The forest was too quiet.
Ty sat perched at the edge of the treehouse platform, one leg bent, the other hanging loosely over the side as he worked. The rifle rested across his lap, its metal worn but maintained. His fingers moved with practiced ease—checking the chamber, adjusting the scope, tightening a screw that didn't really need tightening. It was less about fixing and more about habit.
Something to do.
Something to focus on.
Below him, the woods stretched endlessly, thick with towering trees and shadows that swallowed light whole. The world beyond them was worse—ruined cities, broken roads—but even here, nature felt… wrong.
Ty lifted his gaze, scanning the distance through narrowed eyes.
Nothing.
And yet—
A sound split the air.
High-pitched. Warped. Unnatural.
A shrill.
Ty didn't flinch. He simply exhaled slowly, setting the rifle into position against his shoulder, cheek resting lightly against the stock. His breathing steadied, his body going still—completely still.
Another shrill.
Closer this time.
Through the trees, something moved.
Tall. Wrong.
A Fleshound stumbled into view, its elongated limbs dragging it forward in a jerking, uneven rhythm. Its spine arched unnaturally, vertebrae pressing sharply against stretched skin, head twitching as it let out another piercing cry.
Ty adjusted the scope.
The world narrowed.
Everything faded—sound, movement, thought—until there was only the target. The neck.
That one impossible point.
The Fleshound's head jerked violently, its elongated neck swaying with erratic motion, bones shifting beneath skin that looked too thin to hold them.
Ty waited.
Timed it.
Breathed.
And then—
A sharp crack split the silence.
The bullet cut clean through the air. The creature dropped instantly.
No thrashing. No scream. Just a sudden, unnatural stillness as its body collapsed into the undergrowth, limbs folding in on themselves like something poorly constructed.
Ty lowered the rifle.
One shot.
Clean.
He didn't watch any longer than necessary.
He never did.
With a quiet shift, he stood and stepped back into the treehouse.
Inside, it was dim—intentionally so. No open light. No windows uncovered. Even during the day, the space remained shadowed, hidden beneath layers of leaves and camouflage Ty had built over the years. From the outside, it was nothing more than part of the forest.
Everything had a place.
Shelves lined the walls, holding carefully rationed supplies—canned food, water bottles, ammunition sorted by caliber.
Weapons rested neatly along one side: knives, a second rifle, a handgun, all cleaned and ready.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough.
Ty moved through the space quietly, setting his rifle down with care before scanning what remained of his supplies. His eyes lingered—not on the food, not on the weapons—but on something tucked near the back wall.
Old photographs.
Dust had begun to settle over them, a thin layer dulling the edges of moments that once felt brighter.
He reached out, brushing a thumb lightly across one.
Two boys.
Younger. Smiling.
One taller, grinning wide, arm slung carelessly around the other. The second stood closer, quieter, his expression softer but no less warm.
Ty stared for a moment longer than he should have.
Then he looked away.
The past didn't help you survive.
Nothing did.
Reaching into a small drawer, he pulled out a worn cigarette pack, flipping it open with a flick of his thumb.
Empty.
Of course it was.
He stared at it for a second, jaw tightening just slightly, before exhaling through his nose and shoving it back into the drawer.
He needed supplies.
The forest floor crunched softly beneath his boots as he dropped down from the treehouse, landing with practiced ease. The rifle hung securely at his side, one hand resting loosely against it as he moved forward.
Every step was careful.
Silent.
The trees thinned gradually as he made his way toward the road, the air shifting—less dense, more exposed. The safety of the forest gave way to something harsher, more uncertain.
Ty stepped onto the cracked pavement, eyes scanning instinctively.
That's when he heard it.
"…help…"
His grip tightened.
A man sat slumped against the side of the road, body trembling violently. His clothes were torn, stained dark, and his breathing came in uneven, broken gasps.
"…please…"
Ty didn't move closer right away.
He watched.
The man's body jerked suddenly—sharp, unnatural—and a sickening series of cracks followed. His spine arched violently, bones shifting beneath his skin as if something inside him was forcing its way out.
Too late.
Ty knew it instantly.
The man's fingers clawed weakly at the ground as his eyes began to bulge, veins darkening beneath the surface. His teeth fell unevenly from his mouth, clattering softly against the pavement—
—and then new ones began to push through.
Rows. Jagged. Wrong.
The man tried to speak again, but what came out wasn't human.
Ty lifted his rifle.
There was no hesitation.
A single shot rang out.
Silence followed.
The body went still.
Ty lowered the weapon slowly, watching for a moment to make sure.
Then he approached. Carefully.
He crouched beside the corpse, expression unreadable as he checked for anything useful. Pockets turned inside out. Bag searched.
Nothing.
Just a wallet.
Ty opened it, more out of habit than hope.
Cash.
Useless.
He was about to toss it aside when something slipped loose—a photograph.
A man stood smiling, one arm wrapped around a woman whose hand rested gently over her stomach.
Pregnant.
Happy.
Alive.
Ty stared at it for a moment.
Then quietly placed it back into the wallet.
"…Yeah."
The word was barely audible.
He stood, stepping away without another glance.
There was nothing left to do here.
Adjusting his grip on the rifle, Ty turned his gaze forward—toward the distant outline of the city rising beyond the trees.
And without another thought, he started walking.