City B,
Winter slipped into the city's shadows as dusk fell, the distant glow of fires flickering between broken windows and over ruined buildings. He crouched in the shadows of an old storefront, pressing his back against the cool, crumbling concrete.
'Strange,' he thought, looking at the smoke from the fires. Were the people here not afraid of being noticed by the zombies or other survivors? Or were they just confident in their own strengths that they didn't care?
Winter could feel it: City B was tense, swollen with anticipation and desperation like it might burst under its own pressure.
He rubbed his thumb over the rifle slung across his back, its worn grip comforting. He was running low on bullets—no, scratch that, he had no bullets left. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on his surroundings rather than the gnawing worry clawing at him.
A faint clinking sound made him tense. He crouched, silently sidestepping toward the building's corner and peeking around. Through the murky darkness, he spotted a small group—five figures in military-style jackets with matching armbands, each bearing a symbol of a gear overlaying a flame. They moved in formation, their steps precise.
He recognised those people. They called themselves The Militia. He'd heard of them, a faction that prided itself on order and hierarchy. Their rigid discipline and firepower marked them as former law enforcement, perhaps even soldiers who'd adapted to this broken world.
They stopped near a rusted car shell, their voices low but sharp in the quiet night. Winter eased closer, creeping along the shadows, his movements silent. His patience was rewarded as a snatch of conversation floated over.
"…warehouse district. More clashes there. Node Raiders are coming in from the south, so we must reinforce…"
'Node Raiders are here too?' Winter's brows furrowed in surprise. Soon after the apocalypse, many people formed groups to protect their interests while most hid away or rode solo. The Militia and the Node Raiders were among the few groups that made a name for themselves.
"Orders are clear. Keep them back. The cache might be closed."
Winter's fingers tightened around the strap of his rifle. So, the warehouse district. He filed the information away, retreating into the shadows. If the Militia were clashing with the Raiders, that meant two factions were fighting tooth and nail for territory—and clues. Winter felt a pang of interest sharpen into focus.
Whatever the cache held, it was no ordinary find.
He spent the rest of the night moving from building to building, mapping out the areas he could see and avoiding the groups he couldn't. Exhaustion tugged at him, but he pushed it down, a familiar ache he'd learned to endure.
****
Winter woke with a start to the muffled sounds of shouting.
'When did I fall asleep?' He thought, rubbing his face. That was dangerous; he could have been found by zombies or criminals running around. He would have to find a proper hideaway if his body was starting to wear down like this.
He shifted from where he'd hidden himself inside a derelict storefront, slipping to the cracked window to see the street below. A group of men in ragged, mismatched gear moved through the rubble-strewn street, arguing. Their faces were smeared with grime, and their eyes held a wild, predatory glint. The Raiders.
He slunk through the building, using the shadows to conceal himself as he edged closer to the exit. Their voices were loud enough to carry, and he caught snatches of their conversation as he crouched in the shelter of a half-collapsed wall.
"…food's low. Those Militia bastards took the last of it—"
"Doesn't matter. We get our hands on the cache, and we'll have more than enough."
"Where, though?" one of them snarled, shoving a younger man. "That whole sector's locked down, fortified. Militia's got it covered tight."
They scuffled for a moment, tension flaring before moving on. Winter watched them disappear down the street, his mind turning over the new pieces. The area was fortified. The Raiders were desperate, driven more by need than strategy, but they had numbers and a vicious determination.
Winter noted the information, mind-mapping potential strongholds and choke points. So, have people already moved into City B and formed territories? City B had been one of the country's largest, so finding the cache would be difficult. Plus, the number of people who turned into zombies during the onset of the apocalypse was more than those who survived and escaped the mist.
Killing them doesn't mean there won't be more to replace them, and the mist was present.
The zombies were drawn to noise and movement. Most clumped together in neglected quarters, though some were spread thin around the busier parts of the city.
'If I can avoid their main clusters and stick to the quieter routes, I might make it to the warehouse without drawing too much attention,' he calculated, feeling the pieces fall into place.
But his plan would need testing.
He moved again, spending the day slipping from hiding place to hiding place, cataloguing the factions he encountered. So far, he had been lucky enough not to face any of them head-on. While he would be able to take them, he didn't want to try his luck with an unknown group; any of them could also have powers.
It was best to conserve his strengths for the real fights.
He had barely begun to move from his hiding place when he saw them—four or five zombies shuffling through an alley ahead. Their flesh hung in tattered clumps, jaws slack as they aimlessly lumbered forward. Winter tightened his grip on his machete, knowing his rifle would be too risky without bullets.
Would they pass by, or would I have to take them out?
One of them turned, its empty gaze meeting his, and it let out a low, guttural groan.
Before it could alert the others, Winter lunged forward, machete in hand. His blade sliced through its neck, severing the head cleanly as the body collapsed to the ground with a wet thud. The noise attracted another, its decayed mouth stretching open in a silent snarl as it reached for him.
Winter didn't hesitate. He shifted his stance, dodging to the side as he brought the machete down in a swift arc. The zombie staggered, but another one was already moving toward him, hands outstretched and fingers clawing. Winter drove his elbow into its face, sending it stumbling back before burying his blade in its chest. He twisted the machete, feeling the crunch of bone as the zombie slumped to the ground.
The next one wheeled toward him, mouth gaping, the glint of feral hunger in its eyes. Winter sidestepped as it lunged, slashing across its chest before burying the blade in its temple. He took a breath, steadying himself—too soon. A hidden zombie stumbled forward, hands reaching blindly. Winter twisted, wrenching his blade free from the zombie's skull and sinking it into the last, a burst of putrid air erupting as the creature crumpled.
Breathing heavily, Winter wiped the blood from his face, casting a quick glance around to make sure no one had heard the commotion. His muscles ached, his breath coming in shallow gasps, but he couldn't stop now.
*****
Winter moved carefully as the sun rose, sticking to alleyways as he crept closer to the city's inner districts.
Each building was filled with scavenged wreckage: furniture overturned, glass shattered, and walls riddled with bullet holes and acidic scorches.
He had also noticed opportunities that were easier to spot—loners or small groups scavenging for supplies and information without any allegiance.
He watched them gather and talk with each other, each deal filled with wary, sidelong glances.
"I heard some of those Militia bastards got ambushed by the local gangs that stayed back when shit hit the fan initially," one of the men huffed, rolling his shoulder.
"They had it coming, those Militia dogs," another one of them snarled, flexing his grip on a long, serrated blade. "Thinking they can hoard supplies and leave us in the dust."
"They've got their base fortified near the checkpoint," a third replied, spitting to the side. "Nothing we can do to get close without someone taking the first shot."
As the day wore on, he kept gathering details, mapping the city in his mind. Things weren't getting any easier for him, he was glad his squad werent here to go through the same stress he was.
Winter spent another night hiding, stealing moments of sleep before rising again. His instincts kept him sharp, guiding him along abandoned streets and empty alleyways. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, reminding him how long it had been since his last real meal. He scrounged for supplies where possible, but the city was nearly picked clean.
Toward dusk, he stumbled upon another group—two men and a woman, dressed in patchwork gear and exchanging low, conspiratorial whispers. They carried a makeshift lantern, casting long, distorted shadows against the cracked pavement. Winter positioned himself behind a broken-down truck, listening.
"Rumor has it there's a map," one of them said, his voice hushed. "Leaders of the factions have it, but they're keeping it close. If anyone gets that, they'll find the cache first."
The woman scoffed. "Think they'll share it? They'll kill each other before they give up anything."
Winter's thoughts whirled. A map. It would explain the intensity of the struggle here and the factions' willingness to risk everything. If the cache's location was recorded somewhere, then it was no wonder the groups were scrambling for any information they could get.
As the trio moved on, Winter slipped back into his shelter. His supplies were meagre, but he set out a small strip of dried meat, gnawing at it absently as he plotted his next steps. He'd pieced together enough to understand the stakes. Now, it was only a matter of threading through the lines of territory and getting close enough to find the cache himself.
Winter had spent the night curled up in an abandoned building, listening to the muffled howls of zombies echoing through the streets. He would have to be extra careful here. He had noticed most people had all their visible body parts wrapped up, no doubt to protect themselves from The Mist.
*****
By dawn of the fourth day, Winter had found a hidden encampment tucked away in a sheltered alley, its entrance marked by the faint scent of smoke. From his vantage point on a nearby rooftop, he saw armed figures milling about, their movements deliberate and watchful. Militia members.
Carefully, he moved along the rooftop, inching closer until he could see the supplies stacked near their tents. Boxes of ammunition, crates of food—exactly what he needed.
Slipping down into the shadows, Winter moved as quietly as he could, his footsteps muffled by the thick layer of grime coating the ground. He reached the edge of their camp, his eyes scanning the perimeter as he crouched beside a stack of crates. He pried one open and found rifle bullets. Taking only as much as he could carry, he quickly pocketed some rations as well.
As he turned to leave, he caught the sound of voices nearby.
"More outsiders are showing up every day," one of the guards muttered. "Scavengers, loners. Heard there's even some mercenaries looking for the cache."
The second guard snorted. "Let them come. The more, the merrier. It'll just be more bodies we don't have to worry about if they kill each other off."
Winter backed away, slipping into the shadows as he headed for the rooftops. He had what he needed for now—
Evening, Alone in the Hideout
Winter mentally reviewed all the information he'd gathered over the past few days as he returned to his hideout. The warehouse district, the fortified checkpoints, the factions, and the rumours of a map. All of it pointed him toward the cache's likely location—the northern sector, where the Militia and Raiders had been fortifying their positions.
His thoughts drifted briefly to the city's strange new weather. The sky had been swirling in a mass of black and red, streaks of lightning flashing about. The Void had changed the Earth's weather patterns, and Acidic rain had become a frequent part of the changing climate and the unforgiving nature of their world. He watched as dark clouds began to roll in, thick and heavy.
The first drops began to fall, sizzling as they hit the concrete outside. Winter retreated further into the building, feeling the sharp acid tang in the air. He sat back against the cold wall, pulling the ration pack from his bag and tearing it open.
As he chewed, he allowed himself a moment to rest, his mind turning over the final piece of intel he'd gathered—a faction leader's mention of booby traps near the cache. The north would be a warzone of its own, filled with traps and guarded territory, and his path would be lined with risks.
He closed his eyes briefly, his muscles aching as he let the tension bleed out of him. The cache was close, but the dangers were greater than he'd anticipated. As the rain poured outside, he knew he would have to press forward once the storm cleared.