The farmhouse walls groaned like tired bones. Every gust of wind rattled loose shutters, every shift of timber made Michael's hand tighten on the rifle. Sleep had become a luxury he couldn't afford. His body screamed for it, but his mind knew better. Out there, in the mist and shadow, something was moving.
The system's faint overlay pulsed again:
> [Threat Index: MEDIUM]
[Movement detected – 250m → 230m → 210m]
Michael squinted through the crack in the curtain. Nothing yet. Just trees swaying under the pale moon, a field of wet grass catching silver light. He hated how deceptive the quiet could be. Cities were noisy when they died. Countryside silence tricked you into thinking you had a chance.
Behind him, Sarah shifted again on the rug. Her small breaths were steady now, her exhaustion pulling her under despite the danger. Michael envied her ability to sleep, even knowing tomorrow might never come. Children had that shield ignorance mixed with trust. She trusted him. That was heavy armor to wear.
He checked the time on the system clock. 02:13. Another long night.
By dawn, the dots on the overlay had stopped moving. They lingered at the edge of the detection radius, as if testing. The infected weren't clever. But they were persistent. Eventually, hunger always won.
Michael stepped outside when the first pale light crept across the fields. Rifle slung, pistol at his hip, knife strapped to his boot. The air smelled of damp earth and smoke, the ruins of old fires carried on the wind. He scanned the treeline, saw nothing but the usual stillness. Yet the system overlay didn't lie.
He needed a plan. He couldn't just sit and wait for the house to be overrun.
Inside, Sarah was awake and watching him through the doorway. She clutched the stuffed rabbit, its fur ragged, and rubbed at her eyes.
"You didn't sleep again," she said softly, as though afraid to scold.
Michael forced a half-smile. "Sleep's overrated."
"You'll get sick if you don't."
The honesty in her tone caught him. He looked at her and saw Joel in her stubbornness. He crouched down so his gaze was level with hers.
"I'll rest when it's safe. Until then, I need you sharp. Can you do that for me?"
Sarah nodded, jaw set, trying to be brave.
Michael handed her the spoon from last night's meal. "Guard the house with this. Anyone comes in, you swing it like you mean it."
She laughed small, shaky, but real. It eased something in his chest.
After breakfast a meager slice of stale bread and water Michael brought Sarah to the front porch.
"We're going to start with basics," he told her. "If we're going to make it, you can't just hide behind me. You need to learn."
Her eyes widened. "Learn what?"
"Survival."
She hugged the rabbit tighter. "Like camping?"
Michael shook his head slowly. "Not the fun kind."
He showed her how to listen to the forest, how to tell the difference between wind and footsteps. How to breathe quietly when fear pressed in. He let her hold the pistol for a moment, unloaded, showing her how to grip it. She wrinkled her nose at its weight.
"I don't want to shoot," she whispered.
"Good," Michael said. "Neither do I. But if the world makes you, you'll know how."
Sarah didn't argue. She just nodded, eyes hard in a way no child's should be.
The system pinged mid-lesson.
> [Resource Discovery Nearby]
[Old Barn – 340m North]
[Possible Materials: Lumber, Tools, Fuel]
Michael stiffened. That was new. The overlay even marked a faint blue icon beyond the treeline.
He considered the risks. Leaving the farmhouse meant exposure. But if he wanted to follow the shelter blueprint, he needed supplies.
He turned back to Sarah. "We're going on a short walk."
Her face paled. "Out there?"
"Yeah. But I'll be with you. You trust me?"
After a pause, she whispered, "Yes."
That trust cut sharper than any knife.
The barn loomed like a broken skeleton among the trees, its roof sagging, boards peeled and gray. The doors hung crooked, one half-detached from its hinges. The smell of mold and rust drifted from inside.
Michael signaled Sarah to crouch near a fallen log. "Stay low. Stay quiet."
She hugged the rabbit and sank into the grass, eyes wide.
Michael advanced, rifle up, every step measured. The barn's silence was too thick. He pushed the door gently, letting the sliver of light cut inside.
Dust. Rot. Old farming tools rusted and useless. A broken tractor.
But there stacked in a corner were planks of lumber. A toolbox half-buried under debris. Gasoline cans, two of them, one still sloshing with weight.
Jackpot.
The system pulsed:
> [Resources Acquired: Lumber +12, Tools +3, Fuel +2]
Michael allowed himself a small smile. Progress.
That's when the growl came.
It was low, guttural, vibrating through the hollow barn. Michael spun, rifle raised. Out of the shadows staggered two infected faces torn, eyes wild, movements jerky like broken puppets.
"Shit," he muttered.
The first lunged, knocking into a crate. Michael fired once, the bullet ripping through its skull. The crack echoed too loud.
The second came faster. Michael slammed the butt of his rifle into its face, felt bone crunch. It shrieked, clawed at him, teeth snapping inches from his throat.
He shoved it back, drew his knife, and drove the blade into its temple. It twitched, spasmed, then dropped.
Michael stood over the bodies, chest heaving, ears ringing with the echo of the gunshot.
The system blinked:
> [Threat Index Rising – Noise Attracts]
"Damn it."
He grabbed what supplies he could carry, slung the fuel can over his shoulder, and rushed back toward Sarah.
She was crouched exactly where he'd left her, trembling, clutching the rabbit so tight its seams strained.
"You're okay," Michael said firmly, pulling her up. "We're moving."
She didn't ask questions, just clung to his sleeve as they hurried back.
By the time the farmhouse came into view, Michael could already hear distant shrieks answering the gunshot. Too far for now, but coming.
Back inside, he locked the doors, shoved the dresser harder against the back entrance, and dropped the supplies on the floor.
Sarah's voice was small. "They followed us, didn't they?"
Michael ruffled her hair gently. "They'll lose interest. We're safe here for now."
It wasn't entirely true. But children needed hope like lungs needed air.
That night, while Sarah finally drifted into exhausted sleep, Michael worked by lantern light. He patched broken windows with planks, reinforced the doors with scavenged nails, and set up crude alarms empty cans strung on wire, ready to rattle at the slightest touch.
The system tracked his progress:
> [Shelter Reinforcement: 35% Complete]
[Morale: +2 – Dependent feels safer]
Michael chuckled softly at that last line. "Dependent." That was one way to put it. To him, Sarah wasn't just a dependent. She was the only thing tethering him to something human.
When dawn came again, the world outside was still. Too still. Michael knew they wouldn't get many more days here. Wordless instinct told him the infected would sweep this way sooner or later. The farmhouse wasn't a fortress. It was a stopgap.
But it was something.
As he sipped cold water and watched Sarah sleep, her small hand curled around the stuffed rabbit, he let himself breathe.
The system pulsed again, almost like it was waiting for him:
> [New Objective Unlocked: Survive 7 Days in Shelter.]
[Reward: Advanced Construction Blueprint – Defensive Perimeter.]
Michael stared at the glowing words. Seven days. In this world, seven days might as well have been forever.
He looked at Sarah. Then at the rifle by the window.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath. "We'll give it a shot."
And for the first time since the city burned, Michael allowed himself a sliver of belief. Not peace. Not hope. Something smaller, sharper.
Survival.