Chapter 5: No food. No water. No weapon
The world narrowed to the thunder of his own heart and the ragged gasp of his breath. The guttural moans behind him were a wave of sound, crashing through the woods, closer with every second. Fear was a chemical fire in his veins, burning away the despair, leaving only a single, primal command: Run.
He didn't head for the open road. That was a death sentence. Instead, he plunged deeper into the woods, aiming for the most treacherous, overgrown terrain he could find. Thorns ripped at his arms and face, branches clawed at his eyes. He welcomed the pain. It was a distraction from the consuming terror. He stumbled down a steep, rocky embankment, sliding the last few feet on loose shale, his hands scraping raw.
At the bottom, half-hidden by a curtain of thick, thorny brambles and the rotting trunk of a fallen oak, was a crevice in the rock face. It wasn't a cave, just a shallow depression, barely deep enough to conceal him. He didn't hesitate. He scrambled inside, pulling his knees to his chest, forcing his body as deep into the shadow as it would go. The thorns formed a natural barrier, a painful but effective screen.
He pressed his back against the cold, damp stone, trying to still his heaving chest. He clamped a hand over his own mouth, biting into the flesh of his palm to keep from sobbing in sheer, unadulterated panic.
The sounds arrived. The rustle and crash of bodies moving through the undergrowth without care for stealth. Sniffing, wet, guttural clicks. They were at the top of the embankment. He could hear the loose rocks he'd dislodged skittering down. A shadow fell across the bramble curtain. A low, inquisitive growl vibrated through the air, so close he could smell the fetid decay on its breath. It was right there. Separated by a few feet of thorny vines.
Nate closed his eyes, praying to a god he hadn't spoken to in six months. He prayed for silence. He prayed for the wind to shift. He prayed not to be found.
The creature snorted, a sound of frustration. He heard it take a few steps, its heavy footfalls crunching on the other side of the thicket. Then, another call from further away, and the shadow moved off. The sounds of the hunt gradually receded, moving past his position, continuing on the false trail he'd hopefully laid with his frantic, noisy flight.
He didn't move. For an hour, then two, he remained frozen in his stony womb. The adrenaline faded, leaving him shivering, cold to the bone. The scrapes on his hands and face stung. The hollow emptiness in his stomach was now a sharp, gnawing pain. He had nothing. No food. No water. No weapon. The cabin was a world away, a journey he would never make in this state.
He thought of Kaelan's flat, wintery eyes. The casual way he had pronounced Nate's uselessness. He thought of Axe, a man of pure, brutish function. And Skylar, her silence more damning than any insult. She had none of the life he wanted to smash six months ago. Like all of her joy and the annoying women he remembered. They had taken everything. Not just the supplies, but his last shred of hope. They had reduced him to this: a terrified animal hiding in a hole, waiting to die.
A slow, hot coal of anger began to glow in the pit of that emptiness. It was a feeble thing at first, dwarfed by the vast cold of his fear and despair. But it was stubborn. It fed on the memory of the hatchet biting into the Ripper's shoulder. It fed on the weight of the pack he had carried for those few, precious minutes. It fed on the sheer, unfair injustice of it all.
They had the supplies. They had his weapon. They had full bellies and a secure position, somewhere. They had watched him risk his life, then stepped in to steal the reward. They had left him for dead as callously as if he were one of the infected.
The thought solidified, hardening from a desperate fantasy into a cold, clear plan. It was insane. It was suicidal. But it was the only option that didn't end with him starving to death in this hole or being torn apart in the woods.
He had to get his supplies back.
It was him or them. There was no other choice. The world had boiled down to that simple, brutal equation. He wasn't a handyman anymore. He wasn't just a survivor hiding in a cabin. If he was to live, he would have to become a hunter. And they were his prey.
He would follow them. He would find their camp. He would wait for his moment. And he would take back what was his. The food, the water, the hatchet, the rifle. All of it. He would kill them if he had to. The thought should have horrified him, but it didn't. It felt like necessity. It felt like justice.
But to hunt, he needed the light. Wandering around at night was suicide. The Rippers owned the darkness. He would wait. He would use the remaining hours of night to rest, to gather his strength, to let the cold fury inside him crystallize into a sharp, focused point.
He settled back against the rock, the shivering slowly subsiding as his resolve took hold. He was no longer just hiding. He was waiting. Planning. The terror was still there, but it was no longer in control. It had been joined by something else, something darker and more determined.
When the first faint hint of grey tinged the sky, filtering through the brambles, Nate pushed himself out of the crevice. His body was stiff, every muscle screaming in protest. He was thirsty, hungry, and weak. But his mind was clear.
He moved silently back up the embankment, his senses hyper-alert. He went to the edge of the tree line overlooking the parking lot. The Ripper bodies were still there, already attracting flies. He ignored them. His eyes scanned the ground where Kaelan's group had stood. He was looking for a sign, any sign. A boot print in a patch of soft earth. A broken twig. A scuff mark on the pine needles.
There. Leading away from the parking lot in a different direction than he had come, was a faint trail. It wasn't a path, but to his newly focused eyes, it was a highway. A crushed fern here, a faint impression of a boot heel there. They were good, but they weren't ghosts. They were three people carrying a heavy load, moving with purpose.
Nate took a deep, steadying breath. The dawn was breaking, casting long, skeletal shadows through the trees. It was time.
He stepped onto their trail and began to follow.