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.

He swallowed, giving the Mist one last wary glance before forcing his attention forward. The ruins ahead held dangers, but at least they were human-made, something he could fight or outsmart. The Mist—there was no fighting that.

He moved cautiously, skirting around areas of dense shadow and peering into the distance that carried the scent of rot on the wind. His legs ached, and his throat felt raw, but he pushed onward, weaving through broken fences and fallen stone until the dying light bled into dusk.

The path he was on was indirect. He lacked a map, but he'd memorized the landmarks he'd encountered, piecing together a rough route. He stepped over broken branches and scattered trash, his eyes flickering to the signs of decay that marred everything around him.

He was on edge, his nerves already frayed from a day of running and hiding.

He squinted at the winding path ahead. His journey to City B would take days, and he was certain to encounter things worse than the undead along the way. He'd have to ration his food and avoid skirmishes. His fingers drummed anxiously on his rifle as he moved forward, pushing away thoughts of hunger and exhaustion. There was no room for weakness.

The trees thinned as he trudged further. City outskirts and dense urban sprawl lay somewhere ahead, but for now, the land stretched out in a desolate sprawl of cracked asphalt and rubble-strewn fields. In the distance, the mist hung low over dilapidated buildings, ghostly and looming. The air was thick, and Winter couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

As the sky darkened, Winter knew he had to stop for the night. He found a small alcove under a collapsed bridge, the concrete offering enough cover to hide him from anything that might wander by. Winter caught a glimmer of movement at the corner of his eye. He jerked his head, fingers tightening around the rifle. Nothing but the silent stretch of the woods, cold and dark. Nightfall carried risks, but he had no choice. He'd make a small fire for warmth—a short one, just until his hands stopped trembling.

 He sank to the ground, dropping his pack and pulling his jacket tighter against the chill. The tension in his body refused to relax. He laid out his thin blanket on the rough ground and unwrapped a tiny portion of the food he'd salvaged while running through the base to the east gate. He chewed slowly, staring at the flames.

The flames crackled softly, licking up from the few sticks he'd gathered. Shadows danced across his worn face as he leaned back, letting the warmth seep into his bones. His eyelids felt heavy, and he let himself drift for a moment, letting the fire's crackling lull him into something close to relaxation.

But his thoughts refused to quiet, pulling him back to the faces he'd left behind. 

He thought of his squad. If he survived this journey, he'd meet them in City H, where they'd agreed to regroup. A pang of worry twisted in his gut. It was a long shot that they'd all make it. Winter had no illusions about the chances of survival in this new world. Everyone had their scars, visible or not.

They were scattered now—somewhere out there, facing their own battles against the Mist, the undead, or worse. He'd lost too many comrades to count, each one of them burned into his memory, some fading to wisps, others haunting him with vivid clarity. You're supposed to keep moving, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. You're supposed to survive.

A twig snapped nearby, sharp and sudden. His eyes flew open, his heart pounding as he reached for his rifle, instinctively pulling it close, his fingers settling into place over the cold metal. He held his breath, listening, every muscle primed. There—another rustle, fainter this time. He strained his ears, catching the faintest shuffle of movement. A glimpse of something—a shadow shifting through the underbrush—slid past the edge of the firelight.

His fingers hovered over the rifle's trigger. He waited, his breaths coming shallow, until the shuffling faded, leaving only the night's stillness. He didn't dare lower the gun, didn't dare blink. Only when he was sure the sound had passed did he let out a slow breath, the tension leaking from his shoulders as he forced his grip to relax.

Sleep was out of the question now. Instead, he stared into the fire, eyes hard, thoughts racing. Something else out there—it wasn't a zombie, but that didn't make it any safer. Survivors could be as deadly, if not more so, than the undead. And some factions made it their mission to claim whatever they could, trapping anyone who strayed into their territory. Winter didn't like to think about the things he'd seen—the groups that had resorted to horrors no undead could ever dream of.

As dawn broke, he set out again. City B was getting closer, and with it, the hope of finding supplies.

The land grew rougher, forest patches giving way to jagged, rocky terrain. He found himself clambering over jagged rocks and through patches of twisted metal, the remains of vehicles that had been abandoned long ago. He paused to inspect the scene—there were wrappers, discarded cans, and signs of other survivors. He was not the first to come this way and likely not the last. He moved cautiously, listening for the telltale groan of the undead or the snap of a hidden trap.

Hours passed, the sun slipping into a grey overcast sky. Winter pressed on, his body ached dully. By midday, he spotted movement ahead. Winter dropped to one knee; rifle raised, eyes scanning the terrain. A group of zombies shambled slowly across the ruins of an old gas station, their movements jerky and sluggish, limbs contorted at unnatural angles. There were three, maybe four of them, scattered across the area. He took stock of his ammunition, lips pressed into a grim line. He couldn't afford to waste bullets here.

Holding his breath, he calculated the distance, watching the creatures wander aimlessly, drawn to some faint sound or scent beyond his perception. They stumbled forward, their eyes blank, mouths hanging open as they dragged themselves over the cracked pavement.

Winter's hand hovered over his gun, his mind racing. Risk the bullets, or avoid them and pray they don't notice? He glanced around, his breath catching as he saw an open path to his left, away from the horde.

But one of the zombies caught his scent, its head snapping in his direction with a guttural moan.

"Damn it," he whispered. He raised his rifle, aiming for the closest one. The shot rang out, echoing through the silence. The zombie crumpled, but two more took its place. His pulse spiked as he fired again, counting each shot. He couldn't waste more than needed—each bullet was precious. By the time the last one fell, he'd used four shots.

His gaze fell on the rifle in his hands, and for a brief moment, he thought back to the rumours he'd heard. People had spoken of strange, otherworldly weapons that had appeared when the apocalypse started. His own gun was one of those relics. It seemed to defy the usual rules of reality, firing even when the chamber should have been empty, keeping him alive when all odds were against him. But using it came with a cost.

He'd first noticed its unusual properties during a fight back at the stronghold. Pinned down by a swarm, he'd emptied his magazine, certain he was done for. But the gun had kept firing. He had felt it after the worst of the siege was over—the fever. It had washed over him like a wave, clouding his vision and weakening his body. He'd barely escaped with his life that day. Now, whenever he overused the weapon, he could feel that same fever creeping in, an invisible line he dared not cross.

He checked his remaining bullets and frowned.

One Left.

Every shot brought him closer to that edge. With a heavy sigh, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and continued onward, pushing the memories to the back of his mind. He had no choice but to rely on his strength for now.

The journey grew harder as he neared City B. He flexed his aching muscles, rolling his shoulder to relieve the tension that had built up from carrying his gear for so long. Days of travelling alone, dodging zombies and hostile survivors had taken their toll. 

The next few days were relentless. The closer he got to City B, the more dangerous the terrain became. He skirted through more dense woods, skirted ruined buildings, and faced small groups of zombies lurking in the shadows. Each step was nerve-wracking, every sound a potential threat, and near encounter reminded him of his limited resources.

On the fourth day, as he neared City B's outskirts, he was once again ambushed by a small group of zombies. He had bumped into them as he walked through the path, standing aimlessly and staring into nothing.

Winter edged forward, keeping low, moving carefully as he wove through the rubble. But a misstep sent a small pebble skittering across the ground, clinking against a rusted pipe with a noise that seemed to reverberate through the silence.

Their heads snapped towards the noise, where he crouched close to the ground. "Why can't things just go my way for once?" he cursed under his breath. 

His heart pounded as he raised his rifle, carefully counting his shots. There was a certain amount of the "magical" bullets he could use before his body gave out on him. The zombies were closer than before, and his hand shook slightly, a mixture of fatigue and dread creeping in. He took them out one by one, each shot echoing in the quiet.

He actually hated using the rifle. The noise tended to draw in more creatures. 

One of the creatures got too close. Without thinking, he clenched his jaw, stepped forward, and delivered a powerful, crushing blow with the stock of his gun, snapping the creature's neck in a sickening twist. It fell, twitching before finally lying still. He stood over it, breathing heavily, his body tense with the leftover adrenaline.

In these moments, when he pushed himself to the edge, he became aware of his unnatural abilities—the extra strength, the heightened reflexes. He had noticed them a few times before in desperate situations. One night, months ago, had nearly killed him as he battled a gang of scavengers over the last remaining supplies in an abandoned warehouse. But he'd pushed himself, felt something almost superhuman take over, and come out victorious. 

Since then, the need to eat, sleep, and perform other normal human functions has never been too serious for him if he hadn't exerted himself before. 

By the time the last zombie had fallen, he was gasping for breath, his muscles aching, his vision tinged with red. But he'd made it. He stood alone amidst the bodies, the silence pressing down around him.

He looked up, and there it was: the outskirts of City B. The buildings stood tall, casting long shadows in the waning light. Somewhere in that maze of concrete and steel were supplies, a chance to survive another day.

He'd made it this far.

Taking a deep breath, Winter steadied himself and stepped into the city, "Let's get this over with."