Rotting leaves emitted a festering groan underfoot, each step like crushing some viscous organ.
The branches of towering ancient trees twisted into postures of prayer. Gnarled vines dangled like hangman's nooses. The undersides of the leaves, a sickly bluish-purple, oozed a fluorescent glow in the eternal twilight.
A cloying sweetness, a mixture of rust and musk, floated in the air, reminiscent of countless wounds slowly healing only to be torn open again.
Occasionally, patches of light filtered through the canopy, only to bend unnaturally before touching the ground, casting skewed, cross-like shadows upon the moss.
Inhuman whispers echoed through the woods, at times like the laughter of children, at others like the sobs of an old crone. But listen closely, and it became nothing more than the whistle of wind through bone.
The soil beneath the moss was warm; pressing a finger to it revealed a pulse-like tremor.
This was the Death Zone.
