Winter rolled his shoulders as he made his way through the forest. He had yet to encounter any humans or mutated creatures, and things had been quiet. Snow clung to everything—branches, rocks, the soles of his boots—and muffled the world into a suffocating silence.
Too quiet if you asked him.
He hadn't fired a single shot today, which was good. Ammo was precious, and every bullet counted. But he hadn't fought anything either, which was strange because he was in the forest.
He was supposed to be seeing and hearing things everywhere.
Something was up.
A strange fog had also begun to roll up, as usual he couldn't tell if it was from the Mist or just a normal weather phenomenon. Worse, the zombies out here were less predictable. Their moans and growls weren't muffled by buildings or concrete; they carried, ghostlike, on the wind, impossible to trace.
