They resumed their flight west, leaving the sphere of absence behind. John took point, his suite of senses peeled for any signs of survivors below. Only monsters showed up on his Soul Vision as they flew, however, and it just wasn't possible to scan the entire town with Eagle Eye without forcing his comrades to float around and wait for him.

Really need to get a way to seek out humans specifically. Can't exactly go chucking around Supernovas if I don't know there won't be collateral damage. Clairvoyance, maybe?

The flight was peaceful in a way that felt almost surreal. They were hundreds of metres above the carnage, untouchable and free.

John found himself enjoying it despite everything. The wind in his face, the steady beat of his wings, the sense of boundless possibility that came with being able to just fly wherever he wanted. It was one of the few times since the start of the apocalypse that he'd felt something approaching relaxation. He hoped flying would always engender this feeling in him.

Of course, it couldn't last. The birds arrived about three minutes into the flight, appearing from seemingly nowhere to converge on the group.

Polly and Zazu came in first, the two parrots executing a synchronized dive that ended with them landing on John's shoulders with the precision of practiced choreography even while he was flying. Polly immediately dug its talons into the fabric of his shirt and squawked, "Twat!"

"Cockjuggling thundercunt!" Zazu added, its voice a perfect imitation of Ryan Reynolds as usual. John still refused to believe the parrot had actually met the Canadian actor. It had to be from a film.

Despite himself, John smiled. "Good to see you too, guys. Where've you been?"

"Fuck you!" Polly announced cheerfully.

"Gorgeous boy, precious boy, beautiful boy," Zazu whispered in an old lady's voice, and John felt that same lump form in his throat at the tender way the words were delivered.

He stroked the parrot's head. "Thanks, little guy," he whispered.

The crow arrived next, and John had to do a double-take. The last time he'd seen the bird, it had been about the size of an eagle. Now it was easily the size of a Labrador. Its wingspan broad enough that he could have used it as a blanket. The oily darkness that dripped from its black feathers was thicker now, leaving trails of shadow in its wake that dissipated slowly, looking like black streamers.

It cawed once, the sound way deeper and more resonant than a typical crow's call, then settled into formation beside John, matching his speed with lazy beats of its massive wings. Those abyssal black eyes fixed on him, unblinking, and John got the distinct impression he was being judged and measured.

Whatever conclusion the crow reached, it didn't share. It just kept flying, silent and watchful.

Last came the dove, and the bird was radiant in the most literal sense, shining with a light so bright it hurt to perceive directly. The crystalline quality of its feathers had intensified, each one glowing like sunlight, and the illumination pulsed in rhythm with its wing beats. Looking at it too long left afterimages burned into his vision.

The dove circled the group once, its light washing over them like a benediction, then took up position on Lily's opposite shoulder. The magical fire falcon didn't seem bothered by the proximity, and Lily reached up to gently stroke the dove's glowing feathers.

"Hey there, little one," she said, her voice carrying over the mild winds that were ever-present up here. "You're looking well."

The dove cooed softly.

John found himself wondering, not for the first time, where the birds went when they disappeared. They came and went with no warning, vanishing for hours at a time, then reappearing without explanation. What were they doing during those absences? Were they hunting? Exploring? Did they have their own objectives, their own missions assigned by whatever version of the System governed animals?

He wished he could ask them. Wished there was some way to communicate beyond yes-or-no questions and educated guesses. The crow seemed to understand him well enough, picking up on intent if not exact words, but there was a limit to how much information could be conveyed through nods and caws.

Maybe that was for the best, though. Maybe he didn't want to know what the birds got up to when they were on their own. Some mysteries were better left unsolved.

"Alright, team's all here," Doug called out cheerfully, breaking John's reverie. "That's five humans and four birds."

"Five birds," Lily sang, from atop her flaming falcon.

"Five birds," Doug corrected with a cordial nod. "We're practically an army now."

"An army of ten," Chester said. "Against thousands of monsters."

"I've faced worse odds," Doug laughed.

"When?" Jade challenged.

"Bingo night at the retirement home. You haven't seen competition until you've seen a room full of pensioners fighting over a cash prize."

Despite the situation, that got a laugh from the group. Even John found himself smiling.

They continued west. John's Soul Vision picked up the signatures below. There was nothing too threatening, mostly blues with the occasional green mixed in. Manageable, if they'd been on foot. Completely irrelevant from up here.

It was surreal, just… sailing over them at a jogging pace. Completely unthreatened by massive hordes. In other places, there'd be more flying enemies to contend with. One could even argue that flying would be more dangerous than walking, just down the road in London. He still remembered that red-souled angel monster gracefully floating through the air, only to drop like the hammer of god on some poor souls.

Watford was pretty unique in that regard, John reckoned, with its waves of monsters herding people into conflict. Everywhere else, the monsters that could go for them would just do so.

So it was a rare experience, this freedom, this peace. By the near-reverent silence from their group, the others felt the same way. The great threat of the monster waves had been pretty much trivialised, now. Literally beneath them.

Soon, the buildings below began to thin out as they passed the edge of Watford proper, giving way to fields and hedgerows and the occasional farmhouse. Just like that. There were more than a few laughs of giddy disbelief. The birds were probably wondering what all the fuss was about.

John found that he understood why they'd be reluctant to go back into that hellscape. He really did.

But he had unfinished business, and that was that.

The meeting points were spread out across a wide radius west of Watford, chosen for their remoteness, primarily. Golf courses, mostly, with the occasional church or community centre or petrol station thrown in. Places that were far enough from urban centres to avoid the worst of the monsters, but close enough that people could reasonably reach them on foot.

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If Alissa and Sam were at any of them, if they'd managed to reach safety with those two kids... well, then the plan could move forward. They could establish a proper base of operations, organize the rescue efforts, maybe even start building something resembling civilisation again.

If they weren't there, if something had gone wrong… or if they'd just left. The arrangement had been to wait a few days, a week at most. He didn't know how long it had been at this point, but he hoped they'd stuck around.

John pushed the thought away. Dwelling on worst-case scenarios wouldn't help anyone. He'd know soon enough.

The monster presence dropped off sharply as soon as the town was a little behind them, Mana Sense picking up only scattered signatures in the distance. This far out, it seemed the apocalypse hadn't hit quite as hard.

Or maybe all the people out here were just already dead.

"I think that might be a meeting point," Lily called out. She was pointing to the northwest, where a church steeple rose above the treeline. "Should we check there first?"

"Might as well," John said.

John and Doug touched down in the churchyard while Jade and Chester stayed high above, unable to do much if things got hectic, and Lily hovered nearby for support.

The church was old, grey stone weathered by centuries, surrounded by a low wall and ancient yew trees that cast long shadows across the graves. The place was quiet, but it didn't feel like an eerie, death-filled quiet. Just the simple absence of people.

John and Doug walked a circuit around the building while the others waited. He found no bodies or blood. The doors were battered and the stained-glass windows smashed, but there was no sign of anyone inside. Either no one had made it here, or they'd come and gone without incident.

"Looks clear," John said.

Doug nodded in agreement, then shouted: "Alissa! Sam! You kids in there?!"

There was no reply.

They lifted off again. The second flight was shorter, the golf course appearing quickly through gaps in the trees. John spotted the clubhouse first, a low building with large windows overlooking manicured greens that had started to grow wild in the days since the apocalypse kicked off.

The windows were shattered. Scorch marks blackened the white walls near the entrance, and there were chunks missing from the floor, like something had taken great scoops out of the concrete.

They landed in the car park. John approached the building, Soul Vision sweeping the area. Nothing living registered, but that didn't necessarily mean anything concrete. He pushed through the damaged doorway.

The interior was wrecked. Tables overturned, chairs broken, deep gouges in the wooden floor that looked like they'd been carved by claws or bladed weapons. A section of the bar had been burned, the wood charred and crumbling.

John crouched near one of the gouges. There was a strange sheen around it its ages, the cut too perfect.

"PvP," he murmured, stomach clenching.

Doug came over, examined the marks. "You sure?"

"Looks like the aftermath of a Spell to me." John stood, moved to where blood had dried on the floor in a wide pool. Too much blood for someone to walk away from. "Reds are the only ones I've seen use magic. Unless a boss monster came all the way out here just to get these guys… This was people killing people."

The group searched the rest of the building. More blood, more destruction, but no bodies. Whoever had died here had been moved or eaten, or whatever it was the monsters did with corpses. He hadn't forgotten that no bodies had been lying around on the streets of London even while bloodstains had seemed to be everywhere.

They found signs of a camp in one of the back rooms. Blankets, empty food wrappers, water bottles. Eleven sleeping bags in total. Someone had stayed here, made a base of it. The supplies were scattered now, trampled and abandoned.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or sickened at the amount of stuff here, because it implied that there were more people than he thought Alissa would have risked approaching.

There's always a chance that the people who got fucked up here were PvPing assholes themselves, and they got what was coming to them, John told himself. Did that make it better?

John walked back outside. The golf course stretched out in rolling hills and artificial water features, perfectly designed for people to hit small balls around for recreation. It looked absurd now, this carefully maintained fakery surrounded by the end of the world.

"Next one," he said.

The third meeting point was a community centre. Doors torn off hinges, interior ransacked. Signs of magic on the walls in strange circular patterns that looked like stereotypical Satanic crap. Blood in the corridors. Shell casings on the floor from what looked like a shotgun, though he was no expert.

The fourth was another golf course. Same story. Destroyed clubhouse, evidence of fighting, no sign of survivors.

John stood in the middle of the wrecked building, staring at a bullet hole in the ceiling. It didn't have to mean this was more PvP. This could have been defenders using guns against monsters attacking them. But he didn't believe that.

Even outside Watford…

Watford herded people together, forced them into conflict, made them choose between fighting other humans or dying to monsters. And then those who survived, who embraced the PvP, didn't stop when they got out. They kept hunting.

The whole setup made sense now, in a sick sort of way. Watford was a training ground. The waves weren't just about killing humans, or running some Hunger Games bull shit for the amusement of whoever'd set up the whole sick scenario.

People there had learned that the fastest way to get stronger was to take from others, led to believe that PvP gave better rewards than grinding monsters. And where would those people go, once they'd levelled up and escaped? To the places where other survivors gathered. The obvious meeting points.

He walked outside, his fists clenched so hard he was sure he would've been able to turn coal into diamond in his grip. The others followed.

"They're hunting survivors," he said eventually.

"We don't know that for sure," Chester said, but he didn't sound convinced.

They flew to the fifth meeting point, a small church similar to the first. This one had been burned. Not completely, but enough that the roof had collapsed in places, blackened beams exposed to the sky. The smell of smoke still lingered. No signs of survivors.

The sixth was a farmhouse, isolated and surrounded by empty fields. The building itself was intact, but the barn behind it had been demolished, walls knocked flat. John found drag marks in the dirt leading away from the house, ending at a spot where the ground was disturbed, recently dug and then filled in again.

A grave. Or graves. He didn't dig to find out.

Seventh meeting point. Another golf course, because apparently that's what the countryside was made of. The clubhouse was abandoned but undamaged. That should have been encouraging, but it just made John more wary. He searched every room, checked every corner, found nothing. They kept moving.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

All empty, or destroyed, or showing signs of violence. Burnt buildings, abandoned campsites, blood and battle damage.

John flew at the front of their group, scanning the landscape below. Eagle Eye swept across trees and fields and roads, searching for anything human. The birds flew in formation around them, the crow's shadow-dripping wings cutting through the air, the dove's light making everything seem slightly overexposed.

It was as they skirted around one of Watford's satellite towns that they finally caught sign of human activity. Just registered movement in his peripheral vision, about a mile northeast. He focused, narrowing the Skill's field of view to get a better look.

It was some kind of small industrial estate, warehouses and offices clustered together. And in the loading bay of one of the warehouses, people.

One figure in the centre, back to a wall. A man, wearing a white outfit, covered in blood. It was too far away to see details even with Eagle Eye, but it was Sam, he was sure of it even at this distance. Same build, same way of standing.

Around him, five other figures, vague blobs from this far, spread out in a loose semicircle. They weren't attacking, just circling, weapons drawn, though they were too far for him to make out what the weapons were, exactly. They all moved with confidence, with coordination, like a pack of hyenas harassing their kill.

There was no sign of Alissa or the two kids.

John wasn't sure he would have seen them even if they were out in the open. His tunnelling vision made it difficult to make out any other details apart from the dead men he was suddenly hurtling towards at full speed.

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