The World is Cruel

City D, September 6th? Year 0 of the Great Collapse

The late afternoon light filtered through tiny cracks in the warehouse walls, splashing streaks of red across the cold cement floor.

It was quiet inside the stronghold, with a soft hum of activity as people bustled about, sorting through supplies or lingering in small, hushed groups.

The stronghold was an impressive structure—a ramshackle fortress built with everything they had salvaged: steel barriers, barbed wire, and concrete slabs torn from the ruins of nearby buildings.

At its core was the decision-making process: a loose council, mainly formed of the strongest and most resourceful survivors.

They made decisions based on survival, rationing what they had left and using what they could scavenge from the nearby zombie-infested city ruins. But unlike the old world, there was no real democracy.

The loudest voices, the ones with the most power or influence, dictated the course of action. It wasn't perfect, but it was what they had.

And it worked; they had to make it work.

A man strode through the corridors, exchanging nods and brief words with people as he checked on things.

This was Winter, an ex-military officer turned apocalypse survivor. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he noticed a sizeable hole in the wall high above. We needed to get that patched; Mist could find its way in from there, he thought with a frown.

It was a home, the closest thing to stability they'd had in a long while. Winter couldn't help feeling pride as he walked its grounds. 

He stopped by the watchtower, where some people were gathered. They all straightened at the sight of him, smiling brightly and some even saluting. 

"Hey, boss!" A scruffy man grinned as he saluted. 

"Hey," Winter's lip twitched in amusement as he nodded at the others. "What's the matter?" 

"Got a problem in the southern sector," Mark reported, his face serious beneath the thin grime coating nearly everyone there.

"Seems like there was always a problem in the southern sector," Winter said dryly, his voice low and edged with grim humour. "What was it this time?"

"Gate's buckling a bit. Might not last another week without reinforcement," Denny added, his eyes flicking to Winter's face as if gauging his reaction.

Winter sighed, running a hand over his stubble. They had patched that gate so many times it was practically a wall of its own now.

"Alright, we'll take a look after the meeting." He inclined his head toward the room in the centre of the warehouse, where other stronghold members had started gathering.

As he continued through the makeshift corridors of the warehouse, whispers trailed behind him.

"He saved my brother's life last month," one young woman said, her voice filled with admiration.

"Yeah, but don't get too close. He's not exactly a warm guy," someone muttered, though they were clearly grateful.

Winter entered the meeting room, where the core group of survivors had gathered. The room was dim, lit only by flickering lamps, the smell of stale air mixed with the scent of burnt food.

Everyone was talking, but the conversations ceased as soon as Winter entered.

He had that effect on people.

A worn map of the city, marked with scribbled notes, lay sprawled across the table. Each face around it reflected fatigue, resilience, and, for a few, the barely veiled bitterness aimed directly at him.

Winter had learned to ignore it. Being one of the few remaining members with a military background—and, more importantly, the discipline and nerve to lead—made him an easy target for the disgruntled. But his closest friends and confidants, his squad, stood by him.

Each of them, survivors from their days in service, had brought their skills and strengths. Marcus, his medic and the voice of reason; Miles, a skilled combatant with his wife and daughter holed up there as well; and Ima, whose knack for tactical planning and sniping skills was unmatched, though she still scanned the camp each day for any sign of her missing brother.

"Alright, everyone here?" Winter pulled up a rickety chair. He glanced around the table, seeing his team's familiar faces mixed with a handful of other survivors.

"We're all here," Miles confirmed, running a hand through his short, silver hair. "Let's get down to business."

"I think we should go on another supply run this week," Marcus said as he adjusted the sleeve of his weathered jacket. "Those rations wouldn't last us much longer if we took in more stragglers daily."

Winter nodded. "That made sense, though there wasn't much left around here to scavenge."

Miles pushed up his glasses. "Agreed. But we needed to talk about City B," he replied, crossing his arms. 

"So, you've heard the chatter about City B?" Ima asked, leaning forward with shining eyes.

Winter raised an eyebrow, nodding again. "Yeah. Talk was there was a reserve of medical and food supplies, maybe some weapons, but the risk was high. People didn't come back from City B."

A man from the far end of the table scoffed. Leaning back with his arms crossed, he wore an expression as sour as his attitude. "People didn't come back from City B because they didn't know what they were doing," the man sneered, his gaze sliding disdainfully to Winter. "Not everyone was military. You guys thought you were the only ones keeping this place together. Some of us didn't need a uniform to survive."

Winter met his gaze evenly. "And some of us needed to consider the lives at risk before throwing around wild ideas."

The man rolled his eyes. "You're just scared to admit someone might be a better leader than you. Why did we listen to you, anyway? Just because you had a gun before the rest of us?"

Miles clenched his fists but kept his cool, muttering, "Lay off, Harker. You've got no idea what you're talking about."

Everyone knew what Harker was like—a loud, arrogant man who thought too highly of himself. Harker's jealousy was an open secret at that point. He'd always been blatantly resentful of Winter's leadership, but Winter didn't care.

He had bigger things to worry about. If he were to go with this plan, who would he send? 

"Was any of this getting through to you?" Harker's tone was sharp, dripping with disdain. "Or were we just wasting our time here?"

"Sorry, I missed your monologue, Harker. Why don't you recap for me?" Winter's tone was dry and calm, which only further narrowed Harker's eyes.

Ima snickered, earning a sideways glare from Harker, but quickly masked it with a cough. 

Marcus shifted, folding his arms. "Harker, if you have a real suggestion, feel free to share it. But leave the bravado at the door. We're talking about lives here."

Harker smirked, but his gaze flickered with anger. "You know what? This place was going soft. All this talking—time was, people took action. If you all were too cowardly to go to City B, then maybe it was time for some of us to start making decisions around here."

The tension thickened, and Winter spoke, his voice like ice. "Harker, there's a fine line between bravery and recklessness. I'd advise you to think carefully before crossing it."

Harker sneered, muttering something before storming out, his boots stomping heavily on the concrete floor. The room remained silent momentarily, tension still hanging thick in the air.

Miles sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's only getting worse with him. He'd be gone by now if he weren't so good at scavenging."

"Yeah, well," Ima added dryly, "if he wasn't causing so much trouble, we might actually get through a meeting without a fight."

Winter let out a quiet sigh. "He's trouble, but he's also right about one thing. We couldn't sit here forever. This place wasn't as secure as it seemed, and it was only a matter of time before something gave."

The meeting continued, and the group relaxed slightly as they discussed patrol schedules and shifts, the lighter moments of recent scavenging runs, and news from nearby outposts. It was a rare, almost warm moment—the closest thing to camaraderie left in a brutal world.

Winter leaned back, a rare hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he listened to his friends' banter.

It would be a jackpot if they could make it to City B and actually find the cache, but all they had, for now, were rumours—nothing substantial, nothing worth risking people's lives over.

The city was a four-day journey on foot, with zombie-infested ruins in between. He looked at his friends, who had somehow started wrestling, while Ima cheered on the side and shook his head; it was great to see that some things never changed. 

Flashback

Months ago, Winter had just returned home from his last deployment, exhausted to the bone but glad to be away from the chaos of combat. It had been early summer, and the air had been clear and sweet, filling his lungs with relief. He had planned on surprising them by showing up unannounced. 

He had watched his teammates rush to meet their families or get into their rides, exhausted and relieved. He had said goodbye to his friends and made his way to a cab. 

The weather had suddenly changed, and all hell had broken loose. 

He had watched people start running as lightning struck buildings and people indiscriminately. Cars had swerved, hitting people and climbing over each other as people scrambled to get away. 

Winter had jumped out of his car, rushing through a route free of debris to get to his family first. He had watched people who had suddenly been calm in the blink of an eye begin twitching, thrashing, and then moving with purpose. 

His heart thudded painfully against his rib cage as he pushed past people and ran toward his house.

"Please, please, please," he chanted under his breath like a mantra, a prayer that his house would still be standing by the time he turned the corner ahead.

He wiped the raindrops from his face, careful not to get any in his eyes or mouth as he slid down the slick floors and into the corner.

He looked in the direction of his house, and BOOM! An explosion rocked his world quite literally, throwing him into a building and knocking him out.

He came to silently, his ears ringing after what felt like hours. He forced his aching body to move; he was so close—his house was right—

Another horde of people rushed over, pulling him along as he struggled. He screamed until he lost his voice and fought against the wave until his strength gave out.

Everything was over.

Governments were falling, cities were burning, and the dead were walking. It wasn't a war anymore.

It was a nightmare.

Somehow, Winter had found his squad again, the only people left he could trust. Miles with his wife and daughter, Marcus cursing about how he had been worried about them, and Ima a mess about her missing sibling.

They had made their way to this stronghold, built from the wreckage of a city that had once been alive.

Marcus had lost his wife early in the outbreak, taken by the Mist in the first days. Ima's brother had been in another city, and she never stopped searching for him.

Miles had his family with him, but that didn't stop the strain from showing on his face whenever they had to make difficult choices.

No one had asked Winter about anything; it had been clear as day on his face.

They had been through so much together—fighting for scraps, fighting for shelter, fighting for each other. And despite everything, they had made it this far.

Flashback ends

Their laughter was interrupted by a sudden scream.

Winter's head snapped up, instincts kicking in. "That's coming from the east side."

A second scream followed, closer this time. The sickening sound of metal being torn apart echoed through the stronghold.

He was met with chaos as he pushed through the door and into the hall. People were running, stumbling over one another as zombies breached the stronghold's outer defences.

Blood splattered the once-secure walls, and the metallic scent of fear filled the air.

Winter's hand went to the assault rifle and barked orders to the squad. "Miles, get the families to the north exit! Marcus, Ima, find anyone with a weapon! We must hold off as many as possible here to buy time."

They nodded and rushed off to carry out their duties. Winter squeezed his trigger, taking out zombies as people scrambled around him, shouting orders and screaming in terror.

As he turned, his gaze landed on the one person he hadn't wanted to see. Harker stood on the far side of the chaos, a smug look on his face, even as people screamed around him.

"Enjoying the show, Soldier Boy?" he called, his voice dripping with contempt. "Maybe you're not as perfect as everyone thinks you are."

Winter's jaw clenched. It couldn't be; this sick bastard wouldn't have opened the gate to show that he had power, right?

"How could you?" he hissed, trembling in rage as he shot a zombie that came too close.

"How could I what?" Harker's smirk widened. "You wouldn't blame weak ol' me for this now, would you?" he asked as zombies brushed past him. That was the power he had gained during the beginning of the end. For some reason, the creatures ignored him, which made him a good scout and forager—an asset on any team.

Winter's trigger finger itched, but he forced himself to hold back. This wasn't the time for petty revenge; bullets were too precious to waste on trash, and Harker knew his thought process. Winter's restraint only seemed to amuse him more, his smirk deepening as he turned and sauntered off, disappearing into the crowd with a mocking wave.

Winter fought down the urge to go after him, instead refocusing on the people who needed him. He caught sight of Miles ushering a group of children through a side door, Ima covering the rear as Marcus tended to a woman who'd twisted her ankle in the chaos.

They were losing ground and people fast. It was no use; the base was lost.

"Everyone, fall back!" he shouted, waving his arm to signal the others. "Retreat to the north! Head for City H if you can get out!"

Marcus tried to argue, his face contorted with worry. "We shouldn't split up. Winter, we're stronger together."

Winter shook his head, urgency in his voice. "If we stay as a group, we'll be easy targets. Trust me—City H. It's the best chance we have."

The squad split up as the last survivors fled through the escape route, each finding their own way out.

Winter kept his rifle ready, scanning every shadow and corner. The infected were everywhere now, shuffling through the halls, their vacant eyes darting to any movement.

He moved silently through the base, aiming for the east door.

But as he made his way toward the eastern gate, a flicker of movement caught his attention.

One of the zombies lunged at him faster than he expected, its rotted mouth snapping inches from his face. He shoved it back, swinging his rifle around and slamming the butt into its jaw with a sickening crunch, followed by a few bullets until it stopped squirming.

He'd barely caught his breath when another one came at him, this one quicker, more focused. Winter recognized it immediately—one of the hunters.

In the initial days of the apocalypse, they had quickly gathered that the zombies were of numerous types: the completely brain-dead ones who were too useless and wasted away, the ones who moved about aimlessly and harmed no one, the ones who tried to eat you if they found you, and the worst of all.

The ones who actively hunted for you.

These were different, faster, and more tenacious. They weren't mindless wanderers; they actively pursued, adapting to human tactics as if something faint and predatory had been ignited within them.

Winter fired a shot, but the hunter dodged, twisting out of the way with an unnatural agility. He braced himself, his stance lowering as he prepared for the assault.

The hunter lunged, claws bared, and Winter met it head-on, his movements fluid as he sidestepped and delivered a sharp blow to the creature's back, driving it down with a final shot.

His super strength and quick healing had come in handy in situations like this.

Gasping for air, he straightened, glancing around.

The eastern gate was closed, but the noise drew more hunters. Realizing he was outnumbered, Winter made a split-second decision.

City B wasn't far from here, and he could use the detour to gather supplies—perhaps even the rumoured cache.

With one last glance back at the stronghold, he turned and sprinted into the open, every instinct screaming at him to keep moving.