Chapter 6: The World Was A Wasteland
City B, September 14th? Year 0 of the Great Collapse
Winter's breath came in hard, shallow gasps, his boots pounding against the uneven ground. The stronghold, now a crumbling mass of infected chaos, faded into the hazy distance. A swarm of zombies had overtaken it, turning a once-safe haven into a fresh nightmare. He'd barely made it out, adrenaline and pure instinct the only things pushing him forward through the rugged landscape.
He had been running for days now, dodging the weather and stumbling zombies. He had not seen where the rest of his squad and the survivors ran to. Had they escaped? Were they caught?
He still refused to believe that Harker would have been foolish enough to lead the undead into their base. The bastard had been hard-headed, but surely he wouldn't do this, right?
Plus, he had yet to understand how so many of the creatures came upon the base without anyone spotting them.
It seemed like they just appeared out of nowhere. A teleportation power? No, what was the need to attack their base and not take the supplies? He thought as he tried to understand the motive of the attack.
He skidded down a small incline, nearly tripping on an exposed root as he righted himself. Reaching the cover of an overturned truck, he crouched down, scanning his surroundings. An expanse of dead trees stretched around him, casting jagged shadows across the lifeless dirt, and beyond that, the ruined remnants of old civilization—skyscrapers gutted and hollow, leaning like they were about to tumble any second. The city, still miles away, loomed darkly against the horizon.
He ducked behind a large boulder, clutching his gun tightly. He forced himself to calm his breathing before dropping his rifle to inspect it. Winter's fingers lingered over the cold metal, hesitating. He thumbed the magazine release, pulling it free to check his ammunition. Five rounds. Five bullets and hours, maybe days, of travel ahead to reach City B.
Great.
Winter steadied his breath, steeling himself. The city was rumoured to hold supplies. Food, water, and maybe even medical kits lay untouched somewhere in those broken buildings. Hope was thin, and he knew that. But thin was enough to keep moving. One step after another, he thought, sliding the magazine back in with a soft click.
A low, persistent hum seeped into the silence like the heartbeat of something alive, something vast and unseen. He looked back and saw the Mist creeping like a slow tide over the treetops, its silver-grey tendrils snaking through branches and curling over stones. There was something almost hypnotic about how it moved, undulating as if it had a mind of its own. But Winter knew better. He'd seen what the Mist did to those who lingered too close. It was no natural fog; it was a death sentence.