Morning broke gray and heavy, clouds pressing low over the ruined town. The fires from the night before had died into black smoke that drifted across the streets like ghosts. Michael stood outside the gas station with his rifle slung against his back, scanning the horizon with the calm patience of a man who had lived through war.
Sarah leaned against the doorway, her face pale but alert. She clutched the blanket around her shoulders, though it was more comfort than warmth. Her injured leg had improved a little overnight. The makeshift splint was holding, and the swelling had gone down thanks to his crude antiseptic, but she still limped when she moved.
"You slept standing up again," she said, her voice still scratchy with sleep.
"Better vantage point." Michael kept his eyes on the distant streets. "I need to know what's coming before it gets here."
Sarah huffed softly. "Normal people just call that paranoia."
"Normal people don't last long in times like this," he replied without looking back.
The world was unraveling faster than either of them could fully grasp. Michael could see it in the small details. A school bus, abandoned in the middle of the intersection, its doors hanging open. The silence of birds nature's alarm bell. Even the way the air smelled faintly of rot, like meat left too long in the sun.
Every sense told him the outbreak wasn't contained. Whatever hope the government had of maintaining order was gone. He could hear faint gunfire rolling in from the distance, like thunder on the edge of a storm. Somewhere, people were fighting. Somewhere, people were dying.
And still, the cold knowledge inside him worked like clockwork. Ration inventory: three days. Water: low but salvageable. Medical supplies: dwindling. Evacuation route: highway west blocked, secondary road north untested. Risk analysis: high.
He breathed slowly and filed it all away.
Sarah didn't need to see the calculations running behind his eyes.
Later that morning, they moved. Michael had decided the gas station was a temporary shelter at best. Staying meant waiting for infected or worse, desperate survivors to find them. He had Sarah tuck her blanket into a small backpack, light enough for her to carry, while he packed their scavenged supplies into a duffel.
"Where are we going?" she asked as he taped her splint tighter.
"North," he said. "There's farmland that way. Open ground, fewer people. If we're lucky, fewer infected too. We can hold out longer there."
"And if we're not lucky?"
He met her eyes for the first time that morning. "Then we make our own luck."
She nodded, though he could see the fear behind her stubbornness. She was still young, still clinging to a belief that somewhere out there, adults had it under control. But after seeing the wreckage in town, he knew that belief was fading fast.
The road out of the gas station was littered with broken glass and abandoned cars. Michael kept them moving at a steady pace, guiding Sarah carefully so she didn't trip. His hand never strayed far from his rifle, and his eyes tracked every shadow.
They passed a burned-out sedan where the smell of charred flesh lingered, forcing Sarah to cover her mouth with her sleeve. She didn't ask questions, and Michael didn't offer explanations.
A mile down, they found a small bridge. Halfway across, Sarah froze. On the far side lay a body sprawled face down, blood pooled beneath its head.
Michael motioned her to stay back. Slowly, rifle raised, he approached. His boots crunched on gravel. When he nudged the figure with the barrel, it shifted with a sickening groan. The man or what used to be a man turned its head, eyes clouded, mouth twitching.
Michael fired once. The sound echoed off the bridge, scattering crows into the sky.
Sarah flinched at the shot, then whispered, "It was one of them, wasn't it?"
He slung the rifle back and gave a short nod. "Best not to wait and find out."
She hugged her backpack tighter. He could tell she was fighting to stay composed, but her lip trembled. She wasn't hardened yet, not the way he was. And maybe that was good. Maybe she didn't need to be.
By afternoon, they reached the edge of farmland. Rolling fields stretched out in muted greens and browns, broken only by a farmhouse in the distance. Michael crouched low, studying it through the rifle's scope. Windows were broken. No smoke from the chimney. No movement outside.
"Safe?" Sarah whispered, crouching beside him.
"Safer than town," he murmured. He didn't add the rest that "safe" was relative, and in this world, nothing was truly safe.
They approached carefully. Michael had Sarah stay behind while he cleared the house, moving room to room with practiced precision. The system in his head fed him small adjustments how to angle around a doorway, how to minimize noise when stepping on broken boards. It felt less like learning and more like remembering training he'd never actually had.
The house was empty.
He waved Sarah in, and she limped gratefully across the threshold. "It's… better than the gas station," she admitted, looking around at the dust and overturned chairs.
Michael nodded. "It'll do for now."
As evening fell, he set about making the place livable. He dragged a couch against the door, nailed shut two broken windows, and laid wire snares near the barn for small game.
Sarah watched him, brow furrowed. "You don't even hesitate. You just… know what to do."
Michael paused with the hammer in his hand. "When you've spent enough time in the field, it becomes second nature."
"But you weren't a builder," she pressed. "Or a farmer."
He met her gaze, voice even. "I was a commander. A good one knows a little bit of everything. Enough to keep people alive."
It was the truth but not the whole truth.
That night, as Sarah finally slept on a bed upstairs, Michael sat by the boarded window with his rifle across his lap. Outside, the wind swept across the fields, carrying the distant echoes of a world in collapse. He stared into the dark, mind racing with knowledge too sharp to ignore.
Solar power, improvised panels from scrap. Rainwater catchment with barrels and filtration charcoal. Basic antibiotics from mold cultures. Defensive chokepoints with overlapping fields of fire.
Every solution unfolded like a diagram, neat and merciless. He could build a fortress here if he wanted. He could make this place hold.
But the question that gnawed at him was simple: why him? Why this knowledge?
He flexed his hands and whispered into the silence, "I'll carry it. Alone, if I have to."
And upstairs, Sarah slept soundly, believing he was just a soldier who knew how to keep her safe.
Michael closed his eyes, letting the night carry his vow. He would keep the secret buried. Let the world think it was discipline, training, instincts. Only he would know the truth that something had chosen him to survive, and to make others survive with him.
And he would use it, no matter what it cost.