The forest was darker than it should have been for midday. The sheriff led a group through the trees, following broken branches and hoofprints that seemed too deliberate, too purposeful—like Thunder wasn’t fleeing…
But guiding them.
Behind them, the funeral was forgotten. Ahead, something was waiting.
After nearly twenty minutes, they reached an old abandoned barn deep in the woods.
Thunder stood outside it, perfectly still now. Waiting.
Then he let out a soft, painful sound.
The sheriff slowly pushed the barn doors open.
Inside, the air was cold.
And there—on the wooden floor—was a man.
Alive.
Barely.
It was William Carter.
But not as they remembered him.
His clothes were different. His hands were tied. And beside him lay medical equipment… and documents stamped with a name no one recognized.
The son ran forward.
“Dad!”
William lifted his head slowly.
His voice was weak.
“They said… no one would look here.”
The sheriff stepped closer.
“Who did this to you?”
William hesitated.
Then whispered:
“The people I worked for… weren’t farmers.”
A sudden sound came from outside.
Thunder stomped once.
Warning them.
The sheriff turned sharply.
“We’re not alone.”
Footsteps echoed in the trees.
And then—
A voice from the darkness:
“You should have left the coffin closed.”
Thunder lowered his head.
Ready.
The truth was no longer buried.
And now it was coming for all of them.
