CHAPTER 60: 60: THE WORLD WAS TAINTED

The forest stretched endlessly before Winter, if it could still be called a forest. Now it was more of a dense tangle of skeletal branches and stubborn patches of melting snow.

Winter’s boots crunched softly against the damp ground as he made his way though the uneven terrain beside the highway to CIty H.

He had decided to avoid open spaces on this trip. The highway would be a deathtrap, teeming with scavenger groups, feral animals, and the occasional roving horde of zombies.

Here, hidden beneath the canopy of blackened pines, he could move unseen, even if the forest was far from safe.

The rifle slung over his shoulder felt heavier at the thought. Winter adjusted it absently, his gloved fingers brushing the cool metal as his other hand gripped the worn hilt of his machete. His sharp green eyes scanned the shadows ahead, all senses on sharp alert.

As he moved though the woods, something caught his attention. A faint silhouette emerged through the thinning trees: a small, dilapidated cabin. Its roof sagged under the weight of snow and non maintenance, and one of the door shutters hung askew, creaking faintly in the cold wind. Winter hesitated at the tree line, his grip tightening on the machete.

Abandoned cabins were rarely abandoned for long.

He crouched low, stepping silently over a rotting log, his eyes darting for movement in the cracked windows.

Nothing.

Winter reached the cabin’s door, pressing his back to the frame. He held his breath, listening intently. A gust of wind rattled the walls, and inside, something shifted—a loose beam or maybe a squirrel. He wasn’t taking chances.

In one swift motion, he kicked the door open, his machete raised and ready.

Empty.

The musty air hit him first, thick with the scent of mildew and decay. Dust motes swirled in the fading sunlight streaming through a broken window.

Winter scanned the room: a tipped-over chair, a rusting wood stove, some stuffed animal heads on the walls and a moldy mattress shoved against the far wall.

"A hunters cabin," he mumbled, stepping further inside.

Whoever owned the place must have been away or left before the apocalypse had began.

His eyes landed on the table in the center of the room. Among the clutter of old papers and cracked glass, a faded map caught his attention.

He stepped forward cautiously, every creak of the floorboards setting his nerves on edge.

Tight corners didn’t bode well in the apocalypse, he needed to be able to escape at any given moment.

The map was brittle, but legible. It depicted the region in detail, with faded markings indicating paths, rivers, and towns. Winter’s gaze narrowed on a handwritten annotation near City H: "Safe Route—Avoid Main Highway."

"Finally," he muttered under his breath. He folded the map carefully, slipping it into his backpack.

But this made him reconsider what he initially thought. This map has to have been marked out during the start of the apocalypse, maybe at the earlier days?

So where was the owner? There was no blood in the room or around it.

Something was up with this place and he didn’t plan on staying to find out.

He slowly pushed his way out of the cabin and continued his way through the woods. He would need a calm space to analyze the map properly.

*****

Winter had barely stepped back into the forest when he felt it—a prickling at the base of his neck.

He froze mid-step, his fingers tightening around the machete’s grip. The forest was too quiet now, the usual background of rustling leaves and distant bird calls eerily absent.

A low growl rumbled behind him.

Winter turned slowly, his heart hammering. Six dog like creatures emerged from the shadows, their hulking, twisted frames barely cloaked by patchy fur. Their eyes glowed unnaturally, the mutations evident in their unnerving size, twisted limbs and the jagged teeth bared in feral snarls.

"Shit." He cursed under his breath, he hadn’t encountered much mutated animals since the apocalypse started.

The largest of the pack, a brute with a jagged scar running down its flank, stepped closer, its nose twitching as it sniffed the air.

The first creature lunged at him, its weight smashing the thin tree in front of Winter into splinters. He moved instinctively, swinging the machete in a wide arc. The blade caught the creature’s shoulder, sending it yelping back, but the others were already rushing in

Winter turned, his machete cutting through the air as another creature leapt at him. Its jaws snapped inches from his face before the blade buried itself in its side. Blood splattered across the floor as it collapsed, but Winter had no time to recover. The largest creature barreled into him, knocking him backward.

He hit a tree hard, the old wood splintering beneath his weight. The machete slipped from his grasp, skidding across the floor. The dog’s jaws snapped at his arm, tearing into the fabric of his jacket. Winter grit his teeth against the pain, his hand fumbling for the rifle slung over his shoulder.

The barrel came up just as the dog lunged again. The shot echoed through the forest, deafening in the open space. The dog fell limp, its body slumping against Winter’s legs.

Panting, Winter shoved it off and scrambled to his feet. The remaining dogs hesitated, their glowing eyes flicking between him and their fallen leader.

One whimpered, and then they bolted, disappearing into the trees.

Winter leaned against a tree, his chest heaving. Blood dripped from his arm where the dog’s teeth had torn through the jacket. It wasn’t deep, but it stung and could probably be infected. He ripped a strip of fabric from the ruined sleeve, tying it tightly around the wound.

"Damn creatures," he muttered, his voice low. He loves dogs, had worked with them at some point in the past. But these creatures had been part of the unlucky ones that came in contact with the Mist and didn’t pass.

He retrieved the machete, wiping the blade on the edge of a tree before slipping it back into its sheath. His mind flicked to the map in his bag, a grim determination settling over him.

He had to keep moving.

*****

The adrenaline ebbed as Winter trudged onward, his steps slower now. The pain in his arm was manageable, but it left him simmering with frustration. He had been careless, hesitant even and hesitation got people killed.

Got her killed.

The thought came unexpectedly, a sharp jab to his chest. He forced it down, burying it beneath layers of control.

Thinking about her—them—about the life he’d lost—served no purpose now. The past was something he couldn’t afford to carry. At least that’s what he used to delude himself.

Still, as he walked, his mind betrayed him. Brief flashes of her laughter, her warmth, intruded on his focus. He clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around the strap of his backpack.

His thoughts shifted, almost involuntarily, to another person instead.

Warm brown eyes narrowed with challenge as they stared back at him in his mind.

"Why her?" he muttered to himself, shaking his head as if to dislodge the image of her face. He was certain he’d heard her voice at the cache that day, a sound that had left him questioning his own sanity.

Had she made it out safely?

He wanted to believe she had, but admitting that he cared—that he worried—was a step too far.

He shook his head, cursing under his breath. What did it matter? He had his own problems to deal with. Yet, the thought of her lingered.

Winter gritted his teeth and pushed the thought aside.

*****

Fast as it had seemed, the fight had cost him precious time. The sky had darkened, the sun dipping below the horizon and leaving the forest bathed in shadow. The faint light was disappearing fast, and Winter knew he needed to tend to his injuries before anything else.

Winter adjusted his pace, scanning for a suitable place to camp. The map had given him hope; the route to City H was clearer now, but it was still days away, and the journey was only growing more dangerous.

He found a spot near a large oak tree, its gnarled roots curling like claws into the frozen earth. The tree provided some cover, enough to make him feel less exposed. Dropping his pack with a quiet grunt, he lowered himself to sit against the rough bark

He decided against lighting a fire this close to the highway and simply sat against a tree.

Winter unzipped his backpack and pulled out his med kit, laying it open on the ground. His arm throbbed as he rolled up his torn sleeve, revealing the jagged puncture marks left by the dog’s teeth. The fabric of his makeshift bandage was soaked with blood, and he winced as he peeled it away.

"Not too deep," he muttered, more to himself than anything. The bleeding had slowed, but the wound was raw and angry, the edges rimmed with dirt. Infection was a risk, something that was even more fatal in these times.

He worked quickly, cleaning the wound with a small bottle of antiseptic. The liquid stung like hell, and Winter sucked in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to continue.

Blood mixed with the antiseptic, dripping down his forearm as he wiped it away with a clean cloth.

"Could’ve been worse," he said under his breath, reaching for a sterile bandage. He wrapped it tightly around the wound, securing it with adhesive tape.

Satisfied with his work, Winter leaned back against the tree and exhaled. The pain was manageable, he didn’t need to waste any of his painkillers.

From his pack, he pulled out a ration bar and tore it open with his teeth. The dry, tasteless slab was hardly satisfying, but it was fuel. He chewed slowly, his eyes scanning the forest as he ate.

The map he’d found earlier nagged at the back of his mind. City H was still days away, and the closer he got, the more he began to dread. What was he to do if he couldn’t find his squad there or something had happened to one of them?

They were his family. If something were to happen to them in his absence, under his instructions...

He spiraled for a bit, one of his few moments of weakness. Horrid thoughts piling one after the other, faces mixing around in his head.

Then he saw it: a flicker of light in the distance.

Winter crouched low, eyes narrowed as he snapped back to his senses.

The firelight danced faintly, far ahead on the highway. Someone else was out there.

He stayed still, his breath clouding in the cold air. Firelight could mean safety—or danger. A scavenger group could be using it as bait, or it could be another lone traveler.

Either way, it meant people. And people could be just as dangerous as the creatures lurking in the woods.

He noticed it was stationary, not moving like a wandering scavenger group. Could it be someone stranded? Or worse, a trap?

His fingers brushed the rifle slung over his shoulder. He could investigate, but approaching without a plan was reckless. Winter considered the options, his instincts battling his exhaustion.

He couldn’t stay here. He took a deep breath as he stood up, carrying his backpack.

He wanted to avoid conflict as much as possible. With one last look at the smoke and flames ahead, he turned into the woods.