Chapter 4: That's it Kaelen, he's clean.
The silence after the killing was heavier than the snarls had been. Nate's breath sawed in and out of his lungs, the hatchet trembling in his grip. He watched them, his saviors, and the part of his brain that wasn't screaming with adrenaline screamed with warning. They didn't move to help him up, didn't ask if he was okay. They just stood there, assessing him and the bulging pack at his feet with the same detached efficiency they'd used on the Rippers.
The taller man, the one with the scavenged police vest, was clearly in charge. He had a lean, weathered face, a jaw tight with what seemed like a permanent clench, and eyes the color of a winter sky that missed nothing. He held a modified hunting rifle, its stock scarred and worn, as if it were an extension of his arm. He didn't point it at Nate, not yet, but the way he held it made the threat clear.
"You're a noisy son of a bitch," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that carried easily across the twenty feet separating them. It wasn't loud, but it had a density to it, a weight of command that filled the space. "Drawing every Ripper for five miles with that little performance."
The broader man with the fire axe, a brute with a thick neck and a flat, unfriendly face, grunted in agreement. He stepped forward and, with a sickening wet sound, wrenched his axe free from the Ripper's skull. He didn't even wipe the gore off on the grass, just let it drip.
Skylar remained slightly behind the leader, her bow now held loosely but with an arrow still nocked. Her gaze was on Nate's pack, then flicked to his face. There was no kindness there, no shared humanity. It was the look a hunter gives a trap that has finally sprung, a look of confirmed utility, nothing more. Any hope that she might recognize him and that recognition might spark some sliver of empathy died a quick, cold death.
"I… thank you," Nate managed, the words feeling foreign and stupid in his mouth. He slowly lowered the hatchet, but didn't let go. His knuckles were still white.
"Don't," the leader said, cutting him off. His wintery eyes narrowed. "We didn't do it for you. We've been watching this store for a week. Waiting for the herd that's been nesting here to thin out. You just walked in and rang the dinner bell. Made it easy for us to pick off the stragglers." He took a single, deliberate step forward. "The problem is, you also went and fetched the prize we were waiting for."
Nate's heart, which had just begun to slow, kicked back into a frantic rhythm. This was it. This was the real danger. Not the mindless hunger of the Rippers, but the calculated, intelligent greed of men who had survived the same hell he had.
"I didn't know," Nate said, his voice tighter now. He shifted his weight, his mind racing through escape routes that didn't exist. He was exhausted, weighed down by the pack, and cornered against the truck by three armed, capable people. "I was just scavenging. I'll… I'll go. You can have the store."
A humorless, thin smile touched the leader's lips. "The store's picked clean. We checked. You found the cellar. Old Man Miller's hurricane stash. We knew it was there, just couldn't get to the door with that nest inside." He gestured with his chin towards Nate's pack. "That's our supplies you're carrying."
The man with the axe took another step, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel. The message was clear.
Nate's survival instinct warred with a sudden, hot spike of defiance. He had risked everything for this. He had faced down his deepest fear, fought for his life, and won this reprieve from starvation. To just hand it over felt like a betrayal of the last six months of struggle.
"I fought for this," Nate said, his voice gaining a sliver of steel. "I nearly died for it."
"And you'll definitely die for it if you don't drop the pack and the sack," the leader replied, his tone utterly flat, devoid of any bluster or anger. It was a simple statement of fact. It was the most terrifying thing Nate had heard in a long time. Not since he was a gangbanger. The man's charisma wasn't warm; it was cold, magnetic, and utterly ruthless. He commanded obedience not through inspiration, but through the sheer, unshakable certainty of his will.
For a long, tense moment, nobody moved. The wind rustled the dead leaves in the parking lot. Nate's eyes darted from the leader's impassive face to the brute's axe, still dripping, to Skylar's cold, dead lifeless eyes. He saw no weakness, no hesitation. They were a machine, and he was an obstacle to be removed.
The fight went out of him, leaving behind a hollow, cold emptiness. He had survived by being a ghost, by avoiding confrontation. This was a confrontation he could not win.
Slowly, carefully, he bent his knees, placing the hatchet on the ground. Then, he shrugged the heavy, life-giving pack from his shoulders, letting it thud to the dirt. He nudged the burlap sack forward with his foot.
The brute, whose name Nate now mentally tagged as 'Axe', immediately strode forward and snatched up the bounty. He grunted in satisfaction, hefting the weight.
The leader's gaze never left Nate. "The .22," he said.
Nate's stomach plummeted. He had forgotten the rifle slung on his back. Taking his supplies was a death sentence delayed. Taking his only effective weapon was a death sentence confirmed. He hesitated, his hand hovering near the strap.
The leader's rifle shifted, just an inch. It wasn't aimed at him, but the implication was a physical pressure in the air. "I won't ask again."
Swallowing a bitter taste of ash and defeat, Nate slowly unslung the rifle and placed it on the ground next to the hatchet.
Axe collected both, tucking the hatchet into his own belt and slinging the .22 over his shoulder. He looked back at the leader. "That's it, Kaelan. He's clean."
Kaelan. The name suited him.
Kaelan finally broke his stare, giving Nate one last, dismissive glance. "You're lucky we're not the kind to take everything. You can keep the clothes on your back. Now, I suggest you run. That noise will have drawn more. And you're not much use as a distraction without a weapon."
The casual cruelty of the statement hit Nate harder than a punch. He was being dismissed as useless, a piece of chaff to be scattered. He looked at Skylar one last time. She was already turning away, her attention on the tree line, her role as lookout resumed. She hadn't spoken a single word. The woman from the suite was gone, replaced by this silent, lifeless component of Kaelan's machine.
Without another word, Kaelan gestured, and the three of them melted back into the tree line from which they'd emerged, their movements swift and synchronized, taking Nate's future with them.
Nate stood alone in the parking lot, the bodies of the Rippers at his feet, the wind biting through his threadbare jacket. The emptiness of his hands and his pack was a physical ache, a void more profound than hunger. He had nothing. No food, no water, no weapon. He was back to zero, but zero felt lower than it ever had before. The cabin, his sanctuary, was fifteen miles away. A death march.
A low, guttural moan echoed from the direction of the store. Then another.
Kaelan was right. The noise had drawn more.
A cold, sharp terror, purer than any he had felt facing Kaelan, lanced through him. He was prey again.
He turned and ran. Not with the frantic, hopeful energy of his flight from the Rippers, but with the leaden, despairing gait of a man already dead. The woods, once his cover, now felt like a closing jaw. Every shadow was a Ripper, every sound his death knell. He ran, driven by the base, animal instinct to survive just one more minute, one more second, with the taste of his own utter ruin sharp and metallic in his mouth.