The Outriders are an order born in the first year after the Fall, when it became undeniable that the infection would not burn itself out—and that no faction, no wall, and no ideology could afford to fight it forever. They were not founded to rule territory, protect trade, or preserve power. They were founded for a single, brutal purpose: to hunt the dead until none remain.
They do not claim districts.
They do not hold walls.
They do not take sides in faction wars.
Wherever the infection is densest—where cities are written off as unsalvageable, where no one else will go—the Outriders move in. They fight a war without front lines, without reinforcements, and without victory parades, knowing most people will never thank them for what they do.
At their peak, the Outriders numbered more than three hundred hunters. Operators, Ghosts, Vanguards, Engineers, Medics—drawn from every surviving walk of life. Many among them were Touched: survivors who endured exposure to the Animaphage without succumbing, left immune but changed. These hunters could sense infected long before others ever saw them, feeling the presence of the dead like pressure in the air.
It made them devastatingly effective.
It also made them feared.
Rumors spread quickly. That the Outriders were cursed. That death followed them. That wherever they gathered, disaster soon followed. The order never denied it. They understood the truth better than anyone: death followed the infected—not the hunters sent to kill them.
Ten years ago, the Outriders answered the largest call they had ever received.
An enclave known as Last Light was encircled by the greatest horde recorded since the Fall—tens of thousands of infected converging from multiple districts at once. The Outriders called in every active cell, every veteran, every trainee who could still stand. Over three hundred hunters answered.
For seven days and nights, they held the perimeter. They ran constant sorties, sealed breaches by hand, dragged civilians from collapsing lines, and fought without rest as ammunition ran dry and weapons failed.
On the seventh day, the horde broke through.
Last Light fell.
When the fighting ended, only thirty-eight Outriders were still alive.
They did not retreat in triumph. They left carrying bodies, wounded, and the certainty that even their numbers—once thought endless—were finite. The order never truly recovered.
Now, only a few dozen remain active at any given time. They operate in small, independent kill-cells, rarely gathering in force. There is no headquarters, no banners, no public leadership. Veterans train recruits quietly, often disappearing before bonds can fully form.
Names are passed down.
Armor is inherited.
Weapons are repaired until nothing original remains.
They still believe in eradication—not containment, not balance, not coexistence. The infection is not a force of nature to be endured. It is a problem meant to be solved, no matter how long it takes or how many of them die trying.
The city does not celebrate them.
Factions tolerate them.
Civilians whisper about them.
The Outriders accept all of it.
They do not ask for hope.
They make room for it—by killing what would end it.
And when they finally fall, they expect no one to remember their names.
Only that the dead did not win.