Once daybreak came, the house was hit by a wave of searing heat. The temperature soared so high that Shaun figured you could fry an egg on a car hood in just over a minute. But despite the scorching sun, the warmth in his bones was a welcome change from the previous night's bone-chilling cold. He thought back to the night before, where he had suffered through freezing temperatures, forced to stay completely still so as not to create any gaps in his blanket cocoon.
Shaun's body ached, the memory of shivering uncontrollably still fresh in his mind. He had barely made it through the night, and the lingering fear that another such night could easily be his last gnawed at him. The searing heat now felt like a gift, albeit a cruel one, reminding him how drastically the world had changed.
In the first four hours of the morning, Shaun kept himself busy making ropes and practicing sewing. It wasn't necessary for survival, but he figured it was a useful skill to have—just in case he needed to mend something. Plus, it was good practice for dexterity. He started small, stitching some sheets together. Fabric, at least, wasn't in short supply. As he worked, his mind drifted to his friends. He remembered their jokes, their laughter, and how Michael had always teased him for being overly prepared. "Guess I showed you, huh, Mike?" he muttered to himself, the weight of loneliness pressing down on him.
There were only two suitcases Shaun hadn't opened yet—one belonged to Michael, and the other to someone whose memories escaped him. He hadn't touched Michael's suitcase yet simply because he hadn't needed to. As for the other one, there was something about it that made him nervous, an inexplicable unease that sometimes made his face flush when he touched it. He caught himself staring at it a few times, feeling a pang of loss he couldn't fully understand.
Today, he decided to open Michael's suitcase. To his surprise, he found a hunting knife, a sleeping bag, some canned food, and a water flask. Shaun remembered the day they arrived and how Michael had looked at the house with a face full of dread. It was apparent now that his expectations were crushed when he realized that "staying on top of a mountain" wasn't quite what he had imagined. Digging further into the bag, Shaun found a flint for starting campfires and some solar-charged batteries.
As he packed away the items, Shaun felt a pang of guilt and appreciation. Michael had unknowingly been prepared for this—whatever "this" was. "Thanks, Mike," he whispered, as if his friend could hear him, dealing with the lingering thought of taking his friend's stuff without asking. A lingering sentiment of a better time .But practicality won out over sentimentality. He needed these things to survive.
Shaun stored the sleeping bag in his room and packed the rest of the items in a smaller backpack along with some containers. He secured the hunting knife to his belt and coiled a few meters of makeshift rope around his left arm. Additionally, he pulled a wagon loaded with a larger bundle of the makeshift rope tied to a several-meter-long cable.
He also made a somewhat unconventional decision—he took off his boots, opting to go barefoot instead. Shaun figured that if he kept traveling, his shoes would eventually wear out, and without replacements, he'd be in trouble. Better to start toughening up his feet now and build up some calluses. At night, he could wrap his feet in cloth for warmth since the sneakers they had brought didn't provide much insulation anyway. Besides, he had read somewhere that going barefoot left fewer footprints. The practicality of it made sense, but there was something grounding about feeling the earth directly under his feet, as if he were reconnecting with the primal essence of survival.
Shaun stepped out of the driveway area and began descending the slope that circled around the hill. The landscape stretched out before him, but it was different now—more hostile, more alien. After moving a few dozen meters, he encountered a break in the terrain that aligned with the split at the hill's summit. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Shaun tied the cable around a sturdy tree and leaned back to test if it would hold his weight. Satisfied, he threw the rest of the cable and ropes down the side of the slope.
He stood on the edge, peering down into the unknown. The dense forest below beckoned him with a mix of curiosity and dread. He couldn't see the bottom, nor where his rope ended. Turning back, he glanced at the small, makeshift safe haven he had cobbled together. "See you tonight," he murmured, though a part of him wondered if he really would.
With that, he picked up the rope and pushed off the wall, slowly descending. The world above, with its searing heat, quickly gave way to the cooler, shadowed depths of the forest. There wasn't much to see at first, but Shaun's senses were overwhelmed by the dense aroma of the forest below—the mingling scents of wood, leaves, mud, and humidity created an almost intoxicating perfume. But there was another scent in the air, one that Shaun desperately tried to ignore. The smell of blood. It was faint, but unmistakable, like a distant warning carried on the breeze.
As he continued downward, the light from above grew dimmer. Despite the searing 34-degree heat when he started, the temperature dropped to a more bearable 21 degrees at this middle section. But it wasn't just the temperature that changed—the deeper he went, the quieter the forest became. This wasn't like the lively forests depicted in movies, full of chirping birds and buzzing insects. Down here, the silence was oppressive, every creature acutely aware that any noise could mark them as prey.
Shaun's hands started to bleed slightly as the rough rope bit into his palms. The pain made his grip falter, and his strength was quickly draining away. He fought to hold on, knowing that letting go would mean certain death. His bare feet, scraping against the cliff wall, were losing skin layer by layer, each step a new agony. He glanced back up the cliff, the distance he had descended now daunting. "No turning back now," he thought grimly.
Finally, Shaun reached the end of his rope—literally. Now the real challenge began. He pulled himself closer to the cliff face, searching for handholds. With one hand, he gripped a jutting rock, finding another with his other hand, and began inching his way down like he was climbing down a ladder.
But after just four minutes of climbing, Shaun was utterly exhausted. His bloody palms made every grip slippery and painful, and his legs felt like they were about to give out at any moment. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a struggle against the encroaching fatigue. By now, he could see the forest floor below, and what he saw took his breath away. The sunlight filtering through the canopy above turned everything a vibrant emerald green, casting the forest floor in a magical hue. The plants below were unlike anything Shaun had ever seen, even in the most exotic botanical exhibitions. The trees were massive, their roots as tall as the trees themselves had been in the old world, and the grass had grown to reach his eye level.
The sight was so mesmerizing that Shaun's focus lapsed for just a split second. But that split second was nearly fatal. He grabbed onto a rock that wasn't secure, and it pulled away from the cliff face. Panic surged through him as he felt himself losing control. With his hands and feet already slick with blood and sweat, Shaun couldn't recover. He tumbled backward, falling from a height of about two stories. Whether it was sheer luck or some form of plot armor, his fall was slowed by two branches that jutted out beneath him, though they barely cushioned his descent. Instead of a hard thud, Shaun landed with a wet plop—the mud below had broken his fall.
Disoriented and in pain, Shaun was happy to find himself still alive. Even if barely. Gathering his wits, he smeared mud on his bleeding palms and feet, both to cool the inflammation and to mask the smell of blood. The scent of earth and decay was overwhelming, but it was better than the metallic tang of blood that might attract predators. He took a moment to scout his surroundings and tried to mark a few trees with his knife to avoid getting lost. But to his dismay, the trees were so tough that the knife couldn't even leave a scratch; instead, it chipped the blade. In the end, Shaun resorted to smearing mud on sections of the trees to mark them.
As he moved through the dense foliage, a sense of unease settled over him. The silence was more than just the absence of noise—it was the presence of something watching, something waiting. Shaun's instincts screamed at him to stay alert, to be ready for whatever might come next. He couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't alone. The forest was alive, not just with plants, but with unseen eyes tracking his every movement.
With his task done, Shaun finally allowed himself a moment to breathe. But as he looked around at the towering trees and dense foliage, only one thought filled his mind: "Dear God, I'm actually in a forest."