The group left at dawn, cold air biting their skin as frost crunched under their boots. Michael led at the front, rifle in hand, map tucked under his coat. Tommy walked beside him, quiet as always, breath turning white in the morning air. Behind them came Alice, Frank the Firefly, and a few others strong enough to carry supplies back.
It was a long walk west through snow and trees. The mountains felt empty, but Michael's instincts never let him relax. When the wind blew across the hills, it carried the kind of silence that made your skin crawl.
That was when the system spoke inside his head:
> [Recon Protocol: Abandoned Outpost]
Objective: Secure weapons and medical supplies.
Reward: Blueprint Signal Relay Tower.
He didn't say a word to the others. He never did.
By late afternoon, they found the Firefly outpost.
It sat at the bottom of a valley, half-hidden by trees. The walls of sandbags were torn, the guard tower had burned, and bullet holes marked the barricades. The whole place looked dead.
"Looks like hell hit it and kept going," Tommy muttered.
Alice scanned the ground. "No bodies."
Frank's face went tight. "We burned our dead when we had time. If not… the infected took care of it."
Michael raised his hand. "Move in. Careful."
Inside, the outpost felt worse.
Beds were still unmade, blankets thrown aside. Half-eaten food trays sat on the tables, now covered in mold. Papers covered the floor like leaves. Shell casings cracked under Michael's boots as he moved.
The first fungus showed itself in the dining room. White cords spread out from cracks in the wall. At first it looked normal, the same infected growths Michael had seen a hundred times before. But when Alice's flashlight caught it, the light showed something different.
The fungus was thicker. Not thin strands but heavy ropes. The color wasn't just white anymore it was purple, with black veins running through it.
"That doesn't look right," Alice whispered.
Frank's jaw tightened. "It wasn't like this when we left."
Tommy stared. "Looks more like flesh than fungus."
Michael didn't want to admit it, but he thought the same.
"Keep moving," he said.
They searched deeper.
In storage rooms, crates of rifles sat stacked and waiting. Ammo boxes were wrapped in fungus like ivy. Some crates broke open easily, and inside were weapons still good to use. Alice found jars of antibiotics in the infirmary, and Tommy pulled out surgical tools and clean bandages.
It should have felt like victory. But every time Michael turned a corner, the strange fungus seemed thicker, almost alive, crawling up the walls and curling over metal.
Then they found the lab.
The lab was abandoned in a hurry.
Chalkboards were still covered in notes. Papers filled the floor. Glass jars with samples had broken, leaving black husks dried to the ground. A microscope lay cracked on its side.
Michael walked closer to the board. His chest grew heavy as he read the words:
"Faster growth in colder weather."
"New spore bloom heat release?"
"Host aggression different. Not standard Stage III."
"Possible new stage."
"Mutation accelerating."
Michael stared at that word. Mutation.
The fungus wasn't just spreading. It was changing.
He picked up a journal on the floor. Its last words were written in a rush:
We thought it was stabilizing. We were wrong. The Cordyceps fungus is mutating. Faster, stranger, beyond anything we've seen. If anyone finds this do not stay here. Do not think this is the end. It is still becoming.
Michael's hands tightened on the page.
They carried everything they could. Guns, ammo, medicine, even a box of radio parts stamped with the Firefly symbol. But none of it felt light in their packs. The silence followed them out like a shadow.
When they finally stepped back into the cold air, the group let out the breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
"Let's move," Michael said. No one argued.
The walk back was quiet. Too quiet.
Even Alice, who always found something to say, kept her mouth shut most of the way. Every so often her hand would brush the handle of her weapon, as if she expected something to crawl out of the trees.
Michael said nothing, but he understood. He felt it too.
By the time they reached the dam, night had fallen. Lanterns glowed from the windows, and the sight made their steps quicken.
When the gates opened, cheers filled the air. People rushed forward when they saw the crates. Real rifles. Real antibiotics. Bandages. Surgical tools.
For the first time in months, people laughed without forcing it. Sarah and Lena clapped their hands together. Kyle shouted with excitement and raised one of the rifles in the air like it was a trophy.
Hope burned bright again.
Michael smiled with them, nodded, clapped shoulders. But later, when the fire died low and the others slept, he sat alone with the Firefly journal.
The words stared back at him in the lantern's glow:
The Cordyceps fungus is mutating.
He opened his own logbook and wrote one line under it:
We thought the world had already shown its worst. We were wrong. The fungus is still becoming.
The system's whisper followed, cold and steady:
> [Data Analyzed: Cordyceps Mutation Accelerating.]
[Warning: Evolutionary Strains Expected.]
[Timeline: Unknown.]
Prepare.
Michael closed the book, blew out the lamp, and sat in the dark listening to the turbines hum like a heartbeat.
He wondered how long hope would last before the mutation showed its face.