The deeper we traveled, the darker the air grew. The dampness of the tunnels was suffocating. It seemed to seep into our bones, weighing us down in ways I couldn't explain. It wasn't just the physical exhaustion, though that was real enough—it was the crushing silence.
The days began to blur.
We walked. And walked. And walked some more.
But the food was running out.
Our rations were down to scraps. Just a few energy bars and water left. Each sip of water felt like a lifeline. Each bite of food tasted like survival itself, but they grew scarcer by the day.
Elle had begun rationing the last of the dried fruit. "We've got enough for two more days. Maybe three," she said one morning, her voice strangely calm.
"Maybe three," I repeated, barely able to keep the sarcasm from creeping in. The uncertainty in my gut gnawed at me. "Great. And after that?"
She didn't answer, and I didn't expect her to.
For the past few days, the distance between us had only grown. We no longer talked about the past—about Zeke, about my family, or about the world that had fallen apart. To talk meant to remember, and to remember meant to face the truth.
And the truth was too much.
Instead, we walked in silence, both of us too afraid to say what we were thinking. The quiet was suffocating.
I couldn't help but feel it—the isolation. Elle and I were the last ones left. Every step we took felt like we were walking farther from everything we'd ever known, further from the people we had loved, and closer to a final end. We weren't just fighting the infected anymore. We were fighting each other—against our doubts, our fears, and the sinking feeling that perhaps we were doomed to be the last generation, wandering in the ruins.
We passed abandoned junctions, empty shafts, and hidden doors. Each new room felt like a ghost's home—cold, dark, and forgotten.
The map Elle had uncovered showed that we were nearing the inner zone, but the closer we got, the more the weight of the unknown pressed on us. We had no idea what waited for us there—whether it was a place of refuge or another nightmare. And yet, that's all we had. We had no choice but to keep moving forward.
But as we pressed on, the weight of our dwindling supplies became heavier.
I noticed Elle's movements slowing. Her eyes were dull with fatigue. She barely spoke anymore, just nodded when I tried to say something, her lips pressed tight in resignation.
"Elle," I said quietly one evening as we sat in the flickering glow of my lighter, preparing our meager dinner of stale crackers. "We can't keep going like this."
She didn't respond right away, only stared at the cracker in her hand, crumbling it into smaller pieces.
"We have no food left," I continued. "And soon… soon we won't even have water."
"I know," she said softly, her voice so tired it barely sounded like hers. "We'll find a way."
"Find a way?" I repeated. "Find a way where, Elle? You saw the bodies in that abandoned warehouse. Everyone is gone. The whole world is just a tomb now."
I knew I was pushing her. I could see the way she flinched when I spoke. But I was desperate—my mind was spiraling, and I needed to hear something from her. Something to hold onto.
But she didn't meet my gaze.
"We don't have a choice, Allen," she finally said, her words barely above a whisper. "We have to keep going. We've made it this far. We can't stop now."
I was about to respond, but a low growl echoed through the tunnel.
My heart stopped.
I stiffened. Elle's hand instinctively went to her wrench, fingers tightening around the cold metal. The growl came again, closer this time. Then a screech—a terrible, high-pitched sound that made my skin crawl.
It wasn't a zombie.
It wasn't human, either.
Elle grabbed my arm and pulled me to the side of the tunnel, her breath sharp in the darkness. We crouched, blending into the shadows as the creature passed by. It was bigger than any zombie we'd seen, its movements jerky and unnatural. A hybrid—something between the mutations we'd fought and something worse, something alive.
"I don't think that's one of the mutants," Elle whispered, eyes wide with fear.
"No. It's not," I replied, my voice barely audible.
We waited in the darkness, our breaths shallow and loud in our ears. The growls faded, but the tension remained, thick in the air.
Elle exhaled, her grip loosening on my arm. "What… what is that thing?"
"I don't know," I muttered, my voice thick with fear. "But whatever it is, it's not alone."
We waited in silence for what felt like hours. Every muscle in my body tensed, expecting the creature to come back, to pounce on us at any moment. But the silence held, thick and uncomfortable.
When we finally dared to move again, the weight of our situation hit me harder than before. We were alone—completely alone. We had no food, no water, and now… we had to contend with things we couldn't even begin to understand.
And talking? Talking had become a liability.
Every word we spoke made us more vulnerable. Every conversation was a thread unraveling the little hope we had left.
I took Elle's hand, the cold of her fingers sending a shiver down my spine. We didn't say anything. There was nothing more to say.
We walked on.
We moved like ghosts.
No longer out of fear, but instinct—something primal had taken over. No words passed between us as we crept through the narrow corridor beyond the junction. Each step echoed louder than it should have, like the tunnel itself was listening.
The air grew colder.
Not just physically. It felt wrong. The light from my torch flickered again, sputtering like it, too, wanted to stop existing. The damp walls dripped in rhythm, like a ticking clock winding down.
Elle squeezed my hand.
I nodded once.
A sound—soft, wet, dragging—came from ahead.
We froze.
It wasn't a growl this time. No snarl. No breath. Just… sloshing.
Drip. Drag. Drag. Drip.
Something was coming.
I pressed Elle back against the wall, my own pulse thundering in my ears. Slowly, I inched forward, raising the blade I'd forged days ago from a snapped pipe and sharpened edge.
The torch flickered out.
Darkness swallowed us whole.
Elle stifled a gasp, and my other hand reached for her blindly. I felt her trembling fingers wrap around my wrist.
Then light—dim and flickering—returned.
But not ours.
It was coming from ahead.
A soft glow, green and pulsing, like a heartbeat underwater.
It illuminated a figure.
Or what was left of one.
It was human once—at least, it had the shape of one. But its skin had stretched thin over its bones, glowing veins crawling under translucent flesh. Its eyes were empty, yet somehow glowing, pulsing in time with the light.
And it wasn't alone.
Dozens of them. Standing. Still. Silent.
Watching.
They didn't breathe. Didn't growl.
Just watched.
Elle pulled herself closer, her voice barely audible. "Allen… they're not moving."
"Yet," I muttered.
Then something strange happened.
All of them—at once—tilted their heads.
Not in confusion.
In recognition.
As if they saw something in me that belonged to them.
One of them stepped forward.
Its mouth opened.
But instead of a sound, a single, disembodied voice whispered through the corridor:
"Welcome home, Allen."
The world spun. I stepped back.
"No," I breathed. "No—what does that mean?"
The lights flared.
They began to move.
Fast.
I grabbed Elle's hand. "RUN!"
And then everything was heat, motion, and the deafening roar of something ancient waking up.
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