The truck rumbled steadily down the deserted highway, a lone vehicle cutting through the stillness of the wasteland. The sun had set hours ago, and the once vibrant colors of the day had given way to the deep, eerie blues and grays of the night. Curtis Manning drove on, his hands gripping the wheel with a sense of grim determination. There was no plan, no set destination. Just one foot in front of the other, as it had always been.
His mind raced, replaying the events since he had woken up in that hospital. The sight of the bloodied, decayed corpse that had once been a man. The thought of how quickly the world had spiraled into chaos was both terrifying and… almost absurd. One moment, he had been living a life of purpose, serving as a Navy SEAL, and the next, everything was gone. He had no idea what had happened to the world, but he knew that the old world was dead and buried.
And yet, Curtis wasn't like the others he had seen or heard of. Those who gave up. Those who let the despair of the new world consume them. For Curtis, there was no room for self-pity. There was no room for weakness. Only survival. Adaptation. As long as his heart was still beating, as long as his lungs still pulled in air, there was hope. It wasn't a hopeful hope—not the kind that spoke of the world returning to normal. No, Curtis's hope was more primal. It was the hope of a soldier—of a man who had survived worse, and who would survive again.
The truck's headlights cut through the darkness, but beyond them, it was impossible to see anything. The world seemed as if it had been swallowed whole by the night. No stars. No moon. Only the faint outline of trees and the occasional signpost. The radio was silent, just static and the occasional whisper of the wind.
But then, Curtis saw something. In the distance, off to his left, a faint flicker of light. A fire, maybe? He hadn't seen a single sign of life since he left Macon, and this small glimmer of light, like a beacon in the dark, piqued his curiosity.
His hand instinctively moved to the rifle resting on the passenger seat. He had to be cautious. It could be a trap—some sort of ambush. But Curtis had survived worse. This wasn't the time to back down.
He turned the wheel, the truck's tires crunching against the gravel road as he veered toward the light. As he neared the source, he could make out the flicker of a campfire through the trees. It was small, just a few embers, but enough to provide some light in the otherwise impenetrable darkness.
The truck slowed as Curtis neared the makeshift camp. The fire's orange glow cast long shadows across the dirt, and he could just barely make out the figures of people gathered around the fire. He pulled the truck to a stop several yards away, his instincts telling him to stay out of sight. The last thing he needed was to get into a confrontation with strangers, especially at night. His survival depended on not drawing attention.
He sat there for a moment, watching. There were three people—two men and one woman. The woman was tending to the fire, while the men were sitting on logs nearby, talking in low voices. Curtis could hear snippets of their conversation, but nothing that sounded threatening. No arguments. No signs of hostility.
One of the men was tall, with short-cropped hair, while the other had a rough, unkempt beard. The woman was wearing a green jacket and looked to be in her early thirties, her face gaunt but strong.
Curtis's military instincts told him to take a few more moments to observe. If they weren't hostile, he could approach. But if they were, he needed to be prepared. He adjusted the rifle on the passenger seat, his fingers brushing against the cold metal.
His decision came swiftly. The thought of being alone again, out here in this vast emptiness, was too much. He needed contact. He needed to find others. Even if it meant taking a risk.
He climbed out of the truck, making sure the door shut quietly. As he approached the campfire, his boots crunched softly on the gravel, announcing his presence.
"Who's there?" the man with the short hair called out, his voice steady but wary. He had his hand on a knife at his side, though he hadn't drawn it yet.
Curtis stopped in his tracks, his hands raised slightly to show he wasn't a threat. "Just a traveler," he said, his voice calm and low. "Looking for some company."
The woman by the fire didn't seem as cautious as the men. She looked up at him with sharp eyes, assessing him quickly. "We don't get a lot of strangers around here," she said. "Where're you headed?"
"Wherever the road takes me," Curtis answered, glancing at the campfire. His mind immediately went to survival—food, shelter, warmth. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the situation. The fire was small but well-maintained. A few empty cans lay scattered around the base of the fire. The group wasn't well-stocked, but they had made do with what they had.
"Name's Curtis," he said, taking a step closer. "I was hoping you had some supplies I could trade for. I'm fresh out of food and water."
The man with the short hair eyed him warily but didn't immediately draw his weapon. He exchanged a glance with the other man, who had been sitting silently by the fire, and then turned back to Curtis.
"We've got some water left," the tall man said. "But food's been scarce. You may have to earn it."
Curtis nodded. "Fair enough. I've got skills. I can help."
The woman set the fire poker down and stood, dusting off her jacket. "You know how to handle yourself?"
"I do," Curtis said flatly, his expression stoic as always. "I've been doing this for a long time."
The tall man squinted at him, still unsure. "Alright. We've got a problem. There's a small group of walkers on the outskirts of this camp. If you can clear them out, we can talk more."
Curtis didn't hesitate. His gaze flickered to the other man, who had stood up now, eyeing Curtis carefully. The air was tense, but Curtis's stoic presence seemed to ease their suspicion.
"Lead the way," Curtis said simply. He didn't need to know more than that. It was a simple task—clear out the walkers. But in a world like this, it was a necessary one.
The woman nodded and grabbed a makeshift spear from beside the fire, while the man with the short hair pulled out his knife. The other man, who had been quiet until now, seemed to be preparing a bow.
Curtis pulled his rifle from the truck, checking it over before joining the group. They moved quickly and quietly through the trees, the moonlight barely illuminating the dark path ahead. Curtis's senses were heightened. Every rustle in the underbrush, every shadow cast by the trees, could be a threat.
Finally, they came upon the small group of walkers. There were six of them—slow-moving and disoriented, but dangerous nonetheless. Curtis didn't waste time. With a single motion, he dropped to one knee and aimed his rifle. One shot. A clean hit to the head of the nearest walker, and it crumpled to the ground.
The others fell in line, using their knives and makeshift weapons to take down the remaining walkers, moving with precision, as if they had done this a hundred times before.
When the last walker fell, Curtis stood up and wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked down at the bodies, the silence settling over them once more.
"Thanks," the tall man said. "You earned your place around the fire."