"This is a nightmare. Nightmares end. Don't let them end who you are"- Rick
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The sun hung low on the western horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and deep purple as it began its final descent. Ian watched it sink behind the distant tree line, and a knot of urgency tightened in his chest. Darkness was coming—maybe thirty minutes, maybe less—and he still didn't have shelter for the night.
Walking through the woods after dark would be suicide. Not just because of the walkers, though that was reason enough. But in the dark, every step became a hazard. You could trip over roots, fall into ravines, walk straight into a tree. You'd make noise without meaning to, crashing through underbrush, snapping branches. And worst of all, you wouldn't see threats until they were right on top of you. A walker could be five feet away and you'd never know until its hands closed around your throat.
No, Ian needed to find somewhere to hole up for the night. A cabin in the woods would be ideal—something small and defensible, with a door that locked and walls between him and whatever else was out there. But he'd settle for anything at this point: an abandoned car with intact windows, a hunting stand, even a particularly dense thicket where he could hide and hope nothing found him.
For the past several hours, Ian had been using Highway 129 as his navigation guide, keeping it in sight as he moved parallel to it through the woods. The highway ran generally southwest, which meant it would eventually lead him toward his destination. But more immediately, 129 would take him to Talmo, a small town he'd spotted on his map, positioned between Gainesville and Atlanta.
Talmo. Ian had never heard of it before today, which made it perfect for his purposes. A small, relatively unknown town wouldn't have been a priority destination during the evacuation. When people panicked and fled, they headed for the big cities, the places they'd heard about on the news—Atlanta and its promised FEMA safe zone. They wouldn't have stopped in some tiny rural town they'd probably never heard of.
Which meant Talmo might still have resources. Stores that hadn't been completely looted. Houses where food still sat in pantries and water still filled pipes. Maybe even a car dealership or mechanic's shop where Ian could find a working vehicle. The thought of cutting his travel time from days to hours was incredibly appealing. Walking fifty miles while rationing food and water, constantly watching for threats, was going to be grueling. Driving would be infinitely preferable—assuming he could find a vehicle that still ran, had gas, and could navigate whatever obstacles blocked the roads.
But that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight, he needed shelter.
As he walked, Ian's mind kept circling back to an observation that had been nagging at him for hours: the difference between Highway 985 and Highway 129.
When he'd first emerged from the forest near Gainesville, he'd caught sight of Highway 985 in the distance, the major route linking the Atlanta metropolitan area to Gainesville via the suburb of Suwanee. Even from far away, Ian had been able to see the apocalyptic traffic jam that stretched along that road. Hundreds, maybe thousands of vehicles sat abandoned, creating a metal graveyard that extended as far as the eye could see. Cars, trucks, SUVs, even a few buses—all of them frozen in place like insects trapped in amber, a testament to the thousands of people who'd tried to flee Gainesville for the safety of Atlanta.
Ian had made the conscious decision to avoid that highway, to take 129 instead. The reasoning had been simple: where there had been people, there would now be walkers. Anyone who'd died in that massive traffic jam would have reanimated, and all those corpses would still be there, shambling among the abandoned vehicles. Walking into that would be like walking into a shooting gallery where he was the target.
Highway 129 was different. It wasn't a major route—more of a rural highway connecting smaller towns and communities. When Ian had finally reached it after his trek through the forest, he'd been relieved to see that while there were abandoned vehicles, they were scattered and sparse. Maybe one car every hundred yards, sometimes more, sometimes less. Nothing like the bumper-to-bumper nightmare of Highway 985.
It made sense, when he thought about it. 985 was the main artery, the road everyone knew about. When the evacuation order came, when people panicked and fled, they'd all funneled onto the same highway, creating a bottleneck that had likely brought traffic to a complete standstill. But 129? That was local knowledge, the kind of route only people familiar with the area would know to use. Fewer people meant fewer abandoned cars, which meant fewer potential walkers.
But it also raised a question that had been bothering Ian more and more as the day wore on: where the hell were all the zombies?
He'd been walking for hours, covering maybe fifteen or twenty miles since leaving Gainesville. In all that time, he'd spotted exactly twelve walkers—he'd been counting, keeping a mental tally of every threat he'd observed. Twelve. That was it.
Some had been far away, visible only as distant figures shambling across a field or moving between trees. A few had been closer, near enough that Ian had needed to adjust his route to avoid them, circling wide to stay out of their detection range. One had been dangerously close—a walker that had been lying on the roadside, camouflaged among the tall grass, and had only revealed itself when Ian's movement had drawn its attention. He'd slipped back into the forest before it could fully lock onto him, watching from cover as it struggled to its feet and wandered aimlessly in the direction it had last seen movement.
But twelve walkers in total, scattered over twenty miles of highway? That seemed wrong. Gainesville had a population of... what, thirty or forty thousand people? Ian wasn't sure of the exact number, but it was a decent-sized city. Even if half the population had successfully evacuated, even if a quarter had survived or fled in other directions, that should still leave thousands of walkers. Thousands of reanimated corpses shambling around the city and spilling out into the surrounding areas.
So where were they?
The most logical answer, Ian realized, was Atlanta itself.
The evacuation order had directed everyone to the state capital, promising safety and military protection. Tens of thousands of people—maybe hundreds of thousands—had converged on the city, either making it successfully to the safe zone or dying in the attempt. And every person who died would have reanimated, adding to the walker population.
Atlanta would be drowning in them. The city would be packed with the dead, a urban hellscape of countless walkers packed into streets and buildings, drawn by the noise and activity of the living people still trapped there. Because if the safe zone still existed, if there were still survivors in Atlanta, they would be making noise. Generators, vehicles, gunfire, people shouting—all of it would carry through the city, a dinner bell ringing for every walker within miles.
And walkers, Ian knew from his earlier encounter, were drawn to noise. It was how they hunted, how they found prey. Loud sounds would attract them from incredible distances, pulling them away from outlying areas and concentrating them toward the source.
If that theory was correct—if the noise in Atlanta was acting like a magnet for walkers—then it meant the situation in the city was probably catastrophic. The safe zone would be under constant siege, surrounded by an ever-growing horde that pressed against whatever barriers had been erected. The military would be fighting a war of attrition, holding a defensive line against an enemy that never tired, never retreated, and grew stronger with every person who fell.
Ian sighed, his breath misting slightly in the cooling air. He wouldn't know the truth until he got there, until he saw Atlanta with his own eyes. For all he knew, the safe zone had already fallen, overrun by the dead, and he was walking toward a graveyard. Or maybe—maybe—the military had actually managed to hold the line. Maybe the U.S. Armed Forces, with all their training and firepower and resources, had found a way to fight this threat effectively.
If any nation could overcome this apocalypse, Ian thought, it would be America. The most powerful military on the planet, with more guns, more ammunition, more soldiers, more equipment than any other country in the world. If tanks and artillery and air support couldn't stop the dead, then nothing could.
But that was a problem for another day. Right now, with the sun touching the horizon and darkness approaching fast, Ian needed to focus on immediate survival.
He'd been scanning the forest as he walked, looking for anything that might serve as shelter. Most of what he saw was just woods—trees, undergrowth, the occasional clearing. Nothing useful. But then, just as the sun was beginning its final slide below the horizon, Ian spotted something through the trees.
A structure. Man-made, weathered wood visible between the pine trunks.
Ian altered his course immediately, moving deeper into the forest, away from the highway. He pulled the flashlight from his backpack but didn't turn it on yet—there was still enough ambient light to see by, and he didn't want to advertise his presence with a beam of light cutting through the gathering darkness.
As he got closer, the structure resolved into clearer detail: a log cabin, maybe twenty feet by twenty feet, with a pitched roof covered in wooden shingles. It looked old but well-maintained, the kind of hunting cabin or weekend retreat that someone had built decades ago and kept in good repair. A small porch ran along the front, and Ian could see a door with what looked like a proper frame and hinges.
Perfect.
Ian approached slowly, carefully, making minimal noise as he picked his way through the underbrush. Every few steps, he stopped to listen, to scan his surroundings, to make sure nothing was watching him or following him. The forest had gone quiet with the approaching darkness, the birds had stopped their singing, the insects had begun their evening chorus. It was the kind of quiet that could hide danger, and Ian was acutely aware that he was at his most vulnerable right now, moving through unfamiliar territory in failing light.
But he reached the cabin without incident. Up close, it looked even more promising. The logs were still solid, no obvious gaps or rot. The windows—there were two visible from the front—appeared intact, their glass reflecting the last rays of the setting sun. The porch boards looked sturdy, and the door was a proper solid-wood construction with a metal handle and what appeared to be a deadbolt.
Ian stood at the edge of the tree line for a long moment, studying the cabin, looking for any signs of occupation or danger. No light showed from inside. No sounds emanated from within. No footprints marked the porch, no indication that anyone had been here recently. The door was closed, which could mean it was empty or could mean something was locked inside.
Only one way to find out.
Ian pulled the SIG Sauer from his waistband, checking by feel that a round was chambered and the safety was off. With his other hand, he clicked on the flashlight, keeping it pointed at the ground for now. Then, moving as quietly as possible, he stepped up onto the porch.
The wood creaked softly under his weight—old wood settling—but held firm. Ian crossed to the door in two quick steps and pressed his ear against it, listening. Nothing. No shuffling, no moaning, no sound of movement inside.
He reached for the door handle, wrapped his fingers around the cold metal, and took a deep breath. Then, in one smooth motion, he turned the handle and pushed the door open, sweeping the flashlight beam inside while keeping the SIG Sauer raised and ready.
The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the interior of the cabin. Ian's eyes tracked the light, searching for threats, his finger resting on the trigger guard, ready to move if he saw anything that needed shooting.
Empty. Thank God.
The cabin was a single room, maybe fifteen feet by fifteen feet. A small kitchen area occupied one corner—a wood-burning stove, some counters, a few cabinets. A table with two chairs sat in the center of the space. Against one wall, a narrow bed frame held what looked like an old mattress. Another wall featured a stone fireplace, currently dark and cold. A few shelves held various supplies: canned goods, mostly empty now but a few still remaining; some tools; a lantern.
Ian swept the flashlight beam into every corner, checking behind the furniture, making absolutely certain the cabin was unoccupied. Only when he was satisfied that he was alone did he lower the SIG Sauer and step fully inside.
The air inside was musty and stale, but not unbearably so. Someone had been here—the supplies on the shelves proved that—but probably not recently. Dust covered most surfaces, though not as thickly as in the house where he'd woken up. This place had been abandoned weeks ago, maybe a month. Not years.
Ian holstered his weapon and turned back to the door, pushing it closed behind him. The deadbolt was there, just as he'd hoped—a solid metal bolt that slid into a metal housing in the doorframe. He threw it now, listening to the satisfying click as it locked into place. Then, just to be sure, he tested it, pushing against the door to confirm it wouldn't open.
Secure. Or as secure as he was likely to get tonight.
With the immediate threat of intrusion addressed, Ian allowed himself to relax slightly. He set his backpack on the table and began a more thorough exploration of the cabin's interior, using the flashlight to examine what resources might be available.
The kitchen cabinets yielded little of value—a few plastic containers, some dishes and utensils, a half-empty box of matches. Ian pocketed the matches immediately; fire was life in a survival situation. One of the cabinets held an oil lamp, the reservoir still about a quarter full. Ian took it down and carried it to the table, setting it next to his backpack.
The shelves produced slightly better results. Three cans of food remained—vegetables, from what he could see on the labels, which was better than nothing. A first aid kit sat on the top shelf, and Ian opened it to find bandages, gauze, some antibiotic ointment, and a bottle of pain relievers. He'd take that with him in the morning; medical supplies were worth their weight in gold.
A water jug sat in the corner, and when Ian picked it up, he heard the slosh of liquid inside. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed cautiously. Water, or at least it smelled like water. No telling how old it was or if it was safe to drink, but he had the bottled water in his pack. This could serve as backup if he got desperate.
But the most valuable find was a jerry can in the corner near the door, five gallons of gasoline, from the smell when Ian cracked the cap. Someone had probably kept it here for a generator or chainsaw. For Ian, it represented potential fuel for a vehicle if he found one. Five gallons wouldn't get him all the way to Atlanta, but it would get him a good portion of the way. He made a mental note to take the jerry can with him in the morning, even though carrying it along with his backpack would be awkward.
Satisfied with his inventory of the cabin, Ian turned his attention to the oil lamp. Using one of the matches from the kitchen, he lit the lamp's wick, adjusting it until it produced a steady, warm light that filled the cabin with a golden glow. He killed the flashlight to save its batteries, no telling how long they'd last, and he'd need it for tomorrow.
The lamp's light was comforting in a way Ian hadn't expected. It pushed back the darkness, made the cabin feel less like a potential tomb and more like actual shelter. For the first time since waking up in that abandoned house, Ian felt something approximating safety.
His stomach growled, reminding him forcefully that he hadn't eaten all day. Ian moved to his backpack and retrieved one of his two remaining canned foods, examining the label in the lamplight. Beef stew—not beans, thank God. He'd had enough of beans to last a lifetime.
Using his pocket knife—when had he acquired that? Another item that had simply been there when he'd needed it—Ian worked the can opener, peeling back the metal lid. The smell that wafted up made his mouth water: meat and gravy and vegetables, cold but edible. Ian didn't bother heating it. He grabbed a spoon from the kitchen and ate directly from the can, standing at the table, shoveling the food into his mouth with single-minded focus.
It was gone in minutes. Ian scraped the inside of the can with the spoon, getting every last bit, then licked the spoon clean. His stomach rumbled again, not satisfied but at least no longer completely empty. One can of food was barely enough to count as a meal, but it was what he had, and it would have to do.
Next came water. Ian pulled his canteen from his pack and tilted his head back, drinking deeply. The water was warm and tasted slightly of metal from the canteen, but it was wet and that was all that mattered. He drained the entire canteen, feeling the liquid settle in his stomach, easing the dryness in his throat.
That left him with only the 500ml bottle for tomorrow, plus whatever he could find in Talmo. The math wasn't good, but Ian had gone longer on less. Or at least, he thought he had—those memories of military training were still hazy, still not quite his own, but the confidence they provided was real enough.
With his immediate needs met, exhaustion hit Ian like a physical force. Now that he'd stopped moving, now that he was warm and fed and relatively safe, his body was demanding rest. He'd been walking for most of the day, had dealt with the stress of waking up in an unfamiliar world with incomplete memories, had killed a walker with his bare hands—or close enough. It was no wonder he was exhausted.
Ian moved to the oil lamp and adjusted the wick down, reducing the flame until it guttered and died, plunging the cabin back into darkness. His eyes needed a moment to adjust, but ambient moonlight filtered through the windows, providing just enough illumination to see shapes and shadows.
He didn't trust the old mattress on the bed frame—no telling what might be living in it after all this time. Instead, Ian grabbed one of the chairs from the table and positioned it near the door, angled so he'd face anyone or anything that tried to enter. He sat down, the SIG Sauer in his lap, his hand resting on the grip.
This wasn't going to be comfortable, sleeping sitting up in a chair, but it was strategic. If something tried to break in during the night, if walkers somehow found the cabin and started pounding on the door, Ian would be ready. He'd wake up immediately, weapon in hand, positioned to defend himself.
As he sat there in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the forest night—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl, the chirp of insects—Ian's mind wandered over the events of the day. From waking up in that abandoned house with no memory of how he'd gotten there, to discovering the West Point ID, to his encounter with the walker, to the long walk along Highway 129, and finally to finding this cabin.
Tomorrow, he'd push for Talmo. He'd search for supplies, for transportation, for anything that could improve his chances of making it to Atlanta. And then... well, then he'd find out whether the safe zone was real or if he was walking into a death trap.
But that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight, he was alive, he was sheltered, and he was armed. In this new world, that was about as good as it got.
Ian let his head rest back against the wall, his breathing slowing, his grip on the SIG Sauer relaxing slightly but never letting go. Sleep came gradually, pulling him down into darkness, his subconscious mind keeping watch even as his conscious mind surrendered to exhaustion.
In his dreams, he walked through a forest of the dead, their arms reaching for him, their mouths open in silent screams. But he kept walking, kept moving forward, because stopping meant death and death was no longer an option.
Not anymore.
Not in this world.