Dawn came thin and colorless.
The sky lightened without warmth, a dull gray bleeding slowly into the treetops. Fog clung low to the ground, curling around tents and vehicles like breath that refused to dissipate. Birds had begun to call, tentative and confused, as if the forest itself was testing whether it was still safe to speak.
Everyone was exhausted and drained.
The ranger station smelled like sweat. Rawlings’ body still lie in the middle of the floor. Vic’s body lay next to the couch, covered with a blanket that didn’t hide the shape beneath it. No one wanted to look at it. No one wanted to leave it uncovered.
Tony stood next to Hutch on the porch outside the ranger station. He peered through the early morning fog and was satisfied that they were alone. Tony rolled his shoulders, working stiffness out of muscles that hadn’t truly relaxed all night. The image of Vic, of what he’d become, sat heavy behind his eyes. Tony pushed the image away. There was no room for it now.
They were tired and hungry, but this was their window. Before the world woke up.
“We need to move the bodies out of here,” Tony said quietly. “We can put Vic and Rawlings in the back and carry this thing to the trees over there,” Tony continued. “Then we can go track Michael’s friends. Hopefully they’re still alive.”
Hutch nodded.
The two men grabbed the thing outside, careful to hold it by its clothes, and dragged it off to the side of the ranger station.
They walked back inside and Tony spoke to the room. “JoeJoe, take the front door. Memo, you’ve got the back door.” They moved quickly to their new areas.
“Michael, get yourself ready to go find your friends,” Michael nodded.
Tony continued, “Hutch and I are going to move Vic and Rawlings out back. When we’re done, we’ll be ready to go.”
“Can we do anything to help?” Chelsey asked.
“Actually yes. Chelsey, can you and Jackie work together to clean the area a bit? Memo and JoeJoe can lend a hand as well. And Veronica, I’d like you to gather and sort whatever first aid supplies we have and organize them in a way that they are ready in case-“
“No problem.” The girls responded.
Everyone went to work trying to make the best of their situation. After Tony and Hutch had removed the bodies, Tony said, “Michael. You’re with us.” He looked at the group. “We are going to go look for Michael’s friends. We won’t be long.”
Everyone nodded.
Michael moved toward the guys at the door and Chelsey stepped forward slightly, and for just a moment, her hand almost reached toward Michael before she stopped herself.
Michael didn’t seem to notice.
They armed up quietly.
Hutch grabbed the Remington 870 shotgun, chamber checked, posture instantly different. Predatory and precise. Tony slid the tomahawk from his belt, its edge nicked and ugly, honest in a way firearms sometimes weren’t. Michael wrapped his fingers around the hammer, knuckles white, jaw set. He looked young in the early light. Too young for this. But his eyes were clear.
Tony stopped in front of JoeJoe and pressed the Glock back into his hand.
“You’re in charge while we’re gone,” Tony said. “You see anything that doesn’t feel right, you don’t wait. You don’t hesitate.”
JoeJoe swallowed, nodded. “I got it.”
JoeJoe looked at Memo, at Veronica, at the girls working to prepare the station. He’d worked construction for the last ten years. He’d never led anyone in his life.
And now he was responsible for their survival.
Memo stood nearby, the machete resting against his shoulder. Its blade was long, spotted with rust and looked stained with something darker. Veronica had a couple of first aid kits spread out on the floor near Memo’s tactical shovel, its steel edge dull but solid. Jackie and Chelsey were busy cleaning the lobby.
They looked like survivors already.
They just didn’t know it yet.
Tony, Hutch and Michael stepped outside, cautiously.
The three men looked around, quietly cursing their bad luck. A dense layer of fog had settled over the mountain, covering the campsite. Visibility was cut to about 50 feet.
“This wont be easy.” Tony said quietly. “We don’t chase. We don’t split. If it turns bad, we pull back together. Understood?”
Michael nodded. Hutch already was moving.
* * *
The campground in daylight was a desolate scene, though the heavy fog obscured much of the details.
Empty tents flapped in the wind like ghosts. Coolers sat overturned, their contents long since spoiled or scattered. A child’s doll lay in the dirt near one site, one arm extended upward as if reaching for help that never came.
Michael’s breathing was shallow. Every few steps, he’d slow, staring at the chaos like if he looked hard enough, he could rewind time.
Site B-17 appeared ahead.
Michael’s pace accelerated immediately. “There. That’s their site.”
But something in his voice had changed. He was bracing for something his mind already knew was true.
The campsite was worse in the fog than it had been in darkness.
The chaos was clearer now: the snapped tent pole, the footprints cutting erratically through the dirt, the deep gouges where something had been dragged. Cooler contents were scattered everywhere. A blanket lay twisted in the dirt, partially buried under broken camp chairs.
Michael stood at the edge of the site, just staring.
“Rick’s sleeping bag,” he said quietly. “That’s Rick’s. He – he just bought it. He was so excited to use it.”
He spoke about it in past tense. He already knew.
Tony crouched low, studying the ground. “Tire marks,” Hutch said, pointing.
They led away from the campsite, deep grooves pressed into the dirt, heading toward a shallow ravine beyond the tree line. The tracks were frantic; swerving, correcting, panic translated into rubber and dirt.
The men followed the tracks through the fog.
Hutch, in the lead, cocked his head to one side. Listening.
Tony heard it too. The distant rhythm of an idling engine.
They continued moving together.
The ravine cut across the forest floor like a scar, no more than three feet deep, narrow enough to cross without much effort. The tire tracks plunged straight through it, crushing brush and saplings, climbing the opposite embankment at an angle that made Tony’s stomach tighten.
The sound of a vehicle idling grew louder as they approached.
Michael was moving faster now, his earlier caution abandoned.
“Michael,” Tony called softly. “Slow down.”
But Michael didn’t. He was thirty feet ahead when he stopped abruptly.
The car was barely visible through the fog.
It sat nose-first against a massive oak, engine still idling in a low, uneven rumble. The vehicle’s hood was crunched around the trunk of the oak like twisted foil. The impact had been hard enough to buckle the front end and cave the glass. The windshield was spiderwebbed, spotted in places with dried blood.
The driver’s side window was gone.
Inside, Eric was still strapped into the driver’s seat.
A massive bite wound had torn open the side of his neck. Blood had dried dark across his collar and chest. Multiple bite marks were also visible on his right arm and hand. Eric’s head had fallen sideways against the headrest. His eyes were open and empty. But they were Eric’s eyes, not the grotesque milky eyes they had expected.
One hand was still clamped around the steering wheel.
Michael made a sound. Not quite a scream, not quite a sob. Something between pain and disbelief.
“Michael-” Tony started. “Careful.”
Then Tony looked across the front seat.
Mchael’s friend, Rick, was sitting upright in the passenger seat with seatbelt locked tight across his chest. His head rested against the headrest, staring off into nothing, as his hands clawed into the fabric of the seat hard enough to whiten the knuckles. Blackened veins extended outward from the dark black circles around his eyes. Dried blood stained his mouth and chin and his eyes were open, milky and unfocused.
As they stepped closer, Michael’s boot scraped the ground, causing a slight scratching sound.
And as Tony watched, Rick’s head moved in response to the noise.
He turned his head slowly and jerky, toward the shattered window. Toward them. Black flesh with ugly, veiny tenacles encircled his mottled, clouded eyes.
Rick’s mouth opened and closed. No sound came out at first. Just a wet, rattling breath. Then a low sound dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest. It was a groan warped by hunger into something more animal than human.
Michael staggered back, breath hitching. “Oh God… oh God…”
“They’re gone,” Tony said quietly, hand on his shoulder. Protective and supportive at the same time. “Don’t get closer. Don’t look.”
But Michael didn’t listen. Or maybe he couldn’t. His eyes stayed locked on the car, on what was left of his friends. Two of his best friends were there, trapped in the car. Eric was dead. Rick wasn’t. Not yet.
Rick twitched hard against the belt. One arm jerked upward and smacked against the passenger window. His teeth clicked together as his jaws worked.
Tony grabbed Michael and pulled him backward. Hard.
The rear passenger door hung open. Hutch’s gaze was focused on the ground.
“Someone got out,” Hutch said. His voice was tight. “Someone ran.”
Footprints led away from the vehicle. They looked erratic, panicked, deep enough to show someone had been running. They disappeared into the trees, heading downslope back toward the ravine.
“Drew,” Michael whispered. “It has to be Drew.”
Behind them, Rick made that sound again. That wet, rattling moan. His head lolled back against the seat as his jaws gnashed together.
Tony didn’t look back.
They followed the tracks downslope, careful now, every step deliberate.
Branches were snapped at shoulder height, indicating someone had run hard through here, crashing through brush without care. There were signs of a fall: disturbed earth, handprints where someone had caught themselves.
Michael’s breathing accelerated. “Drew! Drew!”
“Quiet,” Tony hissed.
But Michael couldn’t help it. He was terrified and hopeful in equal measure; the two emotions conflicting in his voice.
They moved deeper into the trees where the fog seemed to condense even further.
Hutch raised the shotgun slightly. “Movement. One o’clock.”
Tony held the tomahawk ready to strike.
A figure emerged slowly from behind a massive fallen log. He was barely visible through the heavy fog. His hands raised. Face streaked with dirt and dried blood. Eyes wild but focused. Moving very carefully.
“Don’t shoot,” the man said, voice hoarse and trembling. “Please. Don’t shoot.”
It took Tony a moment to recognize him.
Drew. Alive.
But not the Drew he’d known. This Drew was hollow-eyed, traumatized, moving like someone who expected to die at any moment. His shirt was torn and blood-soaked. Small scratches were visible on his arms, likely from running through the trees at night to get out of danger.
“Drew!” Michael breathed.
“Michael?” Drew called out, voice breaking. “Michael, is that—is that you?”
Michael rushed forward.
Tony grabbed his arm, yanking him backward. Not to be cruel, but because Drew was still fifty feet away and they didn’t know what else might be in those woods. They didn’t know if Drew was bitten. They didn’t know if something had followed him.
Michael regained his balance and looked at Tony, confused and desperate.
Tony loosened his grip and gave a small nod: Go. But carefully.
Michael ran forward toward Drew. Tony and Hutch kept their weapons ready, eyes on the tree line, searching for movement, for threats, for anything that might emerge from the shadows.
Michael and Drew embraced.
“You’re okay,” Michael said quietly. “You’re okay.”
But Drew was shaking so hard it was visible from twenty feet away. His entire body was trembling from the combination of cold and fear.
“I hid,” Drew said, words tumbling out fast now that he could finally speak. “Rick- Rick turned so fast. Then he bit Eric as we were trying to get away. I jumped out. I ran. I didn’t know where I was going. I just ran.”
He shook his head as his voice cracked. “Rick’s eyes were black. He lunged at me and I– I hit him with the flashlight and ran. I don’t think I’m bitten. I don’t think anything got me, but I was so scared and everything happened so fast…”
Tony scanned Drew. He checked his eyes. Neck, arms, hands, torso. Looking for bites, for tears in skin, for the telltale black spiderwebbing that meant infection.
No bites. No discoloration.
No obvious wounds beyond the minor scratches.
Drew was clean.
“How long ago?” Hutch asked, stepping closer but keeping the shotgun ready.
“During the night,” Drew said. “I stayed quiet. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t move. All night I could hear screams and yelling coming from the campground. I was afraid that if I made noise…” He couldn’t finish.
“It’s alright Drew. We’re here. We’re taking you with us,” Tony finished quietly.
Drew nodded, tears streaming down his face. He sagged with relief, and Michael caught him as his legs nearly gave out.
* * *
They returned to the ranger station in silence, the weight of what they’d found pressing down on all of them like the fog that surrounded them.
Michael moved mechanically, one hand on Drew’s shoulder as if to confirm he was real. Real and alive. His other two friends were not.
The knowledge of that sat in Tony’s stomach like a stone. He was devastated for his brother’s loss.
Inside, Tony closed the door behind them. For a moment, no one moved.
The ranger station was small. Crowded.
Chelsey saw Michael’s face and stood up immediately. She didn’t ask what they’d found. She already knew by looking at him.
She crossed the room and without speaking, pulled Michael into an embrace.
Michael stood there for just a moment. Shocked. Resistant. And then something in him broke. He collapsed into her, his face pressed into her shoulder, his body shaking with sobs he’d been holding back since he realized his friends were gone.
Chelsey’s arms tightened around him. She didn’t speak. She just held him while he grieved.
No one else moved. No one knew what to do with this moment.
Veronica’s eyes were wet as she began checking over Drew. Jackie pretended to help, giving Chelsey and Michael some privacy. JoeJoe stood rigidly by the window, still holding the Glock, still on watch.
Memo leaned the machete against the wall and sat down heavily, the weight of being a father, of having a daughter waiting for him at his in-laws apartment, had finally caught up to him.
Drew stood in the center of the room, still shaking, wrapped in a blanket that someone had put around his shoulders. He kept opening his mouth to speak and then closing it, as if the words for what had happened simply didn’t exist.
Veronica asked if he wanted to use the bathroom to wash up, and then helped him to bathroom. She dutifully waited outside for him.
When he returned, she handed him one of the water bottles they procured from a stash hidden under the desk in the office.
“Drink,” Veronica said quietly. Encouraging. “Small sips.”
Tony allowed the group a few minutes to process what had happened. Then he stepped into the center of the lobby.
“We know a little more now,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. Everyone looked at him. “We know it spreads through a bite. We know how fast it spreads. We know what it does. We know the infected retain some awareness. They can track movement, they respond to noises and lights.”
He paused, thinking about his next words carefully. “And we know they want to hurt us.”
“They want to eat us.” Drew said, hoarsely.
Tony nodded. “This isn’t stopping. It’s not going away. This is why we need to stick together.”
He let those words marinate a bit.
“Eric and Rick are still in that car,” Tony continued quietly. “We might need to go back and handle that. But not today. Today, we process. Today, we grieve.”
Rawlings. Vic. Eric. Rick.
Four men gone in less than twelve hours.
Michael lifted his head from Chelsey’s shoulder, eyes red and wet.
Tony spoke quietly, but every word landed.
“Tomorrow,” Tony said, “we plan. We figure out how to get Memo to his daughter. We figure out how to survive this and get everyone back to their families.”
He looked at JoeJoe and Memo and walked over to them. “You guys did well today. You held the station down. You kept everyone safe. Thank you.”
JoeJoe swallowed hard and nodded. Memo smiled softly. His thoughts were elsewhere.
Outside, it was late morning. The sun climbed higher. Beyond the trees, the world continued to unravel.