The first thing he saw was the smoke.
Alvin Delos Santos froze at the edge of a dried creek bed, crouched low, one hand gripping his old bolt-action rifle. Smoke, thick and black, rose above the treetops like a signal flare. It twisted in the wind, drifting eastward.
He felt it in his gut before he confird it with his eyes.
"Luntian," he muttered.
His pace quickened.
For the past two weeks, Alvin had been tracking a small deer herd through the hills, camping in the wilderness while avoiding the main roads. He'd survived the early days of the outbreak by trusting his instincts—and by not getting involved.
Now, sothing told him he should've co back sooner.
He reached the treeline overlooking Barangay Luntian about an hour before sunset.
What he found made his stomach twist.
The village was gone.
Charred huts still smoked. The crops had been trampled flat. The livestock pen was empty, the wooden posts torn down. Blood stained the ground in dark patches. Alvin didn't see any bodies—just scattered clothing, shoes, and crude red markings drawn on the dirt with what could only be blood.
And then there were the banners.
Crimson flags were planted in the middle of the village square. One was tied to a spear, its tip jabbed through a tal cooking pot. The flag was torn at the ends but unmistakable—a red sunburst, dripping with painted blood.
Alvin's eyes narrowed.
He'd heard rumors of cultists before. People worshipping the infected. Feeding them. But he'd never believed it. He thought it was just fear talking. Apocalypse gossip.
Now he wasn't so sure.
He moved slowly, rifle raised, watching every corner, every hut. The wind blew ashes across the path like snow.
The sll of cooked flesh hit him hard.
He followed it.
There, at the far end of the barangay, was the pit. A large open trench — blackened, still smoldering. Bits of bone stuck out from the coals. Flies hovered in thick clouds. Alvin covered his nose with his shirt and forced himself closer.
There were no graves. No bodies to mourn. Just this pit of fire and ash.
He saw sothing glint in the dirt nearby. Bending down, he picked up a small pink sandal—child-sized. The strap was broken. Blood dried along the edge.
His jaw tightened.
He stood, scanning the ruins again. A small movent caught his eye—one of the huts in the back, half-burned, still standing.
Alvin approached quietly, rifle still raised.
He nudged the door open with the barrel.
Inside, soone gasped.
"Don't shoot!"
A teenage girl scrambled back into the corner, clutching a bloodied curtain over her shoulders. Her face was covered in soot, her knees scraped raw. She couldn't have been older than fifteen.
Alvin didn't lower his weapon yet.
"You from here?" he asked.
She nodded, eyes wide.
"What happened?"
"They… they ca in trucks," she whispered. "Red clothes. Bells. Singing. They killed everyone."
"Everyone?"
The girl started crying. "They fed them to… to monsters. The people with them—infected but still alive. They just let them rip into people. Called it cleansing. I—I hid in the stove."
Alvin stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He finally lowered the rifle.
"What's your na?"
"Ana," she said, voice trembling.
"Anyone else survive?"
She shook her head. "I saw them take three people in a truck. A girl from the farm. Mang Elmo. And soone else I didn't recognize. They dragged them away with sacks over their heads."
Alvin clenched his jaw.
"Why this village? You had sothing they wanted?"
Ana sniffled. "We had clean water. A working pump and solar power. It wasn't much, but it worked. We tried to stay quiet, out of the way."
"You think that's why they ca?"
"No." She looked up. "I think they ca because we weren't like them."
Alvin paced slowly across the small hut, trying to process what he was hearing.
He'd seen his share of raiders. Looters. Desperate people.
But this wasn't desperation. This was ritual.
"How long ago?"
"Yesterday. Morning. They left before sunset."
Alvin exhaled sharply through his nose. He rubbed his forehead, trying to think. This wasn't sothing he could just walk away from. These weren't just survivors gone feral—this was organized.
And worse—they were spreading.
He stepped outside and looked at the fading sun. Ana followed behind, still wrapped in the curtain.
"Where are you staying?" she asked.
"Nowhere," Alvin said. "Not anymore."
He scanned the tree line again, double-checking for movent. The wind had changed direction. The smoke was thinning.
But the scent of death still hung in the air.
"We can't stay here," he added. "They'll co back. These types always co back to mark their territory."
Ana looked down. "I don't have anyone left."
Alvin glanced at her.
"You do now," he said.
She didn't answer right away, but she nodded. Quietly. Slowly.
Alvin moved back through the ruins, searching for supplies. He found two cans of food that hadn't been scorched. A half-full water jug. One clean blanket and an old map with pen marks showing local scavenging zones. It wasn't much, but it'd do.
As they walked toward the edge of the village, Ana paused and pointed.
"Wait. There."
A patch of dirt behind the schoolhouse was uneven, freshly turned.
They moved closer.
Alvin crouched and pushed aside so dry leaves.
He found a body buried shallow—wrapped in a dirty bedsheet. A boy. Maybe twelve. Bite marks across his arms. No blood trail.
Ana whispered, "They buried him before he turned."
Smart, Alvin thought. Whoever did this still had their head on straight.
But that raised another question.
"Soone else might've survived," he said. "Soone strong enough to dig."
"Then we have to find them."
Alvin nodded.
"We will."
They buried the body deeper this ti, covering it with rocks and scraping a small sun symbol next to it—not the cult's, but a simple drawing of hope. It was all they could do.
As night approached, they moved west, away from the village, staying off the roads.
Alvin knew the world was getting darker.
But now, he also knew why.
Not just the virus.
Not just the dead.
Sothing worse was rising behind it all.
Sothing that believed this nightmare was holy.
And if no one stopped them, the whole country would burn.
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