Ethan walked through the dirt path that ran between them. His bare feet made almost no sound. He called out once, his voice a rasp.
“Hello?”
No answer.
He stepped into a hut. Empty. A mat on the floor. A cracked clay bowl. No smoke. No scent of cooking. No footprints in the dust.
His stomach tightened, not from hunger this time, but from unease. A deserted village in the middle of the South Pacific during a war was never just deserted. It meant someone left fast, or someone made them leave.
He kept moving, following the path as it rose slightly into thicker trees.
That was when he saw the church.
It looked out of place and perfectly placed at the same time, a small wooden structure with a sloped roof, weathered by salt air and rain. A cross stood at the top, leaning slightly, stubbornly refusing to fall.
And then he heard the sound that made him freeze.
A broom on wood.
