The air felt heavy that morning.
Not storm-heavy, not humid or wet — just thick, as if breathing required effort.
Lucien woke up late. For the first time in days, he hadn't dreamt of cracking skies or blue moons. Only silence.
When he sat up, his muscles ached like he'd slept under a truck. Across the small camp, people moved sluggishly, their faces pale, eyes hollow. The argument from last night still lingered like a bruise everyone pretended not to see.
Max was already outside, crouched near the fire pit, turning a half-burnt log with a stick. He looked up as Lucien stepped out.
"Morning, champ," Max said, his grin tired but stubborn. "You punch better than you apologize, you know that?"
Lucien gave him a blank look. "You still breathing, aren't you?"
That got a small laugh out of Max — a brittle one.
The others didn't laugh.
The man Lucien had almost hit — Derek, a construction worker built like a wall — kept his distance, pretending to fix a torn tarp. His wife, Mara, shot Lucien nervous glances now and then. The rest of the camp avoided picking sides.
Lucien grabbed a dented water bottle and drank slowly. The taste was metallic.
Something about the air felt off — too dry, too still. Even the birds were quiet.
---
By midday, people were already whispering.
The fevers weren't getting better. Tanya, a young mother who'd helped gather food yesterday, collapsed near the supply tent. Her husband carried her inside, shouting for help, but no one had much to offer.
The ex-soldier — Reed, maybe late forties, buzz-cut and weathered — checked her pulse and frowned.
"She's burning up," he muttered. "This isn't just a cold."
Lucien overheard him and approached.
"You think it's spreading?"
Reed's eyes met his — calm, unreadable. "Everything spreads, son. Question is how fast."
That didn't help.
Nearby, a dog started barking at nothing — a lean brown mutt that belonged to one of the families. Its fur stood up, growl low and trembling.
Lucien watched it pace in circles, hackles raised toward empty air.
Even after the owners dragged it back, the barking didn't stop.
---
By afternoon, the camp's small generator gave out with a sputter and a cough.
Reed and another survivor, Liam, knelt beside it, prying open the side panel.
"Fuel's fine," Liam said. "I swear I can smell it. It's like—"
"Like the damn thing forgot how to be a machine," Reed muttered.
Lucien, watching from a distance, didn't laugh. The metal looked dull, lifeless. Even touching it felt wrong, like the heat had been drained out of it.
Someone found a pair of walkie-talkies in the supply box and tried them. One buzzed faintly; the other just hissed.
Then, faintly, through the static — a low rhythmic pulse.
Not a voice. Not a signal. Something like breathing.
The man holding it dropped the radio as if burned.
Max picked it up, slapped the side, and said, "Guess we're back to yelling distance, huh?"
But even he didn't smile fully this time.
---
As the sun began to dip, Lucien caught himself staring at the horizon. The highway shimmered faintly in the distance — not from heat, but distance itself.
It looked… longer.
Like the space between the suburbs and the city had stretched overnight.
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked again. The angle was different. The line of trees by the creek seemed farther.
When he mentioned it to Max, Max frowned.
"You've been staring at the same hill for ten minutes, dude."
"Just look," Lucien said.
Max followed his gaze, and for a second, the joking stopped.
"…Wasn't that tree line closer yesterday?"
Neither of them said another word.
---
By evening, the sick had grown worse. The air around the campfire smelled of sweat and sickness.
Two men were shouting near the supply table, their voices cracking through the morning air like a dull blade.
One of them — Derek, same one from last night — was accusing the other of taking more than his share of food. The other, Tom, denied it, fists already half-raised.
Lucien watched from his spot by the fire, elbows on his knees, silent.
He didn't care who was right. Food would run out eventually — that was the only truth here.
Max sighed beside him, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Every damn morning…"
Then he stood up.
"Alright, that's enough!" Max's voice cut through the noise.
Neither man listened. Derek shoved Tom again, hard enough that a can rolled across the dirt.
That's when Max's voice dropped — low, sharp, carrying weight.
"I said enough."
For a second, even the fire seemed to quiet.
Max wasn't angry often, but when he was, it showed in his eyes — steady, dangerous, the kind of look that made people stop moving before they realized why.
Derek stepped back, mumbling. Tom lowered his hands.
Max stared at them both for a long moment, then said, "You want to fight, do it outside the camp. You touch supplies again, you don't come back."
No one argued. The two men drifted away in silence.
Lucien leaned back, eyes following Max. There was that same flicker again — the "hero" trying to hold everything together.
He didn't say anything, but part of him knew that when people started turning on each other for scraps, it was already too late.
He looked at the kids nearby — one crying, another hiding behind a crate — and turned his gaze away.
He never liked kids. Too loud, too annoying.
Max sat back down beside him, jaw tight.
Lucien smirked faintly. "You're wasting your energy."
Max shrugged. "Someone has to."
Lucien didn't answer. He just poked at the fire, thinking that someone wouldn't be him.
---
Later, as the fire burned low, survivors sat in small groups, whispering.
Lucien and Max sat apart, near the edge of camp.
Someone said softly, "The government'll come soon. They have to."
Others nodded weakly. It was hope more than belief.
Near the tents, Reed and another ex-soldier, Miller, spoke in hushed tones.
"If HQ's still up, they'll lock it down," Miller said. "Martial law. Secure zones. Shoot on sight if needed."
Reed sighed. "Assuming there's still an HQ."
Silence. Then: "Then this… this is the rescue."
Lucien couldn't hear their words, only the tone — that quiet finality of people who'd stopped hoping.
---
The night came slow. The clouds hung heavy, unmoving.
The fire burned low. People drifted to their tents, too exhausted to talk.
Lucien stood outside, watching the horizon.
For a moment, the world seemed to hum — deep, steady, like something breathing beneath the ground.
Then lightning flared — not from above, but upward, branching into the clouds.
A second flash followed — brighter, closer. Then a scream.
Lucien and Max ran toward it, dirt kicking beneath their feet.
Three people lay by the edge of camp — one motionless, two writhing. The smell of ozone and burnt cloth filled the air.
Max froze. Lucien knelt, pulse racing, hands trembling as he touched a shoulder. No heartbeat.
The ground beneath them glowed faintly blue for a heartbeat — then faded.
No one spoke.
The world felt like it had exhaled something — and wasn't sure it wanted to breathe in again.
---
Lucien sat by the tent later, sleepless. The night was too bright, the air too still.
He stared at his hands, still shaking faintly, and whispered to himself,
"If this keeps up… we won't need a storm to kill us."
Somewhere far away, thunder rumbled again, low, rolling, patient.