The soft murmur of the waterfall outside Whispering Falls tourist destination provided a deceptive lullaby, but it failed to entirely mask the quiet hum of the night. Maarg woke in the oppressive darkness, the kind of pre-dawn gloom that felt heavier than usual, pressing down on him. His neck screamed in protest from the awkward sitting position on the armchair, a dull, insistent ache radiating from his spine, a painful souvenir of his hurried collapse. He was sweating profusely, a cold, clammy film on his skin despite the relatively cool night air that seeped in through the cabin's cracks. His throat was bone-dry, a parched desert, and when he instinctively placed a hand on his chest, he could feel his heart running wildly, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs, a relic of the adrenaline that still coursed through him from the previous night's hellscape. The remnants of the nightmare still clung to him, a chilling residue of accusation and loss, the spectral faces of Remmy, his parents, Tara, and Mark still dancing at the edge of his vision.
He slowly, carefully, stood from the armchair, every joint protesting with a groan. He winced, rubbing his stiff neck, trying to coax some movement back into his strained muscles, and looked around the large lounge cabin. The faint, ghostly moonlight filtering through the dusty windows confirmed his suspicions: it was still the middle of the night. Everyone else was still deep in the throes of exhausted sleep, their forms barely visible lumps on cots, mattresses, and sofas, their soft snores and quiet breaths filling the air. All except one.
Gabby.
Maarg's mind, though foggy from sleep and pain, was sharp enough to recall Gabby's usual boisterous self offering to take the second half of the night watch, after Henry. Since Henry was now sprawled out, fast asleep on a makeshift cot by the far wall, his soft, rhythmic snores audible even over the constant sound of the waterfall, Maarg was sure Gabby was outside, patrolling the perimeter of the Whispering Falls tourist destination.
A knot of anxiety, cold and heavy, tightened in Maarg's stomach. It wasn't that he thought Gabby was weak or vulnerable in the conventional sense; Gabby was tough, resourceful, and surprisingly capable in a fight. No, his fear stemmed from something deeper. He was simply afraid that he might lose a great asset, another invaluable member of their shrinking team. Or perhaps, more profoundly, it was just that Maarg didn't want to lose anyone again. Not after Remmy, not after his parents, not after Tara's heartbreaking decision, and the chilling thought of Mark's transformation. The weight of his past failures, real or perceived, pressed down on him relentlessly.
Maarg took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to force these thoughts back into the dark corners of his mind. He desperately needed sleep, he knew that. Overthinking would only keep him awake for no reason, prolonging his agony and draining him further. If he wanted to ensure that Carla was safely delivered back to the Vipers, if he wanted to see this mission through and protect what remained of their group, he needed to make sure he was at his absolute best the entire day. And for that, more than anything, he needed sleep.
As Maarg wrestled with his internal debate, his hand, almost instinctively, reached out and landed on the cool, smooth surface of a water bottle resting on a nearby table. He pressed the flimsy plastic, the slight crinkle echoing loudly in the quiet cabin, and unscrewed the cap. He poured the transparent, clear, cold liquid into his parched mouth. His dry throat instantly felt better, the coolness a shocking contrast against the burning sensation of thirst. His mind, still fuzzy from the nightmare and the headache, felt remarkably rejuvenated with each swallow, a clear stream flowing into a murky pool. He greedily drank a few big gulps of water, the life-giving liquid soothing his agitated system. The midnight drink made him wish he could just splash the cool water on his face, to wash away the lingering sweat and the phantom soot that still seemed to cling to his skin. But he knew, with a pang of regret, that clean mineral water was a rare and precious resource in this ravaged world, a commodity they couldn't just waste on bathing. Every drop was for survival, a strict and necessary rationing.
He replaced the cap, the plastic squeaking softly as he twisted it shut, and his gaze drifted towards the closed, heavy door leading outside. Gabby was out there, alone, taking risks for the group. And Maarg, despite his exhaustion, despite the throbbing pain in his head, despite the fear of what his own unstable abilities might do to him if pushed too far, made a conscious decision. He would trust Gabby to handle the patrol. For now, his duty was to recover. His responsibility was to himself, so he could be there for them when it truly mattered. He stumbled back towards the armchair, forcing himself to lie down, willing sleep to claim him once more.
But before the embrace of sleep could fully claim him, before the darkness behind his eyelids could settle into true rest, he heard something. A distinct splash of water from outside.
For a second, Maarg dismissed it. Just his mind playing tricks, a phantom echo of the waterfall's constant rush, or perhaps the lingering effects of the headache hammering at his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force his racing thoughts into submission, trying to coax his body back into unconsciousness.
Then it came again. This time, lower, more subtle, a rhythmic sloshing sound, as if the thing that had splashed was now deliberately moving in the water. It wasn't the natural flow of the falls; it was something displaced, something moving with intent. The faint sound cut through the drone of the waterfall, clear and unsettling in the pre-dawn quiet of Whispering Falls. His eyes snapped open, every nerve suddenly alight. Gabby was out there. And something was in the water.