Chapter Forty-One: The Absurd Tales of the Old Beehive

The sudden appearance of the massive sinkhole threw the area into chaos. The drivers who had been camping and resting near the collapse were essentially wiped out. Though no one knew exactly what lay at the bottom, the gunshots and screams rising from the swirling dust earlier were telling enough.

Those fortunate enough to escape scrambled into their vehicles and fled. Even the curious onlookers who had initially wanted to watch the spectacle were now on high alert, abandoning any intention of being mere spectators.

These were people who had long haunted the lower city and the wastelands, survivors of the walking dead disaster, witnesses to the emergence of the Hive. Always living on the edge, outside the safety zones, they had learned through blood and loss to count the endless calamities of this accursed land.

Since the Hive’s arrival, not only had the climate and many landscapes changed, but countless plants and animals had undergone irreversible mutations as well.

Those who hadn’t witnessed it firsthand would dismiss it as rumor-mongering or attention-seeking lies; but those who had experienced the Hive’s effects were mostly silent. When they heard similar tales, they offered no explanations, simply memorizing the locations mentioned so they could avoid them in their future travels.

Hubi was one of those witnesses. His knowledge of the Hive was not based on speculation but on a harrowing brush with death.

A little more than a year ago, Hubi had been wandering the eastern lower city, mingling with the nomadic survivors who lived and thrived there. He lived freely, every night a celebration, enjoying life to the fullest.

Most post-apocalyptic nomads were pacifists. After the scourge of the walking dead, they cherished peace and avoided conflict with other groups, relying on livestock and constant migration across the wastelands.

They had grown accustomed to a life of hiding and evasion during the years of the undead rampage. They had no longing for the tranquil upper city nor any desire to meddle with the lawless lower city.

They were a reclusive people, sticking with those they knew, living the way they knew best, unwilling to merge with strangers, quietly nurturing the seeds of their own small tribes.

Hubi had joined the nomads thanks to a rare stroke of luck: he had saved the nomadic chieftain.

At the time, he hadn’t set out to help anyone. He’d been wandering the wasteland for ages, out of supplies and food, with nothing but barren yellow earth for hundreds of miles and no sign of human activity.

Driven by survival instinct, Hubi noticed traces of animal droppings and began tracking the wildlife across the wasteland.

By chance, following those signs, he came upon a group of nomads, and, in the midst of a fierce skirmish between them and some wasteland bandits, he appeared like a godsend, saving several of them.

The nomads’ constant migrations gave Hubi a chance to get close to the Hive.

At that time, he’d only heard of the Hive, never seen it, and remained skeptical.

One night, over drinks, the nomadic chieftain told Hubi how their tribe had encountered the legendary Hive during a migration.

According to the nomads, they’d found the Hive in a valley that, amidst the wasteland, was like an oasis—lush forests, clear mountain springs, a veritable paradise.

They thought they’d found an unspoiled sanctuary and joyfully settled in, planning to end their wandering and live by the mountains and water.

The peace lasted a little over two weeks before their dream was shattered.

The valley’s rich vegetation was perfect for farming and herding, so the nomads built their homes by the spring, sending only a few to tend the livestock.

At first, everything was idyllic: clear water, birdsong, a paradise untouched by the apocalypse.

Soon, however, animals began to disappear—first chickens and ducks, then cattle and sheep.

Suspecting other humans in the area, the nomads set guards, but the disappearances continued. Not only did the livestock vanish, but even the guards went missing.

They searched the mountains for signs of other people but found none. Instead, by the spring’s deep pool, they discovered the remains of animals and human bones.

It was clear: something lived in the water.

The nomads never saw whatever was taking their livestock and people. The drag marks left in the pens looked like those made by snakes or other soft-bodied creatures.

Ultimately, they made the painful decision to abandon their newfound paradise.

They had no means to discover what lurked in the water, nor the confidence to drive it out. For the safety of all, they could only leave.

But such a beautiful, rare place was hard to let go. Some suggested that, if they couldn’t live inside the valley, they could at least keep their distance.

They proposed building their settlement outside the valley, keeping the livestock penned, and sending designated teams to fetch water and gather grass. As long as they didn’t linger at the spring, perhaps the thing in the water would leave them alone.

Most agreed. Some even blamed themselves, thinking their presence had disrupted the valley’s balance, provoking the attacks.

Pacifists as they were, their self-reflection was profound.

The migration was halted. They settled near the valley rather than within it, content with what little they could have.

For a few more months, life was peaceful. Then, the nomads saw something truly bizarre.

The team responsible for gathering water and supplies began to change.

Some developed itchy skin that shed in dry layers when scratched. At first, they blamed the valley’s gentle climate—their rough skin, accustomed to the elements, was now softening.

But the skin-shedding worsened, spreading from limbs to faces.

The symptoms were confined to the work team; even those living with them were unaffected.

The tribe’s doctor guessed there was an allergen in the valley. The afflicted were replaced by a new team, this time fully covered for protection.

But things only got worse.

The first team’s symptoms didn’t subside after leaving the valley. The itching spread, becoming unbearable. Some, desperate, rubbed themselves bloody against rocks, but nothing helped.

The doctor, realizing the gravity of the situation, isolated one patient for observation. Soon, hard layers of keratin began to grow at the bloody sites.

Without advanced equipment, the tribe could only speculate that some infectious agent in the valley was causing a skin disease.

In the days that followed, the first team’s symptoms erupted in full. Even without scratching, thick layers of keratin spread across their bodies.

Within a week, the team was unrecognizable. Their heads, faces, bodies, and limbs were covered in tough scales.

They gradually lost the ability to speak or move. They lay on straw mats, unable to eat or drink, lips cracked and curled, bodies shuddering, reeking blood oozing from beneath the keratin.

The doctor was horrified, struck by a terrifying thought.

Following his advice, the healthy nomads carried one of the afflicted into the valley and laid him on the damp ground by the stream.

The patient convulsed, inching toward the water, and finally, with a slithering sound, slipped into the pool like a fish, vanishing for good.

In the end, the afflicted team was all sent into the water, and the tribe packed up and left their paradise for good.

After wandering many places and hearing tales from others, they realized that the valley might have harbored the legendary Hive.

Their companions, once human, had slowly mutated into fish-like monsters, losing all sense and reason, slipping into the depths never to return.

Thinking back on the traces left by missing livestock—the drag marks once thought to be snakes—it was clear those were the keratin-covered afflicted.

It was obvious: the nomads were not the first to discover the valley. Others had come before, seeking refuge, only to become the Hive’s first victims, mutating unknowingly, falling into the spring and becoming monsters. When the nomads moved in, the creatures caught the scent of life and began to hunt.

Hubi had initially dismissed this tale as a country legend. He could believe in some disease or infection, but not that living people could transform into fish.

The chieftain didn’t argue, simply saying, “You can see for yourself.”

So Hubi parted ways with the nomads and, following the route they described, spent two months reaching the valley of tinkling springs and rustling forests.

Though skeptical of the transformation, he was wary of disease and took every precaution.

Fully armed, Hubi entered the valley, found traces of the nomads’ hasty departure, and, as the story described, tracked his way to the deep pool in the valley’s heart.

To test the tale, Hubi did something only a fool would attempt.

He fashioned a giant fishing rod from branches by the pool, tied a rope, and secured a black-crowned rooster he’d brought for this purpose.

He settled on the shore, smoking and humming, full of anticipation.

Before he’d finished his cigarette, bubbles surfaced in the pool’s center. A huge black shadow surged up, snatched the rooster, and dragged the whole contraption into the depths.

Before Hubi could react, bubbles roiled along the bank, as if the water was boiling.

One after another, scaled, humanoid creatures crawled out of the water, writhing toward him.