The world had gone quiet.Not peaceful—empty.
The highways, once clogged with commuters and trucks, now stretched out like endless scars through the land. Abandoned cars rusted on the shoulders, some with doors still hanging open, others with shattered windshields and dried blood smeared down the sides. Billboards flapped in the wind, torn by storms and neglect.
Nathan stared blankly through the passenger window as the landscape rolled by—gas stations, farms, small towns swallowed by weeds and silence. It had been weeks since the fall of the camp in North Carolina. Weeks of driving north, scavenging supplies, siphoning gas, and pushing farther and farther away from everything familiar.
They were in West Virginia now, deep into unfamiliar territory.
Nathan hadn't spoken a single word since the night his mother died.
At first, his dad thought he was just in shock. Then Aaron tried to joke with him, tease him like before. But Nathan never answered. He barely even made eye contact anymore. His face had settled into something hollow—not angry, not sad, just… gone.
His father drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the hunting rifle propped between the seats. Aaron sat in the back with a Glock on his lap, staring at the road behind them through the cracked rear window.
They never stayed in one place for long.Gas. Food. Move. Repeat.
The sun was beginning to set, painting the cracked pavement in gold and rust. Up ahead, there was a small gas station and a convenience store across the street. The place looked like it hadn't seen life in months—windows smashed, weeds pushing through the asphalt.
Dad: (low, cautious) "Alright. We'll fill up, grab what we can, and keep moving. No camping here."
He stopped the car at the pump, scanning the tree line and rooftops with practiced suspicion. The air was still, but that meant nothing. Quiet didn't mean safe anymore.
He grabbed the rifle from between the seats and stepped out to start filling the tank.
Dad: (over his shoulder) "You two check the store. Stay sharp. Be quick."
Aaron nodded, already climbing out. He tapped Nathan on the shoulder.
Aaron: "Come on, Nate."
Nathan followed silently, pulling his Glock from the waistband of his jeans. He moved with the cautious, rehearsed steps of someone who'd done this a hundred times. He hadn't spoken in weeks, but he didn't need to—Aaron understood his brother's silence now.
They crossed the cracked street, crunching over shattered glass and scattered debris. A toppled streetlight leaned against the convenience store's roof like a broken limb. The glass doors were shattered, the interior dark except for the dying light filtering through the boarded windows.
Aaron raised his gun slightly.
Aaron: (whispering) "We'll grab water first. Maybe canned food if there's anything left."
Nathan didn't answer. He just scanned the shadows, finger resting on the trigger guard, his eyes moving mechanically between shelves, corners, and the ceiling tiles.
Inside, the store smelled like rot and mildew. Most of the shelves were already stripped bare—empty chip bags, dusty bottles, a few half-collapsed boxes of cereal. Flies buzzed lazily around a dark, sticky puddle near the back wall.
They moved slowly between the aisles. Aaron grabbed a couple of bottles of water and shoved them into his backpack. Nathan grabbed a roll of duct tape and a lighter—both useful.
Aaron glanced at his brother.
Aaron: (softly, trying) "Hey. You holding up?"
Nathan didn't respond. He didn't even look at him.
Aaron sighed through his nose and forced a smile.
Aaron: "Yeah. Dumb question. Sorry."
Nathan kept moving.
Nathan didn't know what had happened to Matt. Or to Diego. Or Emma.He thought about them sometimes, in the rare quiet moments when the car wasn't moving and his dad wasn't scanning the horizon with that haunted look.
Matt was supposed to be invincible—loud, reckless, always laughing. Diego, too paranoid to die unprepared. Emma…
His throat tightened.
He didn't know if they were alive.He didn't know if he even wanted to find out.
And the soldier who trained him—Derek—the last time Nathan saw him was the night of the breach, firing into the horde near the trucks, surrounded.
They were ghosts now. All of them.
Aaron: (calling softly) "Nate—back room."
Nathan followed Aaron to a small door near the counter, half open. Aaron pushed it with the muzzle of his gun. Inside was a dusty office with a desk overturned and filing cabinets cracked open. There were water jugs stacked in the corner and a few sealed cans. Jackpot.
Aaron: (grinning slightly) "Finally. Something."
Nathan started grabbing supplies silently, moving fast. They both knew they couldn't stay here long. Gas stations were like magnets—for scavengers, for looters, and for infected.
Outside, the sound of a bird startled Nathan, and his heart skipped.He quickly scanned the doorway, gun raised. Nothing. Just the wind.
Aaron caught the look on his brother's face and exhaled.
Aaron: "We'll be fine. Just like always."
Nathan didn't nod. He just kept packing.
Back at the car, their dad scanned the tree line again, unease etched into every line of his face. The world might have gone quiet, but danger was everywhere. And deep down, Nathan knew this peace—their rhythm of survival—wouldn't last.
It never did.
By the time the sun dipped behind the trees, the Robinsons had already found their shelter for the night—a two-story house with paint peeling from the shutters and weeds curling up the front steps. Like always, they followed the same silent routine.
Aaron pushed the front door open with his Glock raised while their father swept the rooms with the hunting rifle. Nathan stayed close behind, his eyes scanning every shadow, ears straining for the sound of groans or shuffling.
They moved from room to room, clearing each space like soldiers on patrol. When they were sure the house was empty, they locked every door and dragged furniture against them—chairs, tables, whatever was heavy enough to buy them time if something tried to force its way in.
In the bathroom cabinet, Nathan opened the mirrored door and felt a flicker of triumph. Bandages. Painkillers. A half-used bottle of antibiotics. Even a first-aid kit still sealed in its plastic. He shoved everything into his backpack without hesitation. Supplies like this were rarer every day.
Later, wandering through the upstairs hallway, Nathan opened a door and stepped into a room that must have belonged to a child. The wallpaper was peeling, but the shelves were still lined with old toys. Dust covered everything. He noticed a Rubik's cube on the dresser, its colors faded but intact, and picked it up. He stuffed it into his jacket pocket without a word.
On the shelf above were books—the entire Harry Potter collection, spines bent and pages yellowed. Nathan stared at them for a long moment before pulling them down, stacking them carefully in his bag. Something about them felt like a tether to a world that no longer existed.
Downstairs, the familiar smell of mac and cheese filled the kitchen. Aaron was crouched over their little camp stove, stirring the pot with a metal spoon. The stove was battered, dented from weeks of use, but it still worked. Beside him, juice boxes scavenged from another gas station were lined up like treasures.
They sat at the table together—father, sons, survivors. The food wasn't much, but it was warm, and in these times, that was almost luxury.
Their father tried to fill the silence.
Dad: "Another day down. That's what matters. Every day we're still here—we're winning."
Aaron nodded, trying to echo his optimism.
Aaron: "Yeah. One step at a time, right?"
But Nathan just ate quietly. He didn't look up, didn't speak. The only sound was his fork scraping against the bowl and the muffled wind against the boarded windows.
When he finished, Nathan stood, carried his empty bowl to the sink, and left without a word. His father called softly after him, but Nathan didn't answer.
He went into the next room, one with a couch still intact. Pulling one of the Harry Potter books from his pack, he sat down and opened it, the pages soft and worn. He read until his eyes grew heavy, the words blurring into one another, and eventually, the book slid from his hand as he drifted into sleep.
Back in the kitchen, his father and Aaron sat in silence. Neither said it out loud, but both felt it—Nathan was slipping further away from them each night.
By morning, they were gone.
They had learned the hard way that staying in one place too long was a death sentence. Houses drew attention—looters, infected, desperate survivors. So before the sun was fully up, they packed their bags, loaded the car, and left the neighborhood behind without looking back.
The roads were quiet as they drove deeper into rural West Virginia. Sometimes they passed rows of empty houses, some with doors open.
Sometimes, the skeletons of burned-out cars lined the shoulders like warning signs. Every so often, they spotted the charred remains of military roadblocks, the sandbags scattered, vehicles overturned.
No one spoke much anymore. The silence between them was like a second language.
As night fell, they pulled off onto a narrow dirt path surrounded by dense forest. The car crept to a stop beneath a canopy of trees that swallowed the last rays of daylight. They didn't risk fires anymore—not since they'd seen the glow of one from miles away and found the camp overrun by morning.
Dad: "Alright. This'll do for tonight."
They moved efficiently, their routine drilled into muscle memory. Aaron unpacked the compact tents from the trunk while Nathan silently helped drive the stakes into the ground. Their father scanned the treeline with the rifle, making sure they weren't being followed.
Within half an hour, two small tents stood between the trees. Nathan crawled into his and laid out his sleeping bag on the cold ground. Dinner was quick and quiet—canned beans heated briefly on the camp stove, shared between the three of them as they sat in a loose triangle under the darkening sky.
The woods were eerily silent, the kind of silence that made every snap of a twig feel deafening. The wind whispered through the branches above them. Somewhere far off, a lone coyote howled, its voice carrying through the night.
Aaron: (softly) "I hate the woods."Dad: (checking his rifle) "The woods keep us hidden. That's what matters."
No fire. No lanterns. Just darkness.
When the food was gone, they zipped up their tents. Their father took the first watch, sitting against a tree with the rifle across his lap, his breath fogging in the cold night air.
Nathan lay on his back in the tent, staring up at the fabric ceiling. He could hear Aaron shifting in the other tent, the distant rustle of leaves, and the rhythmic sigh of the wind.
This had become their new normal—moving, hiding, surviving. No destination. Just away.
The sun climbed slowly over the treetops, cutting through the morning mist as they approached a small town tucked between the hills. It looked deserted—rows of faded storefronts, cracked pavement, and power lines sagging like tired ropes. A few cars were abandoned at odd angles, their doors open and windows shattered.
Dad: (scanning the horizon) "Alright. Quick and quiet. Grab what we can, don't get greedy."
They parked on the outskirts and moved in on foot, each with their weapons drawn. Aaron led the way, Nathan followed in silence, and their father covered the rear with the rifle.
The town smelled like damp wood and rot. Wind pushed stray flyers and trash down the street, making soft scraping noises that put Nathan on edge. He kept looking at broken windows and doorways, expecting movement.
Then he saw it.
Up ahead, near what looked like a diner, a single infected limped slowly down the middle of the street. Its leg was mangled, dragging behind it with each uneven step. It looked like it had been hit by a car weeks ago—bones sticking out at an unnatural angle, flesh dark and swollen.
Its head twitched every few seconds, nostrils flaring as if trying to catch a scent.
Aaron: (whispering) "One cripple. Easy."
Before Nathan or their dad could say anything, Aaron moved. He slipped off his backpack, drew the hunting knife from his belt, and began to circle behind the creature. His steps were quiet, practiced—this wasn't the first time.
Nathan watched from behind a rusted pickup truck. His heart thumped harder, but he didn't move. He just observed.
Aaron crept up until he was right behind it. In one swift motion, he grabbed the infected by the forehead and drove the knife up through the base of its skull. It made a wet, choking sound, twitched once, and collapsed.
Aaron yanked the blade free, wiped it on the creature's torn shirt, and looked back at them with a slight, breathless grin.
Aaron: "See? Quiet."
Nathan didn't smile back. He just stared at the corpse, the way its limbs had folded unnaturally, the faint gurgle that had escaped its throat. He didn't flinch anymore, but something deep inside him felt heavier every time he saw this.
Dad: (nodding approvingly) "Good work. Let's move."
They stepped over the body and continued deeper into town, searching for food, medicine, anything useful. The silence of the town pressed down on them like a weight, broken only by the occasional creak of a loose sign in the wind.
The rain started not long after sunset—soft at first, then quickly turning into a relentless downpour that hammered against the car roof like a drumline. Lightning flashed across the sky, followed by low, rolling thunder that echoed through the empty landscape.
The Robinsons had pulled off the road earlier that evening when the clouds thickened, parking on the shoulder of a cracked highway surrounded by dark fields. There was no shelter nearby, no abandoned houses in sight. So, like many nights before, the car became their refuge.
Nathan and Aaron slept in the backseat, curled beneath thin blankets. Nathan leaned against the window, his breath fogging the glass, his Rubik's cube wedged between his arm and chest. Aaron was slouched awkwardly beside him, head tilted back, soft snores barely audible over the storm.
In the driver's seat, their father sat awake, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the crumpled road map spread across the steering wheel. A red marker was clenched in his hand, its cap bitten from nervous habit.
The map was covered in a web of routes, arrows, and hastily drawn X's marking towns they'd already scavenged, roads they knew were blocked, bridges that had collapsed. He traced his finger slowly along the winding lines, searching for possibilities—a safer road north, a town that might still have supplies, a place far enough from the growing chaos.
Every so often, lightning would flash and the map would light up bright red for a split second, as if the ink itself were bleeding. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead.
Dad (whispering to himself): "Come on… there's gotta be something…"
The rain intensified, rattling the windshield. The sound drowned out everything else.
For a brief moment, he turned and looked at his boys. Aaron, the older one, who had adapted so quickly it scared him sometimes. Nathan, the younger, quiet, distant since their mother's death. They were both asleep, but even in sleep, Nathan's face carried a kind of haunted stillness.
He turned back to the map. His hand hovered over a stretch of road leading toward Ohio, then hesitated. He didn't know what awaited them there. He didn't know what awaited them anywhere.
But stopping wasn't an option.
With a heavy sigh, he drew another red line, circling a junction north of Charleston. The marker squeaked faintly against the damp paper. Outside, thunder rolled again, shaking the car slightly.
He didn't sleep that night. He just planned.
The weeks bled together in a rhythm of road, scavenging, hiding, and restless sleep. Every night brought new places—abandoned motels, shuttered gas stations, half-collapsed houses—but the routine never changed. Survival had become a pattern.
Then, one gray afternoon, they saw it.
A faded blue highway sign with white lettering:
MEDICAL ASSISTANCE CAMP — 1 MILE AHEAD
Their father slowed the car. The sign was weathered, but the words were still legible.
Aaron: (squinting out the windshield) "Think there's anything left?"
Dad: (grimly) "Only one way to find out."
They drove the last stretch cautiously, eyes scanning the treeline and the road ahead. The camp came into view as they rounded a bend: a cluster of white tents, some collapsed, others still standing, surrounded by empty metal barricades. A few military trucks sat rusting at odd angles, their tires deflated and doors hanging open.
The whole place looked like time had stopped.
They parked the car near the entrance and climbed out with weapons drawn. The wind carried a sharp, metallic smell—rust, rain, and something else underneath. A sign flapped weakly against a pole:
"CDC VACCINATION & TESTING CENTER — STAY IN YOUR VEHICLE"
Dad: (low) "Stay sharp. We're in and out."
They moved in slowly, picking their way between overturned tables and discarded medical crates. Plastic syringes crunched under their boots. Nathan's hand tightened around the grip of his Glock. Even the sound of birds rustling in the trees made all three of them tense up.
The camp was too quiet.
Nathan peered into one of the tents and saw boxes of medical equipment scattered across the floor. Some were empty. Others still had sealed supplies inside. Aaron was checking a nearby truck, opening glove compartments, looking for fuel or gear.
Aaron: (calling out softly) "Couple med kits in here. Some water too. Jackpot."
Their father was crouched near a supply crate, inspecting bottles of antibiotics, when Nathan froze.
Somewhere beyond the tents came a low, wet guttural sound. Then another.
Nathan: (whispering, stiff) "Dad…"
The sound grew louder—dozens of uneven footsteps, low growls, and the distinctive shuffling rhythm they all recognized too well. From behind the rows of tents and trucks, they emerged.
A horde.
Dozens of infected, their skin pale and torn, eyes bloodshot, muscles swollen with tumors. They'd been nesting here, waiting in the shadows like predators around a watering hole. And now they had caught a scent.
Dad: (yelling) "Back to the car! MOVE!"
The first infected let out a piercing scream and charged, the rest following in a wave of chaotic hunger.
Aaron raised his pistol and fired, hitting one in the chest. Nathan joined in, his shots shaky but fast. Their father swung the rifle up and picked off the leading infected, but for every one that fell, three more stumbled forward.
Aaron: (shouting) "They're everywhere!"
They ran between the tents, bullets cracking through the air. An infected tackled one of the folding tables, flipping it like paper. Another smashed through a medical tent pole, shrieking.
Nathan's heart pounded as he darted through a gap between two trucks, nearly tripping on a pile of tangled tubing. His backpack slammed against his shoulders with each step.
Dad: (yelling over the chaos) "Find an exit! GO, GO!"
The camp, once a place meant to save people, was now a death trap.
The infected flooded the pathways between tents, blocking their escape routes, forcing them to weave through the maze of barricades and supply crates, shooting when they had to, running when they could.
Nathan glanced back once and saw them clearly—the sheer number of the horde spilling out from the woods behind the camp. It wasn't just a few stragglers. This had been a nest.
And they had walked right into it.
The horde moved like a living wave, pouring out from between the medical tents and treeline. At first glance, they resembled people—but only in shape. Up close, they were something else entirely.
Their skin was stretched tight, pale gray and blotched with purple veins that pulsed beneath the surface. Tumorous growths bulged along their shoulders, backs, and necks, distorting their human silhouettes into hunched, animalistic shapes. Some had elongated fingers, nails torn and jagged like claws, from scraping endlessly at walls and fences.
Their faces were the worst.
The eyes were bloodshot, some even clouded over, but they twitched rapidly like predator animals locking onto prey. Their mouths were smeared with dried blood, gums receding to expose too many teeth, some broken, others sharpened by constant gnawing. When they screamed, the sound was raw and unearthly, like tearing metal mixed with a dying animal's wail.
One infected's jaw hung crookedly, broken but still snapping as it ran. Another had half its torso caved in, ribs exposed like a cage—but it moved fast, unaffected by wounds that should have killed it.
They weren't people anymore.They weren't even sick.They were mutated predators—the pathogen had changed them into something built for killing.
The Bite
Gunfire echoed through the camp. Nathan and Aaron followed their father through a maze of overturned tables and flapping tent walls, the horde closing in from every side. The car was too far.
Dad: (shouting) "This way!"
They cut through a collapsed tent, bursting out onto a gravel path lined with supply crates. But the infected were faster. One sprinted out of nowhere and tackled their father to the ground. The rifle clattered across the gravel.
Aaron: "DAD!"
Their father roared, grappling with the creature. Its teeth snapped inches from his face. He managed to jam his forearm against its throat and drew his knife with the other hand, plunging it into the infected's skull. Blood sprayed across his jacket. He shoved the body off and scrambled to his feet.
Dad: (breathing hard) "I'm fine! MOVE!"
They ran toward the chain-link fence at the edge of the camp. Aaron climbed first, then Nathan. Their father boosted Nathan up from below. As Nathan reached the top, he looked back—
And saw another infected burst from behind a medical truck and sink its teeth into their father's shoulder.
Nathan: (screaming) "DAD!"
Their father bellowed in pain and slammed the butt of his rifle into the creature's face until it crumpled, but it was too late. Blood soaked through his shirt. His hand instinctively clutched the wound.
Aaron jumped down on the other side of the fence, yelling for him to climb. But the look on their father's face changed—realization settling like stone.
Aaron: (desperate) "Come on! You can make it!"Dad: (quiet, firm) "…No. I can't."
More infected were coming. Dozens. The ground shook beneath their collective charge. Their father knew what was coming.
He turned to his sons, his face pale but steady.
Dad: (loud, commanding) "You run. You hear me? You run and you don't stop."
Aaron: (shaking his head) "No—Dad—"
Dad: (shouting now) "SURVIVE!"
His voice cut through the chaos like a thunderclap.
Then he turned, lifted the rifle, and charged toward the horde. Gunshots cracked in rapid bursts as he unloaded into the mass of infected, drawing them toward him like a beacon. His scream echoed through the camp—not of fear, but fury.
Nathan watched from the top of the fence, frozen, tears mixing with sweat and rain on his face. Aaron pulled him down by the arm.
Aaron: (yelling) "Nathan—we have to GO!"
Nathan stumbled down the fence, hitting the ground hard, but Aaron yanked him up. Behind them, their father was consumed by the horde, his figure vanishing beneath a tide of twisted bodies. But his gunfire didn't stop—not until the very end.
They ran.Through the woods.Through mud and rain and the sound of their own ragged breathing.
Nathan didn't look back again.
And suddenly, they were two.
And then, there were two.
Aaron and Nathan had been surviving out here alone for what felt like an eternity. The days blurred together into a constant rhythm of moving, scavenging, fighting, and trying not to die.
Aaron carried the rifle now.Nathan followed close behind, always watching his brother's back.
They scavenged abandoned houses, raided forgotten gas stations, and stripped wrecked cars for supplies. Infected were everywhere, lurking in towns, on highways, sometimes wandering aimlessly through forests like broken marionettes. They learned how to kill quietly when they could, and quickly when they couldn't.
Some nights, they were lucky enough to find shelter—an empty house, an old barn, even a shed—but other nights, they slept in tents, under bridges, or beneath trees with their weapons clutched to their chests.
When the world went dark and silent, and the adrenaline faded, the grief came back.
Nathan cried quietly, curled in his sleeping bag, shoulders trembling under the weight of everything they'd lost. At first, Aaron cried too, muffling the sound against his jacket so his brother wouldn't hear. But eventually, something inside him shifted.
Aaron understood.
He wasn't just Nathan's brother anymore.He was his rock—the only thing holding the both of them together.
He stopped breaking down at night. He learned to swallow the pain, to stand taller in the morning, to speak with a calm he didn't always feel. Because Nathan needed that. He needed someone to follow, someone who wouldn't crumble.
And so Aaron became that person.
They moved like ghosts through the landscape. Sometimes they had a car, sometimes they didn't. When the fuel ran out or the roads were blocked, they walked for miles, step after step, boots cracking against broken asphalt, rifles slung across their backs.
The world had become a graveyard.And these two brothers were just trying to keep walking through it.
The next day they found a mall.
The entrance was cracked open like a mouth, its glass doors shattered inward, littering the floor with jagged shards. Aaron crouched first, scanning through the dark interior, his rifle resting against his shoulder. Nathan followed close behind, Glock raised, his heartbeat syncing to the echoing drip of water somewhere inside.
They stepped over the threshold, boots crunching softly.
Inside, the helicopter crash had ripped through the ceiling, collapsing part of the upper level. Sunlight poured through the hole in fractured beams, cutting golden lines through the dusty air, illuminating overturned benches and shattered storefronts. The wreckage itself lay in the center of the mall—twisted metal and rotor blades splayed like the limbs of some dead beast.
Aaron: (whispering) "Eyes up. Stay sharp."
A low, wet groan drifted from the left, followed by the shuffle of dragging feet. From the dark maw of a shoe store, a lone infected limped forward. Its torso was burned black, skin peeling, one arm missing entirely. The light caught its face—half-charred, half-feral, with bloodied teeth bared in a silent snarl.
Aaron lifted his rifle, exhaled, and fired.CRACK.The bullet punched clean through its skull. The body crumpled instantly, limbs folding beneath it.
The sound echoed through the hollow building.
Almost immediately, other groans answered—a chorus rising from the shadows. Nathan's muscles tightened. He swung his Glock toward the escalators as a second infected appeared. This one was fast, bounding down the broken steps on all fours like a twisted animal, its jaw dangling loose and flapping with each movement.
Aaron: "Nate!"
Nathan squeezed the trigger. BLAM. The bullet shattered the infected's jaw and punched into its brain. It dropped mid-leap, sliding down the escalator in a smear of blood.
But that was just the beginning.
From a broken storefront deeper inside, three more infected burst out at once. One was missing its lower jaw, gurgling as blood dripped down its chest. Another had a grotesquely swollen shoulder, a tumorous bulge pulsing beneath the skin. The third was thin and quick, sprinting barefoot, toenails cracked and blackened.
Aaron fired two quick shots, dropping the first two. Nathan took the third, aiming for center mass—two shots to slow it, one final shot to the head. It jerked violently and collapsed in a twitching heap.
Aaron: (low, breathless) "Good shooting."
The mall's echoes amplified every sound, making it hard to tell how many were coming. Their boots splashed through puddles of rainwater that had collected from the roof hole. They moved carefully toward the food court, where overturned tables and debris made a natural bottleneck.
That's when a loud crash echoed from above. Nathan snapped his head up—three infected were crawling across the remains of the second floor, using the twisted helicopter frame like a bridge. They dropped down one by one, shrieking, landing like feral predators.
Aaron didn't hesitate.CRACK. CRACK.Two dropped mid-air, skulls bursting open like rotten fruit.
The third landed hard and scrambled toward Nathan on all fours, growling like an animal. Nathan stepped back, lifted his pistol, and shot it point-blank through the eye. Its body twitched, then went still at his feet.
Silence returned, but only for a moment. The brothers stood in the food court, guns smoking, the smell of gunpowder mixing with rot. Their breathing was sharp, but steady—they were getting used to this. Too used to it.
Aaron: (checking his rifle) "Alright. Fast. Grab what we can."
They moved through the food court first, checking counters and storerooms. Most of it had been looted long ago, but some machines still held sealed snacks and drink bottles trapped behind glass. Near a vending machine flipped on its side, Aaron knelt and rummaged through the rubble.
He pulled out a Gatorade bottle, half-covered in dust but unopened. He turned, holding it up with a small smile.
Aaron: "Hey, Nate."
He tossed it lightly. Nathan caught it, twisted the cap, and drank greedily, the cool liquid running down his throat. For a moment, his expression softened—almost like the boy he used to be, not the survivor he'd become.
Aaron watched silently, a mix of relief and sorrow flickering behind his eyes.
By the River
By sunset, they had left the mall behind and reached a quiet stretch of river cutting through the woods. The water shimmered with orange reflections from the dying light. They set down their packs beneath a cluster of trees, the air cool and damp.
Aaron pulled out some of the food they'd scavenged—energy bars, canned fruit, a bag of trail mix—and laid them between them on a flat rock. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
They sat on the riverbank, boots off, letting the water lap gently against their feet. For the first time in days, there were no infected nearby, no gunshots in the distance. Just the quiet rush of water and the occasional bird overhead.
Nathan leaned back against a tree, sipping the last of the Gatorade. Aaron stared at the river, rifle across his knees. For a moment, it almost felt like peace.
But they both knew better.
Aaron: (quietly, almost to himself) "We keep moving tomorrow."
Nathan didn't answer, but he nodded slowly.
The world was still ending. But for one night, by that river, they ate, they breathed, and they were brothers.
The fireless camp sat beneath a bruised evening sky. The sun was melting into the treeline, bleeding orange and purple across the water. Nathan sat cross-legged on the riverbank, absently tossing pebbles into the current. Aaron leaned back against a tree a few feet away, rifle across his lap, boots still wet from the river.
For a long time, they just listened.The water. The wind. The faint chorus of cicadas.No engines. No cities. No people.
It was peaceful, but the kind of peace that came after a battlefield had gone silent.
Aaron broke the quiet first.
Aaron: "It's crazy, isn't it? How quiet the world is now."
Nathan tossed another pebble.
Nathan: "Yeah… it used to never shut up. Cars, planes, people yelling, music everywhere."
Aaron gave a small, humorless laugh.
Aaron: "I remember complaining about the noise. Now I'd give anything to hear traffic again."
Nathan looked down at the water.
Nathan: "Back then, we never thought it could all just… stop. Overnight."
Aaron nodded slowly.
Aaron: "We built this world that felt so permanent. Cities, schools, malls, hospitals. All of it felt like it was gonna last forever. And now…"
He gestured vaguely to the darkening forest around them.
Aaron: "…Now it's just trees, and ruins, and things that want to kill us."
Nathan's voice was quiet, thoughtful.
Nathan: "It's like nature took everything back."
Aaron: "Yeah. And we're just… trespassers now."
The river flowed steadily, carrying away the ripples of Nathan's last pebble. He hugged his knees loosely, staring at the fading light.
Nathan: "Do you ever think we can fix it? Like… build things back up again?"
Aaron looked at him. For a moment, Nathan saw the older brother who used to help with homework, sneak him snacks past curfew, tease him when girls liked him. But that boy was buried under months of blood, loss, and hard miles.
Aaron: (exhales) "I don't know, Nate. Maybe one day. But not for us. Not like it was."
Nathan frowned.
Nathan: "Why not?"
Aaron shifted, eyes narrowing at the horizon.
Aaron: "Because what we had was fragile. We just didn't know it. One virus… one bad decision… and it all came apart. We built everything on comfort, not strength. And now the only thing that works is surviving."
Nathan fell silent, letting that sink in. He hated that his brother might be right.
Nathan: "I don't want to just survive."
Aaron's voice softened.
Aaron: "Neither do I. But surviving is the only reason we're still here. Maybe someday… when this all settles… someone will start over. Build something better. But for now?"
He tapped the rifle lying across his lap.
Aaron: "…This is the world."
The sky above them was nearly black now, stars poking through like old memories. Nathan rested his chin on his knees.
Nathan: (quietly) "It doesn't feel real sometimes. Like we're walking through someone else's nightmare."
Aaron looked at his little brother for a long time, then finally nodded.
Aaron: "Yeah. But it's ours now. Like it or not."
The river kept flowing. The night settled in.And somewhere out in the darkness, far away, came the faint, distant wail of an infected.
They didn't move.They just sat there together, two brothers in a world that wasn't theirs anymore, trying to make sense of it.
By midday, the highway was empty except for the whisper of the wind and the occasional bird taking off from the treeline. That's when Aaron spotted it — a small convenience store just off the road, its faded red sign half torn down, the parking lot cracked and overgrown.
Aaron: "We'll check it out."
They pulled over a little way down and approached on foot. Nathan followed close, Glock drawn. Aaron led with the rifle up, scanning the windows.
The glass doors were shattered inward, crunching beneath their boots as they stepped inside. The air smelled like stale sugar and rot. Shelves were knocked over, snack bags ripped open, soda bottles cracked and sticky on the floor. A toppled refrigerator door lay in the middle of the aisle like someone had thrown it.
They moved slowly. Every sound echoed.
Aaron swept the counter area while Nathan checked the aisles. He crouched, grabbing a couple of dusty cans that hadn't expired, shoving them into his pack. Aaron found a lighter and a few small medical supplies in a half-opened cabinet behind the register.
Nathan: (low) "This place has been hit before."Aaron: "Yeah. Keep looking."
Then—
Voice (from the entrance): "Hey, guys."
Both brothers froze.
Aaron's rifle snapped toward the sound. Nathan turned sharply, Glock raised.
Standing in the shattered doorway were five men. Young adults, maybe late teens to mid-twenties. Their faces were smeared with dirt, their clothes ripped and mismatched, but what mattered were the weapons—two rifles, two pistols, and a shotgun.
They stood in a loose formation, spread out just enough to feel threatening without needing to say a word. Their eyes flicked over Aaron and Nathan, sizing them up like wolves spotting new prey.
No one moved.The only sound was the soft whistling of wind through broken glass.
Nathan's pulse thundered in his ears. Aaron didn't speak. He didn't lower his rifle either.
The strangers didn't step forward… but they didn't step back.
For a moment, the store held its breath.