The noise was the first thing that broke through the haze in Curtis Manning's mind—a dull, mechanical hum, like the sound of an engine running low on fuel. It was relentless, continuous, and grating. His head throbbed in response to the irritating buzz, and he groaned softly, trying to push away the haze clouding his thoughts.
Where the hell am I?
Curtis tried to open his eyes, but the effort felt like he was lifting weights with his eyelids. He blinked slowly, groggily, until his vision began to focus. The sterile light above him was too bright, casting long shadows on the walls. It stung his eyes, the sensation sending a sharp pang through his skull.
He lifted a hand to his forehead, feeling the rough stubble of his unshaven face. His fingers brushed against something soft, fabric. He was lying down. That much he knew.
He tried to sit up, but his body rebelled against the movement. His limbs felt leaden, as if he hadn't moved in days. Every joint screamed in protest as he shifted, attempting to push himself upright. His vision swam again, dark edges curling around his field of sight, and he fought the urge to fall back into unconsciousness.
"Come on," Curtis muttered to himself, his voice sounding hoarse. His hands found the edge of the bed, gripping it tightly as he swung his legs over the side, his bare feet meeting the cool, hard floor. He steadied himself, his breath coming in short bursts, feeling the sharp ache in his muscles.
Something wasn't right. This place wasn't familiar. The smell hit him next—something sharp and antiseptic. The faint odor of cleaning supplies clung to the air, but it wasn't the usual smell of a hospital. This was... different. There was no bustle of activity, no sounds of nurses calling out to each other, no visitors chatting in the hallways. It was eerily quiet, like he had woken up in the middle of a ghost town.
Curtis blinked again, attempting to clear the fog from his mind. He turned his head slowly, his eyes scanning the sterile room. White walls, faded charts hanging on hooks, an empty IV stand, and a small metal table with a tray of untouched food. The bed he had been lying in was a standard hospital issue—nothing special. Everything about this room screamed "abandoned," and yet, he was here.
A moment of panic flickered in his chest, but he forced it down. Panic wouldn't help him survive. He had learned that long ago.
With a sharp breath, Curtis pushed off the bed and stood up fully. His knees wobbled for a moment, threatening to give way, but his military training kicked in. He steadied himself, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the door. His mind raced as he processed the situation. His name—Curtis Manning—wasn't the first thing that came to mind. No, he had to focus on the here and now. The present. The mission. Whatever had happened, he needed to survive.
He moved to the door, his boots clicking against the floor with each step. He placed a hand on the cold metal knob and turned it, expecting resistance. But the door swung open with an eerie ease, revealing a long, empty hallway. The lights overhead flickered, their buzzing sound the only audible noise in the entire building.
His senses immediately went on high alert. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. This was wrong. This was so wrong. Curtis stepped out into the hallway cautiously, every muscle tense, ready for a fight or flight.
The hallway stretched before him, seemingly endless, with no sign of life. He passed rooms, one after another, their doors either open or ajar, but there was no movement. No people. No doctors. No nurses.
Curtis's mind flashed to the last thing he remembered: a mission. An operation. He had been part of a tactical team, a part of a high-risk military group trained for dangerous and covert operations. But everything was a blur. He couldn't piece together the details. He remembered weapons, gunfire, chaos—but that was it. How did he get here?
His thoughts spiraled, but he didn't have time to dwell on the confusion. He needed answers. Fast. The silence was unnerving, and instinct told him to keep moving. His training had prepared him for situations like this—abandoned places, areas where danger could come from anywhere. He had to be ready for anything.
Curtis moved further down the hallway, each step calculated. His boots made no noise on the tile floor. His ears were trained, listening for anything that could be a threat, anything that could give him a clue about what was happening. He reached a corner and peeked around it cautiously.
Nothing.
The hallway ended in another set of double doors. He pushed through them, stepping into what appeared to be a waiting area. But even this was strangely quiet. The chairs sat empty, the magazines on the tables long out of date, gathering dust. There was no evidence of a recent presence—no signs that anyone had been here in days, if not longer.
He quickly moved to a window and peeked outside, expecting to see something familiar. Maybe some clues about where he was or what had happened. But when his eyes locked on the streets of Macon, Georgia, the world outside crushed any hope of normalcy.
It was like a nightmare come to life.
Cars sat abandoned on the streets below. Some had crashed into each other, their airbags deployed, while others were simply left where they had stopped, the doors hanging open as though the drivers had vanished mid-motion. There were no people—no pedestrians, no traffic. Nothing. Just a city left to rot. He could see abandoned buildings with their windows shattered, the remains of what used to be a vibrant town now falling into ruin.
The air outside was thick with the smell of decay and rot. It was a sickly, pervasive stench that made his stomach churn. But there was no sign of anyone. No signs of life at all.
His heart began to race.
He turned away from the window, his breath shallow. What the hell had happened? The virus? The infection? He had heard rumors, whispers in the military circles, but they were just rumors. No one had known how bad it really was. The outbreak had been sudden, unexpected. People had died fast, the disease spread quickly—like wildfire.
But this? This was the aftermath. It was too quiet. Too still. It wasn't just an apocalypse—it was the aftermath of a war no one had been prepared for.
He had to keep moving. He couldn't waste time thinking about the impossible. His mind needed to focus on the facts: he was alive, and he had to survive.
Curtis found his way out of the hospital with minimal effort. The doors were locked, but the emergency exit was easy to bypass. He'd been through worse situations before. As soon as he stepped outside, the full weight of the situation hit him like a truck.
The streets were empty. Not a single soul in sight.
He stood there for a moment, taking in the devastation that stretched out before him. His military mind took over as he assessed the area. The city had been hit hard, but Macon wasn't a large enough hub to be a prime target for direct attacks. Whatever had happened, it had spread too quickly for any kind of organized military response. The roads were littered with debris, and there was no sign of life anywhere. It wasn't just Macon—it was everywhere.
Curtis instinctively moved toward the sound of silence—the stillness that called to him from the outskirts of the city. If he was going to survive, he needed supplies. He needed to figure out how to navigate this world. The military might have some answers. They always had some kind of outpost, right?
He moved fast, his feet crunching over broken glass and debris. He made his way to the outskirts of the city, and there, just outside a line of empty buildings, he saw the military outpost.
A rusted chain-link fence surrounded it, the gates wide open, but no sign of personnel. No guards. Just silence.
Curtis approached cautiously, his hands on the rifle strapped to his back. His instincts screamed at him to be careful, to remain vigilant. There was no telling what was waiting inside.
The outpost was bare, with abandoned trucks and equipment scattered around. There was no sign of a struggle, no bodies left behind. It was as though the military had simply packed up and left without a word.
And that, Curtis realized, was the most disturbing part.
This wasn't just an evacuation. It was a collapse. The world had ended, and no one had told him.
Still, there was something here—supplies, perhaps, or information that could help him make sense of the chaos. Curtis scavenged through the remains of the military outpost, his trained hands moving efficiently. He found a crate of MREs, enough to last him a week. He grabbed all the water he could find. And, buried beneath a pile of old gear, he uncovered a cache of ammunition—a fortune for someone trying to survive in this new world.
As he packed the supplies into his bag, Curtis felt the weight of what he had to do. He wasn't sure where to go next, but he knew he couldn't stay in Macon. The world was too dangerous now. There were no guarantees.
But Curtis Manning wasn't afraid.
He wasn't the type to give up. Not yet.
He stepped out of the outpost and into the ruins of the world. One thing was certain: he wasn't going down without a fight.
And he had every intention of surviving.