of sparks.
But the damage was done. The compound was awake. Floodlights remained dark, but voices exploded from inside the factory.
Metal doors crashed open.
Armed figures poured into the yard, half-dressed, rifles in hand, shouting orders into the darkness.
Lucas's team slipped through the rear loading entrance as gunfire crackled across the compound.
David pulled the metal door shut behind them, sealing them inside the factory.
Darkness swallowed them whole. Their flashlights flicked on almost at once, narrow beams cutting through the black.
They found themselves in a vast storage area filled with long-dead machinery.
Rusting conveyor belts stretched across the room like skeletal remains. Broken motors sat half-disassembled on the floor. Massive steel rollers loomed in the shadows, frozen in place after years of disuse.
Every step echoed. Boots scraped over oil-stained concrete and scattered metal debris.
The air was cold.
And the smell—At first, it was only faint.
A sour, metallic odor lingering beneath the dust and rust.
Ethan wrinkled his nose. "Something smells wrong."
David muttered, "Yeah. No kidding."
Lucas swept his light across the far wall. "There."
A large metal sliding door stood open at the far end of the storage area. Yellow PVC strip curtains hung inside the frame, swaying slightly in the stale air.
Dark stains streaked the floor beneath it.
Harry tightened his grip on his rifle. "I don't think I want to know what's in there."
"Stay sharp," Lucas said.
They stepped forward, and the smell hit them like a physical blow.
Ethan doubled over immediately. "Oh my God—"
Rot. Blood. Human waste.
The room beyond was a slaughterhouse. Stainless-steel processing tables filled the chamber.
Bodies—human bodies—lay in various states of dismemberment.
A severed arm rested beside a bone saw. Legs were stacked in industrial bins. Rib cages lay split open like butchered livestock. Hooks suspended from overhead rails held skinned corpses that swayed gently in the darkness.
Blood dripped steadily into floor drains.
Harry stared in horror. "Jesus Christ."
David's jaw tightened. "Those sick bastards."
Ethan bent over and vomited into the drainage trench.
Lucas said nothing. His expression hardened as he swept his flashlight over the nightmare before them.
Then, from somewhere deeper in the room—
Metal clanged. All four beams snapped toward the sound. The metal clanged again—closer this time.
Lucas raised a fist immediately. "Hold."
Silence snapped into place.
Flashlight beams steadied, cutting across the hanging bodies and stainless-steel tables like searchlights in a graveyard.
Then—
Footsteps. Fast. Multiple.
Ethan swallowed hard. "We're not alone."
Six figures emerged through the far end of the processing room. Armed. Two women. Four men.
Rifles already up.
One of them barked, "CONTACT—!"
They didn't finish the sentence.
Lucas moved first. A single shot cracked through the room. The front man dropped instantly.
David was already firing before the body hit the ground.
Harry shifted right, taking out another before he could aim.
Ethan forced his shaking hands steady and fired—one round catching a woman mid-step, dropping her behind a table.
The remaining three tried to return fire— But Lucas's team had already collapsed the distance.
Gunfire was tight. Controlled. Efficient. No wasted movement.
One by one, the cannibals fell. The room went still again.
Only the drip of blood into the drains remained.
Ethan stood frozen, breathing hard.
David exhaled slowly. "Clear."
Harry checked corners. "All of them down."
Lucas didn't lower his weapon immediately. "Move." He stepped forward, boots crunching over broken glass and bone fragments.
David wiped sweat from his brow as Ethan tried not to look at the bodies.
Lucas pulled something from his vest—a folded, hand-drawn map, edges worn, lines messy but precise. He shone his flashlight over it. Victor's markings lit up in the glow. He traced a finger along the corridors. "We're in the right section," he said quietly. "Victor said we'd pass a processing unit before the holding cells… this is it."
The flashlight swept across the slaughterhouse again—hooks, tables, bins of flesh.
No one spoke.
Lucas folded the map and tucked it away. "Keep moving."
~~~
Elsewhere in the factory—
Dylan's team advanced through the east wing.
Dylan led without hesitation, moving like he belonged in the dark.
Ysa walked slightly behind him, silent, alert—her senses cutting through the black where flashlights weren't needed.
Maurice and Derek followed close. The hallway ahead widened into a set of heavy steel doors.
Dylan stopped. Something was off. He raised a hand and made a sign to stay quiet.
Derek leaned in. "What is it?"
Dylan didn't answer. He pushed the door open a crack.
Warm air spilled out.
Flashlights flickered inside the sleeping quarters. Rows of crude bunks stretched across a massive chamber.
Inside—Cannibals.
Running. Shouting. Grabbing weapons. Some still half-asleep, stumbling out of beds as alarms deeper in the factory began to trigger.
The sleeping quarters erupted fully now—gunfire echoing between metal bunks, flashes strobing through the dark like lightning trapped underground.
Cannibals surged from every direction.
Dylan didn't slow down. He moved through the center aisle, rifle steady, cutting down anyone who tried to push in. His steps were controlled—short, efficient, almost mechanical. "Keep them off the flanks!" he barked.
Maurice pivoted right, firing in disciplined bursts from behind a bunk frame. Two attackers dropped before they could fully raise their weapons.
Ysa didn't stay on the floor long. She moved through the gaps between bunks without hesitation, using the structure itself as cover—appearing and vanishing between shadows. A cannibal lunged at her with a blade. She caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted once—clean, precise—and drove him into the bunk post hard enough to fold him.
Derek got hit. The round punched through his upper arm and spun him half a step back. He grunted. "Son of a—" he muttered, flexing his fingers once to confirm he still had control. He adjusted his grip on the rifle with his uninjured hand, bracing it against his shoulder.
Maurice glanced at him. "You good?"
Derek gave a tight, annoyed exhale. "It's an arm. Not my spine." Then he fired. Slower than before—less fluid, but still accurate. Veteran control overriding age and pain.
Two cannibals went down as he tracked them carefully, compensating for the slight drag in his movement.
Dylan noticed but didn't stop. "Stay in it!" he called.
"I wasn't planning to leave," Derek shot back, already reloading one-handed.
A cannibal tried to rush Maurice's blind side.
Derek stepped forward despite the injury, swinging the rifle stock into the man's jaw with brutal force. The attacker dropped instantly.
Maurice blinked. "You're insane."
Derek rolled his shoulder once, wincing slightly now that the adrenaline was settling in. "I've had worse Mondays."
Ysa reappeared beside Dylan, breath steady. "More coming from the back," she said flatly.
Dylan didn't hesitate. "We gotta get through that door and block it."
The gunfire intensified again as the sleeping quarters continued to fill with reinforcements—turning the room into a collapsing spiral of noise, blood, and motion.
~~~
The room was thinning out.
Cannibals were dropping fast—Maurice and Ysa clearing angles, Derek still fighting through the pain, refusing to step back despite the bullet in his arm.
Dylan moved toward the side exit. The objective was simple: seal it. Cut off reinforcements.
He grabbed the heavy steel door and started to pull it shut—
Something slammed into it from the other side.
A boot.
Hard.
The impact ripped the door back open and sent Dylan skidding across the floor.
He hit hard, rolled once, then stopped on one knee. Slow breath in. Slow breath out.
A shadow filled the doorway. Big man.
Massive frame, bare arms, scars layered over muscle like old rope burns. Not rushing. Not panicking. Just stepping in like he owned the space.
He cracked his neck once. "You the one killin' my people?" he growled.
Dylan wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with his wrist. He stood up. "Yeah," Dylan said flatly. "Was me."
The man charged.
Dylan moved first. He slipped the punch, caught the man's wrist, tried to redirect—
The sheer weight difference dragged him back.
The man slammed a forearm into Dylan's chest, sending him into the wall hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.
Dylan didn't drop. He bounced off it and came back in tighter. Fast. Short strikes—ribs, throat, jawline.
The man absorbed it, grunting, swinging wildly.
One hit clipped Dylan's shoulder and sent him stumbling.
The man smiled through it. "Not enough."
Dylan spat blood to the side. "Yeah?" he muttered. He rushed in low. Got behind him in a half-second opening. Arm locked around the man's neck. Rear choke.
The man reacted instantly—crashing backward into the wall.
Dylan's back hit the steel frame hard.
Air left his lungs. The man slammed him again.
Once.
Twice.
The choke broke.
Dylan dropped to the floor. For a second—still.
The big man turned, rolling his shoulder like it was over.
Ysa, in the distance, had just finished healing Derek. "I'll go help Dylan. she said calmly. "You'll live."
Derek exhaled. "I was planning on it."
Then—
A dragging sound. The man turned back.
Dylan, still on the ground, had grabbed his ankle. No warning. Just grip. He yanked hard.
The man stumbled forward, balance breaking for half a second—
That was all Dylan needed. He surged up from the floor and drove a kick straight into the man's groin.
The man folded with a choked sound. He tried to get up.
But Dylan didn't give him time. He stepped in and threw a hard punch—clean, heavy, meant to finish it.
The man staggered, but didn't fully drop. Instead, he snarled and lunged again.
Ysa moved before it escalated further. She snapped her arm back—
Her sword left her hand in a smooth arc through the air. "Dylan!"
He didn't look. Just turned slightly and caught it mid-flight.
The man rushed him again, blind with rage.
Dylan didn't back up. He drove the sword straight forward. It sank deep into the man's chest.
The man froze, breath catching, blood gushing out of his mouth and chest. The man's strength drained out of him in pieces
Dylan let go of the sword and stepped back like it weighed nothing. For a moment, he just stood there. Breathing uneven. Focus slipping.
Then adrenaline crash hit all at once. His knees wobbled.
"Dylan—" Ysa was at his side instantly.
He tried to wave her off. "I'm good…" But his voice didn't match it. His body tilted.
Ysa caught him before he hit the floor. "Don't argue," she said firmly, steadying him.
Dylan blinked hard, trying to stay upright, jaw tight like he was refusing even his own weakness. "We gotta move," he muttered.
Ysa didn't let go. "Not before I heal you."
"I said I'm fine—"
She ignored him. Her hand rose slowly over his wounds. The air around her shifted—subtle, almost like pressure changing in the room.
Dylan tensed as warmth spread through him. The cuts, bruises, wounds across his body began to close—skin knitting back together under her hovering palm. His breathing steadied slightly.
Ysa held him firm until his weight stopped slipping. "You're not invincible," she said quietly.
Dylan didn't answer right away. Just looked away. "…Yeah," he muttered. "Tell me something I don't know."
~~~
Lucas brought the rifle butt down again. Hard.
Bone cracked under the impact. The cannibal collapsed, twitching once, then went still.
Lucas didn't stop immediately. He stood over him, breathing heavy, and hit him again—once more—like he needed to make sure the threat was completely gone before his mind would accept it.
The room fell quiet except for his breathing.
When he finally stepped back, his clothes were stained dark, splashes across his face and sleeves. He exhaled through his nose and turned to the others.
David let out a low whistle. "Damn. Didn't think you had it in you."
Lucas wiped his face with his forearm, smearing blood across his skin instead of cleaning it. "When you think about what they can do to your family if you let them live," he said flatly, "you stop caring that they're humans."
David nodded slowly. "Yeah… I think this is it." He lifted his flashlight toward a heavy steel door at the end of the corridor. The beam shook slightly. "I hear voices inside," he added. "Get ready."
Lucas didn't respond. He just raised his weapon.
David pushed the door open. They moved in.
The light hit the room—and froze everything.
Holding cells.
Rows of cages lined the chamber, stacked and chained like storage.
Inside them—
People. Bound. Tied. Weak.
Some naked, some barely covered in torn fabric. Gagged. Bruised. Starved. Treated like livestock.
Men. Women. Elderly. Children.
The smell was unbearable.
Ethan stepped in behind them and immediately stopped walking. His flashlight trembled as he swept it across the room.
One cage.
Another.
Another.
His voice came out low and broken. "I thought I've seen worse…" he said. "How could a human being do this?"
Lucas didn't look away from the cages. "Humanity stopped being what you think it is a long time ago," he said quietly. "They're not people anymore. Not like this."
Crying. Shouting through gags. Dragging themselves toward the bars. Hands reaching out. Begging.
Some couldn't even stand.
David swallowed hard. "Jesus…"
Lucas stepped forward.
He raised his voice—not loud, but steady enough to cut through the panic. "We're here to get you out."
The room didn't calm.
It got louder. Hope hitting all at once.
"Follow my lead," Lucas added.
He moved to the nearest cage, rifle lowered now, and started working the lock.
David followed immediately.
Ethan hesitated for half a second—then moved to the next cell, hands shaking as he searched for a way to open it.
And the cages began to unlock one by one.
~~~
Morning broke over the factory like it had no idea what had happened inside it.
Pale light slid through broken panels and torn fencing, touching bloodstained concrete and empty cages that were finally unlocked.
The survivors sat in the transport bus in silence. Most of them didn't speak. Some just stared at their own hands like they didn't recognize them anymore.
Ysa moved through them steadily. Quiet. Controlled. She placed her hand over wounds—bruises, cuts, fractures—and the damage slowly pulled itself back together beneath her palm.
People flinched at first. Not because of pain—but because of disbelief. Some recoiled instinctively when her eyes flicked gold for a moment.
But they had seen worse. They stopped questioning. They just endured.
Ysa didn't comment on it either. She just kept moving. One after another. Fixing what she could.
Outside, the compound was turning into a controlled chaos of cleanup.
Loots were being hauled into crates dragged out of the armory.
Guns, weapons, grenades, ammo stockpiles
Dylan stood near one of the supply piles, scanning everything like he still expected someone to come back and shoot them in the back.
Ava walked past holding a can of preserved food she'd picked up from a storage crate. She looked at it like it was normal.
Dylan noticed. He stepped in, grabbed it from her hand, and threw it into the dirt without hesitation.
Ava blinked. "What was that for?"
Dylan didn't even look at her. "Don't eat anything from here," he said flatly.
Ava held his gaze for a moment. Then nodded once.
Nearby, Victor was moving through the survivors, checking faces one by one, urgency building in his voice. "Has anyone seen an old woman?" he asked. "White hair. With a mole on her chin. About this tall—"
He held his hand up to mark the height.
A survivor near the bus flinched. His voice cracked when he answered. "Yesterday… noon…"
Victor froze. "They took out two women," the man continued, shaking. "One of them… she looked like what you're describing."
Victor's breath caught. "What happened to them?"
The survivor swallowed hard. "Don't know. They didn't bring them back."
Silence hit. Like the air itself dropped.
Victor staggered back a step. "No… no, no, no—" His legs gave out halfway.
Maurice and Joan caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him carefully onto a crate.
His hands shook. His face went pale in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
Joan pressed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Victor—breathe."
But Victor wasn't listening. He stared at nothing. Like the answer had already arrived in his head and he just didn't want to accept it.
~~~
The last of the survivors were loaded. The last of the crates were secured.
Silence settled over the site—not peaceful, just exhausted.
Dylan stood, watching the factory. He opened a gasoline canister.
No ceremony. No hesitation.
He tipped it forward and walked as he poured, dragging a line of fuel across concrete, debris, and broken ground. The liquid shimmered in the morning light, cutting a dark path toward the building.
Behind him, engines started one by one. Vehicles rolled out in sequence. The convoy formed.
Lucas was in the truck. He called out once. "Dylan! Let's go!"
Dylan didn't respond right away. He finished the last stretch of gasoline, then tossed the empty can aside. He jogged, grabbed the side of the moving truck, and pulled himself up into the back as it accelerated.
The factory loomed behind them now. Dylan reached into his vest He pulled out a road flare. For a second, he just held it.
Then he struck the cap against the side of the truck bed. It fizzed to life with a harsh, angry red glare, casting his face in a demonic, flickering light. He held it for a second, the wind whipping at the flame, the smell of acrid chemicals cutting through the morning air.
He didn't even look back.
He just chucked it over his shoulder like a piece of trash.
It arced through the air. A small, insignificant object against the scale of what it was about to end.
The flare landed in the gasoline trail.
For a beat, nothing happened.
Then the liquid ignited with a soft whoosh, and the fire raced across the ground like it had been waiting for permission.
The flame climbed the base of the factory, a hungry orange serpent, before swallowing the entire building in a violent, roaring inferno.
=========================================
Author's Note;
Fun fact: Dylan's original ending involved a grenade. I actually wrote it that way first. He was gonna pull the pin, make this perfect, dramatic arc, and boom. But then I read it back and thought, "No, that's too... movie." This is a guy who probably thinks "dramatic flair" is what happens when you eat bad beans. The road flare felt more his speed. Pragmatic. A little bit grim. And you don't have to aim it when you're that tired.
The factory loomed behind them now. Dylan reached into his vest. Pulled a grenade, he pulled the pin out. For a second, he just held it. Then he threw it. It arced through the air. A small, insignificant object against the scale of what it was about to end. A beat of silence followed. Then— BOOM. Flame raced across the ground like it had been waiting for permission. Gasoline ignited in a chain reaction, swallowing the base of the factory first, then climbing—fast, violent, hungry. The building lit up from the inside out. Dylan stayed in the back of the truck, watching the inferno reflect in his eyes.
See what I mean? It works, but the flare feels more... Dylan. Anyway. Thanksss for sticking with the crew through the literal and figurative inferno. They're gonna need a minute. I'll need a minute too...maybe wash my brain or something.