The icy demonstration left the room colder than the fading winter sun outside. After checking Mahin's numbed fingers (thankfully regaining color after releasing the ice), the trio retreated to the mansion's surprisingly intact kitchen. Haider stood under a lukewarm shower in a marble-tiled bathroom, the water sluicing away grime and gore, but not the weight of the day. As the steam rose, so did his thoughts. *Alone, I can fight. Survive, even. But to thrive? To find my family across this nightmare?* He pictured the relentless hordes, the mutated beasts, the sheer vastness of the distorted landscape. *Two hands, one pair of eyes. I need sleep, I need watch kept, I need... allies.* The efficiency of a team – someone to guard while he hunted, to cook while he scouted, to watch his back in the dark – crystallized as essential. The brothers, flawed but capable, seemed like a potential nucleus.
Over a tense lunch of scavenged biscuits, canned sardines, and precious bottled water eaten at the mansion's dusty dining table, Haider broached the future. "What now? For you two?"
Malik stirred his water, eyes shadowed. "Survive. Just... survive. Our parents gone years ago. No wives, no kids. Just us." He glanced at Mahin, who was pale but alert, nibbling a biscuit. "We had this job... now... nothing."
Haider leaned forward. "My family is out there. Somewhere. My plan is to get stronger – much stronger – find the military, get into a safe zone, and use their resources to search. It won't be easy. It will be dangerous." He met their eyes. "Join me. We watch each other's backs. Share food, water, watch shifts. Together, we have a better chance than alone."
The brothers exchanged a long, silent look filled with unspoken history and shared fear. Malik spoke first, voice rough. "You killed that hound. You... understand this power thing better. Mahin has his ice now." He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We're in. Better chance with you, Haider Bhai."
Relief washed over Haider. "Good. We move now. Pack light: dry food, water, practical clothes." They scavenged the mansion further: sturdy backpacks, durable trousers and shirts, a heavy fire axe for Malik that felt reassuringly solid in his hands, and a long, wicked meat cleaver from the kitchen for Mahin. Haider kept his sharpened iron spears. They carefully dismantled the barricade, the silence outside feeling heavier than before.
**The First Test & The Orb Revelation:**
Stepping back into the ruined street, the late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows. Four jombies, drawn by the earlier noise or just aimlessly patrolling, immediately turned their milky eyes towards them, emitting low moans.
"Mahin!" Haider barked, raising a spear defensively.
Mahin, face tight with concentration, thrust his hand forward. A jagged shard of ice, roughly a foot long, crystallized in the air with a faint *hiss* and shot forward. It struck a jombie square in the temple with surprising force, punching through bone with a sickening *crack*. The creature dropped instantly, lifeless.
Simultaneously, Malik roared, wielding the fire axe clumsily but with desperate strength, hacking at the neck of another jombie. It took several brutal blows before the head lolled and it fell. Mahin darted in, slashing the hamstring of a third jombie harassing Malik with his cleaver, allowing his brother to finish it.
Haider faced two. His enhanced perception made their lunges seem sluggish. He sidestepped the first, driving his spear point through its eye socket. Wrenching it free, he spun, using the reinforced strength from countless orbs to shatter the second jombie's kneecap with the spear shaft before finishing it with a thrust to the base of the skull. Efficient. Brutal.
But as the dust settled, Haider froze. Only near the two jombies *he* had killed did the familiar colored orbs materialize – one crimson Endurance, one purple Strength, hovering faintly. Nothing appeared near the jombie Mahin had speared through the temple, or the two Malik and Mahin had hacked down together. Mahin even walked right through the space where an orb should have been near his ice-killed target, utterly oblivious.
*Only me?* Haider moved closer to his kills. As he neared the purple Strength orb, he felt the familiar pull. But this time, he didn't need to touch it. When he was within a foot, the orb simply dissolved into a stream of light and flowed into his chest. The crimson orb followed suit moments later. A subtle warmth spread through him, a slight tightening of muscle fiber, a fractional increase in stamina reserves. But the surge was... *less*. Noticeably diminished compared to the first few orbs. *Weaker jombies? Or... am I needing more? Stronger prey?*
"Haider Bhai? You okay?" Malik asked, wiping gore from his axe, breathing heavily.
"Fine," Haider said, masking his revelation. "Just checking. Let's move. Stay sharp." He didn't explain the orbs. *Not yet.*
**The Road to Ruin & the Crimson Terror:**
The journey towards the Armed Forces camp became a grim slog. They stuck to side streets and alleys, Haider's perception field acting like an early warning system for lurking jombies. They encountered small groups of survivors – haggard families huddled in ruined shops, lone figures darting across intersections – but everyone maintained a wide, distrustful berth. No words were exchanged, only wary glances. They fought when they had to, Haider taking point, Malik guarding Mahin who conserved his energy for precise, chilling strikes when necessary. Twenty jombies fell to their combined efforts, Haider absorbing every visible orb, each one providing a smaller, yet cumulative, boost. They also ran, scrambling over rubble or hiding in stinking drains, avoiding a lumbering group of jombies fused together by glowing, crystalline growths, and a pack of hyena-sized, spiny rodents that chittered with malicious intelligence.
By late afternoon, exhaustion warred with anticipation as they neared the camp's outskirts. But the sounds they expected – gunfire, orders, engines – were absent. An eerie silence hung over the area, thick with the smell of smoke, burnt fuel, and something coppery and raw. They ducked into the skeletal remains of a mechanic's garage overlooking the camp entrance.
The sight was devastating. The fortified perimeter was breached in multiple places, concertina wire shredded like paper. Sandbag emplacements were overturned and stained dark. Armored personnel carriers lay on their sides, riddled with dents that looked like they came from a wrecking ball. Bodies in uniform and civilian clothes lay scattered, unmoving. The camp wasn't a bastion; it was a tomb.
"What... what happened?" Mahin whispered, his voice trembling.
Then came the sound. A deep, guttural **ROAR** that vibrated through the concrete floor they crouched on, shaking dust from the ceiling. It wasn't anger; it was a sound of immense, primal power, a challenge to the world. Peering through a crack in the garage wall, Haider's blood ran cold.
Lumbering through the center of the ruined camp was the source. It stood nearly five meters tall at the shoulder, a grotesque parody of a wild boar magnified to nightmare proportions. Its hide wasn't skin; it was cracked, crimson plates of what looked like volcanic rock, glowing faintly from within. Thick, dark smoke puffed from its snout with each breath. But the most terrifying features were its tusks – curved, serrated blades of obsidian-like material, each longer than Haider was tall, scraping furrows in the asphalt as it moved. It lowered its massive head, sniffing at a crushed jeep, then casually hooked a tusk underneath, flipping the multi-ton vehicle onto its roof with terrifying ease.
**Retreat and the River of Refugees:**
The message was horrifyingly clear. This monstrosity hadn't just attacked the camp; it had *destroyed* it. Whatever resistance the soldiers mounted had been obliterated. Staying meant death.
"No," Haider breathed, the word heavy with finality. "The camp is gone. That thing... we can't fight it. We run. Now. The highway. *Now.*"
No argument came. Terror lent wings to their exhaustion. They slipped out the back of the garage, moving like ghosts, putting as much ruined urban landscape between them and the crimson beast as possible. The chilling roars echoed behind them, spurring them on.
Half an hour later, panting and sweat-soaked, they stumbled upon a small bicycle shop, its windows blown out but the sturdy mountain bikes inside miraculously intact. "Quiet transport," Haider gasped, seeing the solution. They quickly chose three robust bikes, ignoring fancy models for durability. Within minutes, they were pedaling, the only sound the whir of chains and their ragged breathing, a blessed relief after the constant groans and roars.
Reaching the main highway was like stepping into another world. It was a river of humanity flowing under a smoke-stained sky. Thousands of people shuffled southward – families carrying bundles on their heads, men pushing carts laden with possessions, the elderly supported by the young, children crying silently. The air buzzed with a low hum of fear, exhaustion, and desperate hope. Military trucks rumbled intermittently along the shoulders, soldiers perched on top scanning the crowd and the horizons, loudspeakers blaring a repetitive, crackling message: "Remain calm! Proceed to the Mymensingh Refugee Zone! Aid and shelter await! Stay on the highway! Do not panic!"
The scale was overwhelming. The highway stretched as far as the eye could see, packed with humanity fleeing the mutated hell their homes had become. Haider, Malik, and Mahin exchanged grim, relieved glances. The immediate terror of the crimson boar was behind them, replaced by the immense, grinding reality of the exodus. They merged into the slow-moving current, becoming three more faces in the desperate tide, pedaling towards the promise – fragile and uncertain – of Mymensingh. The journey to find his family had just lengthened immeasurably, but he wasn't alone anymore, and they were, for now, moving *away* from the teeth of the apocalypse. The road ahead was long, crowded, and fraught with new dangers, but it was a road forward.