Two Worlds, Book 2

TRIGGER WARNING!! THIS CHAPTER WILL INCLUDE A LOT OF NONCONSENSUAL ACTS!! IF BY ANY MEANS YOU MIGHT BE TRIGGERED BY IT, PLEASE BE ADVISED THAT THIS CHAPTER WILL CONTAIN IT.

Heartfelt | Chalice | Woods | Raider Camp | Night | Day 227

The Raider Outpost squatted in the woods like a wound that refused to close—filthy, cracked open, and oozing rot. Built from the corpses of other people's lives, the camp was a stitched-together sprawl of rusted fencing, warped plywood, and scavenged sheet metal. Barbed wire—ripped from highways and barricades—coiled in lazy, predatory shapes that bit deep into anything soft.

The pines towered overhead, their blackened trunks rising like silent sentinels. The wind whispered through dead branches, but the quiet was broken now and then by barking laughter or the dull clang of metal. Oil drums burned low with sickly orange flame, coughing up greasy smoke that mixed with the stink of sweat, piss, and old blood.

At the southern fringe of the outpost stood a single canvas tent, slightly apart. No guards. Just a low flicker of light inside, pulsing like the last breath of something barely alive.

Inside, the air pressed in—thick, sour, and damp with the weight of unwashed bodies.

A woman sat bound to a chair in the centre. A burlap sack clung to her head, wet with spit and breath condensation.

She slumped, motionless.

Two raiders lingered nearby.

One sat on an overturned crate, lean and twitchy, flipping a folding knife in a lazy rhythm. His beanie was soaked in sweat and stuck to tufts of greasy hair.

The other, broader, slouched against a post with his arms crossed, a battered rifle leaning against his thigh. His head was shaved to the skin, his expression flat and unreadable.

"You hear what we're eating tonight?" the skinny one asked, not looking up from the knife.

The big man shrugged. "If it's that boot stew again, I'm shitting in someone's bedroll."

The knife twirled. "Last night's meat had lice. Swear to God."

The bald one snorted. "Hell, I miss when it was definitely rat."

The other chuckled, but his eyes wandered toward the prisoner. The blade stopped spinning.

"What's the deal with this one?" he asked. "She with that college crew?"

"Didn't ask. Got told to hold her. That's all."

"She's been out for hours."

"Or playing dead," the big one muttered, his voice quiet now. "Smart move."

The prisoner didn't flinch. Her fingers tensed slightly—tiny movements masked by slack limbs.

Then—

The flap snapped open, cold air spilling in.

Both men jerked up, sudden stiffness in their spines. The twitchy one stashed his knife without a word. The bald one straightened, eyes locked on the dirt.

Joel stepped inside like a storm that had found a body to wear. His coat dripped with mud, shoulders soaked, boots thick with pine needles. His eyes were pits. Black. Bottomless.

He didn't say anything at first.

The flickering lantern behind him threw his shadow halfway across the tent.

Then:

"Zara needs extra hands at the east line," Joel said.

No argument. No questions. The raiders moved like they were trying not to wake something sleeping.