Chapter Text
November 23rd, 2025
Day 78. 81? lost count.
The date might be wrong. I try to keep track, but it’s hard without a phone or an up-to-date calendar. I don’t know if it’s worse knowing how much time has passed in this hell hole, or not knowing the time at all. Doesn’t matter. The sun still comes up. The world just..doesn’t.
The virus doesn’t spread through air, even at close proximity. I realised that last night after getting caught off guard. It’s direct contact only. Probably blood, saliva, open wounds. Maybe the mouth and eyes, too. It’s not much comfort when every room smells like iron and looks like a slaughterhouse.
I’m nowhere near finding out what actually caused it. My best guess is that the virus attacks the brain’s hypothalamus and amygdala, erasing higher functions while overstimulating survival instincts. They don’t feel pain or thirst or fatigue. Just hunger for the human flesh.
They also rot like fucking hell. The stench made me puke for days. Then I got used to it. Sort of. Surviving has been difficult, but I think caught the hang of it. I sleep where it’s dry. Eat when I can. I talk less every day, so I’m putting the words somewhere else.
Planning to start moving toward Pittsburgh. I’m not far anyway. Heard they have groups of survivors and ‘safe havens’ with generators and clean water. God, sounds like a fucking dream.
Going to the city might be risky, but this place is running out of food. I need to go. Or at least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of.
– D.W
The pen leaves a small ink blot where it stalls on the last word. Dennis lets it dry before closing the notebook. The paper smells faintly of mold, the kind that seeps into everything this close to winter. He slips the journal back into his backpack, zips it halfway – just enough that he can reach again if he needs to. He always needs to.
The building creaks when he stands. It’s an old roadside diner, long since stripped bare by scavengers. The sign outside still flickers sometimes when the wind hits the wires right – EAT flashing once before it dies again. The irony isn’t lost on him.
He checks his supplies by rote. One can of peaches. Two bottles of water, half full. A small med kit missing more than it has. He presses his thumb to the edge of a bandage roll, counting what’s left in silence.
The morning light leaks through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, pale and thin. He can see his breath. His jacket isn’t enough for the cold, but it’s something. He tightens the straps on his backpack, then pauses, listening.
No growling. No footsteps. Just the wind outside, brushing dead leaves against the pavement.
He pushes the door open slowly, careful not to let the bell above it jingle – it hasn’t had a proper ring in months, just that dull metal click. The air outside is sharper, cleaner. The road stretching ahead is mostly empty cars, their doors still hanging open like jaws.
He keeps his hand near the knife at his belt. Not because he plans to use it, although it will happen eventually, but because it’s what keeps him steady. Every step toward Pittsburg feels like walking straight into a death trap.
A crow caws somewhere down the highway, the sound echoing too long. These are the only animals left in this place, picking at corpses and human scraps.
Dennis adjusts his pack and starts walking east, boots crunching glass. Behind him, the diner settles with a groan that makes him flinch, and then it’s quiet again.
He dares to look back at the only thing he’s been calling home for the last month, and his gaze doesn’t move from it until the cars begin to block the view.
Now, his eyes are only set forward – the road to Pittsburgh, if the map isn’t wrong.
Dennis moves carefully, trying to stray away from the open road. He keeps close to the abandoned vehicles, checking the ones whose state isn’t off-putting for supplies.
He finds gloves that are just a size too big. A plastic water bottle. A scorched corpse in a burnt car. He tries not to think about it, but the sight follows him for the next few hours.
Time passes weirdly in this state of the world. The sun has moved higher, indicating that it’s at least midday, but the usual colorful sky is nowhere to be seen. It’s just gray, like a black-and-white filter has been put on the horizon. Maybe it’s going to rain soon. Hopefully not.
The air’s colder now. It clings to the back of his neck when the wind picks up, slipping under the collar of his jacket. His legs ache, but stopping feels worse than moving, so he keeps walking.
Dennis passes a rusted sign half-swallowed by ivy — PITTSBURGH 22 MILES. The paint’s chipped, but the letters still stand. He drags a thumb across the metal and keeps going.
When he finally stops, it’s by an overpass where the concrete is cracked enough to see weeds pushing through. He lowers himself to sit, careful to keep his backpack within reach. His hands are stiff when he opens the can of peaches, the metal biting into his palm.
The syrup tastes too sweet after days of stale water. It makes his throat burn.
He leans his head against the pillar, eyes closing for a moment. Tries to remember what peaches used to taste like before they came from dented cans. Can’t.
The silence shifts.
It’s small — a rustle, maybe, or the sound of glass rolling against asphalt. Dennis freezes, peach halfway to his mouth. Opens his eyes.
Nothing moves.
Then he hears it again. A soft drag. A step too heavy to be wind.
He sets the can down silently, wiping his hands on his pants before reaching for the knife at his belt and peeking out from behind the pillar.
It's chewing on something, jaw loose but working. Its skin is greyish, torn open. The limbs hang at awkward angles, raw fingers twitching like trying to grab at something that isn’t there.
Dennis only remembers to breathe when it lets out a sound – half moan, half gurgle. It’s best to move quietly, try to go unnoticed. Dealing with these bastards face to face is never the plan.
He lifts his backpack wordlessly, slings it over his shoulder, and–
A growl.
Something wet and heavy smacks against his back, and before he can react, he’s on the ground.
“Shit!”
He twists, the knife slipping from his grip as the beast crashes down on him, jaw snapping, foam stringing from its teeth.
He throws an elbow back and it connects with something that crunches. The thing snarls – wet, furious – and its weight shifts just enough for him to shove it off. He scrambles for the knife, fingers slipping on the concrete until they hit the handle.
He doesn’t think. Just drives the blade upward. Once. Twice. The third time it sticks in its throat, blackened blood drenching Dennis’ face and shirt.
The sound it makes isn’t human. Then it quiets.
Dennis stays frozen for a beat, chest heaving. The infected still twitches, cheek pressed into the asphalt, teeth clicking on reflex. He doesn’t wait to see if it’ll stop, or if the second infected he’d noticed earlier heard it.
He runs.
The world narrows to air and motion – breath tearing in and out, boots hammering the pavement, the taste of copper rising in his throat. He can’t tell if it’s blood or bile.
The road blurs. Cars. Signs. The gray sky overhead. His lungs burn, stomach twisting in a knot so tight Dennis feels like he’s dying, but he keeps going. The only thought circling in his head is away, away, away, away, away, away.
He doesn’t know when he spots the gas station, or if he even spots it at all. For one moment, he’s sprinting down the road, and for the next he’s forcing the door that’s barely hanging on its hinges open, knife raised, scanning fast with wild eyes.
Nothing moves. Just shelves of dust and the faint stink of old gasoline.
He drops his pack on the floor and slides down one of the emptied shelves, trying to take a breath. The edges of his vision pulse black. His hands are shaking so hard the knife rattles against the tile when he sets it down.
“one, two, thre– shit.” He counts his breaths, but they come out too fast. “One, two, three, four.. fuck, fuck, fuck!” he hisses weakly, the numbers collapsing into noise. Unnoticed tears roll down his pinkish cheeks. His throat closes. Every inhale feels wrong, like there’s something blocking his airway, like he’s drowning.
Dennis presses his trembling palms to his face, muttering quiet words of encouragement that are lost to his ears. “It’s fine.” he whispers into his hands. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything is okay. You’re okay.”
He wishes his mom was here. He wants a hug, someone to pet his hair, to tell him that it’ll be okay even if it won’t.
It never will be.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..” he mumbles between gasps, not even sure why. The words tumble out broken, automatic. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me..” He’s not praying. Not really. Just reaching for something that feels familiar, that once meant safety.
The prayer dies halfway through the verse. His voice cracks on they comfort me, and then it’s just the sound of his own breathing – ragged, uneven, but starting to find a rhythm again. The panic doesn’t disappear; it just loosens its grip, leaving him hollow and shaking.
Dennis leans his head back against the shelf. His throat burns. His chest aches like he’s been running for days, not minutes. Every part of him feels too tight, too small for the amount of air he’s forcing in.
He stays like that for a long while. The world outside might as well not exist. It’s just him, the empty gas station, and the faint hum of the wind slipping through the cracks in the door.
When his breathing evens out, he wipes his face on his sleeve. His skin feels cold to the touch, clammy with sweat. He looks at his hands – still trembling, still stained with blood – and something twists in his stomach.
He doesn’t know if it’s guilt or relief.
He sits for a little longer, just listening to the deserted world outside the gas station move. Eventually, instincts kick in – the part that knows he can’t stay still for too long. Not anywhere.
Dennis picks himself up, knees protesting, and swings the backpack over one shoulder. The place smells like rot and gasoline, and his head still feels light from panic, but he moves anyway. Survival’s all about repetition now. Movement, search, eat, sleep, repeat.
He checks out the aisles first. Most of it has been cleaned out – shelves stripped bare, plastic wrappers torn open. Someone else has been here. A long time ago, maybe. The dust is thick enough to write his name in.
He keeps going, stepping over the skeleton of a toppled “SALE” sign. Behind the counter, he finds what’s left of a first aid kit. A roll of gauze. One packet of ibuprofen. A lighter that still sparks. He pockets it all. The small wins are what keeps him from losing it completely.
The fridge behind the counter creaks when he opens it. Nothing but black mold and a few half-empty bottles of water gone green. He closes it fast, nose wrinkling.
There’s a pile of protein bars left on the table in the staff room — jackpot. He grabs them all without thinking. After leaving the can of peaches for the dead, these are his only source of food until he reaches another gas station or the city. He tears one open right away, eats it standing, and saves the rest for later.
When he steps back outside, the sky’s still gray and low, but the light’s thinner now. The sun must’ve started dipping while he was inside. Just how long was I in there?
The wind carries the faint sound of something distant – maybe a scream, maybe metal shifting. Dennis doesn’t stick around to find out. He adjusts the straps of his pack and heads down the road again.
Pittsburgh’s still miles away, but it’s the only place left that sounds like hope.
The highway narrows the closer he gets to the city. More burned-out cars, more signs of life, though old ones. The air smells like rust and rain. For a second, he debates whether this was a bad idea — desperate survivors are just as dangerous as the infected, if not worse. Maybe he should’ve stayed in the outskirts, waited it out.
A sharp crack cuts through his thoughts. Then another.
Gunfire.
He freezes, muscles locking, ears straining to catch the direction. The sound bounces off the empty road and dies away too fast. Silence follows — heavy, absolute.
Dennis draws his knife, grip tight enough to turn his knuckles white. It’s not much use against a bullet, but holding it makes him feel less like prey.
He waits for another shot. None comes.
By the ninth or tenth hour of walking, the sky darkens, and the air grows colder with it. His breath fogs, each exhale sounding louder than it should. The steady rhythm of his boots against the pavement is the only thing keeping him sane. His legs ache, heavy and slow. He hasn’t seen a single living person. Not one. He isn’t sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.
He passes the dead, though — both moving and still. Sometimes, he talks to the quiet ones. “Sorry,” he mutters once, passing a man slumped against a fence with a bullet hole clean through his temple. “You probably had the right idea.”
He stops for a break beneath a road sign he doesn’t bother reading. Sliding the knife back into its sheath, he reaches for his half-empty water bottle and drinks until it’s gone. The plastic crumples in his hand when he’s done.
He sits there for a while, back against the cold metal of the sign. The water leaves a chill trail down his throat, but it feels good. Real. Dennis tilts his head back, eyes half-closed, listening to the wind.
His legs ache. His shoulders ache. His everything aches. For a few minutes, he just sits there breathing, humming a half-remembered melody his mother used to sing to him once upon a time. His voice is off and broken, not quite the same as he remembers. His mother’s voice was soft, full of love.
How fast things change.
When he finally pushes himself up, the muscles in his thighs protest. He grabs his backpack with a sigh, and turns to glance at the sign he’d been leaning against.
Bold white letters grin down at him through grime and bullet holes.
WELCOME TO PITTSBURGH
Dennis blinks. Then lets out a short, dry laugh – the first laugh he’s let out in months. It comes out like a cough, but it’s something.
“Finally.” he chuckles, voice hoarse.
He stares at the words a second longer, the absurdity of it almost funny. Out of everything that could’ve gone wrong – the infected, starvation, his body giving up – he somehow almost missed the sign that says he reached the damn city.
His smile fades as he turns toward the horizon. The city stretches ahead, dark and jagged against the sky, buildings like teeth. No lights. No movement. Just silence.
Pittsburgh. Hope, or what’s left of it.
He takes one more breath, wipes his palms on his pants, and starts walking toward it.
The highway spills into the city like a vein gone dry. Cars sit abandoned in tight clusters, some smashed into each other, others half-tipped onto the sidewalks. Whatever evacuation there had been – if there was one at all – ended right here.
Dennis moves slow, knife in hand, stepping carefully over shattered glass and empty cans. The air smells different now – thicker, sour with the stench of decay that never quite fades no matter how many miles he walks.
A streetlight flickers once above him, weak and useless. For a second, he wonders if it’s still running off some backup generator buried deep under the streets. Then it dies again, causing the thoughts to vanish.
He passes storefronts with their windows busted in – cafes, hardware stores, a half collapsed pharmacy with shelves gutted bare. Everything’s been scavenged a dozen times over.
A thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance, followed by rain. It starts slow, a patter that makes the city sound like it’s rinsing itself out. Then it comes harder two minutes later, like someone finally turned a faucet on. It hits the pavement loud enough to drown thought.
Dennis hunches his shoulders and ducks into the nearest building that looks half-intact: brick wall blown out on one side, stairwell choked on rubble. Inside it smells of damp plaster and old smoke. He finds a recessed doorway, puts his knife back and sits down, watching the street through a gap in the broken glass.
Water runs in little rivulets down the curb. Cars creak. The city looks smaller under the rain, like a photograph left to fade. He pulls his jacket tighter and rubs his hands together to warm them. Minutes pass in the kind of silence that presses, and he debates whether he should just sleep through the night in this building.
He doesn’t have time to register the soft footsteps behind him before a gun presses cold and hard against the back of his head.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blast your head off right now,” a woman says, voice flat and calm enough to make Dennis believe she means it.
The gun is heavier than anything he’s felt in a long time. His body goes small, instincts folding inward. His hands are already rising before his brain finishes deciding to. Slow, palms open, fingers spread so she can see there’s nothing in them. The knife in his belt stays hidden beneath the jacket.
“I– I’m not armed,” he says, voice thin. “I’m not here to hurt anyone, I’m just—” He swallows. “Just trying to get through.”
The woman doesn’t move. The muzzle is barely an inch from his skin; he can feel the metal through the wet of his hair.
“What’s in the pack?” she asks.
“A little bit of food. Water. A med kit. That’s it.” He shrugs weakly. “I’m— I was a med student. I can help, if you’re hurt. I—”
A laugh, sharp and humorless. “A med student, wow. How many of those am I gonna find?” she mutters, mostly to herself. “Ugh, God.”
“Turn around. Slowly.” she orders. Dennis listens without a word. Piercing blue eyes meet his – the woman is dressed in black clothes barely warmer than his, her dark hair pulled into a ponytail.
“Name?” the woman asks.
“Dennis. Dennis Whitaker.” He forces the name out like it’ll kill him. The rain drums on the roof, a base note under everything. He keeps his voice small, controlled. “I’m just trying to get into the city. I won’t cause trouble.”
“Drop the pack.” The command is soft but absolute.
He does it — slow, careful, hands still where she can see them. The bag hits the concrete with a dull thud and slides a few inches, water darkening the canvas. The woman crouches, still aiming the gun, and flips the pack open. It’ll be a real shame if she steals it; there’s nothing left to scavenge around here, and Dennis isn’t sure the “safe havens” people talk about even exist.
It takes her only a minute to straighten. The gun lowers, just a fraction, when she sees he’s not lying.
“Talk,” she says. “Fast. Why are you alone? Where did you come from? Who are you with?”
Dennis breathes. He thinks of the valleys, the highway, the greasy can of peaches. He thinks of his notebook in the inside pocket of his backpack, of the lines he’d been writing to keep himself sane.
“No one,” he says, voice breaking. “I left a place outside the city. Been walking all day. I’m trying to find a safe haven. I don’t know anyone here. I’m not with a group.” He forces his voice steady, but it still shakes. “I barely have any supplies. That’s all.”
For a long second, the only sound is rain and the faint drip of water from the gun barrel. The woman tilts her head slightly, weighing him, listening for lies.
Then she sighs, lowering the weapon fully. “Anyone ever tell you you look like a wet weasel?”
Dennis blinks, thrown. “What?”
The woman rolls her eyes, turning toward the darkness behind her. “Crash! Come on out! He’s clean.”
Dennis blinks. “Is Crash their.. real name?”
Another woman emerges from the shadows — brown-eyed, slightly shorter, wearing a pale pink jacket that stands out against the gray.
“Uh, no,” she says with a sigh. “It’s a nickname she refuses to drop. Long story.”
Dennis raises an eyebrow at the blue-eyed one.
“She fainted the first time we met,” the woman says casually. “I shot a zombie in front of her. Boom. Down she went.”
The brown-eyed woman glares daggers. “I tripped. You’re never dropping that, are you?”
The blue-eyed one smirks. “Nope.”
Dennis huffs out a nervous laugh, the tension bleeding just a little. “Sooo… are we, um, good?”
She waves him off with the hand still holding the gun. “Yeah, yeah. Unless you try something stupid, I’m not gonna shoot you. I’m Trinity Santos.” She nods toward the other woman. “That’s Javadi.”
“Victoria,” she corrects, quieter but firm.
Dennis nods, still awkward. “Nice to meet you guys.”
For a moment, none of them say anything. Just the sound of rain bleeding through the cracks in the roof and the distant groan of thunder somewhere far off. Dennis keeps his hands visible, waiting for one of them to change their mind.
It’s Victoria who speaks first. “We should stay put till morning,” she says, rubbing her arms. “Rain’ll only get worse.”
Trinity doesn’t look thrilled about it, but she nods once. “Fine. He stays on that side.” She gestures toward a dry patch near the opposite wall, then adds pointedly. “And keeps his hands where I can see them.”
Dennis nods fast. “Yeah. Of course. Thanks.” his voice comes out quieter than he means it to, but he does mean the gratitude.
The building settles around them – old bones creaking in the storm. They find the driest corner and spread what’s left of a tarp on the ground. Trinity and Victoria sit close, their bags pressed to the wall, weapons still within reach. Dennis keeps to the far side, back against cold concrete. The space between them feels heavier than air.
Minutes stretch. Rain keeps thundering against the roof.
Victoria’s head dips first, jerking once before she gives in and leans sideways onto Trinity’s shoulder. Trinity shifts a little but doesn’t push her off. Her eyes stay open, sharp even in the dim light, tracking the room. Every few minutes, they flick toward Dennis – a silent reminder that she’s watching.
Dennis doesn’t sleep either. His mind keeps looping – the road, the blood, the gun at his head, the absurdity of people again. He stares at the ceiling until the rain becomes a softer whisper, his breath syncing with it. Sometime before dawn, the exhaustion wins. His head tips back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed for the first time in twenty-four hours.
Trinity notices. Her gaze lingers just a second – long enough to see the tremor still in his hands even as he sleeps – then she looks away, tucking her hands into her jacket.
The city outside keeps raining.