Elliot's breath came in sharp, desperate gasps as they pushed through the snow, his legs burning with every step. His father moved ahead, not saying a word, his face set in that grim expression Elliot knew all too well. The rifle in his hands was steady, but Elliot could see his knuckles were white, gripping it so tight. There was no time for questions. No time for explanations. They just had to keep moving.
Max was ahead of him now, his fur blending with the white landscape, his ears perked, constantly twitching as he listened for any sound that wasn't the wind. Elliot's mind was racing. What had happened? How had it all gone so wrong, so quickly? He tried to remember what he had seen, what he had heard—his mind kept slipping, like trying to hold onto water with his bare hands.
The moans had started up again. They were distant at first, like an echo from far off, but now they were closer, sharper. And then there was the unmistakable crunch of footsteps in the snow. It wasn't just one thing. There were several. Too many to count.
Elliot stumbled over a hidden rock in the snow, barely catching himself before he fell. He was getting too tired. He could feel the cold biting into his skin, the icy air filling his lungs. But he couldn't stop. Not now.
"Dad!" he gasped, his voice hoarse. "Where are we going?"
His father didn't slow his pace. "We need to get to the old cabin," he said, his voice low but firm. "It's not far. We can't stay here."
The old cabin. Elliot didn't even know if he believed in it. It was just another one of those places his dad had mentioned, some place safe they could go to when things got bad. But everything had been fine just yesterday. How could things change so fast? The world hadn't even warned them. No sirens. No warnings. Just this—this creeping nightmare.
His father glanced over his shoulder for a split second, his eyes scanning the empty white space behind them. "Stay close, Elliot. And don't make a sound."
The last part sent a chill down Elliot's spine. He had never seen his father like this. So... scared. But there was something else in his eyes, too—something that felt almost like determination. They were in danger, real danger. But they would survive. They had to.
They kept moving, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the snow, but still there, still constant. The wind had picked up again, howling louder now, biting through the fabric of their clothes. It was getting harder to see, harder to keep track of where they were going. But his father kept pushing forward, never looking back.
Max, ever watchful, darted ahead, nose to the ground, ears perked. Elliot felt his heart race when the dog stopped, suddenly frozen in place. Max's tail was stiff, his body rigid, and he was staring into the trees ahead. His growl was low, barely a whisper, but it was enough to send a spike of fear straight into Elliot's chest.
"Dad?" Elliot whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. His father didn't respond. He was already raising the rifle, his movements calm but swift. Elliot swallowed hard, fighting the urge to run.
Max let out another growl, louder this time. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the sound of crunching snow came from ahead.
Elliot's heart hammered in his chest. He could see something moving in the trees now—dark shapes against the white backdrop, moving in jerky, unnatural ways. They were coming closer. And there was no way they could outrun them.
"Dad," Elliot whispered again, panic creeping into his voice. "What do we do?"
His father didn't answer right away. He just motioned for Elliot to stay still. His eyes never left the trees. The rifle was ready, his finger resting on the trigger. Every muscle in his body was tense, waiting.
And then, the first one emerged from the trees.
It was like something from a nightmare. A person—once human—its face twisted in pain, skin cracked and peeling, eyes wide and empty. Its mouth opened in a slow, unnatural motion, and a low, growling noise escaped from deep in its chest. Its body was hunched, movements jerky, like it wasn't entirely in control.
Elliot's stomach turned. He wanted to scream, but his father's hand shot out, grabbing his arm and pulling him down behind a large boulder.
"Don't move," his father hissed.
Elliot's heart pounded in his throat. His father was right. If they made a sound, they were done for. They had to stay hidden.
The creature moved closer, dragging its feet through the snow. It was joined by another, then another, until there were five of them. Five twisted, grotesque forms, all stumbling in their direction. Each one had the same empty eyes, the same broken movements.
Elliot could feel the panic rising in his chest. His breaths came in shallow gasps. He tried to hold still, to keep his body from shaking, but it was impossible.
He looked up at his father, hoping for some kind of reassurance, but all he saw was the same look he had seen in the cabin. The fear. The knowledge that there was no escape.
The infected were close now, so close that Elliot could hear their ragged breathing, their guttural growls. His father's finger hovered over the trigger. But they couldn't shoot. Not yet. They had to wait for the right moment.
The wind howled louder, almost as if it were mocking them, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.
And then, one of the infected stopped. It turned its head, slowly, as if it had heard something. Its eyes locked onto the boulder, onto them.
Elliot's breath caught in his throat. It was looking right at them.