Witchhunt • Prequel ✓

song of the goats.

[THREE MONTHS AFTER]

A boat was not what Jonah expected to wake up to. Nonetheless, that was what happened.

His tattoos seemed to be living to some extent. They reacted to things better than he did. The one on his throat tightened in his sleep, almost strangling him awake. He jerked and was immediately awake. Another perk of resurrection.

He was dangerously close to the waterline -- halfway up one of the Appalachian mountains. He could see the bloody waves and the spidersilk magic waving through them. And on top of that magic water sat a boat.

It took him a moment to recognize it as such, the sunlight shining over the waves in blinding shards. He sat up, nearly knocking his chair over. The boat was tethered to a building not far out, and a small rowboat dragged up on the grass. A line of smoke drew up from the trees into the sky.

Jonah grabbed his radio, turning it on. "Anyone awake?"

He let the signal crackle for a moment before trying again. "By that, I mean I got something to say."

"Go," came Ian's stick-up-the-ass voice.

"Someone came in and docked during the night. Many someones, I think? I'm gonna go check it out."

"Don't die."

The radio clicked off.

"Thanks, Ian. Love you, too." Jonah huffed a breath out and slung his legs over the edge of the building, sliding down the ladder to the street. He had a knife on one thigh and a pistol on the other, both of them unfamiliar weights.

His tattoos moved faster the closer he got to the camp, whipping anxiously under his skin. Danger, they seemed to whisper. Which was ridiculous because tattoos can't speak.

He lengthened his stride and put a hand on his hip as he stepped through the brush and came into sight of the camp.

Lots of people. More people than he's seen in a while, anyway. They were all men -- intimidating and significantly more muscular than Jonah. They wore military camo and had heavy-looking black guns attached to their bodies. And they were completely silent.

The tent cities were full of mutterings and chatter even when some calamity was imminent. His little gang was always full of jokes and taunts even when they'd gone days without food. But these guys were funeral-quiet.

Jonah kicked an empty can. The clatter of hollow steel against dry roots rang out like a gunshot

At least five muzzles were on him before he could open his mouth.

"Oh, wow," he said.

"Who are you?" A man with an impressive grey moustache and black sunglasses stepped forward. He was one of the only men not pointing a gun at Jonah -- probably the leader. His hair was hidden with a bandana.

"Uh -- Jonah. Hi. Who're you?"

The moustached man didn't say anything for a few seconds. then he made a hand gesture and the rest of his men lowered their guns. They didn't put them away, though. "I'm Colonel Evan Peterson, US Navy. You been here long?"

Jonah shrugged, putting his hands on his hips. "Couple weeks, give or take."

"Alone?"

"Nope."

Peterson nodded. He took off his glasses to reveal wrinkly blue eyes. "I'll need to talk to whoever's in charge of your group. We've been picking up civilians all along the Appalachians. With the rate this water's rising, there's gonna be nothing left of the world in a few months."