"A horde of Dhavvaks? That's impossible! What an absurd story—couldn't you at least cook up a decent excuse for why you didn't save my son?" The old man's fist crashed onto the table with a thunderous bang, a spark of his former vigor flaring through his frail frame.
In his golden days, he'd been a force to be reckoned with, leading this camp with an iron will. If not for the illness gnawing at him, he'd still be in charge—not Harman, his son, now lost to the chaos.
"It's true," one of the survivors stammered, his voice trembling as the memory clawed at him.
"There were thousands of them. As soon as the boss spotted them, he shouted for us to run—to save ourselves." He shuddered, eyes glazing over.
Unlike Vaidya's group, sheltered by gas station walls, they'd been caught in the open when the attack hit.
Thousands of runners—grotesque, snarling monstrosities—had surged toward them like a living wall of flesh and claws, closing in from every side.
