Zoey bent over, her hands on her knees, breathing heavily. The Australian outback stretched before her in an endless expanse of red dirt and cracked earth, the sun beating down with merciless intensity. She'd been running—searching—for what felt like hours, but there was nothing.
Nothing but wasteland.
How the hell had Wolfen and the others traveled for months on end? They were hybrids, sure, and Wolfen was a meta, but still. This was insane. The constant movement, the endless searching, the never knowing what waited behind the next rock.
She straightened, scanning the horizon. Nothing. Just more red dirt, more heat shimmer, more emptiness.
She walked. A few hundred yards. Nothing.
A few thousand. Still nothing.
"This is useless," she muttered.
Something moved behind her.
Zoey spun.
It stood nine feet tall—a nightmare of black chitin and exposed bone, its skull completely skeletonized, deep eye sockets glowing faint orange. The jaw gaped at an impossible angle, nearly 180 degrees, revealing multiple rows of blade-like teeth and a secondary jaw protruding from its throat. Spikes jutted from its neck and shoulders, each one a foot or more of jagged bone. And on its skull—on its shoulder—circular rings of teeth grinned at her, independent feeding mouths distributed across its body.
Ossivore Necroticus. The Bone-Plague Drake.
It had sneaked up on her. Completely silent. Completely invisible until it was right behind her.
Zoey's arm twisted.
The creature twisted with it—ripped apart along some invisible seam, its body separating, collapsing, falling to the ground in pieces. It didn't scream. Didn't move. Just... stopped.
Zoey stared at it for a moment, then looked away.
"Of course Australia is still the same as before," she muttered to herself. "Completely fucked."
She walked further.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. The landscape didn't change. Red dirt. Heat. The occasional twisted tree that looked more dead than alive.
"Hey, sugar cubes! Find anything?"
Zoey's hair stood on end. Every instinct screamed. She screamed—a high, undignified sound—and spun around.
Wolfen stood behind her, grinning.
"MOTHER—" Zoey started.
"No curse words in front of me." Wolfen's grin widened.
Zoey's eyes narrowed. "Wolfie. Wolfie. Wolfie."
Wolfen's expression flickered—just for a moment, just enough to show the irritation beneath. "Fine. Say the curse words. Just don't say that."
"Wolfie," Zoey said again, savoring it.
Wolfen's jaw tightened. "Did you find Lily?"
Zoey's amusement faded. "No. Nothing. Just wasteland and..." She gestured vaguely behind her. "Dead monster. You?"
Wolfen shook his head.
Zoey looked at him properly for the first time. His clothes were soaked—soaked—in blood. His hands were caked with it, dried and cracking. His face was clean, but the rest of him looked like he'd taken a bath in a slaughterhouse.
"Wolfen." Her voice was quiet. "What did you do to that person who attacked you?"
Wolfen looked down at himself, as if noticing the blood for the first time. When he looked up, his golden eyes held something she couldn't read.
"You don't need to know."
He turned and started walking.
Zoey stared after him for a long moment. Then she followed, her mind racing with questions she knew he wouldn't answer.
The wasteland stretched before them, empty and endless.
Somewhere out there, Lily was waiting.
And Wolfen was covered in blood.